Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Last Refuge of Scoundrels - Another Exerpt Post

Once again I have more words to write than I have time to write them.  The story in my notebook is too long to transcribe right now and there are four or five essays percolating that I haven’t been able to bring to fruition yet.  But I want to dump more brainlint on you, my cherished readers, so I’m going back to the well for another chunk of my unfinished opus, Avagadro’s Number.  For those of you keeping count, this is exerpt number 4.  You may now stop counting, and may all your Christmases be white. 

Agent Fraser’s enthusiasm for her employment could only have been tempered by the bleak scene which she had foretold at the intersection of Pandora and South Power.  One streetlamp shone over four broad, unpaved, littered lots.  Dustdevils rose from them all, reaching to touch the streetlight and dissipating weakly before quite making the stretch. Cardboard boxes and rusting parts of refrigerators and washing machines lay scattered like termite mounds.  Cans and bottles had been taken away by entrepreneurs, but piles of rotting papers and vegetables, scrap wood, broken toys covered the ground.  For more than a half a block in every direction, vacancy reigned.  Even the sidewalks seemed lonely.  The women sat in the car, unenthusiastic about the next step of their investigation. 

“Do you have to go through all that trash?”

“I’m prepared to.  I don’t think he’d put such important information in a random pile of garbage, though.”

“So where did he put it?  What’s to search?”

“The wires.” A utilities pole stood next to the lamppost, with a big grey fusebox and four thick crossbeams strung with line 30 feet above the street.  The sounds of the city were muted and distances seemed magnified in the clear night air.  Agent Fraser swung out of her car and opened the trunk with her key.  She took out a canvas bag with a Muni Power logo on it and brought it to the utilities pole. 

Draping the bag on a stubby police call box cowering between the powerline pole and the lamppost, she took out a length of rope and held it in her hand.  She put the carrying straps of the utility bag over each of her shoulders, the bag hanging in front like a bib.  She passed the rope around the pole and leaned back, holding the rope in both hands and pressing her knees against the wooden trunk.  Pulling forward sharply on the rope, she hiked her legs up a few inches and caught the pole with the rope a few inches higher yet.  Her feet were off the ground.  Within a few moments she had hitched herself up seven or eight feet, where metal footpegs had been driven into the wooden pole for easy climbing.  She scrambled up the pegs and stood by the fuse box, the wires above her and below her by only a few feet, well within her reach.  Just a yard or so from her face, across the empty space above the intersection, the streetlamp was shining its jaundiced light through grimy glass. 

Agent Fraser reached into her pocket and pulled out a key, with which she opened the fusebox.  “Looking good,” she muttered as she looked inside.  Her voice sounded very small and it seemed to fall like wet paper to Alma’s ears.  “Telephones and electric.  Interesting.  Maybe something.” She reached into her bib and pulled out a black box and some headphones.  Attaching the box to the fusebox with wires, Agent Fraser spent the next half hour standing like a crane on the footpegs high above the silent street, listening to her headphones, switching and dialing on her black box every few moments.

Eventually, Agent Fraser wordlessly removed the headphones, put her equipment back into her bib, and climbed down off the pole, dropping from the last peg to the ground with a little grunt. “Nothing.”

“You’re kidding; nothing at all after all that time up there?”

“Lots of phones.  Nobody’s talking about anything.  You can’t really tell much from the power lines, but there wasn’t anything to indicate any abuses.  I don’t think this is where the action is.”

They looked around again; if the action was to be found anyplace at all, it seemed unlikely to be this intersection.  Still, Glovebuster’s note had been clear enough once they’d understood what it said. 

“How about that call box?,” Alma asked.  Agent Fraser had been leaning against it after her long perch among the powerlines.  She stood away and looked it over.  The box was blue and faded, and looked as if it had been carved out of iron instead of cast from it.  A metal standard with desultory ornamentation pushed through the concrete, holding a one foot by two foot box about four feet off the ground.  It read “Police Call Box” on the front, had a locked door that swung open, and a blunted point like a Kaiser’s helmet on top. 

“They’re actually Muni Power property,” Fraser said, as she peered into the keyhole and fumbling with her keyring.  “We lease them to the police.  No money changes hands.  It’s a paper transaction, but no one pays much attention since they put radios…”

Fraser had selected a key from her ring and placed it in the hole in the door on the box. Turning it, she froze in position.  She shook and strained, her eyes starting from their sockets; her pupils shrunk to pinpoints in the dim streetlamp’s glow.  Her left hand was spasmodically stretched to the limits of her sinews; her right hand, holding the key, was vibrating and starting to smoke.  Her lips began to foam and she barely choked out a gurgle of surprise.  She snapped the key in two and fell to the ground, eyes still open, still and quiet now. 

Alma rushed to her side, but only in time to confirm the obvious.  She sat on the ground and held the dead agent’s hands in hers.  Frazer’s were preternaturally warm; Alma’s were icy cold.  She rocked back and forth on her haunches.  “Oh God; Oh God...” she muttered, her breath clouding the night air, mingling with the smell of burning wires and seared flesh.  Agent Fraser didn’t seem to be entirely de-electrified, even though she was stone dead; she lay sprawled by the callbox, in a tense and uncomfortable position, her hand still frozen in a grip on the broken half of the key to the call box. 

Alma looked around at nothing everywhere.  She felt, though, as if a presence had joined her, or was about to.  She felt totally exposed, her only friend a corpse.  The street light seemed to snicker at her, but it was just the sound of the electricity in the wires over her head. 

But the snickering was getting louder.  At first she thought that it was just her paranoia, making her think the sound was more intense.  Then she realized that she wasn’t paranoid – she had seen two lives struck down in a single evening.  She had been threatened, accosted, and stranded.  She was in trouble with the cops and her story was so bizarre even she didn’t believe it.  Everything bad was really happening.  There wasn’t any time to be paranoid.  She had enough to worry about as it was.

So she looked back up at the wires buzzing over her head.  They were definitely louder. They were getting louder by the second.  Then a spark flew out from the insulator on the top crossbeam.  It was a harbinger.  The next half-dozen sparks came out of the next-to-bottom wires in a loud burst.  Then the central fusebox blew open.  Inside, an electrical fire raged. Chunks of burning equipment were falling near her.  She sat, shielding Agent Frazer’s head in her lap, staring at the inferno as sparks rained down around her and the high tension wires began to fall, hissing like snakes.  The call box beside her was smoking.  Things were getting worse.

Alma stood and checked her options.  There was nothing to commend any escape route; all four directions seemed equally dangerous, unknowable, suspicious.  No path seemed safe anymore.  A siren resolved in the darkness; she knew it was coming to investigate an electrical fire on South Power Street.  Regardless of knowing the safest way out, she knew that she had to choose a direction and take it.  Fast.  That meant the car.  Unfortunately.

Alma grabbed the keychain from Frazer’s hand.  It was still hot.  She fumbled with it, looking at each key in turn to find one that looked like it would run a car.  The siren was quite distinct now, and a flashing red light pulled around a corner several blocks down to the left; against the utility poles it seemed to cast malevolent shadows, like fingers reaching out to her in the night.  But it was only a single fire truck - that, she could handle.  She turned and checked down to her right - several vehicles coming around a corner near the horizon, with the red flashers joined by blue and white ones as well.  Bad sign. 

She ran to the car, grabbing the longest key on the ring in blind desparation.  It fit the door and the ignition.  She locked herself in and surveyed her new environment.  Contrary to popular opinion, she wasn’t actually totally ignorant of affairs of the wheel.  She’d watched hundreds of people drive, some meticulously, some drunkenly, even amorously once in a while. She knew what had to be done, what it would look like if she did it right.  Just give the key a turn - the starter cam screamed in protest, already engaged.  Alma yelped back, threw the car into reverse, and slammed back squarely into the call box.  It hit the ground, and all the streetlights around went dark.  The only illumination was from the dozen or so fast-approaching sets of headlights converging on the fire, corpse, and wreckage. 

Everything else was dead black - no lights shone, not even Alma’s own headlights, which she was unable to find in the unfamiliar car.  Consequently, she couldn’t see much, and had an excellent excuse, once she located “drive,” for accelerating at maximum speed down the street in front of her and smashing
into a utility pole about 50 yards down along Pandora street.  She was unhurt.  As for her excuse, the police were not interested in it.

Sunday, February 25, 2007

See Theaters for Listings

I am not too good at seeing the Oscar movies before the big night, which I suppose is tonight.  I did see that Sunshine movie, which, as a suicidal gay motivational colorblind cokehead juvenile stripper, I found a bit derivative.  But that’s me. 

Which got me thinking: ME!  Yes, what about the movies I have actually seen, and even enjoyed?  Well there have not been big honking scadloads of those lately but that’s mostly my fault, I am spending too much of my time rebuilding quake-ravaged villages in Bhutan or some goddamn thing or other instead of going out to see movies.

That means that a lot of my favorite movie experiences were experienced way back when I was seeing a lot of movies, which turns out to have been the ‘80s.  But then there were also a bunch of older flicks I stumbled over at some point or other and really enjoyed, and even some more recent releases that just hit me the right way. 

But the main thing is, Me.  I have actually seen some good movies, though most of them not too recently. I decided to make a list of them to share with you, because reading a list of my favorite movies is exactly how I expect most of the rest of the world to want to spend its leisure time on-line. 

In light of the skepticism with which I had to view the above proposition, I decided to make a smaller, more interesting list: obscure movies I’ve liked.  For this purpose, I’m using a broad definition of “obscure”: “likely as not that most people reading this have not heard of it.” Maybe it was a big hit when it came out but no one remembers it anymore; maybe it’s a mindless series of ridiculous jokes and sight gags that flew under the commercial/critical radar; maybe it’s an actually arcane piece of foriegn goods, or maybe it was just a really cool art-house way to spend a chunk of time.  There’s a broad range, but the thing that links them together is that, for whatever reason, I enjoyed all of them, and I’m guessing you haven’t seen them yet. 

Making such a list as this has the ancillary benefit of making me look sophisticated and cultured, because I’ve seen so many interesting films you’ve never heard of.  It doesn’t mean that I’m so uncultured that the only movies I’ve even seen are ones no one else has ever heard of.  How could you even think that, it’s an outrage.  I weep with fury.  I accept your apology.  Let’s move on.

Some of these movies, I’ve seen four or five times; some, only once but I’d watch them again in a heartbeat.  Some are probably really hard to find but several are probably spontaneously generating in your sockdrawer as we speak, which is more an indictment of your sock management skills than an inspirational story of technology run amok.  ANYWAY.  I hope you spend your post-Oscar season compulsively renting all of these movies and enjoying the hell out of them.  The nominees (in random order as generated by my brains) are:

The Runaway Train (1985)
This one is really exciting. Jon Voight, Eric Roberts, Rebecca DeMornay.  ON A RUNAWAY TRAIN.  Oops, spoiler alert. 

The Crazy Family (1984)
I saw this in a theater in LA and laughed my ass off.  Japanese comedy is to comedy as japanese candy is to candy.  Keep an open mind and you’ll be richly rewarded.

The Stunt Man (1980)
Haven’t seen this in a long time, but really enjoyed it.  Peter O’Toole as some kind of freaky movie dude.  I tell ya, the man can make you believe anything. 

F/X (1986)
This is a fun suspense flick about using movie effects to BEAT THE TERRORISTS AT THEIR OWN GAME!  Brian Dennehey, too.  Gotta love the Dennehey. 

Goyokin (Official Gold) (1969)
This is a really beautiful and gripping samurai movie - as I recall, the best I’ve seen.  The final fight is on a snowbank, and the visuals have stuck with me for twenty years.

Wings of Desire (1987)
(and not the more recent nick cage remake) This is a visually stunning movie and has a cool story with a great cast.  Also, it’s German, so the morality issue is nice and opaque. 

Tapeheads (1988)
It’s risky to recommend a comedy I haven’t seen in so long, but come on, John Cusak and Tim Robbins?  Mid-eighties music video technology?  The lead singer from the Bonedaddies, Don Cornelius, Jello Biafra and Sam Moore?  Don’t expect high art and you’ll have a great time.

Highway 61 (1991)
Typical road movie, but this time with a drug-stuffed corpse, the devil, and Falco.  Lots of fun.

Mystery Train (1989)
Jarmusch in a lighter mood - this movie was beautifully constructed, highly entertaining, and had some great lines with even better delivery.

Ran (1985)
Probably the biggest production in this list, a gorgeous retelling of the story of King Lear in feudal Japan.  Acting, cinematography, script, and of course direction are unparalleled.  An incredible epic.

Bowfinger (1999)
Just like Ran, but set in the U.S. and with poop jokes.  A movie I fully intended to dispise and wound up laughing at nonstop.  I’m not proud but I’m honest - this one was pretty damn funny.

Go (1999)
Some people get distracted by the surfiet of WB starlets and starlings, but I never watched that crap so I could enjoy it on its own terms.  Obviously inspired by Pulp Fiction, but with a lighter touch and better sense of humor.

Super Troopers (2001)
If you enjoyed Harold and Kumar, this will leave you gasping for breath.  We kept having to rewind to hear stuff we were laughing over.  Again, not a movie to be proud of liking, but sometimes what you really need are shenanigans. 

UHF (1989)
A risky listing - this is a niche film and for the record I’m not a huge Big Al fan.  But this movie is really a great vehicle for him.  Raul’s Wild Kingdom is a great bit, and Michael Richards hits the high point of his career - years before Signfield. 

Shakes the Clown (1992)
I just remembered this one as I was typing up the blurb for UHF.  Shakes is a funny movie.  Funny “ha-ha,” and the other kind too.  Florence Henderson as the clown-hungry skank and Robin Williams as a mime instructor, back when he didn’t feel guilty about all the cocaine.  That’s entertainment!

Russkiy Kovcheg (Russian Ark) (2002)
Two thousand actors portray 300 years of Russian History in a single two-hour shot.  Bonus: spot Waldo!  No, sorry, really, kick-ass movie. As they say in mutha Russia. 

Chronos (1985)
Cheating!  This is an IMAX movie, and only 40 minutes long.  The “actors” are places so beautiful as to be unnerving, filmed in super-high resolution and with various film-speed variations to render stone and cities almost sentient.  I don’t know how it would translate from a football-field-sized screen to my little home system.  Back in the day, it was truly mindblowing.

Evil Dead II (1987) and III (Army of Darkness) (1992)
As I recall, ED-I was not as great - it took itself much more seriously.  ED-II begins to have some real fun with the “revenge of the creepy house” genre, and then AOD takes it to a whole new level.  Bruce Campbell really chews the scenery.  I’m surprised how many people have not seen these; that’s why they made it on the list.

Tengoku To Jigoku (High and Low) (1963)
Another Kurosawa movie (he also directed Ran and wrote a screenplay on which Runaway Train was based).  This is a very Hitchcock-esque movie, suspenseful and emotionally charged - and all modern, no swordplay or pagentry.  Mifune gives a rich performance as a man forced to choose between prosperity and morality.  Great movie.

Hauru No Ugoku Shiro (Howl’s Moving Castle) (2004)
Not at all like High and Low - pretty much the opposite, a very trippy cartoon about time-space travel and redemption, somehow.  I had some trouble following the story but the visuals more than make up for it.  My favorite of the recent big-screen japanese animation masterpieces.

The Big Hit (1998)
The movie where I stopped having such a ‘tude about Mark Wahlberg.  A heartwarming goofball hitman comedy - something for the whole family, plus sex and violence and Lou Diamond Philips.  A fine slice of escapism.

Additions to this list are welcome.  I can’t promise I’ll get to them right away, but I promise I will keep an eye open for them.  Meantime, I hope you don’t hate any of the movies above.  It would dishonor me, and that would mean a big showdown with the smacking and the whacking and the kicking and so forth.  I just don’t have the energy for that right now.  For God’s sake, people.  For God’s sake. 

Friday, February 23, 2007

Wrong Wrong Wrong

I do want to put up a bit of a post to welcome the weekend but the one I have in mind is a bit too detailed for me to manage right now.  Right now I am stuck thinking about the big blue-ribbon panel meeting I went to yesterday with serious heavy-hitting attorneys, appeals judges, statewide political strategists, and many senior staffers.  It was an interesting and important meeting.  They had a consultant call in at one point to discuss survey strategy and methodology.  His name was Richard Hertz.  It was all I could do not to ask him, “Dick Hertz?” and if he said yes, tell him to sit on an icepack and walk it off.  HA!  I am the funny making.  But really I’m not, because I kept it to myself. But here’s a few others that also seemed wrong lately:

* I got Z a bunch of stickers from a local toy store.  They’re cool stickers, all glittery with fun images like firetrucks and space alien heads and fire.  Plus they’re mylar so they can usually be peeled off without leaving an adhesive mess on my tabletops and eyeballs.  However, the company that distributes them has a brand logo of their name that really looks, on the shelves, like it says NAMBLA.  Anyway, that’s how it looks to me.  I’m just saying, if you’re selling products for little kids, maybe a clearer distinction from the old Man-Boy Love faction would be appropriate. 

* We saw a delivery truck a few days ago with a big sign on the side that suggested it was being used to deliver berries and other agricultural products.  The company name is painted at first in a green font for an agricultural motif, and then a blue font to evoke ripe delicious berries.  But do the owners of this south american company realize that not everybody in the contiguous 48 is ready to start their day with an extreme, highly-charged and adreleline-fueled fistful of aggroberries? 

* When we realized that Zach was getting to be able to vault out of his crib when the spirit (that is, the Spirit of Evil) overtook him, we visited Ikea for-to take a gander at their toddler beds.  We didn’t really find what we were looking for, but I did make two mental footnotes: first, every time I see the International Atomic Energy Agency’s acronym anywhere, I think they’re selling scandanavian design in a box.  “The IAEA has demanded that Iran permit the resumption of oversight at their centrifuges, which are available with variety of finishes and handles to help you turn an everyday room into a special space for your family .” (It does not help that they always seem to show up at nuclear hotspots with those damn meatballs in gravy.) Also - well first, I should apologize, because there is no sport whatsoever in making fun of the names of products at IKEA.  But that is not going to stop me from asserting firmly here and now that I am never going to make my boy grow up in any environment that will turn him into a dicktard. 

I guess that’s all for now. 

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

Keep It Under Your Hat

I was invited to Sarah’s going-away party, but only because she’d sat in the cube across from me for a few months nearly a year ago.  Otherwise I probably wouldn’t have known who she was, much less that she was leaving.  I don’t have what I’d call close relations to barely anybody at the office other than my actual coworkers and a small handful of affiliated colleagues.  I’m not even on a “saying hello” basis with most of the 300 or so people who work for The Man (tm) with me here in our fortified SoMa corporate citadel.  That’s why I wasn’t surprised to be ignorant of the names, jobs, and relevant personal details of most everybody at the at little shindig for my departing acquaintence.  Of about thirty people there, I’d guess I knew three or four by name, about 10 by department, and one guy better than he intended.

I’ve seen him around the building for years now, though never inside - only on the grim trek in of a morning, or on brief forays into neighboring blocks at lunchtime.  He stood out from the general crowd because of a few distinguishing characteristics: his complection - CRT-addict pale, with skin that seemed liable to tear with a sharp glance; his clothes - worn, unfashionable denim pants, humorless sturdy workshirts, a heavy jacket as glum as fog and a broad-brimmed black felt western hat, regardless of weather; and his demeanor - grimly emotionless, as if straining to hold back a powerful feeling that might otherwise wash him clean away.  He had always impressed me as a cypher, a man with little he wished to show the world and much he preferred to hide from it.

At Sarah’s bon voyage party he remained as self-contained as ever, his powerful personal restraint and eccentricly plain clothes unrelieved by the the pink-frosted cheer of the cake or the general sense of forced revelry and partly-concealed envy at Sarah’s impending escape.  He just stood back from the group and ate his cake and drank his punch and kept his own counsel, an island unto himself.  He was maintaining his well-worn image, but I couldn’t help casting back in my mind to a glimpse of him I don’t think he’d meant for me to see:

I’m on my a.m. express bus heading downtown, already tired of my day and staring out the window at a little piece of lower Pac Heights, the less-fashionable south end where Bush Street cuts across on its way downtown.  Not many people walk the sidewalks here - mostly they park in off-street garages and drive where they please.  Consequently I immediately notice him strolling along under the greenery of the street-verge.  He’s wearing his familiar jacket and his invariable hat; over one shoulder he totes a well-stuffed, sunfaded backpack, and his other hand is stretched down to hold that of an eight-year-old girl.  She’s in a dark sweater and parochial kilt, a pink backpack tightly secured to her slender shoulders.  Her mary-janes are nearly skipping down the hill and she holds on with all her heart to her father’s hand, her face a glory of freshly-minted smiles - and in return, her dour pale dad is smiling back with her, every bit as happy as she, the skip in her step almost reaching to his regular heavy gait.  They are together, father and daughter, and the rest of the world is sitting this dance out.  It’s not how I’m used to seeing him, but, I recall as I watch him trying to fade into the background at Sarah’s party, now that I have seen him as a devoted and delighted dad, he’ll never fool me into seeing him the same old way again. 

Monday, February 19, 2007

BloatoFog!

It’s not like you’ve been waiting for it or anything, but that in no way lessens my delight in advising you that I’ve got a sort of working photoblog up and running here, thanks entirely to Patricia my cyber savior and all-around fabulous friend.  I admit, I think I’m messing it up - it looks like it’s generating random thumbnails at the bottom of this here home page, but then when you click on “archives” no categories come up; if you click “photos” at the head of the page it takes you to a listing of all the photos including the mini-thumbnails for the bottom of this home page, which don’t show up when you click them hereinbelow or as a title from the main photo page. Oh there it is, I think I fix-ed it.  Thanks for your patience, and patricia, thanks for pointing me in the right direction.  Now, settle in and enjoy the pretty colors.  Two superfluous items to whet your appetite:

1) Random aphorism: Judge not, lest you make me look bad.

2) Random photo of Zach, at the Discovery Museum:

Hope you can get to the new photos.  Some of them came out pretty damn cool!  Here’s some links to ease your transition:

Coit Tower - WPA Mural

Palace of Fine Arts - Spring Flowers at Dusk

Palace of Fine Arts - cornice

Palace of Fine Arts - Looking ‘90s

Have a nice Tuesday.  I will be very busy but I’ll peek back at these shots to remind myself of a very relaxing long weekend!

Friday, February 16, 2007

o no i di’n’t

Oh man it just is not stopping.  I had to stand on the bus today so I couldn’t work on my short story, I didn’t get up early enough to set up links for my movies post, and I don’t want to bother with my dude-at-party essay.  Today I’ve got three big jobs to do before the orientation meeting at noon and so far I’ve gotten to half of one of them.  Yet I am typing up a tiny postlet for you because failing to do so would be fatally distracting for me all day long. 

So, here’s what you’re gonna get: three (3) (III) tiny little stupid things I should not have said at work, either because I said them to the wrong person or because they were just not appropriate for my uptight office environment.  By setting them free here, I hope to dilute my sense of guilt associated with having given them inappropriate voice when they could have been sequestered till a better opportunity arose, or allowed to atrophy entirely in the fatty tissues of what I call my brains.  And thus:

Regarding the plethora of materials we’ve been getting that don’t demonstrate very much thought or attention: “They’re coming out of the weirdwork.”

Regarding home improvement projects, to my supervisor: “I’m not so much a stud as a load-bearing shaft.”

Regarding our admin assistant’s complaint that her “poppycock” (popcorn and nuts in a caramel-toffee matrix) was very short on cashews: “So you’re telling me you’ve got a sack of nutless ‘cock?”

Here’s some wise words from a dear friend, about bacon - make sure you get to the poem.  Enjoy your weekend.  Mine cannot start soon enough. 

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Eternal Heart

Happy Saint Lustful Pagan Cherub Day!  I’m tired and have too much work to do, and sort of let this manufactured event sneak up on me like garlic breath after a cheap pizza.  However, I have this excuse: I’ve been thinking of more weighty matters - the dead, and their remains.  I live in a ‘hood that used to have a lot of cemetaries, but now they’re mostly all gone and even the ghosts have fled.  But just up the street is a very special realm where many still lie at eternal rest, and these have been the ones who have had my attention lately.  Thus:

It’s great to live just a few blocks from a National Park, but one must make allowances for particulars.  The Presidio of SF is a new park but an old fort, going all the way back to 1776 and the birth of this city of Nuevo Yerba Buena.  That’s a lot of years to barrack troops, a lot of wars to provision and outfit, a lot of live fire training and guard duty and all the other peripherals associated with such facilities.  Though it’s surrounded (on land) by a fairly well-established city, the Presidio itself has more dark forest groves, mossy abandoned outbuildings and eerie windswept flats than most any normal acreage of equal size.  If it’s true that old soldiers never die, the grounds they haunt are likely as not the grim halls where they were hewn and housed. The Presidio, like any old fort, is consequently full of ghosts. 

The first of these to occur to my mind are those of the merchant sailors.  These men were the foundation of San Francisco’s erstwhile fame as the most important port on the West Coast.  In days when the seas were our lifeline, these nameless, homeless sailors risked their lives to grease the wheels of commerce.  Their lives were squalid and difficult, and they tended to die young and far from home.  If, while here on one of their globe-spanning journeys, they grew very ill, they were sent to the Marine Hospital in the Presidio.  There, many of them lost the fight for immortality, and the fallen were interred in a lonely cemetery off Lincoln Boulevard amid the cedars and under the fogbanks.  This graveyard stood from, oh, 1885 to 1912, but then the sailors stopped coming here to die and eventually their hallowed ground fell prey to pernicious neglect.  The area was left unmaintained and unvisited.  Wooden grave markers rotted to dust and returned to the earth whence they came. 

In time, the small marine hospital down the hill was upgraded to a big, and then a large, hospital, before coming out of commission altogether in the 1960s.  In the interim, the big open field to the north was used by construction crews as a staging area, scraped to anonymous utilitarian flatness by diesel graders.  Someone paved the field over, and plopped a few tennis courts down on one end of it.  That’s the area as I came to know it, just an empty space with plenty of inconvenient parking.  Kel and I learned basic motorcycle handing skills there because it was so under-utilized.  The area felt still and at rest, but not in a refreshing way – more like the quiet, imperturbable breath of the mausoleum. 

Lately the powers that be have rediscovered the permanent residents of that old graveyard-cum-parking lot.  On a recent drive up Caulfield on Coronary Hill next to the old morbid site, I saw earth movers, jackhammers, lots of canary-yellow equipment - both heavy and light, and in its midst, the blank blacktop had been peeled back off the surface of the earth, revealing rich brown dirt that was heaped in dozens and dozens of slim mounds, six or so feet long, a foot or two tall.  The sailors had been rescued after seventy years adrift and abandoned.  What will happen to them next, I do not know, but I am pretty sure I won’t be riding a chopper over them again.  Though their names were never preserved, they deserve a due measure of honor in death. 

*****

Half a mile west of the sailor’s place of repose, just down the hill form the old abandoned hospital, past the piney woods and hemmed in by Lobos gulch, some ghosts of a very different nature cavort on a playground that now exists only in memory.  Just inland from Baker Beach, a National Guard post holds the fort against the vicissitudes of policy and time.  It’s an uninspired brick block of a building that makes up for lack of architectural imagination by its setting: a reconstructed wildflower meadow with a tidy boardwalk wending between hillocks spangled with lupine and sage.  Marked guideposts point out some of the biovariety and it’s easy to imagine that this bucolic area has been preserved in a state of nature since the Army first moved in… but of course, it hadn’t been.  The whole zone is a new creation of the National Parks service, as they strive to mitigate the degradation wrought on mother nature by our armed forces. 

Back in the day – the day I moved to San Francisco – this was not a voluptuously mounded wildflower preserve: it was a hardpacked open field, a parade ground perhaps, or just empty space.  Random scrubbrush and wild mustard fought for rootspace and water, but large areas were just too rocky and dry to sustain even these hearty plants.  We’d go there to walk dogs, or we’d cut through on our way to the beach, and nothing was there to arrest our attention or slow us down - except for the backstop and ballfield.  Down in the corner by the reserves post, a worn-out backstop of hurricane fencing and splintered old boards stooped against the foggy winds.  I only saw it in use once, and it is thence the ghosts of this field arise:

Somebody else set it up – I never knew that many people that I could invite to such an event.  We’d brought along some friends of our own, but mostly it was our old college crowd transplanted from the east coast, liberally augmented with random local co-workers and neighbors.  We might have had thirty people there – fifteen to a side.  Now that’s a good set-up for a friendly game of kickball. 

Everybody played, no one terribly vigorously.  The ball was perfectly bouncy and resonant, and the sky sparkled overhead.  We were young, energetic, and probably a little buzzed.  I recall only that my “outside” friend Mark was a total kick-ass kickball stud, making plays like an all-pro.  Beyond that, all that I remember was the event itself, and the corroded old backstop that kept the ball in play and anchored our recreation.  For years after that one great game, I’d wander or bike past the field and recall a truly euphoric afternoon of undifferentiated camaraderie. 

Over those years, my circumstances changed.  More friends moved out, some moved away; new friends joined my circle and some left it.  Mark and his wife went their own way.  Glen (I think he organized the whole shebang) alienated everybody and dropped out of the scene.  The only thing that remained unchanged in all that time was the backstop, always rusting and crumbling, yet persevering from season to sesason.

Then the park service upgraded the field.  I have no complaints about their work – it’s much nicer there than it had been before (even if the dogs can’t run it free any longer).  There are many more flowers and it’s an active, vibrant habitat for many living things.  It’s just that, well, the old backstop didn’t survive the transition.  Where it once stood, is now a callipygian twenty-foot hill.  I sometimes stroll past that hill, on the new boardwalk or on my way to Baker Beach.  I like it.  Regardless, each time I see it, I sense that old backstop, torn out and away but still somehow present for me, sheltering defunct friends and friendships under its porous roof, backing me up still from my buried past. 

*****

The actual military cemetery at the Presidio is on the classic “Arlington” model: manicured lawns and hills on which decamp rank upon rank of white markers that troop in orderly files in death as they did in life.  It’s an austere, somber place, despite a stunning bluffside setting and the crisp clean white against verdant green. A tall fence of black iron spears holds the world at bay, and an ornate gate convincingly bars access.  It’s not a place for a casual visit, and the souls that reside there seem stern, as if still in uniform and at attention.  If ghosts be there, they keep to themselves.

But down the hill toward the waterfront, in a jumbled acre or two under the shadow of Doyle Drive’s elevated speedway, is another graveyard – one where the ghosts run right up to say hello.  It’s the Presidio Pet Cemetary, the least military spot remaining from the pre-park days.  Though it was one of the very first boneyards in the fort where soldiers and some natives were laid down, it’s now a reminder of all the families that lived there in the countless stucco cottages and gabled brick houses and tacky concrete apartments that are strewn across the 1700 or so acres that now comprise the park.  Yes, soldiers – for all their carefully-cultivated uniformity – are people, and they had families who were delighted to move with them to free housing in San Francisco, and these families had pets.  I’m sure no one knows how many pets lived at the Presidio, but there’s got to be more than 100 of them lingering at their cemetery.  Gravemarkers are various, often improvised; they bear collars and photos and little medallions.  Inscriptions are carved, or neatly inscribed, or scrawled in some long-lost dog or cat or turtle’s favorite friend’s childish handwriting.  Foodbowls and cherished toys are often incorporated into memorial displays, sunbleached and dusty and still bearing signs of enthusiastic use however many years ago. The plots are disorganized and haphazard, as if chosen by the occupants thereof of their own accord in a big hairy land rush. 

I’m not sure if anyone is actually responsible anymore for this menagerie of the deceased. It doesn’t seem to benefit from any kind of upkeep and many of the jumbled memorials are falling over and apart.  I find this air of casual disorder to be entirely appropriate.  At the Presidio Pet Cemetery, ghosts ramble and lounge and leap up to greet visitors with joyful delight.  These ghosts know how to enjoy their afterlife.  I’m glad they now got to spend it in such a lovely park. 

Have a delightful Valentine’s Day.  Share it with someone you care about, whether conventionally alive or otherwise.  In love, death is transformed.  In death, love can yet transcend.

Monday, February 12, 2007

Horrible, horrible, horrible

It’s been a good weekend, but it’s ending with a real heavy load of brainwork.  I’ve been at the keyboard for hours now, catching up on correspondence and typing up interview notes and doing research and updating key documents and generally not having the kind of Sunday night party for which I should be famous. 

Update: today we went to the Zoo where Zach enjoyed the following exotic activities:

* insisting on being carried
* picking up leaves
* putting leaves in garbage cans
* caressing garbage cans
* putting leaves in storm drains
* licking storm drains
* ignoring monkeys
* diligently exploring a short windowless concrete tunnel
* putting his hands in mud
* rolling around on the ground
* insisting on being carried
* putting his muddy hands on my face
* headbutting me
* the classic ding-dong

After about 90 minutes of this we took him the hell home and let him do the same damn stuff in the sanitized safety of his own freaking room.  Nature’s majesty my ass. 

On a lighter note, last night we visited the wonderful Sha and Helena, who hosted a delicious supper for us and another very sweet family.  I ate lots of salad and steak-smeared-with-gorgonzola and super-terrific mushroom risotto (three servings, au jus), and then some fruit tart, and then we listened to ‘60s pop and thrash punk for an hour or so before toddling home.  Who had fun?  Two hints:

hint 1
hint 2

(Thanks Helena for the awesome shots) (and I don’t mean that huge snifter of cognac you handed me shortly before I drove home)

Any-the-hell-way, what I’ve got left is a small handful of some of the worst goddamn puns I’ve ever thought of.  Really, they’re horrible.  The particularly bad part is that I can’t get them out of my mind.  Taking my cue from a classic story by S.L. Clemens, I have chosen to exorcise these avatars of awfulness by sharing them with you.  If you read on, you really have only yourself to blame.  However, if you want to say it’s Cheney’s fault I won’t stop you. 

First, an easy one: I’m sort of a cross between Google and Gogol: I will answer any question you ask me, but in a depressing wordy way. 

See, not funny.  Not even amusing.  However, imagine how much worse it would have been if you’d been repeating it to yourself for a week.  My relief is palpable.  (Palpations available by request with SASE.)

Now, a really bad one: Kel got Z an animal book at the liberry recently, featuring one Noah and his giant floating whatsis.  It’s very well-illustrated and eyecatching though, so the theme has been floating (!) around my head lately.  It finally occurred to me that when he got the notion to build a boat so all terrestrial creatures could survive unto the generations, he must have been the first Commissioner of Arks and Procreation.

Okay, that is really much worse, and is only even comprehensible (and certainly even then not funny) if you have a local commissioner of Parks and Recreation for context.  But even that is a good’un compared to:

Movie idea: a judge makes a terrible mistake and pays a horrible price in tonight’s feature – TERROR CORAM NOBIS! 

See, that only even vaguely makes sense if you’ve got a working knowledge of legal latin.  So I’m counting on you to develop that capacity.  I can’t be the only one on this damn blog who’s stuck understanding this joke.  And with that, I’m going to go back to my stupid boring work.  Have a delightful Lincoln Day.  I’m going to log off. 

oh god there goes another one.  sorry.  sorry.  hee.  sorry.  really.

Wednesday, February 07, 2007

Delicious Fishcakes!

I’ve seen some weird things in my day, notwithstanding the cough medicine, which let me tell you has been pretty intense lately.  But today’s little postlet is dedicated to three of the weirdest things to have come to my attention in the last week or so.  I do this as a public service, because a day without weirdness is like a fishcake without sunshine.  Yeah, you heard me. 

So, first up is a little piece of history: I was browsing some of my not-yet-read paperbacks and randomly picked up a copy of “The Second Sex” by Simone de Bouvoir, expecting it to be a spicy little literary chalupa.  Turns out: no pictures, and lots of the words are multisyllabic and nonvulgar.  What a ripoff, right?  But then, just when I was going to give up on French women altogether, what falls out of the back of the book but this:

Yay - my old newspaper ad for that creepy Vincent Price B-horror movie!  I thought I’d lost it!  And now that I’ve found it, I’m sure I’m gonna lose it - I CAN’T COUNT THE ORGIES OF EVIL - AND I LIKE IT! (also playing, “Unearthly Stranger.” Cultural sidenote: check out how many of the places this flick is showing are drive-ins!)

So that was piece of weirdness numbero one-o.  Shall we go for two?

Yes, latex nipples - a gift to my toddler from his pre-school.  Apparently the lovebuttons weren’t quite so prominent when the goods were delivered, but by early on Saturday morning when this photo was taken, there was no mistaking it - somebody was a little chilly.  I did the humane thing and sucked the helium right out of those mcnuggets.  It was a brief interlude, but a blissful one. 

Speaking of weaning.... no, actually, let’s change the subject.  Too painful.  Anyhoo, later on Saturday we went to the Wave Organ.  In some towns that’s a body part to which one shakes one’s hand “hello,” but here it’s a construction at the waterfront made of salvaged hunks of funereal stonework.  There was, legend has it, once a graveyard quite near the present location of my apartment.  The boneyard was broken apart and shipped out of town in the ‘50s to make way for a Taco Bell and some non-dead folk, and I guess a lot of nice stonework went by the wayside at the same time.  In the ‘80s some clever people hauled some of that to the end of a long spit of land and built this:

- for the edification of the masses.  It’s a very cool structure, with pipes and tubes that run underwater and through which one can hear the plings and burbles and other anomatopeaisms of the ocean lapping away as oceans so often do.  Really, it is very cool.  But look more closely at that second picture - can you spot the weirdness? That’s right Don Pardo, the weirdness is just this side of my lovely frolicking family, and here’s a closeup:

It’s a sort of stencil, or litho, or something arty like that, set directly into the face of the marmoreal rock.  I don’t know what it is or what it means.  All I know is these three things: It is not mine; I like it; and it’s weird.

So there you have it.  Weirdness cubed.  That should get you off to a decent start.  Now, send in your favorite weirdnesses.  God knows I get a crawful of that ordinary stuff.  A little weird every day is… say, are those fishcakes? 

Monday, February 05, 2007

Lessons from Der HeirmachinDonaldmeister

I have already proven to myself I’m not the live-blogger type, partly because I have neitehr a wireless connection nor a tv I can see from the computer, and partly because I don’t think fast enough or in small enough chunklets to withstand the pressure.  I’m all about the long boring diatribes, or even triatribes, where I groan on about something for way too long and then finish up with a short snappy phrase as if it were a punchline.  Like this! 

See, not too funny.  So I’m not the best liveblogging buddy you’ve ever had; I can’t feel bad about that all day long, there is plenty of other stuff I need to feel bad about and this just has to wait in line.  Like this!  So anyway, I’ve been watching my reality TV and NOT live-blogging it, and here’s the updates:

* Survivor: is starting this week and they seem to be doing the same “winners-live-large, losers-suck-bog gas” setup that they have on the Apprentice this season, except they’re doing it in Fiji.  I will watch, as I always do, because I invariably learn so much from watching those attention whores ruin themselves in the hot tropical sun.  On this point, more below.

* Amazing Race: They’re calling it an “all stars” episode but they’re missing some folk I’d love to see again, and they are calling some people “all stars” who seem more like “partial assteroids” at best.  But I will not complain because 1) television is FREE, suckers! and 2) the final race will be in my very own neighborhood, the Strybing Arboretum at Golden Gate Park.  That’s so cool.  Plus, we get to enjoy even more of Rob and Amber.  How have I confronted life these long dark months without their incessant teleslutting? 

* The Apprentice: This is a show I stopped watching for a while but now I’m back because it’s in LA this season and I wanted to see how they portrayed and played that city, as opposed to NYC where it’s usually shot.  So far LA is not looking too special, but it’s not really that photogenic a town.  They’re also premiering the “winners in the mansion, losers in a tent” setup that I expect they’ll be reusing for Survivor (but without the actual mansion).  It’s funny to me that 1) El Donaldo’s place is obviously brand-new, but built to look old and succeeding only in looking tacky, which I guess is perfect for him, and 2) they had to settle on two houses that face the valley rather than the city. They’re perched off Mulholland near Bev Glen and that’s as good as they could do.  The city view houses are all TAKEN, dude.  Even Al Ak-Donald’s influence only goes so far. 

The thing is, I watch these shows for the stuff I learn from them.  Not just that no one looks good in night-vision photography or that most shorts droop to flash the ass-cleavage when televised - there are actually usually one or two little points I can take away from each episode.  How to handle myself, or others; what not to say or how not to say it.  And just to pound this right through the dead horse and several inches into the hard, salt-sown ground on which the networks do their evil deeds, here are my “lessons learned” from episodes I through IV of The Apprentice - Los Angeles:

Episode I:
* Don’t wear a necktie to work at a car wash.
* Make sure your bladder is empty when you meet the big boss.

Episode II:
* Don’t go up against Jack Bauer - not even in a scheduling sense (unless TiVo is in full force, or the terrorists have already won)
* Sex doesn’t sell - hetero sex sells, or, sometimes, hot lesbians.  Don’t make your gay male self your main marketing tool.  So to speak.

Episode III:
* Don’t sign up if you aren’t fully prepared to play the game.
* If they give you a microphone - STOP SHOUTING.

Episode IV (500 cc ringers stat!):
* Life is a team sport.
* Three fair ideas implemented, beats one possibly fabulous idea flatly rejected.
And for being so nice and reading all the way down to here, a BONUS LESSON:
* The Donald does not care for fruity meat.

The Apprentice wasn’t on this past Sunday, so there was no lesson for me this weekend.  Instead we took naps and visited the Wave Organ.  Yes, I took photos, I’ll post them later.  Sheesh.  Later, dudes. 

Friday, February 02, 2007

Brother’s Keeper

It was a bad day to get in my face.  Though I had loads of work to do, I had left early; though it was unseasonably warm, bright, and sunny, I was headed right home to draw my blinds and go to bed.  It was the afternoon on which my long-term low-grade sinus crud had transmogrified into a full-blown headcold the likes of which I had not had in a very long while. 

I had fought to retain focus as I’d sat at my desk, experiencing between my ears the simultaneous sensations of implosion and explosion, an aching discomfort that built up mercilessly to a searing burning pain that forced tears from my eyes and then forced those eyes to close involuntarily, till I found myself cradling my head in both arms, bent over on my work-strewn desk.  I couldn’t keep my concentration long enough to read one sentence, to comprehend one question.  I just kept re-reading the same line, moaning my woes inwardly and only able to maintain the coherence necessary to ask myself why the hell I was still at the office.  I realized, finally, that I had to leave while I still could. 

Thus I found myself at my bus stop, not at 6:30 or so, but at 3:30 on a nice afternoon.  Then I waited nearly half an hour for a bus that runs every four minutes, my sinuses suppurating with what must have been magma.  I didn’t even want to venture a solid snifflesnort for fear of scaring that timid bus away.  By the time I sat down on my typical seat on the almost-empty 38 that finally pulled up, I was in about the worst mood of my natural days.

As we rode along, the sun flashed at me in reflections off passing buildings, and each bright blast felt like a 4x4 to my frontal lobes.  I was hungry.  Nauseated.  Needed to blow my goddamn cerebral cortex out my goddamn nose.  It was obvious that I was in a bad way.

Because the bus had been so long in coming, it filled up fast and big crowds were waiting at every stop.  That made the ride even slower.  I turned my face toward the empty benches that hovered over the articulation just to my left – a space just marginally quieter, stiller and more restful than anything else in my life at that moment. 

I was shaken from this reverie by the shouting.  I turned to look outside when I heard him as the bus pulled up at Stockton and I instantly picked him out of the sidewalk mob: he was young, loud, and furious, about six feet tall, very slim, didn’t seem to be shaving yet.  His abundant hair was densely dredded.  He held a clamshell cellphone ostentatiously in front of his face, shouting at it with increasing agitation.  He wore a nice tracksuit, and by his side stood his little brother.

The fraternal bond was evident in a similarity of build and expression, but also in the younger’s aping of his elder’s style – from his tracksuit to his bugeye shades to the Kangol perched atop abundant floppy dreads.  I’d put him at about 12.  A very wise and widely-experienced 12. 

The bus squealed to a stop and the boy and his brother got on with the rest of the crowd.  He was still bellowing into his cellphone, and he seemed to be getting more belligerent as he went along.  He goggled with anger at the receiver in his hand, his wide delicate jaw chomping down on his words as if he were biting through bones.  “Fuckau tokinbau muthafuka – I godda wuk!  Godda WUK!  I godda make moneh evry day!  Evry fukin day!  Don’t give me that shit.  I don’ need that shih.  Fuk YOU!  Niggah muthafuka FUK YOU!”

His tirade was building as he pushed his way down the bus aisle and dropped into the further of the articulation seats to my left; his brother, eyes on his pristine court shoes, took the one adjacent, next to me.  The shouting continued unabated.  I sensed an impending conflict. 

My throat ached and my lungs were clotted with discolored spackle.  My eyes burned in their sockets and my head began to crumble under the onslaught of the boy’s tirade.  Threats, obscenities, racial disparagements, maternal denigrations – everything he could shout at the phone from the depths of his rancor, he let loose with it all.  I dragged my gaze from the floor at his feet to my fellow riders and met an unusual number of their eyes.  They all conveyed the same point: this loud angry young man is out of line.  Some expressed this with fear in their eyes; some, with frustration; some, with a good humor that I, by now, entirely lacked.  I was at the edge of my patience and one more outburst would surely push me over.

“MUTHAFUKA YOU CAN KISS MY ASS – DON’ MAKE ME SO ANGRY HEAH – I’M PISSIN OFF MUTHAFUKAS ONDA BUS NAU – YOU BEIN’ FUKIN’ DISRESPEKFU NIGGAMUTHAFUKA – “

Snap.

That was my patience coming to an end.  I turned in my seat and stared at the two manchildren beside me.  The young one raised his eyes to mine, wordlessly.  I got a sense from him, beneath that flamboyant hair and under that fabulous velour suit, that he was not entirely at ease with the situation.

I leaned over toward him; he reciprocated.  I spoke softly, but with a ravaged voice like something dragged up from beneath the mortal plane: “He’s talking about respect?  What he’s doing is no respect to us.  He needs to cool down or get off this bus.” There was no threat.  I was making a request more than anything else. 

The one with the phone jumped on my words, screaming into his palm, “SEE BITCH NAU YAGAH’ NIGGAZ ON TH’BUS PISSED AT YOUR MUTHAFUKIN ASS –” and on he went as I spoke, a little louder and more forcefull, directly to him this time: “I don’t care about your phone call.  I’m not mad at who you’re talking to.  You are the one who’s out of line.  Keep your voice down or get off this bus.”

“Nigga you can shut yo’ass too, I got bidnez and I be pissed off –”

“If you’re that angry just get off this bus, I’ve got enough trouble in my life and I don’t need yours – “

“FUK YOU BITCH, I’M STAYIN’ HEAH AND I’M TAKIN’ CARE OF MY SHIT AND IF YOU DON’ LYKIT YOU CAN STEP OFF MUTHAFUKA, I’M NOT TAKIN’ ORDERS FROM YO’ HONKEY NIGGA ASS MUTHAFUKA!  Shit!” - and then, back to the phone, “Shi’muthafuka naw you got me con-flikin’ on the bus muthafuka!  You fukkin’ treatin’ me like I’s yo fe-male!  Fuk you!” - and then, to me, “FUK YOU!”

I felt blood rush to my face and my muscles; my fingertips tingled with a desire to clench into fists, yet I remained very still.  My voice dropped a little, it carried though the now otherwise silent bus like an anvil through jello: “I do not care about your problems.  You’ve picked the wrong day to make an issue of this.  Get off the phone or get off this bus.”

“Beyotch fukyew I ain’takin –”

“HEY!” The voice boomed out from the back of the bus, behind dozens of shellshocked riders that filled every seat and the aisle.  “That dude is right!  Shut the fuck UP!”

The little gangsta gaped and spun at the sound of a new playa in the game; his little brother slid further down in his seat and looked even more intently at the floor.  The guy at the back of the bus was six foot tall or more, built burly with muscular extremities.  He wore a t-shirt, jeans, buzzcut, goatee, and scowl.  His ethnic heritage was indeterminate, but his indignation was unmistakable.  He was stepping up for a piece of the action from his bench over the rear wheels, barrel chest outthrust and thick hands gesticulating.  A buddy stood by his side.  The angry boy’s younger brother was extremely still. 

“Shi’muthafuka hoodafukayewbee – nobody be talkin’ t’yew biotch –”

“That’s IT punk – you get the FUCK off this bus right now and I’m not shittin’ you, you are outta line and – “

The cellphone boy sprang to his feet, hair flailing the air and jaw jutting, and pushed his way through everybody toward the back.  “FUK dis shit I’m not getting’ off this bus, this shit’s MY bus, I du’wha’th’fukeye wan’, you bitches ain’ treatin’ me lykno FE-MALE, FUK THIS, I’m outta here, this shit is shit yo, FUK’YALL….”

He waded in his knee-crotched knickers toward the back stepwell, holding his phone with one hand, his pantwaist with the other, and keeping up a running tirade at the burly dudes in the back all the while.  The little brother followed after him, avoiding eye contact with the world.  But once they reached the stepwell the tyro stopped and turned to exchange a few more choice words with his new nemesi. 

The argument continued for blocks, the burly dude and the skinny cellphone boy each pausing only for breath and to refresh their store of obscenities.  They were far from me now, though, so the shouting was muted and less oppressive.  That boy wasn’t going anywhere and nothing was going to get resolved; they were all just going to bellow at each other.  I looked up across the aisle at a young blonde woman in casual office attire across from me; she mouthed the words “thank you” to me, a faint smile on her face.  I told her, in a voice I hoped sounded non-confrontational, “I can usually put up with this stuff, but not today.  Today, I had to cut him off.” A general murmur of accord ran through the immediate vicinity. 

The fight in the back continued, waning and waxing in intensity as the bus rolled westward.  At some point, though, the little brother had apparently had heard enough.  I didn’t see him turn away but I saw him working back up the aisle, eyes on the floor.  People shifted and shrugged out of his way and he moved sinuously, but reluctantly, past them.  As he passed me I caught his attention for a moment – I had claim to it, since I’d actually spoken to him already.  Behind those half-tinted shades his eyes were a mile deep, but I had no sense whatsoever what was behind them.  I felt that every step he took was both a triumph and a tragedy for him.  He had to put some distance between himself and his wacked-out brother, whom he clearly otherwise idolized.  He felt bad but he had no better response – every choice seemed wrong somehow, but finally he had to make a move so he moved back up to the front stairwell, where he stood just as his brother was standing at the back of the bus, but quietly, thoughts inward, his handsome young face magnificently blank.