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Trauma Stuart, By the Door Still.

na.) On a tide of colloquial meanderings, like spreadfish and jelly 


The Parking Guard, the guy that writes those long tickets out by hand, I like that fancy chalk stick and the buzzle-bee taser gun he has. I wonder what he does to make genius happen at night. All alone in his garret, does he smoke the Gauloises while describing the spread of communism like it were an avoidable metaphor for passenger side delivery systems or diagonal parking? Does he quote Dickens to the delivery boys or freshen his tea with brandy while counting out tithes to the man. I wonder, is his watch analog or digital? Or is the genius really a metaphor for his process, the grim mathematical reality that has evolved from his days in the trenches, making those hard calls that are necessary for the protection of a culture that's divided by itself? Maybe he recognizes the despair in the deep and gentle eye's of those that he's chosen to shepard. His calling could be from the hair salon but here he is, making the most of his time spent inside of this production of Quintius Cincinnatus, This is Your Life!
I look up, startled. The noodles are hot and wet. They're good and brown when they arrive. I look up at the waiter, she bobs her head and returns to her paper. No one knows me anymore, I'm just another cad at the fringe of dereliction. I can use my tongs well and the click of them is very satisfying. I recall that the man I was thinking about still wears his Chinese slippers cheap but they're not in the picture.
The fierce crocodile of man, he longs for tacos and hugs. The End! Hell no, the door opens again and the bell rings. The smell of old tobacco billows in from the hot parking lot. It's time for dinner all the way. The night outside looks broken into green and yellow strips of spastic light. Even my reluctant eyes sadly, are seduced by the blinkered signs stuttering, bah bah bah beer.
The door closes and you grab my arm, the table shakes. I look back at you, shocked. "You have to take this seriously. I'm not, I say I'm not going to be here forever. What if I go back home. What if my dad died suddenly. What would you do?"
"I don't know," I answer honestly, shrugging my shoulders reflexively. "That's your thing, you've got a wife still. I'm not bitching."
"We're still having this conversation, really? After all these years, after all we've been through together. As men, as dancers..." His thought hangs there. I take it as time to slurp through a fat mouthful of wriggling dough. Another old man comes in, he's smoking a menthol. His walker is missing a tennis ball. "Can I help you old man?"
"Let's vote, with sticks."
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