cloudy days that break to sun in the afternoons. the zing zing of cars going by the bart in the opposite direction and the man with orthopedic shoes reading time magazine doesn't even look at them. one of his legs is five inches shorter than the other. he wears one elevator shoe. he is a security guard and carries a gun, he is about fifty pounds overweight, he does not smile when he reads, he does not frown either.
market street is unusually quiet: no one is being arrested or reprimanded, no one is threatening to jump from rooftops, no one even asks me for change, or if i'm looking to score, everyone just looks and looks on. at the ferry building, i do not stop to see if kate is at canne rosso. it is the first time i have avoided her here because it is the first time have been here since she and nico split definitively. the scenario that unfolds in my mind is too awkward, unbearable even. i eat crusty bread and eye the seagulls warily.
are they the same seagulls that sometimes lurk in the bear cages at the zoo, hoping to score some forgotten morsels, especially from the blocks of ice that melt out frozen fish for the itchy-butted polar bear? they circle, they wait, they peck at each other. they seem always like unpleasant birds.
katie madsen called last night from oregon and we talked for an hour and ten minutes about france and north africa. she is moving to algeria, but has decided that she will not marry the architect suitor awaiting her there. and i have my plane tickets in the top drawer to keep me sane, tucked in next to my underwear and socks so that i see them everyday.
cap'n jazz is coming to town one week after i leave. it is evidence of strange cosmic events that only the simpleton would rush to attribute to bad luck.
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