1
Walking into a festival. We were late in the afternoon, stepping out of the Escape far away from the music. Still welcoming a walk that would stick us to our shirts. Police stand near the entry of a space renowned for exposed breasts. There won’t be much to pat down.
Their thumbs in the armpit of tactical vests, they observe us entering. I smile at them soberly, leaving space for my partner to pass through the archway. I follow. Sub bass hums through the grasses as we approach its epicenter. Colorful mammaries, children, sweating folks beneath undersized tents selling plastic jewelry and desserts.
A man is walking opposite of us. Sinewy, scrappy, old. Contractor skin shaded beneath a flowing sleeveless T-shirt. He nods, I nod — we smile.
“Did you see that man?” I asked Es.
“No. Where?” They turned backward so I could point.
I begin to philosophize: “There’s some kind of connection between the boys.”
Es indulges me.
“I’ve just connected with That Man.”
———
More and more I become about my business. Chasing exceptional quality of my current trade. Though the trade may halt at any given moment, I work hard to further the skill. It is a fulfilling type of business that every single one of my elders has warned us against. I believe it’s impossible to have The Revelation without The Mistake.
“If youth was not wasted, how can it be youth?” Viet Thanh Nguyen, Sympathizer
Every last experience is personalized to a T, yet beneath the same wide umbrella of conquest & purpose.
I’m savoring these thoughts while waiting at a red light between the shady gas station, the tattoo shop, and the food bank. At the verge of being impressed with my own adult-ness, a boxy, rusted 1996 Ford Explorer swung a left-hand turn across my windshield. Window to window, we see each other — in the millisecond of contact, That Man and I nod again.
———
Once I had seen that chipping Explorer skipping the curb, I saw that man everywhere — whipping his ride around
“Maybe he lives in it.”
“He might!”
“I wonder what he does. He’s like a scrapper or something.”
“He is like how you’ll be when you’re older.”
“How will I be when I’m older?”
“You’ll be in a rusted Ford with burnt hair and old man muscles taking corners too sharp between the shady gas station, the tattoo shop, and the food bank.”
“Burnt hair?”
“You’ll make it work, my love.”
———
2
The Explorer went as many laps around my Escape as I did around this work place. Pay increased. When pay goes up, so too the quality of my life experiences — in the form of subscriptions and memberships.
From YouTube to YouTube Premium. Car Wash Memberships. Hair Appointments (it’s going to end up burnt anyway). I graduated from the YMCA to a fancier gym called Fitness Loft.
I stretch my dollars ‘til they tear and spare none, doubling down on ignorance thus lengthening youth. It is easier to live this life than it is to worry, and I have been accommodated for, for most of my time coming up. Upon uttering the phrase “comfortable debt,” a co-worker looked at me as though I had slurred. What I know is that I can easily climb up any ladder and fill every hole.
My every valley is an exciting new way to kill time toward my own glorious death. I’ll have met everyone being busy, and yet I’ll request that I have no funeral nor celebration. Even this, I’ll march toward it. Doing something benign and meaningless until someone remembers me not for the quality of the work – but for the lack of complaint.
————
I am a machine, recoupling lost 20s with a lust for life walking up the stairs to my Fitness Perch, overlooking the traffic below. Each of us are full of energy daily. Saunas lit by cell phones. Beautiful people brandishing their body of work. A melange of playlist reminding me that anyone can do it.
For the first time, I realize that anyone can. I re-evaluate my judgements, as That Man — my man of the 1996 Explorer — is walking toward me as shoulder a fresh towel.
“Man, I been seeing you around and now I’m seeing you here!” That Man holds his powerful hand out in a fascinating juxtaposition against his looking upward to meet my gaze. “My name’s Billy.”
Standing in front of the entryway to the locker rooms, I take Billy’s hand bewildered, smiling. “I’m, Lou.”
Then, I gave more: “We saw you at the festival, do you remember that?”
“Of course I do, seemed like a cool guy.”
“I thought the same of you. You drive like a crazy man.”
“I got places to be,” he laughed as two women moved around us to head into the locker room.
His voice is sprinkled with smoke, as though he may have quit at a good time. Suddenly the twisted wires beneath the skin on his arm makes sense. I do the math on scrapping vs a $70/mo gym membership and see that I was off there as well.
More gym guests nudge past us to start their workout. I transport myself into each passing member’s head, seeing what I thought I saw in this wyly man.
They are also wrong. He’s got places to be.
“How long you been coming here?” Billy asks.
“Not until recently. I got my sea legs at The Y, then started making enough to try out somewhere bigger,” I told him. “I saw the windows and was sold.”
“Fuck yeah, man. I love it here. I’ll wake up, do some meditating and get real stoned. Then I come in here and just let it all go, man” He punctuates with that shared chuckle among the medicated. I’m enamored.
Does anyone else know this guy?