the two best things I saw on my bike ride home from work today

1. A woman grimacing—there's no other word for it, it was a for real grimace—as her dog squatted and pooped right into a puddle along a curb. It was in the middle of downtown at the start of rush hour.
2. A man carrying an actual hobo bindle. I mean, it was some real legit stuff. But instead of wrapping his provisions in a hankie, he had a massively-filled bag of empty aluminum cans. And the stick the bag was attached to was hulking too, something he could start an impressive fire with if the weather dipped too low. But I guess it's never wise to burn the implements of your livelihood, is it? That'd be like shitting in your own gutter.
   

how it is (a marriage)

Saturday night was a good for walking, so I left my bike at C—'s house where'd I'd locked it a few hours before and just hoofed it back home.

Sunday, I went in the late afternoon to get the bike. Outside was slush and mess, so I took the car, jammed the bike in the best I could. While mentally kickboxing geometry, I realized I'd have to take the front wheel off.

When I did, I noticed a wrapped condom weaved in the spokes, like how a kid would do with a baseball card.

C—, I thought. C— C— C—.

When I took my bike out of the car to ride to work yesterday, I undid the condom from the spoke. Obviously, I wasn't all that into the idea of lugging a love medallion (errr) in my pocket at the office all day, so I put it in the change tray, locked the car door and biked off.

Later at night, A—, dear sweet wife that she is, ran to the store to pick up some things to lighten the cold that's been weighing down on me. She called me as soon as she got into the car. Why's there a condom in here?

I explained about C—. She knows him, how he is. Said ok.

When she got back, she seemed agitated.

Me: Are things were ok?
Her: Yeah.
Me: So what's wrong.
Her: Nothing
Me: Is it the condom? C— left it there, swear. He thought it'd be funny. Do you think I'm messing around on you or something?
Her: Trust me, C— leaving a condom in your spokes is way more believable than you being able to get laid by someone else.


Guess she just didn't feel much like talking afterall.

on blizzard

The airport's about a mile away, close enough that there's a constant sound of spaced flights. They have patterns that switch like sluices. You can hear it always, though mostly you end up ignoring it altogether.

Wind's doing things to the the snow, lashing at it, making it gumshoe the corners of the fence. It's unclear whether more snow is falling or if the stuff that's already fallen is getting agitated.

I haven't checked the news, but it's so bad that all air travel in and out of this city has to have been halted.

But still there's that sound like a jet. Whir—there's no other word I can think of for it. I'm imagining flights suspended over us, making a slow decision about whether to drop or leave. Airborne indecision.

The windows of the house rattle, a very real thing. Everything I know seems like it could collapse into white.

It probably won't.

the ferret and the man

The guy had a ferret at his ankles. Morning rush hour was just starting and they were walking near the Bay Viewda Triangle.

They kept close to the buildings. Using his foot, the guy would guide the ferret back against the brick facades when it started to veer off toward the curb and the road. It kept trying to do this, so the guy was using his foot a lot.

It was like he was kicking at the wormy mammal, and his foot was filled with pure love.

It must have been too much, because soon he swooped down and picked the ferret up. He draped it down beside his head like a shoulder pad that'd protect him in battle.

What he did next was turn his face and kiss the ferret. This lasted for some time. Then they crossed the street. Together, looking both ways.

All our days will be better than his

A few blocks after the raw anger of a skunk was done in the air, I rode my bike up over the only real hill there is. At the top, there was a couple hunched over a small pile of something the color of a fox.

Their look was true bewilderment, an uncommon look.

When I asked what was wrong, the guy (who had his bare feet against the ground, even though it's just over 50°) looked up and said, "Hit by car."

It wasn't their car—that car was gone. They lived across the street and crossed it when they saw what happened, to be near the body.

It wasn't their dog—it turned out to be a dog, some strain of Pomeranian—either.

Like I said, they just saw it happen and crossed the street.

"He's just about..." the guy said as he bent down to touch the dog's face below the ear. "No, he just died."

We looked at it and each other, not really sure of what to say or do.

"Can you guys call Animal Control?" I asked after a bit. "They'll take care of the body."

They said they would. "There's no collar, but maybe he's chipped."

I got back on the seat, ready to go where I work, and the guy said, just in this way: All our days will be better than his.

grandpa: a love affair with lumber

Grandpa made his living in lumber. He sold it for a living, and worked on it as a hobby. Back before I was born, he was using the saw in the basement one weekend and accidentally ran the blades over the tips of his fingers.

There was blood, lots of it, initially. So I've heard. And after healing, a few of the digits on his left hand were reduced just dots of nails on blunted tips.

Now 85, grandpa has been having dreams of death.

A few nights ago, he was being placed in his coffin. An argument with the undertaker ensued. He was laid back, dead, but fussing over which hand should be folded over which. The good hand, pure and unscathed? Or the one that had the run-in with the saw so many years ago?

If there's any doubt, I told him that the left one, the saw veteran, should be on top. But instead of having it propped nicely, they should wrench all of the fingers out of sight except the middle one. Which is the one that coincidentally took the brunt of the blade.

Go out in style, I said. Stick that bastard up proud. Your last gesture to the world you've loved so.

Grandpa got a real kick out of that.

(Photo above from grandpa's workbench in the garage. Note the handmade wooden USA, with the complete set of state quarters. Real attention to comprehensive detail.)

running and rain

Groaning sky and intermittent flashes of light. I wasn't planning on taking it that seriously. After all, the whole thing went the color of death earlier, then cleared up.

It's Friday night, espresso bender time. Been riding out the high by working around the house, cleaning up, diving into overdue chores.

The idea was to go for a run after. Nighttime's the best time to do that, with everyone locked away, sleeping, or communing with the images on screens of one kind or another. Or out somewhere. But mostly around here they're inside. Tucked away.

So I like running then. Now. Darkness edging out the interruptions of daylight, saying, we'll fuss with that tomorrow.

But then, Mateo, the keen canine, who views storms as trials of absolute terror, started on his heavy panting. Like, fanatic panting. Anarchy of hot breath and slobber. Lungs going like a Zydeco accordion squeezed fast as a nightmare.

And now I know it's probably best to trust what Mother Nature was tossing hints around. That shit's about to go down.

But I trust my k9 more than any mother. His intuition is an ass-kicker. He's always onto something real, breathlessly.

Come on, rain. We're ready.