07/09/98
hey baby. i long to hear it. that voice that rings so true in my mind. i can almost hear what it will sound like. hey gorgeous. how are you. and he’ll take my arm or my hand. he’ll run his fingers over my face. as if he were sculpting me and almost as certainly. i’m passing buildings and i’m walking down the street and i hardly notice their forms. i am not in san francisco. i am somewhere in the country and it is early fall. the first day true to the season. the first day of crisp air that hits your face, but doesn’t bite. but, of course, it would be sharp against the wet path of the tear. and of course he is brushing it away. hey baby.
i am not walking over bits of trash, dirt grime through which i’ve never walked barefoot. for three years i have never once gone barefoot comfortably. i tried. i can’t. i refuse to be walking over this bit of plastic bottle top pull. i refuse to be standing and waiting for the light to change, for the cars to stop going by. ahead of me there are not buildings. there is a stone wall. there are trees behind it dressed completely in grey. there are no traffic lights. and i hear his voice, hey baby. softly, holding my hand.
hey baby. i cannot smell the piss as i walk by. i cannot smell the soot and the years of filth fallen off shopping carts of bags and bottles, cardboard collected for pennies. i can only smell the woodsmoke in the air. fresh on my nose after months of springtime and rebirth. smoke. and i know it is not eucalyptus, it is pine. pine. and i know that someone’s home is warmer for it. i know i will walk back into his house, and i, too, will feel that warmth.
“hey baby.” his voice is harsh and i it took me a moment to realize who this person was. i moved around him, away slightly, trying not to be obvious. trying not to offend him, knowing that he could have been anyone long ago. knowing but for the grace of god… i give him distance, who knows what he could catch out on the street. “hey baby,” he says. keep smiling there for me.” years of wear. my reverie is gone.
One Mad Cat
"Sometimes a person needs a story more than food to stay alive." - Barry Lopez, Crow & Weasel
