Okay, so this is the 500th post here on Desomnia in Drull. I've been toiling over what to do for such an occasion. I've had some great ideas. For instance, doing a 500 line poem with each line representing a different post. I love the idea however I can't bring myself to do it. That would take me days to compile and I feel like you all deserve something new for this one. There were a bunch of others that I can't remember at the moment.
Instead I've decided to post the first section from my current project, En Route/Metro/whatever it's going to be called (I seem to change it with the seasons). This is actually the first time that anyone other than myself has read this. Usually the writing I post goes through at least some kind of peer evaluation before I post it, so I apologize for any grammatical errors. I also have to warn you it's a bit long for a blog post, but I think breaking it up would be detrimental.
If you have the time to read it I'd appreciate any feed back you might have. I'm going to have ask that you bear with the formatting. I can't figure out why blogger won't let me use indentation. If you want to read it but find it hard to do here send me an email and I'll forward the doc.
Thanks to all of you out there for reading...
Metro Route #54
White Center is a strange place to find yourself. I had a conversation with a man once who said, “If you ever find yourself in White Center you know you’ve done something wrong.”
“I was born in White Center.”
“I’m sorry kid. I’m sorry.”
I was fourteen when that happened and didn’t think much of it. Fifteen years later I understand what he meant.
Not much has changed. Every day the streets reek of stale booze and bodily fluids. I guess it’s fitting as that’s how most of my life is.
I fought with my girlfriend again.
“You’re not really what I’m looking for,” Ramona said, while we were sitting in her car at the Dick’s Drive-in.
“Not what you’re looking for?” I exclaimed, bits of hamburger flying from my mouth. “How can you possibly say that?”
“I just don’t think that we mesh that well.”
That was four months ago.
A foggy mist hung over the streets as I left my apartment. People were beginning to congregate on the sidewalks in cliques. For a place with so much ethnic diversity it’s odd that they never interact with one another.
A group of Hispanics were unloading a van packed with corn tortillas and tomatoes. They had the same routine every morning. Eight of them would position themselves in a chain. It took them no more than three minutes to unload the whole truck into the taqueria. Say what you will about Mexicans but they’re some of the hardest working people I’ve ever seen.
The Samoans were outside the night club. I could never tell if they were loitering or working security. Any one of them could have been the bouncer, but at this early hour I doubt that any of them actually were. One of the smaller guys opened the trunk of his car to show off his new stereo system. The bass rattled every storefront window up the block.
One night coming home late I’d run into some trouble with them. My head was dizzy from too much mad dog and a joint a group of highschool kids were kind enough to share with me. As I was waiting for a car to pass so I could cross the street I felt a heavy tap on my shoulder. I turned around to find an enormous man behind me, “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Just going home.”
I glanced around the man’s massive frame to see four more men behind him, one carrying a crow bar or tire iron of some sort.
“Going home huh? Well I think that you should make a deposit to the fund before you go.”
His back-up began to approach slowly. Terror filled my body. I’d never been in a fight before. “Sorry man, but I don’t think it’s going to help much as I don’t have anything.”
He cracked all of his knuckles in one smooth motion, “Well we’ll just have to see about that.”
I went to run but realized the others had fanned out to prevent my escape. I stuttered to find words, but none were there. The man started to pull back his fist when a voice came from the club.
“HEY! Sammy! What are you doing!?”
My aggressor turned, “Chill out Adam this doesn’t involve you.”
“The fuck it don’t. I know this guy.”
As the person came into the gleam of the street light I realized I did in fact know him. We’d been in the same elementary school class for a few years.
“You know him?” Sammy said without trying to mask his disappointment.
“Yeah, went to school with him. Sean right?”
“That’s me.”
“Hell man how’ve ya been? I haven’t seen ya in years.”
“Other than the recent unpleasantness, I’ve been good.”
“Sorry about that. Shouldn’t be a problem in the future.”
Adam motioned for the crowd to disperse, which they all did with reluctance. “Where ya at nowadays?”
“Actually I live right across the street here.”
“No kidding. I guess none of us go too far.”
“Guess not.”
“Well it was good seeing ya. I’ve got to get back inside, I left a tab open at the bar and my girlfriend drinks like a fish. Sorry again about that nonsense.”
Since then they’d never been a problem. Occasionally I’ll see one of the men who tried to assault me and they just give a half smile or nod. I nod back.
Then there were the Vietnamese always huddled around the door to my building. On the ground level there was a grocery store owned by Mr Nguyen, who was also my landlord. He ran the store with his two children, neither of which was over the age of twelve.
Each morning they’d be up before dawn setting up produce racks on the sidewalk. They worked for a few hours before the school bus picked them up right in front of the store. In the afternoon the bus would drop them off in the same spot and it was back to work. Never once did I hear them complain.
The school bus had come hours ago and it was just Mr Nguyen when I went in for a pack of cigarettes.
“Good morning, Sean. Are you well?” Mr Nguyen said as he set down the ladle from a soup he was tending and rushed to the register.
“Very well today and yourself?”
“Nother wonderful day here in Merica.”
“I guess you could say that. Can I get a pack of Camel lights?”
“No problem, you pay now or want me include with rent?”
I looked in my wallet. There were some old receipts from purchases I couldn’t remember, a photo of my childhood dog and two twenty dollar bills.
“You know, lets put this one on the tab.”
“No problem. Thank you very much. Have good day.”
“You too.”
“Oh everyday good day here in Merica.”
Saturdays meant that it was Farmer’s Market in White Center. They shut down the main drag and set up stalls in the street. In an hour the street would be filled with hundreds of people scurrying amongst white tents in search of the best deal. I’d seen it happen a hundred times.
I crossed the street to the Triangle Tavern. I could see John and Aaron through the grimy windows. Their eyes were fixed on a 10 inch television screen behind the bar broadcasting NASCAR. They slowly drank PBR and hoped to forget they were alive.
Light flooded the small building as I opened the door and all three of the men covered their faces immediately. Aaron grumbled through his hand, “Can’t you use the back door like everyone else?”
“Back door? Ah hell, ain’t no reason to walk around the block when I’m coming from this side.” I retorted with distain and tossed my bag on the stool beside me. “Mikey, can ya pour me a beer?”
Mikey was behind the bar with his head down, nursing a hangover. “Shit, just pour it yourself.”
“If I pour I don’t pay”
Mikey grumbled for a minute before finally getting up and moving over to the taps. “It’s not like you’re going to pay for it anyway.”
“C’mon my tab isn’t even half of what John’s got run up”
“Leave me out of this one,” John interjected swiftly.
John started coming to the Triangle in 1974 and the rumor is that he’s only paid his tab up through 1985. Whether it was true or not, it didn’t really matter, his brother is the owner and only brings it up when he wants to give him shit.
Mikey placed the beer on the bar and pretended to spit in the foam before placing it directly in front of me.
“Thanks.”
Mikey slurred a few indiscernible words through his lips before returning to his previous position. He’s much more pleasant after he’s got a few drinks in him. The liquor control board has a strict rule of not drinking on shift, which he broke daily. However it was before noon and Mikey had a stricter rule about not drinking in the morning.
Inside the Triangle there wasn’t much to speak of. There was a pool table, sparse in felt and missing the 4 and the 8 ball, and a dart board with cork so badly worn it looked more like a sponge. An old jukebox sat in the corner of the room covered in dust and cob webs.
On the risk of disrupting the crowd I arose from my stool and walked over to the relic. From the appearance it was evident that it had been months since someone considered using it much less cleaning it. I brushed what I could from the surface and much to my surprise it coughed, then began to purr almost immediately.
“What the hell did you do to that thing?” John scowled from across the room, “That thing hasn’t worked in years”
“Didn’t do nothing but touch it. Maybe it just wanted some attention”
As I walked back to my seat at the bar for the first time ever I heard music played at the Triangle that wasn’t a poorly assembled cover band. It was a garbled sound, like the choking of an engine that just won’t die, but it resonated through the three walls with magnificent force. As the dust settled I could hear Bob Dylan crying out:
“Ramona, come closer,
Shut softly, your watery eyes.
The pangs of your sadness,
Shall pass as your senses shall rise.”
Ramona. Of all the god forsaken songs in the jukebox, it had to play that one.
“Hey Sean, ain’t your girl’s name, Ramona?” Aaron said before chugging the last third of his beer and slamming the glass on the bar.
“Sure is.”
“How long you two been together now?”
“Oh geez, four months.”
“You get her knocked up yet?” John interjected.
“Fuck no. I ain’t about to have any little brats.”
“And here I thought you would have by now.”
“That’s surprising. Didn’t think you thought too much about anything.” Mikey spat as he poured Aaron another beer. We all laughed as John sulked down into his barstool.
The juke box sputtered some more and began again, with the same song.
Aaron said, “Hey you think you fixed that thing? I think ya just made it worse. Now it’s repeatin’ itself.”
I hesitated for a moment as it cried,
“The flowers of the city
Though breathlike, get deathlike at times.”
I quickly finished the remainder of my beer. “I’m outta here guys. This is depressing me.”
As I walked out the door I could hear Mikey, “What’s with that! Comes in, fucks with the jukebox and leaves us with this shit on repeat!”
I chuckled thinking of how long it would take for them to think to just unplug it.
* * * * *
The market was just opening as I walked out into the constant murk that is October in Seattle. A consortium of Asian women was forcing their way through the makeshift barriers in search of their own brand of freedom. People swarmed the shops, scrambling and screaming to make sure they got what they needed before the vendors sold out. They always sold out.
I sat on an old wooden bench near the entrance watching the frenzy before me. One vendor in particle caught my eye. A taller woman with light brown hair was moving quickly to supply a long line of people with Japanese pears and a variation of eggplant unfamiliar to me. Her movements were as carefree as the leaves falling from the autumn trees; chaotic perfection.
I watched her forever, each motion placing me further in a trance, each movement reminding me of Ramona. Before I’d realized the time pass she was taking down the white canvas shelter and packing empty boxes into an old station wagon.
How long had it been since I’d last seen her? A week? A month? I couldn’t remember. I’d seen her since our disagreement but I couldn’t place where. Maybe it was on the beach? At her house?
Completely lost in my thoughts I walked to the nearest bus stop. The bus was late but I didn’t notice. I just stared blankly at all the people in their cars as they passed by. Everyone rushing to get some where except me. I had no place to go.
The bus arrived with a screech of the brakes; buses are so much louder in the rain. I got on without much concern for where it was going. The driver, a squat man of Turkish decent, greeted me politely but with reserve. I asked quietly, “Where does this bus go?”
“Son, you’ve just gotten on the 54. We take it up over to the ferry dock, back around to the Junction and then it’s a straight shot into the heart of the city.”
Ramona lived near the ferry docks.
“Thank you, sir.”
I took a seat near the back door, hoping to avoid contact with the other riders. As we veined through the residential streets few people got on and even less got off. Everyone ignored each other like leopards passing in the darkness of the jungle, ready to pounce at any moment, but too overcome with complacency to do anything but ignore each other.
As we neared the ferry terminal two couples joined the ride. Each sat in opposite aisles just in front of me. They were drunk on love and companionship, not knowing the painful sting of passions exploit. I could hear parts of their conversation as I silently prayed for their innocence.
“Oh I think that would be great, honey.” The young man said without a hint of cynicism.
“Yeah and then we could get goats! And a pig named Mavis!” She was nearly in tears with joy. “Do you want to stop for coffee before we go to the movie?”
“That could be good, get myself an Americano. Hmmmm, yeah we’re totally doing that.”
They kissed each other softly.
I began to think of Ramona back when she loved me. How she would wake just before 7 to start making coffee. She would grind the beans in an old hand grinder until the aroma filled the kitchen and began to sneak up the stairs. As I would come down she’d have breakfast cooking already. We’d embrace as the bacon crisped and biscuits browned. I could almost taste the sweetness of her words to me, “We can be together forever.”
As these words reverberated within my skull I found myself reaching for the bottle of whiskey in my bag. After a couple of pulls I started to feel a little better. I had barely got the cap back on the bottle when the bus driver approached.
“There’s no booze allowed on the bus, and I’ll be damned if you’re riding any further with me.”
I couldn’t argue with him. I simply grabbed my things and walked towards the door. Before I descended the stairs I looked back at the young couples hoping they had something to fill my forsaken disposition. But they were as naïve to my malaise as they were to their love. So I stepped off the bus and onto the sidewalk, only to be left standing in the rain. No one noticed.
* * * * *
Two more buses passed me and I didn’t move. The air was salty and I could hear foghorns in the distance. I stared into the forests of Lincoln Park, hoping to find comfort. The evergreens swayed in the breeze, calling me to their cover.
I entered the park on the south side near the beach head. As I got deeper into the forest all the trails seemed to loop and intersect each other in strange designs, like crop circles. The only distinguishing marks were the occasional initials on a tree surrounded by a heart or a gang sign tagged in red spray paint on the concrete.
Every once in a while I’d pass a strange set of logs; arranged in a way to assist in exercises of some kind, long forgotten and fallen to natures will. Just as I was passing something that seemed to be used for push ups a humming bird came into view.
The bird approached me and floated softly not two feet from my head. His simple stare gazing directly into my eyes as if he already knew my name, had been my friend. Suddenly it took flight and I had to run to keep up with it. Soon we reached a clearing where the bird flew from tree to tree pecking haphazardly into the bark before disappearing completely.
This is when I realized I’d been here before, many times. This was the park that Ramona and I used to walk in for hours. We’d come just as the sun was going down and by the time we reached the shore a fantastic display of light and shadow graced the horizon over the sound. She would tell me about her wants, her desires.
We’d sit atop a log where I’d listen for hours. She always wanted to go to Spain, to Portugal, to France. She would tell fabulous stories of villages hundreds of years old and museums as far as the eye can see. How there were mimes in the streets and everyone was beautiful. I remember telling her, “Don’t worry, as long as we’re together, I’ll take you there.”
Instinctually I reached into my pack and pulled out the bottle. I sat in the grass and drank. I thought of calling Ramona, thought of just showing up at her house. I could see myself there at the front door. Then I drank some more. I feel asleep and by the time I awoke it was dusk. I had to get out of the park.
* * * * *
It was more difficult to find the way out with a lack of light. Quickly what little sun was left vanished and I began to wander aimlessly not knowing where the paths went or even where they were. Many times I stumbled into a tree or through a thicket of blackberries. I cursed myself for falling asleep.
I stopped in the middle of three trees and looked for any sign of the trail. Each direction looked equally impassable. I couldn’t even tell from which direction I’d come. I was ready to scream, give up and just pass out in the woods when I heard a strange whistle from behind me.
I turned around quickly but couldn’t see anything.
“Is anyone there?”
Another whistle. I returned the whistle and a man came out of the nearby brush.
“You’re new.”
“Who are you?”
“That doesn’t matter. It’s best if we don’t use names.”
“Don’t use names? What are…”
Before I could finish speaking he opened with long beige overcoat to reveal nothing but himself. Even in the darkness it was apparent he was completely naked. My ability to communicate vanished as I tried to make sense of it all.
He moved up beside me, touching me with his exposed body, “So what are you into?”
“Dude, seriously, I’m not into this. I’ve got a girlfriend.” I took a few steps back to add some much needed distance.
“They always have a girlfriend,” the man muttered to himself. “I don’t care what you have or don’t have outside of this clearing.”
“Yeah, well, I ain’t gay.”
“They never are.”
He seemed to be speaking to the trees. Were there more people out waiting? What was going on in these woods?
“You’ve got the wrong idea entirely.”
“I do? You’re the one who called me out.” He covered himself again with his jacket.
“I didn’t call nobody out.”
“Yes you did.”
“Yeah I whistled because you whistled first. I don’t know where you come from but I’ve never heard of a whistle meaning ‘get your naked self out her for forest sex’.”
The man turned back into the foliage, “Turn around and head straight out the way you came, less you run into someone else out here. Cock tease.” Then he disappeared as suddenly as he’d arrived.
I turned a perfect 180 and ran.
* * * * *
I found the road and proceeded back to the bus stop. As I approached a young man, maybe 25 years old flags me down. His face was beaten and unkempt. His short brown hair spiked in all directions from a gel that must have been two days old. “Hey man, do you have a cigarette?”
“What’s your name kid?” I replied casually.
“Dusyanta”
“Dusyanta?” I paused for a moment, “Is that your given name?”
“No I quit using that, years ago. It didn’t fit me too well.”
“Alright, Dusyanta it is.”
I hand him one of my Camels and he cringed a little when he first tasted the smoke. “Wow, it’s been a while since I’ve had a cig that isn’t menthol.”
“So, what brings you about in these parts? You live around here?”
“Nah, actually on my way back north. I went out to the ocean with my girl, but we got into it and she left me on the coast.”
“Wow, that’s quiet the trek.”
“Yeah it took me three days of hitchhiking and just flat out walking to get this far. Luckily a nice family picked me up on the other side of the sound and ferried me across.”
“Sometimes you’ll find that strangers can be more helpful than the people you know.”
“I hear that.”
“What about you? You from around here?”
“Yeah, I’m actually used to live right up the hill her with my lady. Now I live just at the south end of the line.”
“Kick ya out?"
"Nah, it's a bit more complicated than that."
"Well, women can be like that, but I figure if that’s how they wanna be good riddance. It’s a big world out there and I’m sure there’s someone perfect for me, just the way I am. I’ve been with plenty of girls who think they can ‘change me’ but in the end realize it’s not worth the effort. Better to just find somebody that’s right the way they are.”
“You sound older than you look. How old are ya? 24?”
“Nah, I’m 36.”
“36! Wow. Never would’ve guessed that.”
“Yeah I attribute that to my lifestyle: don’t fret the little stuff and keep one eye on the Lord, you never know when he’ll try to mix your life up.”
“I think that’s a great philosophy.”
The bus pulled up and Dusyanta boarded the bus first. As soon as he passed the entry the driver noticed me immediately. Much to my dismay it was the same driver from before. His nostrils flared and cheeks went cold, “Not again. One chance is all you get on my bus. No way in hell.”
The door slammed quickly as the bus pulled away leaving me debased in a cloud of exhaust. I could see Dusyanta nod from the window as he passed.
* * * * *
The moon hung silently in the night sky as I start my way up to the Junction by foot. To the west clouds were building over the trees of the park and it wouldn’t be long before it started to rain. I didn’t speed up or slow down, I just kept walking.
Cars constantly passed me in both directions. I couldn’t see what the people looked like behind their headlights. I imagined ghoulish figures driving manically, white knuckles gripping the steering wheel. One driver swerved to miss a raccoon and I could’ve sworn he was trying to hit me.
I moved onto residential streets, hoping for safer travels. The houses all looked the same: single story, pitched roof, sedan in the driveway, dog barking from the back yard. Every once in a while I would see a family through the sheer curtains, sitting down to dinner or casually watching television.
I’d walked all of these roads before with Ramona, most recently in spring. The trees all budding with flowers and squirrels running haphazardly along the power line. She’d tell me about how she hoped to own a house one day with a small yard and a fence. We would wander for hours with no concern for anything. “One day we’ll have a house.”
I reached again for the bottle.
It started to rain as I was replacing the bottle in my bag, lightly at first, like the mist of a waterfall or the gentle spray of the waves crashing along the ocean. I was without a hooded coat so I began to walk quickly hoping to find a covered bus stop. My head was hazy from the whisky and I couldn’t remember which way to go. I walked in circles until the rain had soaked through my jacket and small drops fell from my back like off leaves of a tree.
I turned another solemn corner and quickly found where I was, in front of Ramona’s apartment. It was raining heavier and difficult to see Ramona getting out of her Civic across the street. She squinted in my direction, “Sean? Is that you?”
“Ramona?”
“I thought I told you not to come around here anymore!”
“I, eh, I wasn’t here for you.”
She reached into her purse and pulled out a black can of pepper spray.
“Look Sean I don’t know what kind of problems you have, but you can’t keep stalking me like this.”
“Stalking? I, eh…”
“Just go. If I see you around here again I’m going to call the cops.”
I just left.
* * * * *
The rain subsided as I reached the Junction. The streets were filled with neon lights and fashionable youths. A pair of police officers watched me cross the street from inside a coffee shop. I’m sure they were trying to come up with some crime I’d just committed. Had Ramona called them? Could they clearly identify me if she did? Why would she call them? She still loves me. I never really feel like I belonged here.
The stop was covered, which meant little now, but people crowded under the awning in refugee from a non existent enemy. It was like a game of musical chairs with people constantly being pushed into the elements only to fight their way back in. I was finally forced from my position when the bus arrived.
I was dreading another encounter with the Turk only to be relieved when I found a woman was driving the bus. As I found a seat I realized exactly how wet I really was, a small puddle quickly formed under my seat, and the bus had the smell of mold and sweat. There were few seats remaining and we all were very close for having never met before.
As we passed the church a large group of nuns boarded the bus to a point of standing room only. Their silence cast a feeling of eternal empathy across the bus. In my drunkenness I offered my seat to an older sister, “Would you like my seat?”
“Oh dear, it’s no problem for me to stand. Besides it looks like you could use the seat more than I, or maybe you’re in need of something else?”
“I’m in need of a lot of things.”
“God can help you find the answers,” she said with the serenity of Gabriel.
“No offense but God has never helped me before, why would he start now.”
She paused for a long time, staring deep into my eyes and further into my consciousness, “Because now you are ready to receive his help,” then silently performed the sign of the cross and handed me a card printed with “St Alphonsus” in bold type.
We reached the ferry terminal and with a smile she left the bus with the rest of the coven. As the bus pulled away I could see them form a circle and begin lighting candles, only God knows why. I just hoped they didn’t have the same encounter I did.
* * * * *
White Center hadn’t changed since I left. The night gave way to more crime. I passed a gauntlet of dope peddlers and pimps, each face more depraved then the last. It was raining still, but only slightly.
As I passed a gas station a line of women were waiting for me. The first started in, “Hey baby, how you doing tonight?”
I continued on without responding.
Another piped up, “How bout you and I get together honey, I’m sure I can cheer you up.”
In a solemn tone I turned around and said, “Sorry ladies, I don’t pay for sex.”
The obvious leader of the group came up to me and with a flip of her extensions retorted, “Boy I’m the best lay you’ll ever find.”
Hardly concealing a chuckle, I smiled, “Thanks, but I doubt it.”
The convenience store below my apartment had just been robber and the police were swarming the area when I walked up. An officer stopped me at a make shift barricade, “This is a crime scene here.”
“I can see that, I just would like to go up to my apartment.” I pointed to the second story window.
“Oh, you’re a resident? Hold on.” He went off to confer with a circle of officers.
An ambulance showed up with lights flashing and I noticed that there was a man on the ground. Blood covered the cement around him and he struggled to breathe as they lifted him onto the gurney. It was Mr. Nguyen. He was clutching his abdomen in a way that suggested he was shot.
I moved to the side of the ambulance to get a better look at what had happened. His two children were hunched over on the ledge of the building clutching each other. Their clothes were stained with blood, most likely Mr. Nguyen’s, while their arms couldn’t quit shaking.
As they loaded him onto the back of the ambulance, he looked up at me. His face was plagued with defeat and his eyes watered as he found the strength to speak, “I never should have come here.”
The officer returned and allowed me passed the yellow painted saw horses. The children looked up at me as I passed. I wanted to comfort them, assure them that life isn’t just a series of painful events, tell them that he wasn’t going to die. But all I could do is lower my head, ascend the narrow stairwell, and think, “How can God help any of us now.”
