Monday Morning

I’m sitting here. It’s still Monday morning, just barely, I’ve done sixty-five push-ups, one hundred and five crunch’s, and like, twenty barbell curls. I’ve meditated a half hour, checked email; nothing in the in-box. I hovered over the website that is supposed to be publishing my short story. It’s not up yet. I got on craigslist and checked out used cars, actually Corvette’s which is the best thing in the world to do if you are out of work. Then I watched porn, engaged in porn? What ever. I think this is the second best thing to do when you are out of work and totally broke. It’s better than drinking. I used to drink when I was out of work and it might be said that I was out of work because of the way I drank. Drinking and work or drinking and being out of work became a cycle. It took me a long time to notice that I hate laying brick. Although for the longest time I didn’t know I had a beef with brick. The suddenly I came to the realization that the best part of being a bricklayer wasn’t laying brick and concrete blocks, it wasn’t laying stone or glass block, it has nothing to do with the perceived artistry of hand labor. What I like about bricklaying is that you are out of work a lot. I love the idea of having a job without actually working. It’s not like I got paid for being out of work or that I’d ever made any fat money from the trade, but I got to the place where I could live as a bricklayer working maybe nine or ten months a year. I always loved snow days in school, and the idea carried over to bricklaying. We can’t work in the rain, or when it freezes, which back East, pretty much meant from October to April. Then too there are strikes, lock-outs, recessions, and other so called acts of god. For a burgeoning alcoholic this is the kind of job to have. The trick, if it’s a trick, is to balance spending to unemployment. In the eighties I could live alone, pay rent and stay drunk on unemployment. Back then I had a truck, a motorcycle, and got laid regular. I was living a working class dream. Know thy self, baby.

George Bush has relieved me of any pretext of employment or safety net, I sit here after my busy morning, with the wonder of a new day. I’ve got friends, employed friends, who do more things in one day than I do in an out of work month. The old timers, old bricklayers that is, used to say, “It’s hard to know when to quit when you’re doing nothing.” It’s hard to know when I’ve started too. I sit in this working man palace, a king of all I survey, the control of the kingdom at my fingertips. And this computing thing on my lap. Most likely the laptop is radiating something cancerous to my gonads but what do I care, I’ve spawned. Besides that, I’m positive that there is a micro-chip in the computer on my lap that sends a frequency to my pecker making my most prized possession shrivel like salting a snail. (I’m sure of it. If you don’t believe me, come and check for yourself.)

So I’ve chained myself to this thing in the hopes that something great will materialize. I keep the key close by. I stare out of the windows and welcome the cool sunlight as it animates my empire. Up on Fillmore all manner of motored vehicles run through the stop signs, I marvel and am disappointed that more accidents don’t happen here. Grove Street is a-growl with half full tour busses vomiting diesel fumes plodding up to Alamo Square where world travelers take pictures of old houses. “Which house is the Full House house?” I tell them in all honestly that I don’t know. I don’t tell them that I haven’t had a tv since ’94 because American tourists, already a bit jumpy with self inflicted culture shock, have wild opinions about the humans living here, the orgy loving, butt fucking, dope smoking, godless, degenerate, naked, weirdo’s living on an active earthquake fault. My people. I figure, why give the americans more ammo? I might show them a brick planter box I built but when you start down that trail you again set yourself up as a nut.

There is a guy who works less than me but has a nasty little dog he walks in Alamo Square. He talks to every goddamn tourist every goddamn day and as he talks his dog snarls and nips on the end of it’s leash. He’s the lurking San Francisco ‘character,’ with a dog. And it’s sort of fucked that he’s set himself up as the spokesman for everything San Franciscan. Of course I hate him and his rotten little dog. I should hate him because he’s a fraud but I might hate him because he’s found a niche which brings him attention. People actually listen to this nut, they take pictures of him and his mutt that are now in photo albums in Japan, and Iceland and Argentina, and god only knows where else. I don’t know how long they retain his council but I’ve seen plenty of them in nodding assent. Go figure.

I’ve been working on my shtick. I have been prancing around my apartment lately almost buck naked save the oversized rosary and the Jolly Rodger waving from a two foot long flagpole protruding out of my ass, though slightly more uncomfortable then wearing the rosary I’m getting the hang of clenching the flagpole for extended periods. Pretty soon I’ll be able to shag my hairy ass up the hill without the thing slipping out. What with all of the out of work competition these days it’s becoming ever more difficult to have a working personality.

One Punch Knockout

Here is what I thought I heard the poet say; “Knocked a guy out in one punch.”

Nice.

I thought the poet said, “It isn’t easy to knock a man out with one punch unless it’s in a movie.” So, I’m feeling low because the best I’ve ever done is to knock a few down. But they got back up. Later I found that I was mistaken, the poet, like me, just knocked them down. No small thing but not a knock-out.

Knocking a person down, or simply hitting them with intent is the walking embodiment of madness. A conversation. Opposing points of view. An errant stroke of your friends girl’s butt. Crossed wires. Momentary loss of language. Suddenly it’s fist city where the mail arrives in an explosive roar like some idiot firing an RPG.

Rocky the Hodcarrier knocked out the toughest guy in Stockton; hit him in the face with a chain. I don’t recall why he thought it necessary to knock a man out with a length of chain. That story might have been a guide to positive social behavior. I didn’t consider questioning the why part of the story being young and enthralled by the muscle and blood.

Mad fear tears people up; fear and working knowledge of battle. Crazy fear makes normally steady guys random and temporarily dangerous. The set up can be any or a combination of these things or something I’ve missed; love, isolation, misplaced emotion, ignorance, misunderstood compassion, winning, losing, the other and one another . Crazy fear passes like a rain storm. But in the midst of the downpour we slug it out. As it passes we blow clotted snot from our nose then pass from the scene.

Try fighting with a girl.

Women’s rules are different. They don’t punch; instead you are disemboweled with a butter knife. Or worse. I’ve never understood fighting without punching. I notice more and more well bred men employ the tactic of clubbing the opponent with words, but that is a dangerous gambit on their part that could painfully loop back on them when confronting a man with nothing to lose. Bruised feelings hurt the fighter worse than a fist in the nose and almost always invite retaliation. Fighting with words, girl fighting, is a sneaky way to conduct business. Quite honestly, and I am well aware that few things count as rules in fighting, I don’t think girl fighting is fair. Girl fighting isn’t about pounding the shit out of the opponent; it’s about touching coup. Humiliation on the half shell.

I found it important to make amends to a former girlfriend. If you don’t know it’s an AA thing. I felt the need to make things right with her. Possibly buried in a shallow grave was the thought that it might grease the skids to sexual congress. You know, clean things up, clear the air, then add the perfumy tang of sex. The amends process didn’t go quite as planned. Ann, we’ll call her Ann, regarded me as one might a sidewinder. I started, “Ann,” I said, “I done you wrong...”

“You’re goddamn right you did me wrong you sonofabitch. I fucking hate your fucking guts; the shit you put me through. Don’t even think about coming back for your shit. I took a hammer to the camera. Said you wouldn’t show those pictures to your friends; my ass ...” Turning the volume way down I drift into the calm center of a fist fight with Bob Senf. A sirocco of flying fists blot out the waning moon and the single streetlamp perched high on a creosote pole. I’m hitting and being hit and hugging Bob tighter than any girl I’ve ever loved. Catching a looping hook finds me legless with the feeling of being swallowed into the weedy grass and dirt covered patch of ground our ravenous drunken band occupy. Down and in supplication I’ve created shell that only marginally protects me from the hailstorm of punches. I’ve fought this fight many times.

Meanwhile Ann enumerates the myriad sins I’ve overlooked as I endeavor to atone for my recognizable sins.

My mouth again tastes of phantom blood, a link in the chain of recall that selects the distinct and profound bouquet of cut grass, pine, new laid asphalt, stale wine and cigarettes after a punch in the nose. Before the knockdown there is a profound joy in landing an uppercut to Bob Senf’s belly that upon every visit to this memory makes him wince.

Like a freight train punching through a heat mirage crossing the desert floor, Ann rolls on without slowing, she’s possessed of powerful combustion and insane torque. She rides tracks of shimmering mercury, her passing congers tormented dust-devils.

Fist fight with the guys; admire your bloodied knuckles, check for punctures, loose teeth, and broken bones. All’s as it should be, go ahead now, step from the drunken dizzy night with dignity. After all you know this.

Anger Management

A man dressed in casual business attire strides beneath the shading tree, past the café, along the sun dappled sidewalk; sport coat unbuttoned, white shirt opened at the collar, tie loosened, a well worn pack is strapped to his back. The sun arcs away from downtown toward the Pacific; his path traces the sun. Assume this man is on his way home from work. Not an outrageous assumption. His attitude, hard to read; bouncy, determined walk, eyes set to the horizon, presume sunlight the cause of his furrowed brow. Distracted, predisposed, spacey, possibly content, or not, basically he is undistinguished except; clutched in his left hand is a bouquet of red roses, his right hand grips a Louisville Slugger.

A man, the bat, and roses. A perfect one-panel cartoon.

Can we enjoy this image without complications; can we avoid fucking this up?

Impossible.

Humans need captions. Need to finish the story.

So give him a partner; a tallish, willowy blonde, red lacquered nails, silver bangles jingle from her wrist. Dress her in a dark business suit, white silk blouse, strappy fashionable heels, give her one small tattoo, a rose, on her left ankle. She and the man with the bat stride together in lock step, like two square jawed workers in a Soviet propaganda poster. No answers just a Hollywood cliché.

Do over. The partner is petite, athletic, brunette, tan, punctured by a diamond nose stud, her pony tail sways back and forth as she strolls along side him shod in weathered athletic shoes. She carries a used fielders glove by the strap. All the blanks are filled, happy now?

One more time. The man with a ball bat and roses walks with another tall, slim, man, possessed of incredibly white teeth, graying at the temples, European cut charcoal suit, tie tight to the throat, matching silk handkerchief folded neat in the breast pocket. The older man is brimming success and sly experience. Helloooo. Bat and flowers?

Fuck it. You are the guy walking down the street, if people sit in front of the café, they’re part of your story. Include them or not. You are the mystery, the ball bat and roses simply props. You’re in charge, reveal the story as seduction, like a fan dancer in a smoke filled room. Make them beg for it. Lets see some dollars on the stage.

Unfortunately, under today’s feathers is a plucked chicken – you’ve been laid off.

The Starling eyed security dude hovers, regarding your departure with scant mercy. Personal effects do not fill your backpack. Shoulder the pack, scan the room one last time. There resting in the corner behind the door is your ball-bat. The security guard arches his eyebrows then rears back as you snatch up the bat. Give him a sinister, knowing grin then slap the bat to your palm. It’s nice to see fear spark in his scavenger eyes. Of course you don’t go for him – the job sucked.

Your bat. You are terribly fond of this bat; got you laid after the company softball game. Hit a triple over the head of the petite brunette from Human Resources, her ponytail poking from that arch above the adjustment band. She has the graceful strong legs of a high-jumper. Shift stance, hit to right field, hit at her – challenge her with your bat. After sunset, after everyone has left the athletic fields you and this sleek brunette have frenzied sex in the front seat of her Honda, not easy considering you haven’t time to remove your game shorts. No matter, she is lithe and determined. In the heat of Anaconda contortions you regard her leather ball glove on the back seat; smooth, well oiled, pleasingly small.

Layoff day, discretion dictates against calling the cute right field brunette for a sympathetic quickie, though it crossed your mind. You’re kinda pissed that though she’s in HR she didn’t transmit a warning. Now imagine calling your wife and the angry clatter of silver bangles slamming the phone into its cradle.

Layoff’s sting radiates like a spider bite. Don’t call the wife, her psychic powers will anticipate your fall. She suspected the ball park tryst without evidence. You know how she gets, how she clocked you with the stoneware vase that time you came home, a little drunk, a little giddy; intercepted in your mad dash for the cleansing sanctuary of the shower. She smelled the cologne. That man’s cologne. It wasn’t that big a deal and only happened once but her fearsome attack left you stunned, bleeding, and slightly afraid.

Good thing. You can’t possibly be blamed for the layoff. Fucking economy. Though not an indiscretion, consequences are likely. Finally, standing before your apartment door, visualize your wife’s piss-off meter and contemplate where biting failure and lost income rank.

Roses are calculated as Harm Reduction. Be wary of the thorns. Stuff them stemwise under your arm as you fumble with the key and lock. Hold tight to the Hickory bat, name it Anger Management.

My Bike's Bigger than Yours

The seed for bikes as cargo transport planted upon seeing cargo bike photos from China in the early 1980’s sprouted in 1992 when my daughter was born. As an excuse for both of us to get outside I installed a child seat on the rack of the mountain bike. My first cargo, talked to trees and birds and everything along the trail. She proved more fun than a sack of potatoes. When she out grew the seat Ezra got a scooter then a bike of her own.

I revisited road bikes; long days in the saddle, centuries. In time my riding partners either went racing, took on grown up jobs, or moved away. Work intruded. Although I never let go of the handlebars, I changed course. I set up a bike for around town; fenders, rack, basket, fatish tires.

A bricklayer by trade, my tool kit is housed in a serious canvas bag: big brick trowel, chisels, tuck pointers, jointers, sundry trowels, measuring tape, brick hammer, most everything wrought in steel, awkward and hard edged. All told, including the two levels, I’m carrying about fifty pounds plus my fifteen pound backpack. There was a problem. Strapped to the rack my tools flexed the commuter frame in a wholly unsettling manner; wobbling up and down San Francisco streets I considered frame failure and survival.

Momentum magazine hinted then featured a radical idea blowing across the Atlantic; utility bikes, Dutch box bike or bakfiets, versions of the old Schwinn cycle trucks and the rear load xtracycle and it’s descendants; Big Dummy, Ute, Transport and the Yuba Mundo. As far as the over loaded commuter bike was concerned, I’d had enough.

Intrigued, I tested a cycle truck, nice, but only rated for fifty pounds, though the guys at the shop claimed to have carted one of their own in the front load platform. I checked out the Bullet real cool but pricy, I researched the xtracycle but I didn’t have a proper base frame. Then I read about the Yuba Mundo’s four hundred pound capacity, reasonable price, and the fact that it would fit in my small garage crammed with, yes, another bike, a car, and masonry tools. I bought the demo bike sitting in front of Roaring Mouse. I towed my commuter bike home from Roaring Mouse with the Yuba eliciting double takes and grins. The next day after delivering four, nine foot long pine scaffold plank weighing around 160 pounds to the Hayes Valley Farm, I noted that the bike could carry things impossible for my car.

Yuba lifts, my tool kit, a shovel, hoe, levels, a grinder, fifty feet of extension cord, brick tongs maybe a mortar board and stand, backpack and my spirit over this city’s hills. Not bad for a bike. “How much does it weigh,” a CAT 3 racer friend recently asked. “I don’t know,” I laughed, “but it’s fun to ride.”