in the back with a shoe. San Francisco street sidewalk. The reporter later reported being scared shitless, exhaling the stress in a deep meditative breath, turning and picking up the shoe. Of course, it was not obvious who threw it. The reporter looked at the feet of everyone at a bus stop. No solo barefoot.
Two cigarettes on a bench. A bicyclist messenger. A note. The gist: we need to talk, some of us being stalked by serial killers, health department gave out home addresses. Group lunch at such and such a place.
"Wigger don't get mad, don't be mean," a surfer dude with three PhDs and a match to the thrown shoe stood outside the beansprout/lattè joint. "Don't you ever work?" A hand came from behind the guy and beckoned with highly polished fingernails with tiny scenes painted on the polish for the other shoe. "I saw you. You better get better at hitting and running before anyone gives you a gun."
"Me no need gun, me have man."
"Yeah, yeah. At least she did last night."
"That's disgusting. Unsafe and degrading to all women."
"Obviously you weren't watching or you'd know we were safe."
"Somebody was," a shirt and tie guy smacked an envelope against surfer dude's chest. "Bring those inside and tell me how you're political."
"I am absolutely not."
"In." Nobody made a move. "What's the hesitation?"
"Could be you assuming." This drew a chortle from a red headed woman who'd stepped out to smoke and stood there watching like a video camera. "I think she's the political one," a chin thrust towards the reporter.
"Oh, look at the time, and I'm not even at the right restaurant. Nice seeing you."
No comments:
Post a Comment