1184
Let us pray ...We didn't pray hard enough or long enough, or perhaps more importantly, early enough. One can hardly expect the gods to listen to us on the morning of Third Wednesday and miraculously make that envelope appear in the mailbox. My fault. I should have realized that if the Monday in the week of Third Wednesday is a Federal holiday, post office closed, mail is likely to be delayed.
And it was. I always carry a pouch of rolling tobacco with me in case I run out of cigarettes, so I was able to roll my own and smoke. And I had just enough money to buy a bottle of Japanese beer which was on sale. Luckily, I also found an abandoned plate lunch box with cabbage, rice and macaroni salad in it. Not a very nice day, though.
The "Earworm" played prophet on Thursday morning, was stuck on "we're in the money, we're in the money ...". Funny, when I had exactly five pennies in my pocket.
The Sleeptalker arrived on campus, we played the game for awhile and then I gave him the bus fare so we could go to the mall. "What's this for?" he asked. "I believe the bus fare is two dollars." He added it to some other bills he had in his pocket (I don't want to know how he got them.)
We went to the discount cigarette store where I bought my own supply and a pack of premium-priced ones for him. I, alas, said, "let's get some beer and go to the park."
Lady Moana came along, asked for "loose change" and told us His Lordship is in jail, probably for six months, although she didn't tell us why. I gave her, I think, about four dollars I had in my pocket.
The Sleeptalker fell asleep, with his arm stretched over the table. So I held his hand and stroked the soft hair on his arm. Sweet.
Then two young policemen arrived. Like I said, "alas". The usual situation in the park is that they make you pour out the beer, at the very worst give you something like a parking ticket. Not those two. They arrested us, put handcuffs on us. The skin on my arms apprears to be tissue-paper thin. I've mentioned the easy bruising before. Well, within minutes blood was pouring down my wrists. The policemen got quite disturbed by that, of course, called an ambulance. The medics put some bandages on me and we were driven on to jail.
"Are you HIV positive?" one of the cops asked. "I'm just concerned about your friend." (Like I was going to rub my blood on him?)
There's a new, very tacky police headquarters downtown and that's where they took us, to "holding cells". So cold in there, I was grateful for the thick wool blanket they gave us. We were separated, the Sleeptalker into a different cell. When I arrived there was a young man in there. We exchanged hello's, he asked if I'd ever been married. I said no, and settled onto my mat, pulled the blanket over my face. Next morning I heard he was in there for "domestic abuse".
Later they brought two more men in, one who snored so loudly it was impossible to sleep. I re-designed my "dream house", decided against a dining room and made it into a library instead.
In the morning, they gave us two tiny doughnuts for breakfast.
Then we were driven off to the courthouse, chained together with handcuffs, I think five people to the chain. Police persons kept asking me if I wanted to go to the hospital, seeing my bloody wrists. Well, since we had been given a little speech when let out of the cells telling us if we were ill or injured, we could go to the hospital and then they would deal with us afterwards "at our convenience", I certainly said no.
The Sleeptalker was brilliant before the judge. He's such an actor. Used perfect English, not a trace of his Waianae accent. When the judge asked if he was looking for work, he said "yes". I didn't laugh, but probably smiled. She fined him twenty-five dollars. He said he didn't have it. I was ready to jump up and say I'd pay it, but she just waved him off and let him go.
I have to go to court in mid-March. This isn't my first offense for drinking in the park and there's a little matter of having taken a dare and trying to steal a bottle of rum from a supermarket almost two years ago.
The Year of the Monkey is not off to an auspicious start.
1185
My dislike for telephones seems to be getting worse. A full-out phobia? Nevertheless I did manage (with some difficulty since the coins refused to fall into place the first two tries) to speak with someone at the Public Defender office. Appointment at one in the afternoon next Wednesday. Needless to say, I did seriously consider just ignoring the whole thing but then when/if I get busted again they'd probably throw the book at me.On the afternoon after we were released, the Sleeptalker seemed to be coping with it all better than I was. But he had what I guess was a delayed reaction on Saturday. He was waiting for me at the Rainy Day Bench, ate most of the dinner I'd bought and shared my beer. After about an hour, for no reason that I could determine, he got up and walked off with the soda bottle half full of beer. He poured it out and kicked the bottle across the parking lot as he walked away. He is so prone to blaming other people for what happens to him, maybe that was the underlying reason for the brat attack.
Oh well, I bought another soda bottle (since I still had most of the beer in my bag) and enjoyed "Prairie Home Companion".
He was in the game on Sunday in his insult-match mood, said he didn't want friends who were "sexually confused". I said I wasn't in the least confused, knew exactly what I liked, suggested he look in the mirror. But I wasn't at all interested in prolonging the match so quit playing. He didn't appear on Monday, at least during the brief time I spent in the game.
Although the frazzled, slightly hysterical mood I was in on the day of release faded, it slowly shifted to depression on the weekend, aided, of course, by the Sleeptalker's tantrum. Heavy rain had been predicted but fortunately hit the other islands somehow bypassing us, so it was very pleasant weather and that helped keep the balance. Once I got past the nuisance of making that phone call everything had settled back to its usual state of somewhere between happiness and unhappiness without reaching either extreme.
Life is just a bowl of cherries ... or bananas, I guess, in honor of the Monkey.
1185a
I've neglected to mention two things. Mondo has short hair again. The Sleeptalker cut it.In the holding cell before our appearance with the judge, Wobbly was there. Trespassing. He talks so much like Truman Capote.
The Sleeptalker arrived on campus Tuesday morning. The game was down, perhaps crashed by that cute new "worm" attacking networks everywhere.
He acted as if nothing had happened. Yes, I know by now, I take the "brat attacks" too seriously but even so, they do slightly mystify me, these Bad Boys. Part of their attraction, of course.
The Sleeptalker has gotten very interested in graffiti. He stops to examine every example we find (and there are oddly few here), and he has collected quite a number of pens, none of them equal to what he wants to do. He's also carrying two notebooks. In one he is writing "stories" (I haven't been invited to read any yet) and in the other he is doing drawings for what he'd like to do on a wall somewhere. He showed me some of them which were very good. Okay, even if I am obviously prejudiced in his favor, no matter what he does, they are indeed quite striking.
He said he's trying to get into a drug program which is associated with the Black Hole. In order to be accepted, he has to telephone them every day for a week to prove he's serious. (No way, no how, I'd make it into that group.) I said joining such a program certainly wouldn't do any harm but if he really wants to give up the pipe, why not just do it? He seems to think that being in the group is the way out of the Black Hole, into his own apartment, with his own computer, etc. Sigh. Go for it, my son.
Have I told you lately ....
1186
"You took a bath," said the Sleeptalker."What?!"
"You look sharp. You took a bath."
I guess if it's that obvious, I'd better make a point of having a shower at the Black Hole more often. It's not one of the most wonderful experiences one can have in life. More often than not, even if doing it in the early hours of the morning, one is stuck naked with an incredibly horrible example of mankind, equally naked. Some of them are not only visually grotesque, they make dreadful noises. Easy to understand why some men are alone and homeless.
Is it worth the price of looking "sharp"?
On Friday evening, waiting for the bus to the Black Hole, someone plopped down a bag on the bench, started removing his sweatshirt. Well, if a young man is going to start taking his clothes off so near to me, I am certainly going to look. When the sweatshirt got over his head, I saw it was Rocky, then wearing a tanktop. I told him he looked really good, specifically complimented his arms. (He does have an incredibly beautiful body, and has obviously been working on it.) He was pleased. He asked if we should smoke together but I declined, fool and coward that I am.
Hardly a Pulitzer, much less a Nobel, but I have added Greg Iles to my list of favorite living authors after his thoroughly enjoyable The Quiet Game. Totally Grisham territory, but Iles has a certain style which I find more intriguing ... that Southern decadence thing that makes so much American writing "intriguing".
I think Robert Crais will soon join him on the list. His L.A. noir style is just delightful. L.A. Requiem was a pleasure to read. On Saturday I finished it, thought I'd buy another book or two from the bargain shelves at the Japanese department store at the mall. Alas, they are renovating that section of the store and the bargain shelf is (I hope, only temporarily) gone. So I had to either take a long bus trip to buy cheap books or buy a premium priced one. Crais joined the select company of Anne Rice and Maeve Binchey when I paid eight dollars for his Hostage. Worth it. [Judging by the cover photos, Crais is also a class-a hunk, in addition to being a talented writer.]
Now to something quite strange. I had no idea the daughter of Harold Robbins is also a writer. Adréana Robbins. From her Paris Never Leaves You:
The homeless gathered around him while he opened the top of the box, setting it on a chair. Slices of pizza were passed around to eagerly awaiting hands. These odd characters were not a manifestation of a rebellious youth culture, like what had transpired in the sixties, but a random collection of a dozen people, ranging in age from their late teens to their late sixties, who didn't fit in anywhere else. Meanwhile, these vagrants shared their loneliness and their lunacy with each other. There was safety in numbers, in their mutual vulnerabilities, in their humility, and most of all, from surrendering their materialistic desires. They accepted their impoverished fate, taking what was offered to them, which must have given them a certain independence from society.
This, in the Luxembourg gardens. I like it, a certain independence.
Of course, I also like hearing the Sleeptalker tell me I am "looking sharp". He hadn't seen the photograph from Saturday's luncheon with Florida Mark, Helen R and the Dolphin.
A bit alarming that the Museum of Modern Art is going to "clean and restore" Picasso's Les Demoiselles d'Avignon. I assume (and hope) they are going at it with extreme caution, else future generations will hate them forever.
Me, too, if for a shorter time.
the tales