...not knowing how to take public transportation...the education system...or how to shop at a local supermarket. "If you come from somewhere else..." ...International Rescue Committee...mission is "to help...survive, recover and regain control of their future." ...family stabilization, economic empowerment, digital literacy, health coordination and psychosocial support... - Arvada Press, 8/2/2018
The This Is Me programs..."...strategies that promote cultural socialization...and support on racial and cultural identification and comfort" are vitally important to young adoptees, especially as they prepare to...go to college or to live on their own. - asian avenue magazine, 8/2018
...Paul Rosenthal and his votes against the homeless Right to Rest bill. ...his constituents...begged him to make sure he got that bill out of committee, but he killed that bill year after year. Maybe developers got a hold of him. Maybe Denver Mayor Michael Hancock got a hold of him. ...he organized a meeting with Hancock and Denver representatives to stand against the...bill Representative Jovan Melon and I met with Hancock personally in his office telling him, "You stop interfering." The battles I had with Democrats...they were like, "This is going to hurt my community." There's this insular way of thinking that have a...socio-political effect on communities of color. ...dressing cowards as leaders. [Colorado Democratic Governor] Hickenlooper plays into that. ...he feeds that whole policy belief that you have to be centrist...moderate...sell people out. - Westword, 8/9-15/2018
One of our great American values is volunteerism. The civic health of our communities depends on...improving lives. Englewood is...a great city. Through our...Police Departments Community Relations office...Graffiti Paint Outs...Fallen Officer 5K/10K, host a National Night Out...don't miss the fun of serving alongside your neighbors.
"It's not uncommon to run into someone from our church... And it's just what we wanted." ...when preservation and progress happen at the same time. "We don't want [the neighborhood] to become something that it's not or never was."
...three pillars of a community - community characteristics, governance and participation - and...eight central facts of a community - safety, mobility, natural environment, built environment, economy, recreation and wellness, education and enrichment and community engagement. - Englewood Citizen, Fall 2018
This month is beginning bright and early. Shortly after 7 AM, my bus up the street to work approaches. So does a Jehovah's Witness, a woman in a grey perm and long skirt, a Watchtower Magazine in her hand. I tell her, "You're too late," as I am getting on the bus. This stop is a popular one for these guys this summer. I change buses up the street. The driver says that this is only his second day on this route. It's barely 8 AM now and he tells me that he's already had a drunk on his bus. We head toward the transfer hub. He's supposed to stop but we go past. I mention it to him, but he's convinced that we don't need to stop there. Works for me. He tells me that yesterday's run went fine. I wonder if he stopped there yesterday? I ride to the gym for a workout and swim. I spend a minute gazing into the blue pool water under a sky of orange haze. On the way to work I take a new trail I've discovered. The next day is my birthday. I step out of my connecting bus on the way for another swim. I run into a gas station for some dental floss. They're out. I ride over to a supermarket instead. At the self-checkout, a guy is throwing his groceries into the plastic bag so fast that the self-checkout computer voice is repeating, "Place the item in the bag place the item in the bag...". He tells the computer, "Jesus, shut up." The rec center has a new bike rack. A bike there is locked up with a thin cable with a combination lock. I have a wire sniper which could cut it. The owner has left the back light on. I switch it off. From there I find yet another new trail to work. Along the way, it takes me through a beautiful retirement village. Caucasian retirees are cautiously driving around my bike.
It was not a bad birthday. My boss got me a cake. A 24-year-old girl got me a cake. Her 4-year-old son gave me a hug. My investment broker called me and wished me a happy birthday. Ya know, the kind of thing which never happens to me on the bus. A senior mental patient may want to give me a fist bump, but it just ain't the same. The following day, I'm on a bus up the street to work. We pass a billboard in Spanish, above a Vietnamese insurance office. It reads, "This (beer) is for Denver. This (beer) is for you." Just what my neighborhood needs, more beer and whisky and shooter bottles and cans. Yesterday evening, I chatted with a cute and groovy young female driver with long black hair. I ask about a shortage of drivers which I heard mentioned elsewhere. She says that the transit system will hire a group of new drivers, which will solve the problem of overtime. Then another group will all quit. Today, the driver of my crosstown bus is pretty late. Once again, we get to the transit hub, and she does what more than one driver tries to to, which is enter from the wrong way. This time, a supervisor is there and mentions it to her through her window. She responds, "I'm a (driver for a different route, called the) Loop Extra. This is about people not coming to work. They just threw me this route." After work, I'm back at a stop for my first bus home. I know this driver as well. She tells me that she had her first accident as a new driver. Actually, the other driver told me 24 hours ago that she saw this driver meeting with some safety managers for the transit system. This driver tells me that she was coming out of downtown, passing the baseball stadium. Myself, I've had my own transit issues related to the city's sports teams. She was excited that she was on time, and she stepped on the accelerator. Some street sign sticking out into her lane came out of nowhere and smashed her right mirror off. She says that the company trains drivers to be aware of these unexpected road hazards, especially downtown where it's closer quarters on the street. One manager asked her, "You were thinking about your schedule, weren't you. Listen, forget about the schedule. Just forget about the schedule."
Saturday. I'm at the bus stop across the street from where I live. I'm not going swimming or to a summer festival. I'm going to work, now on a regular basis on every other, or 3rd, or perhaps 4th Saturday. My coworker who was promoted was our Saturday employee, and she will be working at another location for the company. I notice that the time and temperature sign across the street, which conked out one or two winters ago, is working again. What I remember about this bus on Saturday mornings is how crowded it is, even at 7AM. It arrives with one bike on the rack already. I get onboard to an already standing room only crowd. This is the south end of its route and it's just getting started, and already it's full. At stops which, during the week, we would otherwise blow past, we stop to pick up handfuls more passengers. I glance around to see who is filling up the bus early on the first day of a weekend. It appears to be young Mexican men on their way to painting jobs, and Mexican women in housekeeping uniforms. I assume that these are the people who are not otherwise filling the rest of the boulevard with bumper to bumper street racing pickup trucks. These passengers are serious about their Saturday bus ride. I have yet to see one of them fumble for or search their belongings for fare. When we arrive at the train station, more than half of the bus clears out. I'm now sitting across from a couple of women speaking Spanish. One has a bucket with nuts and fruit. I hear say something about vegetables, working more hours, and being tired. I chime in with my Spanish and ask, "You're tired because you work a lot?" "Yes," she replies. She's a cook in a Mexican restaurant. She works seven days a week. The other lady says, "It's Mexican food. It's good food." I change buses and am sitting in front of a guy softly speaking Spanish into his phone. Out of the window, I can see a train on the new line making a test run. We stop for a woman sitting on the sidewalk against a pole. She tells the driver, "I don't have any...I don't have any money right now. Sorry."
The infant Republic... One head was at Peking...under warlord rule. The other...in Canton, where Sun Yat-sen and the Kuomintang were still trying to establish a democracy based upon Greek and Roman ideals most of which were foreign... ...from coastal cities...the Western Powers had...Concessions and...extra-territorial rights. The big warlords could always retreat to a foreign Concession, send one's money to a foreign bank, and await a more opportune time to [plunder cities for tax money and natural resources.] The tendency of local warlords to take over after harvest when it was taxation time, and...abdicate during the rougher seasons, made for...political instability. ...ruthless taxation...made...communities that specialized in robbery. ...he improved the mission station workshop, cannibalizing cast-off equipment fro the mine... He needed an assistant mechanic but as soon as he taught one...the local bus company would lure him away as an expert. The bamboo groves were inhabited by bandits...but n one really expected the police to take much interest in the sudden demise of the odd private traveler. ...the bandits...were Moslems. ...a remnant from an early migration within the Mongol Empire. - Scott
Sunday. I swim. I purchase a bike rack for my new bike. When I get it home, i\I can't assemble it without extra parts from another bike rack I purchased last weekend. In the evening I get my hair cut from my reliable Vietnamese beautician. As I wait my turn, I listen to her speak with a Vietnamese client. They both switch back and forth between English and Vietnamese during the same sentence. I tell her that I enjoy listening to this. She replies that she doesn't even realize that she's doing it. On Monday, I hop om a bus up the street to work. At the next stop, we pick up a young woman dressed either for work or going to class. She has visible perspiration on every part of her skin. Some 24 hours later, I am on this same bus after work, coming back the opposite way. The bike rack is full, and I am one of two passengers with their bikes inside the bus. That's as full as it gets as far as bicycles go. A middle-aged guy and a young woman come through the front door. The woman has a seat and the guy stands. The female carries a cane but has no discernible trouble walking. I wonder if she carries it for the guy, who she spends the ride referring to as "poppa." But Poppa has his own walking staff. He also has a cap which reads, "Disfunctional Veteran, Leave me alone."
Wednesday. How is it already the middle of the week? I go for swims at the outdoor pool under skies which appear as if the horsemen of the apocalypse are about to descend. Then by noon the entire sky is blue. All week, morning and evening, I see and hear trains doing test runs on the new line. I'm on a bus up the street to work. At one stop this street guy gets on. The driver has an issue with him which I cannot hear. He responds with, "I will. I will. I injured it at work. I swear to God." (?) He briefly passes out before waking up to get out a few stops later. Some 12 hours later, I'm on my first bus home from work. A passenger is standing and conversing with the driver. Below his cargo shorts, on his left calf, is a tattoo of a young woman's head. With him is a plastic bucket with some odds and ends inside. I hear him tell the driver that he was a mental health counselor for 20 years. I step off the bus as it arrives at my boulevard. I ride over to the stop for my lst bus home as it approached the light. Out of the shelter steps an old guy who wants to know if I "ride the bus much?" he has this minth's bus pass for sale at half price. Unfortunately for him, I purchase my bus passes from licensed vendors. We both step on the bus. He rides a few blocks before he gets out to take his hustle elsewhere.
Thursday is a beautiful day. Monday and Wednesday, I swan under an overcast sky of death. Yesterday had a cold wind...in the beginning of August. Tuesday and today, it's blue sky. After breakfast in the park and a swim outdoors, I head for the trail to work. I approach a bridge which is cast in the shade of tall trees. In the creek are a mom and son. On the bridge is an old guy with his walker parked next to him. he is hidden in the shade as he does some kind of exercises, and I barely see him before running into him. Saturday I am headed back to work. When I was told that I would be splitting up Saturdays with the daughter of the boss, I have come to realize that this means she will be working only those Saturdays she wants to. She's camping with the boss, so the boss can';t exactly expect her to work. I'm on a bus up the street to work. We stop for a young guy with a couple of kids' BMX bikes. I can't imagine that the driver will let him on with those. Last night I came home from work on this route; I was one of two passengers with bikes inside the bus, not including the two on the outside rack. That's as much as any bus can haul. This guy is one groovy-looking character with his bushy hair, sunglasses and sleeveless shirt. His bikes are painted in bright pastel colors, and appear as if a sweater from the 1980s exploded all over them. He brings on a trash bag with who knows what inside. He begins carrying in the first bike when the driver tells him he can't bring them on. The guy appears exasperated. He takes his trash bag and acts indignant in a goofy way.
There were the obligatory millennials ni their felt hats and facial hair, stopping for social media... ...obvious foreign tourists...wearing brightly colored packs and gear, and stopping to catch their breath. ...a couple I had to guess were on some kind of we-met-online date: She was sporty and spry; he kept almost spraining his ankle. - Elevation Outdoors, 8/2018
In recent years, a series of public-private partnerships has worked to develop [what] cool cities tend to have: bike lanes; downtown attractions...green spaces...and..."our new town square." ...cultures...clash, cohabitate, and collaborate... "No zoning" turns out to be the urban equivalent of the great western myth of "no fences." - GQ, 9/2018
On the Saturdays which I work, I go grocery shopping after I get home from work, in the evening. This leaves my Sundays, my only day off, free and clear. I've noticed the latest model of an inexpensive bicycle I used to ride. I see one on the front rack of a bus pulling up to the stop in front of the supermarket. This bike has every one of its manufacturer labels painted over. I wonder if this bike is stolen? My own bus comes along and collects me, dropping myself and my groceries off a short distance up the boulevard. I step out, directly in front of the bus shelter. The sun has just dipped below the Rockies. Sitting on the bench is a Mexican guy in his sixties. He's in sunglasses and a T-shirt with an American flag on the front, with "The United States of America" underneath. He holds a golf putter on his lap. I don't believe that he is waiting for a bus, or for a tee time. He's not waiting for anything. The day after, I am out at the Jefferson County Fair. I think that's fair. On the train west of my neighborhood. Along the way, I see many brand new residences. I also see Caucasian families riding bicycles down residential streets. As I am locking my bike up on a yield sign, an elderly couple are walking toward the entrance. The guy teases me, asking if I am "the shuttle." I tell him that I don't think my bike can carry more than one. His reply is, "Shit..." The fair has on display both a human trafficking trailer as well as a tent for the group "Evolution Isn't Real." After a swim at the waterpark, I return home. I head a couple blocks up the street for dinner. Walking back, I see a fire truck parked out in the driveway of the fire station next to the bus stop across the street from where I live. The truck turns on its lights and siren and makes its way out of the driveway. When it's gone a low-rider hikes up its suspension as it pulls into the fire station lot, and then out again. Monday. I am beginning to see teenagers here and there. I wonder if school is already back in session? I'm across the street from where I live, at the bus stop. Down the sidewalk comes an employee of the Mexican restaurant also on this side of the street. We exchange greetings in Spanish.
...neighborhoods west of Interstate 25 can still be in the affordable range. She shows first-time buyers homes in Denver's Athmar and Harvey Park neighborhoods, as well as Barnum and Barnum West. [Neighborhoods which border my own, just blocks to the north and west.] Prices there sit at about $300,000...
Builders...are building, but the gap between supply and demand has changed little, causing steadily rising prices...up nearly 50 percent since the recession ended in Denver. Prices can only go so high until real estate becomes out of reach... Buyers...start looking outside the city limits for less expensive housing... - Denver Herald, 8/9/2018
Wednesday. Even before I leave work, the sun drops into an orange haze of fire smoke, turning the afternoon into some kind of grey limbo. Thursday evening. I catch my connecting bus. In a seat up front is a guy with tattoos and a hunting cap. Behind me is a woman who asks him his last name. She introduces herself as a friend of a member of his family. She inquires if a particular family member of his is still incarcerated. "They'll be getting out soon," she assures him. Friday is quite a morning. I arrive at the corner where I catch my connecting bus to work, only to see it pass by two minutes early. The next one, scheduled to arrive a half hour later, is 45 minutes late when I see it crest the hill...and then stop altogether. Down the typically busy sidewalk comes a line of passengers from the bus. The first one lets me know that it has broken down. Shortly thereafter, the bus gets going again. The driver is a bald woman who mentions that dispatch told her to "drive it 'till it dies." I wonder if the transit system is still hiring mechanics, as I saw they were some time ago. She also mentions that she has never driven this route before today, doesn't know where she is going, and that her GPS is deactivated. A passenger guide her until she disembarks. I then take over. After I get out I head over to the outdoor pool for the final weekday swim there of the season.
Confucius was humanist. "Where personal life is cultivated, the family will be regulated...the state will be in order...there will be peace throughout the world." ...in 1927... In Taiwan, Japan had organized an incredibly orderly paternalistic colonial society. The major crops in Taiwan were...grown for the controlled Japanese market and...rigidly...controlled by the Japanese... That created incredibly stable prices... The Westerners...ran the finishing and marketing... To become a Buddhist priest in China one studied at...18 teaching monasteries...reading in classical Chinese the 48 volumes of Buddhist scriptures. - Scott
Keeping Up With The G Line [The new train I hope to take to and from work.]
Months overdue: 22
The G Line is in its final testing. On Aug. 3 testing on the G Line...added...up to 24-hours a day.
Estimated opening day: Not as yet determined. - Aravada Press, 8/16/2018
Sunday is my mom's birthday. I have a busy morning. I'm overdue for a favorite grocery item at Trader Joe's. When I get there, I pull a thorn from my tire. I hear air hissing out and I say, "No...no..." The slime I had put in seals the hole. Smartest thing I did when I bought this bike was have slime immediately put into the tubes. I drop off film and then hit a library used book sale I heard about yesterday. Part of a neigborhood's "Western Welcome Week." I never saw anything western, only homeless outside the library. After the sale I have a short ride to the train. A derelict guy, fifteen or twenty years my junior, notices my bike. After trying to sound as if he knows bikes, he tries to sell me a couple of bike lights. Then he tries to sell me a wrench set, pointing out the brand. He mentions the lights can be recharged, but I doubt it. The tail light needs "recharging." He mentions that he's trying to get money for food for him "and the girls." He's there alone. His entire story sounds like a list of lies. He's missing some teeth.
Monday. It's a day where the fire smoke extends all the way to the ground, making for a day of cold wind and a sun having difficulty shining. Down the avenue upon which I live, along the sidewalk comes a young guy I've never seen before. He's bald and missing his two top front teeth. He's in a maroon polo shirt (just like one I own) and a pair of camouflaged pants. For the second day, he is the second person with missing teeth who has approached me. I'm at the corner, waiting to cross the boulevard. He says to me, "Hey man, you got smooth legs. Lookin' good." In the hope that this weird and cold morning will warm up, I'm in my bike shorts. He lights up a smoke as I look at him sideways. If he was in his fifties, I could understand his use of "hey man." But he's in his twenties. We cross the street and get aboard the same bus. I see teenagers who appear to be students on the bus up the street to work. He gets out at the train station. I watch him through the window as he mostly stands and stares straight ahead. He does some stretching.
Some ten hours later, I step onto my first bus home from work. A couple of guys get onboard and begin conversing. One is telling the other about surviving homelessness. He slept outdoors for 31 years. It sounds as if he eventually went to a church t get his "homeless letter." He then went out to my boulevard, letter in hand, to get social services which he claims includes food stamps and free medical coverage. This he says includes free doctor appointments and medicine and treatment. He tells the other guy that he's been single for 23 years. He got some cash through his social services, and he bought a storage shed. What property it sits on he doesn't say. He currently gets $700 a month from social security. He says that he used to drive a cab. "When those white girls get drunk, they're crazy. They're into all that weird shit." He describes going to the bathroom outside, using baby wipes, and locating dumpsters in which to deposit the used ones. The bus makes its way down one street where he points out an alley which has a cornucopia of dumpsters. he also mentions one street where a couple of men live, who keep an eye on him whenever he's there. "They're fuckin' faggots. They think they own the whole street."
I get out on my boulevard and catch my last bus home. In back are a couple of passengers discussing mutual friends. "Al my niggas are from the west side. You know Rich?" one say to the other. "Big Rich?" the other replies. Along the way, a young Caucasian woman step aboard. She takes a seat among the Mexicans and African Americans. I watch as her head turns to follow a woman of color who steps on a few stops later.
"Public education now operates in a competitive business-like environment...it is important for us to build our brand..." ...he declined to explain why the chief communications position wasn't advertised publicly or why no one else was approached for the job... ...school board president...wasn't concerned... "I think he was trying to add...someone who would be strong in the marketing and social media area. Hopefully it turns out...really positive..." - Columbine Courier, 8/16/2018
...reading Lewis Hyde's "Trickster Makes This World." "They are the lords of in-between," Hyde wrote of...Hermes and Mercury in Greek mythology. ...trickster is a boundary-crosser. Every group...trickster is always there at the gates of the city and...of life, making sure there is commerce." Hyde argues that, society flourishes and evolves because of these "figures whose figures is to uncover and disrupt the very things that cultures are based on." "I think of poetry as the first religion," [Anne] Waldman says. "I think there's always been poetry in human consciousness.... You're creating a fabric that's not just about you or your personal life or even your time." - Boulder Weekly, 8/16/2018
{With the start of the Sino-Japanese War in 1937, Japanese bombing targets included Chinese cities.] The hospital staffs had to be taught to hide major supplies outside the cities so they would not be destroyed... ...generators...X-ray equipment... It was all cached outside target areas. [The Buddhist Red Cross] commandeered outlying Buddhist temples as supply dumps. "Our hospitals are filled with bomb victims, civilians...instant death with...shrapnel bombs." ...trying to get the Christian missionaries to cooperate... "Few if any...care two bits about any people other than their own converts." Zig-zag trenches had been dug...and all patients who could have, must take refuge during attacks. - Scott
Tuesday. I board the bus up the street to work. I take a seat next to a young bohemian Caucasian couple. Up the street, we take more Caucasians aboard. They look perhaps like students. A half hour later and I step out of my connecting bus to work. At 11 AM on an August morning, it's cold outside under a sky full of forest fire smoke, blocking the sunlight. The smoke almost smells like snow. The outdoor pool on my way to work is closed during weekdays until next season. This week, the indoor pool on my way to work is closed for renovations. Next week is the last week for any outdoor swimming. This summer feels as though it has been forced. I've tried to force favorite activities into a limited schedule. Nine and a half hours later I roll up to the stop for my last stop home. I recognize the drunk who wanders up to the stop. He asks me what the time is, cracks open a beer can, and beings ranting about the rich. I head for the stop before this one, and I eave him ranting about the doughnut shop next to this bus stop. This evening is the summer's coldest yet. I have a long sleeved shirt on and am still cold. I get aboard my bus. Another bohemian Caucasian couple comes along.
The Extra Space Area
Friday evening. I roll up to the stop for my connecting bus home after work. I spot a passenger with his own bike and I turn to go up to the stop before this one. The bus arrives there with its bike rack already full but the driver allows me on in back with my bike. This virtually assures that the passenger at my usual stop won't get on. As he was there first, had I waited there with him, he would be the one allowed on instead of myself. I have a seat in the "extra space area" and hold my bike vertically. The usual cast of random characters are on board this evening. I'm next to a grey-haired drunk who smells like beer and mumbles nonsense. About my brand new bike, he says, "Looks like it's got a lot of miles on it." Good, then it's less likely to get stolen. Sitting across from us is a woman with a dog. A senior steps aboard with a collapsible shopping cart. He makes his way past another guy with a walker who's wearing sunglasses after sundown. The senior tucks his cart into the remaining space in the extra space area. A Vietnamese woman comes onboard with a cooler. She opens it to reveal bottled water and canned soda for sale. She offers anyone a drink for free. One woman mentions that her stop is coming up and rings the bell. She sits there until the drink woman asks her if she is disembarking. The woman emphasizes that she is indeed. The drink woman offers her a bottled water. As she makes her way around the cooler, she takes it and says, "Well I don't really need it. Oh, it's not cold. Oh well, I'll take it anyway." Another passenger behind me lets me know that he's getting out with his bike. I put mine in his space on the rack and I decide to stand in the extra space area. The shopping cart guy, the drunk, and the woman with the dog all begin pointing out empty seats to me. I decide to sit up front. The bus picks up a plethora of passengers from stops along the way, each of whom must navigate past the shopping cart guy on one side and the walker guy on the other, who, with his sunglasses, looks like a retired mafia don. It's like a kind of senior gauntlet. One derelict guy comes onboard and stares at me. He asks if he can sit next to me. Further along, we pick up a big guy with a red bandana, and a thin woman who he claims is his caregiver. The woman is in sunglasses as well, and basketball shorts. He says he's disabled because he can't see. I listen to him as he speaks to the woman in a dialect which sounds something like Cherokee. He greets someone to whom he says that he can't see them. He's handling his bandana when he begins waving above his head. He says, "I wave the color red. Watch my power spread." He challenges anyone interested in fighting to step outside at the next stop. He will give them a lesson is "banging 101." His caregiver pretends to make a dash for the exit and they both share a laugh. The pair get out on a busy corner and the last few blocks are comparatively uneventful.
Saturday. I'm on the bus up the street to work. It's not quite so crowded this Saturday, but the first person I see here is Caucasian. At the next stop another Caucasian, a young guy, steps on. He has frosted hair and white striped pants. The first one is sitting behind me and is on her phone. She mentions the nickname of my boulevard. I catch the connecting bus, ride along through a Swiss village retirement neighborhood, and along to the supermarket across the street from work. Outside of the supermarket entrance are three guys who are collecting donations for children with "intellectual disabilities." A sign has been posted by the supermarket. It mentions that the trio of solicitors, all in orange reflective vests, are not on store property with the store's permission. When I get home from work, I take the bus to the supermarket. This bus has three Caucasians. A middle-aged guy is sitting next to a younger one with shaggy hair. In his bush hat, the younger one regains the other with his bohemian wisdom. He strikes me as a self-styled world-traveler, clad in a jacket on a muggy evening. A young woman sits behind this pair of best buds. She has the right idea: she's in shorts and a green blouse with short Peter Pan-style sleeves. I watch as she checks Facebook on her phone. On her page is a photo of another bearded Caucasian. Behind him are mountains, not the Rockies. Below this is a photo of a big, toasted lasagna.
Sunday. I have a limited amount of time to swim and collect photos from the shop., not to mention grab breakfast, all before a post-birthday dinner for the mom. Breakfast is at the 70's 24-hour diner. The place is wall-to-wall Caucasians. To my left are a trio of customers who all appear as if they may be 17 years old. One girl has on a vest with a carnation. A guy in a train hat is pouring syrup all over pancakes. In a corner next to the kids are a pair of woman. One has on a black hoodie and sunglasses. She looks like the Unibomber. Waiting for a table is a couple who came straight out of suburbia. Their arms are covered in tattoos. The rest of the place is filled with families. I'm sitting next to a pair of young neo-intellectual guys. One is complaining to the other that he doesn't have as much French toast as the menu claimed he would get, and that it's lukewarm. "Do you want to go someplace else after this?" the other asks the first. "Like, nah," he replies. "Get some coffee. But you got to get out and try this stuff. You got to get out and try it," he says. I believe that this is the first time the pair have been here. The other mentions a local lifestyle magazine, "5280", which lists this place.
Monday. It's the last week of August. I'm on my first bus home. A street person gets on, a woman. A few stops later a guy gets on. The two know each other. He's telling her that he realized how hard she tried not to end up homeless. She used to work at Village Inn as a hostess. I change buses. At the train stop a young woman gets on and sits next to a young guy. I listen to her tell the guy about her day today. She's been taking care of all her "cases. " She mentions an officer on a task force who she says hates her. She speaks quickly. "I'm only on retrial," she mentions, perhaps referring to a hung jury or a mistrial. She doesn't get along with her "baby daddy. I'm like, 'fuck yeah, I'll do (jail) time,'" just to get away from him. They discuss who the cool parole officers are, as well as urinalyses. After I get home, I head across the avenue for a soda. I walk past the newly renovated apartments. Two Caucasian residents are in the parking lot walking three dogs, in a neighborhood where no one from any other residence walks their dog. On the way back, I look toward open windows high above me. I see someone's bare back, someone's foot against a window.
This Sunday, I was yet again journeying through streets which I had not been on for a good decade. As I passed a not-so-old place of employment, I wondered why my back rim felt as if it was taking bumps so hard. I looked down to see that the tire was as flat as a pancake. I have no idea what I ran over. It was somehow appropriate, then, that I approached this place where I worked off and on, over the past 13 years, with a flat tire. This place which held drycleaning machinery, and lines of clothes, and conveyors... It's now a big, barren, empty room. The supermarket across the parking lot, which many customer considered a perfect spot for a Whole Foods, has a construction fence around it and is already coming down. Same thing with the deathburger next door. Another shopping center facing the wrecking ball. This is simply one store location in a defunct company of which I have a decade of memories. Thirteen years ago I trained on the company's computer system here. Occasionally I came in here at 5 AM to cover the drycleaner/spotter position with a handful of characters. I courted a Mexican employee here, named Norma. I spent the summer of 2006 working here while another presser was on maternity leave. I spent that summer going swimming at the pool up the street every weekday afternoon on the way home. I liked this little plant. Working production, everything was within arms reach. I worked here toward the end, when the new owner had shut down production, and the boiler was disconnected. There was no heat during the winter. The homeless mechanics he hired never filled the swamp cooler and there was no air conditioning during the summer either. Too many stories over 12 years and two owners.
Anyway, after mulling a busy Labor Day weekend to come, I get up Tuesday and decide that I will take off my back rim and take it to the bike shop before work...on my bike. I am convinced that, arriving at the shop when they open (2 1/2 hours before I must be at work), I should have no problem making it to work on time. At the shop, they tell me that they may as well fix it while I wait, as they already have work piled up from the previous day. I have my wheel fixed in jig time, and I grab an express bus to the bus terminal at one end of downtown. I suddenly realize that here I can purchase next month's bus pass, which three different supermarkets still don't have in stock. This is where my luck runs out. I haven't attempted to ride my bike while transporting another bike rim, and I elect to walk to the stop for my bus to work. It isn't far, but I go a street too far, requiring me to go three more block just to get there. I then discover that, due to two construction sites complete with cranes, I must walk more blocks as well as cross this downtown street no less that four times through the middle of the street. Along the way, I recognize another passenger who I will see 24 hours from now. He has long grey hair in a headband and his own bike. He rides my cross town bus in the day. I arrive at my stop. The trashcan which is usually here is missing. In its place is a plastic tub chained to the bench. The bus is late, and I'm a half hour late to work. But I successfully employ a couple of bungee cords to transport the rim and myself on my bike to work.
After work, I am on my first bus home. A woman with a pile of bags and a suitcase on wheels comes aboard. She strikes up a conversation with another passenger next to her. She informs the other that she is moving out of state. "It's scary here." No affordable housing perhaps? We pull up to a stop next to a big tree. Some four street folks appear to be surprised by our arrival. One guy has a pile of stuff. A huge laptop sits atop an electrical box under the tree. He brings on a couple of loads of stuff, including an enormous backpack and his bike. The driver tells him that he can't wait until he loads all of his stuff. The guy does not appear to have been expecting this and is completely caught off guard. He makes the decision to ask the other three to keep track of his stuff and he will stay with the rest here, and catch up with them later. "So you yourself are not getting onboard?" The driver is completely perplexed. He does not appear to be as familiar with the dynamics of the street. Two different worlds are colliding, that of civilization and that of those who used to live in civilization. It's not long after we get going again that his pals haul off all his stuff again. The driver complains about this particular bus route, that no driver wants it and it's consistently late. I hear the new train line being tested this month 24 hours a day. When it finally opens, I will have fond memories of all who have toiled upon this route. When I change buses, a girl gets on this other bus with a can of Busch in her hand.
Wednesday. I'm at the stop for my connecting bus to work. It's some time past 10 AM. Clear sky. Cool breeze. No damned fire smoke. The end of this month is comparatively beautiful with the previous weeks of apocalyptic skies and chilly mornings. Perhaps we shall have a few short days of summer after all. Even during the mornings I can hear the new test train running, south of where I sit and running north and west of here. Residents along the new line now complain about the round the clock train horns blowing at every crossing, as the test trains are mandated to do. It's a quiet mid-morning. Peaceful. One of my rims has a new tube and is back on my bike. All I need now is for the bike shop to hook up the brake cable, which I am unable to complete. I will do this Sunday. Busy weekend ahead. Last swim of the season at the waterpark. Final summer festival downtown. And the annual pilgrimage to a natural cold spring swimming pool, El Dorado, followed by a trip into Boulder. After work this evening, I'm on my last bus home. The population of my boulevard includes a new racial demographic. A blonde Caucasian girl who looks like a student disembarks. One stop later, a homeless couple come aboard, the guy carrying a couple of sleeping bags. Not long after, a high school football played steps on in his uniform.
On Thursday I am at the bus stop across the street from where I live. I've been here at this particular stop, off and on, for some eleven years now. This morning is the first time ever when I see a monk, complete with brown robe and rope belt, walking down the sidewalk. Seen a lot of characters stumble and hobble past this bus stop, but this is my first monk. He walks to the corner, crosses the boulevard, and heads back the opposite direction up the street. I wonder if he's a real monk, or another mental patient living permanently in Halloween. I have a monk robe costume, but his is better. I wonder which of us is less mentally stable. The bus arrives and deposits me some sixty block later. As I am removing my bike from the rack, I put it down between myself and a guy hobbling along with a walker. He's stooped over and I don't know if the driver can even see him. The bus begins to pull away and the guy yells, "Hey bro! Hey bro!" The bus pauses before it takes off. Some ten hours later, I arrive at the stop for my first bus home, just in time to watch it go past. Two minutes early. Looks like this evening, I will be taking another bus which goes to an existing train, to another train, to my last bus home. Between trains I am downtown between 8:30 and 9 PM. It's a short ride from one side of the station to the other. I hear a voice behind me telling me to stop as I approach the entrance to a sidewalk. It's a middle-aged street guy on a skateboard. He wants to sneak onto the sidewalk before I cut him off. Wow. Homeless road rage without a motorized vehicle. Don't trust anyone on a skateboard over 50, bro.
Friday. It's the last day of the month, and it's going out with the bustling return of my boulevard's inhabitants, awakened from their summer staycations. Again I am on the bus up the street to work. How long, I wonder, before I bid these crowds farewell and make for a shiny new commuter train. This week, these buses in the morning are packed. When I step aboard, the first thing I see is a young guy with tattoos all over his face and head. A woman in a wheelchair prepares to disembark in a few blocks. At her stop a couple of young women step on and she admonishes them with, "Wheelchair!" As they make way, the woman roll out and says, "Bimbos." I put the seat down where the woman and her wheelchair were and have a set. A skinny elderly street guy in a tank top steps on and sits next to me. He spend his ride scratching off his lotto ticket. A couple of middle aged guys discussing home repairs get out and a couple steps on to take their seat. I get up to toss some trash in a small bag up front. When I turn back, the woman is standing up with her face against the window. She's looking for an address of an apartment for rent. She mentions to someone who asks her what she's doing that his case officer gave them a list of addresses. An overweight middle aged caucasian guy steps on. He has long blonde hair in a headband, and he's in a hippie T-shirt and has zen tattoos on his legs. He stands for a while before having a seat next to the couple. He asks to borrow the guy's phone, and calls someone to mention that he's "on the bus. You're not listening to me. I'll be home in 10 minutes. Bye." He tells the guy not to answer of "she" calls back. She does, and the guy answers to tell her, "He's gone. Don't blow up my phone. Don't call me." And don't forget, have a great Labor Day Weekend. We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun. But the hills that we climbed were just seasons out of time. This month is out.
