"There will be no more desert. There will be no more sand. Everything will be fertile. Irrigation will make everything bloom. There will be trees on every hill. The sky will be full of planes. The sea will be full of ships." ...I thought, "He's...Moses and George Washington..." "We'll have towns and villages filled with flowers and trees...Taking people from the fifteenth century and teaching them to work. ...people have no idea what a bathroom is for...how to use knives and forks, and teaching them how to live. We are having a revolution..." - Witness, by R. Gruber, 2007
...in the Muslim communities...the devout or "santri" elements [differed from] the "abangon," or nominal Muslims, who were more responsive to the pragmatic political appeals of the [Communists. Both Muslim factions] came up against the older spiritual challenge of [the] mysticism [of the land.] ...a sense of tolerance...to live together in usual harmony had for years maintained a surprisingly effective way of life. ...there had been enough land for everyone. ...the government condoned...new class stresses... - Shaplen
In late May, Colorado allowed food-service establishments to open for indoor and outdoor dine-in services with...social distancing...up to 50% of the posted occupancy [unless the establishment doesn't prepare food.] - Life On Capitol Hill, 6/2020
Other activists have accused...the week-old We Are Love Denver [WALD] of trying to slow the momentum toward structural reform with its calls for unity and peace...and of diluting the messages... ...Neil Yarbrough [was] emerging as somewhat of a de facto leader for the shifting masses [protesting in Denver's downtown streets]. ...he ended up marching arm in arm with [the] Denver Police Chief... Today, he's the face of [WALD]. Elizabeth Epps...who founded the Colorado Freedom Fund, started questioning the group... The next day, Epps tweeted her resignation from the DPD Use of Force Committee...that monitors police. "We me last Thursday with Chief Pazen. Hours later, you gassed me. You shot my back and legs up - from behind. Plenty of Black folks will shuck & jive for ya, it just can't be me anymore," she wrote. ...Yarbrough mediated a virtual town hall with Pazen. That night's protests ended...with swaying phone lights... ...an activist...started a Twitter thread criticizing [one speaker] who said that "all lives matter" [and] a "concert"-like display of phone light swaying... ...around [WALD, she] grew increasingly uncomfortable with its emphasis of peace, love, and unity. "...that is already the foundation," she says. ...white people...pushing that message..."to gaslight people into making them think they are making change is so terrifying, because then they go home and they are like, "We did it. That's really how you diffuse a movement." [During one downtown march, she joined a separate march alongside WALD. Her march split off, when Yarbrough began] running after them to try to unite the crowd. [He was] shouting, only to be drowned out of "Let her speak!" as [she] attempted to talk. Yarbrough says he was...trying to keep everyone...in a unified march... [At a June 6 WALD-hosted protest, one mom spoke to the crowd,] and acknowledged the mistake of working with the mayor and the police. She then finished with with a loud "Fuck Mayor Hancock. Fuck the racist-ass police!" - Westword, 6/11-17/2020
...a dozen metro-area law enforcement agencies, each bringing their own equipment, tactics and use-of-force regulations. ...injuries to protesters..."loss of vision, fractured bones...ruptured testicles."
...community activists...have pressed...for more than a decade to remove sworn officers from campus because of the higher rate at which students of color are referred to law enforcement. …"situations where students needed to go to jail"...the officer...from the former Montbello High School in 2012..."was there to mentor them through that process." [One] teenaged son was repeatedly searched by police who found nothing. [Another] 10-year-old son, who has attention deficit disorder, ended up in court after contact with police at school. The court dismissed his case.. - Denver Herald, 6/18/2020
In the mornings during my new schedule, I enter the bike trail through a park, one entrance of which was closed to traffic. Last week, the gates opened. I also made my daily pilgrimage to the yogurt place a few doors down from work. They've reopened for inside dining. This afternoon, I'm on the way home along the bike trail. It parallels a long stretch behind the waterpark, high up on a hill, and across a creek the trail follows. Along much of this stretch of trail, and a long embankment down to the creek, are some tracks for a small train. In the summer, the train takes kids for a ride on a long loop around this open land, beginning and ending at a small petting zoo. The zoo and train are not yet quite open. The creek and broad grassy stretch are a kind of picnic area, where visitors spend summer days playing in the creek and in this park. They've been out in the warmer weather for a couple of weeks now. It's a popular place for summer holidays. I pass a grandma and her granddaughter with attempting to lift a child's jeep over the tracks. It one which a kid can sit in and drive. It's pink and has "Barbie" on the hood, and looks like a CJ-7. I turn around and ask the grandma if I can help. She's overjoyed. We get it up to the bike trail. I ask if her granddaughter rode it over the tracks. She says they carried it over them, and the granddaughter rode it all the way down the hill. The granddaughter responds to me as follows. "What's your name?" Mark. "Hi Mark. I'm Jenny." She jumps in her jeep faster than one of the hotshots on my boulevard. She hits the electric gas before hitting the brakes in a short skid. She checks something behind her, and then tells me, "It's a Barbie Jeep." I tell her I wish I had one when I was her age. Her grandma asks her to let me safely get ahead before she takes off.
Tuesday. Today is my younger brother's birthday. Hey, whaddya call a sugar-free deconstructionist? Well, before I open the store, I head over to Starbuck's in the shopping center. My god, is this the 4th week I'm back at work? This Starbuck's is getting to know my beverage by now. This morning, the barista motions me inside. She says she has a story for me. I've never heard this from a barista. Her story is that Starbucks is discontinuing it's low-sugar mocha product. No more skinny hot chocolate. It ain't selling. I understand business decisions. These are times of a mass specter of socialism, from the appearance of a collapse of a national class system, with an inclusion of the middle- and upper- class among the ranks applying for unemployment insurance. Despite such collective apparitions, speaking either literally or politically, I can't pretend not to be a capitalist. I work for and support businesses. I ask this barista if Starbucks thinks I'm a weirdo. She replies, "You're a syrup deviationist." I've been given a roster of declarative statements over my years of making the trek to work. There was a lanky drunk who went by Richard Spotted Bird. One morning before 5 AM a decade or so ago, at a bus stop on a busy corner, he asked me for a cigarette. I gave him my sworn and standard reply that I don't smoke. He declared, "E're'body smokes, man. E're'body smokes." His knees were bent and arms extended. I've been threatened by a kid, on the sidewalk across the boulevard from my home, threatening to have me shot. But I've never encountered a brilliant Starbucks Barista. I tell her my story of searching downtown Starbucks shops for a skinny hot chocolate during the shut down. One shop was closed. One inside a supermarket had none, but recommended the a third shop across a thoroughfare. This Starbucks had it's walk-up window closed and was only accepting either mobile orders or drive-up orders. She tells me that the last day for my beverage is the 7th. She offers me their leftover low-sugar mocha mix. When work is done, I emerge onto my front porch. Across the tiny courtyard are four older teenaged guys, hanging out on the steps of another condo unit. As I'm unlocking my door, they appear to be discussing drug use. They are still there when I come outside to water my flowers. They lower their voices and begin talking about someone's attempted murder charge. They then begin talking about how to get, by bus, to the home of one of them. One says to the other about going to his house, "Why would I want to go over there, with your mom, and all that drama?" When I'm back inside, I look out the window. A teenaged girl walks up and joins them on the porch where they sit.
Wednesday. Yesterday, I swung by the bike shop on the way home. Again, I forgot they're closed on Tuesdays. I'm back again this afternoon. My brake came in, but they ordered a brake for the front, not the back. No matter. The tech convinces me that any leak could be a brake pad issue instead. He takes a spin on the bike with the brake leak. He cleans the pads and tops off another low brake fluid reservoir. I inquire about any trouble my other bike, which I dropped off here last week, may be giving him. He thinks it may be done by Friday, and the money I paid for the brake he offers to put toward credit toward work on the two bikes. And he thinks he's got a crankshaft which will fit my other bike. I'm more impressed than the last time I was here. The following day I have off. The owner wants to shortly extend our reduced hours, and then give us another day off in the week. After my annual physical, my primary care physician lets me know that my blood pressure is higher than it should be. It's "fine for someone in their 70s." Too bad I'm not in my 70s. And my PSA (a pancreatic "marker" for possible cancer) level is higher than it should be. This could be a possible side effect of one of my prescribed medications, which my doctor decides to immediately discontinue. After drama with the referral person at my doctor's office, I've found a specialist who will take my insurance. (At my last appointment I had told my doctor that I called the specialist of whom she was notified, who she was told takes my insurance. This specialist told me they did not take my insurance. She gave them a call herself while I was with her in her office. They clarify that they accept insurance from my company, but not my particular plan. She plans to instruct the referral person back toward the drawing board, and if I don't hear from this person in a week, I am to call this office. I don't hear from this person. I decide to do my own search online, and I find the city's big kahuna of this particular specialty, urology. I call them to discover that they do indeed accept the plan I singed up to in my insurance company. I call my doctor's office to ask them if it's okay that I found a specialist myself. The front desk informs me that their records show, the referral person found this same specialist four days ago, and claims that I was notified. I then explain all this to my primary care physician on the swingin' sockin' Patient Portal.)
So, Thursday I'm off to my appointment with this urologist. Four years ago, I had my first prostate exam, after which I was told I had a good prostate. This was the doctor who first prescribed the medication which my current doctor has discontinued. The urologist gives me my second prostate exam. My prostate is a little tough. He wants to do a biopsy. But an hour or two before this upcoming biopsy, I have to give myself an enema. My first enema. I'm handed the bottle and told to follow the instructions. I'm outta there and off to see my friend at his restaurant downtown, to explain why he hasn't seen me in nearly a month. My own manager is a friend of his, and already brought him up to speed. The restaurant is open for inside dining again. Then it's off to pick up my photos from the camera shop. Even though I didn't get the call I'm supposed to get when they are ready. And...my tall photogenic hippie goddess is there. She's in a beautiful summer dress. She's a vision. The following morning. I'm back on the trail to work. It's the same time, and I'm at the same spot where I saw the line of Polo shirt 20-year-olds. This morning, they are running along the parallel trail on the other side of the river. A guy in front is calling cadence.
Saturday. I'm at work when the sister calls. The greater metro area is under a severe thunderstorm watch or warning. I can't remember which she said. I must pay more attention when she calls me. Mid-afternoon, I'm out of the store with a dark horizon. I'm through the ritzy neighborhood, onto the trail, and making the turn onto the connecting trail when the gale force wind comes out of nowhere. I'm just about where the 20 Polo shirt guys were lined up. The rain follows this afternoon's gusts and I decide that I won't make the underpass, to put on my poncho. So I hit the brakes and shelter behind a fir tree along the trail. My poncho is on just as the downpour blows in. It's a squall for sure as I careen past sheltering cyclists inside the underpass. It slowly subsides as I make my way up the trail, past what I used to refer to as golf course number one. Branches are all over the place. Then I'm along what always feels like the longest stretch of this trail. It's a long, slow curve around a bend in the river. I pass a large major branch which lay freshly broken among the weeds. Toward a bridge across, three homeless and one bicycle come out of the trees along the bank. It appears they were attempting to shelter from the rain. The one with the bike smiles at me lethargically. Then I'm off the trail, around a corner and headed up a long hill on a residential street. I climb past one home where the family is buttressing a wooden fence which has blown down. A couple blocks along, a basketball hoop on a pole, attached to a base on wheels, has blown over and lay vertical. In the street is a pile of larger branches stretching across the street. Another block up is someone with a chainsaw cutting broken branches from his tree.
Sunday. I have lunch at the place I usually do on the way to the supermarket. Or I did before I shut down my extemporaneous expenditures. It's newly reopened for dining. There's a tall, thin, cute lady behind the register. Her two young kids come to work with her. Her husband is the cook, and I've seen him before, but find out today that he's the owner. I think they're gonna make it. This is a special place. The place across the street from where I live, the Mexican place, it's special as well. But they closed shortly after they went to take out only. Now, there's a real estate lock box on the door. Monday, I am informed that Tuesdays will be my regular extra day off during the week, as well as Sundays when we are closed. On Tuesday, I'm on a search for one of my low-fat cheese products. I stop at a couple of supermarkets to no avail. So it's off to my friend's restaurant for lunch, which is open for business. I get in before the lunch crowd. The seating is limited for now, but their old lunch crowd is coming back. Then I stop in to see my coworker at my former store. She says the hijinx from the avenue is getting worse. And it appears to involve the store's bathroom. Some street dwelling guy walked into her store. He had no mask and no shirt, and she observed that he was high. He was headed straight for the bathroom when she stopped him in his tracks. Turned away from our bathroom, he left blowing her kisses. Our store there has a customer who routinely comes in and drops off a pair of pants when he picks up another pair. He takes the finished pair into our bathroom and stays in there for a half hour. My coworker is used to this routine. But she had to leave early one day, and this customer was still in there. Another employee arrived from another store and had been told he was in there, but he never came out. She called the general manager. He arrived and asked the customer what he was doing in there. "Washing my ass," was his reply.
Tuesday. I'm on the way home over a section of street I don't usually ride. I notice, for the first time, a house possibly from the 1970s. It's split level with a flat roof. The exterior and backyard fence are adorned with assorted junk: a hubcap, a plastic owl with a US flag, a skeleton in a tree. It's safe for now, here in this neighborhood across my boulevard. I wonder if it will end up "scraped" for a clean new condominium, or shall it survive in the shadow of such a shiny new home? The following morning, I step outside my door. I need to hustle to make it to work on time. I can hear who I believe is my neighbor's teenaged son, the kid who was hanging out on his porch the other day with his "crew." If it's him, he's inside and yelling, and sounds as if he's on the verge of tears. I don't hear anyone else, but it's almost as if he's addressing a question asked by someone. Perhaps one of his parents. I met his mom when I moved in. She at least used to counsel parolees of some such. I see her once every few years. She was once an officer of our HOA, which we organized ourselves when our previous management company abandoned us. There were rumors of kickbacks. Her husband I think I've seen twice in my 13 years in this complex. He's a handyman, or does nothing. I'm not sure. They both have 3 kids, who I would see more often when they appeared to be in elementary and middle school. Eventually, I didn't see them anymore. I would see the youngest, the daughter, once in a blue moon. I just saw her this afternoon. All of the sudden, one of the two older sons has shown up once again, and he has a posse in tow. His porch is their crib. And they strike me as street kid wannabes, hanging out in the parking lot. They aren't loud at all, and they don't stick around long. I don't know where they disappear to, where they come from, or exactly who they all are. This morning, I can hear the son behind his door. He's yelling about his worries over the threat of physical violence, I presume from someone else out on the street. I'm off, out on the street. After work, I'm on my way home. I'm coming up my avenue when a Caucasian guy with a blonde buzz cut and a blue tie-dyed T-shirt bursts into view, cruising on his ten-speed down the center of the street. I watch him in my mirror after he whizzes past. I can see his shirt until he disappears from sight.
When I get home, I have a voicemail message from the bike shop. The crankcase on the bike I dropped off had been improperly installed at the factory. The bike is toast. When I ask them to remove the rims and back rack, and dispose of the frame, they say they can saw it in half. I give them the okay.The owner I work for has identified a brake fluid leak on my bike. This afternoon, after work, I head back to the bike shop to pick up the back rack from my sawed-in-half bike. I thought he wanted to give a tune-up to the bike I ride to work, but he sez it's fine. So I know what I must do. Saturday, I will take my last remaining extra bike in to the shop. It needs a new back rim and new brake pads. Or so I think. If the pads are fine, then the brakes are no good. This may end up being another wash out. But if not, I may have this other bike ready to go by the weekend after this one. Because that will be the first weekend that both the waterpark will be open for the season. And the first weekend my old gym, where I went when I was working down this way, will also be open. Everything appears to be opening this coming Monday, along with all branches of my bank. I will end up taking my main bike back here this week, to have them do the tune-up they acted like they were interested in doing. The tech tells me the bike is fine for now. So I can use the credit I have here, from the new brake I ordered and they decided I didn't need, to get my other remaining bike serviced. I mention this to the owner where I work, who lets me know he has a friend who owns a shop, and can order for me the parts to fix my brake fluid leak the bike shop claims they can't. I won't need my credit at the shop to do so.
I arrive home Thursday after work to find my neighbor's street kid wanna be blazing on his porch. He then goes inside. Friday. Sometime this week, I was over at the gas station across the street from where I live. One aisle has a section of yellow vests, worn by workers on construction sites and on busy streets. At the new Vietnamese grocery going up on my corner, construction workers are showing up. The ones on the sidewalk, the ones pulling up in their pickups, all have their yellow vests on. Surely, this is a triumph of small business (the station is a franchise), if not an example of supply and demand. Today is a full month now that I am back at work. I've been leaving 3 or 4 hours earlier, and the morning light during the approaching equinox is beautiful as the last half of my ride takes me through a series of connected parks and open space. It's closing in on 8 AM when I turn the corner onto the final sleepy residential street to work. I hear a meek "Hi." It almost sounds like a squirrel. I search over my shoulder the windows of a two-story home. One of the windows is cracked open. A young girl is waving at me. Saturday. I'm riding my only remaining other bike to work. I hope this will the last time I will be on it without any brakes. Some nine hours from now, when I roll it into the bike shop, I will learn the extent of the wear on this crazy thing. All I am aware of this morning, apart from an absence of brakes, is the rear rim has a couple of bends. As I roll down the bike path, I pass pairs of guys on their ten-speeds, dressed identically. One pair of middle-aged male Caucasian cyclists whiz past. One guy is telling the other his vacation in Canada. Further along the trail comes another pair. One of these mentions to the other his plans to do a ride in Vail.
After work, I'm on the way to the bike shop, with my remaining other bike, which has troubles which I am to discover when I arrive. I don't even notice the problem. Along the way there from work, I'm coming down a street where the homes have an American flag, a rainbow flag, a Latino family out on the porch, and... Behind small fir trees in front of a tiny house, I see her. She's young, she's in a black lace dress, and her long hair is black. Do I see dark lipstick? All against her pale complexion. It's a real life goth! Damn, it's been four decades. I turn down an alley, behind some homes from the middle of the previous century. They are surrounded by brand new towering condominium complexes. It feels as though the older homes' days are numbered. Then, I arrive at the bike shop. A limited number of people are allowed inside at one time. A young woman in a short bob comes outside to take my bike inside. She tells me there's no charge to have it looked at. I'm expecting the worst, that I will be told this bike is unfit to even stand around, and that it should be overhauled and then thrown away. I watch through the window as a tech put it's up on a rack to have a look. He comes out and lets me inside. It's what I thought, new brake pads and a new back rim. Also it needs a new chain. My bike is going to live! Then he drops the bombshell. Speaking of my rear rim...I've been riding this thing with FOUR BROKEN SPOKES. I'll let that sink n. How I didn't notice this...well, if anyone doesn't have time to so much as notice broken spokes on his bike, it's me. I've dodged a bullet once again. Here's the best part. My in store credit will pay for the whole thing. Yes, I have to walk from here to the train station, carrying two wheels from the sawed bike. Along with what I'm taking home from work. But the bike shop just mad my day. It will be ready on the 27th.
Sunday. For the first time in the past few years, I'm without a bike I like to ride on the weekend. I'm back out on the bus to the supermarket for a few items. It's been a little over a year since my mom passed away, and since I've been shopping for two people, and have had to take the bus to go grocery shopping. I've found a supermarket along the way to and from work, the particular franchise which carries my favorite low-fat cheese. This morning, I stop at my usual breakfast place before grocery shopping. The owner comes out and sits down while I'm eating. He mentions his concerns about a coming collapse of the economy. We both relate to working in the service industry. He's saving money on paying a dishwasher by using recyclable cups, plates, and plasticware. Later in the evening, I make my online "reservation" with my old gym, between home and where I now work. The following morning, I arrive at the rec center to make sure my membership is up to date for my workout reservation tomorrow. I'm led inside to see an overweight woman behind the desk. Every time she gets up, it appears almost as an uncomfortable effort for her. She wants to see something with my address. I show her my license. She appears thrown by the fact that I'm not a resident of this county. I ride "across the long miles" as Stephen King wrote about the vision of Randall Flag. She checks her computer and discovers I made my workout reservation for the wrong area of the rec center. I ask if my membership is current. Sit down and stand up again. My questions, they heckle her. I haven't renewed my membership since August of 2017, and I still have visits left on my card. Well done, good and faithful servant. I will make you master over comfortable seats.
Tuesday. I arrive for my first reservation to workout, my first workout since March. There are three senior guys outside the place, shooting the breeze. One is on a bench, waiting for someone to come out and let him know it's time for his own reservation. I'm on a bench across form him. His two pals have just come out after their successful reservations. One of his pals is in a T-shirt with a US flag and "These colors don't run, they reload" on the back. The pair head for their respective vehicles. The one on the bench yells at them. "Even though I have a purple heart, I need a handicapped card to park in the space." A guy in his thirties goes inside. He has a buzz cut and a twelve-inch goatee. The following day, I swing by a supermarket after work. I need a few things I ran out of. At the U-Scan, I'm trying to find the button for vegetables which usually have no barcodes. The computer doesn't like my code. A clerk comes over to help. "Are you trying to put in your number for your store discount card?" No, I want the vegetable code button. "Well, you've chosen the button to put in the number for your discount card." He immediately finds a barcode on the lettuce and scans it." I didn't know the lettuce had a barcode. "Well, now you know. Did I solve all your problems?" When your the humble student of an all knowing grocery clerk, who can argue? The latest on the water park: the new target date is this Saturday. They are working it just like the rec center, both under the administration of the city. Beginning at 6 AM tomorrow morning, nonresidents may make a reservation for one of three 2-hour sessions at the park. The last one is 4-6 PM. This is perfect for the days I get out of work at 3 PM; Tuesday through Thursday and Saturday. Now that's a button I want to push.
Thursday. I'm cruising down a long stretch of bike trail on the way to work. 'Twas yesterday when I thought I noticed the sky had a familiar sheen of interstate forest fire smoke. On this morning, it's cold ride which does not warm up along the way. The sun is climbing through the trees along the bank, between the river and the trail, throwing orange light on the concrete. At one bend in the long curve, a couple of homeless middle-aged guys are siting in the grass, opposite the side of the trail with the trees. Both appear to have bikes with them, laid out as well. One of the guys, his face an even brown from the sun, is in a woman's halter top. He has no teeth, and he either has long hair in a tight red perm, or he's wearing a wig. He's primping his do in a hand mirror. I'm over a bridge and through an underpass, pedaling along what I refer to as golf course #1. I'm passed by a pair of the obligatory Caucasian guys in cycling shirts, and on ten speeds. One is telling the other about the movie Men In Black. Past a roundabout, where the trail intersects a golf cart trail for the course, I exit the trail into the course parking lot. I'm on my way to the gym. Guys in shorts are out on a putting green, underneath a blood red sun climbing into the chilly air. I'm onto the sidewalk and through the highway intersection, and but a few minutes later at the gym. After my workout, I exit to find someone on a bench who is dressed as if she's comfortably installed high up in parks and rec administration for this municipality. She's playing video games on her pone. I take this opportunity to inquire about this year's season passes to the waterpark, managed by the same department as this rec center. In a trio of words; nope, nope, nope.
It rains overnight and is cloudy most of Friday. The river along the bike trail was noticeably dry in spots. As of today, it's got water again. It's a river which, across the county line which includes downtown, has had some construction work a few years ago. Since then, it's been a summertime destination for kayakers and assorted swimmers with "floatation devices." Approaching 7 AM this morning, there are no guys in shorts and Polo shirts running along to anyone calling cadence. There are perhaps as many as ten guys, all in black wetsuits (In a river? Gimme a break.), standing along the ledge of a graded drop. Each has either a surf or a boogie board under one arm. One is trying to surf the wave created as the water drops over this manufactured incline. Someone yell out, "Don't believe the hype!" The hype that this river is now a commodity? I'm passed by a couple of guys on bikes, perhaps in their sixties. Up ahead, I then pass them where they are stopped, where I turn off one trail onto another. There is one in particular who for some reason strikes me as not entirely comfortable being out on a bike. Shortly after I go past, the pair passes me again. As I am approaching the trailhead for this route, they have at some point turned around and are coming back the other way. Either they are just out for a spin, or they've gone the wrong way.
Saturday I'm on the way to work, pedaling around the same bend along the south Platte River where I spotted the surfers. Indeed, they are back at the very same small downslope. One is surfing away. Written in colored chalk, on the concrete of the kayak dock, is the explanation. It reads, "International Surfing Day." When I arrive at work, I do a quick Google search. The third Saturday every June is indeed I.S.D.. Cowabunga. The third Saturday of this month, today, is also the first day of Summer. The waterpark opened yesterday. At work today, I also give them a call. The phone is answered by someone who is coughing and sounds sick. I mention that I don't have a printer to give me a physical copy of my ticket. It's confirmed that I can get in without it. As a matter of fact, in line at the park after work, the employee checking bags and tickets must have recognized me. He checked my bag but didn't ask to see my ticket. These guys are good. I'm early along with a handful of us who reserved the 4 to 6 PM slot. The employees have been busy cleaning everything they can. One circle of lifeguards are sitting in a circle. They begin singing and playing some kind of game, and if they're around a campfire. Then, the pumps are turned on which move the water over the giant mushroom and shoot out over a lagoon and fill a high bucket until it dumps into the pool. The gate opens, and get my swim. I get my ride on the drop slide. Then I am away toward home. I decide to take the train while fares are suspended. I've decided the safest way to the train station is along a side street to a bike lane. On a residential street among this industrial district, a middle-aged guy is standing toward the curb. He's waving at me. I don't stop but listen to his ask if their is a bike trail "this way?" he points south. I direct him west of here. He extends his thanks. Again this morning, I rode to work through a cooler morning. I thought the sun appeared a little orange through what I presume is fire smoke up in the sky. By the afternoon when I left work, it had warmed up, perhaps to the forecast of 82 degrees F. Tomorrow I have yet another swimming reservation at the water park. I didn't see my friends among the pirate decorations which greet me around a tree inside the entrance. These are a couple of shrunken pirate heads. I may ask about them tomorrow.
The train drops me off at a station where I can take a path through an underpass and across a highway intersection. At this intersection, I arrive where a small group is surrounding a guy with a helmet sitting with his back against the light pole. I assume the parked scooter is his. A small SUV "hybrid" is parked close behind a pickup truck. There was obviously an accident here. As wait for the light, a fire truck arrives. I have to maneuver around the fire truck when I get a green light, when I cross through the intersection. I get out of there just before an ambulance arrives. I decide to take the bike trail north to a gas station where I pick up a quick dinner. And my new soda substitute, a bottle of unsweetened tea. I carry sweetener to add whenever I'm in transit. Outside is a homeless guy with a sign. It declares that he's native, he's broke, and he "could use a dollar or two." When I come out, he's conversing with another cyclist, who gives him a water bottle. The homeless guy is telling him about his daughter, in her thirties, who's currently locked up. I take my dinner to a nearby park on the way home. I sit at a cement table, not far from a couple on the grass. The lady is giving the inaudible guy an earful. She tells him he doesn't back her up, and rattles off a litany of examples, of statements extended family members have made to her and to others about her. I watch two different guys, with both long white hair and bicycles, roll up the hill along the park. I follow them for the short ride home from here. I arrive to see one of my neighbors with her SUV in the parking lot. A guy with a tow truck has one of the enormous wheels off. I speak to her in Spanish. She's having her brakes worked on. We talk about being called back to work. She asks, and I tell her work I work at a lavadora en seco. She pulls a big beautiful Turkish rug out of the back of a truck parked behind the SUV. It has bright reds and blues. The back seat of the truck is packed from floor to ceiling. She asks me how much to clean. I do the math. $192. It isn't dirty, it looks gorgeous. She puts it back in the truck.
Sunday. The morning is filled with cooking for the coming week. I won't have time this week to get to the gym as many times as I would like. I do another workout with the cinderblocks before I run out the door. I need to grab more low fat cheese which I can only get from one supermarket franchise. Along the way, I approach the of ramp of an interstate. A car has stopped at a green light. It's motioning traffic to go around it. From the corner comes one of two homeless, who appear to know the driver. He reaches through a window and takes a thermos from the back seat. I stop across the avenue for a quick lunch at a breakfast place which has reopened. My waitress is familiar. She's very polite, but she's slow. Her eyebrows are finished by being drawn in wide lines, and her hair is fair and pale, almost grey. She has it put up on her head, and it gives her youthful face the odd image of a grandmother. Outside on the curb are a homeless couple. The lady is perhaps 40 years old. She's in a black summer dress and platform sandals. Her hair is also put up, and for a few details otherwise appears almost professional. There are some tattoos on one calf. She's flying a sign which reads, "Hungry artist." (Not yet starving, I assume.) She also has a blue hula hoop. The guy is in a baseball jersey and a ball cap, which he's written all over and the front end of the bill is turned up. Across the street is a big asphalt lot. It has a handful of homeless tents. In the center of the lot is what appears to be all the trash. It's collected into a big pile around a shopping cart. Once I collect my cheese, the plan is to get it back home before I must turn around to make my waterpark reservation this afternoon. After I've eaten, gone to the grocery just under a bridge and back, I come back past the lot. Between it and the avenue is a bus stop. The trash can next to bus stop is overflowing with more trash. Soon, I'm home, the cheese is in the fridge, and I'm back out the door and shortly at the train station. Not that I would otherwise be late riding all the way, but I'm on the bike I take to work and back. The good one. And I prefer to save the miles which I put on it just for that. And the transit system continues to be free of charge, for the moment. In fact, a sandwich sign at the station announces that, on July 1st, fares will resume. I arrive just as a train does, and I jump on it. A transit system security officer asks both of us solitary passengers if he may have our attention. He repeats what the sign said. Then he repeats it again. Though it may appear the transit authority is using media from another century, posted signs and word of mouth, I believe that we are lucky to get any announcement at all. Caveat emptor.
Since about the middle of this month, nearby neighbors have been randomly launching fireworks, it seems, when twilight falls. Sunday evening, this appears to go on and on. I hit the hay around 9 PM these days. My attempt to get to sleep was a journey in and out of semi-consciousness. This was an audio-induced illusion of mortar fire along with the occasional rattling of my window from the bass end of a vehicle sound system. Monday was a bit of an effort to stay awake. After work, I'm rolling back home along the bike trail. It's an afternoon when I'm being passed by an unusual number of oncoming cyclists. They are all the usual bright and colorfully adorned riders. Somewhere in the middle of this, at a point along the trail I don't quite remember, wanders out of the trees along the trail a solitary figure. He is perhaps in his thirties. He's in a black full length duster coat, camouflaged shorts, and a buttoned down shirt. He himself and his gear all have the same thin pall of a shade of grey. His expression is that of detached bewilderment, perhaps as if he isn't altogether sure what he is walking out into. He makes his way to the other side of the trail. I arrive home to discover that I have no power. I momentarily wonder if I neglected to pay the bill. I make a call on my mobile phone to report the outage. After some trouble locating my account, I'm told that the outage was reported at 5:14 PM, and the estimated conclusion of the repair is 8 PM. By 9 PM, I have no power and I hit the hay. During the night, I look up to see my clock radio flashing "12:00." When I get up Tuesday morning, I have the power restored and I've had a full night's sleep. I turn on the computer, and only then see the emails from the power company. 'The new estimated time for the conclusion of the repair is 10:30 PM. I don't read the email informing me when it was actually restored. I have to eat. I have to get a shower. I have to give myself my first enema before I go to have my prostate biopsied. With the land line working, I listen to a voicemail from the urologist, informing me that my prescription for antibiotics has not yet arrived at my pharmacy. Two weeks ago, I was told by the urologist's office that I didn't need an antibiotic prescription, as the office would give me an antibiotic injection the day of the biopsy.
This morning, I call the urologist and speak with someone who tells me he knows nothing about an injection, and that the urologist's office attempted to contact me. Yes, I did get a voicemail, which specified nothing at all much less anything about picking any prescription which the office ordered from my pharmacy for me to pick up. In fact, I called the office back to inquire about the reason for the voicemail, and again was told nothing about any prescription. I hang up and am called back by someone else from the urologist's office, who again tells me that she knows nothing about any prescription. I inform her that I just spoke with someone who doesn't know anything about any injection. I ask her if I should take this institutional mystery to the urologist himself. It's a moment when I have arrived on the same page with someone. When I arrive at the urologist's office an hour later, I go to get the injection. The medical worker with the syringe asks me, "So, you didn't get the prescription in time?" I tell her the byzantine story about the conflicting factions of urologist office employees. Her response is, "Well, looks like you're getting a shot then." I am later told by the biopsy assistant that the injection or the prescription is at my discretion. She informs me that she will mention the apparent confusion to her supervisor. I'm beginning to wonder if this is an indicator of my behavior as a syrup deviationist? She has me in and out with my injection so fast, the next morning I get up to find that, I never realized she put a Band Aid over the spot where I was injected.
There is a waiting room for the individual little parts of today's visit. I had blood drawn for a prostate study in one location of the urology center. I had my shot in a separate location. My biopsy in yet another. I had arrived early for the blood work, and was standing six feet from the desk. A security guard asked me who I was waiting for, and alerted me he was going off to find an employee. Before another employee came out, an 87-year-old patient slowly arrived with someone else. The other guy asked the octogenarian if he would like to have a seat. He answered, "Where are you going to sit, on that plant?" His pal didn't laugh. He appeared to dismiss any attempt by the other at humor as he read aloud to the guy a page of information, and asked him some questions. His tone was, 'I'm here to patiently read you whatever is printed on this sheet of paper, with aloof attention toward your comprehension.' He begins with a fact about the Corona virus. Then he asked the patient if he was born in March of 1933. The patient sat there giving single-word affirmative answers. After my blood draw and shot, I was in the waiting room for my biopsy. After I was called back for the procedure by the assistant, she told me that the wait was for the antibiotics to take effect. In the waiting room, I watched the occasional patient, all of varying ages, all wander in and out with the same trepidation. Almost like the homeless coming out of the trees along the bike trail.
The urologist and his assistant tell me to take it easy the rest of the day. While the bike which I ride on weekends is in the shop, I travel by transit system while it's still free. I decide to have lunch at my favorite place down the street, after which I head crosstown to get yogurt along the way to where I used to work downtown. This morning was 54 degrees F when I woke up. This afternoon, it's burning hot. My way of taking it easy appears to be walking six blocks to my friend's restaurant, where I cool off and have some iced tea. I make connections back home in jig time. The Chinese place across the street is closed now on Tuesdays. In the early evening, I head behind my townhome complex to the Vietnamese place. It's open now for dining in, but I grab takeout. I look across the boulevard to see if the Mexican place is open. It's...changed hands. A new sign now adorns the space above the door.
Baseball, Prostate Biopsy, Hot Dogs, No Brakes, Apple Pie, A Loose Crown...and Chevrolet!
Tuesday I have my biopsy. Wednesday I assume my brake fluid reservoir on my handlebars is low. After work, I swing by the bike shop on the way home. It ain't the fluid. After telling me there's still life I my brake pads the last time I was here, I suppose the tech decided to look at the pads on the front brakes. It ain't a fluid issue. And the pads aren't worn,,,they're gone. As in used up. Luckily, he has new pads, and at a reasonable price. I ride home with actual front brakes. Then Thursday rolls around. I'm rolling down the trail, past the kayak launch on the south bend of the river. I pass a young couple, each carrying a surfboard. More surfers in wetsuits are at the water incline. Not long after I get to work, I decide I'm extra hungry. I grab an omelet in the shopping center, with melted swiss cheese. I'm eating it at work, shortly after we open. Chewing the cheese, off comes my new crown. Time to call my dentist. Yes they can get me in this afternoon. After work, I head up the boulevard, stopping to put on my rain poncho. Thunder and drops turns into some rain. I don't remember coming this way before, but I'm able to sneak off onto a side street the rest of the way. At the dentist, I sit in the waiting room for over an hour. I had called earlier to ask what it would cost to recement a crown. A cool $120. Well, that's what the receptionist quoted. The same one who, after an hour, told me they would have a room ready for me in a couple minutes. What's two more minutes? I was called back without anyone collecting any money, and sent on my way with nothing more than a wave. What a week. On Friday, the urologist calls. No cancer has been found in the samples of my prostate. I will see him in six months.
Saturday. Around 8 AM, I'm headed down the connecting trail to work. I'm approaching a short bridge over the creek. The bike trail this morning is full of both colorful cyclists and dog owners with their dogs. At the other end of the bridge from myself, a kid on his BMX bike screeches to a halt. Two of his friends whiz by on their own BMX bikes before he takes off after them. The trio just came down a steep hill, at the top of which approaches a couple with their pair of dogs. Standing on a steep embankment coming down from a residential neighborhood, surrounded by foliage, it a homeless guy. His skin and clothes are the same pall of grey/brown. A mask is around his neck, not over his nose and mouth. He's missing teeth in his open mouth, and he stares dead ahead. I cruise past him and sneak a peek at his face. He looks up in surprise. Sunday. I need a handful of items from the supermarket down the street. My weekend bike is still in the shop. In fact, I call the shop before I leave. Someone answers, who tells me he came in early just to complete my bike. So I'm on the bus down the street. The corner where I disembark is a high school. President Obama spoke there some ten years ago. Catty corner, just past a gas station, was a small diner. It had the mission of employing students from across the street. It wasn't a bad old place, simple, with wood paneling and chairs from another decade. A kind of throwback to a time in which much of this neighborhood still lives. I walk past it on the way to grocery shop. It does not appear to have stayed open for take out service. Their sign over the entrance is gone. I peek inside through mirrored glass. I don't any chairs or tables left. I collect my food items and head over to the bus stop. A tall skinny Caucasian guy slowly comes down the sidewalk. He carries a guitar, a bag and a folded table. He sets up his table and puts out what appear to be CDs, I assume of him performing. He begins playing a song by Led Zeppelin, I can't remember which one. My bus comes along and soon I'm home with my stash. A couple of hours later, the phone rings, and it's the bike shop. It's ready to go. I have a couple of hours before it closes. I think I can make it. I jump on a bus to the train, which whips me to a station from which it's a 15-minute walk.
I walk in, and the same short young woman immediately asks me if I need help. Before I can tell her I'm picking up a bike...she asks me if I'm picking up a bike. As soon as I confirm this, she asks if I need anything else. "Feel free to browse." I like her. She's committed. Power, baby. It turns out that my store credit didn't cover it. It's an extra $94. But I think they're still giving me a break. While the tech who hooked me up is checking me out, I can hear her with a female customer who is looking for a new seat. The young says something about a comfortable seat, "Speaking of gender, this is designed to fit you." Then I'm outside putting helmet on head and bike lock on the back rack. The young woman runs out a few minutes after I paid my bill. She asks me, "Are you done?" I answer, "Yeah." She gives me an "Okay," and thumbs up. I'd better be done, kid, I don't have any fucking money left. But...I got a second working bike. Thanks to these guys. And speaking of gender, that ain't bad. Now, I need to run into another supermarket, the only one which carries my low-fat cheese. The package I had turned bad when the power went out. I head out, do a multi-street loop, run into a fast food place to ask if it's the opposite way, and heading that way end up going past the bike shop again. Not far from there, I run in and grab the cheese before I hit the bike trail for home. I usually check my emails in the evening, to clear them out at the end of the day. I don't know if I'm doing it backwards. If so, this is the least of my problems. One is from an email chat room for my townhome's residents which I forgot I joined. It's from the property management company my townhome's HOA uses. I attempt to open an account to take a look at the thread. The system alerts me, "You already have a username and password." Only two messaged have been posted since we began using this company. The first was six years ago, from a previous HOA president who I would later find out, was the subject of a petition from all the other residents to have her removed from her position. As is so often the case, I didn't find this out until after she had moved out. The new message appears to be from a couple of residents I've never heard of. There are not (yet) that many Caucasians who live here, but they have names which sound white. The single sentence message is a question. 'Does anyone else hear the fireworks going off through the night?' Before I hit the hay this evening, I step outside to scan the sky (speaking of white) for bombs bursting in air. There are at least three locations from which it sounds, and one directly behind the complex I can see, fireworks are being launched toward the fire smoke-colored half moon.
Monday night, the firework mortar crew gives the neighborhood a break. Perhaps they kept even themselves up too late. They say that war is hell. If fireworks aren't war, they're just hell. Tuesday rings in the end of the month. I take the route to work with a stop at the supermarket. I'm extra hungry this morning, and I grab an inexpensive snack. I'm out of the store and unlocking the bike when a lady comes out. She asks me if I like my bike helmet. She tells me she bought one just like it. It's the first question I've ever had specifically about my bike helmet. Some seven hours later, I'm through the old money neighborhood and on the horse trail which connects to another neighborhood. Neighborhood residents enjoy running, walking pets, cycling here. I'm approaching from behind what appears at first to be a guy with 3 dogs. He's having trouble holding the leashes of two. Seconds later, I'm passing this guy. He in fact has, each on a leash, a dog...and a couple of mountain goats. Complete with long horns. A neon yellow sign warns about coyotes. I don't see any mention of zoo animals. An hour and a half later and I'm at the corner across from my home. I already knew the Mexican restaurant on this very lot had changed names. But I thought perhaps the new owner(s) would keep the distinctive furniture. Hand-carved and brightly painted and glazed scenes of Mexico on the backs of booth benches. As I glance over my shoulder, waiting for the green light, I see one of these very benches being loaded onto a delivery truck. It's followed by a still life painting I've seen hanging ever since I first stepped in there 13 years ago. Perhaps as early as April of 2007, Tacos and Salsas has been a staple, one of the haunts where I would eat and read. I don't know if it's a casualty of the virus. Here's a toast, and a candle. Thanks for taking care of me amigos. Tierra y libertad.
