Ten dollars?  Do I look like I’m walking around with fairies shitting hundred dollar bills?  Then again there’s plenty of fairies here.  Yet again, I found myself at one of those San Francisco events.  Yes, the kind with lots of drugs and alcohol.  Except this one had more tits than usual.  I hand the chick behind the booth a blue-tongue and sauntered in.

The crowd, well, crowded around me.  With me were my deputies, my crew.  We were here to find someone—no—not just someone.  Geode.  She was serious business.  And we had to get the jewels back.

“Come on.  Let’s go that way,” I said to Prism.  She was wearing one of her over-the-top costumes; makeup completely covering her face and a tutu.  ”Really.  Did you have to wear that costume again?”

“I’m underdressed for this event.  I wish I had put on more,” said Prism with a sneer.  ”What, don’t worry.  I can handle anything that’s thrown at us.”

Behind them Line and Pyramid walked up.  Pyramid was wearing, well, almost nothing.  That’s the nice thing about these kinds of things.  That everyone wore almost nothing.  He could get used to this.

“Bye guys.  I’m going to party,” said Pyramid happily.  ”See you all later!”

She sauntered away, along with Line.  He shook his head and watched her disappear into the crowd.  Even though they had just met, he would have like to get to know them more.  Especially Pyramid.

“Well, shall we, ladies?  Let’s go.”

Box, Prism, and Star entered the crowd.

—

On top of the rocking bus, they scanned the crowd.  Geode had yet to turn up.  They were dancing to the beat of anonymous bass on top of the platform built on bus along with about twenty other revelers.  The bus jumped on its feet along with the music.  It was almost dusk, and the shadows played tricks with his mind.  It almost seemed like the crowd multiplied in front of him, body interweaving with body in crazy patterns.

“Come on, let’s get off and move on,” Prism said.  ”Let’s see what’s happening down the street.”

Box sighed.  ”Don’t forget what we came here for.”

Prism replied only with a smile and led the three of them down the ladder, through the bus, and out into the crowds.

—

The next thing he remembers is a beer in one hand and a cup of sake in the other.  Looking around he could only see a line of other people also holding beer in their hands.  Their faces seemed to melt into alternatively laughter and screams.

—

They eventually found Geode in a place of ill repute, and precisely where they knew they would find her.  The black tent.

“There you are,” said Box.

“Here I am,” said Geode.

The tent breathed next to them, almost as if it were holding its breath.  Sometimes it would inhale people and other times it would exhale people.  The air was almost cold, wrapping them in shivers and goosebumps.

Prism and Star were running interference, distracting the crowd of people around the tent.  Talking up a storm, asking people how they were doing, and oh, yes, they haven’t seen each other in ages.

Box and Geode stood off to the side, studying the crowd.

“You look nice,” said Box.  ”I like your costume.”

Geode pursed her lips and studied herself critically.  He would study her critically too, all day long.  But he wasn’t here to do that.  He had a job to do.

“I think its better for you if you stay with us,” continued Box.

“Okay,” Geode said.  ”Lead the way.”

—

“We need to blend in,” said Star.  ”We should do what other people are doing.  Like that kissing booth.”

Kissing booth?  The eighties called and asked for their party games back.  Who does a kissing booth these days?  Honestly, he was starting to wonder if this was his crowd after all; all these half naked hippies.

The kissing booth was surrounded by harsh shadows and was on the sidewalk, off of the black street.  The only thing it needed was a spotlight above it to make it look all mysterious and inviting.  You could see people doing god-knows-what in the park behind the booth.

“Yes!  We should do it together,” Prism added gleefully.  ”Come on, let’s do it!”

Seriously?  Was this what he had come to?  A kissing booth?  Well.  At least the girl in the booth was cute.  Cuter than the girls he remembered behind the kissing booth in middle school.  A lot cuter.

—

Wolf and Comet sauntered up to them out of the darkness.  Behind them slunk Mirror.  The trio, as they were called.

“What are you guys doing here,” exclaimed Prism.  ”I didn’t know you were going to be here too?”

I shook my head.  Wolf and Comet were a couple to watch out for.  You didn’t want to cross them.  Comet could build a missile and, well, Wolf—you didn’t want to cross her.  I needed to go over and pay my respects.

“Geode.  Stay behind me.  Don’t make any sudden moves.”  I walked over to Comet.  ”Hey, man.  How are things going?  This here is Geode.”

After greetings were exchanged, we moved through the street.  It was almost time.  Mirror walked behind us.  He had dark sunglasses on with a cape.  You couldn’t see anything behind those sunglasses on.  Just your reflection.

—

We lost the trio in the crowd not much later.  Privately I heaved a sigh of relief.  You never really knew what they would do, especially Mirror.  You couldn’t tell what was happening behind those sunglasses.

On the other end of the street, we watched the fire show while we danced to the music.  A woman got up on stage and lit two goddamn hula hoops of fire and started weaving about.

“Wow,” said Star and Prism.

What was so special about flaming hula hoops?  I could do that with a few hours of practice, thought Box.  It was time to move along.  Best not to stay in one place too long.

“So, about those jewels,” Box said to Geode.  ”Where are they?”

Geode smiled behind her round sunglasses, small twin disks of ebony.  She was dressed up as a Matrix character.

“Its all good.  They’re inside me.”

“Inside you?”

She smiled coyly.  ”Yes, inside me,” she purred.  ”Why do you think I’m called Geode?”

I took a few steps back.  I had never thought about it.  It seemed blindingly obvious in retrospect.  And what was also obvious was that I was screwed.  The client wanted the jewels.  The jewels were inside Geode.  No way to resolve that one.

—

A hour later they were back at the black tent.  It was nearing time to leave.  They had successfully shaken off all pursuit and lost everyone except Chin.

“Box,” growled Chin.  ”What are you doing here?  I thought I told you not to show your ugly face here again.”

Shit.

“Oh, nothing, Chin.  I don’t take lip from anyone, most especially not the likes of you.”

Chin narrowed his eyes and stared at Box.  Chin was sensitive about his face, especially his chin and lips.  Ever since the accident.  This wasn’t going to end well.  Me and my mouth, getting into trouble since 1980.

Box looked up from his phone and scanned his small bedroom.  Up on the wall was a marathon bib with the numbers 11134, and his name, Box, above it.  Next to it, hanging off to the side, almost as an afterthought, was a 10k bib, with the numbers 846.  He liked to run, but hadn’t run for some time on account of being sick.  Nothing serious, just a touch of bronchitis.

He thought about it some more.  Did he want to go?  Yes.  Was he tired?  Yes.  But it didn’t matter.  It was important.  So he typed back before he could change his mind, “Sure.  I’m in.”

A hour later, Box had a costume ready.  He had gotten out a old white Banana Republic shirt (only a little faded) and colored on it with oil crayons.  It was a fun moment, because it took him back to his childhood, where he would color on white paper.  The paper was a sea where he rode fantastic and outlandish boats up and down the stark whiteness, stopping at islands of lush ideas and tripping over shoals of frustration on his drawing ability.

And on the white shirt he drew a Supermanesque jewel, with the numbers 99 and half of a percent sign.  He accompanied this with a old burlap sack from Costa Rica as a cape.

When Prism and Star arrived, Prism said, “You need some makeup.  Something to complete your costume.”  Star headed into the bathroom to wash her hair and face; she had gotten up in a hurry that morning and was feeling ‘yucky.’  Prism then got out her makeup jar, a clear plastic jar repurposed from some past life as a food container.  Almost immediately black residue spread on her hands.

“Damn, one of the makeups must have leaked out,” she said.  ”Can you get me a paper towel?”

Box got up from where he was sitting in front of her, where he was ready to receive a black eye.  ”Sure.”

“Wait!  Put water on it.”

“Okay.”

When he sat back down in front of Prism, he noticed the pile of makeup was spread on a old Trader Joe’s paper bag.  So many colors, so little time.  What kind of faces could one make with these, he wondered.  How many identities, how many lives could you paint?  Or would they all be the same, the makeup only a thin veneer in front of what amounts to the same person?  You are unique like everyone else?

Prism then made a black eye magically appear on Box’s eye, with the assistance of thousands of people via the phone.  From the people who were working the American Telephone and Telegraph wireless center to the person who wrote the blog post explaining how to apply makeup to create a black eye (first apply some purple lipstick foundation then powder either black or blue on top of it, then fade out to either red/blue or green/yellow depending on how old the bruise is).

Soon enough they were all done, dressed up and ready to go.  Step step step they went down the stairs and out on the street, a few rights and straight on until they reached the Bay Area Rapid Transit station that would take them downtown San Francisco where they were going.

But first before they got to San Francisco,they would experience the loss (and regain) of a phone, chance upon like-minded strangers, and discover their polygon selves.

THE CURIOUS AFFAIR OF THE PHONE
(or, the not-so-curious affair of a very ordinary loss)

CAST OF CHARACTERS

BOX, a dashing young man with dewy eyes
PRISM, an effervescent young woman
STAR, a pigtailed and happy young woman
PYRAMID, a woman with a killer smile
LINE, a mysterious man with a hat

SCENE:  STAR, BOX, and PRISM are on a Bay Area Rapid Transit train.  They have just left a station.

STAR

Begins to frantically search her pockets, the plastic bag on her lap, and her general vicinity.  Oh no!  I’ve lost my phone.  Begins to panic.  I think I left it on the platform!  Gets up and runs to the door to watch the platform flash by, with a forlorn look.

PRISM

The platform?  Oh no!

STAR

Continues to panic.  That’s it.  It’s gone.  I’m going home.  I can’t do this.  I’m going home.  There is an awkward pause when everyone is watching STAR panic.  BOX looks quickly through STAR’s abandoned things on her seat which is in front of him.

PRISM

Wait, let’s not panic yet.  Remember I’ve gotten my phone back three times when I lost it?  Remember?

STAR

Two times.

PRISM

Point is I got it back!  I’ll call your phone and everything will be ok.  You never know!

STAR

Begins to calm down.  Okay.  Tells Prism her number so she can call.

PRISM

Mumbles indistinctly on the phone.  A nice woman answered but we were cut off when we went into the tunnel.  They wait in silence for several minutes as the train passes through the tunnel.  Box and Prism watch Star.

Oh, hello?  Yes?  Can you leave the phone at the ticket station?  What?  Nobody was there?  Oh great, okay, thank you.  Hangs up.  A nice woman answered.  She left your phone at the ticket station!  Everything will be okay!

BOX

Now we have to go back?  Let’s get off then!  Points at the doors, which were already open on the platform.  They all rush off, but not before Box drops his own phone and is helped by two kind (and cute) women.

SCENE:  BOX, STAR, and PRISM are on the original train platform, waiting for the same train.

STAR

I’m so glad we were able to get my phone back.

BOX

Looks like we’ll have to wait 14 minutes.  Starts fidgeting.  Let’s go sit further down the platform.  They all sit together, in their costumes, taking a breather.  PYRAMID appears from stage right, walking up to the trio.

PYRAMID

Hi.  Smiles shyly.  Are you guys going?

BOX

Yes we’re going too!  Are you?

PYRAMID

Yes, yes I am!  Smiles brilliantly.

BOX

Have you been before?

PYRAMID

No I haven’t.

BOX

Points to LINE, who is sitting next to Star on the seat.  How about you?  Have you been before?

LINE

Yes.

BOX

Oh, nice!  To Pyramid.  Are you from around here?

PYRAMID

Yeah!  I’m a teacher.  Another smile.

BOX

Ohhh nice!  To the others.  She’s a teacher.  They all share a moment of companionable silence while they wait for the train.

TRAIN

Yes.  I’m a surprise character!  Just goes to show to never trust the character list at the beginning.  Well, just the other day I waited an extra few seconds to let a deaf-blind man catch up to me and enter without having to hurry overmuch.  What do you think of that?

CONDUCTOR

Wait, that was me.  Not you.  You do what I tell you to do.

TRAIN

Good point.  Pause.  So they’ve entered me.  What do you say we put this behind us and go forward, eh?

SCENE:  The interior of a train. Box, Pyramid, Prism, Star, and Line are sitting together on the train. The train begins moving.

BOX
To Line and Pyramid. Do you know how to get there?

LINE

Yes.

PYRAMID

I’m following him.

STAR and PRISM

Chorus.  We’ll follow you two.

PYRAMID

To Box. So, what’s your name?

BOX

People call me Box.

PYRAMID

Hmm.  Let me think. I need a name that people call me by too.  Call me Pyramid!

PRISM

I’m… Prism!  P-R-I-S-M.  Dazzles.

STAR

And… I’m Star!  Jiggles her star earrings.

LINE

I’m Line.

Another companionable silence ensues.  They rock back and forth as they await their destination.

EXEUNT

Once they got on the streets of San Francisco with two new friends leading the way, they started to really feel the draw.  Getting money from an Automated Teller Machine was only a brief distraction.  Once they got onto the rocking bus, they knew that it was almost time. On the bus a number of characters surrounded them.

Box wondered where these people came from.  How did the enormous black man chugging a huge can of Tecate beer come to be on this particular bus, clearly headed the same way as them?  Were the almost (delectably) naked girls sitting in front of them also feeling anticipation?

Line put on his costume, which consisted of a felt robe snuggie completely covered with cute cats in various cute cat poses.

“Why is the bus rocking,” asked Box.  ”This is weird.”

“I know!  I’m feeling seasick now,” mimed Pyramid.  The bus was rocking back and forth gently, almost as if thrown by unseen waves of energy.  They all stood together, crowded in a mass of humanity, a Chinese businessman, a jaded hipster with knowing eyes, an uptight blonde with big sunglasses, shouting, talking, jostling, getting on and off, going forward and backward.

Then all too soon they arrived, scrambling off the bus and getting in line, behind other people, behind everyone.  Outlandish costumes battled with ordinary street clothes, refereed only by a woman on stilts who met every gaze with a wink and a tweak to your head, occasionally transferring a hat to an new owner by fiat, as if saying, “This hat belongs better over there, on this head.”  As if she could somehow see the truth from above, reading fortunes in the whorls and parts of hair.

The line moved with quick spurts.  We were channeled like energy into where we were going.  Once we got to the entrance, we were invited in after a critical glance at our costume and the payment of the entry fee.

Once in, we have yet to find our way out; we are still lost among the maze of fire and love, searching for the kiss that would complete us, for life-giving words, and above all, the person within us that has always been there.

So it was with all kinds of pleasure I hit up two museums here in New York City.  One of them, the Whitney Museum of American Art, had an exhibit by Charles Burchfield that I really enjoyed.

His art was bold and stunning.  A lot of the time, especially at the MoMA, I just walk through the galleries and not really feeling it.  I’m finding my groove, and Charles Burchfield fits quite nicely in it.

What’s your groove?  I like bold paintings that have a surreal touch, like these and Vincent Van Gogh’s work.  In fact, this next painting reminds me of Van Gogh:

There’s nothing like watching a master at work, to evoke an incredible sense of FEELING about a place versus a photograph or a book.

Then there is real life art, the soft curve of a woman’s neck or the strong lines of a male figure.  Sculpture tries to capture this, but there’s nothing like sitting in a busy plaza, piazza, square, or intersection and watching life imitate art.

These thoughts also walk a City of their own, a City full with possibilities, dripping with potentials.  One step, a loud step on a metal door (that leads downward under a Chinese restaurant, where bright rows of dingy shelves hold chickens and white packages) is all it takes.  Another step takes you on the stairs (serious, gravelly steps that shoulder many burdens and work tirelessly through the night) into the subway and into other places with their own metal doors in the ground and more thoughts.

Everything and nothing is possible, you will not get laid but you will sleep with someone every night even though you are alone.  Your mind will be full but you will feel empty.  Taking another step down the street towards the bar, subway behind you, your mind reels at the dizzying skyscrapers of human thought, only to be brought back to earth by a pint of organic beer and pizza.

Writing back and forth with strangers in the night, communicating in the space around you that there are two, three, four people and they are talking, but they do not know each other, and will never know each other, yet they know each other in a way that nobody else ever will–for they shared that moment together.

Jumping off the building of thought and landing on the pavement below never felt so good, and the ride on the subway, shaking with everyone else with each brake, playing solitaire and being solitary, I joined the City and the city joined me.

The blue air is fragrant with the arid desertlike air that permeates you, a soft Iberian massage.  As we ascend further, we get glimpses of the lit Granada cityscape in between cacti strands, cacti whose limbs and appendages resemble meaty hands and feet, almost dancing along with us, hiding, blocking, revealing the truths of the city we are meant to see.

Finally, we reach the top, near the Alhambra, and plunge ourselves again into the dark, following a dirt road near the cemetery.  It leads us into the warm dark, twisting upward among orderly quiet rows of olive trees but not before a brief dalliance with a dark wood.  In those woods, the expectant silence was only broken by the crunch of our feet on the gravel below.

As a car passed by us, we briefly entertained the idea of scaring the passerby with outlandish costumes and weird prayer-like poses, rising out at them, phantoms in the dark, ancient Moors returned to reclaim the caliphate.  Instead we stood quietly by and watched the red taillights creep down the road, briefly illuminating the solemn olive trees that had watched over us like sentinels.

We were surprised and pleased to discover the rich soft sand-like soil of the earth around cushioned falls nicely, as we both fell trying to climb a slippery hill for a better view of the dark landscape.  Retreat was the next logical option and we crossed the fields, bypassing the winding road, back to the cemetery and the hidden presence of the Alhambra, the red fortress and the living place of the Nasrids.  In their alcazabra they prayed enclosed by fortfied walls.

Veering off to the side and down a long ravine that contained a well-worn path, we inadvertently bypassed the Alhambra and instead passed into the old part of the city, penetrating that which we had only seen from afar.  White walls and small houses surrounded us, smooth black cobblestones pushed us forth, ever forward and back again upward into an ancient place from which we have yet to return from, for our timeless souls remain lost in wonder, wandering the twisting streets.

A despatch from Madrid at 4:30 AM, when you can look at the city, it with half-lidded eyes and walking with us down Calle Gran Via.  The night is relentless here, pulsing with energy and bonhomie.

Recipe for Spanish Experience Cookie:

• One part getting lost in the center of Old Madrid
• One part getting lost in the Metro
• 1/2 part visiting the Palace
• 1/2 part walking
• 1/4 part gumption

It is not long after I retreat from the City Alive until I return to the streets in search for a Coke and a snack.  The wan hotel guard shrugs when I ask if anything is open around.  He says, “Try down the street,” indicating the street in front of the hotel.

So I do, walking down the street alone, accompanied only by newly withdrawn euros burning a hole in my pocket.  The night presses on me as I walk down, towards nowhere because I know not where I am, but thataway.  I pass by a couple hidden in the shadows around a makeshift bench, slouching, eating something that looks like thin pizza.  After a few quiet blocks, I encounter a white island, lit windows indicating a 24 hour convenience store.

Drawn to it like a moth, I bang up against the glass doors that didn’t open.  Confused, I glance around inside the store and notice a security guard waving at me.  He is holding one hand up, in the universal gesture to *wait*.  He then points at the crowd inside the store.

After a few minutes, two people exit the store after the guard presses a key on a remote to open the doors and I was then able to enter.  This singularly odd experience left an impression on me and I wandered the tiny store aimelessly, feeling the one-minded Spaniards watching me; the security guard with his powerful remote, the crowd of aloof hipsters near the register waiting for something.

The crowd was not together, not a group, they were a loose collection of individuals, waiting, individually, with expectant eyes towards the back of the store–ahh, where they were heating up purchased pizzas, which were laying in tidy stacks in refrigerated shelves.  I thought to myself, “Perhaps I should check that out, pizza sounds good.”

I quickly decided against it after reading the various and disgusting toppings that these people thought were appropriate on pizza.  Note that I am a purist and anything other than cheese, herbs, and perhaps pepperoni gets voted off my pizza island.

After paying for my coke, waters, and potato chips (which took me 10 minutes to choose, as I had to study each bag and make sure I wasn’t buying bacon infused cheese chips) I tried to leave the store by walking up to the glass, forgetting that the security guard held the Power.  He then opened it for me and I was let out on the night.

On the way back to the hotel I passed by many discarded boxes of heated pizza from that convenience store, discarded in dark corners and on quiet benches, refugees from that endless bright place.

The people on the plane are a nice potpourri of various travelers–next to me sits a couple from South Africa, in their 40s.  They carefully sit, carefully eat, and carefully watch the inflight movie; with their gray hair and gray stares.

The young blonde girl two rows down from us is playing with her hair, getting the front of it back into a pinned twist, just so.  She is noticeable mostly because she is blonde, young, and good looking.  The boy with her is a lesser douchebag (as opposed to major) with only a few douchebaggy qualities:  (1) a permanent half scowl, (2) half-turned hat, and (3) a perfectly put-together clothing ensemble, complete with faux street graffiti tee shirt.  He has his training wheels on, soon he will remove them and move on to overly tanned skin, bluetooth earpieces, and white shoes.

A certain numbness, a kind of disbelief pervades me.  Perhaps I’m a jaded traveler now but it doesn’t feel like a vacation yet.  But I can smell it, just like I can smell the perfume of the gorgeous Spanish women on the plane, scattered around like impossible flowers in a meadow.

Me and my mate exchange jokes to melt frozen time, watching it drip away minute by minute.

Smells on the plane always come in cycles.

1. Stale baseline plane smell
2. Whiff of airplane food that always smells the same
3. Unknown bodily function smell (was that from the toilet?)
4. Actual smell of airplane food from cart or from tray
5. (Bonus) Smell of shit as someone changes their infant’s diapers right next to you, or behind you, with an apologetic air (too bad it doesn’t smell better).
6. See #1

At this time, 15 minutes before the flight lands, I am smelling #3, UNKNOWN BODILY FUNCTION SMELL.  When I smell this, I dart my eyes quickly around, almost as if to catch someone squirming in their seat, post-fart, with a guilty expression on their face.  I don’t see anyone.

When we touch down in Madrid, eight hours later and still carrying recycled air and smells from Washington DC, we will all exhale, the plane, the passengers, exhale and open to tumble down the concourse and into the land of bears.

Heisenberg-like, he was both near his friends and a besotted older man who simultaneously looked fit and old(er), a hanger-on that shuffled near him while retaining the imperturbable aloofness that only years gain you, and near us.

“My boy hates me,” he signs, spelling out an ancient love story writ between the flashes of Lady Gaga on the televisions and the condensation on our drink glasses.  ”He’s over at Cobalt, and I’m here.”  We all roll our eyes in shared disdain for the Boy, the Boy who is missing Everything and is Absent.

“You can find someone here,” my friend says, pointing to the many bodies in the bar, bodies that seemed to press upon us with their presence, in only the way that bodies press in gay bars, mostly just there but with a hint of directness and challenge.  Almost as if they say, “Here I am, and here you are, and are you going to do anything about it?”

“My boy hates me,” the eighteen year old repeats, while drinking the rest of the liquid in his cup and looking sideways.  ”Here is my best friend,” white arm encircling a black neck, both handsome and vibrating with youth. Lady Gaga’s cleavage mesmerizes me on ten screens as we awkwardly shuffle around to block the Older Man from being part of our Group.

“I don’t want him,” youth says, glancing at the old.  ”How do I get rid of him?”  Our suggestions, lame as they are, create shared camaraderie that is shattered as they bound off, sliding between bodies and people to their next lily-pad in the pond., where undoubtedly they will repeat their lives until they are too heavy and sink below the water, joining the rest of us solemn swimmers.

We were in Playa Montezuma and the beach was in us, conquering us day by day.  I walked outside to get some fresh air and was disappointed to find the air was the same as inside.  But I saw the sky, and the palm trees.  The sun would be up soon.

I leaned over the railing on the second floor, scanned the empty street below me.  It was not empty, it was just devoid of people.  The street sat there though, full of itself, being a street, a connection from point a to point b.

After sitting down heavily on a chair brought out from the room, I stared at the brightening sky through palm trees.  Their leaves shivered in the early morning, a hat to the wood stem below.  The trees talked to each other, with a shake here and lean there.

Almost delirious, I continued to stare at the gorgeous world.  The sun was to come up soon.  She would want to see it, I thought.  She would be so happy.  So I went inside and woke her up, I saw the sun rise then I took her outside and saw the sun rise.