The sky looked like it had freckles today, as the clouds exaggerated the blueness of the San Francisco sky. And with the fresh autumn breeze from the west, it made San Francisco California echo a pleasant rhyme. People suddenly stood frozen, and looked up into the skies. It seemed with these particular conditions a smile was just an easy reflex. They just happened. At least James Redburn thought so, and took notice of this by going for a walk. He was inspired.
As he walked, his eyes raced down one of San Francisco’s hills to another, which always provided him with a better view than the last, previous …incredible view. He thought of traversing all of San Francisco’s hills, but time was ‘different’ for James today. It was hard to ‘keep track’, as the sun crept across the sky providing James with a different …’take’, on the already previous incredible views. Nonetheless, I still believe he walked all day.
At dusk, James took a break atop a freeway overpass as the people raced in their cars, below …somewhere else. And, since he had seen and felt so much on this pleasant fall day; now, the thoughts and the happenings of the people below, somehow, drifted up to James and could be seen as easily as pages in a book. He had obviously traversed to a faraway place ---somewhere else:
In a posh neighborhood of San Francisco a man was rubbing his red and swollen face. Just this morning Mr. and Mrs. Smith fought. There were arguments about this, about that, and then, it got so ugly Mr. Smith got slapped.
In the Haight-Ashbury district, in Golden Gate Park, under shrubs, deep in the park where Ken Kesey had pulled up in his moveable acid-test bus decades ago; today in that park a homeless man stabbed another, killing him over symmetrically smashed tin-cans, and a sandwich.
In a dilapidated district, Mr. Chung reminisced, sometimes with tears, with any empath, about the unshaven man who wore rags, who just got stabbed, that brought in thirty pounds of symmetrically smashed tin-cans at 10:00. Mr. Chung felt gloom.
The good looks of William Johnson, a stock broker, with his blonde curly locks and blue eyes, which reminded his friend of the picture of Jesus Christ hanging in church windows across America, and also the world ---got bored. He no longer loved decorating his charming Financial District condominium with his college fraternity memorabilia. The beer mugs on his mantel piece were now in no particular order. He also couldn’t stomach to watch another up or down tick at his brokerage house. He was ‘passed over’ this year for the week trip in Hawaii given to the best sales-person.
In that District, called the Financial District, where billions, maybe even trillions of dollars are passed to him and her and back again couldn’t help either. Even the green-back thought about being somewhere else. No one wanted to eat, go to the movies, the plays, and or all forms of entertainment. It was redundant misery. “Tomorrow is another day,” someone in that posh district said while pulling their Crate and Barrel blankets over their head.
Two young lovers seemingly with enough passion between the two to fill the overwhelming hugeness we all feel, became stale. “Why aren’t we more like Jewels and Adam,” was no longer spoken by other lovers. Jewels was now begging Adam. If they were somewhere else, maybe, who knows ---it could have been something else?
Finally James left the overpass. He wished everybody had enjoyed the pleasant autumn day.
The End
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Memos and Messages
In Room 103 he was laying there dead. His eyes were dilated. It might be five more days before he will be discovered, in this inactive state.
Under the shadows of San Francisco’s Transamerica Building, in a much smaller building, where the dead man lay, another man stood on a ladder seemingly unaware of the inactivity in Room 103. In his hands he held a hammer and nail, and a notice, and was positioning himself so that he could display it. After three ‘whacks’ from his hammer, the notice, now readable, read: Now celebrating the third day in our building without a murder or suicide.
Just at that moment, James Redburn walked into the apartment complex. Quickly now, he ran over to the man on the ladder. He grabbed the end of the ladder to stabilize it, “Are you sure of that? Three days without a suicide or murder?” The man on the ladder just looked down at James and smiled.
James searched back in his head; he thought of last year, he could only remember the dozen or so murders, and also suicides, that happened all in that one prolific day. He couldn’t remember ever having three days pass without a murder or a suicide. And, he thought, “That’s not even including accidental deaths!” So …It was good news for James Redburn and all the other occupants that lived under the shadows of San Francisco’s Transamerica Building.
It was such good news for James he had the urge, actually the need to tell somebody. So James ran to his next door neighbor. They had become close, as of late, and had traded keys with each other ---just in case. So James let himself in and saw his friend resting on the couch. He sat down right next to his friend and exclaimed, “Can you believe it ---three days without a murder, and also, three days without a Suicide! If this keeps up I might extend my lease. Wow!”
Soon though, as is the nature with James, he stated moving backwards. With his exceptional memory he started to get into the specifics of that one prolific day, the day with the dozen or so murders and also suicides. First he remembered the electrocution. With a morbid laugh he started, “Remember, we all stood outside at midnight waiting for the energy to be turned on. The poor bastard shorted- out the entire building. I still can’t believe it!”
And then then he talked about the second murder that day, and then, the second suicide. James was relentless, not missing a single murder or suicide, one after another horrific murder and suicide.
And to make things worse, if he didn’t ---‘quite get it right’, he’d back up and start from the beginning. James got into every frigging morbid detail. He didn’t stop his monologue for an hour ---Straight!
Soon though, since James isn’t a complete idiot, he realized he had been ‘going on’, with barely a breath, for at least an hour, but hadn’t gotten a response from his next door neighbor. He felt a courtesy had passed him by. He quickly got up, apologized, and let himself out.
He walked down to the man that stood on the ladder, “Geez ---that guy up in Room 103 is really pissed at me. I thought we were friends. He won’t even talk.”
“Huh!”
“Well, I told him about the notice you posted, you know, the three days without a murder or suicide. And, well, I guess I talk too much. I don’t know?”
“You mean the guy up in Room 103?”
“Ya, 103.”
“The guy in Room 103 is fuking dead. I’m waiting here for the coroner.” James looked like he had been cheated, “Well, does this notice about the three days without a murder or suicide? ---Does is still count?”
“Of course it doesn’t, I was trying to cheer everybody up. The guy in Room 103, who at this particular moment I can’t remember his name, nonetheless, was a man who we all loved so much.”
Following his caring motivations, and figuring out the man’s name; at the funeral, James gave a long-winded eulogy.
Under the shadows of San Francisco’s Transamerica Building, in a much smaller building, where the dead man lay, another man stood on a ladder seemingly unaware of the inactivity in Room 103. In his hands he held a hammer and nail, and a notice, and was positioning himself so that he could display it. After three ‘whacks’ from his hammer, the notice, now readable, read: Now celebrating the third day in our building without a murder or suicide.
Just at that moment, James Redburn walked into the apartment complex. Quickly now, he ran over to the man on the ladder. He grabbed the end of the ladder to stabilize it, “Are you sure of that? Three days without a suicide or murder?” The man on the ladder just looked down at James and smiled.
James searched back in his head; he thought of last year, he could only remember the dozen or so murders, and also suicides, that happened all in that one prolific day. He couldn’t remember ever having three days pass without a murder or a suicide. And, he thought, “That’s not even including accidental deaths!” So …It was good news for James Redburn and all the other occupants that lived under the shadows of San Francisco’s Transamerica Building.
It was such good news for James he had the urge, actually the need to tell somebody. So James ran to his next door neighbor. They had become close, as of late, and had traded keys with each other ---just in case. So James let himself in and saw his friend resting on the couch. He sat down right next to his friend and exclaimed, “Can you believe it ---three days without a murder, and also, three days without a Suicide! If this keeps up I might extend my lease. Wow!”
Soon though, as is the nature with James, he stated moving backwards. With his exceptional memory he started to get into the specifics of that one prolific day, the day with the dozen or so murders and also suicides. First he remembered the electrocution. With a morbid laugh he started, “Remember, we all stood outside at midnight waiting for the energy to be turned on. The poor bastard shorted- out the entire building. I still can’t believe it!”
And then then he talked about the second murder that day, and then, the second suicide. James was relentless, not missing a single murder or suicide, one after another horrific murder and suicide.
And to make things worse, if he didn’t ---‘quite get it right’, he’d back up and start from the beginning. James got into every frigging morbid detail. He didn’t stop his monologue for an hour ---Straight!
Soon though, since James isn’t a complete idiot, he realized he had been ‘going on’, with barely a breath, for at least an hour, but hadn’t gotten a response from his next door neighbor. He felt a courtesy had passed him by. He quickly got up, apologized, and let himself out.
He walked down to the man that stood on the ladder, “Geez ---that guy up in Room 103 is really pissed at me. I thought we were friends. He won’t even talk.”
“Huh!”
“Well, I told him about the notice you posted, you know, the three days without a murder or suicide. And, well, I guess I talk too much. I don’t know?”
“You mean the guy up in Room 103?”
“Ya, 103.”
“The guy in Room 103 is fuking dead. I’m waiting here for the coroner.” James looked like he had been cheated, “Well, does this notice about the three days without a murder or suicide? ---Does is still count?”
“Of course it doesn’t, I was trying to cheer everybody up. The guy in Room 103, who at this particular moment I can’t remember his name, nonetheless, was a man who we all loved so much.”
Following his caring motivations, and figuring out the man’s name; at the funeral, James gave a long-winded eulogy.
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