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give that bum a beer
Wednesday, February 24 1999
For the past couple of months or so, the individuals I pass on my morning commute have comprised a different group from the one I'd passed back in November. But suddenly, this week, it's all suddenly back to the way it used to be, with a few interesting changes. The tall, striking-blond 30-something woman who used to wait at the lower Mission Valley bus stop can again be seen waiting at that very same stop. But she's cut her hair down to about half its original length. And the long, wholesome skirts she used wear have all been replaced with coarser, shorter skirts. She's a changed woman, and she gives no one the eye.
The fat woman who waits for her bus at the Fashion Valley bus stop is also back. Her arm has healed, but now she has a cast on her leg. Her misfortune hasn't improved; it's just different.
I keep forgetting to bring a beer for the bum I found the other day sleeping beneath the back stairs of the company office building. It's possible he was actually dead, of course, in which case he's never coming back even with the promise of beer. I remember what it's like to try to sleep in a place in which I'm neither welcome nor expected. It's terribly stressful and the stress definitely deserves random morning beers.
Kim's writing yesterday brought a record flood of responses. Happily, she and I got along well tonight. I weak from starvations, so we went out and picked up Mexican food down at Chico's on Newport Street.
As I waited with Sophie outside Chico's while Kim got the food, I was continually entertained by the antics of various people. One group of scrawny little blond girls stopped to admire Sophie for moment and then the oldest realized she was eating some spilled Mexican food. When the smallest girl wanted to pet the dog anyway, the middle sister told her "don't pet the dog while it's eating!" The little girl would have none of that. "No!" she shouted, and hit her sister in the chest, knocking off her necklace. About this time their mother came out. She was smoking a cigarette and had several prominent rolls of flesh, one looking like a fourth pregnancy. She arbitrated the dispute by asking the youngest, "What do you say to your sister [for breaking her necklace]?" "Thank you!" the little girl shouted defiantly. "No!" mother retorted, you don't say 'thank you'!"
Back at our apartment, Kim and I ate carne asada like gluttons, drank red wine like sailors, then fucked like bunnies.
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