(1) The Every American City Ramada on Stark
The Universe calling
My shit is still in your truck..sorry I’m staying at the ramada….
—Nikes Left Behind Man
Why, out of the billion variations did Bryan give Nikes Left Behind Man my phone number—me, a person with a street history?1 A person who had had a similar Ramada on Stark experience? I, however, did not lose my shoes or did I? Rereading the texts, his, mine, ours again and again a rogue thought occurred—the buzzing at 2 a.m. wasn’t only from him but also the Universe waking me so I wouldn’t miss that train. The Universe so unnervingly persistent and calm and matter-of-fact, handing me my ticket and my suitcase, seeing me off at the station. Nike Man’s disappointment and grief had been my own once. True, but there was no f*ing way I was getting off at that stop. The panic went on for two days. My body rattling and rolling with the motion of the train. I couldn’t look away from the unfolding landscape. I kept on gasping for breath. Hadn’t had a panic attack in a long time. So nope. No way. I didn’t want to go there but I did arrive. And sighed. And grabbed my suitcase. And giving up the window seat, met myself at the station and we walked to the Every American City Ramada on Stark.
The beautiful black boy
I met the beautiful black boy on Venice Beach. I can’t remember what we talked about except at the end of our conversation he wanted me to meet his mother. It was 1973. I was 15 and a throwaway. He was maybe 15 or 16? We took the bus. . .
. . . words where did you go?
[[ So that’s what this is about—the zen of not writing is not writing the ocean that rolls over you and there is no breathing seawater, you are not a mermaid. ]]
The Zen of not writing is to not assume the call is spam when the Universe leaves a message.
To be read in this order:
(1) Every American City Ramada on Stark [[ X marks the spot! You are here. ]]
(2) Every American City Ramada on Stark
A kind of raw that's nearly frightening.