The weirdest part of the day was when Tim fell off the back of the moving truck. I can't think of any other time I'd seen someone fall like that. We're talking at least five feet, backward, onto the crumbly parking lot cement. In retrospect, it really did happen in slow motion. Almost slow enough to where I wondered if I had time enough to lunge out and grab him. Then time sped up again, Tim was falling, and suddenly he was crashing down hard. He survived--stood up and walked it off. When he'd walked away I said, "I can't believe he just fell like that," to which Hank replied, "I can."
The best part of the day was sitting on the couch in the parking lot while Hank and Shaun smoked their cigarettes and we got paid for talking about music. Found out the connection between bands The Good Life and Cursive. Found out Hank is leaving in January to start law enforcement training. We had time to talk when he drove me out to the parking garage on 4th where my car had been trapped overnight, only to find the garage was still closed (and would be until tomorrow, according to the sign). Once again I'm reminded of the biggest frustration I have with my favorite coffee-shop jobs: the endless transition of relationships. The camaraderie I always inevitably form with people I work with makes it difficult when they start to leave. I can have an intense connection with someone over the counter that lasts five minutes and I'll remember for a lifetime. So the best part of the day was sitting on the couch outside of Old Soul and ignoring that facet of a barista's life and enjoying this respite from reality with my brothers in customer service, my friends.
My car is being held hostage as I write this. I have to wake up at 7:00 to walk thirteen blocks to hopefully find my car waiting for me (not towed) and with a reasonable parking fee (no more than $25).
Honestly I'm worried that it might be towed.
Every vehicle I've owned has been determined to sabotage my life. The Neon tried to kill me. The Cherokee tried to bankrupt me. Now the Acura's exhibiting self-destructive behavior... I think it's upset because I don't drive it as much anymore. Not with on-property parking. Not when I live near the places I frequent the most. The Cherokee did the same thing, multiple times. While the Neon put some needed fear in my driving habits, it was the Cherokee that did the most psychological damage. I'm seriously never going to get involved with another vehicle again. Don't tell the Acura.
Aly, Aly, Aly... The newest and most dynamic character in my life (coworkers count, but in a different category). I forgot how good it was to hang out with a girl. The unavoidable dynamic that forms when conversation goes well, a knowing blend of interrogation and flirtation. Everything is a subtle test. Every gesture analyzed in secret. I can't say right now what I'm planning for this plot-line, but I think I might just let it write itself.
Robert Simpson spoke at Time Tested Books after showing an old documentary he made in 1966 about Sacramento's skid-row district. I'm getting pretty good at churning out these articles in less than an hour, which includes research, digging through my notes for quotations and self-editing. Tomorrow I'll be going in to the Sac Press office for the first time in over a week. That's a place I need to be making strong connections with people.
The Neo-Crocker thing was, on one hand, pretty fucking awesome. On the other, it was a lackluster experience, made memorable solely because of the fact that I got to go. There were many young and beautiful people at this party and I worked with Kirsten at the 360-degree bar in the courtyard where guests swarmed like zombies on the final safe-house. Coffee sales were decent. Lots of dicks asking me to get them alcohol when I was clearly in the coffee-designated area. I didn't see or hear RJD2, but I did see some fire-dancers, burlesque women on stilts, and Mayor Kevin Johnson. Afterward, Kirsten and I went to a bar in Old Sac called The Backdoor and this guy named Yassir bought us each a round of Blue Moon while a lounge singer sang to a bachelorette party and middle-aged people drunk off red wine. Kirsten was the most interesting part of the night, honestly. Found out she's 30 and a recent recipient of a series of unfortunate events, including a death in the family and a divorce. We listened to a band called Blind Pilots when she drove me home after we found out my car was being held hostage in the parking garage. And yes, I immediately downloaded their album, and yes, I love it.
It rained today, and this time I didn't miss it.
- Left to Fry
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