Good friend of mine meets me at the bus stop to drop off my cherry red helmet and matching gas canister for my Honda ct90 that broke down on the other side of Long Beach.
Both of us are frustrated and both can tell, but neither of us seem to care enough to resolve the issue. So I decide not to even ask for that ride to the best espresso in Long Beach.
Awkward small talk and she goes zooming off, almost hitting oncoming traffic. Funny how sometimes angry rages have the potential to turn deadly.
On the bus, I pull my hood over my head and quickly throw my helmet and gas canister, hitting an old lady's ankle. i race to the front of the bus, put my buck 25 in the machine and join my helmet and canister on the bench. I watch the old lady dramatically rub her ankle, showing me that she felt it and she expects an apology from me. I do not react to the suggestion.
"I hope he's not on this bus" is the only thing running through my head.
On the bus, hood stays on, glasses go on, and i am immediately nose-deep in Hemingway, instantly sent back to a battle in World War I with my good friend Lieutenant Tenente.
I ask the bus driver which stop gets me as close as I can to the best espresso in Long Beach and he tells me i'm on the wrong bus. The bus I need to be on is 3 blocks behind us.I grab my cherry red helmet and matching canister and I get off near city hall. I walk passed the hot dog stand surrounded by lost souls disguised as street roamers and corporate hustlers.
Walked back to Pine St. where the bus just so happens to be waiting for me. I ask her how close she can get me to the best espresso in town and she tells me I should have been on the bus I just got off. I tell her to take me as close as I can to where I need to be and I can walk from there. By this time, I have 15 minutes until the cafe closes and I will be left to no espresso and a lonely, tiresome, walk back to my apartment.
The busdriver takes me to the aquarium and tells me to walk into the parking structure and up the first staircase I see to the bridge that will take me across the street to the best espresso in Long Beach.
I thank her, grab my cherry red helmet and canister and get off the bus. I obey her instructions and walk up the stairs, round and round, level by level. By the 3rd level, I realize there is no bridge in my future. I decide to fully obey the busdriver anyway and I walk all the way to the top of the structure.
At the top, there are no cars. At the top, I can see the Queen Mary,
the ports,
the concrete jungle that makes up downtown,
the long, snaky bridge that send Long Beachians to San Pedro
the too-expensive apartments with men on their phones, pacing their living rooms
It is now 2:58. I have missed my opportunity. I sit down on the roof of the structure, surrounded by my cherry red helmet, my canister and my book.
I am initially staring defeat in the face, as I contemplate my next plan of action on this hot, summer day.
Yet, after accepting my defeat and embracing myself in my fate, I slowly lose anger and start to notice where I am.
I am here.
Now You Know
