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They're remodeling Starbucks. Dust everywhere, the new
fixtures taking up half the already small space, baristas
packing up everything from the shelves. Yellow jackets and
flies hovering over my scone. Dead yellow jackets on the
windowsill. I try to read more of Song for the Blue Ocean
while looking over my shoulder for yellow jackets. Ned
comes in unshaven, wearing a denim jacket with the collar
turned up like he's in some James Dean movie or something.
He says he can't chat. He's on his way to the airport and
he's late. I tell him I went to the Kerouac festival and
didn't see Tom and Julie. He says he saw them yesterday at
his house. That amazes me. Tom has always wanted to see
Ned's book collection.Before I
mention that, Ned says he showed Tom his old books. I tell
him that's been Tom's fantasy for a long time. Then Ned's
gone with his coffee-to-go, headed for the road looking like
a rebel without a clue or an escapee from a dude ranch. By
the time I finish my coffee I can't stand being in Starbucks
anymore. The dust is making me sneeze.
I drive over to Lowell to take some more photos, use up
the film, get the photography jones out of my system or
something. I can't find the perfect spot from which to
photograph the Aiken St. bridge. There's not a soul at the
commemorative. A homeless man climbs up the bank of the
river under the Bridge St. bridge. He looks to be about my
age. I don't know why the bridge on Bridge St. is green and
the one on Aiken St. is orangey golden like the Golden Gate.
The UMass Lowell students look like children. I don't finish
the film.
Back at the humble office, I work diligently to bring my
journal up to date. It takes the better part of the
afternoon and I am not satisfied. And it's not up to date
either. I keep thinking there's something else I should be
doing.
Come 7:00 PM I stop working on the journal and boil up a
mass of rotini in one pot and reheat some four cheese sauce
in another. When it's ready I top the whole thing with tons
more Parmesan cheese than is necessary but it tastes so
good. I eat rotini while I watch Paul Celluci debate Scott
Harshbarger in Lowell. Maybe I should've gone to watch this
debate live. So far I can't see myself voting for either of
them. The moderator on the other hand is one tough woman. I
can see myself voting for her.
Bored with the debate I decide to go out to do a few
errands. One of the Beans of Egypt Maine has blocked my car
with his pickup truck. I try to shout but my voice comes out
thin and shrill: "Would you move your truck, please?" He
moves the truck and all the way to the grocery store I'm
thinking I should've added "and while you're at it pick up
your cigarette butts."
When I come back, the debate is over. Wilbur is having a
grand old time clawing the heck out of his Newt Gingrich
catnip doll. The Beans of Egypt Maine are making
unaccountably loud noises while they watch Monday night
football.
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