I sit outside an OTA joint as city traffic rips by.
An alarm is ringing somewhere.
I’d prefer to drink my craft malt liquor inside but the joint was showing the movie Alive and they were just about ready to eat one of the dead Uruguayan rugby players for supper. I can’t write to that.
A table away, an OTA man drinks a Rainier and smokes.
A 40-year-old economy car putters by. I see a young man driving it and talking on a phone that is worth twice the vehicle.
Twenty feet away two OTA women are having one of the strangest conversation I’ve ever heard in OTA country. It involves a baptism in the Clackamas River, malware, a repossessed house in Seaside, a derelict of a husband, replying to a dead man’s Facebook messages, personal failure (she doesn’t cook anymore) and a tax accountant.
Another 40-year-old economy car putters by. It has orange shag carpeting on the dash.
I want to go back inside and hear the sounds of pinball and video lottery. But shit, the rugby team is probably dishing up the liver by now.
Four gender neutral looking people approach. They are dressed and walk in the manner of a rock band. They look good. They jaunt and swagger. They might rock. What do I know about rock? I’m currently listening to Some Girls on CD in the car. Did you know that 1978 Rolling Stones album is the soundtrack for our current American dystopia? Listen. You can even dance to it.