Rake up some shake and buy me a cake

Rake up some shake and buy me a cake. Make it pretty on top, with cherries and chocolate, split what is mine between those I love and those who claim they love me, equally. Before that, split half between my brother and sister. Dad, sorry. My gift to you all these years have been grief, heartbreak, trust, love, nothing.

So what do you do on a weekend, when you’re juggling trying stay employed, out of trouble and in poon? Well, for starters, you could enjoy a wonderful, harrowing time with a new friend, just missing the sun rising, in a new and confusing place. Then, wander through Los Angeles steadfastedly toward that temple of mass transit, Union Station. If you have time, veer to the left having just entered through the west entrance, and give a glimpse to the magnificent side ship that hides there.

After that, spend some time in the garden a little further down on the same side. If possible, get yelled at by a seventy year old grandmother for taking a picture of some hanging brass lanterns and upside down Japanese umbrellas. Then, make brief friends with a Japanese girl, letting her call her black Marine boyfriend on your cellphone. Do not under any circumstance let her borrow the phone, in case he calls back, while you go to do something else with the last fourty minutes before the train south leaves.

Cross the street to the west, heading for the park, where many times you can come upon world music festivals touting the best musicians from through the Americas. Dance some meringue, walk directly in front of the stage to take a picture of a worn brass statue that catches your eye. Furiously down a bottle of water, then a can of Diet Coke, trying not to scope the older hotties too conspicuously.

Arriving in San Diego, hail a cab, and hightail out to the Coronado Naval station. The guard most likely won’t check your ID, so hop on a shuttle with a bunch of people who COULD be going to the same wedding you are. Join in their conversation, become a little too friendly, watch the fairly older hottie in front of you start questioning your voice, not really recognizing it. Fear from the unknown.

Arrive as pictures are almost finished. The ceremony long over, most everyone seated already. Shit. Stay calm. First item of business: greet the mother of the bride, immediately admitting that you missed the actual act of marriage. Something changes in her face, and you know things will never quite be the same. Something clear, good, pure, gone. Bastard.

Find your seat, and greet old friends. Make small talk, thinking all the while of rolling up and smoking a fresh one somewhere. After a few minutes, get up and make your way from table to table, shaking hands all around, kissing all the beautiful cheeks. Make them love you. Make yourself visible, so they can see you. Hate you. Judge you. Question you. Create images in their heads that they will carry around all evening.

As the dancing gets underway, about eight drinks deep, get down and dirty with the hottie cousin, who is an absolutely fantastic girl, and who’ve you long ago fell to an extent in love with. She dances like a snake, and, after a bit, starts rubbing your hands ever closer to herself, exciting her nerves, happiness, a giddy headrush keeping her loving it. Take her outside when it gets dark, and kiss her on your back on the grass. Naughtily caress her, driving her into a frenzy.

But then, as those things go, a delicate balance shifts, and things become less fun, somehow tainted. Could it be you? Are you the catalyst of this change? Perhaps, but perhaps the desire to have a perfect wedding overshadows the ability to have fun, and the pure and simple fact that someone willing to try to steal the show shows up, and it’s just the way things were bound to go.

Make the mistake of taking external advice, and force the hand, removing the girl from her mother, taking her out of the soft drunk cushion of happiness she’s riding, as she helps to clean things up. Back at the main hotel, you don’t have a room, which ruins everything. All she wants to do is be away from her, somewhere else. She leaves, and you corrupt a group of kids. The grownups find out, and break up the party. Quietly you vacate the premises, changing clothes by the side of the road.

Then, wandering about the dark, deserted streets looking for cash and a cab, everything seems just fine. Because even though you really wanted to fuck her, wanted to ravish her nerve endings, it would have destroyed whatever goodness and truth you currently share. Find a cab driver, tell him your story of failed conquest as he takes you south, past the low scrub and dunes of the peninsula.

Forcibly wake up the night manager, and get your key. TV sound keeps cutting out. Fuckit. Pass out. Wake up sweating. Make coffee. Roll up some smoke. Leave with a minute to spare. Walk a mile and a half to the trolley station.

North now. Downtown San Diego. Town still sucks. Nothings’ changed. No new bars, restaurants, no movement. Town gonna die. Town dead. Get on the train heading north.

Back at Union Station, detrain, wander the streets of downtown LA. At times, you’re the only white guy for four blocks at a time. Good to be not in the majority again. Like in NYC. Search for the bus heading west, saunter up to a stoplight diagonal from some CHPs, holsters fit about their sides. Post up for the light, see the red banner of rapid municipal transportation. Rejoice openly.

At the top of the hill, by the bus stop, you’re stopped by a man with a clipboard and badge, who tells you to just look natural. To by no means acknowledge the camera crew in the heli directly overhead. Is the bus coming, you ask. Should be running shortly, the reply. Think this guy found a golden goose. A man sprints into traffic, veering down the center lane. Light a smoke. Feed on the energy from the staring castmembers, then ask again annoyedly about the bus. After the second take, the bird almost clipping the tops of the streetlights, as the crew wraps up, accept a free day pass from a somewhat reluctant Latino, then haul for the subway station, hopping down granite planters all the way down the sidewalk.

Train. Up the stairs, two at a time. K-Town. BUS taking it’s fucking time. Maxin, i.e. being just sexy enough at all times, as the minutes pass. An older German gentleman meanders over a manhole cover, which suddenly decides to belch air three times, snapping open like a mouth, spitting out a single, small rectangle of black shopping bag. Laugh hysterically, then agree with the man that the city should weld those fuckers shut. New York and Belfast know what they’re doing.

As you’re getting on the bus, a fight erupts in the back, three on two. Then they’re out in the street, but everyone’s watching some kid get his face stomped in, and not moving to the back to let the hoard trying to fucking pay and get in on. Sit back, enjoy the show. Blood splatters on the ground, shirts are off, and the cops are fast approaching, telescope batons out to max.

Make the first push, get people moving, force them to react to your presence. Herd…

Home. But not for much longer. Please, take me from this sty, from this place of disorder and dirt. Give me mine to clean, to nurture. Bamboo. Knives distributed for easy and immediate access. Maybe a shotgun above the door. To get the drop on them. My metamorphosis is nigh complete. I believe. Not that this will be the last. Or, it could be, quite simply, a ripple in time.