I Kan't Spell

 
Morning

I walked out of the house and December 12th kick me square in the shins. "Fuck it's cold." I mumbled under my breath while looking for my keys to lock the door behind me. It got a little warmer, even with the wind blowing up my nose loosening up the phlegm and making my eyes water a little, when I found a post card from my mother stuck to the front of the mailbox where no one had noticed it clinging.

"SEDONA~~ - We are having a good time blah blah blah.
I love you Mom"

Don't I know someone named Sedona? Why would my mother send me a postcard? The card has those plateau's on it like you see in all pictures of Arizona, New Mexico and any other place red with God's clay and beaten by no more running rivers. The thoughtfulness made me smile. No one had sent me a card despite saying they love me. Not many people had the inclination of buying me a birthday present no matter how many nights or either passion or side splitting fun. The card from my Mother, a post card, was worth more than anything else I have had in a long time.

My walk to work, especially this time of year is not the most fun thing in the world. I tuck my scarf in neatly to my buttoned blue faux Pea Coat. I adjust my headphones as to whether I will read on my way to work. Magazine or City Paper is headphone wearable reading material. A book or novel is not.

Sometimes I wave to Erin as she drives by at about 8:00. Sometimes there is a man that stands at 911 Light st. He is always outside in shorts no matter the weather. He is always smoking a cigar with the little yellow ribbon still on it to let everyone know that it is a Modero from Nicaragua. He sold me some classical music from his sidewalk sale a little while ago and we both shared an affinity for Jackson Browne. He doesn't remember my name but always gives me a smile and a nod of appreciation as he calls me "Mr. Reader". I didn't see either of them this morning.

I always hit the middle school and some high school kids on my walk down Light st. I usually get littered with the sounds of poor children.
"Yo fuck that fucka yo."
"Dat bitch don't know yo. I'll knock that fucker out."

"Fuckin fuck fuck fuck" is all I can now make out of their mouths. The context doesn't even apply. The only thing I hear is ignornace wrapped in youthful confusion and what I at least hope to be angst as opposed to wrath. This morning I looked at a girl walking arm and arm with her boyfriend. I watched her wad up a gob of spit in her mouth and then spit it with impunity, and what looked like malice in her eyes, onto the storefront window of a small market. They then caught eye contact with my confusion and shrugged their shoulders.

I hit the harbor, over key highway and past the Science Center. This segment is what I call "Coats and Scarves". I look to my right and behind me and in front of the financial district of Baltimore, both of them and me, all the employees flocking to the cubicle infested offices. There are sneakers and suit guy and power walking girl. There is designer wool cap guy next to flashy black shoes man. Those shoes must hurt after making this walk. They all walk faster than me because I stroll and read or stroll and listen to the softest of the pop music I have. I like the soft music around the harbor. I look at the pelicans and like the way they dive into the freezing water and stand with one foot on the cold cement barriers. I search to find someone working on one of the clipper ships that are soon to be frozen in place. The wind is the worst at the harbor.

This morning I found an earring. I don't know why I picked it up. It looked like something cheap that had been lost in a lower back hold dip of a middle aged woman and a drunk man. They need to get drunk now to enjoy each other and the earring must have flew off for me to find it. It has 12 tiny red beads equidistantly separated around a crescent moon about the size of my thumb's fingernail. The red beads are cut into the shape of lanterns with cut and angled sides and they are see-through and remind me of a cherry life savor. The clasp is missing of course but the stem that goes into the clasp was not produced as much as it was bent to a hook. The copper wiring holding it all together feels too light for my fingers and gives it a taudry feeling. I put it into my pocket so I can write about it later.

I get to Pratt st. I cross after the long traffic lights. 103 steps to Lombard and 36 seconds until I miss the cross signal and have to wait 49 seconds for the next one. I look down Lombard about 11 blocks and sigh. The couple that is always outside with their coffee are once again outside. It's comforting seeing them. They are either madly in love and inseparable or crying and holding each other. They go to the elvator. One goes up and one goes down. I wonder if they know that people laugh at them. They laugh at how silly they look.

I walk into the building and slightly dread the "hello" that I have to extend to the security guards. Hundreds of times a day "Good morning / evenin'" A hundred times a day people just plastically saying "to you as well / good morning / night" I walk into the Korean deli. My knowledge of Korean is so rusty at this point that we no longer have chats about how my head feels or if I slept well. It has lost it's luster. I grab a vitamin water and a bag of cashews. $4.96 for that is a crime.

To the elevator lobby where I pray that no one else comes in but by the time I arrive there are 30 people. I choose a secluded corner and lean waiting for a double elevator arrival or a lull in the lift patrons. It rarely works and I'm forced into a box over a shaft with women that smell like musk and fat lawyers that wheeze and cough. There is a girl in front of me checking her hair in the askewed yet mirrored door and the woman next to me is scrolling through her blackberry. My floor is near the last and I watch one by one as they get out. It's always the same hunched sigh and a levelheaded reassurance to themselves. They exhale, straighten their back, swallow their pride, and start the routine.

All the time I rub the crescent earring with the red beads. I rub it in my pocket and think of Morocco or a plane. I dream of soft hair and breakfast. I close my eyes but only for a second. I don't want anyone in the elevator to see me fantasizing. A warm feeling comes over me.

"DING*! 15th floor."

I sigh, straighten my back, wipe whatever cold is still on my lips and turn my head and body simultaneously to the right like a soldier marching. I look for the keys to my routine the red crescent earring is entangled with them.
Link posted by JVMM : 10:09 AM