Torrents of laughter somewhere in Torrance, California. - nov. 99
by: Jay Miner
East side of the river. Torrents of laughter rip out of the sides of the homeless girls like blood who stand tough and talk shit bumming smokes and rides and nickel and dimeing all the hopeless jocks driving up and down the avenue pining for some action. Greasy kids with greasy hair hang in front of the Laundromat, 14th and 9th, white T's, blue jeans, blowing blue smoke like stacks that billow. The panhandlers all have a rough technique and can't score for shit and never pull their heads above water. They dig the Catch-22 and never get beyond the negative situation. Sharon rocks a doob in her black heavy metal shirt, red hair, and white skin. But sometimes there was the Y or a short 2-day stint for a quick buck sweeping out a back room of somewhere, running the oven hood filters through the dishmachine.
I rounded the corner around 14th and encountered a young entrepreneur who had to be let down headfirst. He asked for some spare change and I responded I might slide some in his direction after I boomerang back toward him at a later moment in time. He said that he would wait for Elvis to show up as well. I told him that that would be fine, though I doubted a likely reincarnation, save for the nacho section of the 7-11 or wafting butane and hair care products behind the counter.
The eyes of Sharon damn near went hollow upon hearing this. Sometimes upon reaching out you might see a shadow, but all you'd grab would be cold air like a steel blade kissing your ass while you try to sleep a cruel one. And god forbid you should tell the ghost the truth and get smacked in the teeth, put your foot in your mouth, Christ almighty giving you the business while little pre-school brats spitball hail and corned beef all over you from the distant palm trees.
She sojourned into the wilderness leaving her clothing as a beer chaser for the birds so that they might know that she was once there. But we never had been. Only 16 years and yet here she was staring up at the sky on her birthday, a purple evening that left Jimi Hendrix alive and well and full of envy licking his lips and playing walk the dog and around the world with a guitar full of buzz. I never gave any flow to the mother asking for change in lieu of Elvis. I never tossed him the coin because it would've ruined it all. The convenience store is empty minus a couple of zombies all weirded out on aerosol cheese and frozen in stiff silence. Nothing left of the left bank except for dark crimson on the ground and the hollow echo of a blood that trickles its way throughout the rusting pipes of vacant homes. Not that I want anyone to miss the golden age or believe in the fallacy of retro cool. I'm just another electrode stuck in the center of urban decay. But the question remains; can you melt down the barriers that are all around you tonight?
