The white horse is at the curb, the door of Hamberg closed behind me. The night arrives; the party is everywhere - and I must provide the spirit.
From bar to bar, ship to ship, I warp in and out of galaxies. The Cask Connection needs seventeen boxes, six of them full of well vodka. Cask Connection is in Chinatown. The guy there has a ponytail. He writes me a check for over 2,500 dollars.
I head back to the car over a cobblestone path which makes my handtruck’s wheels clatter. The place I parked at smells like shit. From the driver’s seat I notice a pile of horseshit in front of the car. An Asian-American girl with brown boots and a grey scarf eyes it as she walks past. I do my best not to roll over it as I detach.
My next destination is just around the corner. I park in front of a cardboard nested gaggle of homeless youth.
The pretty bartender opens the door for me.
She tells me ‘thank you for bringing this by’ multiple times. The manager who is also there ask her if she wants to go to a Chinese food truck around the corner. Are you walking or driving, he asks. She says she is mobile either way. He asks what she is feeling. She says Thai food. He recommends the Thai Phoenix. He says he will buy food for her and him.
The homeless gaggle does nothing to me or my van the whole while I am in the bar loading or out here reloading my handtruck into the van. Clive says they are usually too wrapped up in their own misery to do anything, but there are also gangsters on every street corner who wear bandanas of their faces and who live for violent statistics.
I meditate around the bullet in my gut, the knife wound to the neck.
There are seven boxes for 50/50, the place I had to go back to that one time and fish through the trash for caps because they blamed me for breaking their stacks after I had already left, saying I stacked the boxes ten high which is impossible.
I enter the water galaxy. My music is just screaming all that Japanese. A big ol sign tells me to go by tram and the tram goes up and crosses the sky. The phone tells me I am part of the computer generation.
I end up at the absolute ass end of traffic. There is a Highlander XLE four wheel drive to my left made by Toyota and a Discovery Land Rover to my right. A Mercedes-Benz dealership stands at the curb. It sells Smart cars. In front of me is a yellow Chevy AVO LP or something like that. It has a sticker on the back which says ‘my other ride is a TARDIS’.
An American flag waves from the top of what’s not the tallest building in the world but a pretty tall skyscraper all the same. I can't distinguish the logo on the building's side, but there is one.
A Walgreens employee smokes a cigarette while guzzling a Rockstar.
I stop at the sex club, Shasta has been giving me a mango Rockstar recently. The can has little raised veins in it. It is crackly like lizard skin. The guy behind the counter is wearing a red jacket. The bar is decorated with Super Bowl paraphernalia. Seahawks and Patriots stickers are stuck on large mirrors. It smells like weed by my car. There are two tall skinny black guys walking around. I’m not associating them with the weed smoking, but there is reggae music playing outside another bar.
A large building in the distance has a crown of green neon.
The guy with the red jacket asks me if it's cold outside. I tell him I just noticed it before I came in. He says he did too. It must be an easterly wind.
All of my bosses get chastised because I've been talking too much.