most likely a tribute
4/6/2006
having been dropped off by a greyhound bus, i wait for public transportation in a dusty, shabby town somewhere in arizona. i wait for hours. people--an old tourist couple with big plastic sunglasses, a young military family of three, some people who remind me of my parents--appear and disappear at the bus stop as they normally would, except I never see the bus that takes or leaves them. a group of kids who are probably high school freshmen walks past a little after 3:00. more strangers come and go.
as the sun is starting down, an old Tercel that is rusty maroon in some shots and dirty white in others pulls up to the bus stop (on the wrong side of the street). some shoreland kids get out and tell me it's okay, they have it figured out. we walk past a building that looks like former interior walls look when they are being demolished and into a small, square, tan brick buiding. it is completely featureless except for a very weathered generic advertisement painted onto one side.
inside it looks like applebee's or bennigan's would if it really were the beat-up neighborhood bar it pretends to be. we've been waiting by the gumball machines for a few minutes when i'm very suddenly smacked in the face with someone else's memories of the love of their life, needless everyday tragedy, their favorite records and their first car. i'm reeling and utterly incapacitated for the rest of the night.
while i lean against the vinyl-covered bench and wood-paneled walls, holding my head, the shoreland kids look through the oddly personal "crap on the walls" (fewer vintage Coke ads, more old photos) for something on the scav list. just after they find it, the 1988 pierce team, composed mostly of high school quarterbacks from the 1950's and people who look like Marty McFly, runs roughly into the bar and finds the same clues. nick walks in with a pad of neon pink post-its, writes something discouraging, and leaves for another bar. he is wearing a maroon sweater and a collared shirt: from this any idiot could tell that he was the captain of the new trier scholastic bowl team in 1988. i want very much to go home.
having been dropped off by a greyhound bus, i wait for public transportation in a dusty, shabby town somewhere in arizona. i wait for hours. people--an old tourist couple with big plastic sunglasses, a young military family of three, some people who remind me of my parents--appear and disappear at the bus stop as they normally would, except I never see the bus that takes or leaves them. a group of kids who are probably high school freshmen walks past a little after 3:00. more strangers come and go.
as the sun is starting down, an old Tercel that is rusty maroon in some shots and dirty white in others pulls up to the bus stop (on the wrong side of the street). some shoreland kids get out and tell me it's okay, they have it figured out. we walk past a building that looks like former interior walls look when they are being demolished and into a small, square, tan brick buiding. it is completely featureless except for a very weathered generic advertisement painted onto one side.
inside it looks like applebee's or bennigan's would if it really were the beat-up neighborhood bar it pretends to be. we've been waiting by the gumball machines for a few minutes when i'm very suddenly smacked in the face with someone else's memories of the love of their life, needless everyday tragedy, their favorite records and their first car. i'm reeling and utterly incapacitated for the rest of the night.
while i lean against the vinyl-covered bench and wood-paneled walls, holding my head, the shoreland kids look through the oddly personal "crap on the walls" (fewer vintage Coke ads, more old photos) for something on the scav list. just after they find it, the 1988 pierce team, composed mostly of high school quarterbacks from the 1950's and people who look like Marty McFly, runs roughly into the bar and finds the same clues. nick walks in with a pad of neon pink post-its, writes something discouraging, and leaves for another bar. he is wearing a maroon sweater and a collared shirt: from this any idiot could tell that he was the captain of the new trier scholastic bowl team in 1988. i want very much to go home.
posted by Kat at 7:32 PM
2 Comments:
whoa...someone ELSE'S memories???
i think it was a metaphor for reading the personal blogs of people i don't really know
Post a Comment
<< Home