(current memory, past event: August 2008)
It is an absolutely gorgeous San Franciscan day in the Mission — late summer sun. One of those days that pries doors open; the light begging, beckoning, growing yellower; the grass puffs up to its fluffiest, and applies alluring green eyeshadow. The humans flock to
Dolores Park to bask in the sun and socialize and watch people watching people-watchers — gaze streams around in a giant circle or web. Dance follows suit, music as propellant.
A fellow nears me, where I am sprawled over and under the yellow bicycle that Mikey lent me. I had pedaled my rounds, absorbing what I could of the bay before my impending departure from this place that enchanted me for better than a month. Faltering and lurching, this man sloshes about the crowd before collapsing near my feet, already dirty clothes finding mud beneath lush grass. I close my eyes and felt the sun warming my eyelids. I breathe.
Little time passes before I feel the bike shift underneath my leg. I awake quickly and sit up, regaining an anxiousness that the boozer had tucked me in with. I understand immediately that the rear tire of the bike is in his mouth.
Oi, hey! He was chewing on it.
What are you doing?! He smiles awkwardly, tho sincere — teeth crooked, or missing.
He responds,
I'm tasting where you've been.
