DR. NAMIBIA
I awoke on a day when the sirens
were sounding, something distant,
though I could not tell. A noise unlike
others I'd accustomed myself to : clang,
siren, fire-whistle, firework. The pop
of a Diet Coke? No, of that I knew.
-
Some other, a man, a guy, with a
swizzle-stick tuner, was walking the
tracks, just over the fine edge of those
new apartments, another escaped
Afrikaan was all I figured. Who
knew what there was to know?
-
Those people are all mysteries to me.
Fat Lives Matter? And yes, I figured
so. I even yelled out to the big one,
the black-bottomed girl from Queens,
(or was that Queen?), 'How's it go?'
-
She smiled nicely back, amid some
purloined pilferage of tears and three
kids with her. Aged 2, 3, and 4, I'd bet.
Even though that sequence has to figure
rather loosely, though you never know
with an active scene how those things
go. The newly-opened coffee-shop was
open, newly. Or nearly. So I sat.
-
The owner said his name was Peter,
actually Pedro, Monfostofoli. It
sounded like that; never written
down. He talked so fast and handed
me a card. Part business card, part
punch card - 10 punches, one free
brew. Best he could do?
-
A few cars swilled along, and the
gay frontiersman from the Performing
Arts Center, two of them actually,
escaped across the street, to that little
unmarked tax-cheat place they also
run. A town full of heels, and loaded
down with dirty deals.
-
Pacifico? Monfostofoli? Panini?
Cappuccino. Is that all the crap
they peddle? The Mayor's got a
crooked lance, and that much I
already knew, but Monfostofoli
sounded like he really had something
to say. Should I let him go? Tell me?
-
The fat girl came by on her way
back from something; she was
crying again and said her pants didn't
fit and they'd shrunk in the laundry.
I said I doubted that really, but there
was no mirror around. 'You'll go far,'
I told her, 'looking like that. Don't
worry about a thing. I've got an
uncle in the business. He can put
you in a sling, but first, can you
sing? He'll surely need to know.'
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