Previous story: Christmas
Dance!
Photo by 'Wooptoo'
Pops woke with a start. Rolling over, his face rubbed up against something crinkly. He reached to swat it away, but it turned out to be a pack of cigarettes. He picked up the pack and held it at arm's length in order to make out the brand. Camels. He liked Camels.
The pack was open, but nearly full. Hands trembling, he shook out a cigarette. When he did, something green fell to the ground. Pops reached down and unfolded a twenty dollar bill.
As he smoked, Pops considered where the cigs might have come from. If he'd had so much money the night before, he wouldn't be nearly so coherent this morning.
Suddenly, a helicopter buzzed close by. A fine mist fell from the clear blue sky. Pops touched his chest with his fingertips, and they came away sticky. He stood up and shook his fist. Pops hated helicopters. After the earthquake they'd hovered over the city for days but had not saved his wife.
"Oh, hell," the pilot said. "Shut it off. Somebody’s down there."
The co-pilot shut off the sprayer and reached for the radio.
The pilot said, "Don't bother."
The co-pilot hesitated, hand in mid-air. He said, "We're supposed to report if we spray anybody."
The pilot snorted. "It’s a wino. He's not going to file a complaint."
The co-pilot frowned. The big red POISON stickers on the spray canisters made him nervous no matter how many hours of OSHA training he'd sat through. "Dumping this stuff all over L.A. just doesn't seem right."
The pilot was tired of listening to the whiney old fart. He said, "When you see what the fungus did to my uncle’s avocado orchard in Imperial County, you'll think different."
The co-pilot shrugged. It was too late anyway. They'd already dropped their load.
The pilot circled around for another view of the man in the long trench coat, standing in the middle of a field of dusty plants going brown in the dry heat. The wino shook his fist and shouted something they couldn’t hear over the sound of the rotors.
Pops watched the helicopter turn and head north. The mist cleared, though the chemical smell lingered. He brought his hand down in front of his eyes, amazed to discover his fist had the power to make helicopters disappear.
Around him, golden poppies shimmered in the sunlight. Bright green grasses and iridescent shrubs waved in the gentle spring breeze. Pops was dazzled by bright colors.
A tiny whirlwind kicked up, passing close as it carried bits of leaves and papers. A scrap fell at his feet. An advertisement from Nine West.
A bird sang out from the nearby manzanita like a variegated car alarm. Woop-woop-woop. Wee-oh, wee-oh. Honk-honk-honk-honk.
Yes! Of course.
The world was suddenly full of signs and portents Pops could not ignore. He patted the top layer of dirt from his clothes, getting his hands even stickier, and headed for the boulevard.
The pack was open, but nearly full. Hands trembling, he shook out a cigarette. When he did, something green fell to the ground. Pops reached down and unfolded a twenty dollar bill.
As he smoked, Pops considered where the cigs might have come from. If he'd had so much money the night before, he wouldn't be nearly so coherent this morning.
Suddenly, a helicopter buzzed close by. A fine mist fell from the clear blue sky. Pops touched his chest with his fingertips, and they came away sticky. He stood up and shook his fist. Pops hated helicopters. After the earthquake they'd hovered over the city for days but had not saved his wife.
"Oh, hell," the pilot said. "Shut it off. Somebody’s down there."
The co-pilot shut off the sprayer and reached for the radio.
The pilot said, "Don't bother."
The co-pilot hesitated, hand in mid-air. He said, "We're supposed to report if we spray anybody."
The pilot snorted. "It’s a wino. He's not going to file a complaint."
The co-pilot frowned. The big red POISON stickers on the spray canisters made him nervous no matter how many hours of OSHA training he'd sat through. "Dumping this stuff all over L.A. just doesn't seem right."
The pilot was tired of listening to the whiney old fart. He said, "When you see what the fungus did to my uncle’s avocado orchard in Imperial County, you'll think different."
The co-pilot shrugged. It was too late anyway. They'd already dropped their load.
The pilot circled around for another view of the man in the long trench coat, standing in the middle of a field of dusty plants going brown in the dry heat. The wino shook his fist and shouted something they couldn’t hear over the sound of the rotors.
Pops watched the helicopter turn and head north. The mist cleared, though the chemical smell lingered. He brought his hand down in front of his eyes, amazed to discover his fist had the power to make helicopters disappear.
Around him, golden poppies shimmered in the sunlight. Bright green grasses and iridescent shrubs waved in the gentle spring breeze. Pops was dazzled by bright colors.
A tiny whirlwind kicked up, passing close as it carried bits of leaves and papers. A scrap fell at his feet. An advertisement from Nine West.
A bird sang out from the nearby manzanita like a variegated car alarm. Woop-woop-woop. Wee-oh, wee-oh. Honk-honk-honk-honk.
Yes! Of course.
The world was suddenly full of signs and portents Pops could not ignore. He patted the top layer of dirt from his clothes, getting his hands even stickier, and headed for the boulevard.
Photo from US Army
Sunlight glinted off cars and office buildings, winking messages of hope and goodwill. Pops ambled down the street, smiling with the joy of understanding and the peace of being at one with the universe.
A car horn rang with a tone that seared through Pops like God's own voice. He paused in the middle of the street and turned a beaming smile at its source.
Dave tapped the steering wheel impatiently. The old man stared at him with an idiot grin. "Weapons of the weak," he muttered to himself, a line he remembered from something he'd read in college. Dave slammed the horn hard and shouted, "It's green! Out of my way!"
It is green! Pops saw it clearly. This day in this world, green with new growth, so full of promise. He watched, transfixed, as the car whipped around him and pulled into a parking space halfway down the block – directly in front of Nine West!
Signs and portents! Pops hurried down the block to meet his fate.
Dave stepped out of his car and looked up at the mélange of parking enforcement signs.
NO PARKING 8 TO 10 A.M. FOR STREET CLEANING.
30 MINUTE PARKING ONLY
NO PARKING HERE TO CORNER
Grinding his teeth in frustration, Dave looked at his watch. To hell with it. He'd just have to take his chances. If he got a ticket, he'd goddamn well contest it. He imagined himself in front of the jury, pointing to an oversized photo of this mix of signs that made no sense.
To bolster his case, he took out his cell phone and snapped a photo of the signs. He'd be ready for them now.
Pops watched the man from the other side of the signpost. As the camera clicked, he looked up from the opposite side. It, too, was covered with signs and portents.
LOUSY HUSKY read the top sticker, black words on a white background.
ADZE, horizontal in purple graffiti script. A name? An acronym?
OBEY, ordered a frightening face.
DANCE! DANCE! DANCE!
The messages were complicated, urgent. Bad dogs, hatchets and perfectly symmetrical red faces giving him orders to dance.
Pops leaned his head back and laughed. Dance! That much, he understood. Motown! Prog rock! Ska! Bollywood! Light classical! Heavy metal!
A car horn rang with a tone that seared through Pops like God's own voice. He paused in the middle of the street and turned a beaming smile at its source.
Dave tapped the steering wheel impatiently. The old man stared at him with an idiot grin. "Weapons of the weak," he muttered to himself, a line he remembered from something he'd read in college. Dave slammed the horn hard and shouted, "It's green! Out of my way!"
It is green! Pops saw it clearly. This day in this world, green with new growth, so full of promise. He watched, transfixed, as the car whipped around him and pulled into a parking space halfway down the block – directly in front of Nine West!
Signs and portents! Pops hurried down the block to meet his fate.
Dave stepped out of his car and looked up at the mélange of parking enforcement signs.
NO PARKING 8 TO 10 A.M. FOR STREET CLEANING.
30 MINUTE PARKING ONLY
NO PARKING HERE TO CORNER
Grinding his teeth in frustration, Dave looked at his watch. To hell with it. He'd just have to take his chances. If he got a ticket, he'd goddamn well contest it. He imagined himself in front of the jury, pointing to an oversized photo of this mix of signs that made no sense.
To bolster his case, he took out his cell phone and snapped a photo of the signs. He'd be ready for them now.
Pops watched the man from the other side of the signpost. As the camera clicked, he looked up from the opposite side. It, too, was covered with signs and portents.
LOUSY HUSKY read the top sticker, black words on a white background.
ADZE, horizontal in purple graffiti script. A name? An acronym?
OBEY, ordered a frightening face.
DANCE! DANCE! DANCE!
The messages were complicated, urgent. Bad dogs, hatchets and perfectly symmetrical red faces giving him orders to dance.
Pops leaned his head back and laughed. Dance! That much, he understood. Motown! Prog rock! Ska! Bollywood! Light classical! Heavy metal!
God put the tempo in his hips before he gave Pops the music. Clapping his hands together, Pops moved in rhythm. His feet kept time in shuffling figure eights. When the song came to him, he waved his elbows to the side, his arms overhead. It felt so good to move, to hear the music. A man’s fears and disappointments were nothing beside this.
Dave took two giant steps backward when the drunk nearly clocked him with a loose appendage. His crazy moves had a certain rhythm to them. Did the old man actually hear music in his addled head? |
"Oooh! Oooh!" Pops sang.
Dave switched his phone over to video mode. He had to show this to the guys. This old drunk could really bust a move.
Dave switched his phone over to video mode. He had to show this to the guys. This old drunk could really bust a move.