Sunday December 8
I did community service today, up at six AM. I stopped at Kinko's to see if they had one of those pocket notebooks. They didn't, but the guy gave me a Kinko's note pad. When I got back to the car, it wouldn't start. I motioned a security guard with my jumper cables. He aided me, but still the car wouldn't start. I checked the fuses and pulled the plastic off the steering column and checked the ignition wiring, but couldn't make anything out. I touched the alligator jaw of the positive cable to that of the negative and the battery made it spark, so I at least knew the battery wasn't dead. I thanked the guard for his help. The battery had water. I rapped the rusty clamp from Guerrero Negro with a screwdriver until it was loose, and then I rapped it back on. I used the screwdriver to make a connection from the negative terminal to the groundwire, and I heard a little click. Do you think I reversed the polarity? The car started. I got there and the iron gate at HBT was shut. The supervisor was standing there. They close the door when you're too late, but he nodded at me like he knew me and opened the gate. I was the last man in line. Two more came in after me, so maybe I'm not all that special. I got signed up with the paint team today. A lady said, "What are you reading?" I had Saroyan's Human Comedy in my back pocket. I took it out and gave it to her. She wore dark sunglasses over her tachometer. There was a tickly pull at my stomach. "What's your name?" I asked, and she said Zinnia, I think she. I asked her to spell it, but I'm still not sure what it is. We liked each other. She got in the van with me, saying she wasn't sure who she was supposed to go with. I told her not to worry about it. She asked how old I was. 28? I heard her ask. UCLA Chem. Engineering grad student. Scott reading Updike on last day. Whose finals are this week and he said 23. At the donut place, where I had a coffee and a croissant and then got a french horn cuz the one she was eating looked good. She asked George the Russian-Armenian with the ocean blue eyes his age. He said 33, I think. I said, You and your ages. How old are you? She said 35. We drove all over LA painting over grafitti and talking. I cracked jokes. George gave a 'quit drinking' speech. Some gangsters threatened us for painting over their tags. I said we should put on capes and tights to be grafitti eradication squad. She said she'd just painfully left behind a ten-year relationship. People asked me about teaching. I babbled how I loved it. They asked about Spanish and I babbled some more. We erased La Mirada Locos and the White Fence Locos who a guy in a Laker hat said had been around since the '20's. I had fish and chips with her.
I did community service today, up at six AM. I stopped at Kinko's to see if they had one of those pocket notebooks. They didn't, but the guy gave me a Kinko's note pad. When I got back to the car, it wouldn't start. I motioned a security guard with my jumper cables. He aided me, but still the car wouldn't start. I checked the fuses and pulled the plastic off the steering column and checked the ignition wiring, but couldn't make anything out. I touched the alligator jaw of the positive cable to that of the negative and the battery made it spark, so I at least knew the battery wasn't dead. I thanked the guard for his help. The battery had water. I rapped the rusty clamp from Guerrero Negro with a screwdriver until it was loose, and then I rapped it back on. I used the screwdriver to make a connection from the negative terminal to the groundwire, and I heard a little click. Do you think I reversed the polarity? The car started. I got there and the iron gate at HBT was shut. The supervisor was standing there. They close the door when you're too late, but he nodded at me like he knew me and opened the gate. I was the last man in line. Two more came in after me, so maybe I'm not all that special. I got signed up with the paint team today. A lady said, "What are you reading?" I had Saroyan's Human Comedy in my back pocket. I took it out and gave it to her. She wore dark sunglasses over her tachometer. There was a tickly pull at my stomach. "What's your name?" I asked, and she said Zinnia, I think she. I asked her to spell it, but I'm still not sure what it is. We liked each other. She got in the van with me, saying she wasn't sure who she was supposed to go with. I told her not to worry about it. She asked how old I was. 28? I heard her ask. UCLA Chem. Engineering grad student. Scott reading Updike on last day. Whose finals are this week and he said 23. At the donut place, where I had a coffee and a croissant and then got a french horn cuz the one she was eating looked good. She asked George the Russian-Armenian with the ocean blue eyes his age. He said 33, I think. I said, You and your ages. How old are you? She said 35. We drove all over LA painting over grafitti and talking. I cracked jokes. George gave a 'quit drinking' speech. Some gangsters threatened us for painting over their tags. I said we should put on capes and tights to be grafitti eradication squad. She said she'd just painfully left behind a ten-year relationship. People asked me about teaching. I babbled how I loved it. They asked about Spanish and I babbled some more. We erased La Mirada Locos and the White Fence Locos who a guy in a Laker hat said had been around since the '20's. I had fish and chips with her.
posted by johnz at 1:03 PM
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