This morning I awoke to the roar of a million motorcycles revving their engines and burning the rubber of their back tires and unfortunately this time it wasn’t a Technicolor dream accompanied by a really loud soundtrack that I was inadvertently experiencing as some left over residual of drug abuse. Nah, this time it was real: apparently one of the local nightclubs was hosting a motorcycle run for some charity and had invited all the usuals. Like the Hell’s Angels and whatever other biker organizations they could get to come ride in the name of a good cause and of course the thought to inform us, their neighbors, never even crossed their minds. And when I went outside to get my customary morning coffee and newspaper, the streets and sidewalks in front of my building were covered with parked Harleys surrounded by their riders, most of whom were already engaged in drinking beer, smoking dope and jumping around while shouting like idiots.
And ya know 10 am really just isn’t the time to be forced to see pudgy bikers, giddy on methamphetamine, wrestling in the street and trying to pull up the shirts of their equally fat “biker mamas” to show off their tits for all to see. Well, I guess in all fairness there’s not really any good time to see flabby breasts exposed, though actually I’m only assuming that that was what was going on as I am totally stumped to come up with any other explanation—though I do have to say that at least they weren’t pulling their own shirts up to show off their man teats. And funny enough there wasn’t a crackhead to be seen for miles around; maybe they too were scared of having their upper regions exposed to the sunlight, but who knows?
However I really wasn’t in the mood to contemplate any of this any further, especially without any caffeine in my system to aid my sluggish brain, and while walking down Third Street towards Market I saw another crowd converging down at the end of the next block and at first I was a tad worried that it was some kinda rival shindig of uninvited bikers bent on revengeful hostilities. But nearing this horde I noticed that it consisted of a lot of dweebs dressed in Khaki slacks and Izod shirts sporting name tags, hardly the uniform of outlaw bikers, and as I turned into doorway of the coffee shop, there all the way up to the counter stood a massive line of what appeared to be Oracle conventioneers just getting started with their conference by invading my local bistro. And to my dismay I was stuck behind insipid yuppies and computer geeks ordering cappuccinos like they were bellying up to the bar for bloody marys, only I must take a moment to point out that at least there was nary a forcibly exposed mammary or even the slightest bit of flabby cleavage, female, male or otherwise, in sight, so thankfully all I had to do to make it through this line was endure endless gigabyte babble and the ritual exchanging of business cards. Still as I looked around for a bit of distraction I had to take note that the usually tidy shop did appear as if a swarm of locust had attacked the condiment bar and my favorite espresso wench was looking none too serene as she shouted out drink orders while brushing an errant hair out of her perspiring face and avoiding my attempts at gaining her attention in order to facilitate a sooner pressing of my usual triple latte thereby allowing me to bypass this entirely unneeded situation. And just what is the deal this morning anyway? Bikers at my doorstep, wankers in my way at the espresso bar – what next?
Nonetheless not wanting to stay where I was and surely not too keen on going home, I found myself sitting at a bus shelter half way between both of these unruly contingents of invaders as I tried precariously balancing my coffee on the slim bit of steel that passes as a foldout seat while riffling through today’s paper. And just why do they design these shelter things so inhospitable as to defy even comfortably sitting down to read a newspaper?
Of course this isn’t going to cut it and I begrudgingly get up and head toward home while contemplating that I’ve got a new neighbor, or at least I think that I do. Because I heard a girl’s giggling through the common wall of my apartment last night and then the definite sounds of someone putting things up in the cupboards and sure I knew that someone was eventually gonna move in but I’ve been pretty happy with no one being there and now it’s someone that giggles? And no that’s not a bad thing, it’s just that I’m not used to hearing giggling in my apartment building; screaming and maniacal shouts of rage yes. But giggling? And if it’s true that I’ve got a new neighbor then I’ve got to break her in today, that is if it is a her, or I’m destined to have a repeat of that guy who played “On Broadway” over and over at six in the morning and if that happens then maybe this time it’ll be my maniacal shouts of rage that everyone else is gonna hear!
Standing at the corner across the street from my apartment building I’m waiting for the traffic light to turn to green so that I can legally cross. Though why I am doing this while a rather large gentleman dressed in black leather accelerates his motorcycle until he is spinning around with the tire screaming leaving a circle of scorched rubber and billowing smoke in the middle of street, I have no idea. Maybe in the face of adversity I’m grasping at a semblance of normalcy with so ingrained an ideal as to not wanna be one of those doing the outrageous any more.
Or maybe it’s because I haven’t finished my coffee yet and the day is still young.