I feel like it’s their bedroom, and that I am intruding. There is a new couple sleeping in my wretched underpass skate spot.
Almost every morning I hit one of my favorite spots for skate abs (always thinking of new, saleable names for skating) – an underpass to I95, highly desirable because it is covered. It’s actually more desirable for houseless than skaters. There is always broken glass, somebody’s bean plate spattered all over, cracks, fissures – a tetanus dream!
They’re an elderly couple. Actually, I don’t wake them – they are already up, doing their morning toilet. He sets out a bucket for her to sit on, and I think she holds a small mirror in her lap (unfortunately, I can’t study her. She might take it wrong).
He has some nice chocolate pin-stripe dress slacks. And he wears an undershirt, under his shirt.
I am always being quiet for sleeping people. I must get up at the wrong time. Tiptoeing through my APT. And now, cracking quiet ollies in the far corner of a metropolitan underpass. shhhhh…
But then the Santarian roosters start to crow. You can’t drown those beasts out with a pneumatic drill.