…and of course the local rag’s coverage of the war vigil further proves the coastal axiom that only cute people are allowed in newspapers anymore …and the days of putting people like Nikolai Tesla on the cover of Time magazine are sandwiched in a vault somewhere –

two renowned town drunks lumber out of the windowless Bridge Tender tavern at half past noon, comparing their county jail terms, basement tattoos and trucks impounded for failure to show proof of insurance – the pale kid with the few wiggly black whiskers leans against the no parking sign, pretending to be plugged into his iPod, he seems to recognize me – I give him a cold squint from the corner of my right eye – he stares back into the traffic – the old lady reeks of bottom-shelf vodka and menthols and talks with a good half-numb tongue, lisping and smearing her Rs into Ws – “I have to be thome-wey-owe at two-o-kwock!” she yells at the man who she left the tavern with – her mouth moves like a cavity puckering in an overripe cantaloupe, face gridded with cigarette-sucking wrinkles – the man slips on his leather jacket and digs the pockets for change – “we gotta transfer at the Fred Meyer’s” he reminds her –

“no road! no ROAD!” the yell comes from one block down – the little girl is scampering into the outside lane; she can’t be more than one year old – “No road!” the young lady yells while absently punching keys on her cellphone, sweatpants ass planted on the concrete steps leading up to her apartment – she doesn’t look up – “stay here by mommy.” the girl looks back at the open apartment door, showing a wide six-toothed smile, then turns and darts over the yellow line at a diagonal –

“yow tho fuckin’ dwunk wight now, I could knock the fuck outta you!”
the old lady snarls through her withered cantaloupe mouth, “call me a fuckin’ cab!” – she storms off across the street clutching her purse like a war-hammer – “a dat! a dat!” the little girl giggles as their paths cross; she turns again and follows the old lady to the curb - “stay by mommy!” the young lady yells, still bent over her cellphone – she doesn’t look up - the old lady stomps into the alley behind the American Legion, eyes sealed behind black wraparound shades – the little girls squats to pick up her half-snuffed menthol, stray smoke trails still rising off it as she stuffs the lit end into her mouth –

“no road, sweetie!”