curled in a snarl, she flung her coffee cup at the closest police car. Failed to get a splash on the tires. Grand gesture. Didn’t save a single soul.
Gina spun away, headed out Bryant Street, following some long buried waterway, work forgotten. The sound of her boots snapped the cement into grains of sand, the glare of her eyes destroyed every condom dropped in her path. She cut up to Seventh and Folsom, creek’s mouth, digging in her pocket for bills to catch a bus ride out. North. Out of the city. Like her granma used to do when things got tight in the kitchen. Far away for a day of friendly trees. There’d be lots of green shit on the hills. Big ol winter river.
When she got to her seat she half-closed her eyes, peeking out from under her heavy lids as the city rolled by. She discovered a fondness for the city buried somewhere deep in her chest, most noticeable when she was leaving. Gina sat upright at the bridge, staring at the early-morning skyline: Dawnlight glowed on fairy tale city.
“What crap.” Gina put her head back, went to sleep.
She had intended to call Karen from Santa Rosa: Get out the bong, the booze, the shrooms. I’m headin fer the high grass. The tall trees. Comin to break the monotony of yer sheltered rural ex-is-tence.
But the River Express bus was at the station when she arrived so she just kept moving, no breaks in the rhythm, not even to call work: Got stuck up the river, road’s washed out, won’t be in today. She kept moving toward the green, away from the city drizzle that hurt her eyes. Burned her heart.
Gina hopped off in Guerneville, fog swirling from the trees at the top of the ridge, Latinos waiting on the corners for day-wage dirt jobs, no traffic on the street, slow dogs pissing on the shrubbery. Nice one-street city. Tattoo shop, couple weird art shops. Coffee shop.
“Double espresso, please.” Gina took a deep breath, felt her ribs expand in the country air. First big rib-stretcher in a long time. “Ahhhh. Please, where’s the nearest phone?”
Karen answered, melodic with country cheer, “Alhambra here.”
“Al Hambra? What? Like some Saudi cousin of Al Qaeda?”
“Giiina! How are you?” She laughed. “It’s a palace in Spain.”
“You moved to Spain? Or named yourself after a building?” Gina scowled: You let em move outta the city, they completely lose their little freakin minds.
“Hah. I just liked the sound of it. So, what’s up, little grouch?”
“I’m in Guerneville. Filled with urban angst.” For the first time Gina wondered if this had been a good idea. She decided not to mention bongs or shrooms—when people changed a perfectly good two-syllable name like Karen to something mouth-filling or edificial, you never knew what other changes might have taken place.
“Gotcha. I’ll be there inna few. Don’t go to the bridge.”
“Okay.” What the hell is that supposed to mean?
“Don’t do anything weird there. The local citizen-watch has the place bugged and videotaped.”
“You shittin me? What’s up with that?” Gina turned around, slow, careful, looking left, looking right. The vigilantes were hunkered down somewhere out of sight.
“The lower river’s tagged with being inna condition of urban blight. Garbage. And crime, Gina. Terrible crime. People smoke dope. Shoot the lights out. Make noise. The world will come to an end if the good citizens don’t document everything.”
“What should I do?” Gina asked.
“Oh hell, go to the bridge anyway. It’s the easiest landmark. Besides, the river’s huge, makes everything hum. Make ya feel alive. Meet you there.”
“Eat my shorts.”
The rain started pissing down again, it would never stop, the world was going to wash away or disappear in a poof of mold. Dozens of vultures lurked in the dripping trees by the bridge, shitting down their legs, watching Gina with lazy hungry eyes.
She walked out to the middle of the span and stared down at the wide coffee river rumbling along
Gina spun away, headed out Bryant Street, following some long buried waterway, work forgotten. The sound of her boots snapped the cement into grains of sand, the glare of her eyes destroyed every condom dropped in her path. She cut up to Seventh and Folsom, creek’s mouth, digging in her pocket for bills to catch a bus ride out. North. Out of the city. Like her granma used to do when things got tight in the kitchen. Far away for a day of friendly trees. There’d be lots of green shit on the hills. Big ol winter river.
When she got to her seat she half-closed her eyes, peeking out from under her heavy lids as the city rolled by. She discovered a fondness for the city buried somewhere deep in her chest, most noticeable when she was leaving. Gina sat upright at the bridge, staring at the early-morning skyline: Dawnlight glowed on fairy tale city.
“What crap.” Gina put her head back, went to sleep.
She had intended to call Karen from Santa Rosa: Get out the bong, the booze, the shrooms. I’m headin fer the high grass. The tall trees. Comin to break the monotony of yer sheltered rural ex-is-tence.
But the River Express bus was at the station when she arrived so she just kept moving, no breaks in the rhythm, not even to call work: Got stuck up the river, road’s washed out, won’t be in today. She kept moving toward the green, away from the city drizzle that hurt her eyes. Burned her heart.
Gina hopped off in Guerneville, fog swirling from the trees at the top of the ridge, Latinos waiting on the corners for day-wage dirt jobs, no traffic on the street, slow dogs pissing on the shrubbery. Nice one-street city. Tattoo shop, couple weird art shops. Coffee shop.
“Double espresso, please.” Gina took a deep breath, felt her ribs expand in the country air. First big rib-stretcher in a long time. “Ahhhh. Please, where’s the nearest phone?”
Karen answered, melodic with country cheer, “Alhambra here.”
“Al Hambra? What? Like some Saudi cousin of Al Qaeda?”
“Giiina! How are you?” She laughed. “It’s a palace in Spain.”
“You moved to Spain? Or named yourself after a building?” Gina scowled: You let em move outta the city, they completely lose their little freakin minds.
“Hah. I just liked the sound of it. So, what’s up, little grouch?”
“I’m in Guerneville. Filled with urban angst.” For the first time Gina wondered if this had been a good idea. She decided not to mention bongs or shrooms—when people changed a perfectly good two-syllable name like Karen to something mouth-filling or edificial, you never knew what other changes might have taken place.
“Gotcha. I’ll be there inna few. Don’t go to the bridge.”
“Okay.” What the hell is that supposed to mean?
“Don’t do anything weird there. The local citizen-watch has the place bugged and videotaped.”
“You shittin me? What’s up with that?” Gina turned around, slow, careful, looking left, looking right. The vigilantes were hunkered down somewhere out of sight.
“The lower river’s tagged with being inna condition of urban blight. Garbage. And crime, Gina. Terrible crime. People smoke dope. Shoot the lights out. Make noise. The world will come to an end if the good citizens don’t document everything.”
“What should I do?” Gina asked.
“Oh hell, go to the bridge anyway. It’s the easiest landmark. Besides, the river’s huge, makes everything hum. Make ya feel alive. Meet you there.”
“Eat my shorts.”
The rain started pissing down again, it would never stop, the world was going to wash away or disappear in a poof of mold. Dozens of vultures lurked in the dripping trees by the bridge, shitting down their legs, watching Gina with lazy hungry eyes.
She walked out to the middle of the span and stared down at the wide coffee river rumbling along
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