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jane
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sabrina had pulled a muscle in her shoulder, and sent me a message:
"i need a strong drink today."
i acquiesced; we strolled down to the drugstore, hobbling in our separate ways, passing through building shadows and brief moments of sunlight. i requested a stop in the shoe repair joint, the little hole in the wall that smells of leather and pungent oils. jubilant at the customers ahead of me, we figured a stop on the way back was more logical.
in the drugstore, i looked for postcards. they used to have a city-proud display complete with shotglasses and mugs, the kind you'd find in an airport gift shop. we learned from an errant worker named Clint that two weeks prior they'd tossed the inventory, postcards and all. thoughts of my impending project demolished, sabrina bought a jar of moonshine and i grabbed a jar of red nail polish. cursed silently at the need to input numbers, always numbers, in the pad at the register. i've been terrible with cash for years, and yet i despise the coldness of plastic and the pushing of memberships and the numerical exposure it necessitates.
i carry the bag with the moonshine and mixers, due to sabrina's pulled muscle. some motherfucker asks for the time outside the store and sabrina provides it before mumbling something about her being thick and having a big butt. these are the times we live in.
pop back into the shoe repair. it's a one-man operation, the kind i love and appreciate, knowing it will be demolished within my lifetime because of the soon-to-be-completed arena, and the nasty greed of city "leaders." the fellow is incredibly kind, i consider his family and the pride he takes in his work as i bashfully show him my mangled sole. he says it'll take about 45 minutes and he can repair while i wait. he even notices the scuffed heel, though its damage is meager, comparatively. it'll cost $38 but i intend to give him $50. i want him to know this world appreciates him and his craft. i want him to stay. i want to hold on to a world with craftsman such as this man. i want sole repair.
we get back to the office and drink moonshine until sabrina is slurring. she doesn't have to drive. i have what seems like seventy-five thousand things to do after work, including pose naked for a camera while my swollen breasts hang and pain me, again. hair and makeup is important. we must repair that which is damaged, any blemishes must be covered. i respect the craft because it is so much more than covering the holes in my face, adding color to lips, restructuring strands of hair.
i cannot help but remember scott weiland, sitting here, drinking moonshine. his death was not lost on me, and yet writing about it never seemed an option:
"too much walkin, shoes worn thin
too much trippin' and my soul's worn thin
time to catch a ride..."
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