jruit :: 37



I jammed the little finger of my left hand throwing a football around with the Pakistani kids next door and last night woke up a few times and flexed the fingers of my left fist to see how the healing was going along. Healing is lucky, isn't it? You can imagine the ultimate horror movie in which the old cantilever section of the Bay Bridge gets to witness its own dismantling, piece by piece, knowing there's only one outcome: its total demise. We're witnessing the same horror now, with Candlestick Park, the curves of its knuckles curling around its own horrific demolition. Makes me want to suck on a piece of cinnamon candy.

My pinkie still has a tingle about it, nothing to interfere with my typing away, its flex back to something slightly greater than the unnoticeable threshold of perfect health. You laugh, play with the kids, see them arch the football up over the wires crossing 7th Street. Sometimes I catch the ball in a cradle next to my chest, other times I bat it away for some inexplicable reason. I'm inconsistent. One day a beautiful blonde German model rode in my taxicab up from the airport, past Candlestick Park, then along 3rd Street. "There's a restaurant you should go to," she said, and I remembered seeing crowds around it, people clearly having fun. Six months later I spotted her in there, she recognized me, and we had a little chat. "This is my husband, Joe," she said. Another time she was in there with both her husband and son, and again she said, "And this is Joe," who began to register in my consciousness. "How ya doing?" the man said, as Joe Montana effortlessly settled into the cradle of my mind.


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