It’s decorated with strange golden leaves, making it look sinister. Junkies gather inside to stare at their shoes for hours.
It’s parked by the sidewalk. One could say it hasn’t been moved in years–the tires are almost flat.
A son of the Mother Superior comes by. He smells the golden liquid–he just has to get his fix. Walks in, “Ho boys! Seems you have a real fine celebration going on here. I’ve been wandering these very streets for days now–I’m sure you understand?” The other junkies look at him with their stray eyes. He might as well have been made of smoke and dust.
The bus is painted all black, save for the golden leaves.
So there I am, sitting on a bench; this all happened by a park. It’s Sunday morning: couples, old and young alike, are all out walking their dogs, newspaper in hand. The buzz ain’t nowhere to be seen or heard.
Later, sitting at a café across the street from the park, a flute player approaches me. “Say man, have a penny or two? These pieces I just played–I made them; they’re my compositions. They’re real pretty, wouldn’t you say?” So I hand him some coins and before he pockets them, he does the whole cross-himself routine; he was an evident believer. A few days later I stumbled upon him: got him smoking tea, the bastard.
This is Mexico City, federal district. Winter. What’s with the heat, anyway?
One of the waitresses was real pretty, like the flute player’s songs. First thing I do when I walk from the park to the café is smile at her. Shortly after, when she brings me my coffee I can see she decorates my cup with cinnamon in the shape of a heart.
Guy selling baskets, supposedly made by hand (they were not), walks by. A water fountain at the center of the parks whispers to the wind, “I am love.” The wandering son of the Mother lies dead by the bus. The buzz ain’t nowhere to be seen or heard.
A couple of old men arrives on a 20s-style motorcycle, sidecar and all. Climb down they did, and everyone at the café smiles...