*a revision of an older piece*

She’s taken to washing her hair in city sprinklers. Long strands of it, in public view. What’s next? A fireman’s hydrant? The next-door neighbor’s dog’s hydrant? Where’d she come from? Pushing her cart along the streets. Life in a cart, how odd: but not-so-rare. I’ll give you this dollar, she said, if you would go in and buy me some fries. They wouldn’t let me in, she said, looking this way. Nevermind the look, I thought. Besides the sprinkler, when did you bathe last?

Downtown San Francisco, south of market, home to the homeless: reality v dreams. On the other side, the streets are filled with hoodie’d creeps, scooting in scooters to nowhere and somewhere. Radio-controlled. Connected to static, frantic cellular phones. Disconnected. Nobody looks anyone in the eye anymore. Not me, especially. But then this woman, having a sprinkler walks up and does just that. With a dollar for some fries.

Back then, she said, we were artists. With our beat poetry and psychedelic trips. Have you been to blue? Blue is a state of mind, man. It’s fingers snapping, tapping, raspy voices pontificating truths still existent but now somewhat dim, lamenting post-modern dripless candles that do not drip in shrines built to everything with plastic painted faces. Nowadays, even tears are manufactured from techno-sweat.

Across the street the hoodie’d hoods: 21st century lords. Blue was sold to multimedia gulches, manufacturing uniform experiences: uniform non-conformist, individual experiences. Of instant gratification images. Monochrome colors and plaided weekends.

I really want those fries. That’s right: fast-food fries for fast-track lives. Man, she said, can you stop long enough to put down your latte and step into my sprinkler bath? Refreshing. Have a show, go on exhibit: my life-in-a-cart IS performance art. Except nobody’s going to look you in the eye. They’re too busy watching screens and graphs. The world at your fingertips. No more moon-watching. Hurry, hurry, hurry bring your cart!

Reluctantly, he handed over the key.  

The car had served him well over the years.  Truly, it was more valuable than what the blue book said.  Much more valuable.

The road trips led to memories of several lifetimes.  Driving down the coast, playing “I Spy” games like children impatient for the destination; singing silly songs; sharing secrets and stealing glances. 

Or the lazy Sunday afternoons, packing picnics of wine and cheese.  

Winter in the Sierras, building snowmen and sliding on the sludge.

All the while the car: the ‘67 Ford Mustang. It got us there.  Everywhere. Ten years of squandering their youth — in the best way! — what was that line from that book?  “Driving like the damned on holiday”… as if there was another choice. Back then, it was nothing but the open road.  And intentions.  

It’s the next step, she assured.  Baby’s on the way. It was time to be practical. 

That word… a kind of death.