Do you remember ten springs ago? Back in that season of renewal, I remember gulping down IPAs at a now-closed dive bar with my roommates. At Market & Fremont, we wobbled onto the crosswalk in a pack of testosterone as a klatch of estrogen strode toward us.
Under this intersection’s red light, a woman offered me $20 for my corduroy pants. Would you plunge this transaction forward? I stripped down in San Francisco headlight glare gawking at my pale whiteness.
My brain can’t wrestle down the detail though I know I used my newfound money for a special dinner of either Rocky Mountain oysters or dos tacos de lengua.
I still have my tongue so I’ll slingshot you this story I’ve hashed out pantless with oysters or tacos digesting inside. You decide. Did I stop there? I danced on the plague marking the division between landfill and bedrock, between sleepwalking and an awakened state.