StarCat/CatStar

The Joust
By Marie Lecrivain
And who can bear to be forgotten? - Ricochet/David Bowie
She likes to take a walk every day to clear her mind, jump-start the metabolism
and get the circulatory system evened out because hot flashes are a bitch. She's
worn out three pairs of tennis shoes, logged over 400 miles in four months and
lost seven pounds. She's mapped several routes through her neighborhood that
equal up to three miles without having to cross traffic stops. She's peripherally
aware of the growing homeless population, the one entrenched under the 10
freeway. She sees them often as they lounge against the concrete support in the
shade, or set up tents and hot plates, but like most people, she prefers to forget
they exist.
He wanders down Venice Blvd, wipes his brow and wonders when the bus will
come. He doesn't like crowds. To him a crowd is more than five people and there's
15 people cluster-fucked together at the bus stop at Venice and Cadillac. He
wonders when his relief check will come. He forgot it was Labor Day Weekend.
The post office is closed on Sunday and Monday. His stomach growls. He's not
eaten since last night when he spent the last of his money on a pack of cheese and
crackers and a bottle of water. He needs to make it to the beach where there's
sympathetic tourists with food and money.
Anger rests in the pit of stomach and grows larger like a runaway lump of
yeasty dough. He came to L.A. to make music, to make people dream of the notes
he wove together with his guitar. Even now, fingers clutch for that Telecaster that
used to be his constant companion, but along with his brain, was irrevocably
shattered in the car accident from years before. The doctors told him that he
might recover his ability to play - in time - but traumatic brain injury is tricky to
treat.
He can't play anymore. He sees the notes. He hears the music, but he can't
channel the music from his mind into the instrument. He can't hold a guitar for
very long. His left arm was broken in five places. He lost his place in the band, his
apartment, and his sense of purpose. He can't afford the meds he needed to keep
his cognitive functions running. His family are dead, except his brother whom
he's not close to and his friends have vanished into thin air. He can't remember
the last time he had an actual conversation, or when someone would speak to him
directly. People flow around him like water. He's a stone in a creek to be stepped
on or over. His anger deepens as he wanders further east.
She walks along the east side of Venice, and daydreams about people she's
known; in particular, an old boyfriend who's been appearing in her dreams; an
intense man with a yacht full of emotional baggage and an insatiable libido. She
remembers how she put her life on hold for three years to became a bi-weekly
booty call, a sounding board for his problems, and a vessel for his rage. She drifted
out of his life and she's not heard from him for over a decade. She wonders if he
remembers her and why she's dreaming about him now. Does he dream of her?
She likes the idea of connection, of a far away longing simultaneously generated
with the possibility of fulfillment.
She crosses the street at Fairfax, while she keeps an eye out for errant drivers