Andrewthefox

Brush, brush, brush, brush.  The sound of a paintbrush on cardboard is soothing.  A song from the Wizard of Oz is playing in my head.  "Brush, brush here, brush, brush there, la la la la la..."

     The green glitter paint--around $4 a bottle at Cliffs Variety--is more transparent that I had hoped.  One stroke leaves a dark green, two makes it a lighter green and spreads the color out, and a third exposes the brown of the cardboard.  As it dries, the brown from the cardboard begins to resurface.  How frustrating.  Rather than continuing feel frustrated, an opportunity is taken to zen out and let my body go on autopilot.  The green will cover the cardboard eventually.  Just be patient and keep trying.  The only sounds in existence besides traffic are the sounds of the wind and an occasional cough from an unseen neighbor I an unknown backyard.  I listen for the wind, waiting to hold my art piece still when a large gust of wind picks up.  The cardboard bush I am working on has cardboard glued to it to make it stand up, but it is still no match for this wind.  I am afraid to run further into the garage to find something to prop it up.  The last time I left this art piece alone--in order to let my partner into the apartment complex--I returned to find it face down.  The green paint had smeared all over the small parking area I share with other tenants.  Even worse, leaves and parts of nature stick to my piece of imitation nature.  Luckily, the paint is cheap and washable.  I just don't want to repeat the cleanup process.  

     I wonder when the washing machine will end, and the owner will pop down to pick up his laundry.  I think of what to say when he comes downstairs, seeing this silly blonde boy sitting on the floor while painting in a parking space.  Oh no.  My heart jumps.  The garage door is opening!  I am against the wall, but I am still in a parking spot.  I rush--grabbing my paintbrush, paint bottle, napkins, garbage bags (which prevent paint from getting on the ground), and my still wet faux shrubbery.  Crap crap crap!  I manage to get to the other side, protected by the heap of clutter my landlord leaves in our garage.  Green paint is all over my arms.  I'm pissed when the neighbor pulls into a parking spot nowhere near where I had just moved from.  I try to sound cheerful as we exchange niceties.  He is amused that I am painting stage props in the community garage.  I tease back that I would rather do it in the garage than on the carpeting in my home.  I also mention that my art piece is a glittery mess.  He laughs, and we ignore each other as he looks through his trunk and goes upstairs.  When I have finished, about half an hour later, I pick up my creation and head towards the stairway.  The door opens before me and another neighbor jumps back as if he has seen a ghost.  I would jump too if I saw an unexpected person behind a door, holding a paintbrush like a weapon as well as carrying a piece of cardboard half his size.  I apologize several times for scaring him.  "It's okay" he mutters as he quickly shuffles past me, eager to get his laundry and remove himself from this madness.

The air is warmer than in was expected to be.  The gateway to the underground train at the Castro station is very grey.  Grey walls, grey floors, grey railing, and even a view of the grey tracks one floor below.  Even the security doors—which allow passage to the underground train—are a dark shade of grey.  The only colors besides gray exist on posters plastered throughout the station.  What posters are up now?  Before me, behind the recycling bin full of newspapers, is a poster for the newest hit musical, The Scottsboro Boys.  The poster depicts five black men looking upward into the distance.  Four are sitting down, while one man is standing, arms outstretched and mouth open in song.  This hints that the event is a musical, not a play.  There is another person in the background—a black woman—with a huge, lovely grin on her face as she watches the man standing.  I don't know much about the musical, except for a headline that I once saw in a newspaper.  The headline stated that the musical depicted racism and should be treated as a historical piece.  I wish I read the actual article.  All the men are dressed in a manner that is often associated with farming and poverty.  One man is wearing large glasses resembling something harry potter would wear, as well as a large tattered sun hat.  The other three men are wearing newsboy caps.  The standing man is wearing a white collared shits, a beat up tan cardigan, brown kaki pants one size too big for his body, and a dated pair of suspenders.  The other men are wearing several layers of ill-matching clothing.  There is a warm orange and magenta background behind them, in order to represent a sunrise.  Why a sunrise?  The characters in the musical were probably working late, and this looks like the scene where they all find hope.  I would like to see this musical.
A man begins to rummage through the recycle bin, and I turn away.  How awkward would it be if he thought I was watching him.  Sorry, just reading the poster.  A horde of faces exit the security gate, none of them the face I've been waiting for.  Oh well, what else can I look at?  There is a woman sitting on the phone, in the outside area of the station.  The bench she is sitting on has always interested me.  The tan and white bench was created from the same concrete as the floor below it.  There is no telling where the bench ends and the floor begins.  How long have I been waiting here?  Another poster, which I am unclear about it's purpose, depicts a man and a woman back to back.  The text states "The determination of a bicyclist, the vision of a writer, and you."  Me?  What do they want from me?  I assume the bicyclist is the man, due to his backpack.  That means the writer is the blonde woman with the red hair and strong jaw line.  It's funny how they stereotype the artist.  Bleach blonde, lots of tattoos on her arms, piercings, white tank top.  The sad part is that I knew that she was the writer that was being referred to before I even saw the bicyclist.  It's so interesting how society has preconceived notions of what a person should look like.

Ten-thirty in the morning. What a surprise, I expected it to be two thirty-pm.  Am I hung over?  Don't move.  Don't find out.  "Can I still speak?" I say aloud. Barely. There is a warm weight in my throat, with a dryness that conjures enough motivation for me to get out of bed.  Water.  Up, left, left, left.  My dirty cup is on the table, right where I left it.  The water tastes stale, but refreshing nonetheless.  An hour breezes by as I play video games on my iPad in an attempt to relax and shut out the world.  Kyle is cooking—filling the air with the smell of onions and potatoes.  Larisa is in the shower, repeatedly hollering to let us know how overjoyed she is.  She is finally able to scrub off the blue dye that her new jeans lovingly left on her skin.  What's that other smell?  Oh, it's me. Gross.  The body odor reminds me of the singer Ke$ha...she's icky.  I'm glad I'm not Ke$ha.  Larisa leaves to grab more groceries for breakfast, and I steal the bathroom so I can shower.  A hot shower has never been so heavenly.  When I leave the safety of the bathroom, I take a minute to adjust to how much my apartment has changed.  How long did that shower last?  The air mattress has been removed from the middle of the floor, there is no longer a blanket or pillow in sight.  The vacuum is out, although I didn't hear it running earlier.  Oh, thank the heavens!  The drink dispenser on the table is no longer filled with alcohol!  If I were to see alcohol at any point today, I might vomit.  The speedy transformation of my apartment makes me feel like Rip Van Winkle—I emerge from the shower sixty years later and my apartment is clean.  Kyle flits about between the kitchen and the living room--which is not a long distance.  Cook the eggs. Put away our blanket and sunscreen from our day at the park yesterday.  The closet door shrieks in pain as it is closed.  Back to the kitchen.  His movements are like clockwork. The table is littered with various gay pride memorabilia.  A cutout of a fiery mustache is covered in crumbs.  The Netflix envelope—which needs to be mailed—lies on top of my rainbow beaded necklace.  I'm going to give the necklace to my father, because there is a wooden foot attached to it. He is a podiatrist—a foot doctor. I eye my allergy medications. Did I take them already? Uh-oh.  I vaguely remember taking them…or was that yesterday?  A delicious medley of eggs, spinach, mushrooms, biscuits, and vegetarian gravy is scooped onto each person's plate.  Each person is a different level of hung over, me being significantly less so than the other two.  We prepare ourselves for a fun day at the Pride celebration in Civic Center.  A world of pushing, shoving, vomit, urine, loud music and bright colors await.  I can't wait.

A flurry of white, yellow, and black fill the image.  Urgency is required, and she nervously moves about while watching him.  Should she go after him, or block the entranced?  She watches helplessly as the man in the charcoal coat and kaki pants climbs the Muni train in frustration.  The train is too crowded, and he is desperate to get to his destination.  A Transit officer is clutching him by the arm, trying to pull him down.  Cant the man see that he is being irrational?  She stands with another Transit Officer, poised to assist in any way they can, while a fourth officer guards another car door from receiving additional passengers.  His efforts are rather pointless, since there is no way another person can squeeze into that crowded car.  A standing passenger cranes his neck out the door, his eyebrows raised and jaw dropped in disbelief of the climber's actions.  Further into the car a man in a beanie laughs, while a woman in a matching beanie and a bandana concealing her face pretends to be somewhere else.  There is a man next to her with his shirt over his nose and mouth.  These two don't want their faces to be plastered all over the media.  Possibly they are in the witness protection program, or are simply alarmed at this invasion of their privacy.  A woman in a ponytail is yelling at the officers, or possibly at the man now viewed as "troubled."  

     Several other passengers avert their gaze, not wanting to be involved--although they very much are.  There are so many passengers that it is impossible to see them all.  A man exits another car with his hands up in surrender.  This is too much trouble to deal with--a cab might be a better option.  If the climber had only waited, he may have been able to take this man's spot on the train.

     It is hard not to sympathetic to the climber, however.  Perhaps this is the last train of the night, or he needs to rush to the side of a loved one in the hospital.  He could even be under the influence of drugs or alcohol.  Clear judgment or not, a packed Muni train can make people do crazy things.  I once became very close to sitting on a stranger's lap due to the lack of space.  There was nowhere to stand, so I was forced to sit-stand at an angle resembling some form of a human jigsaw puzzle.  My body's support system was split into thirds: the floor, a horizontal bar, and the stranger sitting on the bench behind me.  The person seemed willing to let me sit on their lap, which made me even more uncomfortable.  The flurry of faces was endless, and all my friend and I could do was laugh.  What a ridiculous life experience.

     Sitting in my living room, in the comfort of my heater, I listen for the bus to go by.  I dread leaving the house in an hour.  How crowded will the bus be today?

I go through my daily morning rituals. Today I chose a bath rather than a shower.
When I have finished, I brush my teeth, gurgle, then spit.  It seems as if my sink is
the only portion of my bathroom that light has fallen on.  Next, I lotion my face—the lotion is gross when it gets warm.  I spray on my deodorant, since stick deodorant doesn't seem to work for me.  Next, I brush my hair but skip the hair product since my hair is too long to style.  I need a haircut. I am a bathroom chemist--all these steps must be taken or I feel gross for the rest of the day. I look into the mirror. Ugh, acne. The skin around my nose wrinkles and warps out like some bizarre topographical map. My hair looks just like a bird's nest.  Cheep cheep.  Today is a hat day.  I love the full-size mirror in my bedroom, with its gorgeous dark wooden frame. The dark lighting in here makes me feel more attractive.  Time to grab a shirt, shorts, a baseball cap, stretched out and soon-to-be-replaced socks, and my boots. It's laundry day.

     Orange signs warn that the road is closed—luckily it isn't my road.  I lose track of how many blocks I walk, my polka dot suitcase full of dirty laundry in tow.  In reality, I've probably only walked three blocks.  I smell the usual Lower Haight smells of piss, burnt rubber, and coffee.  A scent of tar sneaks its way out of the construction zone.  I weave my way around the pedestrians as we try to share the skinny sidewalk. I'm here.

     I load about a weeks worth of laundry that is shared between my husband and I into the large washing machine.  They reek of that stinky sock smell.  The smell reassures me that today is laundry day and there is no going back.  I pour four capfuls of soap in, then swipe my laundry card. There is not enough money for the machine to start washing.  I use the money exchange machine to put money onto one of my three laundry cards.  I have so many because I am always forgetting them.  Part of the money machine is covered by an "out of service" sign, yet I still receive my money.  I pocket my card. I swipe my card again once I reach my washing machine, nothing happens. I'm livid. I have a mini meltdown, then swipe my other two cards. Whoops.  The first two cards I used were the ones with no money on them. I hit the start button and the machine whirs to life.  How embarrassing.  Twenty-three minutes of washing begin.

     I walk over to the three benches, and notice a man is standing in front of a dryer in his boxer shorts and a black hat. I saw more of his crotch than I wanted to see.  I sit on the far bench against the row of plants that brush the back of my head.  I don't like the feeling, but I always sit here.  Creature of habit.  The man, now wearing jeans, walks over and says to the woman next to me "I have pants
now! Yeah!"

     Washing machines hum, and somebody's laundry soap smells like wine.  The smell
makes me nauseous. The smell might be coming from the underwear man.  Sadly, the smell remains after he leaves.  I hope somebody plays on the giant PAC-MAN arcade game today—I like to watch.  The room is silent except for footsteps, the low hum on the machines, and the clacking of buttons in a dryer.  There is a poster on the message board of bald people with clown white faces and red lips.  Their mouths are open in circles, and they resemble some terrifying form of blow-up doll.  I think the person putting up the poster realized this, because there are pins stuck in some of the peoples' mouths.  

     I remove my clothes from the washer and put them in the dryer.  My dryer sheets smell amazing.  Beep, beep, beep, beep beep!  Thirty-five minutes of drying begins.  My hands still smell like my dryer sheets. The soundtrack from
Smash serenades me as I remove my laundry and fold it.  I am excited to be able to go home to play video games.