I have a greyhound bus ticket stub (L.A. to San Francisco), some change, my wallet, my camera, and my phone all contained nicely between 3 pockets of the dress pants worn last night for Jeb's wedding. The only thing that really matters in my pockets is the spare key Cole gave me to his apartment when I landed in SF. I search for it, stumble over the ticket stub, scrounge through the other pocket- nope, not there- Christ, where is this thing. I don't get into this god-forsaken door, I leave California an entire bag of clothes, toiletries, and belongings poorer. But it's at this exact moment, when I should be in holy &$%$ panic-mode questioning if the axis of the earth really does revolve around my shitty luck, I don't feel a thing. Matter of fact, I feel pretty empowered by the idea that I could careless if this bag is gone, and I never see it again. I can take another week in San Fran if I want, dressed in Banana Republic with the dress shoes of a starbucks supervisor. I'm down. I'm totally down for the madness, getting lost in an unfamiliar city in a slightly deranged/neglected/dangerous side of town. Let's do this, let's go baby- Oh, there it is. Found the key
Entering Cole's apartment, here's the stats. Fallen string lights flash from the ceiling to the floor, some still stapled in place, the others draped over a drum kit most definitley used by Cole last night, and a guitar amp topped with a can of PBR. The can isn't alone, crusted with cigarette ash, and some wet stains, I pray my bag survived the birthday bonanza Cole threw. The floor is scattered with painting equipment, clothes, cigarette buds, and wounded soldiers otherwise known as cans of beers the attendee was so intoxicated to remember he or she was drinking and left the damn thing sitting to ferment in the jungle. On my way to the bathroom I almost step on a used condom. Yes, I will re-type that, a used condom. This place was sufficiently destroyed with anything and everything to let loose for the weekend and blackout the thought of another inevitable Monday, or tomorrow for that matter.
Hotness, the bag's still intact. Feels a little wet on the bottom, but I'll pretend like that isn't important and the fact the bag is in one piece rather than ripped to shreds to match the rest of the living room. What's this? I draw down to my phone. It's a text from the rocket scientist I chatted with last night at Jeb's wedding. Good lookin' gal, smart, shy, but has me a little miffed at the moment with the short question she just texted me "What is your race?"... Again, another nuance in my bay area morning I'm going to pretend is a normal everyday occurence in the life and times of Toussaint in Minneapolis. The question that should be asked at the moment is "What is your rush?", and my answer is simply "The flight with my name on it, that leaves Oakland Int'l Airport in 2 hours." Paired with the text, I discover a missed voice mail from last night. Friends from Wisconsin fighting over a phone explaining how a coin was flipped and it was decided to call me at bar-close. The meaningful message wraps up with, "yes, I'm drunk. Whatever."
I won't begin to describe the grin stretching to my right ear at the moment. Here I am in the bay area via flight, bus, bike, good ol' fashion walking, and all the friends in the world to let me partake in their lives. Guess I should wrap this up with some kind of heartfelt conclusion, right?
Like Cole's apartment, life is a beautiful mess. I don't mind waking up to it, cleaning it, watching it get downright dirtay all over again. It's the nature of the apartment to get shitty after cleaning it, but what counts most is how we deal with it. I picked up a few pieces of trash to throw away... wait now, where the hell is the garbage can in this place?