Just above the shore by the City College is a downhill slope called Oceano, where the students scuttle like insects through the fading light of the burning sun;
and the students carry beers
backpacks filled with more beers as they saunter house to house, pad to pad to drink those beers
even during class
with half naked intelligent girls on the brink of their glorious stage of
And every week some poor student’s stuff is out on the street:
Futon with ripped-gooey mattress smothered with his or her school papers, a boring book or two, dirty running shoes, clothes not suitable for life and all of its demanding cliches.
And I always wish to see their reaction when they arrive so I slow down, contemplate having a seat (so I can hear their side of the story when they arrive), and watch their bedroom take a shower in the afternoon sprinklers, wash off the early morning dew
and whatever else whatever else.
What happened to their relationships? Why this quarrel with the roommates? Did they eat the last Pop Tart for the last time?Or not pay rent for the first, second, third time? Were they too loud on the nights they were supposed to be quiet?
Did they kiss a lady or guy who was already taken? Who was off limits because of some … Code?
(You know what I’m talking about)
But as much as I want to hear and see some real life drama
blood and tears
teeth and hair
name calling in foreign tongues
(or just a good clean fight with no weapons but lots of vulgarity, to the point of obvious discomfort for spectators of any
genre of anything)
I always keep walking to my part-time job as an English Tutor at the City College,
down Oceano Avenue
where the students scuttle like horny little insects, through the fading light of the burning sun.