The Untidy Mind of Carol Ann Smith. Last Train

by Carol Ann Smith

Early morning. Half dreaming on Hampton's floor in his flat on Pearl Street, San Fran. He slips a Cassandra Wilson CD into his system, and she slipsstreams into my system, slow-sensuously moon-crooning the Monkees' "Last...Train...to Clarksville."

sit up, rub the sleep from my face.

Cassandra tongues my spine.

Hampton shaves, puts on his "real world" costume.

I make him play the song again.

Hampton eats a bowl of shredded wheat with skim milk and a banana.

I make him play the song again.

Hampton leaves for work...

...a bit hastily, I might add.

Find my clothes, find my feetz, hit the streetz...

...on a gloriously breezy

sunny and squeezy

fluffy and cloudy

apple-pan-rowdy

day...

...in the hip-hop happinest city on the whole bleedin' earth of the wonderful whirled wild world of the universe.

Betcha I can sing "Clarksville" as purty as Cassandra, too, dagummint. Matter o' fack, KNOW I can.

I open my throat.

Robins drop dead from the trees.

I swirl 'round the corner, get sucked into a quirky little breakfasty cafe type kinda place.

Umm..yummy. Waffles!

Buckwheat or blueberry?

Well, do I feel down to earth, or fruitful?

I opt for buckwheat, make sure they have GENUINE Vermont maple syrup (of course they do! it's San Fran feckin' frisco!), and spin idly through the tabletop jukebox, scanning the greats. Chuck Berry. The Beatles. The Kinks.

And of course, the City of Light's house band, The Grateful Dead.

But nothing looks worth a quarter to me, no, not even a nickel.

All I want is to hear is sad 'n' soulful 'sandra strong song string-along "Clarksville" just one mo' time down my slippery slidey spine.

The cafe door jing-jingles. A handsome party of five arrives.

Two tow-headed teenagers. A long-suffering wifey type. And two blond fellows, must be brothers.

One of them looks like my senior year calculus teacher, and the other one looks like...

...oh my God!! LOOKS like!! Hell's bells!! He IS!!

He's PETER!

Peter Freakin' TORK!!!

I even recognize the ultra hip musta-cost-a-mint tapestry vest he's skinnin' in 'cause I saw him wearin' it two weeks back on the Monkees (sans Mike, a.k.a. Rich Ass Creases) Reunion on Rosie.

Oh, for Cass cass casssssandra right now. I frantically re-scan the tabletop jukebox--damn!

She's not there!!!

And neither are the bleedin’ Monkees!!!

Maybe I should go over to Peter, fall to my knees and gush mush. Maybe I should tell him how much he meant to me, how sure, I loved Davy and Micky and even in a strange kinky kind of sad and silent way Mike, but it was Pete Pete Peter for me, full on, no holds barred, all through my torn and troubled prepubescent years, or at least until Elton John took over.

Yes, I know that now, thank you NOT very much for mentioning it.

But did you ever hear "Amoreena"?

Well, if you did, you'd KNOW what I'm talking about.

But back to Peter, where I belong. Why, every time my girlfriends and I rehearsed our Monkees air band in the cow pasture out back, I INSISTED that because it was MY COW PASTURE I got to be PETER, dammit.

Salt, pepper, sugar, and maple syrup rattle like rastas. A trembly tremor. Could it be the big one?

I grip the edge of my table.

Not even genuine Vermont maple syrup can abate this kind of wooziness.

The earth stops spinning. Peter looks at me. I look at him. Our eyes lock, go fuzzy, then lock again.

Peter knows, I can tell. He feels the throbbing love I've held for him all these long long longingful years.

There's no need to gush, no need even to speak. I can tell. I can tell my Petey would leave his wife and kids, even his pocket-protector brother, for one blissful hour, nay, for fourteen and a half minutes, in my love love loverful arms.

His kids roll their eyes and fake puke.

His wife orders blueberry waffles.

But Pete.

Oh Pete.

Pete orders...

BUCK.

WHEAT.

Know why?

Because he LOVE LOVE LOVES ME ME ME!!!

***

When torrid affairs such as only Pete and I can have come to end, 'tis best to end things quickly.

I finish my waffle,

pay offa my awful bill,

find my feetz, hit the streetz of

San.

Fran.

Cis.

Co.

...on a gloriously breezy

sunny and squeezy

fluffy and cloudy

apple-pan-rowdy

day...

...in the hip-hop happinest city on the whole bleedin' earth of the wonderful whirled wild world

of the universe.

-----

copyright 2000 C. A. Smith