Bike Trip memory.
As per usual, art making stuff over at the studio blog:
Putting together things I want to put in the bike trip zine, I came across this.
After the bike trip, on the morning I was to go to the airport, I ordered a cab. The cab driver was exceptionally chatty. He told me, I think, that he wrote stories. Then he recited to me from memory one of his more recent ones. I think it was about a waitress, and it was from the first person perspective, I assumed it was meant to be coming from him. Something about cigarettes, coffee, and some unspoken desire on her part (that, I thought was strange, and presumptuous, but I said nothing) I wish I remembered it better. At the time, it was something I did not care about. I was in emotional turmoil, I had left something else unfinished and I was about to return to my mother’s house with no plan, no future, and a backpack full of salt-stained clothes. What was this man to me? Just another in a surprisingly long series of people who had told me more about themselves than they would tell the average stranger. It is odd to me now that I was not phased by an impromptu recital in a yellow cab on the way to the airport. Now that I think about it, he was smoking. It wasn’t about cigarettes, definitely about a waitress. He was smoking the entire time. Cigarette and thin leathery arm dangling out the window as he lightly tapped the ash in to the street.