Bilocate — part five (room number countdown to jingo-time)

. . . continued from Bilocate — part four (the winged, the legged & the devoured between)

	The following room numbers were pic’d & jotted as an insomniac assignment of necessary distraction for disputable proof that I'd tour anywhere at all at the time:

6/27:

	Sometimes, a mule. This time, a dark horse, diminished — the kind ambling in pointless circles at a musical kiddie ride.

6/28:

	Rockfish capital of the world: Nape-tattoo bartender watches a National Pro Fastpitch competition.
 
"Are there drink specials?"

	"Yes. A Blue Motorcycle or a Long Island Iced Tea."

"What's a Blue Motorcycle?"

	"A Long Island Iced Tea that's blue."

	Go thirty years back to another blue motorcycle night: 

X'd with an absconded runaway who was blinked-&-gone from a sublet porch after tearing through an unfenced, electric mythical preserve — 

then, now-alone in-search, taking a soft corner too fast on smooth summer blacktop, side-sliding underneath to an idling stop, hopping back on with a broken clutch & throttling-off, stuck in chugging second, unaware of any other choices &, next, waking late, lain upon the altar of that afternoon to see a single tire tread track diagonally self-printed on a tan pant leg, ending with a roadmark smudge at the hip that never washed out & wholly came off as an exclamation mark from above.

6/29 & 6/30:

	A two-lane shortcut Dixie diner, empty inside except for three pensioners who civilly stand near the door, neither coming nor going —  first instinct says to leave, but the patriarchs are observing. 

Decide to order to-go.

"Can I get a sausage & egg biscuit?"
 
	"No biscuits. Toast." 

"Okay, toast." 

One senior asks where I'm from.

“NY — ” 

The grill suddenly stops sizzling. A spatula scrape pulls the brake.

“ — Upstate . . . “

The sandwich comes. The cook watches as I pull the bread back to add hot sauce. The sausage patty is a texture of the very essence of gloom, desiccated — as if it died many times. 

All take note in quiet judgment, felt like a murmur as the door closes behind.

I take a bite after I drive away, then put it down, both of us defeated yet rejoicing our escape.

	A supermarket advertising a buffet: past the steamed glass, rice and beans.

"Like to order?"

	"Yes. Rice and beans."

"There are no beans."

I look down at the beans. They're in the chafing dish directly next to the rice. The server looks down to the same place, then back at me, both of us at a loss, waiting.

I decide to agree with them, then leave with nothing, wondering which one of us is dreaming.

	Awaken hungry, looking like the trucker who'd slept in the same bed the night before, smelling of the selfsame truck stop bathroom cologne abandoned on the blanket pulled hesitantly close to a susceptible beard.

7/1 & 7/2:

The scowl strikes again before another declined barrel-roll.
	And wrecks —
	wrecks anywhere —
	on foot & trunk-to-lamps —
	some steal by 
	so close they can wave to each other
	from their own overturned grins —
	ultimately, compliant recreants, 
	genially growling as they pass.
A child approaches a bear. The bear is ashamed that it acts like a bear.

7/3:

	Pigs plot with the testy heat. Reactionaries defend their inborn hunt. The wistful embrace nostalgic brands. 

7/4:

	Register into a motel at 2PM: The desk clerk seems mildly angry & confused as if suddenly coming-to from an accidental nap. Checking to see if there's a clean room, he disappears briefly, then returns with a third-floor key card. 

The elevator doors open to a hallway littered with portioned sweepings, left in front of each room number like individual signatures of the previous. 

An older man, wearing a t-shirt with a logo from a different motel chain across the parking lot, comes into the hallway from one of the rooms to get something from the cleaners' cart. He stops & looks at me as if he's surprised & says "Hey. Where you been?"

I give a chin-up.

He squints his eyes & bows forward slightly & says "Oh, I thought you were someone else," then laughs & returns to the room.

5PM:

	Push the elevator button: Doors open.

The older man is inside. He says "I'm tired. Worked at the foundry for twenty-one years. Now I'm here."

He walks out as I get in & the elevator doors hush shut as another door is slammed somewhere down the reverb hallway.

7PM:

	Walk downtown: A sweet-rot death-scent breeze surrounds sidewalk dinner dates while territory nuts salute the conned, on feral holiday, full sleeved in the humidity. I take in a minor league toss-off, order fitting hot dogs & beers, then leave well-before an inappropriate display of jingo shrapnel flowers in the pitch dark abyss.

10PM:

	Inside the room: Argumentative voices grow beyond the door.

From the peephole, I fish-eye the desk clerk billowing like a balloon by the elevator. He says "What are you still doing here? It's ten o'clock. You were supposed to be done at six."

Outside of view, the older man replies with a higher, defensive timbre in a cloud of words.
 
The desk clerk waves his hands. Says "Finish up and leave. I'm tired."

The older man's muffled response fades as if he's yelling with a pillow pressed to his face while walking away.

I pull back from the door & swivel to face a window overlooking the turn-downed bed. Past the closed curtain, the sky rumbles a hmmmmmmm, replacing the dispute, wrangling over the gamey, strictly imaginative streets hallucinating their busy remains. 

It keeps me half-awake.

. . . read-on for further proof with Bilocate — part six (room number excursions in commemorative prophecy) & oneiric composition One . . .

	Well, at least that’s how I recall its meaning at the time . . .