get outta my town

She's driving down Broadway. It's foggy and misty and all around kind of suck and she feels like the Gorton's fisherman trying to steer her 1992 Stanza tugboat through the muck. She's keeping it starboard as she slices through the fog, blasting her Belly album and singing like a maniac. She's here for a knitting class because knitting is cool and it's what all of the hipsters are doing in Baltimore these days. They congregate at the Ottobar and sit there doing their K1 P2 K1 P2 dance while the dj bangs out their oh-so-fab 80s hits. They disappear to the elite underground sanctuary in Atomic Books to chat about socks and feminism and Franz Ferdinand. Of course, if you ask her, she's not really doing it for any of these reasons. The true secret of the Hipster is that you never, ever, admit to being one.

Anyways, she's driving past the Broadway Market, gettin' down to her fly Belly hits and singing her little chops off when she sees a YellowCab nestled by the curbside. She slows and steers her vessel to go around the bothersome car without another thought. Then she hears it.

Screeeeeeeech. Pop!

She instinctively brings her car to a stop, trying to figure out what the hell happened. She looks to the side of the car that was by the cab and sees that her once beautifully dumpy 1992 Champagne Stanza is now sporting a horrible gash into its passenger door and is missing a side window.

"Motherfucker!" She vents under her breath, then catches herself. She knows she has to go back to the cab now and check to see if everyone is ok, because that's what a good Buddhist does (f.y.i. EVERY hipster is pretty much a Buddhist or Agnostic or something other than Christian... because Christianity is really quite fin).

She walks over to the cab, whose roadside door looks like a delicately peeled banana colored sardine can. It is then that she is greeted by an extremely irate not to mention fat and tragically fashion devoid...oh, bad Buddhist girl and her boyfriend coming out of the cab door. The girl turns on her heels immediately to face her.

"How fast were you driving, lady?!! You could of killed him!" She turned her chub to lovingly cradle her shaken boyfriend.

Fabulous. she's wearing a Spongebob Squarepants shirt and she has a top-knot. Classic.

"I'm ok, Holly. Really I'-" his works quickly became suffocated in the folds of her breasts.

"No you're not! We need to get you to a hospital! How's your ankle...blah blah blah.

I can't believe this day is already crap and it's 10am. Right now I could be sipping organic coffee while chatting with Benjamin and working on knitting my yoga mat bag, instead of listening to Topknot and Capn' Whippedpants go mental over him opening his car door into the street.

Meanwhile, the Indian Cabby is phoning his boss trying to figure out whether he's to blame or going to lose his job or whatever. She feels the most sympathy for the Cabby, since he's obviously a slave to the man and scared out of his mind. She can't really think of who to call. Insurance Company? Mom? No way, Mom will just find some way to make this all a "you're still a little child and not at all grown up" lecture.

*******************************

It's odd how accidents, no matter how small, seem to make a person go on autopilot. After the Topknot Incident, she found that two hours had slipped by, like someone having a psychotic episode. She snapped back into the waking world to find herself down the street at The Daily Grind, sucking down a soy latte in a state of total catatonia. How long have I been sitting here? Hmmmrph. Headache. She brushed back a frizzled lock of hair that fell into her eye and looked around the place.

Thank god her shift was over. It was a Saturday, which means tourist central down at the Harbor. Not to mention it had blossomed from a nasty, rainy mess into one of the last pretty days of Summer. The kind that seems to have sunshine hanging on by a thread, struggling for every last breath of heat before Fall comes to stamp it out. It's that kind of cruel weather that is great for being outdoors and horrible for working retail.
Just as she's about to take her black apron off, a middle-aged man walks up and puts a book onto the counter. Great. Another once nerd turned Metrosexual. They're like nasty little Elvis Costello parasites. Ah. Milan Kundera and a free copy of Radar, all face-up for me to oggle and care. How sweet.
"Is this all for you today, Sir?"
"Yeah," he sighs, "I've got to get running. We're filming and I'm a half hour late."
Oh dear sweet god, he's one of those. He's just waiting for me to ask it. I'm not going to.
"Yeah, I'm working on The Wire. I promised myself I would never come down here on a Saturday, what with all the people down at the Aquarium, but I'm completely out of lit." Eeeew! He really just said that didn't he??? Lit! What a perv.
"It'll be thriteen seventy-five." He reaches out and pulls out his Platinum Visa card and smiles, benevolently.
She ignores him and taps his credit card on the register as she waits for the amount to clear.
Through the tapping he continues to stare at her, looking for any small trace of interest.
"Ingrid. That's a lovely name. It reminds me of Ingrid Bergman. Never heard that one before. Have you ever seen any of her works? Though most people think Casablanca is her best film, I'm rather parital to Stromboli myself. Have you ever seen Stromboli?"
"No." She hands him the pen to sign. Dear god I'm going to run out of here soooo fast.
"Oh. Pity. I suggest you rent it sometime."
She smiled indulgently at him and handed him his receipt along with his bag.
"I"ll just have to do that. Have a nice day, sir." This place is like poison.
He shot her a tres European, "Ciao," and walked out of the store, trying his best to look busy and suave at the same time. Ingrid tore off her apron and ran outside, dodging another onslaught of customers as the rushed the counter.

*******************************

Danger Danger! High Voltage! When we touch! When we kiss!

He's drumming out on the wheel of his Gremlin while singing in his head. He gets so into it sometimes that he completely missed red lights. He never notices until he's halfway through. Then, it all just became a matter of principle- it's better to keep driving then to stop halfway in an intersection and has to back up. It's acceptance of chaos that separates man from the llamas. Life is is much more exciting in his world.

His drag-strip of choice for the day is Rolling Road. He's trying to find the shortest way to get from home to Ellicott City to Fell's Point by way of this serpentine street. This new route was chosen today by his fool-proof method of inquiry- he pointed at a map of Catonsville today and this is where his grubby finger fell.

This is the way it's been for him ever since she left. Their once mutual apartment was like a torture room filled with memories: random art posters tacked on the wall, rose ylang-ylang perfume traces on the pillows, her tofu rotting in the refrigerator. Home was now a word that tattooed his brain with images of catacombs and tears. If it wasn't for the three months left on the rental contract, he'd escape.

It's best not to think of her. It's better to drink Cobra until you puke and watch porn with the guys. It's better to chow down on copious amounts of beef-laden chinese food and wear the same socks for four days. It's better to smoke as much as possible and listen to angry cock-rock. The kind she never let him listen to. So, here he is turning winding around, gulping air, screaming in his head and drummin' about.

************************************