"Dis is ma table. I kin eat here." I was removing the shell from an egg when a rotten one sat down across from me. It was her again. The last time the Polish hag sat down at my kitchen table at the 'Y' was two weeks ago. Then she screamed, "Das table fo eating not to read books."
The hag wore a multicolored nightgown, so low it swept the floor. She carried a face only a witch could love with a nonstop mouth. Her last name had lots of w's and y's inside the thirteen later Polish name. My friend Tom told her to take another table.
To relax, I removed myself to my cell and felt thankful my new Target bottom pajamas had kept out the roaches and bed bugs. My scarred legs had time now to heal. I lay back and remembered better times. A time when I dated a Jewish Princess five years ago. Hag face vanished when I remembered Stella.
The Carlsbad Motel Six was where we had celebrated my seventieth birthday. My girl friend took the plunged and treated me to a weekend vacation in Carlsbad. I was the second man in her life. The first had driven off with an eighteen year old body and said good-by to the sixty one year old. Stella's forty seven year old marriage had many twists and turns, but now only depression and then anger took hold of her life.
I will never forget that early morning in August, when ripened figs and flowers adorn Southern California. Her lexis swept into Carlsbad about nine o'clock in the morning. I ordered up a king bed at the Motel Six. Across the street at Big John's Tip Top we satisfied our hungry stomachs with beacon and eggs. Oh yes, I forgot to tell you her name. Her name was Stella Bloomberg.
I carried here into the bridle sweet in room 206. I can remember being so excited. Her hazel eyes and gorgeous body made me fell like a king for a day. I threw off the bed cover and threw Shelly on the bed. I wished to play with my fish and not bring it in too fast.
We embraced and and soon our lips locked in a deadly grip like two spiders. She removed her black decorated blouse. I wished to go slow with this Jewish Princess. I spent the first hour touching and kissing her fingers and earlobes. I felt in heaven with my right hand locked just under her golden arches. I will leave the rest for another day.
Now the old hag forgotten, I took the Tijuana Trolley to the downtown library and got off at Market and Park Blvd. A few skateboarders also left and I decided to visit the Mission Cafe on J and 12th Street.I walked up Island Street and stumbled on an old Victorian house corner house. It stood out since newer apartments obliterated its serenity and hid it from public view.
It was one of those four story old Victorian ones. It had small red wooden panels cover it with columns and ornaments that put it into a class by itself. Stained windows covered the entrance that included a large porch area. The fortress had elegant black iron surrounding this mansion.
Above on the third level it read, 1886. The address read 485. For about ten minutes I just stood there and marveled at this beauty. I wondered who it had married all of these years and if they still lived and had stories to tell.
Then I strode into the Mission Cafe. It looked older than the old house. In fact, this two story dwelling had been moved a few times to take up residence on J Street. I walked inside and looked over the menu. I found out that three people had bought it and turned it over into a restaurant.
Most of the breakfast consisted of all types of pancakes, French toast, fruit bowls etc.
"I'll take the naked lady.", meaning plain regular pancakes
"What do you wish to drink?"
"Do you have green tea?"
She returned with a bowl of hot water with a drowning tea bag inside. While I waited for the bag to release its seeds, the waitress returned with three enormous pancakes. I sipped the bowl of its tea and began my adventure with the hot cakes. I had submerged them in maple syrup.
I read from old newspaper copies of sports stories and asked the waitress for a container. The rest I would save fir lunch. After my exit, my eyes locked into a small wooden commercial building. On the top rafter it read: Broom Factory. Now it served as a loft for artists. a loft for artists.
I continued to walk and avoid several homeless sleeping on the cement. One came out from a group of shrubs. Several tents shook while Ralph's baskets were removed for another day. A few clocks South was Petco Park's parking lot. The San Diego Padres would soon be belting homers over the wall. In the distance east were taller cranes building new apartments. Soon, East Village would resemble the Harbor District.
Again a herd of homeless entered the library as if it was post time at Del Mar's First Race. Soon the escalators were jammed with customers. At my table now were six of them belching, farting, and coughing. At least they can forget reality for a few hours and excite themselves with games and illicit girly films. A big mouth lady just threw her bag next to me. Her heavy fingers made the keyboard jump. She began to speak to computer number 502. Too bad her husband probably left her for a quieter one.
I have learned to filter out the crap at the downtown library and focus on the good. Soon, I will travel to the ninth floor and release the rest on my pancakes into my stomach.
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