I had just sat down on Main Street, Huntington Beach to capture some son and think about my next blog for you, my customer. I bought a small 7/11 coffee and found a serene place on the round tiles of a water fountain beside the store. Across from me sat an amused Asian girl eating her second hot dog and sipping the remains of a large coke. She was not alone. A large black trash bag filled with cans and a large piece of luggage sat beside her. Two other street people spoke to her. She left dragging the bags down Main, probably headed to Albertsons to recycle her lute....But it was going on nine o'clock, and I needed to recycle my mind to make room for more stories. After all, if I am to o catch up with Charles Dickens, I better make hay.
Sunday morn, the #1 Orange County bus picked me up on P.C.H. at exactly six fifty. The day before, A Sabbath Day for me, I relaxed and slept-in with the knowledge that my three infected teeth had been buried in Beverly Hills the day before. A Dr. Ply on Wilshire and Robertson did the honors while the bus ambled on toward Newport Bay.
I had no idea that all of these molars had open roots. No wonder I felt made most of the time. It took four buses and a train ride to get there from Huntington Beach. The winds gust to sixty miles an hour as he took a needle to numb these bastard teeth of mine. The Novocain did not work. Dr. Ply worked as if he was just cutting a piece of meat in a butcher shop. He took a long one legged fork and two molars said good-by. The last one would not budge.
"Keep your legs still! Don't move your legs! demanded the young nurse.
Sweat rolled down my brow as he wiggled the fork back and forth. Finally it was over, And I still was alive.
"Here is some gauze. Hold it here. you may go."
"What no lolly-pop?"
My head felt like a punching bag. I took the elevator to the lobby and sat for awhile before going outside to howling winds.
The Mexican bus driver makes a left to go to the Newport Transit Station. A hoard of more Mexican climb aboard. They are the service workers of the South Bay. A few are asleep while others place make up and eye shadow on their faces They are all excited and I wish I were one of them. the only language spoken is Spanish. I dare say none of these folks are here legally, and who can blame them. For them, these are streets of Gold.
I am happy today. Mel is alive and walking at the Sea Cliff Health Center. And I kept him alive since he would have died without. me. The Royal Pacific Assistant Apartment would have killed him thru negligence. That was over two months ago when Mel came here half dead from the Huntington Hospital. Those who save one life have had a wonderful life, the words of Rabbi Carlback in San Diego.
The bus now rolled onto Laguna Niguel and onwards to Laguna Beach. I had ten dollars on me, enough for food and a two bus rides. I would not need eight of these dollars. Volleyball games were going on in Laguna as it was a bright sunny day. I removed one layer of clothing.
The bus proceeds to Dana Point and takes a turn. I steps on the Five Freeway for two stops and get off in San Clemente. The freeway is being worked on. It goes through a residential section, Ralphs market and the D.M.V. I am the lone one on the bus except for a lady with a shopping cart that hold her belongings.
This stop crosses the Metro Link Station where I get off at Pico. I never felt better in my life. I don't have the urgent need to pee. There is my coffee shop, across from the bus station, and a flowers shop that is beginning to open its petals. A few bikers peddle up to the coffee shop. Men, my age, in the prime of life enter the coffee shop. The sun feels good, real good.
"Take the coffee of the day."
"Fill to the top or you need room for half and half?"
"Filler up."
I sit by the window and look at the station. Rays of sun excite me. I remove another layer of cloth and again think about my brother. Why Jacob promised Mel an eye doctor to fit him with lenses in order to remove him to the hospice area of what I call the House of Wax.
I go to the station and notice that a Oceanside train will arrive ten minutes after two. I know that the conductor never checks for tickets on this last leg of the trip to Oceanside. The sun rays bounce of the ocean and make me sigh. The Metro slides into the station and I climb aboard. I have saved four dollars.
The train makes its last stop at the pier. A surging contest is going on and I wish to become one of these surfers .I think about buying a car for my brother Mel but am sure that my followers can contribute a few dollars by sending checks to the Sea Cliff Health Center, 18811, Florida Street Ca.92648 for Melvyn Garrett. (Not finished or edited.)
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