Closing Time

The night unfolds into the morning and the dance floor clears. In the last desperate moments they scrounge for the last pieces that have waited in the shadows. The last traces of alcohol now two hours aged since “Last Call”. The sad dark, hollow eyes looking for the special someone that found the door some hours before and is now resting peacefully. The pounding music is muffled by the deaf ear drums that have been beaten since the witching hour. In the last puffs of wispy stage smoke and stale tobacco, the music drops into a abrupt murmur and the usher of security corrals the herd to the early morning pavement.

Stumble on the pavement and meet the last bit of nighttime. With the gray haze of morning creeping into the veil of blackness above the white bulbs of street lights. It’s a jumble of city and I lay myself across the wheel and fumble to install the stereo face plate. Pawing at my face to determine the blood alcohol content and the feasibility of operating farm machinery and motorized vehicles and what not. Bass pulse still throbbing in my busted drums. Head resting sideways on the wheel, purring as the last of the club girls stumble back to their cars.

Okay... Headlights, Stereo, Action!!! Turn that puppy over and roll the jeep out into the city streets. The last of wayward bums are staggering down Market Street like bits of newspaper tossed by the wind. Others are sprawled across the doorways of the financial kingdom. I’m cruising along dodging whatever snoopers and blue and whites that might be trollin’ the dark corners. Making my way up Sutter and over to check out the girls on Geary. I turn down the volume to detract from the troll boats attention.

This is my favorite time of the city. Cruising the lanes in the first wee hours of morning. I could die out here and nobody would know or care. The tension of the patrol boats and drunkards, crookedness and evil looms in the adrenaline stored for such reserves. Slowing down to check out some beautiful girls hanging in a doorway off Post. It’s truly a Kodak moment as a BMW slides in to offer the poor girls a lift. Too bad I can’t leave my camera in my Jeep on the streets outside the Club. Yeah, right, like I need that kind of trouble. Clicking pictures of the girls at 5 am and what the hell is going to break loose? No...maybe not... and now it’s time to hover out to Van Ness and start my ascent to the bridge.

Maybe some breakfast at IHOP to soak up last night’s party? No...I’m doing okay...just crank up the jams a little and roll on out to the edge of tomorrow.

It’s the first crack of sunlight over the Golden Bridge. So fine...and it’s all mine. How many poor losers drive this bridge in the misery of commute? Without breathing a sigh of love for the beauty that attracts camera cad tourists from around the world? If my tires touch the bridge’s pavement I should but rejoice and give thanks to be alive in this place, at this time, on this planet. This fine morning I say those thanks. I breath the wind rushing through the open roof of my Jeep. I watch the first rays of sunrise creep over the bay. I am submerged in the beauty. I cruise on up North past the sleeping towns of Marin to my little mansion home.


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Copyright © 1996 to 2015 by W. Dire Wolff


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