This Was Supposed to Be the Last Day but There’s One More Day and There Aren’t Any Lights on the Sand Where I’m Standing

There’s a mannequin in the window of the Venice Beach Hostel getting ready to go out for the night and it is cold and it is windy on the boardwalk and it is so cold and all the transients have gone home for the night even though I don’t like the word transient and prefer almost anything like crackhead or nut job or ex-hippie or extra enthusiastic public monologuer but either way they’ve all gone home except the dedicated half-dead dreadlocked transients who have staked their claim and would prefer not to move their tarps.

The mannequin is ready now and heading down to the beer wine food across the street where almost no one speaks English or at least speaks it well or at least speaks it anymore they prefer yelling or snarling or preaching sometimes or rambling sometimes and rambling and rambling and never wondering why no one has stopped to listen because there is always someone stopped to listen or at least there is to them and I hear that counts.

And now the mannequin is drunk and laughing with a very tan man with a skateboard and a backpack and a lizard tattoo and an apartment up the block and a roommate out of town and an expensive bag and a cheap mattress on the floor but at least the floor is clean or at least looks clean or at least he knew he should make it look nice tonight although maybe it’s always that way.

The mannequin never smiles and never cries and never looks up as she walks stiff-legged back to the hostel passed me passed the rambling man passed the joggers in their leopard things passed the old couple with the matching hair passed me she makes her way back to the door to the stairs and she makes her way up to the room to the room and she makes herself still she lies so very still and her mannequin friends never question.

One response to “This Was Supposed to Be the Last Day but There’s One More Day and There Aren’t Any Lights on the Sand Where I’m Standing

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