10-03-04 - 9:13 p.m.
this guy, he works in automotive, changing tires, and he's bald and tattooed everywhere, even the back of his neck- alana- and he uses words like "joint" and "shank" and he talks in rhymes and sings snippets of songs- oldies, classics...once it was "june is busting out all over" from carousel, and when you look into his weathered face you sense infinite wisdom and cunning danger behind the bravado, the bad biker facade. his stories involve owning a now defunct cab company in sacramento and a father who worked for murder incorporated in brooklyn. his silver ring says jesus- his belief in god is the fervent, zealous faith often born behind bars. he scares me, he intrigues me, and lately, in the breakroom and at the timeclock, he has begun to look at me with unabashed lust. he waits after work to shop with me in safeway and like a courtly gentleman, carries my bags to the car. "if i wanted you," he tells me, "i could have you. but KEEPING you...now that's the trick." he has hairless, diabetic cats who demand insulin. he drops where he drinks. he rides a harley. his car is immaculate. his fingernails are not. he calls me a sweet flower. "your mother," he told berries, "is a sweet flower. love her. respect her." coworkers call him a freak. last night in safeway, i told him he had more mileage than a used car. he was stuffing his mouth with mushrooms from the produce department.
"maybe" he agreed. "but baby, i'm a cadillac."