Across cobbled rainy road i am alone in the vancouver night i draw closer one is a cardboard cutout of clint eastwood in a spaghetti western kit – poncho – flat wide brim – wide brimmed hat
Another a sculpture, weathered and supported, attached to the building in some manner. HIs get-up is classic hollywood western – stetson, chaps, boots with painted spurs. The whole sculptured man’s paint chips, rotting, revealing the manner of plaster or such he is constructed of. The creases of jeans and bend of elbow of checkered shirt, chipped and eroded as water drizzles settles in the crook and meets the fringe of the leather vest.
The 3rd stands naturally – somewhat slouched – the belly is larger, the shirt more like a sweater – the hat more expressive with a oft-colored trim setting out against the streams of light drifting through the mannequins, saddle, sawhorses, slogans and such not in the window. the middle one draws on a cigarette and exhales.
As for me, moving across a intersected choice of six options. Alternatives, and me loose , easy and baked, drift slightly south into irish heather – steadying, make way to conservatory room, far back. White painted bricks along one wall save for standard beer mirrors – Guinness, Kilkenny, Harp, Bass so on … Rest of room is irons and glass – the floor rough, raw alley cobble, old as the city – red-bricked and sloping here and there. the window behind me is cracked open but all are drafty, wooden and blue or green and all would be open in summerly times – now meditative dripping – needed cool air now. Perhaps one may enter direct from the mews – popping in to the midst of music or drafts from the courtyard behind after leaving lover or friend with a wave to disappear – I imagine the proper hat to wear. I am not sure. Long benches, wooden and freshly painted a blue which i want to call charlotte or to match a shirt i had in third grade if i can find the slide. tables are tiny with smaller stool as though expecting tiny folk.
Pipes and gas lamps confuse which is in and outside. As most times, i order a dark beer. Then a cocktail on the menu with absinthe. I ask as though aloof and tired with woolen coat, clunky leather shows, stitches fresh and hide pebbled, corduroys salvaged from a bad dream. I’ve earned a moment. The fellow with perfectly trimmed sideburns and uncommon tan brings cocktail. “Cheers!” he offers incidentally or instinctively.
Hi-ball glass w/ straw. Elvis Costello sings then Joni Mitchell, the Van Morrison. I don’t use the straw, drink from the rim, sweet, liquor pungent and smooth – I set it on the strongbow coaster. 2 couples and a table of 3 women all of all talking quickly and personally – i hear indiscretions, incidents and sentiments, apart from the miscellania.
I must be invisible again.