Hobo Jungle
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San Diegan
Well, it's brew time, and I'm buyin' - not only did CTT like my stuff, thay asked for some more. A nice light moment in this day of (don't look, Tramp) FREAKIN' TA*ES.
San - I'll try the Testors; the Tenex is a capillary glue, but it doesn't make a mess - are you using the liquid or the tube...
San - I'll try the Testors; the Tenex is a capillary glue, but it doesn't make a mess - are you using the liquid or the tube...
Flirtin' with disaster...
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San Diegan
Tube. The liquid seems to crystalize on the surface of some plastics rather than meld disolved polystyrene together. And Dufus was using up most of the liquid type in the Idaho Gold (TM), so I could never depend on having any.
San
San
Last edited by San Diegan on Thu Mar 31, 2005 6:21 pm, edited 1 time in total.
I'm in.
A little after five, when Addison trudged down from his apartment, Kelly went three doors down to Welch’s for supper. It was an extravagance—$2.75; he’d have to get some action tonight. He sat at the counter and worked through the blue plate special—turkey pot pie with fries, pickled beets, and the free dessert, Indian pudding, though he’d never cared for it. Some foods were inexplicable—why had they ever become a tradition?—but he supposed memories could induce strange fondness and that everyone tasted things differently. Just once he wished he could feel what someone else felt, or what a cat felt, or even a firefly, or better, a bird. What it must be to fly like that. He’d flown in dreams and had been doing exercises lately to provoke lucid dreaming and hopefully end his nightmares. “Is this a dream?” he mumbled under his breath. “Am I dreaming?” He looked around the restaurant analyzing his surroundings to see if he was dreaming. The waitress glanced over; he shook his head to signal that he didn’t need anything. He continued analyzing. There was a table full of ancient crones eating early, chewing clumsily on loose dentures like masticating cows. That was definitely not a dream, but now the unusual question was entered into his subconscious and might be recalled when he was a sleep. Then he’d realize he was dreaming and could control his dream, do anything he wanted—fly!
A little after five, when Addison trudged down from his apartment, Kelly went three doors down to Welch’s for supper. It was an extravagance—$2.75; he’d have to get some action tonight. He sat at the counter and worked through the blue plate special—turkey pot pie with fries, pickled beets, and the free dessert, Indian pudding, though he’d never cared for it. Some foods were inexplicable—why had they ever become a tradition?—but he supposed memories could induce strange fondness and that everyone tasted things differently. Just once he wished he could feel what someone else felt, or what a cat felt, or even a firefly, or better, a bird. What it must be to fly like that. He’d flown in dreams and had been doing exercises lately to provoke lucid dreaming and hopefully end his nightmares. “Is this a dream?” he mumbled under his breath. “Am I dreaming?” He looked around the restaurant analyzing his surroundings to see if he was dreaming. The waitress glanced over; he shook his head to signal that he didn’t need anything. He continued analyzing. There was a table full of ancient crones eating early, chewing clumsily on loose dentures like masticating cows. That was definitely not a dream, but now the unusual question was entered into his subconscious and might be recalled when he was a sleep. Then he’d realize he was dreaming and could control his dream, do anything he wanted—fly!
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San Diegan
The dream started again, this time with the scent of coal smoke, of warm grease dripping from siderods, and a sensual hiss of escaping steam. The first staccato blast from the stack ripped through his ears, his brain, his being. Pure horsepower defined from a former era; one last hidden 5400-series machine that Mr. Perlman had not sent to the flames of damnation. Tons of coal were piled in the PT tender, and condensation created by the summer afternoon heat dripped from its sides. Rolling slowly forward toward a ballast-scorching destiny, the engine seemed to mouse switches in the engine yard. Could it be true - had a Hudson survived?...
Then, putting the beer aside, he again turned to the gruelling work of (don't LOOK, TRAMP) his freakinnnnnn' TAXES!
Anyway, it was fun while it lasted....
Then, putting the beer aside, he again turned to the gruelling work of (don't LOOK, TRAMP) his freakinnnnnn' TAXES!
Anyway, it was fun while it lasted....
Flirtin' with disaster...
The south end of Times Square looked wasted and chalky in the sun, the sidewalk filthy with litter and a thousand blackened lumps of gum. There was the usual angry honking of cabs, the construction of a skyscraper clanging in the hazy distance, the resonant hum from the subway grates. He stopped in the shadow of a building to watch a shell game set up on a cardboard box.
“Man, I can’t believe you so lucky!” said the dealer, compact and dark, handing over a wad of bills to a tall guy in a damp rumpled suit. The dealer’s hands were moving again, the veins popping in his tattooed arms, his sleeveless T-shirt wet from sweat. Watching his veins made Kelly want to inject.
“Where’s that little pea?”—the dealer’s voice a mantra. “Under one of three, but can you see? Can you follow me? Hands so fast, make you diz-zee.” A blur now. “Guess me, guess me, tell me, tell me, show me—now.”
The guy pointed, and the dealer lifted the walnut shell, the pea rolling out. “Winner!” More bills.
Another guy stopped and watched. A pale-gray suit and white socks with sandals—a foreigner. The rumpled suit won again. The foreigner wanted to try it for a twenty.
The rumpled suit shook his head. “You’ll have to wait, buddy. I’m on a streak.” He won again, punching his fist in the air. This time he laid out four twenties, turned to the foreigner. “You want in?”
The foreigner nodded curtly, added his twenty, took his jacket off and folded it carefully over his arm. Rumpled suit located the pea again, handed the foreigner two twenties. A win doubled your money. Both bills went in the pot. Rumpled guessed wrong. “Damn—sorry, buddy. You try this time.”
The shells were rearranged by the liquid hands; the foreigner hesitated, chose.
“Buddy, you got to watch the shell with the pea. Ignore the hands. It’s easy. Look how much I won.” He shuffled a bundle of bills. Kelly guessed only the top five were twenties.
The foreigner kept losing. He was shaking his head and sweating. Disbelief every time the shell turned up empty. He took out a linen handkerchief and blotted his forehead. Lost over three hundred in a matter of minutes.
Kelly moved closer and leaned toward him. “Hey.”
The dealer stood and threw an open hand into Kelly’s face, just grazing his nose. “You’re gone, man.”
“I was just—“
“You’re gone.” The hand extended again with the same speed as it had moved the shells.
There was a shrill whistle from down the block. The dealer and the rumpled suit were running within seconds, leaving everything but the money.
“Why do they run?” asked the foreigner.
“Cops,” said Kelly. “These guys have a lookout at the corner.”
“Police is coming?”
He nodded and began to move away.
“Tell me,” said the foreigner. “How does this one man guess always correctly?”
“At the end the pea isn’t under the shell.”
“How can this be?”
“It’s in the dealer’s hand.”
“This can not be!”
“Man, I can’t believe you so lucky!” said the dealer, compact and dark, handing over a wad of bills to a tall guy in a damp rumpled suit. The dealer’s hands were moving again, the veins popping in his tattooed arms, his sleeveless T-shirt wet from sweat. Watching his veins made Kelly want to inject.
“Where’s that little pea?”—the dealer’s voice a mantra. “Under one of three, but can you see? Can you follow me? Hands so fast, make you diz-zee.” A blur now. “Guess me, guess me, tell me, tell me, show me—now.”
The guy pointed, and the dealer lifted the walnut shell, the pea rolling out. “Winner!” More bills.
Another guy stopped and watched. A pale-gray suit and white socks with sandals—a foreigner. The rumpled suit won again. The foreigner wanted to try it for a twenty.
The rumpled suit shook his head. “You’ll have to wait, buddy. I’m on a streak.” He won again, punching his fist in the air. This time he laid out four twenties, turned to the foreigner. “You want in?”
The foreigner nodded curtly, added his twenty, took his jacket off and folded it carefully over his arm. Rumpled suit located the pea again, handed the foreigner two twenties. A win doubled your money. Both bills went in the pot. Rumpled guessed wrong. “Damn—sorry, buddy. You try this time.”
The shells were rearranged by the liquid hands; the foreigner hesitated, chose.
“Buddy, you got to watch the shell with the pea. Ignore the hands. It’s easy. Look how much I won.” He shuffled a bundle of bills. Kelly guessed only the top five were twenties.
The foreigner kept losing. He was shaking his head and sweating. Disbelief every time the shell turned up empty. He took out a linen handkerchief and blotted his forehead. Lost over three hundred in a matter of minutes.
Kelly moved closer and leaned toward him. “Hey.”
The dealer stood and threw an open hand into Kelly’s face, just grazing his nose. “You’re gone, man.”
“I was just—“
“You’re gone.” The hand extended again with the same speed as it had moved the shells.
There was a shrill whistle from down the block. The dealer and the rumpled suit were running within seconds, leaving everything but the money.
“Why do they run?” asked the foreigner.
“Cops,” said Kelly. “These guys have a lookout at the corner.”
“Police is coming?”
He nodded and began to move away.
“Tell me,” said the foreigner. “How does this one man guess always correctly?”
“At the end the pea isn’t under the shell.”
“How can this be?”
“It’s in the dealer’s hand.”
“This can not be!”
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San Diegan
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