You might just have to release yourself onto the wet asphalt of University Avenue, where nobody fits and everyone is equal. They have nowhere to go, nowhere they came from and one-thousand places they’d rather be than hanging around down here looking for the next fix—whether they know it or not—doesn’t matter—whether they snort it or chase it or think it or drink it, if they use it abuse it, if they’re winning or losing—doesn’t matter. The rain is coming down and it’s perceived as equal, falling without prejudice on the whole black asphalt street.
There’s a young artistic entrepreneur with a goal in mind and that pressure in his step, that urgency, that that city-walk that successful people get; he’s got it and there’s no stopping him. He’s going to win. God’s plan, in the bag, quick, confident, he’s a true survivor of the jungle of capital. A loner. A rebel. He makes strong decisions, follows his gut, trades honestly and don’t take no bull no bribe from nobody. He’s somebody; agile, balanced and he carries himself with pride, conducts his life with modesty. He wears jeans just like everybody else, unpretentious shoes and a leather jacket he bought second hand.
The cops go by and he’s invisible, barely part of the riddle, as clear-bodied as any fleck of rain that succeeded in hammering itself without a doubt into the cold asphalt. They roll up to the intersection, look both ways and see no pain. They see an artist, maybe. Some girls are laughing. The moment is tragic. Nobody has anywhere to be. No one came from anywhere, there is no heroism, no artistry, no limit, no infinite meaning.
There is only Charles Steven Francis Halstead leaning on his cup of coffee like it’s the only thing in the world.
“Hello,” you say.
And you dive into his hollow ancient eyes that gleam and splinter as you enter. You’ve got no right to inquire and every reason to believe that’s okay. He came from West Virginia, south of the Shenandoah—Heaven on Earth, prettiest place alive—where he was born and raised in the footprints of Daniel Boon himself, who walked those solemn hills and declared them sovereign.
Said Charles, “That’s where I come from and that’s where I’m going, but for now I’m stuck here in this hellish myth, California!”
His beard is grey and he talks sideways. He looks you up, down and dead in the eyes, dancing around in the moment like it’s standing still. Charles Steven Francis Halstead, wearing a good hat in the driving rain, careless, in pain, walking—if the Lord so will it—back to from where he came, come hill after hill after hill, raging river or endless plain. He lives in his moccasins, his walking, his rhythm. Here and all along University Avenue people walk by and barely see him. Maybe fear him crazy. They don’t see an artist, they feel the rain, get cold and go inside.
But you unleash your wandering translucent self and all its synaptic senses onto University Avenue with the hope of finding something but you won’t ask for it, you just go. You step and step and step and let go at every intersection. You might be going in oblong circles but when you find yourself right back where you began—let go again. You let go of whatever clout you might be carrying in your wallet, in your infinite heart, in your witty little mind and you turn left, ending up solo in an alley admiring some cheap graffiti wondering, how did this happen? And then you let go again and run a stick along a fence. You emerge out onto the street and into the wind with the hypnotism of falling leaves emanating from your being. You use a smile as a greeting and freeze the moment where it’s at: A man is a man and he can’t help that. A street’s a street and cops have their job to do. Tonight is continuing cold and wet. You got feet so you step into a restaurant and wait it out.
