i kicked a little plastic bottle down the street…

for a scant second, i wondered if it was a glass bottle, then remembered those things went away 25 years ago or something.
i kicked it, soccer-style (without too much of a dramatic follow-through) and it skitted off like a rocket.
it slide silently along the curb, more airborne than not.
decades melted for a few seconds.
it felt like i never stopped doing this, though i’m sure i did.
by the time it was lying still, i reached it and kicked it again, this time stopping my foot at the point of impact with no follow-through, like a draw shot on a pool table when the cueball freezes at the point of impact.
the poolhall reference came from forty years ago in a basement-located, sixteen-lane bowling alley with nine pool tables and one billiard table in my old neighborhood owned by proprietors ben, stella and their 40-year-old son who was obsessed with the size of a whales’ genetalia.
oy. life is creepy. i guess it’s always been creepy.
“creepy” belongs in my national park of favorite words. it would be found in low-lying, shadowy places where momentary blindness occurs when the eyes haven’t adjusted to going from brilliant sunlight to darkness.
literally or figuratively.
life is filled with those moments.
i was once running through a series of underground hallways located under the campus of columbia university pursuing guys who had just beaten and robbed a student upstairs from the room we were in.
maybe it was the chocolate mescaline (big, clear tabs with mesc mixed in with hershey’s cocoa), maybe it was the california blue barrels we ate as we entered the subway for the trip from brooklyn, maybe it was the red-lebanese brick of hash we had just smoked; but here we were chasing criminals through places we knew nothing about.
every 25 yards or so, there would be another door to open to proceed forward. after opening the third or fourth door, the two assailants stood – one of them, arm extended, holding a small, black handgun.
i stopped and stood before him in one of those shadowy places even though there was plenty of available light.
my hard drive assessed the information and when my eyes sent the clearly terrifying news, my brain instructed my mouth to announce, “he’s got a gun.”
which caused us to turn back in great haste, hoping not to become a kennedy.

but i digress.

i return to the plastic bottle. it’s a safer place.

on the third kick, the little plastic bottle landed by a sewer grating in front of my building. i was relieved that it didn’t fall through.
i’d never have gotten this pic.
i ran upstairs and got my camera.
it would never have gotten me thinking about vodka, which led me to think about petrolium products, specifically gasoline.

i mention this only because they are the most obvious examples of products maufactured and marketed for “brand loyalty.” – (linked here, something from october 2007)
no doubt, if there was a cigarette butt laying in the gutter next to that bottle, they’d also be on my list, but there wasn’t.
fortunately however, someone on facebook offered a photo of the new packaging for a brand of cigarettes that were part of my youth, L & M.
this in turned caused me to search my website for a note i had written long ago, reminding me that the first year of writing here died with the website when it inexplicably, digitally decomposed.
fortunately, back then, i would cut and paste everything i wrote and post it on “myspace.” (remember when myspace mattered? when it was the facebook of its time? i’m fading away from all of it, i think. i’m beginning to not go to FB every day)
i’m not sure how you feel about this, but i’m going to sneak this crap back here, one way or another.
hell, there’s a link above says i already did.

i wait for the shoe to drop.
any shoe will do.

About stephen trimboli

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