The checkered black & white tiling I found on the floor in the building that housed the bar & grill I very soon came to call home is where the heart is, was a deliberate godsignal wet nosing instant karma and collateral serendipity into my general knowledge of floating bodies promising all things considered. The smallness of the quarters proved a little extra punch for this particularly ugly generation out and about without reproach just to prove its own mettle was worth the fight, and the wall to wall mirrors simply sealed the deal. I was infinitely psyched with inches to spare. I had done the math. This hole was a fantastic geological find, a cultural relic I could call my own. I stepped with awe and self-completed satisfaction into the deco bar for a drink. There was only one other patron, a suit, but it was almost four in the afternoon. Too late for the downtown lunch scene, too early for the happy hour crowd. While harboring a few clothing fetishes of my own, I had never begrudged anyone else their own, unlike many of the cultural soldiers I had witnessed over the ages. The bartender was a typical hipster with no place to go but up, so I immediately reckoned all things were panning just as I had planned. I was thirsty after miles of investigative trek, and owed myself a swallow. I figured I had enough money thanks to the two girls who'd considered this recent arrival into their lives their personal houseboy and made it their business to compete in dropping me loose change on occasion, and I played the role with sheer stamina. What I mean to say is I had enough money for perhaps one beer and some change to call the skinny TW, sweet blondie Sue, on the payphone, snag her at work, and have her come down this evening to observe, even spy on the Young Lions, and maybe, if playing the sentimental favorite is not exactly an exact science, get to call this our first date. . .
Sue was eager to ditch Gwenyth that night, eager to sneak on into the city for a sly noodle with the new kid Gwen had by sifted chance brought roaring into their lives. I had met Gwenyth twice in Atlanta when she was visiting her friend Kathleen whom I knew and gave ritual. Gwenyth was then living in backwoods Tennessee, teaching at some rural college, but had already made plans to ship off to DC to move in with an old friend from their mutual University of Georgia days. That friend was Betty Sue Hedrick, and Gwen gave me Sue's phone number at the Fairlington Apartments just off King Street in Arlington. At the time I thought little of it, but stuffed the number away in my self-organizing wallet, and continued to play the hands as they were dealt until suddenly here I was, on the road, passing right through Washington on the same timeline that I had once predicted to a middle Georgia civil engineer would carry me there. Sue and Gwenyth had been roommates not quite a year now, and when, while on the road I'd called from an interstate truckstop in North Carolina on my frazzled way to the Big Apple, hoping for a couple days of R&R in the Capital City, I had innocently moved far closer to my peculiar destiny than I'd ever realized with the few conscious pebbles I usually finger in any particular moment of galloping inertia based on the usual suspects of need and greed. Indeed, this would be our first date. DC SPACE. . .the lover's den and quarrel pit.
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The Scenewash Project 20003 It is
The Scenewash Project 20003 It is