Real-life tonka trucks are mimis. They have fallen asleep into the night and are taking a break from doing their noisy fixes and cement lifting all day.
Their little friends the orange cones, make sure they keep them company and read them night stories about rambling cardboard-collector pick-up trucks, fog fairies and tranny tales. The tenderloin always has its soft side to it, and that could be a Monday night. Right when it is actually really nice and quiet, someone is yelling from across the street, letting you know they really need 28 cents. Two blocks after that someone just stormed into the bike lane, staring and cursing the people at the bus stop and seeing their imaginary unicorns with their collapsing rusty shopping cart and myriad of swinging old shopping bags used for storage.
A lanky teenager flicks a cigarette and it could land in anyone’s face.
And then there is always the daily drunk stumbling after your bike light thinking you are a cab. I didn’t see that tonite, but last week I encountered a happy drunk and he said that I wasn’t supposed to have a basket unless I was gonna go play basketball. oyyy….
I give him that. So stupid, I laughed.
I dig the piece on the loading-van. She looks over late-night bike riders roaming the streets.
OK, +that is a piece of my any-given Monday night.