Crack the Spine - Issue 133

The meter maid came round every Tuesday and Friday, ahead of the street sweeper, handing out parking tickets. The barista shouted a warning when she could. Jon yelled, “Fuck,” mid-sentence, grabbed his keys off the table, and ran out the door.

Tom pulled out a Sharpie and drew a coffee cup on a page of the Bay Guardian and signed it so it would be worth a fortune after he died.

Curtis drew detailed plans for waste water systems in one of the journals kept on a shelf and instructions for making a paper butcher’s hat.

There was a spot in the floor that squished underfoot from dry rot. We had an unquenchable thirst. We were in love with the Ducatis lined up outside at the curb. Someone complained when Annie the dog grabbed a scone off a plate and someone complained when the Health Department issued a fine. Mostly we laughed. We thought we had time.

When Jon returned, he picked up where he’d left off: “Of course, DaVinci was the master.” No way he’d trust any gallery to represent him. That asshole Berggruen wouldn’t even pop for decent wine at his opening in ’93.

William screwed the lid on his thermos, folded the auto parts classifieds under his arm, and headed out in the 1965 white Volvo he called Pearl.