Eva McDaniel

Special to the Mirror

Summertine...and the livin’s easy.

Time to wake up, the sun blinding you like a magnifying glass gleam in the sun.

Rubbing your eyes, you flick the TV on.

It’s a trial.

Something about Jack Nicholson.

He’s in the Santa Monica courthouse.

You figure you’ll stop by to check it out on your way to work.

Dressed in your chartreuse peasant top with the cute little bow that ties in front from Rampage.

You just die for that store;

and that snazzy Indian print dress you bought yourself at Lilith Fair last week.

You walk outside, basking in the rays of mother sun as she welcomes you with open arms, radiating with heat that she gives to you.

Better slap on some sunscreen.

You stroll down the road a ways before getting to a Big Blue Bus stop.

You sit down on the bench,

to the right of the seagull dung

and just far enough away from the homeless man to safely breathe through your nose.

The bus comes, driven by a Pakistani gentleman.

You smile politely but don’t say hi, and take a seat.

The woman next to you is speaking Japanese and makes you regret not taking that course in high school.

So much for eavesdropping.

The man next to her is wearing a turban but your eyes glaze over that and move on to look out the window.

the bus pulls away.

A young boy shifts in his seat to the left and away from the screaming child next to him.

A world-weary young girl hushes the baby and props it on top of her books.

She leans over to the boy, shaking him harshly.

"Really, Greg, you should take more responsibility. He’s your son, too."

They get off at the high school and you wonder whether Mrs. Candy

still teaches there.

The homeless man near you claims to be a prophet.

You smile and shake your head.

He hands you a pamphlet on hair loss treatments, carefully, like handling a religious scripture.

You smile, say thank you and put it underneath your seat.

He says he knows how to kill a man five different ways.

Well, imagine that, you realize that this bus stop looks as good as any to get off.

Bounding from the bus, you stroll down 3rd Street and look through the windows at Urban Outfitters.

A child with purple spiked hair approaches you and asks whether or not you’ve seen his grandma.

Poor thing.

Barnes and Noble looks crowded this morning, but you’re in no rush and walk inside.

A man plays the sax in front of the doorway and you kindly pass him by, flipping him a quarter.

"God bless you, miss," he croaks.

The crowd in front of him claps and roars as he wets his lips to squeak out another Police interpretation.

You hear the faint wails of a Korean gentleman

standing a foot away from you.

He belts out "Listen to What the Man Says" in a heavy Korean accent.

Mr. McCartney’s probably rolling over in his tofu, you think.

Forget Barnes and Noble. You’ve got places to go.

Walking down the Promenade you stop at a crossing.

To go to the pier, or not. That is the question.

Sighing, you wish the choice was up to you and storm off down the street’s crossing and find yourself at work again.

So you quickly find your apron and tie it around your waist, preparing to go

to work at your new restaurant job.

Maybe tomorrow you can go to the pier.

Maybe tomorrow Barnes and Noble will be less crowded.

Maybe tomorrow you’ll hear how the court case turned out.

You spot the purple haired boy walking his grandmother down the street.