Sign of the Times

She was short and sharp and shit to be around when she had somewhere better to be, which was always. We called her Jab on account of her always needling; she knew better than to fight that one. Sunday mornings she'd bike off her Scotch on the way to the BMX track, where she'd torch all comers.

I didn't even know I needed her until I heard she'd left for the bus station. With no time to lose, I climbed on my fixed-gear and sprinted downtown, up the on-ramp to the interstate. Blood pumped through my brain like breakbeats as I sluiced through traffic, barely making the median. Then, rung by rung, up the billboard ladder to the catwalk, where I uncapped the Krylon I'd use to leave my message. The ampersand in "J&B" morphed easily into an A; a simple "Stay" and I was done. I thought I saw her bus go by at dawn, just before the troopers escorted me to night court.

Only thanks I got was a blank card postmarked Nogales. Then and forever -- just out of my reach.

| Where Did Our Love Gogh?| Under Where?| Thank Heaven for Little Girls| Doing the Right Wrong Thing| Aw, Shoot| Submitted for Approval| Liar, Liar| All Night Long| Hello, Sailor| Sign of the Times| Queasy Rider| Tripping the Lights| Bar Fright| Circles of Love|