Why I Dream of Falling

 

“I remember the day the world ended.”

— Cheese the Blind

Nothing prepares you to grow older, which although still the best option, has left me with a bad case of shoulda-coulda: should have put away more money; could have done more; should have backpacked Europe; could have dreamt bigger; shoulda-coulda; lost loves, grand adventures, that indie album I never recorded, that winning number I never hit.  Age has left me weary, so the distinct echo of high heels hints at a dream from which I might never return. Yet something about her gate reminds me of a song stuck in my head, so I suspect her beauty might take my  breath away. One last time, says the younger me to the old man I have become. 

Depending on who you ask, I am either a detective, a bartender, or a poet. Or maybe just a has-been of all of the above.  I solved a couple big cases a decade or so ago, but not much of late.  I refuse to work divorce cases, so instead I bartend on-call at Bobby G’s. It’s become my office of sorts. Bobby G’s is a sports bar, but in Berkeley. So yes, it has many TVs, but also a piano in the corner, pictures of blues musicians lining the walls, and a fishbowl view of all the oddness on University Avenue.

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