December 7


The question to be had was when to begin. There in the cabinet rested the pint glass, right-side up, rinsed out and anticipating since the previous night’s final rite. No questions were to be had once the pint glass was full, full, full, full of his sour mix and stew. There was a beauty in this pint glass’s freedom, his unencumbering schedule: each morning’s bell rang at six, corner stores opened at nine, The Price is Right began at eleven, but this pint glass worked twenty-four seven.

Sometimes the cabinet would open at eight, sometimes two. Ice cubes were or were not made during final rite, a temperamental determiner of the future’s neatness. The kitchen was usually reshuffled come time to make space for the pint glass and an passage leading to the Maker’s Mark across the room, a clearing of Chinese take-out boxes and ice cream ephemera repositioned wherever, as it was usually too heavy to do anything except slide the bottle towards his well. It was usually too heavy to do anything except slide through the day. Slide across the floor. Slide into memories. Slide home. And slew.

The events preceding that one December 7th are clouded, a foggy cold overnight of pacing north-south on a roof perpendicular to a Divisadero St. glowing patiently underneath canopies of solar-timed mercury lights. Sunrise would destroy this moment. I squabbled drawing a vertical line towards the orange street below, I imagined the arc I could draw at each inch from the edge, I imagined the lone moment of impact punctuating the two places of silence I would travel through. I visualized the two pictures I would leave for a commuter’s sunrise.

The question to be had was when to begin. Where to begin the approach? Which direction to take? Would this be a red or grey sunrise?