Back at my original fruit stand, or at least where I’ve been for the past couple of months. I’ve been texting with Ulysses about Pedro and how neither of us are in his life anymore. He just popped into my head for some reason, and we were all once tight like brothers, but no more, thanks to Trump or the thin-skinned blue line.
It was 46° this morning when I left the building it finally feels like Autumn. Mike is going through stress with his beloved, who might be jerking him around and not in a good way. Mike called me up last night, and I could tell immediately that there was something wrong. His voice sounded so sad, but he put up a front like nothing was bothering him.
I felt bad for Mike, but also realized that this seemed to be a pattern, the third weekend in a row where the beloved has backed out of coming out 3000 miles. I was going to ask Bill if it would be possible or okay for Mike to come over on Saturday and spend the night and go back to his crib on Sunday, but talking to Mike today, everything seems to be okay, so the offer was not made. A nor’easter is expected Sunday into Monday, so it seems that my bicycle ride will be canceled, which does not make me happy at all.
And with the 46° weather this morning, it might be a harbinger of the weather to come, which could mean last weekend was my last bike ride for the year. No fanfare at all.
On the other side of the penitentiary prison bars, I’ve been talking to you this is about Pedro and how far he seems to have drifted away from us. Ulysses says he might be living in Utah, where he can exercise his Second Amendment rights until he runs out of ammunition
Though I wrote last night via typing on my computer, and it went well, it went fast. Here I am dictating once more. I can always type again another time, but I don’t really write this or post on weekends anymore, it’s on Monday through Friday thing.
End of dictation, typing now.
Well Mike seems to have forgiven his beloved, who has cancelled on him three weekends in a row. I can only guess that the beloved can hold Mike’s ardor for more than 15 minutes. Mike said he thinks his beloved has a side piece in San Francisco, where he resides.
The bliss of being naive has Mike enthralled. He started a new job in August and thinks he can take time off from his part-time position to fly out to California at the end of the year. And he does not have a REAL ID, which is needed.
As of May 7, 2025, state-issued driver’s licenses and IDs that are not REAL ID compliant are no longer accepted as valid forms of identification at airports. I know this since members of my family intended to fly out west, but none of them had the REAL I,D so no one went out west.
Mike seems to think otherwise, and I guess I’m not going to tell him. He’ll have to find out for himself. Bill did try to hook Mike up with the proper identification over the summer, but Mike dropped the ball again.
Sheila E. The Glamorous Life
Google Gemini rewrite as a Jack Kerouac essay
## FRUIT STAND RAGA
Back again at the **stand**, man, same old corner, same old apples, same beat-up crates holding the whole goddamn universe together for a couple of months now, maybe more, time’s a blur, you know? The **Autumn** chill’s finally got its hooks in, *whew*, **forty-six degrees** this morning and I felt it right in my bone marrow, the real thing, not that phony summer-hangover jazz. It’s the harbinger, the **cold whisper** promising snow and silence and the long sleep of the asphalt.
—
### ULYSSES AND THE GONE BROTHER
And the big question hangs over the whole shebang, a phantom smell of old coffee and lost youth: **Pedro**. Been texting Ulysses about him, the ghost brother, how we used to be **tight, man, like the coil of a watch spring**, three heads on the same pillow, and now… *poof*. Gone. Vanished into the high-desert air of **Utah**, Ulysses says, chasing some **Second Amendment dream** until his fingers get tired of pulling the trigger. It’s the **thin-skinned blue line** that did it, or maybe just the big, ugly, orange-haired shadow of **Trump** settling over the land, splitting everything decent. A goddamn shame. He just *popped* into my head, and the sadness hit me like a slow, dull trombone blast on a back alley street. No more **brotherhood**, just the lonely ping of a text message across a thousand miles.
—
### MIKE AND THE BELOVED LIES
And then there’s **Mike**. Poor, sweet Mike, always chasing the tail of a **lie disguised as love**. He called me last night, and I heard the **sadness in the silence** more than in his voice, even though he was trying to put up the old front, that flimsy cardboard shield that never holds up to the first punch. His **beloved**—that distant, shadowy figure, three thousand miles away—is **jerking him around** good, canceling, canceling, canceling. Three weekends in a row, man! It’s a **pattern**, a loop, a goddamn groove on a cracked record. The **bliss of the naive** has got him by the throat, this big, beautiful fool. He thinks he can just **forgive** and fly out, leave his new gig, like the whole country isn’t held together by a thread and a stack of forms.
I was gonna call Bill, see if Mike could crash, escape the city’s neon heartbreak for a night, but today, Mike’s all smiles, saying it’s **okay**. He **forgave** the beloved who he *knows* has a **side piece in San Francisco**. It’s the **fifteen-minute ardour** that keeps him coming back, I guess, that quick, bright flash of hope before the long, gray drag of the week.
And he’s talking about flying, man! Says he’s going out west at the end of the year, all **enthralled** with the idea, but he doesn’t have the **REAL ID**. The government’s new piece of paper, the one you need to get past the gate, past the uniformed squares, past the goddamn **penitentiary prison bars** of the airport. I know, my own folks couldn’t fly—**no REAL ID, no ticket out**. Mike thinks he’s special, thinks the rules don’t apply to his great love affair. Bill tried to help him, tried to get him the papers, but Mike, he just **dropped the ball again**. Let him find out, I say. Let him get to the check-in and get turned away, let the real, flat fact of the world slap him across the face. That’s the only way some cats learn.
—
### THE CANCELLED RIDE
And the **nor’easter** is coming, they say. **Sunday into Monday**, a big, wet, churning mess. That means the **bicycle ride** is off. **Canceled**. No fanfare. No final, blazing sprint down the highway, just the cold promise of rain and the **forty-six degrees** sinking deeper into the pavement. I hate it, man. I hate the arbitrary ending. Maybe that last ride *was* the last ride for the year, and I didn’t even know it. No big finish, just the quiet click of the gears and then… the end. The **silence of the winter machine** is already winding up.
Dictating this whole goddamn trip, just talking to the machine, letting the words rush out. I typed last night, and it was fast, a **holy, clean rush**. But today, it’s the voice, the quick breath of the spoken word. I can always type again. But the words, they gotta keep moving, **Monday through Friday**, the clockwork of the soul.
*End of dictation, hitting the keys now.*
The road is long, and the brothers are gone, and the beloved is a lie in a faraway city. All that’s left is the cold, and the stand, and the never-ending jazz of the street. What else is a guy supposed to do but keep going?