Feature Photo by RustyGrey

July 15, 2019

If the train of tomorrow was at your feet you could never have a choice at impact. The daring stand, so be it they cry at your funeral. My father always said when it rains everyone gets wet. Then tell me why do the homeless wake up soaked? And the wealthy spread their umbrellas for wind to later distort it?

Sitting at a dive bar of uptown, so did the signage of desire for help. My nerves rising to the eyes of others who’d soon question me.

“How long have you lived in Port Avanti?

“Many decades – just call me a native,” but often having to share my story.

“Gotdamn this weather, right?”

“Yeah it’s Summertime – I know!” Often my gut response.

The drink would ponder to calm the honing eyes. Meanwhile my father’s longtime friend laying eyes on all the patrons who’d raise my blood pressure. Chala would speak loud enough to get the attention of drunken feet asserting themselves past us. My resting beast face could only relax me. In the newest city from within, it stretched from across a coast our ancestors ended a voided journey through. Soon a beacon built for an issue coming long over-due.




“Anu, how have you been boy?” Chala asked.

“Great – getting ready to get out the city. Got loses I don’t care to recoup,” I responded.

“Wait, what? Something happened?”

“You don’t keep up with the news huh?”

“Well, I’m not an internet guy,” he claimed.

Soon his eyes would tell the drunken story of how the exodus of Trenchport sorted the colors we could never tell. Often a similar reaction to the ways we’d dwell. It’s people being people.

After relieving myself at the stall, it was drink three that would settle my Vega nerve. For Chala, who by then was served on the house, enabled her the burning question.

“So, do you play a sport?”

“I did – enough of it,” looking away she kept her eyes on me. Obliterating the drink’s purpose.

“Tell me about the woman here. Sometimes I wish I would have stayed,” Chala whispered.

We both arrived at the same PAX terminal. Deem us immigrants but a form is all Port Avantians could term for us. He left immediately to Greenice – a small island way up north past the Labrador Sea. Fearing Trenchport authorities would come after him, his exit from our exodus painted a new story for how we’d live atop floating village rock.

“The bartender heard you,” I responded.

“What does she care?” Chala said.

She turned away from us after glaring at a gentleman outside the bar’s doorway. I noticed him kneel down before entering.

“Gosh – these guys have no respect, right? They just trash the places they sit at; thinking people are just going to help them,” she said.

Noticing him pocket his train pass, he must’ve come far. “A man can’t even have a beer around here,” Chala mumbled.

His feet dragging across the floor, she’d soon react with authority, “sir, there’s a wet floor sign there in case you didn’t notice.”

He then walked out. How wealthy can you be to mop on a rainy day? Yet business is business.

Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, Budd writes to encourage readers to explore the depths of their inner ocean, an unexplored self, because it's fun once you get through the emotional part... “The world around us is our vehicle, what you'll read is how I digest it.” -Budd

2 Comment on “Bourgeoisie I (Chapter I.3 Preview)

  1. Pingback: What Summer Should Write Like | @VehicleDigest.net

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