Pound of Blog: 2006

Thursday, April 27, 2006

El Camino

I see a guy in the parking lot at Lund's. Sun’s up–just. He takes off his shirt and balls it up for a toss behind the drivers seat. The seat is surrounded by a rusty El Camino with a brown oil cloth pulled down snug over the back. The El Camino is not a car or a truck. In-between and confused. Ever feel that way? The guy is thin and sun-darkened skin covers his sinewy arms. He flips his long brown hair back and hitches up his jeans. He’s ready for the day.

I’m standing across the street waiting for a stream of cars and mini-vans to drift by. I’m wearing a tie and I want to be the guy in the El Camino. Cruise to a small town. Maybe work at haying. Can you do that anymore? I would sleep in a town park and listen to the kids promenade in their cars until finally they, too, call it a day and silence creeps in. A couple of days or a month of this and I’d want to be somebody else.

Traffic clears and I cross the street. I’m still me, but I wonder about all the other people I have wanted to be. I see a successful, rich, man full of self confidence and I want to be him. I see an angry street kid who doesn’t even know who to be angry at, and I want to be him.

Throughout by boyhood I wanted to be an Indian. They weren’t called Native Americans then, just Indians. I longed to have that rich heritage and dark hair and skin. I imgined a triumph over prejudice by cunning and self assurance. I would overcome difficulties, but maintain my humanity. I would be respected and admired. That was a childhood fantasy. I can’t change my lineage.

Other imaginings are more real. I could be rich, I could be a construction worker, artist, teacher, poet, businessman, community leader. Yet on any given day which one would I be?

There are others I wouldn’t want to be. The guy who works the parking lot behind my building. He sits in the little red shack and collects dollars and quarters. In the morning he comes out of the back of Annie’s Parlour with a plastic coffee mug from Circle K or some such. He never looks at me and I have given up greeting him. In the winter he shovels paths along the parking lines so no-one will park askew. There used to be a guy who played keyboard in the red shack. He’s gone. This guy doesn’t do much of anything, and I don’t want to be him.

As for the other, sometimes I am them. I’m poet, artist, construction worker, lover, runner, businessman, father, community leader, friend, goof. Today I am wearing a tie so I am a businessman. Is who we are how we dress? Maybe its that easy.