Then

An anaphora for the 90's

Photo by Martin Sanchez on Unsplash

Back when I was on the payroll at the Clean Conscience factory, and I could drop in randomly on a weekend evening after flaneuring around the East Bay and pick up a three hour shift, pick up a few dollars on commission to get me through because I could talk that talk that would get a loyal KPFA subscriber or a married businessman to reach for their wallet and I’d get through to the next day with a little scratch for the corner liquor store groceries and a dimebag lost somewhere in multi-pocketed hippie shorts.

Back when BART ran until 2:30 in the morning and if that didn’t pan out you could haggle for some basement space and a few blankets at the Food Not Bombs house on Aileen Street because you had just helped put together the bulk foods for an upcoming road trip you weren’t even going on.

Back when a couple of hot hands at the blackjack table and one smart short at the sports book meant an evening of pissing pocket change down the keno toilet but the margies were free all night long and a dimebag of blow found its way into your pocket and the cocktail waitress was willing to go share it with you as her shift ended at sunrise and you both climbed into that yellow cab, that fresh frosty margie still in your hand with the whole day of sweat beneath the baleful, ninety three degree eye of Sunrise manor ahead of you.

Back when silver spoon students on scholarship would literally come up to the desk during business hours and simply ask, “anything you need?”

Back when nobody cared about the twenty four strains of Alderpoint Blueberry drying out on bailing twine in the bedroom of the third roommate who never seemed to get their mail except for all the strange hippies and sometimes even strange hippie girls who would show up at the front door at odd hours asking to visit with the third roommate.

Back when I had no driver’s licence and the local union president looked me in the eye and said “I don’t think I heard your answer to the question so you’ll give me a call when you get back from Guerneville right?” as she handed me the keys to her car and then handed me the chief steward who I was most definitely supposed to leave in a backwoods compound with the word INPATIENT at the end of a long, winding driveway beneath redwood shade.