Film Festival Waterville, ME

A woman reminding me of Redondo Beach takes me up in the rain, “Is this the Waterville Opera House?” I don’t know, I was wondering the same. “She’s with me,” she tells the girl at the ticket booth, nodding my way.

The streets are sweaty and the city aroused. Night traffic passes through my reflection in the window of Waterville Pizza House. I can see my lungs and heart giving life. I can see my father’s body slouched in the booth, cars going through it on their Friday night rides—streetlamps lit in it, workers walking in it, the American flag draped over it, and the menu lit up neon cafeteria style bringing a price to it—waiting for the greasy Maine food I’ve come to love: fish and chips and cups of tarter sauce with coleslaw. A phone rings and the greasy overweight cook makes slurs towards the wet streets and the walls with their strange feminine wreaths next to maps of the world. I go outside to eat my hot grease beneath an awning of the Language Center, out from the rain, and listen to moths that phlegm-like, congest streetlight. I can hear old style country music muffled behind a nearby wall, and think it might be a party hosted by some radical one. I walk toward the sound and come upon it outside a sports bar, windows crowded with gooey pink faces, where I hear a man yell, “I wanna young naked woman to swallow my load.” I think how I’ll always stay alone and walk circles around the city.