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Same Street, Different Story p.1

(written on Jan 21^st, 2006)

He hesitates briefly before crossing the busy intersection, and then again after he has reached the curb. The man raises his hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes from the sun while he turns to examine his surroundings and check the nearby street signs. After finding none within reading range, he turns around again and decides to continue down the street, towards the freeway overpass, and away from what he thinks might be Chinatown. The biggest clue is the temple on the corner, which hides neatly behind a large, decorative pagoda.

As the man slowly makes his way forward, he glances at a sign hanging on the chain link fence to his left. "State Property: No Dumping", the man reads out loud and shares a lighthearted laugh with no one. Immediately after, he notices a second sign hanging from the cement support beam of the overpass. "Wrong Way: Do Not Enter", he barely squeaks the words out as he gulps down a breath of nervous air.

Before stepping under the freeway, the man turns to look back at where he came from, searching the urban landscape for any recognizable landmark or business. Looking forward again, he sees that the sidewalk ahead of him soon becomes a tight corridor leading downward to a gaping, glowing tunnel. The man takes a deep breath, as if preparing for some kind of deep-sea submersion, and proceeds to step forward.

Trapped between an eight-foot high cement wall and a railing, he feels protected and confined at the same time. This duality of conflicting emotions excites him. It also makes him feel like vomiting. The man sees a passerby emerging from the tunnel, and considers asking for directions as he approaches. It is then that he fully realizes he has no idea where he is going.

The intimidating mouth of the tunnel regurgitates cars filled with people who, to him, all appear to know their destination. The man quickly and repeatedly jerks his head back and forth in order to catch a momentary glimpse of the passengers' faces as they fly by. He wonders where they are all going, and from where they are all coming.

Suddenly, a fluttering sound rips his focus to top of the building that rests above the tunnel entrance. The man watches as two birds taunt and flirt with each other atop the massive concrete structure. Before long they have flapped away, blending into the clouds, and leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Realizing he hasn't moved since he saw the pedestrian, the man starts walking again and soon reaches the tunnel entrance. To his left, a disgusting, fluid covered stairway leads up to the street, providing a last chance escape. The option was to back out now, or plunge forward into the architectural depths ahead of him. The man stood there, very still, staring forward for a long time before making his decision.

Same Street, Different Story p.2

(written on Jan 23^rd, 2006)

A few minutes pass before he becomes aware of the fact that the crosswalk light has turned green. He had been staring at the sky, admiring the clouds and the imaginary objects that they mimic. Crossing the street, he stops abruptly on the corner. Standing in front of a large temple, proudly marked by a three story, five-tier pagoda, the man arches his neck far back to examine the delicate architecture.

He enjoys its bright fall color scheme, and notes that the lush, tall grass surrounding it makes it more attractive. The man turns to continue down the street and is immediately approached by another human, asking for change. Although he has no money, the man stops to chat with his fellow pedestrian before moving towards the freeway overpass.

Moments later he finds himself standing before the large concrete pillar that holds up the freeway above him. The man stops to read the graffiti covered sign that hangs on the overpass, a hefty steel plaque scarred with chalk marks and decaying stickers. "George A. Posey Tube". It must be the name of the tunnel ahead, he assumes, and then reads the listed names of the chief and consulting engineers and the architect who built it.

As cars fly out from under the highway, the variety of vehicular shapes, sizes, and styles that appear steal his attention away from the sign as smoothly as a practiced pick pocket slips Gucci wallets out of unsuspecting business men's slacks. He moves underneath the overpass, and stands near the railing, placing his hands on the grimy, cold metal.

A good ten minutes pass by as the man loses himself in the constantly changing details of the sea of traffic in front of him. He compares the sounds he hears to that of the ocean, the panning engines becoming tides, their sound waves slapping against the shore-like sidewalk.

Turning around, the man takes his time, slowly moving down the street while paying close attention to the cement wall to his left. It is riddled with oval shaped windows and he counts them as he strolls. He observes that there are thirteen of them between each set of street lamps, and stops occasionally to glance through the wall at dust-covered baby strollers and shattered televisions.

Fragments of conversation between disgruntled transients can be heard, and the man finds his mind wandering upon thoughts of these invisible figures who push dirty shopping carts through an urban purgatory. Eventually, he reaches the sixth and final street lamp, which marks the end of the cement wall and the entrance to an under-water tunnel. Staring down the tunnel, the man sees no reachable end and smiles contently. What an ideal place to explore when one has so much free time, he thinks to himself as he steps into the tunnel.