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Sleep Deprived
22 Short Stories of Austin: Keep Austin Weird—The People are Doing Their Part
19 Oct 2007, 13:51

In class, in biology, in San Marcos, the clique that sits in front of me and never has a conversation more than a degree away from the affects of alcohol, the desire for alcohol, and the self promise to obtain and consume more alcohol in the near future, spoke of their weekend trip to Austin.

"The people there are weeeeiiiiiird..."

"How so?"

"We were walking down 6th Street and this guy is walking around and he has this pan, right?, and he comes up to us and he says 'You want some fried eggs?' and there's fried eggs in the pan."

And I wanted to tap the girl on the shoulder and assure her that future trips to Austin would only build upon that experience.

"Welcome, friend, to Austin."

When I first moved to Austin—after living in my parent's house—after moving out and getting my own apartment—I knew this was the city in which Danny had to die. I called him, bought him a plane ticket, and assured him that if he gave me a weekend Austin could give him a home. And in a single evening, on a single walk, in less than two hours, we met Leslie complete with leather thong, breast implants and rubber chicken; a stage full of Rollergirls battling for beer money and selling tickets; seven different roof-top bands; a caravan of art cars lining the sidewalk of a barricaded street; the same barricade street—6th Street—swarming with throngs of the drunk, the lost, the insane, and the mesmerized and not a single fist fight. This wasn't Phoenix. It wasn't a holiday. It wasn't "abnormal," not for Austin. It was Friday night. We still had Saturday and Sunday.

After leaving the apartment and moving into the house that I do not own and can not afford, after losing the first hundred pounds, I found myself sampling clothing from my closet that had existed only as a forensic reminder of a past spent skinnier. For the first time since I bought the shirt from a headshop in Phoenix, when I was thirteen, with my mother, I put on my Led Zeppelin shirt. The one with the wizard and his staff and Zoso. I liked this shirt. I like this shirt. My wife and two children went to the grocery store and when I stepped out the man made eye contact. Far away and smiling and my Phoenix instinct kicked in and I made a move to avoid him, to steer around, to know where my wallet was, where the escape routes were, which of my children were expendable, what nearby blunt object I could use as a quick weapon. He was unavoidable and when we connected and he spoke and I braced myself for the ensuing conflict, he pointed at my shirt and said "I painted that. That shirt. I made the drawing. That and another one." Which he described. "The company only paid me for the drawings once " like $100 " and they've been making those shirts ever since."

I run. Trails when I can. When it isn't too hot. When it isn't raining. This summer it rained. Forty days and nights it rained. Eighteen inches in two hours at one point. Barton creek was a river, and I was determined to bodysurf the entire seven miles that ran through the Green Belt. I went without a shirt, an exposure both uncomfortable and frightening. My body and I are not on good terms. When I got to Gus Fru, a natural pool 4 miles east along the creek, I came into a large crowd of independently-gathered people. Families, teenagers, college students, geriatrics. And exposed boobies. Big, naked, sun-drenched boobies attached to a casual and relaxed body. This is average and legal attire in Austin, but whether my unfamiliarity with this level of casualness or my uncontrolled libido, I was mesmerized. Intrigued. Offended and pleased. Beside me people spoke among themselves. Around me children swam. In front of me utters swung. And between us ran the creek, and after a moment or two, on this creek, while I stood dumbfounded and fish-eyed, floated by an old man in the company of several other people of different ages. The man was tanned and soaked and leathered and stretched—a square foot of skin on six feet of body. They kayaked by, but not before the woman owning the breasts smiled, waved to the man, and said "hi, dad."

I walk to and from work. Five miles one way—Slaughter and Manchaca to Lamar and 71. The connection with the city that feet provides, that cars isolate and cut through, the experience is worth the sweat and the pain. I have been honked at, screamed at, spat at, threatened and propositioned. I love my walk. There is a black man, gold teeth, always dressed in blue, covered in chains, riding a BMX, he passes me on way to work daily. And each time he smiles and greets. As if he would do anything else. It was on the way home, though. It was about 10:20. It was pitch black I came up on the bus stop, went to walk behind it and behind the people that sat on the bench waiting. Two people. And as I approached, he looked at me and said.

He smiled conspiratorially.

"Hey there, werewolf," he growled. "It ain't no full moon."

He lifted his head to the sky and howled. Long and full.

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