*16*

He had been on the street nearly all day. He began to get "love overexposure": too many brain-scans from too many strangers. His feet were starting to get sore. Too much standing and walking. The passing cars were beginning to fade into a background smear of drab metal.

The gnawing wouldn't go away. The whole middle of his torso ached - it was an odd combination of hunger and sexual frustration. Bob walked down the street, aimless, empty, frustrated. The sea of love foamed and crashed around him; although tossed aside like a cork, his body carried him forward. Storefronts. Cleaners. Thrift shop. 7-Eleven. He closed one eye, raised the other eyebrow. He felt relieved to know that, no matter where you were, whatever your condition, you could always find a 7-Eleven. And the inside would always be the same: coffee, wrapped muffins, old hot dogs on a roller grill, magazines and two aisles of candy. Juice and beer in large glass-front refrigerators. The familiarity comforted him.

A church. Apartments. Cars passing. A boy on the sidewalk riding a small bicycle. Bob leaned to one zig, the little boy hesitated one way, then went the zag to avoid him. The sun was setting; the mountains drifted toward sienna. Bob continued to walk, his eyes fixed on the shadows playing across the peaks: the colors building, rising to umbers and oranges. A cool breeze nipped the air. A pizza joint. Flowers.

Drifts of paper in the gutter, a small piece of metal on the grass. Discarded newspaper pages askew along the curb. I need protection, a respite from the noise, the city, he thought.

Across the street he spotted a junk store. Crossing the street, he found another familiar sight: a red sign with two columns of white boxes, Monday through Sunday, Open, Close. He glanced at the hours: open another hour, 'till 6:00 p.m. Inside, the extreme quiet was like exiting a dark movie theater into the bright afternoon sunlight, only in reverse. And with sound. The contrast to the street noise felt similar to when a long-running refrigerator suddenly turns off. Bob still had an echo, a residual from the clamoring traffic. It took his ears a few seconds to adjust.

The place smelled of old clothes and dust. But it was so quiet inside. Compared with the bustle on the street, it was dead silent. Bob felt all the weight and anxiety leave him. The room seemed filled with trinkets, things that people had once thought were important items worth saving. Bits of glass, tchotchkas, tin boxes, dishes, ceramic souvenirs and jewelry. Some of the stuff was just plain junk, but many items drew his attention: seascape oil paintings, old books with leather jackets -- many of the discards were probably the top of the line from a middle-class neighborhood in transition.

Bob browsed past the glassware. Intricately decorated vases, shot glasses, ashtrays. From the corner of his eye he spotted some movement; he glanced up to notice a petite woman sitting in the corner behind a display case. She evaded his glance, and he nodded. Old metal cereal boxes, squared-off cookie tins, thin scalloped jello molds.

In the corner, Bob spotted a one-of-a-kind piece: a copper or brass plate, something hand-made by an artist. They had taken a round piece of metal and, using an engraving tool with a spinning drill bit, engraved the whole piece with designs. It was cryptically floral, with spiral symmetrical shapes, balanced, intriguing and spiritual. It must have taken the artist at least a week to make this. Bob picked it up and flipped it over: on the back a small rectangular white sticker read $2.50. I'll buy it, just to forever remind me of this time and place. His brain linked forward in time... hang loose, Bob, you'll be okay eventually. Bob smiled at himself.

The woman at the register first thought him some kind of a crazy loon, then thought again. Flashes of brilliance, shopping malls, wrung-out souls, bad breaks and occasional flashes of profound insight. No, just an artist temporarily down on his luck. She half-smiled back.