Eye eye aye. Aye aye, eye. Bye, aye eye.
“It doesn’t take fives. Hey. Hey. Wait. I can help you out.” Digging through pockets and pulling out change. “Hey! Don’t leave. I can help you out. Two tokens for that five. They’re good tokens. Here. Right here.”
Need to shout. Need to pound tables. Need to be the voice, the bold rhythm, the weave. The argue. The scream. The loud man, at the bar.
But, ah, not. Not today, anyway.
The sober—the stepping out, and the noise stripped. The darkness stripped. Stand and walk, the cold-air kiss-face. The steady beat of an electric guitar. The traffic sound. The people, all over, making noise.
Taking money from the machine. Wearing coat. Lost hat on the streetcar, wouldn’t open door to come back. Looked and he left. Looked left and right, again, crossed the street.