the bus stop bench, reflecting on how much the Port of Los Angeles was a great beast that devoured, digested and disgorged. At times it seemed as if nothing went on in the port; the laconic periods a time of rest, as if the entire beast paused to burp, and perhaps scratch. Then seconds later, the greater machinations would resume and, Mickey would see the small things he’d missed by attempting to examine the whole.
Like now. A cruise ship hove into view as it rounded the mass of warehouses on the Western sea wall. The ship had always been moving, but because he’d been concentrating so totally on the beast itself, he’d missed the detail of two-thousand souls returning from three days of fun, sun and over-indulgence along the coast of Encinada, Mexico.
Mickey sighed. He detested the details of a life, the patterns in movement, even the impulses that carried most people through their day. He detested them, because he knew them. Each and every person’s decisions, comments, futures, and desires were broadcast and Mickey Flaves was tuned in. He liked the beast that was the port because he could watch, and not know. He embraced the inherent privacy, keen to allow his eyes to feast, while his mind found solace in the silence of machine and momentum.
City Bus 544 stopped in front of him. Rattling and squeaking, the door shooshed open. Three Hispanic women trudged off toward the Hotel Puerto where they’d spend the day washing linens and dreaming of a better life.
Mickey focused his gaze on the ground near his feet and concentrated on self-editing. He had enough problems with his own life. He didn’t need to re-live everyone else's. Still, he’d been caught off guard by the beast, and now knew of Consuela and how her husband had beaten her the night before. He’d returned drunk from papas and beer. When she’d cursed him for wasting the family’s money, he’d stolen her breath with three left hooks to her stomach, the bruising hidden beneath an extra layer of clothing.
There’d been a time in Mickey’s life when he’d cared about such things. Once he would have delivered justice with a two-by-four. Once he would have become invested in the woman’s life, a flesh and blood guardian angel to watch over and prevent abuse.
But humanity was a different beast.
"Are you coming hon?" asked the driver.
Mickey didn't even answer. Instead, he backed away and began walking. The woman shook her head, closed the door and eased the bus forward. Mickey watched it depart, then refocused his gaze on the sidewalk beneath him. He didn't see the bus suddenly turn, plow through a Honda sedan and a Ford pickup, finally coming to rest against a metal fence. He didn't see her heart rupture, but he'd known it would happen. Seeing was overrated when you already knew the future.
Mickey plodded on. He glanced once again at the port, and let his gaze be drawn to a blue and white warehouse with Chinese writing, hundreds of nondescript containers piled five-high. Thirty-nine Chinese were inside of one, their fears transcending their voluminous incomprehensible thoughts. Mickey didn't have to speak Chinese to understand. Starvation. A hell of a way to die. They'd been there for five days, and each day they'd lost one of their own. Mickey could probably do something. He could get involved and save them. But he didn't want to. They were none of his business, so he edited them from his thoughts.
Two hours later, he'd walked the thirty blocks to The Spot. Without looking up, he entered the open front door and sidled up to the bar. He grabbed a napkin from the neat stack by the martini straws and placed it in front of him. He heard activity around him, but didn't dare try and see what it was. He didn't need to. They were the usual crowd of disabled longshoremen, crack-whore housewives, biker roughnecks, truckers in-between jobs, a pusher, and whatever tourist decided to slide into a bar that was made famous by the late, great, alcoholic beat poet Charles Bukowski.
Bartender Bill slid a martini onto the napkin, knocked twice on the bar to indicate it was a double, then snatched up a pad to mark down the drink. Mickey would pay his tab at the end of the month by allowing Bill to cash his disability check— as did most of the nooners.
Mickey hurled the drink down his parched throat, and pushed the empty glass forward. This one