SDJ:10 - shoot an arrow; three purple nimbi; filling up the tank (April 10th)

4/10 -

As I'm walking out of a park towards a crosswalk, I see a bicyclist barreling toward me on my left.  I stop in my tracks in order for him to pass me cleanly, since we are on a thin trail.  He stops as well, so as not to hit me, and he looks annoyed.

"Sorry," I say.  "I stopped so you could go behind me."  

He isn't some hard-core cyclist.  He doesn't have a helmet on and is wearing street clothes.

"Do you know how to get to the bridge from here?" he asks.

"What, the Brooklyn Bridge?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says.

"Sorry, I don't know," I say.

"I'll be with people who are walking," he says.

"Then, yeah, the Brooklyn Bridge is what you'll want to take," I say.  In response to this, he makes a face that tells me, "Uh, yeah... I know that much."

"I think," he says, "I just go down Ontario, straight to the bridge."

"Is that a North-South street?" I ask.

"Yeah, it runs by the Starbucks down there," he says.

I'm trying to remember Ontario Street.  I feel like I should know these directions but can't seem to think straight.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, I just don't know," I say.

"Okay," he says.  "But do one thing for me.  If you go to Starbucks, get me a cinnamon roll."

"Okay," I respond, even though I'm pretty sure that I won't be doing that.

I'm starting to cross the street, when he continues.  "Oh, and one more thing.  If you call my apartment and the phone just rings, shoot an arrow and attach a post-it note."

Later -

My brother and I are at a wedding reception, sitting next to one another in chairs at a round table covered by a white tablecloth.  Everyone else from the table has gone to dance or mingle, and the table is full of scattered wine glasses and china with bits of food and cake.  We each are smoking pot out of bongs made of hand-blown glass in swirling colors.  Our Aunt walks by with the video camera, and films us for a moment before quickly moving on.

Now we sit in folding chairs upon a lawn enclosed by tall, lush, green shrubbery and a few skinny trees.  This foliage forms a 15-foot wall.  

A large-screen television mounted on a stand upon the lawn projects the video of the reception.  Most of the people - both onscreen and watching - are family-members.  The scene of my brother, myself, and the bongs flashes across the screen, and Tim and Thomas begin laughing and shouting. 

"Ohhh!  Caught on film!" says Tim.

Hanging against a wall of shrubbery is an enormous photograph from a previous wedding, taken right here in this very yard.  In it, three people stand completely immersed in the lush greenery of the grass at their feet and the bushes all around them.  Each stand separately; but all three are relatively close to the photographer and each one holds a lantern in their left hand that emits a nimbus of transparent, purple light.

The image is strikingly beautiful.  The lantern-bearing figures stand in stark contrast to all the greenery with their pale skin.  They all seem to challenge the viewer with penetrating gazes.  Somehow - maybe due to a slight movement by the photographer as the picture was taken - those three purple nimbi hover just slightly above the hands that hold the lanterns... above and to the left.

Earlier -

I'm at a gas station with Lewis and his son, who is now a toddler.  Lewis has me swipe the credit card at the pump while he holds the nozzle, but I keep punching something in incorrectly over the course of a long series of codes and questions prompted by the screen.  I can't believe how complicated this has become in the short time since I got rid of my car.

Finally, I get frustrated and tell Lewis that he is going to have to enter the info himself.  Lewis is fine with this.  He's enjoying his time with his boy and isn't going to allow my frustration to change that.

I walk across the street to another gas station.  Glancing back at Lewis, I'm startled to see him hosing down the area around the pump with gas as if he is watering a lawn.  What the hell is he doing?  

I yell across the street to him that he needs to stop - that he could cause an explosion; that this could kill both his son and him; and that - at the very least - he is running up quite a tab at the pump.

Lewis doesn't pay me any mind.  I watch anxiously as he casually sprays down most of the gas station before finally filling up his tank.  Then he gets back into the car with his son, drives across the street to the gas station where I am, and parks the car.