NorCal Gothic
Cowritten with coloredink
You wake up to the sound of rain. Excellent, you think. You roll over and go back to sleep with the sound of water pattering against the window echoing in your ears. In the morning, you step outside to sunny blue skies. The pavement is dry. Did you dream it? Did it happen?
You walk past an apartment with a FOR RENT sign advertising $1800 a month. When you walk past it going the other direction, 20 minutes later, the sign reads $2000. When you go back the next day, it’s gone.
You pass a vacant lot with a sign advertising a high-rise, mixed office use and luxury condos. You can’t remember what used to be there before. If anything used to be there before.
“I thought I was visiting California,” says the tourist, shivering, his pink knees exposed to the wind. "I didn’t think I’d need a jacket.“ You pity him. He doesn’t know about the fog. He doesn’t know to stay away from the fog. What lies in it.
Their speech is patterned with strange words. Everything is “hella chill.” You think that might be the case when hell freezes over. Then, one day, you start saying it too.
The bus announcements are in a language you don’t understand. To clarify meaning, the bus repeats its announcements in several more languages you don’t understand.
The bulk bins are all filled with quinoa. Pearl quinoa, black quinoa, red quinoa, tri-color quinoa. "I love quinoa,“ says the glassy-eyed white woman in the aisle beside you. "It’s so good for you.” She scoops herself two pounds. Everything in your shopping basket has turned into quinoa.
Diversity Day is held at the local high school. Every act is from Asia. You are not sure what diversity means. You clap anyway.
You are waiting for the bus. Google arrives. Google leaves. You are still waiting for your bus.
Apple makes an announcement: they are selling the iThing. Your coworker makes an announcement: they are selling their stock options.
BART is, in fact, not a person.
You are circling. You are looking for parking. You are circling. You are looking for parking. You are circling.
“We’re just coming up on the Maze here,” the news helicopter says. "It looks like there’s been an accident over on the right shoulder.” You don’t know where to look. There are so many shoulders.
You buy pesto from Trader Giotto’s and ma po tofu sauce from Trader Ming’s and frozen tamales from Trader Jose’s. Boy, that Trader Joe guy sure gets around. You wonder where he’ll go next.
The Prius in front of you slams on its brakes, and you slam on yours. The Prius behind you barely stops in time. A Prius rolls up on your right. A Prius rolls up on your left. Their windows are all tinted. They all have COEXIST stickers. You hold your breath and wait for the light to change.
You go to the supermarket. The fish stare at you. You stare back. In the background, you hear the sound of heavy knives chopping.
The Giants are victorious. There is a parade. Tall people do not feature in abundance. The city goes up in flames that night.
“I don’t know how I ended up here,” he says. He clutches his $4.50 fair trade organic artisan coffee. "I swore I’d never live in the Mission. But now my jeans are skinny, I own a collection of vintage records, and I’m hosting a bread-baking party next Saturday.“ He leans forward. His eyes are desperate, and his beard is magnificent. "You have to help me.”
The tea contains mostly milk, sugar, honey, and little round brown things. You are assured that the little round things are boba, not something else.
