I Smell Reefer

Last week, the St. Louis Post-Dispatch reported in a metro news brief that police had discovered an unmarked trailer full of marijuana containing approximately 1,000 pounds of marijuana parked near the corner of 10th and Martin Luther King in downtown St. Louis. Nobody has come forward to claim owership of the countraband, of course, and the story didn't say what led the police to the site. But it could have simply been the smell of that much weed. It's not uncommon to smell pot smoke on the streets of St. Louis. One day recently, however I smelled, the sweet aroma of unburned marijuana drifting from the vicinity an unmarked van parked on Pine Street, leading me now to suspect that the streets of downtown may be used as drop-off points for big-time dealers.

Up on the Roof

Rooftop statuary in St. Louis comes in a practical form. Home and business owners often enlist the help of plastic owls to ward off flocks of pigeons. You can see their silhouettes against the sky all over town. But I've noticed a couple of examples of another winged replica that graces the skyline here, too: storks. There are statues of storks on the chimney of Bevo Mill restaurant on Gravois and a more stylized, metal sculpture of the same bird on the rooftop of a 19th-Century residence on South Broadway near the corner of Chippewa.

Bow Wow Land: 18th and Delmar

Behind St. Nicholas Catholic Church, near the corner of 18th and Delmar, the two junkyard dogs wait behind the cyclone fence, anticipating the approach of the workers, one of whom pushes a heavy cart that rattles as it is wheeled across the crumbling asphalt. As they pass, the German Shepherds, the older male and the female with one drooping ear, begin frantically barking, running the length of their enclosure. They perform their ritual every week, exhibiting the same vigor and enthusiam: prancing, colliding, gnawing on each other's ruffs, until the workers turn the corner and disappear.

Buenos Dias

The Mexicans cluster together, steam rising from their breathes. A woman cloaked in a cheap blanket holds her baby to her breast. The men standing together silently, some wearing cowboy hats; en route, going somewhere or perhaps having only arrived. Hard to tell from the blank faces, the ghostly masks of future's past. Beside them on the sidewalk the sum of their worlds stuffed into old suitcases and frayed duffels, as if this were an undesignated bus stop, a transit point or terminal, this place outside 2911 Cherokee Street on a February morning, with the hand-painted sign out front that identified the shuttered business in an uneven scrawl as being the "EcNOmic ShOp."

Chouteau Avenue Viaduct No More

They're tearing down the old Chouteau Avenue viaduct that vaults over the railyards west of Grand. It's been around for about a century. Much of the area around the old bridge has already been altered. The Sanford & Sons junk store on the corner of Chouteau and Vandeventer was razed sometime back. On the other end of the span the Krey meat packing plant is also long gone, as is The Tastee Bread bakery. Taking the Manchester bus downtown as a kid, we would pass over the Chouteau viaduct and whiff the rank aroma of the slaughter house mixed with the sweet smells of fresh-baked bread.

"Is This Normal?"

After stopping us on Courtois, near the corner of Polk, Saturday night, the cop said: "Is this normal?" He was questioning why my girlfriend and I would be cruising east of South Broadway on a dead-end street at night down by the river. The question prompted both us to laugh, which in retrospect was the wrong response, of course.

I have could also asked him the same question, but I astutely cessed our situation and decided wisely to refrain. If I wanted to spend the night in jail, I could have parried his query by saying: "What are you doing down here officer, having a scoring free doughnuts, ripping off a boxcar full of TVs or just napping?"

He had been lurking on the railroad right-of-way with his headlights dimmed when he spotted us making a u-turn near the entrance to the grain elevators. With the squad car's red and blue emergency lights revolving, he asked for identification and continued his interrogation. What were doing down there?

Realizing that our laughter had upset his sensitive side, I told him we were just driving around after having dinner, making sure to address him as "officer" in a respectful and deferential manner "It's an interesting neighborhood," my girlfriend added.

"Why? There's nothing but hoosiers down here!"

We could have said that we were enjoying the ambiance of the Mississppi flood plain, or marveling at the early 19th-Century architecture of the district. Or I could have said it reminded me of home. But no answer we gave save one could have explained our deviant behavior.

Alison said: "We're both writers,"

Bank Job

The well-dressed woman exited the bank at Gravois and Jefferson Friday morning, removed her cashmere coat, unzipped her designer jeans, squatted on the sidewalk and took a piss. Finishing her business, she zipped up, donned her coat and quickly walked north on Jefferson, her head held high.

Hit and Run on Jefferson

It happened about eight o'clock Thursday morning in the blink of an eye. After darting into the street, the mutt didn't quite make it across Jefferson Avenue in rush hour traffic. Instead, the dog ran directly under the front wheel of a slow-moving car, whose driver, an elderly black woman, hit the brakes in time to stop her vehicle from rolling over the animal completely. The dog then managed to twist its body around, in one blurred motion, and run the opposite direction, almost getting hit a second time by a north-bound pickup truck. Last seeen, the mongrel was moving at full speed down a side street, running on three legs.

Bells of Amsterdam

The bells I remember from walking the streets of Amsterdam are not the tolling of the cathedral bells, but the tinkling of bicycle bells. Bells, bells, bells, bells, the tinkling of the bicycle bells, warning the stoned tourists of their impending approach. When crossing a street, pedestrians must take care to look six ways: first for harried bicyclists, then for streetcars and motor vehicles.

A Tale of Two Diners

I once almost appeared in a Hollywood movie that was shot in St. Louis back in 1989. The film, White Palace starring Susan Sarandon and James Spader, was based on a novel of the same name by ad-man-turned-novelist Glenn Savan. Sarandon played the character of a middle-aged waitress who works at a White Castle-like hamburger joint. Spader played the lustful ad man. Savan, the author, made a cameo appearance as a bum.

The production company used the diner at 18th and Olive, refitting it with fake turrets, which the owner of the business kept after the film crew left town. My role as a extra was to simply drive up and down Olive Street in my car to give the illusion that there was traffic downtown after dark. We drove back and forth for several hours, shooting and reshooting the scene, but that particular camera angle must have been cut in the editing.

Nowadays, Sarandon, one of Hollywood's most outspoken liberals, would be appalled at the window display at the restaurant: "God Bless America and President Bush."
The sign of patriotic support for the president has been enough to persuade me to eat lunch elsewhere, too.

Personally, I prefer Eat-Rite diner at the opposite end of downtown on Chouteau Avenue near the entrance to the long-closed MacAurthur Bridge. Eat-Rite never received a Hollywood makeover, but there is a sign on the the side of the building indicating its historic relationship to Route 66.

When I last dined there, a wet snow started to fall, the first of the season. The waitress, who looked more like somebody's grandmother than a Hollywood actress, left her station behind counter momentarily, opening the back door to gaze at the sky in wonder.

From a Distance

From the tony subdivision off Clayton Road, the train can be heard in the distance, its lonesome whistle coloring a misty morning with a sense of romantic longing. The distance softens the roar of the diesel engines and the blast of the air horn. The distance is the difference of where I grew up, when the house shook with each passing freight. The distance is measured in miles and time.

Numero Uno Sewer Lid

Most folks probably don't spend a helluva lot of time studying manhole covers, but walking the streets several hours a day affords me the opportunity. There are, of course, a variety of styles and designs of these functional pieces of the streetscape, which are used to cover different underground utilities. Moreover, these cast iron artifacts range in age, the oldest of which I've found to be in front of the DeMenil Mansion, the ante-bellum mansion at the foot of Cherokee Street in South St. Louis. The DeMenil sewer lid, true to its aristocratic surroundings, is designed in an intricate series of interlaced arcs. They don't make em like this anymore.

The Parrot in the Shop Window

I pass the same appliance store on Gravois every week on foot. But I forgot about the parrot in the appliance store window until reminded of our feathered friend by a co-worker; proof, again, that we all see what we choose to see and tune out much of everything else that surrounds us.

It Was the Best of Times, It Was the Worst of Times ...

The sign on the front of bar in the 1700 block of Olive Street reads: "The Hardtimes Lounge Where the Good Times Begin."

Smoke-Free Establishment

Liberty Candy and Tobacco on Martin Luther King near Tucker sells cigarettes both retail and wholesale. But, according to the sign on the front door,smoking is prohibited on the premises.

One-Way Conversations

You see them all over downtown, babbling to themselves or God or a departed loved one or their ex-wife in Indianapolis. No, they're not talking on their cell phones. They're talking, mumbling, shouting to anybody within earshot. Some speak in tongues. Others rave on street corners or while walking.

Ear Lobes Retooled

The guy on Tucker Boulevard this morning had tattoos all over his neck. But his ear lobes attracted my attention more. He didn't have any. In the places where his ear lobes should have been were silver-dollar size piercings, which were propped upon with plastic rings.

Cruising Missouri Avenue

The white chick cruised down Missouri Avenue in East St. Louis in a purple Caddy with a vinyl print top; pimpmobile extraordinaire. Everybody knew where she was coming from. Nobody knew where she was goin'. But there was trouble up ahead, waiting just around the corner. Sure as shit. A blind man could see it in his rearview mirror with his eyes closed at midnight.

Streets of Old Baldimar

Down Charles Street and up St. Paul,
winds carry the Cheasapeake's call,
as cello notes waft from windows of the music school hall.

Shadows in February

shadows of february loom long
at dusk and dawn,
casting silhouettes on walls of hovels and manses alike

Out of Order

Say what you will of the French, they at least believe in allowing a man to relieve himself in public without threat of being arrested for indecent exposure. Pissours are ubiquitious throughout Paris. St. Louis, which lauds itself for its French origins and is celebrating Mardi Gras this weekend, is another matter. The city fathers have made an exception to their normally repressed ways by spotting temporary urinals (called Johnny on the Spots in the U.S.) along the parade route, but after the fete they'll be hauled off, of course.

Moreover, the lack of public rest rooms is multiplied by the response of the private sector. Business owners and retailers often prohibit members of the public from using their facilities by simply putting an "out of order" sign on the door, when their is nothing wrong with the plumbing.

This leaves only one alternative: piss in the street.

Speaking of Coffee

The intersection of 18th and Chestnut always smell like coffee, at least in the mornings. The aroma must waft from either the White Palace sandwich shop or the nearby 7-11. Perhaps both.

Wind Tunnel

The spot on Locust Street, where it curves between the Shell Building and Christ Church Cathedral is the most windy point downtown. Each morning, the homeless trek down the street from the New Life Evagelistic Center and congregate at the rear of the cathedral. The Episcopalians must brew better coffee.

Defilers of the Public Domain

As loft dwellers increasingly flock downtown to their pricey digs, the sidewalks are becoming mine fields of dog shit.

Gaps

No, not the fancy clothing chain outlets. These gaps inhabit city traffic patterns. People who drive, which includes the vast majority of St. Louisans, rarely if ever notice these spaces. But walking down Grand or Gravois Avenues, pedestrians will encounter an odd silence on occasion. Sometimes minutes can expire before the next bunch of automobiles pass. During these gaps, its easy to imagine what the world sounded like before the invention of the internal combustion engine.

Wearing Her Heart on Her Ankle

The matronly, grey-haired woman stood patiently at the corner of 14th and Olive Monday morning waiting for the light to change. Everything about her appearance was pedestrian except for the tattoo of a heart that she had on her left ankle, which was surrounded by varicose veins.