Venice let the warm soy oil support him. The gentle waves and sage smudge clouded his vision. His voice, no longer strong like when he stood on the corner of Haight and Ashbury warning crowds about global warming and genetically modified food, was barely audible, “3.14159, 2.71828, 1.41428… Numbers, I remember numbers, but not my own dreams.”
Venice squinted at his NotePad, checking that he heard correctly, “Nothing to worry about. Short-term memory failures are common for people like you.”
Venice tensed, sinking and splashing the golden liquid. He wipes the rainbow splashes from his glasses, “No need to be so sensitive. I was talking about people in their second century, not whatever oppressed minority you might identify with today.”
Venice relaxed and floated back to the surface, “Not just my dreams. I can’t remember my first … love.”
A flatbed truck, with New York plates, loaded with Rome apples, picked me up in western Mass. The smell of ripe apples reminded me of my mother’s apple pie, apple sauce, apple cider, apfelstrudel. The apple cider I shared with my cousin when we were eleven and both so curious about everything.
The truck driver was a teenager wearing jeans, a jacket, and no shirt, he used broom sticks to control the pedals. Two grey googly-eyes glued to a walnut shell covered with grey fur looked at me. “I’m going as far as New York, come aboard.”
New York was only another fifteen miles, but I didn’t care. He dropped me off …