I get off the southbound track at Old Town San Diego
Station, which looks just like a toy train set under a glorious
Tijuana Christmas tree full of hidden goodies that I would
get arrested for playing in public with.
I climb a long set of stairs and begin to turn onto the main
drag, stopping to rest right behind a trio of foxy women in
mini sundresses snapping pictures of every random
surfer dude or seagull, gusts of air picking up slowly
until all three of their dresses fly upward over their heads,
their stunned screams catching my attention
and I proceed to lazily admire their multicolored bras
and panties.
they turn around to see only me standing
there and spying on their breezy lingerie fashion show;
all three of them give me six beautiful stink eyes
and as their husbands begin to appear from the bathroom around
the corner, I run like hell towards that little historic adobe
village overlooking the Pacific where I can hide behind
a parade of margaritas until they all disappear away from
that great prankster and outlaw wind that makes
fools of us all.
(Originally Published in The Mas Tequila Review)
Kevin Ridgeway