Age 16, Working the Pedal Printing Press at Rocky Mountain Seed Company In that building, time stood still

. Tha-rush tha-rush clink Tha-rush tha-rush clink. I am running the press, printing seed packets and I, of tuned in and zoned out mind, musically reciting poems of beat poets who had worked there: “Denver is the same” Tha-rush tha-rush clink 'The guy I was with” Tha-rush tha-rush clink “his uncle was the governor of Wyoming'” Tha-rush tha-rush clink. 'Course he paid me back' Tha-rush tha-rush clink “Ten Days” “Two Weeks” Tha-rush tha-rush clink “Stock and Joint.” Tha-rush tha-rush clink (My memorized Jack Kerouac;) "Art is good when it springs from necessity.” Tha-rush tha-rush clink “This kind of origin” Tha-rush tha-rush clink “is the guarantee of its value;” Tha-rush tha-rush clink “there is no other." Tha-rush tha-rush clink. (My memorized Neil Cassady;) “Every shadow has a name;” Tha-rush tha-rush clink “When I think of mine I moan,” Tha-rush tha-rush clink. “I hear rumors of such fame.” Tha-rush tha-rush clink, “Not for pride, but only shame,” Tha-rush tha-rush clink. “Shadow changes into bone.” Tha-rush tha-rush clink. (My memorized Allen Ginsburg.)

I go on this way for hours, when the break whistle for my floor finally blows. WOOOOOOOOOOT! I rush down the hollow wooden stairs clop clop clop clop clop clop clop clop clop clop clop clop appear there, in the storefront, as a car crashes into the building - EEEEEERRERRK! Boom! Time shifts then;

All of a sudden, eerie silence, all work stops. Everyone working halts to look. No one says a single word, breathes a single breath; I feel the sickening shift of time, of modern things colliding with the old Denver, with dusty, oily 1929, with the electric wire burning smoke, the plastic smoke, the car engine smoke colliding with the old sooty smoke of the seed filler, the old black smoke of the pedal printing press I operate the dust of old Denver, of exploded brick, settling around me I stare at the 1935 cash register, the gold plated glint swirling in the vertigo sun.

My pink hair singes with the contrast. The lady who has worked there for 70 years doing the books, says: “you're just like that useless Neil Cassady. You make mayhem happen here, just like he did” as she stares at my hair. Somehow, I am distressed as much as I am complemented. She has the seniority to break the silence.

Bang bang bang. The front door slams shut as the cryptkeeper-ancient owner goes to yell at the carcrash driver, wailing over his wrecked Audi.

Time shifts back as the adding machine begins to whir,

Click click click – click click click click and the seed filler slams to a start Bam... boom boom boom KABAM... whiiiiiiiiir the vibrato of the engine spilling smoke into the dust-thick air and my machine, still silent, as I stand there, stunned attempting to decide whether lunch is still a good idea, when the bookkeeper hollers down from the upstairs loft, “get going or get back to work. Nothin' to see there, girl”.

I feel sick again, with the shift back to 1929, to factory sound, the shift back to work resuming, and time settling back into its comfortable corner, me, still reeling. Like a girl stepping off a rollercoaster. My pink hair singes with the contrast.

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