It was later, getting dark. He was standing in the street, though there is no standing still in nervetime. Standing still looks more like the thorazine shuffle to those in realtime. But there he was waiting there, moving to the beat of the snakes that are his nerves. His arms were full of gifts, broken things. Other freaks were started to gather there around him with their fragmented magical doodads, the things they wanted to trade and what they wanted to fix. Cause they knew that when the gang showed up, the psychedelic folk electricians would be ready to jam. They dug the parts up out of the coffee grounds, dusted their pieces off and prepared for the big Aqua 9 that was their calling sign.
He was beginning to wish he had left his bowling ball somewhere safe. It was his best, whole thing, an unchipped marbled 8-pound sphere. It was riding low in an empty stomach, grinding on the top of his hips. He thought it would come in handy. Maybe the C would let him into the backdoor of the alley later where he could bowl into the wee hours.
Someone shouted from down the street. Ragged tweakers with shopping carts wheeled down the street, appearing suddenly from alleys. He pivoted and let the momuntum of the bowling ball carry him in the direction of the shout. The clatter and the shouts and the noses rushed and pointed to the neon jamboree that started like a sexy horse made of vacuum tubes and clockwork. His excitement and anxiety threatened to shake his rickety frame apart as he stomped through the puddles of coffee in the street, rounding the corners toward the clamour.
That is when he knew what they could do if they would only listen to him. If he could get a word in edgewise to the electricians, he knew what kind of transformation could happen in the trash-strewn alleyway. They could take all their electronic and mechanical crap, along with his bowling ball, and make a giant pinball machine!