Bald body builder with a titanium leg trolling around the streets of Long Beach with the sun in his face. Tells me to smile when I cross his path. Applauds when I obey.
Every unique, dispossessed, splintered (and in every case very likely schizophrenic) vagabond on the Metro-Blue Line. Including but not limited to the woman who will not protect Curious George, the old man from Washington St. in Arkansas, the gay street punk who kept telling himself his feet will "get cut by the nurses again," and the frustrated black woman who threatened to "cut that bitch (i.e. me)."
Bearded homeless man drinking from a 2-Liter bottle of Pepsi filled with clear water, highlighting in fluorescent yellow, a stack of documents in a manila folder.
Proto-1970s Californian home architecture.
Loud music in a small car.
Hanging out with Dad, who is now an uncle. Hello, Uncle Dad. I can't reciprocate your new found affection for me because you broke that part of my soul fifteen years ago.
Hanging out with an old flame, who is now a flamer. Hello, boyfriend of a boyfriend. I am curiously flattered by this news.
Hanging out with Mom, who is now my child. Hello, child mom. What do you want for dinner?
Hanging out with a New Yorker, who is now an Angeleno. Goodbye.
"I don't even have the gas to drive the car to get to the store that has the words I need to find for this conversation."
"Advance 200 feet and U-turn."
"Turn on your blinker."
"Your blinker's still on."