Discoloration
Outside the elevators it caught my eye. A large mark spread across the floor in uneven curves and a splatter pattern. The fallen drink—whatever it was—had left the tile several shades whiter; it made me think of bleach, and the way my mother would pour it on our uniforms to remove the discoloration of everyday wear. But the black collar could not avoid it, and turned red and orange in uneven shades. The instructor pulled me aside one day and said my mother really oughtn’t use bleach; it’s ruined; and I need to buy another.
No. 151
Night Swim
The lifeguard closed the door to the hut, then latched it with the salt-rusted padlock. As he stepped on the wooden planks down to the cooling sand, he heard a brief scream that bounced off the surface of the water, half-muffled by the waves. Turning his head toward the horizon, he saw a family near the pier, bobbing in the water. Then a second scream.
He unlocked the hut, and used the radio to call in a possible distress situation. He flicked off his flip-flops, then raced down the sand toward the people. As he approached, a lifeguard UTV came racing towards him. Together they ran into the darkening water to pull the family of four out of the surf. The sun depressed beneath the horizon, orange flickers disappearing from the waves as the family coughed up saltwater.
No. 150
Early
The liquor store wouldn’t open for three hours. Up all night, he’d rather stay awake, ride the buzz, wait to allow himself to slip further into disinhibition. When he got home from the bar (last call), he needed another, but the ice box was empty. Poured them out a week ago as a fresh start. So he walked to the liquor store two blocks away, iron gate pulled in front of the glass doors, unlit Open sign taunting him.
Across the street a pair of mariachis, one carrying a violin, the other a bass guitar, rounded the corner and entered a coffee shop. He wondered if they, too, had been up all night, or if they carried any bottles of liquor to spill into the fresh coffee. His eyes refocused on a lamp post in front of the shop. Scrawled across it in charcoal was the phrase “Life is constant extortion.” He sighed and wondered how much time had passed.
No. 149
Exit
A group of partygoers approached us on the sidewalk, laughter and chatter filling the air. The casual warmth and guileless ease of drunkenness emanated from them. We skirted their path and circled around the grassy lawn with fallen palm fronds. Around the corner, moonlight illuminated a row of hedges high in the air. At its base, one of their friends stood, legs apart, relieving himself at the base of the fence line. He shivered, then pulled up his pants, dropped a can of beer, and raced down the sidewalk calling after them.
No. 148
Lot
The lot sloped up from the road, grasses and weeds growing between rocks lodged into the side of the mountain. Above it on either side stilt houses stood, accessible from a higher road. A faded for sale sign hung on the metal fence around the property. One of the ropes had frayed with the desert wind and broke off, so the sign rested at a slant. The remaining rope held taut, its strands bulging against each other with the force of gravity.
Upon the sign were two prices written in red ink, then scribbled over in black. A third, lower than the rest, was forced onto the edge, circled twice, and noted “final final price.”
No. 147
“Tow Me”
Abandoned car collects dust and tickets. Tail in the red the traffic cop noticed it, finally, after months of sitting idle. Nettles caked into the dirt. Around them passersby scrawled phrases, always from the car’s point-of-view, as if in its decay each felt moved to speak for it.
No. 146
Recycler
The man with the limp and his wife pulled their car along the curb, left it running, hazards on. Shuffling along he dragged a burlap sack behind him, its contents clinking against the bumps in the road. Flipping the tops up, he bent into the blue bins, digging around the plastic and cardboard, grabbing the glass and aluminum. Passing the material into his sack, the late sun reflected off a tin can and flashed into my eyes.
No. 145
Meeting
After the meeting two men waited in the lobby. There was much to say, and the air conditioning provided a respite. Outside the window the air shimmered; the asphalt itself seemed to steam. Another man entered the lobby, and with him a breath of arid desert air followed. This new man recognized one of the two, and asked, “Are you Greg?” The first shook his head. “No, but you’re Robert.”
No. 144
Flowers
Spencer stopped for flowers on his way to work. At the time he found this sensible; he had to go straight to the second date from his office, and, knowing rush hour, would feel pressured for time to stop after. As he pulled into the parking lot a realization hit him, and his stomach flipped upside down—he could not bear to bring the flowers into the office and set them on his desk. To field questions from his coworkers filled him with dread so that his cheeks turned red in anticipated embarrassment. No, he thought it better to leave them in his car.
There they sat baking in the heat. When he handed them to Jacqueline at the table, the petals had begun to wilt, and there were too few of them, having fallen off and littered the mats. He blushed when handing them to her and avoided her eyes, looking instead at the grey sidewalk. “I’m glad to see you again,” he said.
No. 143
Replacement
An apartment building in the neighborhood hired plumbers to redo the pipes. They came through and bisected the front lawn, then bisected the sections. From these narrow trenches they dug out the old, rusting pipes. As they pulled them out, the metal fractured under their touch. Metal flakes fell into the grass and became lost. The workers lined the old pipes along the side of the road. At the end of the day, job half-finished, they stuck metal spikes along the perimeter, then wrapped caution tape around each spike. The workers cut plastic water bottles in half and placed them like severed heads. As my dog walked past the upturned yard, he pleaded with his eyes to run in the dirt and dig the holes deeper.
No. 142
A Wait
The new bus stops had a staggered row of narrow seats. Still he felt awkward about using them, able-bodied and guilty for taking a moment of respite when he could otherwise stand. A woman with overflowing tote bags sat, bags at her feet, on the seat beside her, tumbling off of a rolling cart. He looked up at the arrival times. “Bus should be here,” he thought quickly, then pushed the thought aside. Across the street a man played on his phone while a dog finished off a fast food bag. Two teens on e-bikes rode in the street, yelling about the lack of space between cars. Behind him somebody overturned the trash can and dug through for empty bottles, filling their own sack with clinking glass. He turned the volume up on his headphones, then flicked his eyes back to the arrival chart.
No. 141
Hunting
Opening the hall closet to look for something—scanning the shelves top to bottom—towels and dry mops and dry erasers and extra detergent, baskets with expired medicines and bandaids, an extra bottle of sunscreen. Down below, a filing cabinet, some shoe boxes of photographs, and a collection of toothpaste tubes. A moment of pause while I attempt to remember what I needed, then I continue searching, hoping when I see it I will know.
No. 139
Swerve
His helmet skidded across the asphalt. The vintage jacket became scuffed as he rolled to a stop. Rocks along the sidewalk scratched the body of the bike, parallel marks running together. From his pockets landed his phone, a lighter, a pack of cigarettes, some spare coins, a pair of sunglasses (now cracked), a creased business card, and a lengthy receipt that floated away in the wind. Standing, he brushed desert dust off his jeans and pushed his finger through a new hole in the fabric, white threads marking the injury. Pulling it back, he saw a little blood on his finger, then put it in his mouth.
No. 137
Block Party
They strung lights from a balcony on the north side of the street to the fenceline running along the sidewalk of the south side. Someone knew someone who provided L.A. county barricades, placed at either end of the street. A rental van brought fold-up tables and chairs, placed them in the road, plastic table cloths secured with clips covering them. Then they arrived: his playhouse has their first show open in a month; her class’s comedy class wrapped last week; he arrived late and left early to finish sound mixing a feature; she teared up, thinking of her father figure who recently passed and would’ve enjoyed the party. They brought crockpots and sternos and aluminum trays full of pasta. Someone drew an extension cord and ran an air fryer for fresh garlic bread. A man in the balcony above brought his soundbar and played music. As the sun set and the stars appeared in the evening sky, the group lit up the street with lamps and the sound of chatter and music, which any stranger could notice from blocks away and come see the commotion.
No. 136
Vacation
Head to Florida: 24 hours. Mom and her sisters scheduled Grandpa’s funeral a month out. Booked a redeye. Flight delays at noon; again at three; wait long as I can bear. Get on a bus, then get told to take another bus. Go up the wrong escalator. TSA pulls twelve bags in front of me. Conveyor belt backs up, no room to move my bag through the X-ray. Head to the terminal. Stop for a water bottle—$7.99. Read a book. Flight delays. Flight delays again—now the connection is ruined. Won’t make the funeral. Cancel the flight. Wait to talk to the airline rep. Fill out a refund form. Return trip on the bus: a family gets on at the international terminal. They stand in the aisle. Bus rocks and sways, starts and stops. Feel regret for missing the flight. Bus u-turns at economy parking. Family’s son bends his neck, projectile vomits all over a stranger’s luggage. Rush past them and back to my truck, careful to step over the thick liquid.
No. 135
Resale
The dresser looked bulky as the two men struggled to carry it. Younger than me, they still needed to learn from experience. One walked backward, holding one hand along the bottom while the other clutched shut the drawers on the front. The one in the back, sweat breaking out on his forehead, kept both palms on the bottom. He wore flip flops, and, as he passed me, the base of the footwear caught on the upturned sidewalk, creasing it in a diagonal across the base. He stepped down and, unable to maneuver himself with the dresser, crushed the flip flop beneath his foot. He lost his balance for a moment, cursed under his breath, and readjusted the dresser in his hands. He instructed his friend to stop, and, lifting his leg, attempted to flatten the flip flop out and slip the knot between his toes again. This was a struggle, and he found it prudent to kick the flip flops off into the grass, choosing to walk barefoot down the dusty sidewalk to a destination I could not discern.
No. 134
Abscond
Eyes on the road: asphalt races under me at ninety miles an hour. Empty lanes on either side rise and fall with the rolling hills. Beyond the mountains the indigo sky lightens; a yellow haze barely emanating announces the morning. Cool night air whistles past, and the wind buffets the truck as we go through the pass. Desert expands in either direction. The openness and the emptiness embolden me. I press the gas pedal a little harder.
No. 133
Aftermath
On weekend mornings he drove out to the beach. The marine layer always hung overhead, but he didn’t mind; it was easier on the dog. Parked on the street the meters weren’t active ‘til noon. He got warm on the walk to the sand. Just past the canals, he smelled oil and burning plastic, then felt the air slightly warm. Down an alley he saw the remnants of a truck: black smoke tendrils rising into the sky, roof scorched, glass blown out across the pavement, embers smoldering in the bed, tailgate long ago removed.
He paused, looking around for a witness, someone else who could call the authorities. Instead, his dog pulled him down the sidewalk, eager to run. When they hit the sand, he unlatched the dog’s harness. It took off, kicking clouds of sand behind its stride, headlong into the mist until all he could see was its silhouette.
No. 132