I do not feel like yelling at the guy at the station that sold me gas, and I do not want the attendant to ask me why I have not yelled at them, so I do not return to my car but sit on the parking lot’s low cinder-block wall, chin on my palms. Across the blacktop, with its yellow clumps of brittle weeds pushing through asphalt cracks, is the diner. In the daylight I now see it is a shiny chrome color, built in the shape of a large trailer, and inside slanted sunlight outlines shadows over mostly empty booths. A back door is open, the sound of sizzling grease comes to my ears, and there is the sharp smell of burning hamburger patties, which makes me approach. But a woman sitting at the counter comes into view, and although I cannot see her face, it is possible that she is the woman I talked to last night. I do not want her to know I am not in Portland, Oregon, with some girlfriend. So I walk into the residential streets and try to keep in the shade of occasional trees—running from one patch of them to another—across hot bright sidewalks, just killing time. Through the warped screened porches, sometimes I can see that the owners have left their doors open. Something you would not see in my neighborhood.

A thick, sticky pollen seems to fall from the branches, whose leaves hang limp like algae. As I spoon frozen yogurt I bought at a convenience store, I carve white moons from the yellow pollen-covered surface. It leaves a dusty taste on my tongue. Sometimes kids run by me, always white and unattended by adults. Two girls with a bicycle trying to teach a boy how to ride it without training wheels. Two boys who stop me and ask for advice on baseball cards even though I am a stranger. One block in particular seems like a good place to live, and I find myself coming back to it. Behind the houses, farmland stretches out green and rolling. Wind catches and clatters a loose porch screen, tapping pleasantly. To live here it must be cheap. Mom could sleep by the front windows here, without worrying about any Johnny Guerro types; she could even sleep out on the porch on warm summer evenings. The stars would be visible and clear above the leafy treetops and the streets quiet and careless. There could not be too many jobs here, but anything beats her current job and surely houses could be bought for cheap. During the rest of the afternoon I wonder what kind of lives the people in these places must have, where the young people go at night.

Chapter Two

I