You don’t seem like the LA type, he says, stretching his arm to rest it upon his window like a cowboy in a western. I stretch out my own arm and rest it the same way, but the plastic is too high and feels hard against the knob of my elbow. As he smokes a cigarette the smoke glows in the sunlight and drifts out the crack above the window in a thin sheet.

So you wondering how I know you’re from LA? he says.

I wasn’t really, but I tell him sure.

I saw the road maps in your backseat, he says. I hope you don’t mind I peered in.

No.

Sure, buddy. I could tell you’re an easy sort of guy. I knew you wouldn’t.

He puts a hand on my shoulder and even through my shirt his heavy palm feels moist and wet. He squeezes. As we drive towards the edge of town into the early slant of the foothills my body seems more relaxed than it has in a long time. As he waves at a passing driver, an old woman with a mound of white hair, I almost wave too.

Then he speaks without taking his eyes off the faded asphalt, That’s too bad for you.

What?

You know, that you come from Los Angeles.

I nod.

Fucking shithole if you ask me.

We pass a German shepherd rummaging through an overturned trash can. I tightly grip the plastic door handle.

Sure it is, I say.

Crime. Traffic. You don’t get that kind of idiocy up here.

No?

Not a bit.

He waits for something more.

Sounds great, I tell him.

So you like it down there?

I guess not.

He nods approvingly. You know I’m from San Bernardino originally, he says. Lived there, Riverside, San Pedro. You must know those places.

Yeah, I lie.

Too bad for you.

He slaps his thigh and leans forward laughing.

Yeah, shitholes both, he adds. San Pedro especially.

He looks at me like he wants me to say something about San Pedro, some special detail, and I try to think of names of avenues but my pulse beats beneath my wrist and I can’t think of anything. I slide up in my seat.

Yeah, I say. It’s a crappy place.

This seems to make him feel better, like I have helped him picture San Pedro in his mind. He talks about San Bernardino and Riverside and I tell him they suck too. He gets worked up. He fingers his damp bandanna off his forehead, then wipes the sweat off with the back of his hand and it comes away with drops of moisture glistening on the fine little hairs.