Postmates made me bike all the way back to the bar before paying me out.

Another 5 miles.

To ‘return the item.’

Their GPS stalked me all the way there, to make sure.

Payout turned out decent, like $13, since the mileage was so bananas.

But now I was fucking beat, and people were raging their asses off in the Gayborhood.

Friday night.

I dismounted. Walked some.

Passed a club I’d never passed, MilkBoy, on 11th. Open side wall, house music pounding, muhfuckers dressed fancy turning up.

Veered onto the street to shimmy past a group of girls shimmering in glitter, taking up the whole sidewalk.

Stepped in a puddle of possibly vomit.

Rubbed my shoe on a pile of gravel, in a construction zone, going FUCK SHIT MOTHERFUCK.

Going Yeah yeah yeah, to the stares.

Plunked down on an elevated, sill-type platform of a vaguely financial-seeming building on Walnut, across the street from that Chipotle there.

Plugged in the earbuds, took out my notebook, and started transcribing what I’d meant to earlier, from Bolaño’s The Return (2010):

Summoning some ghostly courage, I told myself that if it was a dream, the best (and the only) thing I could do was to go on dreaming. From experience I know that trying to wrench yourself out of a nightmare is futile and simply adds pain to pain or terror to terror.

I’d just been interrupted by a fuccboi-ass-lookin bro rolling deep in a bro-crew rocking designer, hair slicked smelling sexy, who made me stop writing and remove an earbud to go Weed? Pointing at my rollie, before going Oh, never mind, and walking off when I said Nahh bruh, ’bacc-y—

So was already keyed up when, not five minutes nor a paragraph later, I got interrupted again.

“Bus?”

I looked up.

Einsteinian-looking old dude rocking a faded dad hat and baggy dress clothes. Carrying two trash bags full of what looked to be more clothes.

“Here? I dunno dude. I’m just sitting here,” making a show of holding my earbud outta my ear.

“So you’re not waiting for the bus.”

“I’m not waiting for the bus.”

“But a bus could come here,” he said, sorta to himself.

“A bus could,” I conceded.

He nodded. Started pacing, craning his neck down Walnut then coming back.

Right when I hit play again he approached again.

“You know, these buses. You never know with these buses.”

I stared at him. Looked around like Yo—whose mans is this?

“Oh. Excuse me,” he said. “Seymour.”

Like my indignation at him not letting me write JUST ONE FKNG SENTENCE before interrupting me again had been bc he hadn’t introduced himself.

“Sean,” I said.

I shook his hand.

“So tell me, Sean, what are you up to this evening? Night ride? Journaling?”

I closed my notebook.

“Working.”

“Working?”

“Delivering things. Food, mostly.”

“On that?” indicating my bike.

I nodded.

“Oof. Yeesh.”

“…”

“And you’re writing? What’re ya writing?”