It was still warm when I drove south, and somewhere on the Agger Isthmus I pulled over at a scenic rest stop. A light breeze was flowing across the terrain. Into the landscape went a path, and I followed it until it vanished in the dunes. Then I took off my shoes. Down by the breakers, flocks of gulls. When they weren’t climbing the wind they stood frozen on the beach, gazing outward. Oddly abandoned and always on the lookout for a fish. After a while I pissed and went back to the car. There I sat, next to Route 181 southbound. The key in the ignition, the sunset, the night.

63

PERSHING SQUARE

64 65

THIS HEAT, NO PEACE. SEEN FROM THE HOTEL ROOM window, the palm trees tilt. Down in Pershing Square is a tower that someone’s erected, with a bright Christmas ornament at the top. At first she thought it was a bell tower, but the ornament can’t ring. The first evening, when the heat eased off, she walked guardedly down Grand Avenue. When she came to a cross street, someone yelled, “Hey girl, are you European?” and then she turned and went back to the hotel. She’s no girl any more, that’s obvious. But she is European, though how would he know? It might be her pale skin, but then she could just as easily be Canadian. Which wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

On the streets of downtown LA she sees all sorts. What they have in common are their faces, their gaits, and the shape of their limbs. But more than anything they share indifference. The insane and the addicted fill the avenues. If she should collapse, no one would notice. A middle-aged white woman, hands outstretched and pleading faintly, would be just another wretch downtown. The sun is blazing and she moves around slowly, a bit stiffly, sweating. I’m moving as if I’m one of them, she thinks, and then she returns to the hotel and lays herself down on the bed.