Passing through the park a red orange feathering into grey tail squiggles after a squirrel perches on a "Ron Paul Revolution" sign. The squeaky bark of a Bichon hanging from a Honda CRV rings through the pines.
The sorely broken pungency of a refrigerator interior, not the moldy abandoned grime of a Frigidaire abandoned in an alley off Devonshire in Mission Hills but the ordinary unpealed onion, wrinkly peach, ziplock bag of fried rice and tofu, hoping it will not seep to tinge one quarter remaining half gallon fat free milk, melancholy soaks the dialogue of strangers sitting in the back bus seats facing one another.
"You headed for school?" asks the older man who has the height and headshape of Alan Arkin and a low creaking voice.
"No work," replies the younger. He recounts a one minute life story of wished I had-almost completed-still plan to... "Right now I am a mover."
"Moving is a good job. At least you stay active. Take care of your health and stay out of trouble because when a big break comes along if you're not healthy or you're in trouble, you won't be able to take advantage of it." Light tongue sticking to mouth roof ends the aphoristic exhaling.
A man with captain bars pinned to a camouflage hat crosses legs on the front seats, pulls a Binaca blast from his duffel and starts misting the surrounding sadness. He sprays the head, left-right shoulder, opens his mouth and takes it on the tonsils.
I blink at a pinch in my neck.
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