The following morning dense smog from Los Angeles crowns the nearby mountains. A sullen wind gusts through Cajon Pass into the North End, herding tumbleweeds down Fortieth Street. Birds fleeing the still-burning Devil Canyon fire fly over E Street. As icing on the cake, the heat is crucifying me in Pioneer Park. I hold the tambourine above my head and wail: “Purify the day. Give your money away.”
To no avail—the donations bucket contains ten cents, two Percocet tabs, an insulin ampule, and one “Vote Trump” campaign button.
My troubles don’t stop there. I have to pee so badly, I’m knock-kneed. I wish I were nearer to the downtown public library—I could use their restroom. All the homeless do.
I keep a lookout for Dalton and Cassidy. I don’t see the assholes. No sign of Sugar Child, either. However, the Christmas lights in the windows of El Pueblo restaurant are getting strange. Every other bulb, the green ones, not the red ones, are burning out. Six in the last hour. It’s how I’m marking the passage of time. When they’re all dead, I’ll quit for the day.
Like I’m not jittery enough, a nut job by the crosswalk—another graduate from Patton State—is watching me. I ignore him. But I keep picking up on his vibes.
Even in this heat he has a yellow anorak zipped to his neck. A makeshift cape of damaged Christmas tree ornaments covers his shoulders. At his feet is a suitcase, a discolored red cordovan valise. The final touch is the telltale bulge under his left armpit. Isn’t that cute—I’m not the only person packing a rod on E Street.
He sneaks glances at me, at the ratio of one glance every two minutes, a visual Morse code. The rest of the time, he’s scanning the street, nervously eyeing the gold tinsel garlands hanging from the palm trees.
Just when I’m about to lose it—I’ve got to take a piss—SWAT sirens ping-pong between Pioneer Park and the mall. The high-pitched squeals followed by two squad cars racing toward Sixth Street. As the police blow through the intersection, the nut job reaches under his anorak. He draws a .45 semi-automatic pistol.
The last green Christmas light fizzles out in El Pueblo. That’s my cue. Screw it. To hell with it. Enough of this foolishness. Everybody can fuck off. I’m calling it a day. I bend over to snatch the donations bucket. When I straighten up, the cops are gone. The nut job and his suitcase have vanished, too. And I’m glad, because I sincerely do not need anyone’s shit in my life right now.