Young Writers Society

Down the coast of California, where Santa Catalina looms in the distance as an apparition of escape that is inescapable, against the western ocean, if one were to search with the slightest esteem, they would have no trouble happening upon an inlet, grossly unanticipated, a secret to those who know it intimately enough, and a destination for those who wish to. Something of a “highway” for all means of transportation without internal combustion, yet dominated by bicycles, and those who ride them for recuperation, the inlet transits into a river of sorts, which flows inland (obviously), and dissipates eventually, so many miles northward, apparently yearning to return to that place from where it came. Flanked on either side by a bike path leading in opposite directions, paved and divided like streets, one destined for the ocean, to travel north along the soap-stained green waters of the Pacific, and the other destined for greater Los Angeles, to travel through the “suburbs” and ghettos of Santa Ana, and along bourgeois golf courses and “atheistic” billboards, the river feeds thick bushes, home to squirrels and such for ten miles in the direction of the latter, before facing extinction in the face of a causeway; a massive concrete drain, where skater-types on BMX bikes and skateboards perform little “jumps” off slight humps of concrete.

In turn, each path is flanked by separate stages of “development:” along the right trail, leading to the ocean, one will find dirt, then brush and dragonflies, then a slight strip of farmland, tilled and watered by the “undocumented,” an industrial complex, where water is desalinated as water was once turned into wine, and finally, the suburbs of Huntington Beach, sprawling for miles to the coast. In the opposite direction, more towards the Mojave Desert, and less towards the Sierra Nevada, green and brown brush hills roll for miles, dominated by “houses,” more like inadequate mansions, that with a strong enough rain, thankfully foreign to the region, would find themselves “slipping” and “sliding” in mud and chaos. Yet they sit there, astride of it all.

Now, due to my thorough description, it must come as no surprise that I am a “resident” of such a specific area. The greater periphery of the trail, such as the Mexican neighborhoods to the north, or the lavish, seaside homes along the coast, or the small communities of homeless, that claim small rows of space beneath the overpasses, which are passed by a steep decline of the trail, followed by the proverbial incline, are something of fiction to me. But more than the “President” must be familiar with the Oval Office, I know a stretch of the trail, along the right bank, three miles from the ocean, to its doorstep, and a right turn along the Talbert Marsh, in sight of the towering oil refinery, more, as they say, like the back of my hand. It could be said that I ride along in order to relax, but that implies I have something that bears upon me the need to relax. In reality, I ride more to cause action than anything, to find something novel, or moral, or sacred in a land saturated with flip-flops, sunshine, and blonde women. The first time I found this place, I knew that I would spend much, if not all, of my summer here; that I would find something.

But after the fact, the summer along this riverside has been disappointing: stubborn weight has not been lost, friends have not been seen, girls have not been kissed, and possums have been found dead on a more prolific average than ever. Yet at the same time: ducks have been watched, salt has been smelt, games have been played, and “Horses” has been sung at the top of my internal lungs. And if Columbus had only traveled 3,000 miles, only to turn around in desperation, it’s true that I would not be here today. So, strapped with an IPod rotating 250 legally-purchased songs, a wallet containing eight expendable dollars, and astride a black cruiser sporting a new seat, I set out again today, for an hour-long bike ride, to watch my last summer “disappear” and die.

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The first thing that struck me as I turned onto the trail is that apparently I chose to ride in the midst of what amounted to a dragonfly Woodstock. They swarmed everywhere, mainly towing the line between the paved trial, and the dirt off to the right, where the bushes must have hid their concert. I rode through, ditching and ducking and diving and drooping, for a mile they dominated, and obliterated any sense of sublime. In one instance, not a dragonfly, but a completely “foreign” creature, the size of a small humming bird, buzzing erect, like it had stood up and lifted off, without tilting, sporting pinchers reminiscent of a praying mantis, and black to the core, reflecting the midday sun, belligerently charged me from the Left. I believe the thing had a sincere intent on me; I believe I might have been its prey. But in any matter, I swerved, and felt it move air about my neck, and recede into the past. I looked up, and found an Asian man had witnessed the encounter, and like everybody else there, he exclaimed: “fucking bugs!” in a fit of respiration.

I tried to smile, but he moved past, working his ten speed. So I rode on. I passed and was passed, and mostly watched the water. An annoying thing is when I look, and see a small splash, as it is ending, and know that I had just missed an action, an event, maybe a “death,” or not, but I had missed something. Such a thing was of no limitation on this ride. Another thing that strikes me is the sheer “diversity” in which I live: all humans, of all colors, sexes, sizes, races, and ages, passing each other, without bother; is it evil for me to wonder that something may be wrong with such a picture? Not an issue of prejudice, just one of naturalistic observation. Beside the point, I saw many things, most familiar; I saw the sun sparkle on the water, and the sun shine in the sky, and the sun burn against the concrete; almost all familiar and trivial. And then I came to the turn at the marsh.

At the turn, there is a plot of dirt, enough for fifteen bikes to rest, a trashcan, and a sign, dictating what is (or isn’t) legal on the trail. Usually the hallmark of the end of a ride, of an experience, this transition served, opaquely, as a beginning. Obvious there stood what from a distance was just a shape, but from a closer vantage, turned into a bike, suffocating underneath garbage bags, the size of a Ford F150, hiding a “homeless” man; a vagabond. My IPod played “Free Money” as I passed. As my conscience, undoubtedly a product of my Christian upbringing (not saying that “non-believers” can’t have a conscience, or “morals,”) nagged at my ribs, and churned my stomach. I thought of the money in my pocket, and without a second thought I stopped and pulled over, and set the kickstand among the rocks and dirt.

I selected two dollars from my wallet, at first blindly selecting a five and a dollar, and then thinking twice. I strolled over, placing extra emphasis on the stroll. Money is never as precious, than when in the presence of one who truly needs it, not one who “wants” it; needs it. Two things struck me there: the first, more transient of the two, was the man’s companion, who he held like his lover, underneath him, as his only companion, was a dog, with black spots, pudgy, like a poor Dalmatian, that jumped at the sound of my voice (“excuse me sir, you look like you could use some cash”), in fear; something that I have never seen from a dog; I was struck. The second, more lasting, as the dog struck me like a flash of lightning, the man’s demeanor struck me like a thunderbolt, something that before the fact, I did not know existed (as thunder cannot be seen or felt, but I did). At first he scampered up, to compensate for the dog’s reaction, exclaiming, almost in irony: “I think I got him tied down, yes, that’s kind of you.” He walked over, perfectly healthy, though dirty, and in rags, a perfectly healthy man of fifty, though short.

What was so surprising, was how he spoke, and of what he spoke. He talked like a lawyer, like a “citizen,” like a man “educated,” though belatedly. He took my money, without intent, and began to ramble on about something he made no imperative to introduce me to. He talked, apparently, as I thought after the fact, of his experience as a beggar, specifically, about run-ins with the local police. He talked about “district attorneys” and “appellate courts” and “responsible citizens” and “those who have more than others” and “democracy?” I imagine that he must be part of the new poor, a result of recent history (that which I have no connection to), and before he must have been part of the mechanism he spoke of; he knew it better than I did, or anybody who passed all day must of. Ironically, as he spoke of responsible citizenry, nobody noticed him, something I have never been able to understand: how can you not notice a beggar? I seem to have an eye for them. Not an American skill. Eventually, he dismissed me, or let me go, or both, and I departed with the decorous “God bless you,” and he replied with much less enthusiasm; who can blame a poor man for not believing, or in his case, not having the time, or the full stomach, to “believe” in God.

For a split second, I wondered if my bike had been stolen, but it hadn’t, and I rode on, past the marsh, where seagulls and all manners of life interacted, where the tied brought in sustenance for creation, which I passed quickly, and turned right, through a gate, and onto a street that brings me, after five or six intersections, home. I rode along, passing and passed by cars, and street lights, and such, and came to a 7/11, which was my second-to-last destination.

I missed the bike ramp along the sidewalk, so I just walked the bike up the steps, and placed it at the top of the ramp, so I could have an easier time descending from the store, which must be some sort of “capitalistic” temple. I entered, made my way past the pornographic magazines (of course I peeked), and selected a plastic bottle of poison we all know and love as Pepsi. A big one too; but not the “biggest” one. I got in line (if one person could be considered a line), and paid what I believe was two dollars and thirty-seven cents, give or take, and since I was on my bike, asked for a bag. We had what must’ve been a “failure to communicate” because I received a brown bag, much like the ones I used to take my lunch to school in, when I ate lunch at school, without straps. I needed a plastic bag, with straps, since I was on my bike. But yet again, my Christian (over sympathy) conscience carried my steps right out of the door, without a second thought, and placed my behind onto my bike, and kicked the stand out from under it.

So I rode on, not struggling, as the bag caused friction, making it easy to hold the bottle against my left handle-bar, and steer with my right only. But what worried me was that I looked like one of those drinkers who place their bottle of scotch or whiskey or whatever in a brown bag, and immediately, from what I could tell on people’s faces, I looked like an underage bandit on the run. And what was waiting at the next intersection, in full view of my baggage? The old black-and-white citizen-gestapo. Of course. I acted cool, and crossed, like a good boy with something to hide, and rode on, thinking of the clear that I thought I was in. Out of nowhere, between the two intersections (the one I had just passed, and the next one, the last one before home), the colors came into my periphery, and passed me by, and pulled over about fifty feet ahead. The cop rolled down his window nearest me on the sidewalk, and I stopped, because I am a good boy, and before he said or did anything, flashed him my cargo, the Pepsi bottle, saying “I think you’ve seen too many movies officer.” I even called him officer, with total respect. Still, he told me to stop.

I got a small “fine” for being belligerent or disrespectful; I wasn't really listening.

My apologies, as I know this has been slightly anti-climactic. And I rode on home, played Call of Duty, drank my Pepsi, and "wrote" this story, with my IPod playing at my side and my dog barking at dogs barking outside my window. And I found nothing but a story to tell.

Find a ticket, win a lottery,

Scoop the pearls up from the sea

Cash them in and buy you all the things you need.

Every night before I rest my head

See those dollar bills go swirling 'round my bed.

I know they're stolen, but I don't feel bad.

I take that money, buy you things you never had.

Oh, baby, it would mean so much to me,

Baby, I know our troubles will be gone.

Oh, I know our troubles will be gone, goin' gone

If we dream, dream, dream for free.

And when we dream it, when we dream it, when we dream it,

Let's dream it, we'll dream it for free, free money,

Free money, free money, free money,

Free money, free money, free money,

Free money, free money, free money,

Free money, free money, free money,

Free money, free money, free money, free."