It’s a hot one. That’s what I would probably say if I ran into someone I know: “It’s a hot one.” Probably close to a hundred degrees. I’m walking down Harbor Blvd to Blockbuster.
A little dehydrated. I should get a Gatorade at Arco.
My left nipple is a little sensitive. There’s a bump underneath. For the last week, I have been toying with the idea that I have male breast cancer. It’s probably just a swollen gland, but you never know. I had cancer once before. Malignant melanoma. Scary as hell. Is it normal to feel like you are dying all the time?
Last night, I got some late night pizza at “I-Gotcha-Pizza.” These two people in line behind me were like kissing and stuff and the guy was talking about his abs and the girl said, “What I love about you is that you are dedicated to working out.” And for some reason I felt like yelling out, “You are going to die someday!” Not sure why—I guess to try to put things in perspective.
It’s a hot one. As a skin cancer survivor, I have a love-hate relationship with the sun. I love the vitamin D. I hate the ultraviolet rays.
There’s the flea market. There’s the site of a future parking structure. I feel like redevelopment dollars would be better spent on re-opening the Fox Theater, but the restaurant owners have more money, and city council listens to money.
On the sidewalk under the train overpass someone has written, “Hi there.”
As I pass under the tracks, I am now entering the “Mexican” area of Fullerton. Why are cities segregated like this? It is the legacy of racist housing policies.
Arco is pretty sketchy. There are usually tweakers outside bumming change and cigarettes.
I pass a little bookstore I’ve never seen before, “Libros en Espanol.”
I pass the Women Infants and Children store.
I pass Lee’s Alignment.
I pass Denny’s. Mmmm. Denny’s.
There is a homeless guy with a guitar leaning against the Blockbuster wall. His face is all fucked up, and he’s only wearing one shoe. He’s playing a pretty depressing version of “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd.
Maybe it’s because I fell asleep before taking my anti-depressant last night, maybe it’s because of this homeless guy, but I feel like crying, and this feeling will follow me all the way home.
But, as I pass back under the train tracks, I think of a movie Christie told me about called “Pizza” and I laugh a little to myself. That Gatorade really hit the spot.
I pass a busser I know from Mulberry St.
“It’s a hot one,” I say.
“Si, Jesse,” he says.
