I’m lost on Bundy. It’s an overcast sky with little holes in the clouds where the sun shines in like shots of lightning, and an upside down car seems serene, just laying there in the middle of a city.
“It sounds a lot like Danzig,” he says, “but only the first two records.”
He stumbles around my kitchen, in a brown leather jacket, with a hammer and sickle around his neck.
He walks into the corner of the stove. I hand him a bottle of vodka.
“I am Russian,” he says. He takes a long swig from the bottle.
She ate with her hands, with her long white nails, outside a lavanderia. The lavanderia shared its lot with a kabob stand. Men ate meat and played checkers. She pulled her lamb from its stick and chewed.
She was sick. She would wake in the night with pains in her side. She would sweat. She was hot, she would cry to the open window, to the sounds of drunks and ghetto-birds, and other noises which tickled her palms, like carpal tunnel, or gossip.
We drive around. We take the side streets and the alleys, and head South to where the Mexicans go. I slow down when we see a biker, or a bike chained to a tree.
“That’s not it,” he says, he keeps saying.
“He’s gone,” he says, “We won’t find him.”
“Let’s try,” I offer, “Just imagine we do.”
On the way to the hot springs, we stopped in Pleasant Valley. There was a plane, upside down in a field. A few people gathered around. There was a cop car and an ambulance parked on the grass. We walked up to the plane.