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actually reminded me of Art Alexikakis, complete with street junk circles shadowing around his big brown eyes.

He walked down to the corner to sit on the concrete planter block that I used to permanently park on during high school with guys EXACTLY like him to get a dread or buy a night's worth of something or watch the skaters or trip or bite my nails or talk to a friend or check out guys or wait for someone I was meeting after being early as usual or writing in my 3 ring binders without looking up at my surroundings but JUST listening. He looked right at me while I was thinking about that planter's history and he stared directly into my eyes, no fear or intimidation. I answered his x-ray glance with one of my own. He became in that moment, one of those landmark people.

Another day I was walking out of London Underground with a bag of patent leather heels towards the back alley courtyard area where kids, skaters and potheads like to hang out near the grass. I was looking for my parking place and he entered my vision halfway through my search right at the courtyard's stone benches where a couple guys were on skateboards and the hanger on girls in Docs batted their sexy, immature eyelashes at the boys with the dope. He was sitting with another guy who looked like a rat and they sat and smoked sulky cigarettes as I passed by in front of them.

We made eye contact first and then he announced, "You think that all I have time for is to sit here and stare at your legs all day. " I offered him a kind and slight smile for that one. In my car I was met with Scott Weiland singing, "I'm not dead and I'm not for sale". I imagined beautiful Scott Weiland in vinyl green pants singing about whatever he consistently trips on. I found myself looking in the rearview mirror, idling for awhile, and then finally driving home only half believing that I shouldn't go collecting strays and sob stories and fixer-up "needs work" projects.

I look for him now whenever I stroll down town. My peripheral antennae span the masses and sooner or later they usually find him in a quick moment that follows a strange little beat in my gut.

I want to follow him someday and find the hole he crawls into at night. I want to watch the girl with blue hair who hangs around him. I want to watch them trip over then own existence into the hole predestined for them in my head. Stumble him into my heart. Shoot him up. I would be his high, the hole where he could live, an end to fruitless fascination. I would line his hole with silver feathers.

I would place a poison detector and filtering system beneath his brain.

GREEDY FOR TASTE


Maya calls from Huntington Beach. I pull the phone under the covers with me and Jack sits up.

"I have a dream for you to analyze," she says.

"About?"

"It was the end of the world."


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