LA -- a book from :B (Pt. XVI)

Nighttime drives through Beverly Hills have been fun, extraterrestrial, and the quiet before all of the insanity of the Sunset strip begins; and despite being already annoyed by it, to him it is incredible to now b here where the present level of extravagance is near to hand, celebrating itself, perpetually, when he was just in a place where the nearest point of interest were a good half-hour out, and those were nothing more than some rocks and streams. There he would take pictures, or, during a wasted night when he could not work and could not sleep, he would end up speaking to no one at the Western Reserve. Despite the signage, encouraging  him to adjust his expenditures, away from paint supplies and the scant fare, and towards experiences, luxury, and fine dining, the buildings, bars, and all else are little more than inadmissible to Anthony, save for that they allow him to witness. The whole world along that stretch of roadway is a thin film, past which lies nothing, although people of every variety enter and produce from the entryways.

Anthony drives comfortably with the driver side window down in February, an experience he never thought possible, and one that his body acclimates itself to readily. He wears a newly acquired shirt, a striped short sleeve button down, like the Beach Boys wore, boutiques being one of the few places, along with coffeeshops and libraries, where Anthony feels comfortable, as the experience is purely transactional. He finds a space for the Beast, and he finds that the meters are all off when he goes to pay, to his relief, because it solved the problem of the unknown movie’s running time and the meter’s 2-hour limit. These little stanchions with credit card readers are a de facto limiter on how artful a matinee can be if Anthony is to see it.Then, Anthony, with a longer walk before him than he needed to take had he known the area well enough to know what parking could be found on the streets nearer to the cinema, joins those people he passed in the car prowling along Sunset Boulevard. Fanfare has gathered beneath the area’s flashing lights to purchase the goods kept in designer bags, or designer fanny packs strapped across the chests of young men in hooded sweatshirts. The space between the passage of crowds is interspersed with signage, storefronts, ads, and clothing, some of which has made its way onto the bodies of passersby who, by virtue of their purchase, allow the ads to across the sidewalk and into cars. When he senses the undoing of his laces, and then feels their flap, he moves off the sidewalk to tie them and avoids the edges of handbags until, standing upright again where no shade of the CNN tower is cast in the night, he watches the fanfare passing before him, watches cars stuck awaiting a change of lights, the mystery of movements watched transpire dreamlike, like all the action that played out about the pool and the perimeter of the pool. All seeps past its confines, but his boots, with years accumulated throughout their structure, now feel better in the way they meet the sidewalk.