Page 22

land to San Diego but never more than ten miles in from the coastline. I’m not sure which mastermind at central command dreamt up the jurisdiction boundaries. But, hey! It’s not in my fricking job description to get my feathers flapped up over that kind of horseshit. Anyway, I was looking to practice up a little before reporting to my new job, so I struck up a conversation with the street weirdo who was sitting on the bench next to mine. I had him pegged as a sex pervert right from the start. The kind that watches the female joggers and sneaks his hand down his pants. And he looked like he hadn’t been close to a razor in two weeks and his clothes were filthy and when I’d first sat down I thought I smelled marijuana. He said his name was Joe. For all I knew he was probably already in the computer, although for a pervert and doper he was reasonably coherent. I said to him, “Nice view of the lady joggers, wouldn’t you say?” “Yeah, sure, pal,” he answered but didn’t look at me. “Come here often?” “For a few years.” “You like it here?” I continued. 22

“Everybody likes it here—it’s the lake.”

The Metric Issue 08 - Literary Magazine