Usted ama estas máquinas. Estas máquinas son muertas: una ficción del amante
Warning! This story contains badly translated Spanish
I was riding down Figueroa street, rolling down a decent grade through Highland Park when I saw it, at the top of the Highland Strip. It was an old route 66 storefront, with 1940's vintage business signage painted directly onto the brick: US OFFICE MACHINE.
Let us be your typewriter repair center.
The paint was faded into varying shades of brown. Under the high-key flood of Santa Ana sunlight, everything was varying shades of brown, tan, and white. It was hot - a we-buy-in-bulk importation of the desert heat from across the mountains. On the bike, it was murder. I wanted to get home, retreat into my hillside hideout, before I photodegraded and was scattered in white boy pieces on the wind like a polyethylene grocery bag, little fragments of Anglo-GaelicIgloowhite Urban Biker Action Figureplastic, as white as the driven snow, drifting up against the curbs to be swept away by the next El Nino fueled rain, or a fortuitous fragment, maybe shaped like a stealth fighter or a pistol, could find a home as a toy-of-opportunity for some kid on a scooter.