It was very early in the morning and most of Venice Beach was still asleep. The only sounds were those of the ocean waves crashing and the raucous, echoing yells of a Homeless Man leaning into his stereotype as he held a spirited debate with a fire hydrant. The sun was already shining very white and bright and the wind was blowing in lightly from the Pacific, carrying with it just a hint of rot.
Gil stood on the fire escape, admiring the morning and the way the dew from the night still dampened the windows of people’s homes and left idle cars under a layer of freckled water. He thought of the chemical coating that protected cars’ paint jobs from wear and their metal from rust. Everything, he observed, must need that — a protective layer. He then wondered what his own protective coatings were and upon more self-reflection, his mind settled on several, he tried to imagine his life without them. The t
Overlooking the world around him, he inhaled the last remnants of his joint, and watched the Homeless Man below as he told the fire hydrant to go to hell, picked up his cardboard sign and lit a half-smoked cigarette.