“Nobody can teach your grandma to suck eggs.”
“I know.” I said. Of course I knew, I tried when I was sixteen. Nevertheless I looked out of the window and let my eyes pour down onto the street, out onto the bay. I pictured myself surfing.
“So what do you want me to do about it?”
“I don't think it's that complex. I'm just looking for some standardized information, I thought this would be the place to find out.”
“But you're asking about something metaphysical. You aren't interested in the administrative districts recognized by law, or the actual geography of architecture.”
“Geoarchitecural analysis.” I corrected him.
“So what is it you want?”
“To know where the edge of the city is. I'm not asking about where the city finishes and outside of the city begins. But the actual edge. To visit the places on the map where the line is appears no different from any other potential point on the line, therefore it seems arbitary.”
“You're suggesting that borders are infinite?”
“What's the point in learning a different language if you don't have any social skills. Comprendez?”
“But you pass through this meridian as you leave the city. You must know what's not Los Angeles, if only for it to be another city, so maybe you should look at where Los Angeles isn't and begin walking until you re-enter the city.”
“Maybe.”
“Well maybe the area where the city is and isn't can be quite a large area. A mile deep ring on the fringes of Los Angeles, a place caught between two states.”
“Maybe if you organised borders to be gradients rather than lines? Different zones...different...vibes.” I noticed he had caught a constrained night dream onto his face via a large cut given in his sleep. Long fingernails.
“If you'd like to do that, you're free to.” he said.
“The thing is though...what's it matter?” I said leaning back.
“What do you mean?” he said.
“Why do I care where it is. It doesn't matter.”
“You're the one who wanted to know.”
“Yeah whatever.” I said.
I leave city hall with a buck in my pocket and rash on my hand. I'd already spent the morning deciding on definitions of Los Angeles, California and all I found out was less than I thought I knew. So I decided to walk north. I went through the city and over the hills, eventually reaching city limits. The mountains around me were steep and glowed orange. I continued until there was no trace of anything made and started walking back. The sun was beginning to rise on the Mojave desert and I went back through the scrub and hill, back hot with sweat, red from the sun, and my shoes were rags and my eyes were shot with blood. Each step I took was the end. The cars went past and the trees were small and I want to drink but there was was to go back. Not all of the houses and structures were part of it, but they were a sign. I stood in the road and felt the air move and kept walking back and toward. There was a bit between city and nature. It was like seeing what wasn't there and if you turned or even blinked it'd go so you had to carry on staring to see it change and be real and that's what I did stood on the road looking at where the city was and wasn't til my eyes began to shake.
I revisited a diner on the edge of the city and began to fold the bit of bread they'd given me. Americans put sugar in everything they ate. I see a tall, heavy set man sat on his own in a booth by the window.
"Hello."
"Hey buddy." he says.
"You mind if I sit here?"
"Sure, why not." he says.
"You from New York?"
"Pittsburgh. You from England?"
"Yeah. I'm on holiday. I think you call it 'a vacation'."
"I know what a holiday is fella. So what brings you out here? You look like shit, pardon my French."
"De nada home boy. I've been walking."
"You looked like you walked through the desert."
"Didn't Christ return from the desert?"
"Lots of people did. What about our troops. You saying them mean sons of a bitches are like Jesus Christ I salute ya buddy." he says, biting into his grilled cheese.
"You know, I've been wondering who do I have to blow to get a drink round here. So I came over to you."
"What?"
"I said, will you buy me a drink. I only had enough for this piece of bread."
"Sure. You want a root beer?"
"Thanks." I say. He goes over to the waitress and grabs her by the arm and orders me a beverage as I munch on my bland meal. He comes back to the table. I gladly quaff the beverage before continuing; "You know, people say a lot about Americans. And one of those things is how friendly some of you are."
"No problem buddy. I used to be homeless, I know what it's like. You probably came over here from London hoping to be a big movie star, thinking that the streets were paved with gold. Turns out it's pretty hard after all, huh?"
"You got it."
"A lot of people come over. Be an actor, be a writer, whatever. It's not all it's cracked up to be."
"I met this girl the other day...she was also from England."
"That's what I'm saying." he said, nodding. I thank him again for the root beer and leave the diner, looking out at the city with blurred, fucked up vision. I laugh to myself and hid in the bed of a pickup truck, hiding beneath the dark blue cover sheet. Maybe I'd wake up in Los Vegas or on the beach. Maybe a thousand miles away with no phone or wallet, feasting on the dying around me.
