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Todd Gardling


Todd Gardling walked up the hill from Sunset winding past mansions, well out of his element,
no jacket or proper coat or other good vestment
while occasional Jaguars and other foreign cars of a certain type's occupants looked on with unsettled indignation. No, or better Go ( go back)they might say if sure they could speed away behind rolled up windows.

Through his haze
he knew the Jaguar because of the nice hood ornament.

Be-soiled Todd Gardling's type of soil was unsuitable even in their yards and gardens.
Perhaps an island somewhere, sealed and out of sight, and then another for the criminals; not only the crazy.

It had rained a lot, though often the gutters ran there because of cracked water pipes- the steep gutters along the road so twisted that water sheets across it to make the turns, water in mid-summer, dry-winter, and wet-winter, as it has been lately, a wet winter, washing down to Sunset, past temporary no parking notices, construction vehicles- occasional screeching Lambos, a variety of race cars, fancy sedans, Rovers...

Filthy Todd's thoughts wash down, ragged leaf in the gutter, make the turn at the bottom back to glitz- Sunset- sides of buildings clad in television, movies, albums- god-like images- designs, the most beautiful- God, they're beautiful he might say if he could- he cannot- Todd- Todd is not God, but a ragged man walking in a haze, a ragged image of a man - stinks, too; bad, a real nose-wrinkler- keeps away gnats and termites, his feet wrinkled in soggy unmatched socks, current set of shoes not full of holes (sometimes you get a lucky find).

He passes a young waitress, embarrassed in a moment of clarity- a flash of self-awareness of his costume- the young girl pretty enough to work the sidewalk sitting- perhaps a chance to be discovered- producers, directors- big actors- they might take an interest, ask her name- what she does- would she go to a party?

A Lambo screeches by.

Double decker busses slog, slow on purpose, no roof on the second floor, the sightseers hoping for celebrities in their natural element: is that one? There's one...maybe.

On the sidewalk snugly clothed nubiles- pretty faces, heals, boots,or sandals; make-up, hair spent hours on.

And there's the slightly older yogas clutching their rolled matts, holding on desperately for that youthful look (time slipping so quickly and I'm not discovered...why? when?will I ever? I must...)

Stinky Todd slinks past.

A trash can with pizza crusts, or an apple core would be nice, something lite so I can keep my figure. The billboards are so so pretty.



Sounds like you know L.A. like I knew Dallas. My first novel set in BigD, mine failed because I put in too much unnecessary info; not sure if this is going to be a novel, but good luck. Maybe not Raymond Chandler, but I like it.
It's the place I'm at right now five days-a-week. I've been here, this neighborhood, about a year .
I had felt like writing a poem, but this came out. Oops.
The good storyteller sees what the others do not. He sees the small details, reminds of the rest of what they already know, but choose not to acknowledge.

Good story.

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