Pacific Coast Highway was as gorgeous as ever as I passed Goldenwest Avenue in my old red pickup truck and puffed on my long Camel cigarette. I was a little drunk and the ocean was calm and glassy and doused with the light of the night’s towering jewel as I trundled through Bolsa Chica in my old Ford, my old red firetruck that is old and big and gets eight miles to the gallon and keeps me safe from the black and white sharks that hide and swim along the salty shore, looking for someone to eat.
Someone like me, Darby Kane.
I made it through Seal Beach then made a left on 2nd street and sailed over the Marina Pacifica bridge towards my little beach bungalow in Belmont Shores. Like any normal night in the good parts of Long Beach—my birthplace, my mother and sister’s too—2nd street was inundated with red and white lights and packs of the Gratefully Intoxicated who staggered the village sidewalks and streets to celebrate the end of their habitual work week.
* This is the first two paragraphs of a novella I wrote (sometime this year or last year?) using my alter-ego, Darby Kane, as the protagonist. I picked it from the pile of stuff I am currently editing because every time we write we get better and practice makes continuous improvement. Perfection is non-existent and I assume boring as hell. I guess we’ll never know.
*The MAIN photo or painting is not mine, I don’t own or know who does but it sure is beautiful.
*But this painting below IS my wife’s Alycia Vreeland’s