They pop their shirt collars high like it means something. In an end-of-world apocalypse scenario this is what they’ll be doing when they die. Or, taking selfies. Living in fragile worlds of one, these big-headed rich kids.
The art students carry vintage polaroid cameras. The Instagram models, influencers, or whatever they’re called, I’m embarrassed to say these terms out loud — they take the lead in flower crowns and stop every few minutes to pose.
There’s a kid in a hoodie I recognize from the news, that young entrepreneur type. More shredded neon clothes and asymmetrical haircuts than you can shake a pair of shears at. The lightweight dealers are easy to spot; they’re raggedy-looking and walk at the edges of the group lost in text messages like the real world don’t exist.
From where I sit on the boardwalk I spot my neighbor Ever heading down towards the skate ramp.
Ever, what kind of name is that? Dimwitted rich kid without a care in the world. Went to the private school in Malibu where they teach half the classes in french, which in my opinion is not just ignorant but idiotic since everyone around here habla español.
During the big Ghost Town shootout Ever was the only one to run out into the street. What’s with him, thinks it’s a party, my ex-husband had said. Gotta drag him inside, teach him Gangs 101?
As he cruises by he grins and says, “Hey Ann, what’s up?”
I want to swat him off the street but nod instead.
“New ink?” I ask.
It’s been ten years since I got tatted last. This was back when Venice Beach was a different place. Tattoos were earned, not bought. I crack a PBR and slurp the foam.
“Yeah!” He pushes up the sleeve of his black t-shirt and flexes a pasty, sausage-shaped muscle. “I got it in Tokyo last year. I can’t believe I didn’t show you.” Like it was the worst thing in the world.
I take another sip and shake my head.
Ever takes this the wrong way and beams. The kid wears high top sneakers that cost more than my rent.
One o’clock.
Great-uncle Tony is finishing sweeping the sidewalk. I hear his gravely voice humming a tuneless-number right before he hacks up half a lung.
“There’s a bonfire tonight at the pier, wanna come?” asks Ever.
“Can’t. Gotta get up early and take Tony to the doctor.” I don’t tell him that I’m selling my car today to pay for his treatments. Don’t use it much anyway.
Ever nods blankly with the look of someone who hears what I’m saying but doesn’t quite understand.
I hope he will someday — understand, that is. Then again maybe not.