A North-South-Trending, Nested Graben


By: Gregory T. Janetka

“I call 'em like I see 'em,” Danny says, laughing, after having described one woman at the dog park as “having her head up her ass,” and another as having a “camel hat” to go with her “camel butt.” I laugh too, although I have no idea what a camel hat or butt entails. A retired ex-Navy man now in his late 60s, I met Danny the last time I was in San Diego to visit my sister. He's offensive but harmless (and hilarious) and remembers me from years before, ready to immediately accept me back into the inner circle.

My sister left me with Rummy, her 100 pound cuddly beast of a bulldog, for a week. The morning is cool and he is full of energy. The palm fronds rustle in the breeze and the bell signals a train coming into the station as we make our way over to Little Italy. Out of sight saws and jackhammers indicate the city hasn't finished growing yet. Car horns honk. Stopped at the crossing I look up and watch as a woman steps out onto her balcony several stories up, topless. Realizing where she is, she throws her arms across her chest and runs back inside. A different beeping noise indicates we can cross the street.

Weaving our way through the city, we meander into Little Italy. This early on a nondescript Tuesday, the neighborhood is quiet as we turn onto First Street. The lazy morning is shattered as a man staring at the sidewalk begins yelling nonsense. All I can pick out is “Everything I touch turns to shit” as Rummy barks in disapproval. He doesn't like crazy. Calming him, we turn to see a shabby looking man walk past wearing several sombreros of varying sizes. He says nothing. We duck inside a local coffee house and I order an espresso. Loud yelling guy has circled back. He is talking to everybody and nobody.

The barista holds out a dog treat and in return receives a hand full of slobber. I apologize and thank her. I savor the thick black liquid as we make our way down to the water. The air is crisp and clean, the cleanest I've ever encountered in a big city at least. Purple trees line the way. What were they called? Someone told me multiple times but I still don't remember.

I notice a man on the other side of the street swinging a stick around. I stop and squint through the sun to see two older men at a bus stop playing baseball with a cane. I can't tell what they're using for a ball. The one in a white t-shirt looks very serious as he checks the imaginary runner on first before going into his windup and delivering the ball. A swinging strike. The one in a black t-shirt bends down to pick up the ball, reveling the top of his ass. I appear to be the only one taking in the scene. They throw a glance my way and Rummy and I proceed on.

Tourists mill about the boardwalk near the Maritime Museum. The Star of India, a tall ship, sits in harbor. As a child I'd always wanted to be a pirate – out on the seas, free and happy. “God their lives must have been miserable,” I think, and consciously decide to hold on to the romanticized version of history instead. What would it hurt?

Everything is so clean in the city. Except for when it's not. Then it reeks of urine and human suffering. It's exceptionally clean here by the water. For the tourists, sure, but it's nice nonetheless. I sit on a bench to people watch as Rummy settles in beside me, happy for a break. In the span of a few minutes I'm offered a ride by two pedicab drivers, both of which I politely refuse.

A girl in skin tight jeans slowly walks past, her arms full of coffee, a large handbag and her phone, which she isn't looking at. I try not to be too obvious when I look at her but keep looking anyway. She doesn't seem like a tourist, isn't even turning her head at the massive, historical ships. Maybe she's just like most of my generation and has no care for things unless they're immediate and/or digital. She's beautiful, but I quickly conclude I could never afford her and let her go, saying goodbye in my head to something else that'll never happen.

I throw back the last of the espresso, savoring each drop, toss the cup in the trash and breath in the sea air. I rub my face with my hands, hard, and picture what life would be like if I did have money and moved here and met that girl and watched her put on those jeans in the morning and take them off at night and say goodbye to her as she leaves our place to walk to work, passing the ships on her way.

Another pedicab pulls up and the fantasy is broken by a white guy with dreads.

“No thanks,” I say, fingering the last two quarters in my pocket. “We prefer to walk.”