Sunday Light and Word – Speed Limit

 

 

 

Sept 14 9 shotz

 

 

 

We had been riding around in the suburbs and when we came back into the city we spotted a mutual pal. I pulled up on the sidewalk and he leaned into the window and started yammering. It was a Saturday and everyone else had a collection of criminal intentions in their nostrils. Not me. I’d left that behind. The argument of having nothing to say proved too much and I had to quit.

Now and then he scratched at his waistline until I realized there was a gun jammed in his shorts. And there was that moment where I reveled in its symmetry, where the blackness of its materials and the precision of its shape held me. And then I remembered where I was and who I was.

That night, I went out to an electric tower I used to climb as a youth. I stared at it until a couple rode past on bicycles festooned with beads and streamers and baskets. I didn’t want to be them, like I might have five years back, but I watched them from underneath the buzzing fluorescence of the tower until they disappeared.

 

 

 

by Hank Cherry

About Hank Cherry

Hank Cherry works as a photographer, filmmaker and writer in Los Angeles. His work has appeared in Slake, Southwestern American Literature, Poydras Review, and The Los Angeles Review of Books and he writes a column about the history of jazz for Offbeat. He is in post production on his first full-length documentary.
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