This has been a notable week. Three days ago I heard a woman scream five times in the street, around 10:00 p.m. At 10:36 p.m., a single police cruiser drove to the end of the street, turned around and drove back. At 11:05 p.m., I overheard through the window two men on the street discussing the situation. Man #1 said a man was "waving a gun". Man #2 asked if he was "black or Hispanic?" Someone called "the cops", and six police cruisers responded. The man with the gun was pinned face-down at the intersection at the end of our block. I could hear his muffled shouts until 11:22, though it was not easy above the noise of the police helicopter circling our block for the duration (until 11:48).

Why do humans continue to purchase guns and expose them to others when they know what will happen? It is similar to the high speed automobile chases which are frequently televised on local news programs. Humans persist in engaging in flagrantly illegal activity that has no productive outcome. One would expect a human with a gun to shoot someone or something with the goal of destroying property or terminating a life. Yet I often read or hear about humans owning guns they claim they never intended to fire. Or driving automobiles on the wrong side of the freeway for miles and miles, until their cars run out of gasoline and coast to a stop, wherein the police apprehend them and confine them to jail, at significant financial cost (bail, attorneys, loss of work income, etc.) What is the purpose? This futile behavior defies all logic.

Today I went to Rebecca's to pick up her mail. Lester appeared as I gathered up the papers, riding up the building's driveway on a red bicycle that was far too small for him. His knees knocked into his chest with each spin of the pedals. Running alongside him was the dog, Jughead. It was limping slightly and looked as if it might cough, sputter and request a glass of water.

"What up, dog?"

Assuming he was addressing Jughead, I didn't answer.

"Yo, Sander. Wassup? That means, 'what is up?' You know. 'How are you?'"

"Oh. I thought you were speaking to the dog. Fine, thank you. How are you, Lester?"

"Real good."

"Have you forgotten another dog toy?"

"Naw. I'm just taking Juggs here for a spin so he can drop some weight off his fat ass before Rebecca comes back."

Lester dismounted his bicycle and spoke to Jughead.

"Want some H20, yo?"

Jughead splayed flat on the ground, breathing heavily.

"Yeah, I thought so. Hold up. Hey, can you watch him while I get some?"

"Yes."

As Lester opened the door to Rebecca's apartment, I noticed he wore short pants that were excessively large for him. Though a length of metal chain ran through his belt loops, his pants slid down his backside, exposing about six inches of skin and the waist band of his under garments. The crotch of the pants hung between his knees. Was this some sort of adaptation for riding the low bicycle? Perhaps a particular type of athletic gear?

Inside, Lester ran the water to fill Jughead's dog bowl. I squatted to get a closer look at the animal. Jughead panted wildly, his eyes wide. Around his neck was a new collar -- not the pink and green grosgrain stripe, but black leather with silver rivets.

Lester emerged with a bowl of water, which he placed in front of the exhausted animal. Jughead lapped madly at it on trembling legs.

I do not like Jughead. Still, it seemed unfair that an unconditioned, spoiled, small creature, made neuter by his owner, should be forced to run a great distance when his human could move with the assistance of a mechanical device.

"Lester, may I ask you a personal question?"

"No sweat."

"Pardon me?"

"Yes, Sander, you may ask me a personal question. If you please, Sir."

"Is the business of washing cars earning you enough to survive? I noticed that neither your bicycle nor your pants fits you."

"Shit, man. I guess I got served." He reached forward and flicked the lapel of my polo shirt. "By Undead Ralph Lauren, no less. Dude, tuck it in. You look like a fucking slob."

I checked my clothing, but found nothing amiss. My shirt was tucked in and my belt was buckled.

"It's a joke, yo. Sarcasm."

"Sarcasm?"

"Irony, you know? You're not all bad, G. I got a cousin like you. A little slow on some things, but real good at math. You good at math?"

"Not particularly."

"Yeah, right. Hey. Some friends and I are having a party Friday night. You should show. S'at my place, about 9:00. Bring anyone you want. Ladies drink for free."

He handed me a business card that read:

Lester Boylan
Car Detailing and Body Repairs

And below it, his address and phone number in Van Nuys.

"You live in Van Nuys?"

"I do. But don't worry, it's not way up in the 'hood."

"And you rode all the way from there with Jughead just now?"

"He's all right. He's a hunting dog. He can walk for miles. Right, boy?"

Jughead was lying down again and breathing heavily. I felt pity for the beastly little thing.

"He must slow you down. Why don't you let him stay with me tonight? I can return him
at the party tomorrow."

"Right on! But you don't have to bring him back. He's going home soon anyway. Rebecca's coming back on Sunday."

Sunday! Because of the Asian spy, and then the workers next door, and lastly the Olympics, I have not been inside to finish my survey, nor to look at the contents of the white trunk in the front hall closet. My time is limited. I will try to visit tomorrow or Saturday.

Jughead is asleep in the kitchen. I have the door closed; he is a flatulent animal. Rebecca's passion for the pathetic is limitless, perhaps even toxic. As the humans say: "Blech!"