It’s not Kentucky, no green hills. These are brown and dry, sagebrush blows and scatters. I smell eucalyptus from my open car window, see twelve-lane freeways flow up to mountains or wash a wide swath south toward the desert. I choose city streets, wind down the canyon until I’m in Echo Park, then on Wilshire Boulevard and onto Sunset Boulevard into Beverly Hills, beyond to the beach. It takes a tank of gas and the rest of my cash. I leave the want ads on the seat and leave my car. Sea breezes blow. I see him surfing, blond hair, suntanned, as his V-shaped torso dips into waves. I sit on the beach. The surfer slides away.