Golf balls and Peanut Butter.

So I'm walking through Balboa Park in San Diego cruisin' for guys and I see this handsome guy walking around picking up trash. As he gets closer, I noticed that he was my old friend Pablo chicken-pecking* the small loose trash up and placing it in a Target shopping bag.

I knew Pablo from my old Meth smoking days and man had he lost weight. He was still handsome in his tough cholo kind of way. Shaven head, goatee, baggy clothes. He glanced at me and stopped in recognition. He moved in quick galvanized jerks, eyes glowing like telsa coils, pupils the size of Oreo cookies. His jaw was clamped shut as he loudly and abundantly ground his teeth. He jerked and spat, "I know you."

"Yeah." I said calmly, lighting a Lucky Strike. "How ya doin', Pablo." I pointed at the nearly bursting bag of cigarette butts, used fast food containers, wet newspapers, and spent condoms. "Nice to see you keeping the park clean." I smiled.

Pablo jerked in supersonic blur, snapped into focus. "What? Fuck that! Last week I was at the golf course, walking around. Now, my whole goddamn apartment is filled with golf balls!" He reaches into his satchel and pulls out a filthy jar of peanut butter. "You like peanut butter?" In one movement he unscrews the lid, dips in a dirty plastic spoon, and slurps obscenely at a glob of peanut butter. He whirls off into the park. "Mmmmmmmmmmm...." Fades into the distance.

*Habitual action of a tweaking meth freak. Picking up any little white thing on the carpet or any open ground and scrutinizing the object intensely.