roadside attractions

I was driving the archipelago’s connecting road: impossibly green hills, European towns that reappear every few minutes, sudden drops to the sea. After a series of windmills, it all briefly became the Gaviota Pass and I noticed a very thin state park—maybe ten foot by forty—alongside a bend in the road. It had a small ranger station—maybe five foot square—where I took shelter. The next day, Ian appeared in the small neighboring town (tacky cobblestones, lots of Best Buys, people in beach outfits) but he had shrunk to 5’8. He told me that he was buying the state park with Michelle and that they would turn it into an architecture project. Then: a joyful shout of “Change scene!” and a huge crack from the sky. Suddenly it was a montage of Ian, Michelle, and a rotating cast of sleepy, slovenly architects, dozing off on the benches across the road from the park as they studied how the light fell on their new property. They drew incomprehensible “emotional studies” of the place and talked in circles about “the social utility of the discipline”. Michelle kept trying to tattoo Ian, but he was shrinking too quickly now for her efforts to last.

I left them there, embarassed at what I had introduced to the islands.