San Diego's new library has opened up new horizons for me. I just can't get enough of the California room. That is where one can find out about their ancestry. Yet for me it is the break I need to recharge my batteries and put more juice into my stories.
One of the areas in this ninth floor room houses many old books. But anybody who wishes to find out their past must be floored by the immense number of books it holds. The digital microfiche machine keeps me so busy with old newspaper articles, I forget to eat lunch. Excuse me, another traveling tour has entered. It is a bevy of young ladies from a retirement home in Carlsbad. A man in his early nineties peers over my shoulder.
"Hey, I remember the name of Kenny Washington. And I remember reading that paper."
"Sir, this is the 1938 Los Angeles Times. I am doing research for a football story."
All twenty hovered over me and the machine. They wished to know more about me and my book. I have never had so many beauties hovering over me at one time. I gave their leader my card and promised to have a book signing there.
I needed a lunch break. The California room is on the ninth floor and conceivably the best view of one of the sights of California can be seen on its patio. It overlooks the Harbor, Petco Park and of course the Coronado Bridge. I sat away from the wind and ate my tuna sandwich with a tomato. My eyes told me I needed a nap.
The elevator took me down to the lobby and I exited west to the bus stop. The number 901 bus stopped and took me to Broadway where I got off. I needed to bump up my Compass Card, but the Transit Center had a line out the door. I crossed Front street and notice a body next to a trash can. I thought it must be dead. I decided to take on a ledge to see if anybody took notice.
One walked over it. Another around and so forth. Finally a siren sounded. I felt mortified that Obama care could not have helped him. My spirits now were broken. There are ten thousand homeless waiting just like the trash can man.
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