Main Street Huntington Beach

By God, we actually had a on shore breeze today, so I took the hint and headed to the Main Street Library. Built in 1914 it is the fist so not treated for air conditioning but treated for mold. Don't know how many dollars were spent and how many book were thrown out, but I can assure you that a good A'C system would have saved lots of money.
   My lungs actually sang today, and no need to open my throttle to breath air. I worked on a few stories written in San Diego that have a religious flavor. Hope to have them ready for the high holey days.
   Three bikes outside meant a few young street people had entered before me. Sure enough, a couple of the computers already had been taken but not number one. After one hour, I headed outside to eat my lettuce and egg sandwich. A muscle bound tattoo then sat next to me. After a few minutes muscles had fallen asleep. Of course the homeless use the library for their R and R.
   Long Beard waited patiently for a computer to become available. Muscle bound  fell into a deep sleep. The frantic librarian tried, to no avail, to awaken him. Her shouts and even a visit by another one didn't change the picture. He was dead asleep, probably a heavy night of drinking drugs.
 The super dialed 911.
   "Sir," she touched him, "We are the police, you have to leave. Sir.."
    Muscles muttered some idle word and slowly extricated himself from the computer. The police followed him outside where he put a bag inside a basket and began to walk the bike back to his hideaway going east.
     All awhile I still typed. On this day, nothing could bother me, well except my appetite. I opened up my peanut butter sandwich and endulged. After reading the L.A. Times, I headed for the beach and if lucky,  a volleyball game.
No such luck. Anyway, my was set to visit Mel. I felt happy he had been in good hands at the Huntington Memorial off of Beach. I had told his doctor that I would like any of the care-facilities to be located closer to my Florida Street abode.  The 29 bus off Pacific took me two blocks from the facility.
   Mel was dead asleep. And I mean dead! "Discharge" was posted on a wall chart along with the doctors and nurses in his care. At the nurses station, Mel's nurse was nice enough to give me a summary of his medical problems.
   "He leaves at 3 today."
   "Where is he going?"
   "Seacliff Nursing Home."
   "Hey, that is on my block."
   The movers came, but fortunately did not charge to life the $240 brother of mine. He was dead weight. I drove inside the coach and watched as the attendants pushed him to his new room. I signed the usual consent forms and trudged back to my apartment down the street -- with the knowledge he was in good hands.
    Oh yes, the paper mentioned diabetes, heart, infected ear and eye, blind and a host of other ditties, but the main thing is he had me to watch over him, as My Mom Edith requested on her death bed.