Pasadena At Sundown

Top down on the hot rod, cruising the streets just to get out of the house. Even low in the sky the sun blazes, shines in my eyes when I'm heading West, bakes the back of my neck when I'm heading East. I have nowhere to go and no particular time to be there. Sunglasses wrapped around my head and a three-day growth of beard on my chin.
   The whine of the differential behind my head competes with the radio competes with the wind noise competes for my attention on the road. Distracted by the faded 1950's signs, new when Colorado Blvd was almost the end of Route 66. Timeless yet dated, angular, you don't see them much any more but you recognize them instantly, like an old friend gone for a while but returned. Faded paint on the monolithic brick sides of old buildings, advertising washers, beer, cigarettes, brands that haven't been made in decades. The ads would be invisible if I were in a car with a roof. I wonder what else I miss every day.
   I steer into a neighborhood where the signs are in Spanish. Check cashing stores, carnicerias, shoe repair, liquor stores. The secret side to the Crown City, the place no one talks about. Homes that were once grand Craftsman examples now painted uniform beige. With vinyl siding because it's easier to take care of. High wrought-iron fences with locked gates. Gravel instead of grass, cinderblocks instead of hedges, old cars with rust instead of new cars with shine. Thick women with too much makeup badly applied pushing strollers against the light. The sun is going down and I shouldn't be here.
   A mile away I ride through a neighborhood of millionaires, houses that cost too much fifty years ago and now are beyond the reach of almost everyone. Wide yards, old trees, plenty of space between houses and room for expensive automobiles. Well-kept, probably by the people in the neighborhood I just left. None of the signs are in Spanish.
   I steer into the industrial district, Pasadena has one, where the railroad tracks used to run. Cracked cement roads with weeds sprouting at odd angles, breaking through the crumbling curbs. No litter, which doesn't surprise me. Who's around to litter? Ranks of parked cars, which does surprise me. Who works on a Sunday in California? I roll past the church, the destination for all the drivers who left their cars by the warehouses. Hymns and organ music waft from the open doors, and for a moment I'm transfixed, my foot comes off the accelerator. Transcendent and transitory. The hymn ends and I'm back on the throttle, speeding on my wandering path to nowhere.
   On my way home I take the long way, down Rosemead, which is an open trench during construction. Furniture stores, fast food, and far more psychics than I realized. There are also supposed to be prostitutes but there aren't any walking the street this hour. I think about coming back at night to verify the rumors and then realize that's an extremely poor decision to make.
   Back down California, past Cal Tech, where students are just now starting to arrive for the Fall semester. Lots of long hair, unfortunate wardrobe choices, and thick eyeglasses. Sometimes stereotypes exist for a reason.
   Into the parking garage of my apartment, the car ticks down slowly after I turn the key, the engine slowly cooling. I listen to the NPR story for just another minute. The top goes up, the doors are locked, and I'm back inside my place.