When people asked why I moved to Los Angeles, I smirked before claiming L.A. was as far as I could run from my childhood without a boat. But that wasn’t true so I left for Sacramento, where I tell the curious the same story.
But it still isn’t true.
Someday I will continue crawling northward up the Pacific coast until I run out of land, and then I will step into the water and keep walking until the broken little boy who operates my brain drifts away with the tide.
If the current is kind he may wash up in China, where he’ll continue drifting eastward until he arrives back where he began. “Why did you come back?” his old neighbors will ask. They’ll be 187 years old, but he’ll still be a boy.
“This is as far as I could get from Los Angeles without a boat,” he’ll smirk, and then he will smile and wave before heading east again, still looking for home.