San Diego Reader

The Tiller here, with me, in the park, gets up and walks out of the enclosure. As he leaves, the sun has nudged its way past the corner of a building on Fifth Avenue and just over the top of a clump of leaves on a row of jacarandas. The park is flooded with lemon-white light.

My Tiller, Tiller I's world turns the color of cobalt and cerulean. He sees tiny, toothlike blue-white flames along the ceiling studs as he is blown into the roof in a cloud of powdered drywall and ceiling tile.

The Tiller in the real world walks past the Horton Grand, pauses and places a paper bag into a trash container on the street. His pace increases.

I flip the yellow pages closed, reach for another smoke, and think again. I feel as if I've smoked 50 of them today.

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