I walked up the pavement and there, much to my delight, was a tienda, a store selling beer and wine and hard liquor, jammed full of people. I bought a big 40 oz. can of Tecate’. There was a quaint little park almost directly across the street from the store. I sat down at a bench, intending to pull out my weed and pipe and have a little toke to go along with my beer.
In Salem, the winter fog settles at sundown like gauze, blinding and oppressive, a cold, wet blanket of Fuck You For Being Here. On such an evening, I imagine John Fahey in some shithole welfare hotel, perhaps the Holiday Lodge on Hawthorne.