opelessly backlogged and oddly nostalgic for the West Coast, Sarahhepola presents the following unfinished pieces.

A Memory
The Los Angeles Library, an old woman with a pinched face, sitting like a man, knees agape and one arm resting on the back of the couch. She says the same thing, over and over. She says this:
"Does anybody wanna be read to? I'm a library-reading grandmother. I read to people. Whole lotta books here."
It's like a recording on the subway.
"Does anybody wanna be read to? I'm a library-reading grandmother. I read to people. Whole lotta books here."

The Sunday Service
Every service at the Church of John Coltrane begins with a jam session. Even white tourists have to participate, and I shake a maraca shaped like an avocodo to tuneless jazz, the blips and bloops and scoobydoobewahs. The Church of John Coltrane believes that music is a path to God, and that John Coltrane's "A Love Supreme" is like taking the highway. So every Sunday they begin with an homage, this improv jazz thing that lasts an hour before the service ever starts.
"I'm not going to say much today," the preacher says, but he does. He talks about the agenda of the media to vilify Palestine. He calls Sharon a war-mongerer.
Two white tourists walk out.
He talks about the War Against Terror. "Terror came to our country with the Mayflower," he says. "Ask the blacks. Ask the Native Americans." He talks about the two white tourists who just walked out.
The white tourists look at their watches, cross and recross their legs.
After he is done, the congregation kneels to pray. In the Church of John Coltrane, when people want to recognize individuals in their prayers, they just say their name out loud, so that as we are all kneeling in prayer, you hear things like "Michael Jones." "Yolanda Morris." The woman kneeling beside me says: "Samuel L. Jackson."
After three hours, the white tourists are gone.
This is San Francisco.

My Hero
A campsite on the Oregon Coast, wind howling, sun disappeared. I am cursing a fire I can't get started when Don appears.
"Need help with that fire?"
"Could you tell?"
Don is the campsite host. He lives with his wife Doris in an RV decorated with Christmas lights, pinwheels stuck in the dirt out front, and it's their job to supervise the campsite. Don throws kindling on the piddly, smoking fire and BAM! "That oughta do ya," he says. He's right.
The next day, when my eyes water up watching Don and Doris fold the American flag at sunset, I play it off like sand's in my eyes.

A Crisis Averted
John and I are about to hit the Canadian border, the first day of our trip together.

Sarah: [gasp] For a second I thought I forgot my passport.
John: [gasp] I forgot my passport.
Sarah: You're kidding.
John: I'm not.
[Needles skips off the record. Celluloid bubbles and melts off the screen.]

Because I am under the impression that one needs a passport to enter other countries. I am under the impression that border guards are scowling people who make no exceptions, that without a passport we will not be driving to Alaska but instead, will spend a week bumming around Seattle or bribing our way through British Columbia. I am under the impression that when we approach the border guards, all smiles and apologies, they won't just nod and shrug and say, "Okay, sir, next time you should bring your passport." But that's what they do, every time. "Sir, you should bring your passport next time." Right. Thanks.
[Cue music.]

The Surprise Ending
The thing I like most about a beach is digging my toes in the sand. I like the water, too, but it can be a hassle. Too cold, sloshes on the clothes. The toes-in-sand thing is unbeatable good fun. My friends Kevin and Erica and I are having dinner on the beach in Seattle. We are drinking wine and watching the sun set. Both my feet are buried under the sand, and I am pretending like I have no feet. (It was quite a large bottle of wine.) A group of teens beside us are screaming and throwing sand down each others' bathing suits. We thought for sure we wouldn't still be here when the sunset, but we are. Did I mention it was a big bottle? The sun slips beneath the water and I think about digging my toes in the sand, how it is the thing I like most about a beach.