The California Triangle is much like the burmuda triangle. It’s not as glamorous of course, but nevertheless it’s real. It sits on a fairly quiet street, behind a shopping plaza and across from an embassy suites. It’s a place where strange burrowing squirrels along with a few lone cats, call home.
In essence, it appears to be nothing more than a triangle of grass at the back of a parking lot. But, it’s much more than that. You see, It calls to hobos of all kinds. They love to frequent the lone tree in the back corner as a motel of their own, pitching tents like real campers.
Random cars, often of the Japanese car make, as an example, Mazda and Honda, enjoy spinning circles into donuts in front of the triangle as if they are there for its entertainment purposes. a
In the wee hours of the night, teenagers dressed in t-shirts, scarves and sweat pants ride down the sidewalk on their skateboards outfitted with headlights as if they are drawn there by some unseen force.
Police officers visit in the morning, often parking against the shrubs to smoke cigarettes as if no one can see them. Late night drug smugglers or people trading large, brown bags of brachs candy (not sure which) edge against the shrubs to do their dirty deeds. Sometimes they gluttonously cram things from those paper bags into their mouths greedily.
Transients, typically traveling in threes equally enjoy the green by coping a squat for a midnight piss, all the while cars buzz down the freeway behind them. Fortunately for the drivers the hobo ass is obscured from the massive shubery separating the triangle from normal civilized life on the other side.
It’s a baffling occurrence, but nevertheless happens on a daily and if your lucky, you can catch bizarre men and women, park their cars to sit for hours as if in a complete trance. It’s as if they are unable to move or go about their day. I can’t be for sure but I think they may possibly be deadlocked into some mind blowing orgy only they can see. Although I haven’t tried it myself.
People, usually men in large trucks, a few suvs and one mini van love to bring their big, massive dog to the triangle just so to defecate on its luxuriously green patch of triangular bliss. They almost never pick up the doo, but instead opt to talk on the phone pretending they didn’t see the massive hound dropping tootsie rolls on the naked ground below their tiny starfish.
The triangle even calls to winery tour buses, beckoning them to frequently do drive bys on a dead end street, making it more suitable to a Nascar track than a road to nowhere. Where the people go or if there were even any on the bus is anyone’s guess.
This triangle is as diabolical as a scorned ex wife hell bent on eating her child support as if it was all just for her. It’s as sinister as a walmart shopping cart in a covid pandemic and as evil as a hearty bowel movement to find an empty roll of toilet paper in a public restroom.
It’s mystifying and intriguing, but yet not enough to lure me out with an attempt to explore its magnetic pull, any closer than my third floor micro balcony. It’s safer here and for some reason casts an invisible shroud over me so that not a single soul notices my presence.
These are the oddities in which I find folly and solace. These are the moments of my life.
Thank you for reading my satire ❤️
Prophecies Tea 