“Is he fishing?” I turned to Bree in pure astonishment.
“Looks like it.”
“Excuse me, sir.” I interrupted his peace. “What are you fishing for?” These waters don’t look like they entertain life.
“Catfish,” he said, turning for only a second to catch a glimpse of our unfamiliar brown legs.
I stared at his homemade pallet and wondered if he was serious. A pile of french fries sat to his right.
“Is that your bait?”
The man removed his pole from the cloudy green water and dangled a soggy McDonald’s fry.
Asian man, Are you homeless? I mean, “Do you come here every day?”
“Uh, yes. Well, no. Almost…”
I wondered if he was at all aware of his own mystery. I gave him the benefit of the doubt and blamed his short replies on his lack of memorized English words and not his unparalleled peculiarity. Bree captured secret pictures while I distracted him with genuine questions. I didn’t understand, and then I realized that I didn’t have to. He was fishing for catfish with french fries on a Thursday afternoon in the middle of Los Angeles.
We said our goodbyes. I scribbled feverishly into my notebook and turned back for confirmation. He sat there, indian style, waiting patiently for a toxic find.