Story 16 of 52

By M. Snarky

As a general rule, I walk at lunch, unless, of course, the weather sucks. Movement is good and it gives me a chance to reset and clear my head.

I’m currently working in Manhattan Beach, CA, and there’s a path a half mile away in Hermosa Beach that goes right between the multi-story, multi-million-dollar homes and the beach that the locals call “The Strand.” It’s nice. It’s a beautiful place. Sometimes it is so clear that I can see the west end of Santa Catalina island. It’s great for people watching. I see the beautiful people on a regular basis. I also see the locals and tourists, has-beens and wannabes, beauty, beasts, homeboys with their pit bulls, and burnouts. I’m sure I’ve seen a couple of drug deals go down. It’s an interesting dichotomy of the people that live in Southern California.

Some of them are day drinking a bottle or a can of something from a brown paper bag as they sit along the low wall between the sand and the path or as they cruise along the path on a beater bicycle. Some of them are smoking weed with the warm smell of colitas rising up through the air. Hotel California reference aside, I often wonder what the people living in those beachside houses do for a living. They certainly are not flipping burgers. These are the often-derided Coastal Elites: Educated, wealthy, influential, and meddling.

There’s also a regular mix of walkers, runners, cyclists, skateboarders, and roller-bladers on The Strand. Occasionally, I see a wipeout when someone hits the loose sand that is often on the concrete path. Most of them get right back up, dust themselves off, and go on about their activity. Others act as if they are waiting for an ambulance and Larry H. Parker to show up.

I’ve recently come to the realization that not every stroller has a small child sitting in it enjoying the fresh air and sunshine or taking a nap as you would expect. Indeed, many of the strollers I see actually have a small dog (or two) and sometimes even an occasional cat. Cats and strollers seem like a recipe for, well, a catastrophe. I can barely get my cat Cheeto into his cat carrier to get him to the veterinarian and the thought of getting him into a stroller “voluntarily” for a lovely walk down The Strand would turn into a bloody mess. My blood, not Cheeto’s. It might actually work out if Cheeto is inside the cat carrier first and the cat carrier is loaded and strapped onto the stroller, but I’m not willing to get shredded to find out. You can read more about Cheeto in an earlier post here.

Now, as I walk down The Strand, I play a game inside of my head called People and Strollers: Pet or Child? I haven’t really been keeping score, but I am often surprised, especially when it is a young woman or a young couple pushing a stroller with animals inside instead of the expected little human being.

Ironically, the animals are often much cuter than the children.

Instagram: @m.snarky

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