Runyon Canyon

Today I went hiking at Runyon Canyon. I go everyday at odd times, otherwise I’m afraid of demons repossessing my mind. The sunshine seemed unusual because it rained the past few days, and an overhead gloom hung despondently in the sky.

The day got away from me, and I went in the afternoon. I inched through every jammed side street before finally abandoning my car in a spot that could have been a restricted parking zone. I didn’t see any signs. 

Sometimes I let my phone ring because I don’t want to be trapped in the same conversation. It feels like I’m being suffocated with a wet blanket. I tell my mom that all time. 

“You don’t have to pick it up. Let it go to voicemail.” 

But she takes every call, no matter what state of mood she’s in. 

I consider two options. The paved road, which is well-manicured and organized. It’s a long uphill trek as if I ran out of gas on a small, Northwest highway. The other is a gritty trail, consisting of rock steps, precipitous ledges and metal banisters built into the side of a mountain. I wonder if the trail I choose is indicative of who I am like some Freudian personality test. 

I take the road. I like it because it’s not as condensed, and I don’t have to wait for someone to pass through a clogged artery before I can finally move. I spotted Eriq La Salle from E.R. once. My friend teases me because this is the only celebrity I’ve ever seen while hiking and am terrible at spotting famous people. I walk with my head down, baseball cap pulled over my head, and Van Halen in my AirPods. I’m on a mission to get what my body needs and return to my West Hollywood lair. 

I made it back to my car in a little over an hour. I was relieved, though someone left a Chinese food delivery flyer on my windshield, which I decided to keep.