Three boys sit in the parking lot of a drive through chicken restaurant.
Barely teenagers they are dressed in black T-shirts and cut off jeans, and speak with third generation Echo Park accents.
Equipped with two irregular sized bicycles (one too small, one not small enough) they are planning a mission but cannot agree on where it will take them.
The sun has just retired.
The city is becoming a boundless wonderpark.
None has to be home until Monday.
Rock, paper, scissors dictates who will ride the skateboard.
They circle the lot, profane and curious-
who is a faggot,
who talks like a little bitch,
who runs the game
-then scream off past me, unaware of the tragic state of the U.S. economy,
toward a mission
that will no doubt shape the rest of their lives.