We drove up from fits of palm trees and strip malls, crested the smog, and found ourselves on a road called the Rim of the World. There was a high school hanging on the edge of the cliff. A chest on the football field contained jerseys hardened with sweat, and we helped ourselves while, nearby, strangely shaped figures played tennis in red headbands. We tossed rocks off the Rim of the World, then cigarette butts, then beer cans. We bought more beer and we bought Black and Milds, and on the way back down the clouds parted to illuminate plumes of smog in towers of light. Hey God, we said. Do you like Black and Milds?

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