Here and there, these containers rose on taut lines. Semi-trucks, the life-blood of the port, hauled them from ship, to yard, their final destination to fuel the lives of the masses somewhere beyond the port sprawl. Like herd dogs, tugs nudged great cargo ships into position as smaller, sleeker, racing boats dared fate, physics and the tidal swells. Helicopters hovered above suspect vessels. Blue green water met the battleship grays of the seemingly desultory landscape. Lines of smoke curled from a thousand smokestacks. Jets of flame shot from a hundred others, as oil refineries burned off excess fuel. Mickey Flaves sat on the bus stop bench, reflecting on how much the Port of Los Angeles was a great beast that devoured, digested and disgorged. At times it seemed as if nothing went on in the port; the laconic periods a time of rest, as if the entire beast paused to burp, and perhaps scratch. Then seconds later, the greater machinations would resume and, Mickey would see the small things he’d missed by attempting to examine the whole.
