by Steve Gannon
Kneeling, I scanned the titles. All were texts on advanced mathematics. Recalling that Mike had mentioned being a math major in college before switching to film, I pulled out a volume on differential equations and flipped through several pages of indecipherable symbols, then replaced it on the shelf.
“Planning a career in science?”
I turned to find Mike standing in the doorway. He had showered and changed from his muddy clothes as well, and he was now wearing sandals, jeans, and a denim shirt. Though he had made an attempt to comb his thick black hair, it still looked disheveled. “Science? Not hardly,” I answered with a smile. “Speaking of which, where’s your slide rule?”
Mike grinned. “Gave it up years ago, along with my pocket protector,” he answered good-naturedly. “Besides, nobody uses slide rules anymore. It’s all hand-held calculators now. You want something to drink while we’re waiting for your clothes? They still have a bit to go in the dryer.”
“What do you have?”
“Coffee, Coke, juice, and milk. I can make sandwiches too, if you want.”
“I’m not hungry, but something to drink would be nice,” I replied. “Do you have anything stronger than Coke?” Though I had yet to reach legal drinking age, while at UCLA I’d attended parties where liquor flowed freely, and on occasion I had joined in—at times getting more than a bit tipsy. That notwithstanding, I didn’t consider myself much of a drinker, and I wondered why I had asked. With an embarrassing flash of insight, I realized it probably had something to do with proving to Mike that I wasn’t a kid.
Mike raised an eyebrow. “Something stronger? What do you have in mind?”
Wishing I hadn’t asked, I struggled to think of an appropriate drink. “How about some brandy? That’s supposed to warm you up, isn’t it?”
“It’ll do that, all right,” Mike agreed. “Hang on. Two brandies coming up.”
After Mike left, I continued my tour of the living room, perusing a gallery of black-and-white photographs on the walls. Some were landscape portraits of areas I recognized as Joshua Tree National Monument, Glen Canyon, and Death Valley; others detailed vaguely familiar sections of Los Angeles. But most of Mike’s photographs were of people, all kinds of people—men and women, children and adults—each uniquely seeming to fit the scene in which he or she had been captured. One showed a grizzled old man fishing from the Malibu pier; another was of a youngster bending to examine a crab on the beach; a third portrayed a lovely woman sitting in a wicker chair, her eyes shining with what appeared to be a melancholy mix of love and regret.
Mike returned minutes later, a cut-glass snifter in each hand. “Here you go,” he said, passing a glass to me. “Cheers.”
I touched the rim of my snifter to Mike’s, swirled the amber liquid, and took a sip. The fumes stung my nose. Determined not to betray my inexperience, I swallowed, the fiery liquor burning my throat and lodging like a white-hot coal in my stomach. “Good,” I choked, my eyes watering.
“That it is,” Mike agreed, politely pretending not to notice my distress. “I saw you checking my photos. What do you think?”
“I like them,” I said when I had recovered enough to talk. “Especially the ones of people. There’s something in them that makes me feel, I don’t know—as if I’d like to get to know the subjects. Who’s this, for instance?” I asked, pointing to the photograph of the woman in the wicker chair. “She’s quite beautiful.”
“That’s my mom. I took it the year she died.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. She looks so young.”
“She was.”
To fill the awkward moment, I took another sip of brandy. This time it went down more easily. Curious, I again examined the photo of Mike’s mother, wondering about the look in her eyes. “How did she die?”
“Breast cancer.”
I felt a chill, realizing that the parallels between my life and Mike’s ran deeper than I thought. A father on the force, a mother with cancer … “My mother isn’t much older than yours was when she died,” I observed numbly.
“I know. Don’t worry, Ali. Your mom is going to recover.”
“I hope so.”
“She will,” Mike repeated firmly. Then, lightening his tone, “Listen, we still have some time before your clothes are dry. Let’s go into the den. There’s something I want to show you.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Your etchings?”
Mike chuckled. “No, my documentary. I have it on DVD. I’m not done making last-minute revisions, but I would love to hear what you think.”
Welcoming the diversion, I trailed Mike down a short hallway, passing a spacious bedroom on the way. I glanced through the open door, noting a rack of surfboards in one corner, a set of weights and an exercise bench in another, and a large bed against the far wall. Continuing on, we reached a cozy chamber just off the entry. To the left beneath leaded-glass windows, a couch and coffee table took up most of the small room. Opposite the couch was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase packed with DVDs, CDs, and various pieces of electronic equipment including a large-screen TV. After closing the drapes to darken the room, Mike turned on the TV.
“What’s your film about?” I asked, settling myself on the couch and curling my legs beneath me.
Mike shoved a DVD into the player. “The Los Angeles River. Ever hear of it?”
“Not really, unless you mean that concrete flood channel running through the city.”
“That’s the one, although it wasn’t always confined to a cement sluiceway,” said Mike. “Actually, the river played a critical role in the history of Los Angeles. More than people know.”
“And you wrote and directed this film yourself?”
Mike smiled proudly. “Shot it, too. Did the whole thing on a shoestring. Friends at Channel 2 crewed for me on weekends, and an announcer buddy of mine did the narration.
“So your film’s a history of—”
“Why don’t we just watch it?” Mike suggested. He hit the play button on the DVD console and crossed the room, sitting beside me as the opening frames of his film flashed up. Conscious of Mike’s nearness, I took another sip of brandy and concentrated on the film.
Titled Forgotten River, Mike’s documentary opened with a brief history of the Los Angeles River, tracing the waterway’s course from its headwaters in the San Gabriel Mountains to its mouth at the Pacific fifty miles distant. Over historic photographs and ancient film clips, a familiar-sounding voice described the river as the first Spanish expedition had found it: a seasonal stream lush with oak and cottonwood, its waters alive with salmon and trout, its reaches inhabited by bears, antelope, deer, and wolves. Surprisingly, the river that Angelenos nowadays knew only as a polluted flood-control channel was the prime reason for the founding of the Pueblo of Los Angeles—in time to become the city of the same name. And until the completion of the Owens Valley Aqueduct in 1913, the waterway that the Spanish had named the Porciuncula—sometimes no more than a trickle, sometimes a raging torrent—had supported all of Los Angeles’s water needs for drinking, irrigation, and bathing.
Describing the subsequent construction of dams and concrete channels to protect the watershed from flooding, Mike’s film told a common tale of man’s subversion of nature, but it was the way his images brought the story to life, not the subject itself, that held my attention. In much of his work Mike used a distinctive cinematic style to record details others might have missed, interspersing historical narrative and interviews with people who had played various roles in the river’s history—survivors of early floods, construction workers who had built the dams and channels, and citizens from community organizations currently battling to rehabilitate the riparian habitat. Most interesting to me, however, was the way Mike captured people in his lens and showed something revealing about them, something others might have missed.
Mike’s work ended with a montage that, given the subject, proved far more moving than I would have thought possible. As the credits rolled, I realized to my surpr
ise that his documentary had somehow transcended the story of a ruined river, in the end becoming a larger chronicle of the hopes, passions, and dreams of those who had lived the history of Los Angeles’s forgotten waterway.
Leaning forward, Mike picked up the remote control and turned off the TV. He looked at me nervously. “Well?”
I set down my empty snifter. I had finished my drink partway through the film, and the liquor had imparted a warm, comfortable glow. “I’m impressed,” I said quietly. “You’re more talented than you let on.”
“Thanks,” said Mike, setting his own empty snifter beside mine. “I think.”
“I mean it. I liked your film, Mike. A lot.”
“Anything you would change?”
“You want my opinion? Are you serious?”
“I’m dead serious. As I said, I’m still making revisions. Any suggestions you might have are welcome.”
I thought a moment. “Well, the only thing I could possibly criticize is that it left me feeling a little depressed.”
“It’s a depressing subject,” Mike pointed out.
“I know. It’s just that people want to feel good after seeing a film. Any film, even a documentary.”
Mike frowned. “The subject doesn’t really lend itself to humor.”
“I’m not suggesting you make it a comedy,” I said sympathetically, accustomed to editing my own writing and knowing how brutally painful it could be to change, or worse to delete, something I had sweated blood to create. “But why not close on a ray of hope? For one thing, you could brighten things in your concluding montage by adding a few more positive images.”
“That might work,” Mike conceded. “I’ve known something was missing from the ending. I think you’ve put your finger on it.”
“A bit of uplifting music at some point might help, too,” I went on. “Mendelssohn or Vivaldi, perhaps.”
Mike remained silent for several seconds, seeming lost in thought. “I don’t know about classical, but you’re right about the music, too,” he said at last. “Do you have any idea how much work you’ve just cost me?”
“You’re going to make the changes?”
Mike nodded. “I’m leaving for Telluride first thing Tuesday morning, so I’ll have to work like crazy to get everything completed before then. But yeah, your changes will definitely improve the film. I only wish someone had pointed this out before,” he added. “You have a good eye, Ali. Any other suggestions? No holds barred.”
“Okay, let’s see it again,” I said, flattered that Mike valued my opinion. “I thought the narrative was perfect, so this time let’s run your film with the sound off. That way I can concentrate on the images.”
“Whatever you say.” Mike turned on the TV again and restarted the DVD. Using the TV remote, he pressed the mute button. Seconds later his documentary began anew, this time without sound.
Once more captivated by Mike’s photography, I watched as his images marched across the screen. Mike sat quietly beside me on the couch, as if awaiting my judgment. But partway through the documentary I realized that he wasn’t watching the film. He was watching me. Curious, I turned, my heart beating more quickly as I met his gaze. Inside, I felt something stir—part attraction, part panic.
Seeing the question in my eyes, Mike raised a hand to touch my cheek. Then he leaned closer and brought his lips to mine, tentatively at first, barely touching. A surge of excitement shivered through me, a disturbing yet tantalizing sensation I remembered from the first time we’d kissed. Mike’s lips were warm, his mouth tasting of brandy. Pulse racing, I placed my arms around him and kissed him back. Mike pulled me closer and kissed me again. My breasts pressing against his chest, I parted my lips to the touch of his tongue, a sensual warmth building inside me.
We kissed for what seemed like forever. Hours passed, or maybe it only seemed that way. At one point I became aware that Mike’s film had ended, but I didn’t care. I hadn’t known being with someone could be so exciting, so perfect. I never wanted it to end. As if in a dream, I felt Mike kissing my neck and the naked hollow at the base of my throat. “God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured, his strong hands running up the curve of my back. A voice inside told me to stop. Ignoring it, I returned his embrace, my lips and body growing insistent with a passion I had never before experienced.
Slipping his hands beneath my shirt, Mike’s fingers traveled the bare skin of my shoulders, gently massaging muscles that were already stiff and sore from the climb. Waves of desire shivering through me, I moaned with pleasure as his touch loosened knots I wasn’t aware I had. Still massaging my shoulders and back, Mike pulled me to him and kissed my mouth once more, his touch on my skin leaving a fiery brand everywhere in its wake.
Without willing it, my mind suddenly returned to the night of my rape, to the memory of another man’s hands on my body. All at once an overwhelming sense of panic gripped me, squeezing me like a fist. Heart pounding with irrational terror, I pushed Mike away. “I can’t do this,” I said.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I … I want you to take me home.”
“Is there someone else?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
“I told you. Nothing.”
“Ali, I know you like me,” Mike said slowly. “But from the beginning, every time we’ve started to get close, you’ve backed away. Why?”
I didn’t answer.
“C’mon, Ali. We’re friends, aren’t we? Don’t shut me out.”
“I’m not shutting you out. I just don’t want to talk about it, okay?”
“No, it’s not okay. Tell me what’s going on. You at least owe me that.”
“I don’t owe you anything,” I shot back, attempting to cover my embarrassment.
“Maybe not, but I wish you would tell me what’s going on in that head of yours anyway,” Mike said patiently. “Unless you think it’s better to hide your emotions. What’s the matter? Are you afraid?”
“No.”
“Then talk.”
“All right,” I spat angrily, fighting tears of self-consciousness. “You want to know what’s wrong? I was raped four years ago and I haven’t been with anyone since, that’s what’s wrong.”
Mike stared. “Jesus,” he said softly, reaching to take my hand. “I’m sorry, Ali. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
I tore my hand from his grasp. “I don’t want your pity.”
“No, I don’t suppose you do.” Mike paused. “Four years ago. That would have made you around sixteen. Do you want to talk about it?”
I palmed away my tears without answering.
“Have you told anyone else?” Mike asked. “Or did you keep it to yourself?”
“I told my parents, although not right away,” I replied, surprised by his question, and wondering how he had known to ask. “Afterward I saw a woman at a rape-counseling center. Later my mother made me visit a shrink. I quit after two sessions. Aside from that, you’re the only person I’ve ever told.”
“And since then you’ve never …”
“… been with anyone? No.”
“And now you’re not sure how you feel about things.”
My eyes briefly touched Mike’s, then looked away.
“Listen, Ali, I know a few things about rape.”
“How would you know the first thing about rape?”
“You’d be surprised,” Mike answered gently. “For instance, I know that rape isn’t an act of passion; it’s an act of malice motivated by a desire for dominance and control. I know that being raped in a supposedly safe place like your home or fearing for your life during the attack can make things worse,” he added. “Afterward, women who have been raped often go through periods of shock and denial—followed by fear, depression, anger, and disgrace. Symptoms can range from nightmares to a complete withdrawal from social contact, with a survivor feeling as if she has the word ‘raped’ branded on her forehead. Many women suffer posttraumatic stress disorder
for years, along with panic attacks and problems with sexual intimacy.”
Puzzled, I shook my head. “How do you … ?”
“KCBS ran a week-long special on rape last year. I was a cameraman on the shoot.”
“You have quite the memory, don’t you?” I said. “What other little gems did you pick up?”
Mike thought carefully before answering. “I learned that for a survivor to recover, she has to take control of her life and make her own decisions,” he said. “She needs to feel safe and strong, not helpless or weak. Sexually, the woman needs to feel in control and know that her partner will stop if asked, as well as abiding by any limits she sets.”
“Sounds simple, the way you tell it,” I said bitterly, feeling as if Mike had just laid me open on a dissecting table. “It must be wonderful to have all the answers.”
“I don’t have any answers, Ali. I just know that being raped didn’t change who you are. That comes from inside, from a place no one can touch.”
“You think so?” I said, unable to meet Mike’s gaze.
“Yes, I do. What I’m trying to say is that I like you,” Mike said softly. “I like you a lot, and I want to keep seeing you. I realize you have problems, which is understandable considering what you went through. I also know that you’ll get yourself straightened out. Till then, I simply want to spend time with you. No pressure for anything else. What do you say?”
At last I looked into Mike’s eyes. “I say you’re too good to be true,” I answered, realizing I had never before felt like this about anyone. “I don’t want to be the way I am,” I went on quietly. “Afraid of everything. Afraid of being close. I just don’t know how to change.”
Mike held my gaze. “Do you trust me?”
“What kind of a question is that?”
“The most important one anyone can ask. Do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll make you a promise. I’ll never hurt you, and I’ll never do anything to you that you don’t want.”
I nodded that I understood. Though comforted by Mike’s conviction that I would eventually overcome my fears, in my heart of hearts I wasn’t so sure. But if not now, when? my inner voice whispered.
