He Said, She Said

by John Decure

  “A bird,” I said to Reevesy, repeating his words in an attempt to find my place in the conversation again.

  “It all happened so fast.”

  “That’s one talented bird, to be able to remove a screen from a window.”

  “Oh, stop it. That was just the way it sounded to me. I’m a little dramatic now and then, so sue me.”

  “You also have an active imagination.”

  He grinned. “Look who’s talking to my goldfish, babe.”

  Obviously there had been a break-in. I sat on the bed, tired and drunk and exasperated.

  “I thought about calling the police,” Reevesy went on, still buzzing. “But I didn’t like the idea of having to show some burly blockhead all my US visa papers half an hour after the fact. So I went across the hall and rang the elderly gent, what’s his name—”

  “Mr. Sturges.”

  “Right. Rang his bell and good thing he was home, what a fine bloke, too, that Sturges! We’re going out for fish and chips, Sturges and me, soon as he can break free of the old ball and chain.”

  I was so sure my forehead was cracking open that I reached up to run my finger along the fissure. But I couldn’t find a thing.

  “So, you and Sturges.”

  “Right-o. Anyhow, I got him to stand vigil while I came back down the hall. By the time I got my nuts up to sound a harsh warning and bust on in here, the window was half-open and… well, all too late.”

  I studied my room’s rather standard state of dishevelment once again. Nothing seemed amiss.

  “Reevesy, if this is the kind of bullshit you need to resort to just to mask a wicked ice-cream craving, then—”

  “You can’t be serious, girl!”

  I winked at him.

  “I’m not.”

  Then I leaned over and gave him a hug. Second one of the night between us, I thought. What is happening to me? This was unfamiliar territory, but it wasn’t the first time my life felt upside-down, and at least… fuck, I don’t know.

  No—that’s a lie.

  At least you’re not alone, girl…

  “Cheers,” he said. “What was that for?”

  “Didn’t know I was rooming with a superhero.”

  He looked about my room. “Nothing’s missing?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Then, as if the logical and paranoid synapses in my brain fired simultaneously, I was knocked flat by a strange, dreadful thought—a recognition, more like, the way you dream of waking up in a crowd and suddenly realize you’re bare-assed naked. There was one object in the entire apartment the significance of which I alone held dear.

  I stepped inside the accordion closet doors, crouching into the left corner. I’d put the box from the private storage place here, behind the leather jackets, black jeans, a low-cut sequined job I forgot I even owned, and a moth-eaten pair of leggings that needed to go and a floor rack stuffed with shoes smelling of gum and tar and LA streets in need of a good rain once in a while.

  “Everything a-ok?”

  “There was a cardboard file box,” I said.

  “Valuables?”

  “Just some documents from forever ago. But yeah, valuable to me.”

  “Gone?”

  “Ah, shit.”

  “Brad. Darling, talk to me.”

  A spinning drillbit noise echoed inside my cranium. The closet space seemed to close in around me.

  “Autopsy report.”

  “What report? Who died?”

  Just then the whiskey in me took a whack at the laws of gravity. Backing out of the closet, I fell onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling.

  “My father. A long time ago.”

  “Oh dear, bugger that.”

  “Lithium carbonate.”

  “Lithium… what?”

  The bed springs creaked as he sat down, and I felt his fingertips brushing my forehead. The handful of times he’s seen me melt down, I’ve got to say, old Reevesy has always had a soothing bedside manner. His touch somehow did the trick of easing my pain just enough to make it tolerable, but I still couldn’t lift my head.

  “Not sure I’m following you, dear,” he said so sincerely I had no choice but to screw with him.

  “How can that be? You eat my ice cream. In some cultures, that’s as bad as nonconsensual sex.”

  “‘Dessert rape?’ No such thing in Venice, California, doll.”

  “How would you know? You’re Canadian.”

  “Don’t ask me how, I just know. And don’t change the subject. What’s this about your father and an autopsy report?”

  “Doctor Don. He’s got three lawyers. The lead guy, I’m breaking his balls in court and the whole time he’s smiling at me like an executioner. Like, go ahead, hit me with your best shot, it doesn’t even matter.”

  “They did this?”

  “Who else would possibly give a shit about a box of my personal stuff? A prick like Dr. Don is used to getting his way. I know the type.”

  “This is burglary. It’s a crime.”

  “Only if you get caught. They’ll find ways to discredit me, seize an advantage. Freak me out.”

  Reevesy nodded. “Mission accomplished.”

  “They only care about winning. Whatever it takes.”

  My roommate’s face had a faraway gaze. “I’m scared, Brad.”

  “Don’t be. He’s on the way out. What this creep did to the patient? Let me tell you.”

  “He broke into her place?”

  I shook my head no. “What he did was sit in a chair opposite her every week, and listen. Ask his questions. Listen some more. Unearthed all her weaknesses, every last one. Then he went to work exploiting them.”

  I’d shut my eyes to picture the scene, Dr. Don and Rue Loberg, the lion and the lamb, behind closed doors. Civilized slaughter. Pausing to inhale the breath of the sea streaming in the window, I slowly coiled into a fists-up, legs-spread, training horse battle stance, ready to strike. But my opponents had fled.

  Unclenching, I saw Reevesy’s big green eyes straining to keep up with my movements. I patted his hand.

  “Don’t mind me. My thoughts are like meteors. They streak across the sky, then burn out.”

  “Darling, you don’t look so well.”

  Whoosh: my addled thoughts suddenly coalesced brilliantly. Meteor-like.

  “Doctor Don, Mendibles, Craig Weaver, and now you, Reevesy.”

  “What’s that, dear?”

  “Every man I know, including you, wants me off this case.”

  His hand came out as if to halt my words. “Wait just a minute. I didn’t say—”

  “No, it’s all right. I know you’re on my side. Aren’t you?”

  Reevesy put his hands on his hips. “I’ll never touch your blessed ice cream again. That’s a promise.”

  I stood up and went to my closet, found a full wetsuit. Reevesy watched as I gathered up a beach towel and hooded sweatshirt.

  “So, it’s you against the world,” he said.

  “Something like that.”

  “And where might you be off to at this late hour?”

  “It’s been two weeks. I’ll lose my mind if I don’t paddle out.”

  Scooping up my pile of clothes and neoprene, I headed for the door.

  “Ah, surfing,” Reevesy said, his tone wistfully ironic. “Sport of kings. And apparently, the last great bastion of sanity.”

  10

  BRADLEE AAMES

  No moon to glaze the empty lanes on Pacific Coast Highway, no packs of synchronized cyclists, no earth mothers in decrepit VW vans full of herbs grown in Topanga, no tourists in compact cars swerving in lanes to glimpse a famous resident—or was that just a very good-looking local doppelganger? Nothing to divert my attention or distract me from this color-purple mood or lift me from the hunkering drilled-down low I’m dwelling on.

  They want me off this case they want me off this case they want me off this case, I think, half laughing. Incredulous. Gentlemen, I think not. Th
e more you push the girl, the harder the girl will push back. Nice shot—too bad you missed.…

  Windows down, the Chevy’s growl announces me to the lyrical liquid sweep of coastline, the front seat vibrating with bass drum authority, a thousand crickets’ eyes jumping in the hilly scrub. I check the rearview mirror, but for what?—a drunken frat boy with a sports car and an ego that needs bruising? A Westside Division cycle cop lucky enough to draw the graveyard-shift Grand Prix patrol? Nothing—not a soul out tonight; PCH is mine. The Nova barely clears its throat at seventy-two miles per hour, a set of Thompson ET Street Radials spinning silently, the yellow lines in the road straining to stay ahead, as if pressed to reach the classic, fabled, perfectly foiled, most rat-fucked overworked point break on the planet before I did.

  Malibu. The California Dream. No longer visible in the monotonous yellow glare, that hide-your-eyes cheerful bleating too-much-of-a-good-thing sunshine that has so effectively, tragically welcomed the masses to pile in and pile on and keep on coming to this place, every guy and his brother with a get-out-of-Dodge dream. Hell, why not bring their cousin and an aunt and her two dogs, too? Why not leave the divorce and its aftermath and that abysmal Midwest deep-freeze winter weather behind, dear? And how about that lovable ex-con with a fistful of potential to go with those forged letters of recommendation? Every Maria from her high school’s production of West Side Story because, obviously, with her pipes and a face like that she is going places—twenty-eight in the audition line to be precise, give or take a few hopeful sure-thing stars in the making? Come on down! And let’s not forget, let us make ample room for every last fresh-start loser and washout wannabe, all of them! Everybody, just hurry up and come on out to the coast because the romance inherent in “coming on out to the coast” is so undeniable, all you’ve gotta do is turn on the radio and you’ll hear it captured in a song, or channel-surf your way right onto the beach and in no time flat, a dreamy lifeguard will save a swimmer and save your future in one swift gesture! And when you get here, just look look look up in the sky at that towering sunshine, feel its coddling welcoming embrace, and oh, God, they’re gonna love you here! You’ll soon be dictating your impending success to the folks back home—such is the rejuvenating effect of so much sunshine on the brain, but please, be careful not to count your chickens before they die of heat stroke and dehydration. This place can be monstrously large and impersonal and seem preoccupied with everything but your presence and render you nothing more than an anonymous abstraction, and should you take an ill-timed dip in the ocean, there’s no handsome lifeguard to save you. Oh, and did anybody warn you about skin cancer and melanoma and wrinkles and liver spots? So please, do not forget the sunscreen, bring a big tube and lather it on, just bathe in it and everything’s gonna be all right, there’s a canon full of pop songs that says so, which means you know it’s gotta be true.

  The greatest bumper sticker ever: Welcome to California. Now go home.

  God help this place.

  My apologies for ranting; I’m just another bitter California native, one of a great many. But man oh man oh man, how do I explain the sad, weird gloom that hangs over me daily amid all this bombarding sunlight? Even at 2:00 a.m., I’m casting shadows. But the point at Malibu awaits. Better, I think, to come face-to-face with a cherished dream at night, especially if that dream is hopeless and shattered.

  Hendrix wails, serenading the lone surfer girl, his Voodoo Child. PCH twists and teases her, colossal blasts of feedback ricocheting between her ears and lingering on even after the music stops playing.

  Meet you on the other side, and don’t be late.

  I surely hope so, but not just yet…

  See how this famed strip of paved glory feels at ninety-five, the Chevy coiled and barreling. Okay, okay, point taken! Don’t become a statistic, Drama Queen! I ease off Jimi, ease off the gas, stare out the window at flashes of mega-dollar beachfront pads, wave a hand into the screaming wind, laugh at my stupid vanity, my utter insignificance geographically laid bare as I ride along the rim of this limitless black sea that plays hide-and-seek with me now behind an endless string of boxy, overblown architectural crimes.

  Jimi’s deal is nothing more than fabulous crunching guitar work sprinkled with a stock rock-n’-roll sentiment, a typical male phallus- grabbing gesture.

  Not for me. Not tonight.

  Return to the real—the now—girl. What brought you out here in the dispassionate stillness, thrilling to the chill embrace of night? A chance to breathe, to sort out the jumble of pieces banging around inside your skull. Ride a few waves as a bonus. So cut the operatic flourishes, write up your California Tragicomedy review another time, and get on with it.

  This case should be a winner; the facts, law, and evidence militate against that smarm Dr. Don. But the civil lawyers who first smoked him out from under his slimy little rock got what they wanted, got the filthy lucre and moved on, leaving the victim—and now me—behind. I’ll be lucky to find a single cooperative witness. The medical board should boot Fallon’s ass right out of the profession, yet they seem to want to keep him in the club, for reasons I can’t begin to discern from my oblique, outsider’s perspective.

  Mendibles, betraying my trust with a single leer from those soul-sucking licentious brown eyes that do nothing but zip in and out, stealing snapshot views of me to be hoarded away for future carnal reveries. Mendibles, alone in a toilet stall, reviewing those snapshots with the same glazed pie face he reserves for his little come-to-papa managerial chats with me.

  Mendibles has got to know why this thing is rigged in Dr. Don’s favor. He’s been too eager to stuff me into that courtroom, to jam me into signing off on a pre-ordained gift-wrapped settlement that’s embarrassingly lightweight. Mendibles knows the story.

  Does no one care about the truth anymore? To my father the truth was everything—and look how his life turned out.

  Lithium carbonate.

  Maybe his mind had let him down at some point in his quest. I sincerely hope not. As his biological offspring, I am as chemically, genetically flawed as he was. Meaning I can no longer rely on willpower and meds and alcohol and every on-the-make combo I can cook up to get me by. This is my nod to truth, to the real, for now.

  I help those who help themselves, God says to me through every gorgeous, empty, roaming bend in this deserted highway. Combat the motion sickness you feel from swinging back and forth between the real and unreal. Quell your queasiness with my gift to your sanity.

  Ride a wave tonight.

  * * *

  Paradise lost, I can’t help thinking every time I pull up at Malibu. But in the middle of the night, a lone rider can take refuge from the shit storm.

  I paddle over black water in sweet anticipation. Probably 2:30 a.m. by now, though I can’t see the face of my waterproof watch. A wake-up chill jars my bones as I duck the first oncoming line of whitewash, thinking, for the first time in weeks: Yes, I am glad to be alive. Thank you, God.

  In that brief moment of hope and renewal comes a meteorological shift, as the Crazy Wind creeps up from behind, huffs and puffs right out of the hulking hills and ruffles my wet hair, laying down a whispering salty kiss on my ear.

  Mad girl, the breeze insists. Mad to be surfing alone on the rim of a city of killers and pedophiles and rapists and gangbangers none of whom give a damn about beauty sleep. Mad girl, the crazy wind’s lone dance partner…

  I mimic a few Hendrix power chords to quiet the wind’s voice. Paddle on, steering my attention back toward surfing.

  Nighttime forays require a thoughtful approach. Observe. Process. Digest. Wind. Swell. Tide. Time those swells, their intervals.

  I haven’t slept well in so, so long. A sickly exhaustion creeps into my joints as I paddle, my thoughts inanimate and out of reach, drifting like burned-out chunks of rocket floating in space. The offshore breeze is picking up. There goes my false calm, blown straight out to sea, replaced by a tension in my gut that grasps and releases simultaneously.<
br />
  The offshore breeze tickles and teases my neck. I sit outside, in repose on my nine-two Harbour longboard, a classic Trestles Special model I’d found at a garage sale eighty miles inland on a weekend visit to see my mom. A region not known for its secondhand surfboard market, but there it was, the forgotten, neglected Special, amid a pile of rusty welding tools well past their prime. Dust-caked, rotted surf wax applied a hundred times over for traction now merely obscured the board’s deck like nasty storm clouds, but when I scraped off a chunk with a car key, underneath lay a pristine fiberglass finish. Silently noting the multiple stringers and handmade wood-laminate fin, I knew I was looking at a board worth a few grand in mint condition, but the hayseed selling it wanted a hundred bucks.

  Lil’ ole surfer girl, eh, sis?

  Guilty as charged.

  Heh heh.

  I dickered with him just for fun, talking him down to eighty.

  He’d followed me across the dirt-patch yard on down to the curb, watched me strap my purchase onto the surf racks, wanting to know what year was that there vintage Chevy.

  Seventy-two.

  What I thought.

  He rubbed his chin. Borrowed it from your daddy or boyfriend, dintcha? he said with a knowingness he hadn’t earned.

  I didn’t dignify his inane question with a response. Instead, I settled for dumping the clutch and leaving a little cloud of smoking rubber for him to remember me by.

  The point at Malibu is utterly inert at the moment. I thrum my fingertips across the deck, legs dangling off the Harbour’s rails like shark bait in the inky Pacific abyss, my back turned from three thousand miles of sleeping continent. Watching and waiting.