Baroness Von Smith

by Survivanoia (v5. 0) (epub)

  Saturday mornings are sleepier than weekdays. Jackson went to visit his grandfather every morning, though, and always before breakfast. Sometimes, if he was feeling especially generous, he’d go in the evening as well, but always before breakfast, no matter how grumpy. Jackson and the dayworkers were the only people awake most Saturdays.

  Yesterday had started out typical. He first picked up coffee and a newspaper for Grampa Pedro, a trip that, as usual, brought him to the broad intersection on Ventura Boulevard where the bookstore and Ishmael’s are located. All the lights hung red for a moment. And then, the coyote caught Jackson’s eye. It strolled through the lawns of wealthy south-side residents and paused, peering up at the traffic signal. The signal changed in the coyote’s favor, and the animal jaunted across Ventura and off to do business. Eat cats and carry off babies, Jackson had figured. But mostly it’d made him think of his dead brother, Carl.

  Jackson’s now-deceased brother, a playwright, had fallen victim to a drunk driver in a state more lenient than California, so his brother lay entombed while the driver walked free, having hired the kind of lawyer who advertises on the back page of the phone book. Five years later it still enraged Jackson to think about it, and his hands gripped the steering wheel so his knuckles went white as he watched the coyote and remembered Carl; but Jackson didn’t cry.

  Carl had adored coyotes, said they were “really excellent.” He’d once expounded on their extensive appearance in Native American mythology. At the stoplight, Jackson recalled none of it, only the pain of his loss. But seeing the mythical little beast reflected in a beautiful, enigmatic woman’s face brought something back. Jokesters and creators. Creatures who would play you for a fool to teach you a lesson.

  Of course, he’d given her card to Melvina. Maybe Melvina would get taught the lesson. Like don’t wear Old Spice if you plan to put on a dress! Jackson laughed but then felt glum. The stench of the bad food nauseated him, muddled his already confused head. He’d seen the Coyote and met the Perfumed Woman just yesterday. Looking back it felt like weeks. Earlier in the week he’d woken from vivid dreams he hadn’t shaken until well after lunch, and his sleep patterns seemed to want to reverse, to keep him in bed during the day and prowling the streets at night.

  He’d mentioned the dreaming to Melvina, who first dismissed it as heat-related, then reconsidered and suggested Jackson’s mind was turning in on itself as a result of isolation. Jackson pointed out that previously, he’d been sequestered in Central Coast.

  “It’s not the same. You were isolated before because there was nothing around but the ocean and pine trees. Now you’re surrounded by people. This isolation is the result of the anonymity of a big city.”

  But Jackson wasn’t quite anonymous either. Occasionally people recognized him from his show. Like the Perfumed Woman. No, Jackson fingered the heat as his problem, believed his planned drive to Zuma Beach would help.

  He drove his ancient silver Beemer—not quite old enough to be a Classic—up the steep curves of Kanan Dume Road, top down, wind whipping his dark, wavy hair. He liked it windblown, it disguised his greying temples. A few Harleys passed him on their way to the Rock Store for breakfast. A group of kids on Hondas buzzed by him too, leaning so low on the curves that Jackson chewed his lip, afraid for them. Aside from helmets, the kids wore no protective gear, no chaps, not even boots. There were dressed for the most part like Jackson, in knee-length rip-stop shorts, ringer tank tops and sandals. He envied their moxie.

  Once he got to the top of the canyon, a cool breeze hit him, and as he sped down the other winding side the temperature dropped nearly twenty degrees. The chill cleared his head and the sight of the ocean, even from so far up, soothed him instantly.

  Pacific Coast Highway was jammed with traffic, everything from movie producers driving their trophy wives in convertibles, to minivans of fat little kids. Zuma Beach was packed, too, with no open spaces on the beach road. He had to park on the Highway, wait for a lull in traffic, then dart across four lanes.

  The day’s modest waves attracted twice the usual surfers, since newbies could catch them and not injure themselves, while veterans showed off and picked up chicks. Or guys; Jackson noted a significant number of the surfers were girls. Different from when he’d surfed. He’d never been any good but his TV self (naturally) surfed whenever he wasn’t killing people or hanging out on Melrose being a smart ass. Ah, the joy of television clichés.

  Jackson stretched out on his towel and set to reading.

  “Nice tattoo.” A red-bikini clad girl with shoulder length, salt-and-sun chewed blondish hair blocked his light. “Does it mean something?”

  She inspected the tribal band on his right biceps. Jackson had stolen the pattern from Jared Ferryman’s neck tattoo. Superficially it appeared as any other tribal band, but closer inspection revealed the name Charon, and for the studious, the Greek version as well.

  “A friend of mine designed it,” Jackson said. He watched her eyes steal a glance beyond the tattoo along the length of his taut frame.

  She gave him a cute smile. “Anybody sitting here?”

  “No, go ahead.”

  Jackson watched the girl, “I’m Stacey,” unroll her Spiderman towel and dig through a big red bag for some sunscreen. He figured her a kid, maybe twenty. Too young. Too bad. She smiled at him again, then caught sight of his face, left side, despite the visor and sunglasses. “Somebody beat you up. Oohhh.” She pouted adorably. Jackson had forgotten the ability of a bruised face to garner attention and sympathy.

  “You should see the other guy,” he joked. Then added, “It looks worse than it feels,” when she still appeared worried.

  She frowned, unconvinced, but dropped the subject.

  “Whatcha’ reading?”

  Jackson showed her his book.

  “Translated! Are you a college student?”

  “Naw. This is really just an old-fashioned P. I. novel. Well, sort of Raymond Chandler meets Don Delillo, you know? Gritty but introspective.”

  She cocked her head at him, like he’d triggered some memory. “You look familiar.”

  He just shrugged, hoping her age meant she hadn’t seen his show, that she mistook him for somebody else.

  She didn’t. “You’re Jared Ferryman! Ohmigawd I loved your show when I was a kid! Wow, and you’re a regular guy. At the beach.” She dug a pen and a notebook out of her giant bag. “So, you like that writer? Wild…Sheep…a, m, i. What else do you read? Who’d you say, Raymond Armadillo?”

  Jackson, grinning, corrected her. She charmed him. Was she by herself? Not exactly. “I’m here with my brother, but he just divorced his wife and doesn’t want me around interfering with his mack.” They talked about books. She liked Candice Bushnell and Steve Martin. They sunscreened each other, and bodysurfed together for a while. Jackson felt light and happy, and began to wonder if Melvina had been right, that he needed somebody to play with.

  As they waded back to shore, an enormous wave crashed over them. The rush of cool water shoved Stacey off-balance. Jackson grabbed her around the waist to keep her from going under. And then her mouth was pressed against his, soft and salty and warm. Nice. She’s too young splashed through his mind. This is wrong. But it didn’t feel wrong, it felt good. Another wave crashed over them and he pulled her against him.

  Her mouth opened and her tongue brushed against his lips. Jackson yielded. He tugged her closer, nibbled her tongue and her mouth, felt a soft whimper escape her. Their kiss broke and she fell against him, sighed deeply, “Jared.”

  Oh.

  At the exact moment Jackson recognized the scene for the schoolgirl fantasy it was, Stacey’s brother recognized his kid sister making out with some guy.

  “Hey!” A gruff voice hollered over the surf’s roar. Then splash splash splash and a stocky youngish guy with hair identical to Stacey’s had her by the
wrists. But he chose to yell at Jackson, leave my sister alone!, and all that. And she hollered back about leaving her by herself while he scoped hotties on the beach, and what’s good for the goose.

  Though reluctant to involve himself in some obvious long-running family dispute, Jackson felt obligated to defend his would-be girlfriend. He said something about her being an adult and making her own decisions.

  “An adult? She’s sixteen!”

  Oh…hell.

  Jackson rubbed his grey temples and cursed God while Stacey and her burly brother packed up her things and argued their way off the beach.

  * * *

  “Where’ve you been?” his Grandpa Pedro grumbled a morning greeting. “I thought you weren’t coming this morning.” As usual, he had wheeled himself to the lobby, and vultured by the elevator door until Jackson arrived at his customary five a. m. Seemed he was back to normal.

  “I’m here same time as always. Here’s your paper.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Yeah, that too. You want to go to the big room?”

  Grandpa Pedro’s wizened head bobbed in agreement. Jackson handed him the two coffees to hold, grasped the back of the wheelchair and pushed it slowly down the quiet length of the hallway. At the hallway’s end was “the big room,” a sort of conference room for old people, with two large glass dining room tables set up against each other and ringed by attractive but uncomfortable white wicker chairs. The room occupied the corner of the three-story building and looked out over the parking lot and the meticulous landscaping. Jackson arranged Grandpa Pedro so he could look out the window, even though the old man couldn’t see past the length of his arm.

  “So. How’s your job going?” The same question Pedro asked every morning once they’d settled into the big room.

  “Good,” Jackson lied. “The same.” For weeks he’d been lying, because it was easier than explaining about getting fired repeatedly.

  “You take a lot of orders, then?”

  “Yup. Get a commission on every one.”

  “That’s good. Not many places give a commission anymore.” Grandpa Pedro thrust the paper at him. “Read me the obits, would ya? Make sure I’m still alive to drink this coffee.”

  Jackson dutifully read the obituary section aloud, just the names. On occasion, Grandpa heard a name he knew, and Jackson read the whole listing. Today he didn’t recognize anybody.

  He struggled with his coffee lid. “Hate these damn squishy Styrofoam cups.”

  Jackson knew he wouldn’t ask for help. And since Jackson was feeling particularly black this morning, he didn’t offer any. The lid finally came off and Grandpa Pedro took a long, loud slurp.

  He wrinkled his nose. “That fancy stuff?”

  “That’s what I like.”

  “Waste a’ money. What’d you pay, three dollars for these coffees? I never paid more than a dime in my life.”

  “And you still haven’t. I have. You’re welcome.”

  “Dinner made me sick again last night,” his grandfather growled. “Beginning to think the problem is me. Might not be around much longer, you know. At my age, really, I could go any minute.”

  “Only the young die good,” Jackson mumbled.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing.”

  Grandpa Pedro stared out the window. “Yup, dinner was downright lousy. The nurse asked me how I liked it, I told her it looked like something the dog threw up.” He continued like this. Somehow the nurses found it endearing.

  Jackson stopped listening. He reflexively uhm-hmmed when pauses prompted him to do so, frowned when his grandfather’s tone became especially harsh. But he was thinking about his wrist, wondering if he should have it looked at. It hurt, but it wasn’t swollen. Wouldn’t it swell if he’d broken it?

  This morning? No. Last night. Evening, really. After the red-bikini girl had left, Jackson had gone to the Sunset Restaurant. The Sunset used to be the Gray Whale, a place frequented (and therefore made a popular tourist destination) by Jared Ferryman. Why did everything in L.A. smack of Jackson’s alter ego?

  The Sunset was one of those bunny-folded-napkins places that served painfully mediocre food dressed up in fancy sauces and garnished with flower-cut radishes. But the wait staff smiled and laughed with him, and at five, the piano bar opened. Like the restaurant, the singer proved comfortably predictable: In tune, mid-range versions of Billy Joel and Beatles songs designed to leave the Malibu barflies nostalgic. The atmosphere and a bottle of wine kept him warmly buzzed until the sun left only a line of violet against the black horizon of the sea.

  A few songs and cups of coffee later, Jackson headed out. The walk up the beachway seemed longer in the dark, and cars lined it only intermittently now. Toward the end, where the beach front road met the PCH, Jackson heard a nasty argument.

  “You. Backed over! My. Bike!” A young man’s voice.

  Jackson, on the other side of the road, stopped in the shadows. The bike referred to, a small bright green Honda, lay next to the kid, sideways and dented. The kid, tall but thin, faced off against three well-built guys in their mid-twenties whose surfboard-filled Land Rover had apparently backed over Slim’s motorcycle. Slim wanted insurance info.

  He wasn’t getting it. “If you had a real bike instead of that Jap piece of shit, maybe it could handle a little love tap.”

  It always confused Jackson when people in real life behaved the way of people on television. He searched the ground and found a piece of driftwood to serve as a big stick, then without moving from the shadows said calmly, “Give him your insurance numbers and get off my beach.”

  The bullies acted according to script, playing nice cop/nasty cop, with two of them talking tough while getting into the truck to leave. But the nasty one had some point to prove, and lumbered at Jackson frothing obscenities. CRACK! and the driftwood busted in two over Nasty’s head.

  The friends rushed toward him, spewing curse-spangled information. “I was fucking getting it dude, I’m with triple-A, fuck! You didn’t have to break his goddamn head open, he’s just drunk!”

  The driver tossed a triple-A business card at Jackson, then he and the other rational guy loaded their friend into the truck. They sped off with a grind of rubber and a flume of sand.

  Slim propped his bike up, but it practically formed a V—clearly unridable.

  “You need a lift?” Jackson offered.

  “Naw, I called somebody.” He sounded more frightened than before.

  Jackson saw the glow of a cell phone in the kid’s hand and figured he’d be fine. He handed him the insurance card, then fought deja vu the rest of his way home. Back at his hotbox apartment, the adrenaline must finally have faded, since his hand had started throbbing. This morning its ache had woken him up. But no swelling. And no health insurance. Probably it was fine, right?

  A sing-songy voice tore through his reverie. “Sailor Man! Breakfast is ready!”

  Grampa Pedro cringed as he always did at the aide’s effervescence. But instead of resigning himself to being wheeled down to the dining room, he suddenly turned on Jackson with the previous day’s lucidity. “Why do you work, anyway, kid?”

  Jackson somehow managed to keep his mouth from falling open. “Ahh…what?”

  “Didn’t you make enough money being famous? What are you working for?” The old man leaned in, his wrinkle-rimmed eyes glowing with concern. “Is it because you’re back in L.A.? Too expensive here?”

  Jackson stared stupidly at a man he’d thought he knew. “Uhm….” All this time he’d been lying when he could have told the truth? “I thought you’d want me to work.”

  Grampa Pedro’s wrinkled face absolutely pruned with confusion. “WHY? Why work if you don’t have to!”

  “I’ll, ah…quit. If you’d like.”

  “It’s
about what you’d like.” A bony finger stuck Jackson in the chest.

  The same sickeningly cheerful nurse appeared in the doorway again. “Mister Sailor’s going to be late. Don’t want cold eggs. Not yummy.”

  Jackson assured her they’d be right down.

  His grandfather wagged a finger after the nurse. “It’s about what you’d like,” he said, “with one exception.” He gazed at Jackson, his eyes glowing with an immediacy the younger man did not recognize. “When was I in the Navy, kid?”

  “During the war?”

  “Right. I was drafted into World War II along with most of the rest of the world. And that’s when I happened to meet your grandmother. Her parents wanted her with a Marine, not a sailor. She told them I’d proposed. They said, not that sailor! Her father called me Mister Sailor until the day he dropped dead. Four years in the Navy, no more. But guess what your grandmother made me promise to put on my tombstone?” Affection stippled his voice.

  “It’s about what’d you’d like,” he continued, “except for the way you’re introduced to the world. That’s a big truth, that introduction. A big, wild, crazy truth. It’s how others see you. And that’s a thing you can fight against all your life, like I did. I could have re-enlisted. I should have! Millie would have been happier. But I fought it. You can fight it or you can embrace it. Either way, it’s gonna’ come find you in the end.”

  Grampa Pedro stared into something Jackson wasn’t privy to, maybe his warm past with Gramma Millie, maybe his cold, dark future in the ground. Then his face shifted back to dull and droopy. “Hey, we’d better get down there. I don’t want cold eggs That slop is bad enough warm.”

  * * *

  “Don’t you have anything smaller?”

  Jackson blinked at the clerk and the hundred dollar bill he’d handed him, then fumbled with the wallet. “I, uh…I dunno.”

  Had the kid behind the counter been less uninterested, he might have noticed the streaky fingerprints on the black leather wallet, smears of crimson that would dry to brown by dawn. But at 4:30 in the morning, quick-mart clerks have more pressing concerns than a confused, subtly blood-stained man unfamiliar with his monies.