Sarah stopped at another room whose simple sign stated, THE GARDEN OF EDEN ON WHEELS—SELECTED COLLECTIONS FROM LOS ANGELES AREA MOBILE HOME AND TRAILER PARKS.
They stepped into a darkened room with small display cases set against the walls. In each case was a miniature vignette of either a mobile home or a travel trailer arranged amidst a forest, a trailer park, or campground setting. All of them glowed and flickered as if tiny people were vacationing or living in each. Sounds of AM radios and televisions played, and Chris could hear crackling campfires and the distant sound of crickets.
The exhibit was purely magical, like she’d been transported, in miniature, to a culture that was on the move and whose roots harkened back to the migratory workers of the Great Depression and the evangelists and salesmen of the 1940s.
She saw Airstream trailers, and canned hams, and even something called a “trailerite” auto camper, set in a scene so flush with flamingos and no-trespassing signs that she could almost hear the cantankerous inhabitant swearing at her from behind the plaid drapes.
These were all distinct, individual statements of fiercely independent souls, of adventurous wanderers, and of capitalistic entrepreneurs, and it all amazed Chris because she’d never seen anything like this place.
They meandered from one display case to the next, talking about the details of each one. The exhibit was surprisingly void of narratives, but there was a complete fluidity throughout, tying everything together, and it allowed them to draw their own conclusions or construct their own critique.
They spent another hour meandering around the maze of small exhibit rooms looking at specimens and collections, both the beautiful and the bizarre.
“Are you hungry?” Sarah asked after they’d walked out of the museum.
“Starved, actually.”
“What do you feel like?”
“I could go for a burger or Mexican.”
“How about El Abajeño?”
“Oh, yes! I can taste the carnitas as we speak.”
*
The flat and drab, orange stucco building, displaying signs reading DISCOTECA Y LICORERIA, wasn’t particularly inviting, nor would it cause a passerby to stop, but locals knew that big portions of authentic Mexican food awaited them inside.
They ordered and found a table toward the back.
Chris gulped down almost half of her iced tea, and the coolness felt great on her throat. It was another hot day out, and, at one o’clock in the afternoon, the Los Angeles sun was at its most intense.
“That museum was fabulous, Sarah. Thank you for taking me.”
“I’m glad you liked it. I wasn’t sure at first.”
“Well, it wouldn’t have been something I’d run to go see, but knowing what it’s like, I thought it was really unique. And definitely a gray-area place.”
“That’s why I picked it. I hoped you’d be interested to see how a place could defy a traditional system and, by its sheer unusualness, create a new way to experience things. It breaks the rules, but in a way that’s novel and refreshing.”
“I see what you mean. Left to my own choices, I’d have picked the Natural History Museum instead.”
“How many times have you been there?”
“Since I was a kid? Probably ten or twelve.”
“That’s what I mean, a place like that’s the rule. I love the exception.”
“It’s scandalous.”
She made Sarah laugh, which pleased her deeply. The more she came to know of her, the more involved her feelings got. And the more time they spent together, the less concerned she was that they’d slept together so soon. Though it was early in their dating, she couldn’t imagine being with anyone else. Sarah was her focus now, and she truly wanted to see where this would go.
“Where are you right now?” Sarah said.
“I’m sorry. I was thinking about you and me.”
“This may seem presumptuous, but you looked really content just then.”
“Well, I can say I’m very glad I craved blackberries that day.”
“So, you’re happy to be here with me?”
“Very much so. That was the content look I had on my face.”
Their food came, and as she dug into her carnitas, Chris said, “What about you?”
“Am I content?”
Chris nodded.
“Right now, yes. Very.”
“And in general?”
“I think most people believe that to be content is to put up with whatever state they’re in, as when things are sufficient or bearable or when they’re moderately happy or satisfied.” She rolled up her carne asada burrito a little tighter, not yet taking a bite. “But contentment is so much more than that. It’s an inner peace and joy no matter what’s happening in your life. Certainly bad things can weigh heavily on your soul, but even in those moments, if you calm yourself down and listen to the silence that is your life, realizations come.”
Sarah took a bite, chewing slowly, and Chris realized that her lips were sexy no matter what she did with them. “Like, what kind of realizations?”
“That the world is a beautiful place. That a stream sounds like God is swishing around, playing in the water. That love is possible, maybe.”
“I agree with you,” Chris said. “I think happiness comes from events on the outside, but that contentment resides on the inside. Happiness leads to contentment, I suppose. But for me, contentment is the deep breath you take when you’ve just stepped out of a mountain cabin. The air is crisp and pungent with the smell of pine, and the rustling around you tells you there are perfect little creatures foraging close by, sharing the Earth with you. It tells you that the problems in your day-to-day existence are far, far down the mountain somewhere, but up here, all that matters is the green of the trees and the feel of pebbles under your hiking boots. And the day is yours, to commune with nature, to explore its beauty, to discover yourself in new ways, and to appreciate and pay reverence to your life.”
“I think you just painted a picture of contentment for the next publication of the dictionary.”
“You also have a very good grasp on life.”
“Me?” Sarah looked surprised.
“What you said about finding inner peace and joy, no matter what’s happening.”
“Most of the time, I don’t have a good grasp at all. I know what I want. But making it happen is another thing entirely.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve taken so many different classes and tried so many careers, but I never stay with any of them. I don’t know who I am and what I want, and that causes me to fail at seeing anything through.”
“But you’ve been with the refuge for a long while.”
Sarah’s eyes brightened. “I love the refuge. It’s my escape.”
“So you can’t say you don’t stay with something.”
“The unsticks far outweigh the sticks.”
“Well,” Chris said, hoping to encourage her, “just focus on what’s good about you. And I can tell you, there’s a lot.”
“You must be referring to my ability to show you a good time.”
Chris didn’t think Sarah was referring to the night they spent together, but her mind ran all the red lights and drove directly there. “That’s probably true. And I’m sure there are lots of other places in L.A. I haven’t seen.”
“Some of the best places are in Hollywood. Some aren’t formal venues, either. What about the neighborhood where the Black Dahlia was found murdered? She was the classic small-town girl with big Hollywood dreams. She had the same thoughts as every girl who shows up here. The field where she was found in the ’40s is filled with houses now, but I think it’s important to pay homage to the women who come here, as vulnerable as they are hopeful, and so naively entrust their lives to the film machine.”
“I think every L.A. cop who wants to be a detective has read about that case.”
“And I also go to the apartment building where Sal Mineo was killed. For me,
he was so troubled in life and seemed so tormented. One minute, he was on top of the world, starring with James Dean and living an incredibly famous life, and the next, he was out of work and struggling. In the late ’60s, he became one of the first major actors in Hollywood to publicly acknowledge his homosexuality, which was extremely brave, but he died at the back of his apartment, and the man who stabbed him didn’t even know who he was.”
Sarah finally took a bite of her burrito.
“I know those things are morbid,” she said, “but they speak to the tragic side of Hollywood. Two people, so full of hope, and giving of themselves to the industry until the rug was brutally pulled out from under them.”
Chris studied Sarah as she spoke. She watched her eyes, which expressed deep feelings for these stories that somehow connected strongly with her.
“You feel a lot, don’t you?”
“I suppose I do.”
“That’s beautiful, Sarah. Although I live in the black-and-white ends of the spectrum, sometimes I think my emotions stay about in the middle. But you seem to experience so much, and so profoundly.”
Chris must have hit upon something deep-rooted because Sarah stopped chewing.
After a moment, she said, “When I was a kid, my parents lived close to where I live now. It was up Beachwood Canyon, actually. I was what they called a sensitive child.” Her voice faltered a little, as if the words she’d just underscored still hurt. “I would get so upset or sad that I thought if I stayed in the house a minute longer, I’d go crazy. So I’d sneak out and walk up Beachwood, past all the houses. There’s a parking lot a ways farther up, and I’d take the trail off of that and climb and climb up to the Hollywood sign. Before 2000, they didn’t have a security system to catch those who tried to get to it. It was a hell of a hike, almost straight up at times, but I would finally get to the sign and sit underneath one of the letters. The view’s amazing. You can see Catalina Island when it’s clear. Sometimes, there’d be a coyote, and I’d watch it roaming through the brush.”
She was looking past Chris, probably seeing every bush and rock, and feeling the coastal air sweeping up the hill.
“Anyway,” she said, “I’d stay there until I felt better and then I’d hike home.”
“Do you still do that?”
“I only go there on the full moon. It’s kind of a ritual for me. It’s my sanctuary, I guess. But it’s harder to get there now. Sometimes it’s almost impossible because of the security, but I’ve found ways.”
“I’ve always wondered if you could get up to the sign.”
“It’s truly a magical place. Sitting under that icon reminds me of so many dreams and so much hope. Hollywood’s a double-edged sword, certainly, but the sign symbolizes the ever-enduring desire for happiness.”
“My escape,” Chris said, “was to crawl under our porch. We lived in a bungalow, you know, a California Craftsman house. The wooden porch had an access panel on the side, and I’d go in there to get away from all the military orders my parents directed at me. I’d sit there and listen to them ask each other where I was. Then I’d hear my dad clomp out on the porch above me and call my name. It was my way of rebelling. But it wouldn’t last long. I’d think about running away, and then images of dead kids, runaway kids that my parents would tell me stories about, would scare the shit out of me. I’d eventually climb back out and toe the line again.”
“That sounds as frustrating as my childhood.”
“They raised me the way they were raised, and I know they think it was best, but they didn’t allow any room for failure. I learned to avoid their displeasure by saluting smartly. You never want to see my father’s look of disappointment. It would send you to your knees and paralyze you with terror. I did everything I could to be good for so long, I guess it stuck.” Chris looked at her, hoping she’d understand. “That’s why I’m a cop now, and that’s why I have such a narrow margin for spontaneity and craziness.”
A small child in a booth across from them suddenly yelled, “Papa!”
“Ughhh,” Sarah suddenly said.
“What’s the matter?”
“This coming Sunday.”
Chris thought a moment. “Shit. Father’s Day.”
“Yeah, another rip-roaring good time at the Pullman house.”
Chris chuckled. “It can’t be as much fun as my parents are.”
“Are you going by there?”
“I usually do. I’m off on Sundays, so they expect it.”
“I have a proposal for you. If I go with you to your parents’ house, will you then come with me to mine?”
“Two sticks in the eye instead of one? Sounds tantalizing.”
“That way, we can keep the visits short because of the excuse of needing to visit the other parental unit. Sound like a good time?”
“I’d rather ride a donkey naked through the desert with snapping turtles attached to my nipples, but if I can spend the time with you, I’m all for it.”
“Speaking of nipples…”
Chris almost choked on her carnitas. “Yes?”
“Yours are stunning.”
A fluttering in her stomach made Chris inhale deeply. “Oh, my God.”
“Was that too forward?”
“No! I…I like that you…like them.”
“More than like.”
Chris tapped her fork against the table. She was aware that Sarah noticed, and even the way she was looking at her now made her want her. Sarah’s directness was even sexy. She pulled out her wallet and threw cash on the table. “There’s something I need to show you. In the car.”
They locked the doors and almost attacked each other. Chris pulled off her shirt and Sarah was right there, pushing her bra aside to take a nipple in her mouth. Her lips and tongue were warm as they sucked and tugged, and she groaned in encouragement of what she was doing.
In the recesses of her mind, the image 647(a) flashed. It was the California penal code for lewd conduct in public. Chris was always on the discovery end of the act, not the active end. But she didn’t care right then and pushed it, and all the other warnings, from her mind.
She laid her head back and reached up to hold Sarah’s head. She felt drunk and let the dizziness consume her. One of Sarah’s hands moved down and Chris opened her legs. She moaned again, knowing she was already wet.
With her free hand, she began unbuttoning Sarah’s shirt, but the angle was challenging. After a few unsuccessful tries, Sarah sat up and helped her.
Chris wasted no time shoving Sarah’s shirt aside and pushing her bra up. Taking one nipple in her mouth, she found Sarah so soft and hard and so beautiful she could have changed religions just to worship the goddess who was with her right then.
Sarah shook with little tremors, and her seductive gasps fueled the buzz in Chris’s head so much that she had to reach down and unzip Sarah’s pants.
A horn suddenly honked and they both jumped. Across the street, a car was blocking another as it tried to exit a driveway.
Chris tried to calm her racing heart while Sarah giggled.
“Fuuuuuck,” Chris managed to say when her breathing slowed enough to cough up a word.
She turned back, and the sight of Sarah, exposed and so sensuous, made her sigh.
“God, you’re beautiful.”
“Who says you’re not spontaneous? That’s so fucking hot.”
Sarah was right. She’d just been extremely impulsive. And that certainly wasn’t her at all. She didn’t want to think about how risky it had been and that a police officer could have come along, which could be devastating for her. She was with a woman who invigorated her mind and her body, and, for once, she was glad she’d silenced the logical side of her brain.
Sarah handed Chris her shirt and she pulled it on over her head. “After eating Mexican food, I always crave something sweet, but this is a first.”
“Hopefully not the last,” Sarah said as she buttoned up.
“No, definitely not.”
&nbs
p; Chapter Ten
Sarah saw Chris almost every night that week. With Chris working until four in the afternoon their schedules matched fairly well. The only challenge was Chris dragging herself out of bed around four thirty to make it to her shift by six. As much as they tried to get to bed early, sleep wouldn’t overcome them until much, much later.
So on Friday night, Sarah planned a special date, telling Chris to come over after work and that she would take care of the rest.
When Sarah saw Chris pull into her driveway, a jolt of excitement zipped up her spine and landed on her cheeks, making them flushed and hot. Since meeting Chris, Sarah felt like her life was turning around. She loved spending time with her and felt very secure and happy. On more than a few occasions she’d wake up in the morning with floods of energy and optimism bubbling over inside her. The arrival of junk mail didn’t bother her, and she’d even baked bread for her neighbors on either side, chatting with them for the first time in a couple of years.
Chris was a true blessing who invaded her thoughts with promise and possibilities. Whereas she mostly fought the world alone, distrustful of humankind’s intentions and dubious of the existence of real happiness, being with Chris rendered those practices and beliefs entirely unnecessary.
Chris was beautiful and funny and attentive in a way that made her consider herself a sacred and precious woman whose thoughts and feelings were valuable instead of a presumed possession that could bestow value. Chris didn’t care about the family fortune. She didn’t care about using her for sex or for show. Sarah felt an all-embracing and sincere yearning from her that melted the most remote blocks of ice that Sarah knew lurked deep inside her.
Her relationship with Chris was absolutely perfect. And watching Chris get out of her car, Sarah was reminded that being alive was a genuine gift.
She answered the door by pulling Chris in and wrapping her arms around her. They kissed in the foyer, and she could tell by Chris’s melodic moans that she was happily surprised.
“I think that was the nicest hello I’ve ever gotten,” Chris said.
The Heat of Angels Page 12
