They fit about twenty sets onto the truck and drove them back to Hello City, unloaded them behind Red’s trailer, returned to El Centro for another load. They made five trips in all (they stopped at a taco truck on the third, Red’s treat), finished just before dark. Red thanked Excel for his help, gave him fifty dollars, ten more than originally agreed. “Wow,” Excel said, “that’s so nice,” and he meant it: he couldn’t remember the last time anyone had been so overtly generous.
He folded the bills in half and put them in his pocket, thanked him. “And what about all that?” he asked, pointing to the television sets. The entire day, Red never said what his plans were for them, and Excel didn’t think it was his place to ask. Now, with more than a hundred of them scattered about, the question only seemed natural, a fitting end to the day.
“All that,” Red said, looking back, “no idea. But if I ever figure it out, I’ll let you know.”
EXCEL RETURNED TO THE BUS, FOUND SAB SITTING ON A LAWN chair on the helipad, still in her apron, a metal pail of beers on ice at her feet. “A welcome gift from Lucia,” she said.
He sat beside her, reached for a bottle. The brand was Cerulean Spark, an IPA. “I don’t understand this beer.”
“It’s some local craft beer from San Diego. She said we should pay attention to its ‘stone fruit notes.’ That’s like the name of a shitty band. I would’ve been happy with a six-pack of Bud Light.”
Excel grabbed the bottle opener. “How’s the soap industry?”
“I learned lavender is technically part of the mint family.” Sab yawned, leaned back in her chair. “There’s a lot of boiling, lot of mixing. Lucia says I’ll need to develop my stirring technique.” She looked at the splotches on her apron. “Maybe a cemetery flower shop wasn’t so bad after all.”
“Hey”—he put a hand on her arm, gave it a squeeze—“we just got here. You’ll get used to it.”
She shrugged, took a bottle from the pail. “How was lifting and moving?”
“I lifted. I moved.” He thought of telling her that he’d lied about being in the weight-lifting club, but was too tired to go into it. “It was a good day,” he said.
“Then we should toast,” she said. “To your good day.”
She raised her beer to Excel’s. The last time he’d toasted was the day of Joker’s funeral. The morning of, Maxima had drawn the curtains and built a makeshift shrine on the dresser in Joker’s bedroom, then got on her knees and whispered orasyones all day, as Excel knelt beside her, head bowed. In the evening, they split a foot-long Subway sandwich that neither of them touched, but Maxima insisted they drink the last of Joker’s Ginebra gin, which he’d always kept on his milk crate nightstand, between the alarm clock and a small Tupperware of Nilla Wafers. “This stuff is strong,” Maxima said, “but drink it down.” She poured shots into paper cups, raised hers high. “To Grandmaster,” she said. “Please guide us. Please forgive us. Please tell us what to do.” Maxima teared up but Excel held himself together and took the shot, which tasted like a mix of vinegar and the smell of gasoline. He took another shot, then a third. Later, after Maxima had finally fallen asleep, he went to the bathroom and puked so much he wept.
He raised his beer, clinked it against Sab’s, grateful to be there, grateful to be gone.
New money in his pocket, Excel suggested they treat themselves to dinner. They grabbed a flashlight and put on double hoodies (it was a colder night than expected), made their way to the Square. It was just past eight o’clock and though most things were closed (the sellers were gone, only the food carts and Beans! were open), the Square was more alive at night than in the day, lit up by tiki torches and crisscrossing Christmas lights above, and a crowd of about thirty, maybe even more, were gathered, sitting on benches and lawn chairs, in small circles on tarps laid on the ground in front of the stage. Lucia was there too, hunkered on a low stool and wrapped in blankets, sharing a joint with a blond dreadlocked guy in a parka and a long skirt.
The smell of curry came floating from the Hot Food cart; Sab and Excel walked over, stood in line. Excel reached into his pocket for the cash, then saw something that he hadn’t noticed before, about twenty yards away on the edge of the Square: a large metal cage sitting on a wooden table, an owl inside. Excel moved closer, saw a gold-framed sign propped against the base of the cage. It read:
This is The Oracle.
She is the Wise One of Hello City.
Ask a YES or NO question.
If she hoots, it’s a YES. If not, it’s a NO.
25¢ per question.
All donations go to The Square.
“Guess how old she is,” someone said. Excel turned, found Red standing beside him, a steaming mug in his hand. He looked back at the owl, guessed five years old, maybe ten. “Thirty-three,” Red said. “She’s a great-horned owl, life span of about fifteen years. But in captivity, she could live to be fifty, even older.” The owl was perched on a broken branch that stretched beyond the cage on either side, like an arm reaching through the bars of a cell.
“Have you ever asked her a question?” Excel asked.
“Yup. And I got the answer I wanted.” He took a sip of whatever he was drinking, walked off. Next to the cage was a mason jar half-filled with quarters. Excel reached into his pocket and felt a mix of coins, but decided he had no questions, not yet.
THEY ORDERED LENTIL CURRY AND WALKED OVER TO LUCIA, JOINED her on the tarp. Someone took the stage, held up a metal triangle, and clanged it like a dinner bell, which, Lucia explained, meant a Hello City Town Council meeting was about to begin. “It’s half to-do list, half shit show,” she said, “but this’ll make it more entertaining.” She lit another joint and passed it to Sab, who took a drag then passed it to Excel. He’d smoked pot only twice before, with some of the kitchen guys at The Pie; all it did was make him feel slow, his shift even slower. He took a drag, managed not to cough, tilted his head back and let out smoke, watched it momentarily fog up the starry night sky.
A woman in a cowboy hat and an old, matted fur coat took the stage. “Hey folks, me again, Rosie, HCTC chair, for those who don’t know, and I’m calling this meeting to order, blah blah blah.” She took the pencil tucked behind her ear, flipped through pages on a clipboard and read off a list of reminders—people were still leaving personal trash in the bins behind Beans!, artists in South Diamond were taking paint donations, the ride shares into Whyling were canceled for the week. “And now to the nitty-gritty,” she said, “stop signs in Hello City.” Excel wasn’t sure if Rosie meant to rhyme, but he started repeating it, over and over: Nitty-gritty, Hello City. Nitty-gritty, Hello City. Sab looked over at him, started laughing, the smell of pot in the air around them.
People spoke out against the signs, called them a waste of money and time, the ultimate authoritarian symbols. “Stop sign in Hello City today, Starbucks in Hello City tomorrow,” someone shouted. The few in favor were all parents, and two women took the stage together to argue their side. “Our kid is on his tricycle all the time,” one of them said, “and he’s almost been hit twice. Enough of this bullshit.” There was applause, and as Excel clapped too, he realized that he hadn’t seen a child since he arrived. It never occurred to him that there could be children in Hello City.
They went back and forth for another twenty minutes; in the end, they voted to table the discussion until the next meeting (“Shocking,” Lucia said, rolling her eyes). Rosie went through reminders and announcements, then asked if there were any new arrivals in the audience and if so, for them to come up and introduce themselves. “But you got to follow the rules,” she said. “First, tell us why you’re here. Second, give Hello City a gift.” The gift, she explained, had to be something nonmaterial—a line of poetry, a favorite joke, a verse or two from a favorite song, if you had the guts to sing. “Give us an experience,” she said, “something to remember you by.”
“We’re new!” someone shouted.
A couple approached the stage, gray haired and in mat
ching track suits. They stepped up, waved hello. The woman’s name was Heddy, her husband was Ned, and they’d just arrived from Oroville, Washington, just miles from the Canadian border. They’d recently retired after fifty years in the hospitality industry, and were done with the northwest rain. “So now we’re here, thanks for having us,” she said. “And here’s our gift.” They walked to the front of the stage, bent down, and did side by side headstands for an entire minute. People applauded and Heddy and Ned got to their feet, took a bow, then left the stage.
“Who else is new?” Rosie asked.
Lucia waved her arms. “Them!” she said, pointing at Sab and Excel.
Excel smiled and looked at the ground, found himself saying it again—Nitty-gritty, Hello City, nitty-gritty, Hello City—and he closed his eyes, wondering how many times he’d have to say it until this moment passed.
He lifted his head, looked at Sab. She shrugged. “Might as well.” She got up, stepped onstage. “I’m Sab,” she said, “short for Sabrina. And I came here because”—she looked down, like she didn’t quite know the reason, then smiled and looked up—“because, why not?” Then she searched the crowd, asked someone sitting near the stage for matches and a cigarette. “And here’s my gift.” She lit the cigarette, took two long drags and bent backwards, exhaled perfect smoke rings into the air. People clapped and Excel meant to clap too, but he kept thinking, Sabrina. Standing onstage, she looked as she often did—black jacket, torn jeans, Doc Martens, her hair a floppy bun of brown with purple streaks. But Sabrina? Did he know that was her real name? Had she mentioned it before? Maybe the pot was screwing with his memory, but he was almost positive that this was new information. “Sabrina,” he said softly to himself, pronouncing the name like it was a foreign word, “Sabrina.”
She took a bow, went back to Excel. “I’m really high,” she said, then kissed Excel on the cheek. “Your turn.”
He stood up, knees wobbly, but kept his balance and went to the stage. “My name is Excel,” he said, “like the spreadsheet.” Nobody laughed, but Sab nodded, encouraging him. “And I came here, to Hello City, because . . .” No reason came to mind, only Maxima, from a time he didn’t truly know: that moment of her arrival in America, eighteen years before. What if she’d been given the chance to introduce herself, to stand up and explain why she was here? Would that have made life better, or given her a different one entirely? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d stood in front of people like this, but knew how rare an opportunity it was; he wouldn’t squander it with a lie. He looked at the audience, noticed that the ground beneath the benches, chairs, and tarps was a concrete circle, another helipad, the faint yellow of its fading H barely visible but clearly there. H for hello, he thought, H for here, H for high (which, he realized, he was). “H for hiding,” he finally said. “That’s why I’m here.” The pot had taken full effect, his face and body filled with a surging calm. “I was hiding. Now I’m not.”
No response. He turned to leave.
“Stop,” Rosie said, “you owe us a gift.”
He’d forgotten, then asked if he could have a moment to think of one (“I guess,” Rosie sighed). He scanned the Square, saw a container of powdered nondairy creamer on the counter of Beans! He went to get it, then took the matches Sab had used, returned to the stage. “Here’s my gift,” he said. He lit a match, then tossed a bit of the creamer into the air. He’d seen the trick on TV; if timed just right, he would flick the lit match, igniting the powder, like fire bursting from air.
The fourth time it worked, a small quick flame. There was polite applause; someone said “Bravo.” Excel took no bow, left the stage.
Rosie called the meeting to a close, and three older men—all with ponytails and beards—joined her onstage, unpacked a banjo, a guitar, a small drum set. Rosie took out a fiddle, and the four started playing a waltzy country tune. People got to their feet, cleared away the benches and chairs, so that the helipad was a dancefloor now, with Heddy and Ned taking the lead. Others followed, and Excel saw Sab swaying her head side to side, like she wanted to join. “Maybe,” she said, holding out her hand, “just to fit in?” and Excel said, “Why not,” and took it. He was never one for dancing; an eighth-grade school dance was his one public attempt, and even then he hovered by the speakers, where the color-changing lights couldn’t reach. But on Monday, a kid in math class mocked the way he’d moved (one shoulder bouncing up and down, head bobbing back and forth) and only now, as he and Sab held each other and swayed near the stage, surrounded by all the other dancers, did Excel finally get it: sometimes, you’re just more obvious when you try to hide.
“It’s good to be with y’all tonight,” Rosie called from the stage, “here in our lovely Hello City. Hope you’ll stay a while, listen, and dance. Enjoy yourselves and don’t forget, we don’t care where you come from, we’re just happy you came.”
LATER, BACK IN THE BUS, IN BED AND IN THE DARK, SAB HELD EXCEL tight. “‘Hiding,’” she whispered, “what did you mean?” Her voice was warm against the back of his neck, and though he tried focusing on only that, his high had faded; he was himself again. “It was the pot,” he said, “that’s all.” He turned to face her, kissed her so that he wouldn’t have to speak.
12
The Pie is a mob of birthday parties by eleven a.m., every table and booth in the dining room crammed with celebrating families. It’s the best day for tips but Gunter won’t let Excel work the tables. “No mercy for you, Lydia,” he says, pointing at the name on his shirt. “Today, you’re balls.”
“Balls,” Excel says. “No problem.”
Few duties at The Pie suck more than ball pit–monitor duty. Barely ten minutes in, one kid elbows her brother in the eye, another gets his ankles caught in the mesh netting, shrieks like he’s drowning. Later, a kid gets a bloody lip from an accidental kick, and his parents scold Excel for his failure to supervise the children more closely. Then a little girl’s loose front tooth falls out and goes missing. She wails about the tooth fairy money she’s sure to lose, and her father speed-walks straight to Excel. “We need that tooth,” he says.
“I think it’s in the balls,” Excel says.
“That tooth is a keepsake,” he says. “Dive in. Swim around. Find it. Isn’t that your job?”
“There are thousands of balls in there,” Excel says.
Gunter, standing nearby, comes forward. “Lydia”—he snaps his fingers twice—“find the tooth for our customer.” Intentional or not, Gunter’s arms flex, and the tattooed skulls stare at Excel again.
“Of course,” Excel says. “Happy to do it.”
Excel grabs rubber gloves and some plastic bags from the utility closet, returns and clears the kids out of the ball pit. He removes his shoes and climbs in, wades around and scoops his arms through the sea of balls. In fifteen minutes he fishes out dirty socks and crusty Band-Aids, an assortment of hair clips and scrunchies, near-fossilized pizza crusts punctured with tiny teeth marks. He thinks of the lie he told Maxima, knows that this is the closest he’ll ever come to making important discoveries.
But still no tooth. How long, he wonders, until he’s allowed to give up a pointless, impossible search? This is nothing but a show put on by Gunter, to prove The Pie’s excellent customer service (the “Voted #1 in CUSTOMER SATISFACTION!” certificate, gold framed and hanging by the front door, is bullshit, a Word doc Gunter made himself). But the girl still sobs and her father lets out exaggerated, impatient sighs, like Excel is the reason for their terrible day.
It’s almost one p.m., the ball pit line gets longer with antsy kids chanting, “Hurry up, Ly-dia! Hurry up, Ly-dia!” louder and louder and clapping in sync. He turns to shush them, then realizes that the girl with the missing tooth is gone, her father too. He wades through the balls and climbs out of the pit, sees a wad of chewed gum caught on the bottom edge of the mesh netting, a tiny tooth lodged in rubbery pink. Carefully, he pulls it from the net, the gum stretching in a long, oozy strand, drops it into a p
lastic bag.
He climbs out, goes to the break room’s lost and found department—a laundry basket in the corner—drops the bag inside. He sneaks out the service door into the back lot for some air, but before he can cool off he takes out his phone and calls Sab. Six rings pass until she finally picks up, but instead of her voice there’s just a yowling, a desperate cry that somehow sounds both faraway and intimately close. He thinks of a baby, not their baby necessarily, but of something small and alone. Then he hears a crash.
“What’s happening,” he says, “are you there?”
“Sorry,” she says, “I dropped the phone.”
“What’s that noise?”
“Noise. You mean Zeus?”
“Who’s Zeus?”
“The peacock.”
“The one on the leash? I didn’t know he had a name.”
“He runs free now. But Lucia leaves out a bowl of tofu for him, so he’s always hanging around. If the bowl’s empty, he freaks out. I was refilling it when you called.” Excel hears what sounds like wind, a scraping noise he knows are Sab’s Doc Martens against the dirt. “Where are you?” she asks.
“At work. A kid lost a tooth in the ball pit.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“I found it. In a wad of gum.”
“That’s more unfortunate.”
Two kids on skateboards come skidding into the back lot, doing clumsy spins and jumps. One falls, lands on an elbow. “There’s a jar of my baby teeth somewhere in the apartment,” Excel says. “Did I ever tell you that? They’d drop one by one, I’d clean them in the bathroom, then put them in a jar.”
“That’s . . . weird. Kind of creepy.”
“I never went to the dentist as a kid.”
“Never?”
The Son of Good Fortune Page 10
