And I resent your methods, your cruelty, your choice of death for me. Why couldn’t you serve me my Notice To Evict The Planet some other way? Instead of the number-two killer in the world, why couldn’t you simply have had a criminal shoot me? I must say, You must have a discontented majority of Your people complaining about your methods. Why heart attacks and cancer? Why not one night we simply close our eyes and the next thing we see is you?
It’s not fair, God. I’ve lived in a city where I’ve spent most of my waking hours behind a steering wheel stuck in traffic and waiting for the Big One. Is this my reward?
Suddenly she laughed. Halfway through her prayer, she’d been struck with the feeling of being someone else who was watching herself pray. That someone else was laughing at her ridiculous attempt to cajole God. God didn’t cajole or persuade easily, if at all. The laughter coming from her carried with it the realization that she simply wasn’t the same woman she’d been a day ago--she knew she was dying, yet somehow, deep down, below where her shallow prayer had generated, was a person who felt things were going better than she had any right to expect.
The placid ocean and the empty sands before her seemed somehow virginal, and she found herself feeling that she should simply remain where she was, at the railing on the pier, eating churros until she finally expired and tumbled into the arms of the earth-sea-sky juncture surrounding her.
She remembered as a girl she’d come down here with Dad to hunt the grunion. The grunion--small silver fish--assembled themselves each year by the millions offshore, waiting for precisely the right time and tide to wash onto the beach and lay their eggs. When they hit--usually around midnight--they carpeted the sands with their flashing bodies, and people walked around, loading up their buckets in the same manner the ancient Israelites must have done when they gathered their daily heaps of miraculous quail.
The stupid fish, she thought. Doing the same thing for millions of years and unable to tune in to the fact that within the last seventy years, ten million people had gathered along their shore to gobble them up. But perhaps they knew something she didn’t. Perhaps they knew that in another seventy years, the ten million people would be gone and it would be back to the way it had always been.
She identified with the grunion, and realized that they were smarter than she was--because the grunion knew what they were doing. She herself had no idea whether to swim towards a goal or simply float with the tide of recent events. Either way, the tumor was waiting at the shore to toss her into its bucket of death. True, the tumor had stripped her of her need to continue clinging to her old life of work-eat-sleep-and-play--had in fact propelled her into the present fiery furnace of pain. To her surprise, she’d found that once inside the furnace, her perspective had changed. For one thing, just like the three men in the book of Daniel who’d been saved from being turned into toast by a mysterious angel, she’d likewise found a life-giving friend in her fiery furnace--Mulroney.
All her life she’d avoided pain and sought comfort, but now her perspective had changed. Which was real, she wondered, the world of pain or the world of comfort? She finally understood the truth. The pain and the comfort weren’t separate entities, but rather were, like the sand and sea before her, a single reality. One always led to the other.
She pulled out her phone and hit the speed dial and asked for Bob, her accountant.
“Vickie,” Bob said. “How are you? Ready for Halloween?”
“You have no idea,” she said. “Listen Bob, I’m in a big hurry, so I’m going to dispense with the amenities. I’m converting all my assets to cash today. I want you to total it all up and sent a third to the IRS. Then I want you to contact the best Realtor in Santa Monica and have them sell my house in the Valley and call me right now about finding a good property here in town. Next, call Simonson Mercedes and let them know that I’ll be in there later and I’m good for whatever I want and not to give me any sales bull. Third, get hold of a decent lawyer and setup everything so whatever I own or buy in the next day or so can be transferred to my brother upon my death with a minimum of tax-impact. Finally, put about a hundred grand in an account for perpetuity to cover taxes on any property I own which is transferred over to Dalk.”
“Is that all?” he said.
“This is no time to be funny,” she said.
“Vickie, why do I feel all of a sudden like I’ve just boarded the Metro and asked Bernie Goetz for some spare change?”
“I’m sorry, Bob,” she said. “And I intend no insult.”
“What’s wrong?” he said.
“My life’s fortunes,” she said, “are at a critical juncture--I’m quite ill--I may have only a few days or weeks left. So forgive me for being brusque.”
“I’ll take care of everything you need,” Bob said. “You can count on me. And it goes without saying, that after twenty years of friendship, you have my deepest sympathy.”
“Sorry to lay it on you like this,” Vickie said. “I couldn’t think of any better way to do it. I guess it’s my way of adapting to the none-too-distant moment when I will be leaving this world.”
“I’ll call you,” he said, “and let you know how it’s going.”
“Thank you, Bob,” she said. “Please hurry--my time is running out.”
She realized that while talking to Bob she’d managed at the same time to finish up the churro. How she’d accomplished both actions simultaneously and unconsciously was beyond her. She needed another churro; she made the buy and admired the form of it, the way it’s ridged, sugar-coated body projected itself from the paper bag as if to say, “bite me”. She did, and was surprised to find this second helping not as good as the first, as was the manner of all things of its kind which began, like the universe itself, with a rush of heat and molding.
Chapter 10
“My background,” Mary-Jo said, “prior to Real Estate, was in Advertising. After graduation from USC, I went out and did my bit for the Ad industry, but I got out seven years ago when I grew tired of being covered in slime. My last advertising gig was pushing gourmet popcorn for a certain famous old geezer who couldn’t keep his buttery fingers off me. I repelled his advances and he complained--next stop--Real Estate.”
Vickie and Mary-Jo, her new real estate agent, sat talking over drinks on the patio at Chillers on Santa Monica’s Third Street Promenade--a large European-style open air mall, wherein the City of Santa Monica had simply closed off a street, added a few topiary dinosaurs and a couple of fountains, and rented out the whole thing to an eclectic assortment of eateries and shops. The trendy eatery had been chosen by Vickie based upon its featured hit-list of over thirty kinds of frozen drinks which ascended in appeal as the October day heated up briefly during a lull in the Santa Ana breezes. A nice mix of oldie rock-n-roll overlay the conversational buzz in the background.
Mary-Jo, in a basic blue power suit, bore a striking resemblance to Pamela Anderson. Vickie mentioned the resemblance as, she knew, countless others must also have.
“I get that a lot,” Mary-Jo said. “Especially from the tourists. Mine are real, by the way.” Mary-Jo worked in a town and in a profession where she had to maintain a certain level of appearance which required the help of a strong hairdresser, a good physical trainer, and a staff devoted to making sure everyone was paying attention and nobody was taking anybody to the cleaners. With her styled, short blonde hair and muted makeup, she presented the essence of class, grace, and a certain psychic dexterity demanded of those who spent their working hours assisting wealthy home buyers on and off the financial roller coaster of the Santa Monica real estate market.
The waiter took drink orders--a White Russian for Mary-Jo, and a Strong Buzz--a frozen slush of tropical punch spiked with vodka--for Vickie. Mary-Jo flipped open her notebook computer and brought up a clever electronic picture-book of available properties.
“So tell me--,” Mary-Jo said, “--what are you looking for?”
“As Bob, my accountant probably told you, I need yo
u to sell my home in the Valley and help me find a suitable place here in Santa Monica.”
“My people are already working on your Valley house,” Mary-Jo said. “We’ve already got it listed and a sign will be in the yard by late this afternoon. If it doesn’t sell for top dollar in ten days, my company will buy it from you at five percent back of appraisal. But what I want from you now is to get an idea what your dream house looks like.”
“My accountant probably told you I’m dying,” Vickie said. “It’s funny in a way, because I had always planned on retiring someday here at the beach. My dream after my husband died was to keep myself busy until I hit my early sixties, at which point, I’d buy my dream beach house and live near the water and spend many idle hours in pursuit of happiness. But yesterday I found out that a nasty little tumor has made other plans for me. So, to make a long story short, I’m buying my dream beach house for my brother. It’s probably my way of seeing my dream come true through him.”
“Tell me about your brother,” Mary-Jo said. “Does he have a family?”
“He’s single,” Vickie said. “He’ll be the big 4-0 this February.”
“Will he be working with us on this?” Mary-Jo said.
Vickie laughed. “No,” she said. “He’s not practical about such matters. He’s the kind of man who’s happy simply to have clothes on his back and a hot meal. Not that he’s a pig. He shaves and showers every day, and he’s in incredible physical shape. He’s got low self-esteem, though, because he’s a little on the short side--like me--we’re both short and a little stocky.”
“He sounds refreshing,” Mary-Jo said. “And you’re not stocky--voluptuous is the word.”
“You can afford to be generous with your compliments with that set of wheels,” Vickie said.
“I’m thirty-five and I still haven’t met a man in this town I could tell apart from the last one. I’d love to have a rough-cut man like your brother to polish to suit my tastes.”
Vickie brought out the photo she kept of Dalk in her wallet.
“Ooh-la-la,” Mary-Jo said. “You didn’t tell me he was so cute. Is he seeing anybody?”
“He’s been unattached for the past couple of years. He needs a house and somebody to look after him. I can’t leave him alone to wander around friendless and homeless in this land of barbarians. His big problem is he has no head for money. You should see the car he drives--an old heap one of his students traded him for some lessons.”
“Student? Is he a teacher?” Mary-Jo said.
“Brace yourself,” Vickie said. “He’s a martial artist--he works for LAPD.”
Mary-Jo drained off her White Russian. “He sounds like he walked straight out of my dreams,” she said. With a sharp eye, she summoned the waiter. “The White Russian didn’t cut it,” she said. “What’ve you got with an edge?”
“How about a Suicide,” he said. “151 rum, light rum, dark rum, vodka, triple sec, and five fruit juices, all slushed together--it’ll cut through anything.”
Mary-Jo nodded at Vickie. “Do you mind?” she said. “ I know it’s unprofessional, but I suddenly feel the need for us to achieve some sort of state of grace here as quickly as possible.”
“I agree,” Vickie said.
“It’s settled then,” Mary-Jo said. “I’ll have a Suicide.”
“Make it two,” Vickie said.
“Your brother is like one of those macho, self-imposed exiles-from-the-world that women dream about,” Mary-Jo said. “The minute I saw his picture, I was ready to quit everything and go with him on horseback to anyplace wild.”
“You should be careful,” Vickie said. “One of his dreams is to go to Alaska and do that dogsled thing they do up there.”
“That’d be better than what my life is now,” Mary-Jo said. “My love life has really been reduced to foraging for nuts and berries the past few years--nothing of substance has graced my paths for a long time. I’ve made some money selling Real Estate, even in this difficult market, and I guess that’s left me vulnerable to the kind of dream guy who’s just that--all dreams and no money--the kind of guy who’s looking for somebody to take care of him while he goes to all the right Studio parties praying for a miracle Producer to snap him up and make him the next Brad Pitt.”
“Dalk is a bit of a wild beast,” Vickie said. “He’s your basic meat-eater--not the type to inhabit the enclosed environs of the movie people.”
The Suicides arrived, brightly sheathed in mounds of multi-colored ice crystals. Each lady took a sip through their straws.
“Whoo,” Mary-Jo said. “One of these and it will be with the utmost reluctance that I ever return to reality.”
Vickie felt a stirring in her lower back and a whisper of fear in her heart. The pain, forgotten for a precious few hours, was awakening from its slumber. She fumbled with her vial of Mulroney Specials, palmed a couple of caps and took them with a sip of Suicide.
“What’ve they got you on?” Mary-Jo said.
“I’m really not sure,” Vickie said. “I'm self-medicating. My fiancé supplied me with them this morning--they’re working, that’s all I care about for now.”
They sat and sipped, nodding in tune to the beat from the bar--Elvin Bishop, Fooled Around and Fell in Love--the angel-sweet crooner framing his testimony to the value of true love found.
“Your brother’s name is Dalk?” Mary-Jo said. “Is that a nickname?”
“I know what you mean,” Vickie said. “It’s unusual, isn’t it? He had a lot of trouble from the other kids when he was growing up--plus, Dalk’s a little on the short side--it’s probably why he was attracted to the warrior life.”
“Does it mean anything?” Mary-Jo said. “The name Dalk, I mean.”
“Dad always told us it was the ancient Celtic word for iron, which meant strength,” Vickie said. “But after Dad died, we did some research and weren’t able to find any proof. It’s possible Dad simply made it up. At this point, it’s a mystery.”
The Promenade before them was suddenly deserted, in one of those accidents of fate and timing, and Vickie felt the curious sensation of silence about her. She took a deep breath and felt something hard at the end of it, as though someone had tied a rock to her lungs with a string. When her lungs expanded, the rock pulled downward at the same time, making her effort to obtain oxygen enormous.
“Ohhhh,” she wheezed. The feeling passed, the rock disappeared, and she inhaled deeply, greedily.
“You went three shades whiter,” Mary-Jo said. “Shall I call for a doctor?”
Vickie felt ashamed of her weakness. Struggling to avoid eye contact, she turned deliberately away. “No,” she said. “No doctor. Phew! I feel like I survived an Al Gore masseuse bear hug--I have no idea where that came from.”
“It’s anxiety,” Mary-Jo said. “What with all you’re facing, it’s not unexpected. A lot of people go through it when they contemplate purchasing real estate.”
Vickie turned back around. “Well, I’m pretty tired of this nonsense--I keep praying for it just to be over--but, you know, I’m still here. My fiancé is probably keeping me alive with his prayers.” She sipped her drink and the straw sucked air. She needed another frozen cylinder of booze. In her attempt to signal the waiter, she was surprised to find she could barely lift her arm. The thing weighed a ton.
“Order me another drink,” she said to Mary-Jo. She took a quick look around. Nobody seemed to be noticing her display of weakness, but Mary-Jo’s face brimmed with emotions Vickie couldn’t place for a second, but then it caught up with her. Mary-Jo was giving her The Face--the one people gave to the dying--a sickening blend of sadness and pity Vickie had never seen before. She realized that she herself must have given such a face to other dying people in her lifetime, but it came as a shock to find it turned on her.
“Stop with the face,” she said to Mary-Jo.
“You’re a brave woman,” Mary-Jo said. “I can see you fighting it with everything you’ve got--you’re a little saint.”
“If I’m anything,” Vickie said, “it’s a concerned sister. I’m concerned for Dalk--but only because I suspect he’ll be adrift without me. That’s why I need you to find him a good house.”
“Then let’s get busy and find him one,” Mary-Jo said. She slid closer to Vickie and together they flipped through the electronic database of pictures of available beach properties. Vickie sat back. “I can’t do this,” she said. “I’m too tired. Shut the computer off.”
Mary-Jo closed the lid and the machine whirred its way to silence. “Maybe tomorrow, when you’re feeling better,” she said. “I understand.”
“No,” Vickie said. “You don’t understand--I can’t do this--I’m too weak. You’re going to have to do the whole thing for me.”
“You want me to buy you a house without you even seeing it?” Mary-Jo said.
“Make sure it’s got a little spot out front for some flowers,” Vickie said. “And a nice fireplace. Dalk always liked a nice fireplace.”
“How much do you want to spend?”
“I’d say around a million,” Vickie said. “Can you find something around here for that?”
“Are you kidding?” Mary-Jo said. “Don’t worry. I’ll see you get the very best.”
“There’s just one thing,” Vickie said. “You’ve got to find the house and buy it today. I want the transaction recorded and closed by tomorrow morning.”
Mary-Jo chewed on her tongue a moment and took a big sip of her drink. “Okay,” she said. “But I better get moving. Where can I get in touch with you later?”
“Meet me tonight,” Vickie said. “There’s a bar in Van Nuys, The Lamplighter, on Sepulveda a tad north of Vanowen.”
Mary-Jo stood up and grabbed the chit.
“Leave it,” Vickie said.
“I’ll see you tonight,” Mary-Jo said. “I’m sure I’ll have some good news.”
“Mary-Jo,” Vickie said. “There’s one more thing I want you to do for me.”
A Small Matter Page 5
