by John Raymond
He lit a cigarette, scanning the street, and took long drags. Streams of smoke disintegrated over his head. His gaze came around to the car more than once, pausing and moving on.
“Maybe we should go now,” Aaron suggested.
“No,” Grandpa Sam said. “We stay.”
Aaron sighed, embarrassed by his own cowardice. He’d often wondered what he would do were he ever truly tested. What if his neighbors rounded him up and sent him to a slave camp? God willing, he’d never know, but he was afraid he might not even put up a fight. He might be the type to just go quietly into the mass grave, take off his clothes, and bow his head. This was part of the reason he’d been testing himself these past years, climbing small rungs on the ladder of self-knowledge. His petty vandalism, his drugs, his sex. He’d been probing the outcomes of various behaviors, wondering when, if ever, there would be true consequences. Thus far, the lesson of his teenage years was that there were almost none.
Here came a new test. The twitchy blond dude was loping in their direction, baroquely limping and establishing his hostile position at the driver’s side window. Aaron pretended not to notice, and only when the dude rapped on the glass did he lower the window a few inches.
“Yo, son,” the guy said. His smoky, nasty breath poured into Aaron’s face. “You got to leave now, son, you get me?”
“How come?”
“Because,” the guy said. “Or we’re calling the police. That’s it.” His eyes, up close, were screwed into a look of pleading meanness. Don’t make this go badly, they seemed to say. I’m deeply unsure of my own powers, but I’ll go the distance if you push me.
“But we’re just sitting here,” Aaron said.
“You can’t be here, bud, period,” the guy said. “You gotta go. I’m not saying it again.” He flicked his fingers in the air like he was scattering invisible bugs. It was hard to imagine that his displays of authority usually had much effect.
“I’m pretty sure this is a public street,” Aaron heard himself say. “I’m pretty sure we can be here if we want to be.”
“This ain’t a public street, man!” the guy said. “So come on, let’s move it. Right now.”
Grandpa Sam, over in the passenger seat, was silent but all-hearing. If only for his benefit, Aaron felt the need to hold his ground.
“This is a public street, actually,” he said. “See that fire hydrant? That means this is a public street.”
The guy didn’t bother looking at the fire hydrant. He kept his eyes directly on Aaron and waited a tense few seconds, breathing heavily, before spitting out his response:
“You little fucking bitch.”
Then the guy banged hard on the roof of the car. He drew in another lungful of smoke and exhaled almost nothing and bent and glared at Aaron again. He seemed to have something more he wanted to say, but he couldn’t find the right words, and instead of waiting for them to come, he just banged on the car again and loped back toward the house. He flicked the butt into the yard as he climbed the steps, sending a skid of orange sparks over the dirt.
Aaron’s heart throbbed, and his nerves sang with fear. He’d been positive the guy was going to hit him, but with the front door safely closed, he could breathe again. For a moment the air had turned viscous and highly conductive, but it was returning to normal now. For some reason he’d gotten lucky this time. He’d dodged the beating, and now it was time to go home and celebrate. A bong hit and hotel cable sounded about right.
The Steppenwolf album, barely audible, ended, and Aaron turned off the stereo. He was done with this shitty album, as he was done with this sad, desperate, misguided stakeout. What his grandfather knew about Kari and this guy she lived with was less than nothing.
But, as it turned out, his grandpa wasn’t yet ready to go. There he was, unbuckling and pushing open the door, then climbing out of the car in pursuit of the skinny, blond dude, all as Aaron sat there holding the keys.
“Hey. Hey,” Aaron said. “What are you doing?”
“Getting out,” said Grandpa Sam. He grunted, trying to roll himself free.
“But . . . why?”
“To talk to Kari.”
“I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want to talk to you, Grandpa.”
Grandpa Sam didn’t answer. He rocked his body, trying to stand, and again fell back into the car. Aaron didn’t feel he had any choice but to get out and help him.
“I don’t think she’s going to be happy if you knock on the door,” Aaron said, heaving his grandpa to his feet.
“I don’t care. I’m talking to her. You don’t have to come.”
“Oh, I’m coming.”
Aaron continued trying to reason with his grandpa as they shuffled along the sidewalk to the house. He promised him they could come back in the morning, or file another report with the police, or even keep sitting in the car all night, if that made him feel better, but his grandfather had his own agenda. He seemed to believe this was the moment to seize back his property from the villainous Kari, and any delay would only diminish his natural rights. Aaron shadowed him into the dirt yard, cradling his elbow up the steps, and let him step forward to ring the bell. If only he could understand that the krugerrands were probably already sitting in some pawnshop in the Mission, or on the bed stand of some rat-faced little teenager who didn’t even know what the fuck he had. But try telling that to Grandpa Sam. His brain was capable of exactly one thought at a time.
The bell chimed, an ugly, broken clang. No one answered, and Grandpa Sam rang again. He rang five more times before the door finally flung open and Kari, enraged, was before them.
“What the fuck do you two want?” she said. “Huh? Who said you could come over here and sit in front of my house? Huh? This is not acceptable. This is harassment. I’m calling the cops right now, you fuckers.”
“We’re not harassing anyone,” Aaron said.
“Oh, you’re not? The hell you’re not! You’re harassing me just being here, you little fuck. I know what harassing is.”
“We’re just here, that’s all.”
“You think I have your fucking bag. You want to frisk me for it? Come on. Frisk me. Is that what you want? Scott’s gonna kick your ass if you do, both of you, but come on, frisk me. Go ahead. Right now.”
She planted her arms on the doorjamb and stared Aaron down as her boyfriend—Scott, apparently—emerged in the doorway behind her. Aaron wondered if they’d arranged this particular display, if they’d conferred on the roles. Scott was the muscle. She was the mouth. It seemed like a natural division of labor. But he doubted it. He doubted they had put any forethought into their plan whatsoever.
She called them faggots a few times and slammed the door, to which Grandpa Sam responded by sadly shaking his head, confirmed in all his groundless hunches. These people were obviously criminals. What more did a person need to see? To Aaron, the behavior was crazy but not necessarily indicative of guilt. Poor impulse management. But not gold-stealing guilt.
“They won’t call the police,” Grandpa Sam said.
“Even if they do, I don’t think they can really do anything,” Aaron said. “And neither can we.”
“We can,” Grandpa Sam said. “We have to.” And already he was again knocking on the door. This time it was Scott, looking savagely pissed, who answered.
“We told you to get the fuck out of here,” Scott said. “Now get the fuck out!”
“I would like my bag,” Grandpa Sam said. His arms hung loosely at his sides; his voice was aged but firm: “We’ll go when I have the bag in my hands.”
“We don’t have your fucking bag, you dumb asshole,” Scott raged. “Get it through your fucking head.”
“I know you have it. I’ll leave when you give it back to me.”
Scott seemed more puzzled than angered by Grandpa Sam’s demands. His eyes bounced between Aaron and his grandpa as if trying to grasp some impossible fact. Aaron smiled stupidly, trying to communicate some unspoken sympathy with Scott, but quickly
reined himself in, ashamed. Joel and Karl were both yelling in his ear in unison: Man up, dude! Get with it! This is your grandfather—you have to back him up! Aaron crossed his arms and glared at Scott, trying to exude testicular confidence, and for a microsecond he thought there might be a breakthrough in the offing. Scott’s eyes were crinkling into some kind of pained wince. Maybe he was seeing the light at last, preparing to invite them inside.
But that wasn’t the case. Scott had only been choosing which one of them to punch. By whatever terrible circuit of reasoning, he chose Grandpa Sam. It wasn’t a strong punch—it was almost a push—but it was enough to knock Grandpa Sam off balance, and as he stumbled backward toward the steps, Aaron grabbed at his arm, turning his body a few degrees. He was latched on, but the weight was too much, flooding his arm and sending them both tumbling down the steps, onto the concrete walkway.
Aaron managed to slow their descent enough that the landing was not catastrophic. He hit the pavement first, and his arm cushioned his grandpa’s impact, the dead weight smashing into the padding of his forearm, the caps of his knuckles. It had been a long time since he’d scabbed his elbow, but he could tell by the scraping pain that he was leaving skin on the cement.
“Grandpa! Are you okay?”
Grandpa Sam was lying on his back, staring into the sky. He looked almost relaxed, or at least resigned, and a single tear nested at the corner of his eye. Aaron wasn’t sure if the tear came from pain or distress or some symptom of old age—his eyes were always watering to some degree—but inside Aaron, any ambivalence about their investigation was now gone. He still wasn’t sure if Kari had stolen his grandpa’s bag of gold, but he knew for a fact he wanted to kill Scott in the most painful way possible.
“Grandpa,” he said again. “Are you okay?”
His grandfather grumbled. The same frustrated grumble that came out when he opened the refrigerator. He was all right.
Aaron prized his arm out from under his grandfather’s body and stood up. He was helping his grandfather to his feet, assessing the damage, judging it minor, when suddenly a loud crash rang in his ear and a gust of pain blew through his head. The night jarred in his vision, and suddenly his face was in the scrubby grass.
It took him a second to realize that he’d been punched and another second to realize Scott was already on top of him, punching and slapping and calling him a stupid fucking faggot-face faggot bitch. Between punches, Aaron caught blurry glimpses of Scott’s hateful face, all sweating brow and flashing eyes. He looked monstrous, demonic, his eyes slitted, his teeth clenched, his thin lips curled back. New nodes of pain sprang up on Aaron’s face and shoulders, his ear, his neck. One of his arms was pinned, he realized, and that was not fair.
One hard pelvic thrust, and Scott was momentarily gone, and a surge of adrenaline poured through Aaron’s system. He felt at once feather light and ironclad. His arms and legs were fiery machines. He grasped Scott’s hair and threw him onto the ground and got down to the job of punching him repeatedly in the head. He relished the smashing of his knuckles on the bones of Scott’s skull and face. Scott wasn’t heavy, and he wasn’t strong, and Aaron gloried in the attempt to rip out his limbs and squash his head like a grape.
Scott didn’t give up easily, though, and all too quickly Aaron’s superpowers seemed to fade. Scott rolled over, and the two of them landed side by side in the dirt. Scott scrambled on top again, and for a time his blows became indefensible, banging into Aaron’s head and temples with impunity. Aaron grabbed him, trying to squeeze his life out like toothpaste, and somehow they rose to their feet again, using each other for leverage. Locked in a choking embrace—Scott’s breath, his body smell, the detergent he used, his deodorant, invading Aaron’s senses—the two staggered around the yard, whispering into each other’s ears.
“Get . . . the . . . fuck . . . off . . . my property.”
“Fuck you, man, fuck you.”
“Gonna . . . kill you, bitch.”
They were still clamped in their violent slow dance when the strobing red of police lights splashed the scene, and moments later an octopus of beefy hands dragged them apart.
Aaron and his grandfather sat in their car, waiting to give yet another statement to the police. The lights flashed on the surrounding walls and sidewalk, but calmly and silently now. Some kids had gathered to watch, and the police were talking to Kari and the bloody Scott. Occasionally their voices jumped, but they never carried far enough to reach Aaron, only spiraling out of reach into the night.
Aaron’s face ached. He could feel his lips inflating. If he closed his left eye, he could practically see his upper lip down below his nose, the puffy skin hovering like a hot, red cloud. Or maybe he was just seeing the throbbing pain itself, a stinging aura around his mouth region. He touched his lip with his tongue, tasting the metallic blood, and winced, knowing it must be gnarly.
“How’s my lip, grandpa?” His voice was thick and muddled, even to himself. He was glad he’d at least managed not to cry.
His grandpa looked over. “You got punched,” he said.
“Yeah, I noticed that. But how does it look? Do I need some ice?”
“Wouldn’t hurt.”
Aaron tongued his lip some more. “It feels like a watermelon,” he said, and flipped down the mirror for an inspection. “It’s as big as a watermelon. Jesus.”
But his grandpa wasn’t listening anymore. He was busy watching the police officer walking ever so slowly in their direction, closing the distance at the glacial pace of authority. He was on his way, his gait said, but on his own terms. He would bend them to his will in every tiny way possible.
The officer leaned in the window, stern-faced, and Aaron’s grandfather was talking before the first question was asked.
“These people have something of mine,” he told the police officer. “A bag they took from me at the restaurant where the girl works. You can see what they did to my grandson. We came here to get the bag—”
“You two can’t come around here anymore,” the cop interrupted. “You come within five hundred feet, you’re under arrest. You get me?”
Driving away, Aaron wanted a soundtrack that would somehow articulate the night’s pain and humiliation. He wanted all the night’s fear and stupidity bundled into a single, propulsive package, the overflowing rage brought into some pattern. He swished through the iPod, caressing its clitoral button until he came to his preferred setting: AC/DC. AC/DC was good for this kind of night. “Back in Black” especially. The raging, militant riffs were dependably transporting. The album made the aftermath of a pointless street fight seem not only normal but honorable.
The first blasting chords caused his grandpa to recoil, and he reached for the buttons to turn the volume down. But Aaron was already there, guarding the stereo’s glowing face.
“Please turn it off,” Grandpa Sam said. “Much too loud.”
“I’m listening to this, Grandpa, all right?” Aaron said. “I like it.”
“It’s too late for that, sweetheart. It’s time for bed.”
“No,” Aaron said. “I like this. We’re listening to this. Just deal with it.”
And so they drove to the La Quinta Hotel in Dublin, the speakers flaming with Angus Young’s guitar, his grandpa hunched over, arms crossed, the tongues of the highway licking at the balls of their feet.
16
Terminal Island: the hardworking colon of Los Angeles. Terminal Island: the last stop on the long journey of western water from the inland mountains to the sea. Terminal Island: the final chamber before the city’s workhorse life fluid was put down and jettisoned once and for all.
Terminal Island: maybe the doorway to rebirth.
Anne drove through the gate, properly in awe of the significance of the site. For years she’d wondered about the mysterious architecture behind these walls. Driving past, she’d caught glimpses of strange loading bays and placid containment pools, quiet smokestacks and busy catwalks, egg-shaped domes, blank aprons
of concrete, pipes of all diameters, adding up into a bewildering engine of industrial power, all of it neatly and yet confusingly crammed into this 2,800-acre footprint in the middle of C.H.U.D. country, mere yards from Los Angeles Harbor. Even today, invited inside at last, she marveled at the size and complexity of Terminal Island, crowned by the low-flying planes coming down toward the runways of LAX.
The small parking area was mostly empty, and as she jockeyed into a place in the narrow band of shade, she felt her dread of the coming meeting spiking in her nerves. The anxiety wasn’t necessarily an unwelcome feeling. She’d come to see it as a harbinger of a good performance on her part, the sign of high mental focus and clarity of thought, but in this case, she had to admit, the nerves were jangling a little more than she wanted, pushing her into the realm of nausea and mild discombobulation. Rifling through her papers, trying to organize her bag, she did her best to put the nerves out of her mind. If only she knew what Charlie Arnold was thinking about the Document, which she’d sent him three days ago, she would feel so much better.
The Document was something Mark had cooked up, a twenty-page booklet on the subject of something called a hydrodynamic cavitation reactor. It was an impressive graphical display, rife with diagrams, bullet points, and many inscrutable mathematical formulae, as far as she could understand it describing a technological leap in the realm of carbonated water. The science was far beyond her, just a bunch of squiggles on top of unlabeled grids, but she understood the general gist: the hydrodynamic cavitation reactor was a technological breakthrough of the highest order, with transformative potential in all categories related to wastewater management, and major disruptive ramifications for the future of water-delivery systems in general.
