BOHEMIAN
Kathryn Nolan
Text copyright © 2017 Kathryn Nolan
All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used ficticiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Editing by Faith N. Erline
This book has many dedications:
Washington College’s Rose O’Neill Literary House: where I made life-long friends and re-discovered my love for writing. Allen Ginsberg did try to levitate the Literary House (he wasn’t successful).
Lucia, California: the small town right next to Big Sur where my husband and I came up with the idea to live in a van for a year, traveling across the country.
The cute guy working at The Henry Miller Library in Big Sur, California: You don’t know this, but our five-minute interaction is the reason I wrote this book.
And finally, the poet Mary Oliver, whose work is featured prominently in this book. There’s not much I can say, except: thank you.
Table of Contents
CALVIN
LUCIA
CALVIN
LUCIA
LUCIA
CALVIN
LUCIA
CALVIN
LUCIA
CALVIN
CALVIN
LUCIA
CALVIN
LUCIA
CALVIN
LUCIA
CALVIN
LUCIA
CALVIN
LUCIA
CALVIN
LUCIA
CALVIN
LUCIA
CALVIN
LUCIA
CALVIN
LUCIA
LUCIA
CALVIN
LUCIA
CALVIN
LUCIA
CALVIN
LUCIA
CALVIN
LUCIA
CALVIN
LUCIA
LUCIA
CALVIN
LUCIA
CALVIN
LUCIA
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LUCIA
EPILOGUE
Tell me: what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me: what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
~Mary Oliver, The Summer Day
The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles, exploding like spiders across the stars.
~Jack Kerouac, On the Road
CALVIN
“Allen Ginsberg once tried to levitate my grandfather,” I told the mourners, clearing my throat through the nervousness.
“He didn’t succeed—obviously,” I said, and I saw a few smiles, “but the evidence is captured in this grainy, black-and-white photograph that’s framed on a wall in the bookstore. In it, Ginsberg is laughing. Probably stoned.”
My parents frowned, but I went on. “Next to him, my grandfather was a veritable lion: tall and broad-shouldered, his smile bright like the stars against a Big Sur sky.”
I tugged on my tie, itchy in my suit. My grandfather hated suits.
“Joy. My grandfather lived his life for joy. From the second grade until I was in high school, I spent my summers in Big Sur, at the bookstore with him. And those memories are filled with these…with these shocks of happiness,” I said, wondering how I was possibly going to get through this eulogy without crying.
My grandfather cried often—encouraged it, even—but I was already nervous as fuck. Hated speaking in front of people, hated being the center of attention—I was content as a wallflower.
But this was for him.
“Once we spent an entire night on his deck reading Shel Silverstein. Later, as I grew older, we delved into Pablo Neruda, Emily Dickinson, e.e. cummings, Adrienne Rich—and always, always, Jack Kerouac, whose words my grandfather held close to his heart. But, when I was a nine-year-old, he hid the Neruda and pulled out something more age-appropriate.” I grinned, and a few of the mourners chuckled softly.
“‘Close your eyes,’ he’d said, ‘Let the words paint you a picture in your mind.’ He always said that, encouraged me to drink in the images an author was trying to convey. I remembered this one part from Where the Sidewalk Ends: ‘where the moon-bird rests from his flight/to cool in the peppermint wind.’”
I let the words linger for a second—remembering, as a kid, how much I’d loved the idea of a peppermint wind.
“He’d ask me questions: ‘what do you think a moon-bird looks like? Why is it so tired? What makes the wind peppermint?’ We’d spend hours like that, until I was exhausted and falling asleep against his shoulder, the poem or book forgotten. We’d pull cots out onto the deck, mugs of hot chocolate at our feet, books everywhere. And in the morning, I’d wake up under the canopy of the Redwood trees.”
I paused to collect myself. “Filled with that…that feeling you have as a kid in the summertime. Unfettered freedom,” I said, knowing my grandfather would have appreciated the alliteration.
“Like all of us,” I continued, “my life is no longer filled with too many books, instead, it’s full of too many meetings,” and I watched as the audience nodded their heads in agreement.
“Sitting in traffic, answering emails—all the aspects of the daily grind. But even when I’m busy, or distracted, stuck in the rat race, the sound of my grandfather’s laughter will tumble into my memory,” I said, hearing the tightness in my throat, the rise of grief in my chest. “Or the taste of hot chocolate, our endless discussion of poetry—the way he always encouraged me to live my life authentically, to embrace joy.”
I was crying now, and found I actually didn’t care, because I was heart-broken, desperately heart-broken, and there was no way I could bottle it up. “And I hope all of you take that with you today as you honor his memory.”
◊
The last day of my grandfather’s life, according to him, had been completely banal. He’d been writing in his journal—something he’d done every single day of his adult life—drinking whiskey, probably by the fireplace in his beloved bookstore.
Took Max for a walk down by the beach. Windy, but we were lucky to see the sun for a bit. Had a hysterical moment when Max chased the seagull for an inordinate amount of time. Seagull won. More customers than usual today in the store, including a sweet couple from Sacramento who were thinking of holding their wedding in Big Sur. Was pleasant to talk with them. Finished that little book of poetry I picked up in Petaluma last week—it was delightful. I’m wondering if
And that was it. I’m wondering if. And then, just like that, an aneurysm burst in his brain and he died. He was 81 years old.
I was standing on the patio of my grandfather’s bookstore, holding the journal. Max, my grandfather’s dog, was curled up at my feet.
Susan, his lawyer, approached me with a kind smile. Mourners were milling inside, but I knew my parents and I needed to discuss the will.
“Calvin?” Susan said, touching my arm. “Let’s talk in another room.”
I nodded, following her into the small room that held the children’s books—such a whimsical place for such a stressful conversation. I sat next to my mother, holding her hand. Grief had made her smaller, but she’d smiled through my eulogy.
My parents and my grandfather had a c
omplicated relationship—one of deep love, but also total misunderstanding. Like me, my parents were rational, numbers-driven, orderly people. Both of my parents were engineers, and I’d been a software engineer for almost nine years, ever since I left college. Long hours, tons of dedication, lines of code moving across my computer screen.
My grandfather, however, had been something else entirely.
“I’d like to talk with the three of you about the will,” Susan said, “Specifically you, Calvin. As you know, your grandfather purchased this property in 1958 and turned it into a bookstore shortly after. He had stipulations in his will that upon his death, the ownership of this bookstore be passed along to you, Calvin.”
“Um…what?” I asked, mouth dropping open in surprise. I thought she was going to tell me my grandfather had left me his extensive collection of science fiction. Not the entire bookstore.
“You are now the official owner of The Mad Ones,” she said simply, and I could hear my parents grumble next to me. My parents and I were planners by nature…and this was not in the plan.
“Um…what?” I repeated, like a broken robot.
Susan smiled kindly. “It does not mean that you must run the store, or anything like that. The ownership of the business and deed to the property has been transferred to you. What you do with it, of course, is up to you.”
“And what you should do is sell,” my mother said firmly, shifting next to me on the couch. I turned to look at her.
“Sell the store? But it’s…I mean, this bookstore is famous. An icon.”
Was I missing something?
“Sadly, that was a long time ago, Calvin,” Susan said, and my parents nodded in agreement. “Besides, you probably aren’t aware of this, but your grandfather’s business had been operating off credit for a long time. The finances are in terrible shape. The bookstore is in massive debt.”
“You should sell it, Cal. This is Big Sur. Property in this area, especially with this view, will go for millions,” my mother added.
On cue, I could hear the waves crashing against the shore. Big Sur was a bohemian paradise once. My grandfather was one of the residents that kept that spirit alive, tending it like a flame about to go out. But like every other part of Northern California, the wealthy had come in droves, seeking the quiet of the Redwoods and the dramatic ocean views.
“Bookstores, especially independent ones, are a dying breed. Everyone buys online now,” Susan said.
My heart broke at that, even though part of me knew it to be true. I hadn’t bought a book in a while (my grandfather would have been so ashamed) and when I did, it certainly wasn’t through small, independent bookstores.
“So, you’ll probably sell, right?” Susan asked, to which my parents both replied yes and I said, “Um, well…I mean, I guess? I don’t know…” but they were already talking over me. I mean, of course I would sell. I had absolutely no idea how to run a business, let alone a dying one.
“There is one thing on the event calendar I do think you should stay open for. It’s only five months from now.”
She showed me the contract: a 3-day-long photoshoot for a high-end fashion magazine, scheduled for the middle of October. My grandfather must have been desperate, since things like “fashion” and “magazines” went against his bohemian values.
The contract he’d signed—the sight of his shaky signature sending a pang through me—promised the bookstore as the main location for three days of filming, plus lodging at the tiny cabins he owned in the woods.
“Generate some additional revenue during the final months. Do the photoshoot. Pay off as much debt as you can then sell it to the highest bidder. Don’t worry, some investor will probably turn it into luxury condos. You won’t have to worry about it one bit,” Susan said.
“Luxury condos,” I said sarcastically, “exactly the vision my grandfather had.” I was surprised at how conflicted I suddenly felt.
Susan looked at me with a pained expression. “Why don’t I leave you with your parents for a few moments?” She left without waiting for an answer, clearly knowing when it was time to make a graceful exit.
“Cal,” my mom started, touching my knee gently, “I know how much you loved this place. And your grandfather. And the memories you have here won’t disappear, just because this place won’t exist anymore.”
“You lived here too,” I pointed out. “Aren’t you…aren’t you upset?”
“You know my feelings about this place. I loved it, very deeply, but it’s not my home anymore and hasn’t been in a long time. It’s time to say goodbye, to let someone else enjoy the property,” she said, turning to my father, who nodded in agreement.
“Your grandfather was always very private about his finances, so we weren’t aware it was that bad. But...based on the things he told us, and the way the world has changed, it’s not surprising. I guess your mother and I always figured that when he passed away, the store would close.”
I nodded, comforted by their usual rational wisdom. A wisdom I automatically gravitated towards, even though just being back in this store had me yearning for the wild, hippie days of my summers here. No numbers, just words on a page.
“Yeah,” I finally said. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“And I’m sorry this burden is falling on you,” my mom continued. “You think you can take some leave from work? If not, we can work something out, maybe we can all share responsibility. Hire someone up here to keep an eye on it.”
I shook my head, thinking of my grandfather on the patio that night, the all-encompassing love he had for this place; the legacy he’d intended to leave me.
I owed him this. I owed this place to stay open until the bitter end, to close with some dignity and respect—not to bulldoze it tomorrow.
“I’ll stay,” I said, feeling the weight settle onto my shoulders and not knowing what in the fuck I was going to do. But I was going to stay. “Can you get Susan?”
My father grabbed her, and we continued the discussion. Susan was outrageously surprised that I wasn’t willing to sell tomorrow and walk off into the sunset, millions of dollars richer.
I was surprised too.
By the end of the meeting, my head was spinning and I had an entire life in Silicon Valley to figure out, to shift up to Big Sur. A job to put on pause, friends to call.
“Oh, and one more thing,” Susan said, pulling out a worn, creased letter from her bag. “This was with your grandfather’s will. Instructions for me to give to you on the event of his death.”
A folded letter with just my name on the front: Calvin, in my grandfather’s handwriting.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I wasn’t supposed to read it.”
◊
Now, as I stood on the deck of my grandfather’s bookstore—my bookstore—I shoved the letter in my back pocket. I had a feeling what it might say and I wasn’t prepared to deal with it right now. My grandfather was a dreamer. I’d looked up to him. Loved him.
But I wasn’t him.
My grandfather stared down life’s challenges head on, with a twinkle in his eye and a glass of whiskey in his hand. He was fearless, always had been. If I was like my grandfather, I would have laughed at financial reports and credit scores and back taxes and said, “Fuck it. Let’s go skydiving.”
In some ways, that was essentially what my grandfather had done, dying before having to face the realities of the irresponsible life he had lived.
And he’d left me to inherit it all.
Crazy bastard, I thought, with a smile, since I was loopy with grief and still stunned from the news.
Tomorrow, it would hit me. Tomorrow, I’d wake up in my grandfather’s bedroom and begin living his life. Trying my hardest not think about how he’d feel about some smarmy investor buying up the place he loved the most and turning it into condos.
The wind rustled through the Redwoods. I inhaled the woodsy scent I associated with my childhood summers: bark and
pine needles; saltwater and earth. Tears pricked at the back of my eyes but I swallowed against them, turning towards the lights of my grandfather’s store.
“Come on, Max,” I said, heading back in
LUCIA
I’d just lost 22 followers on Instagram.
It wasn’t much. I knew that, deep down, especially since I had close to six million followers (5,989,854 to be exact). But I had been obsessing over it the entire drive up from Los Angeles to the tiny coastal town of Big Sur.
I clicked through my last week of photos. Nothing out of the ordinary: selfies on the beach, Parisian streets and cute cafes, a shot of the expensive sushi I’d dined on last night, a random picture of Josie and me before my last runway walk. The kind of glamorous life (with glimpses of “authenticity”) that fans loved.
So why? Why did 22 people decide I wasn’t worth their time anymore?
“It’s goddamn gorgeous here,” Josie said, poking me. I’d driven the first half of the journey and she’d taken the second half, recognizing that antsy look I got when I’d been off social media for more than an hour.
“Lu?” she poked again. “You’re missing this.”
“Mhmm,” I muttered, scrolling through. I was like the Nancy Fucking Drew of Instagram. The Mystery of the 22 Lost Followers. “I’m busy. And jet-lagged.”
“And grumpy,” she said, and I stuck my tongue out at her.
“All part of my glitzy new contract,” I said, wiggling my shoulders and making her laugh. “Jet-lagged and Beautiful: The Lucia Bell Story.”
“You realize between this photo shoot and your Dazzle contract you’re one step closer to total world domination?” she teased.
“Not if I keep losing Instagram followers,” I said, then wished I could take it back. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.
“That doesn’t mean anything and you know it,” she said, dutiful in Best Friend Mode. She watched me obsess over these things every day. She knew the powerful sway social media held over me.
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