by Sarah Bird
“Move it on out, boys,” the cop downstairs said in his amplified shit-kicker accent. “Don’t make us come up there and drag you out. That’ll put us in a real bad mood.”
The stranger paused at the glass door and held out his hand to me. The gold-colored motel curtain was pushed back over his shoulders like a cape. The clang of heavy shoes pounding up the metal staircase rang through the room. “Now!”
“Didi! I have to find Didi!”
He shrugged, stepped outside, and let the curtain drop. I rushed into the back room. It was empty. A hand hammered at the front door. “Open up!” I ran back to the spot where the curtains had just closed over the open door and stepped through.
Outside, beyond the smoky room, the evening was cool, the air fresh. The balcony was lighted from the tubes of ruby, emerald, and topaz neon glowing on the motel sign. The lights, buzzing and popping, disoriented me. I couldn’t see past them, into the dark night beyond. I was alone on the balcony. He had already left.
Inside the room, a voice, menacing, fake-friendly, asked, “And what do we have here. Not drug paraphernalia!”
It would be only a matter of seconds now before they found me hiding on the balcony. I wondered if the police would be able to track my mom down. If they would call HeartLand to tell her that I’d been arrested. I wondered what I would break if I jumped the three stories down to the asphalt parking lot below.
“Down here.” The words were a strangled hiss.
I shielded my eyes from the neon glare and looked down. The guitarist hiked out from the balcony on the second story and opened his arms.
“Lower yourself down. I’ll grab you.”
“I can’t. I’ll never...”
“Do it. Now! I’m out of here in ten seconds.”
I stepped over the black wrought-iron railing. In the ruby glow from the neon, I noticed puddles of rust stain around each of the iron pickets. As I lowered myself over the edge of the balcony, the concrete scraped against my leg and the railing gave slightly in my hand. I stretched my leg down into the darkness. No hands reached up to receive me. The neon swam around me in flashes, darting in and out like fish fleeing from a shark.
Up above me, the scary-friendly cop barked, “Trujillo, get the bedroom! I’m checking the balcony!”
I reached with my whole body toward the second-story balcony, but my feet found nothing but air. I heard the railing beneath me rattle and knew it was the sound of the stranger swinging easily from the balcony to the ground below. I had made a mistake. I had gone too far. I wasn’t Didi after all.
I didn’t have the strength to pull myself back onto the balcony. My arms quivered. I hoped he was gone, that he wouldn’t see me fall and end up sprawled in a broken heap on the asphalt below. The fingers on my left hand gave way first. Next, the fingers on the right uncoiled. I started to slip. Hands grabbed me. Arms hugged my legs, guided me down, clasped me around the waist and set me down safely on the second-floor balcony.
“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.” My panicked whimper was silenced by his hand pressing against my mouth. The long nails of his right hand dug into my cheek as he drew me into the shadows.
Over our heads, the gold curtain covering the patio doors was pushed aside and light from the motel room spilled down through the railings. It striped the hand he pressed against my mouth. The cop stepped onto the balcony and a rain of rust flakes fell onto our upturned faces. He clamped his hand even more tightly against my mouth. It tasted of sweat and metal and smelled of marijuana.
The cop stood on the metal grating of the patio above us and turned on his flashlight. A beam of light spiked past. The beam wove about, illuminating the alley below, then slashing across the parking lot and up the side of the building until it fell straight down on my face. I was so convinced that the cop standing on the grating above could see us that I would have stepped forward and given myself up, but he held me back.
A second later, the cop turned the flashlight off and went inside. The gold curtain fell back and the light was blacked out. On the floor above our heads, footsteps moved from the bedroom to the living room, then out through the open door. A dozen or more heels clanged as the cops herded their captives down the metal stairs.
A rumble of voices reached us, band members and roadies protesting their arrest.
“Yeah, yeah,” a cop sneered in reply. “We already heard all about your two Grammy nominations. Ah, yes, you did already mention that the governor’s daughter is a ‘giant, giant’ fan. Come on, move it along. We don’t want to have to cuff you.”
I strained to pick out Didi’s voice, but all I heard were harsh male intonations. Then there was a flash of movement at the far end of the alley and Didi appeared at the corner. Her face was in shadow but I recognized her skirt. I started to call out to her, but the guitarist pressed his hand against my lips, the long nails on his right hand furrowing the side of my nose and cheek. Didi clung to the edge of the alley and peeked around at the scene in front of the motel. Bursts of cop-car light strobed the dark alley. More cars pulled up. Radios broadcast static.
Didi backed away and the mercury vapor street light on Central Avenue painted the top of her head with a violet halo. A cop stepped into the alley and grinned as he caught Didi in the beam of his flashlight. “Well, well, well, what do we have here? Snow White. I wondered where you went to. We already got your Seven Dwarfs out front.” The cop clicked off the flashlight and moved toward Didi, singing, “ ‘Hi ho. Hi ho. It’s off to work we go,’ ” in a tuneless voice.
Didi backed away as the cop approached. She glanced around, searching for an escape route. A chain-link fence blocked off the alley behind her.
“So? What about it?” the cop asked, jerking a thumb toward the parking lot. “You wanna go with your little friends out there?”
Sounds of the arrested being loaded into patrol cars echoed back into the alley.
The cop in the alley moved close to Didi. “Or you wanna pay your fine right here? It can be arranged.”
“A statutory rape charge can also be arranged,” Didi shot back.
The cop coughed out a snort of laughter. “We drag you out of a room, one girl and a bunch of dopehead degenerates, and you’re gonna cry statutory? Gotta do better than that, princess.”
“I wasn’t doing anything. Maybe you didn’t notice? I had all my clothes on?”
“Fuck it, you don’t wanna work with me on this, let’s go.”
Didi gave an exasperated gasp, hissed, “Shit,” then followed the cop into the shadows at the end of the alley. As she walked, her skirt floated around her slender legs like wisps of smoke. I heard the scrape of his zipper being pulled down. With one hand, he fumbled inside his fly. With the other, he shoved Didi down until she kneeled in front of him. The matador skirt settled around her in a perfect circle, like a small, round cloth thrown on the grass for a picnic. His hand reached into the violet light above her head, threaded his fingers through her hair, and jerked her mouth toward him. His fingers stretched spastically, then clawed more deeply into Didi’s hair.
The clang of the chain-link fence took on a staccato urgency and I looked away, looked back at the most handsome man I had ever known. He leaned forward so that I breathed in his smell of marijuana and beer, sharpened and made dangerous by lust. The rattling of the chain-link accelerated, then stopped.
Didi got to her feet and the skirt folded back around her like a closing umbrella. She pivoted and vomited on a pile of old roofing shingles. The cop pulled out a handkerchief and, with a surprising delicacy, wiped himself off. “Okay,” he said, folding his handkerchief in half, then fourths, then neat, pocketable eighths. “Let’s go.” He motioned toward the parking lot with his chin.
Didi pivoted slowly. Her body was tense with rage. “You fuck. I blow you and you’re still going to arrest me?”
“You are addressing an officer of the law.”
“I am addressing a child molester with a dick the size of worm.”
The cop sprang forward, br
istling.
“Did I mention that? That I’m only fifteen?”
For a second, the muscle beneath the cop’s flab made itself known and the saggy black uniform encased a hard and volatile creature. The cop’s hand clenched spasmodically over the baton slapping his side.
“Yeah,” Didi sneered. “Do it. That’ll look good on the report.”
Even from the second floor, I heard the angry snort of the cop’s breath. My vision vibrated with an image of Didi’s skull cracking open in the violet light.
The cop’s held breath exploded out of him in one grandly, dismissive exhalation. “Get the fuck out of here.” He gestured toward the dark end of the alley.
“No, you get the fuck out of here!”
The cop studied her a moment, started to say something, then laughed, shook his head, and walked away. “Have a good life, princess.”
Didi waited a moment, then darted to the corner of the building, and peeked around. When the strobing light faded away, she left. A moment later, the Mustang throbbed to life and gravel spattered as Didi spun the car around and drove off.
The guitarist took his hand from my mouth, vaulted over the railing, landed on the side of the motel with a crunch, and held his arms up to me. Without a second thought, I dropped into them. He took my hand and led me around behind the motel, where we watched and waited until all the cop cars left and the permanent residents of the Ace High motel came back out to stare at the empty lot and drink from stubby green Mickey’s malt liquor bottles.
Chapter Eleven
“Where’d you park?” he asked.
“I came with”—he didn’t know Didi, didn’t know that the girl in the alley was my friend—“I got dropped off.”
“Yeah, the guys I was hitching with just got arrested. Oh well, good night for a walk. I guess. Which way you live?”
I pointed west and we set off down Central Avenue. Pup y Taco was on the other side of the street. I thought about telling him I worked there, but didn’t. Nothing I could think of to say seemed right after what we’d just seen. We passed the Winchester Ammunition Advisory Center, then the Leather Shoppe. The guitar slung over his shoulder slapping his back with each long stride was the only sound that broke the silence.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not letting me get arrested.”
In the parking lot of the Pussycat Video, a skinny man in a porkpie hat and a woman in cheap heels stood beside a battered old Chevy, pointing at something in the open trunk and yelling at each other. Both of them were drunk and both of them had spent too much time on the streets. As their curses reached us, the stranger took my hand, tugged me in close, and cradled my hand against his chest. We watched the couple as if they were part of a movie being shown just for us. When we’d passed them and their curses had faded in the distance, I asked, “Why is this the worst night of your life?”
“Huh?”
“You said that this was, possibly, the worst night of your life.”
“I did? I’m a melodramatic motherfucker, aren’t I?”
“No, really, tell me.”
“Like I said, it’s complicated. More complicated than calculus.” He smiled to show he remembered me saying that. “This is an entire history class. Maybe a major. You have time for the history of a few cultures, a thousand-year exile, and some really fucked-up skeletons rattling around a really crowded closet?”
“Sure. Seriously, I can research anything. Just tell me what it is.”
He stopped and pivoted on the sidewalk so that we were face-to-face. The De Anza Motor Lodge sign behind him was a gigantic neon arrow shooting into the dark sky. The words De Anza were written in gold. At the point of the arrow the portrait of a conquistador wearing a Moorish headdress shimmered within a halo of white.
“Yeah, okay. Maybe if I can make you understand, I can figure it out myself.” He ducked his head as he slid the guitar off his shoulder and held it out to me. “This looks like a guitar, right?”
I nodded.
“It’s a fucking monkey on my back.” The conquistador on the sign above his head was in profile, staring off into the sky. He stopped and threw his hands up in defeat. “Forget it. You’re a good American girl. You were born yesterday like all good American girls. You believe that anyone can be anything they want. But in my world. In flamenco it’s...” He searched for words but couldn’t find the right ones. “Forget it. Let’s just say that flamenco isn’t like ordinary music.”
“No,” I said, desperate that he not give up on me. The words burbled out before I could stop long enough to figure out what cool, flirty thing Didi would have said. “It’s not ordinary music. Anyone can hear that. Ordinary music is just that, it’s ordinary. It’s disposable, it’s trivial, it’s optional. What you were playing is...” I tried to think of a way to bottle up all the emotion his playing had let flow but couldn’t. “It’s essential.”
He blinked. “Wow. Are you into the scene down here?”
“What scene?”
“Never mind. The less you know about it, the better. So you don’t know anything about flamenco?”
“If that’s what you were playing, tonight was the first time I heard it and knew what it was.” Then I remembered. “But the Gipsy Kings? They play flamenco, right?”
He waved the question away. “Flamenco for tourists. Not el puro, not the real thing. The real thing, it’s like, it’s like...” His fingers twitched, clawing the air as he plucked chords from a guitar that wasn’t there, trying to find a way to express what he couldn’t express. Then, to himself, “Fuck. Maybe they’re right. Maybe you do have to be born to it. It has to be in your blood.” He caught himself and laughed. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
“Not really.”
He grabbed me in a hug and, laughing, swayed back and forth. “I love that!” he yelled. “I love that you could give a fuck about what kind of blood is running in my veins. Blood, I’m so fucking sick of everyone being so concerned about my blood. It’s like I’m surrounded by vampires, everyone fighting over my blood.”
I had to know what he was so upset about. I had to know so I could help him. So I could become indispensable. I tried to figure out what all the blood talk was about and thought of paternity suits, wills. “Is there an inheritance?” I asked.
“God, you are so cute. I should just marry you tonight and leave all this shit behind.”
“So it’s not an inheritance?”
“Oh, it’s an inheritance all right. Just nothing so simple as money. It’s all about whether I have the right pedigree to play flamenco or not.”
“That’s ridiculous. What does pedigree matter? It’s music, not a dog show.” This was like being with Didi, protecting her from anyone who didn’t appreciate her genius.
“You’re so American. I love that you are so American.”
I didn’t know what he meant. He tried to explain. “Okay, it’s like the blues. Everyone knows that the only people who can play the real blues are black and they’re from the Mississippi Delta, right?”
“You know, they have all these amazing tests now that they’ve used to find out stuff like whether Native Americans came over the Bering Strait from Asia. You can get a blood test that will pretty much tell who your ancestors were, ethnic-wise, right back to Adam and Eve,” It was the wrong thing to say.
“Fuck that. I am never taking a fucking blood test. Tonight, this night, I am through caring about my blood. Here’s where my talent is.” He held up his fingers. “If anyone needs a blood test to decide if I’m good or not, fuck them.”
I scrambled to assure him that I didn’t need proof. “You’re good. Your music is the best music I’ve ever heard.”
“The best?” he kidded, then stopped and studied my face.
I wanted to tell him that his music was a drug, a door, a path, an element like air and water, essential to life, but all I said was, “Yes. The best.”
My answer was l
ost in the rumble of a car coming up behind us. A lowrider car drove by, sapphire blue and smooth as a shark. The thump of the bass pulsing from an open window bumped against me like a wave. The car was barely moving as the guy in the front passenger seat leaned a muscled arm inked with smeary blue tattoos out the window and growled, “Qué ruka tan caliente!”
The guitarist laughed and yelled back at them in Spanish.
The lowrider at the window stuck his fist out and the guitarist tapped it. “Big ups to you, bro!” the lowrider said. They cruised on, showering us with silver sparks whenever the car scraped bottom.
“What did they say?”
He pulled me into the sheltered entrance to an abandoned store whose windows were covered with paper with a FOR LEASE sign on the door. “They said you’re a hot babe.”
“Me?”
“You know that. You know you’re hot.” He pushed me into a dark corner and put his hands on either side of my neck. I thought he was going to kiss me, but he didn’t. “You’re not fifteen, are you? Because I know your friend isn’t. Are you a wild girl too?”
So he knew that the girl in the alley was my friend. I should have said no, I wasn’t a wild girl. But that night, with him, I wanted it to be true. I wanted to be anything he wanted me to be. In a voice tough and flirty like the one Didi used to tease boys, I answered, “I’m legal.”
“Good.” He grabbed my hand again and pulled me back onto Central, where we strolled like a couple from the fifties out on a date.
I cut quick glances to the side just to see how cool his guitar looked slung across his back. To check out the way his dark hair flicked over the top of his shirt and how he kept his free hand shoved into the pocket of his jeans so that his left shoulder hunched up as if there were a cold wind pushing at him that only he could feel. I tried to figure out how old he was. One second he seemed my age, a boy just out of high school. The next, he looked old in a way that precluded his ever having been young, like one of the kids at school who went to the Al-Anon meetings they held at lunch in the counselor’s office.
He dropped my hand and drifted ahead. The current that had been charging through me went dead as the distance between us grew.
