“—Marlowe guy could have a revival. Then okay. But otherwise, strictly current affairs for moi.”
Gabriel had heard this harangue before . . . he didn’t even seem to be listening. His thoughts were far away. He didn’t try to defend his hero or even the possibility that a Chandler revival might be more than just a current affair. He knew that she knew. It was just one of those absurd conversations with Emi. He changed the subject.
“I talked to Rafaela at my place near Mazatlán. I think I’m finally going to get the house finished.”
“That’s great.”
“I’m thinking of going down in a couple weeks.”
“Maybe I’ll go with you.” She reached down and pulled the electronic scheduler from her purse, entered some items on the screen and said, “You should get one of these. Then you’d have all my numbers and your calendar all together. I’m going to get you one for your birthday.”
“I like my calendar book better.”
“This is what the future is about. A paperless existence. Gabriel, you’re murdering trees.” She paused, “Two weeks from this one, I could get a Friday off. Make it a three-day weekend.”
“I don’t know. Actually, I’m thinking of driving. I may have to take some toilet bowls down.”
“Toilet bowls? What’s wrong with Mexican toilet bowls?”
“Rafaela says they’re too expensive.”
“I can’t believe that.”
“That’s what she says.”
“Gabe, this back-to-nature thing of yours? It’s a nice vacation, but how about golf?”
“I don’t know how to explain it. I get a kick out of planting a tree every time I go. It’s not like this news business. I plant; I get fruits. I get to make something I can actually touch and eat for a change. Seriously, I sometimes think to hell with all this.” Gabriel’s eyes wearily surveyed all this.
So did Emi’s. “I read somewhere that these days, if you are making a product you can actually touch and,” she emphasized and, “making a comfortable living at it, you are either an Asian or a machine.”
Suddenly a beeping. Emi reached in her purse and turned it off. Then she scrambled with the rest of the contents in the purse until she found the folded cellular phone, pulled out the antenna and punched in memory. “I knew this was gonna be a weird week. We’re calling it Disaster Movie Week. Every night we’ve got another disaster movie. Tonight it’s Inferno in the Tower. Tomorrow The Northridge Quake. Then it’s Canyon Fires. Airport III. Bomb Threat at the Pacific Exchange. Burn Baby Burn. And for the final insult, The Day After. Can you believe it? The lives of ordinary people with petty problems who now have a big problem.” Emi grimaced at Gabriel and directed her voice into the phone. “. . . You paged? This was supposed to be an easy day. Yeah, yeah. No! Shit. Oh shit. Whadyamean you can’t find the tape? I put it in your hands personally. Personally. Remember? That’s not what you said. Okay, so what’s the problem? What mix-up? We’re not going to lose this. No way. Or it’s your pay. You pay for the slot! Okay. I’m coming. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” She slapped the phone together. “Gotta go. You eat my linguini.” She pulled out a lipstick and a mirror, twirled up the baton, and quickly reformulated her lips. “Wrap it up. Bring it home. Damn. Damn weather report. Three minutes. Prerecorded this morning. I saw it myself. Perfect for tanning lotion. Like I said. Overcast in the morning. Sunny in the afternoon. The second spot comes up in an hour and no tanning sponsor tape for the time. Damn.” She flung the purse to her shoulder and headed away from the table rushing past the waiters with their steaming plates of pasta. “I’ll call you this afternoon.”
Gabriel stared down at the pappardelle con funghi al vino marsala, the sweet fragrance of wine and rosemary rising, the delicate slices of wild mushroom limp and appealing coyly to his senses just under and between the firm ribbons of pasta. But this was passé. So what was in? Probably burgers.
Someone was knocking at the glass in the window pane next to his table. He looked out. It was Emi. Her two fists were clenched in front of her face, a kind of demonstration of frustration and boxing technique all at once. He watched her mouth and lips move, trying to decipher her silent scream through the thick panes. “It’s raining!” Her lips formed the ridiculous words. In fact, the terrace and street beyond were awash, water pouring as if from a thousand chrome-plated faucets, pouring out of the gray L.A. skies.
CHAPTER 4:
Station IDJefferson & Normandie
Buzzworm figured that some representations of reality were presented for your visual and aural gratification so as to tap what you thought you understood. It was a starting place but not an ending. Buzzworm tapped your worst phobias. Seemed like he was who he was to offend you. If he sauntered in with an attitude, it was because no matter how he sauntered in, you couldn’t miss him. Might as well make a statement. Besides, how many people got their information from film and TV and the company they keep? Just about everybody thought they knew the truth.
So he could understand the li’l punk who came round here, dissed him bad. Bad. Buzzworm, he didn’t say nothing. Just raised his eyebrow a bit like so. Said, “Homey, I got your number. If you’re bad now, think about when you’re my age, going on forty-five. You be plenty bad. If you alive.”
“Why I gots to be alive when I’m forty-five? Lots don’t make it. So what?”
“You got a point. Guess time goes on, life gets more precious. If you don’t survive, you ain’t nothin’. Anybody can lay down and die. Survivin’s the hard part. I should know. I survived a war. Every day, I wake up, say I made it, one more day. If I can do it, so can you.”
“I’s survivin’. Everybody in the hood survivin’. All the mamas survivin’. Get a check and survive. Dealin’ and survivin’. On the street and survivin’. Fuck that survivin’ shit.”
“When I talk about surviving, I don’t mean pushing a needle up your veins and waiting for the next time. That’s dying. Surviving is what you choose to do. Takes some courage. Takes some sense.”
“Sense. Shit. You don’t make no sense.”
“Little homey like you pack a twenty-two. Think you’re cool. And whatcha doing? Out with the crew marking your territory like some dog. Some other dog come piss on your wall, you gonna shoot him. And I don’t make no sense?” Buzzworm got up. “Catch you later, brother.”
Beeper went off. Was a call from someone just outta doing time in county jail. “Gotta go.” He fiddled with the volume on the Walkman; readjusted it in his ear. Looked at the time and moved on out. Buzzworm didn’t like to waste too much time with those who didn’t want to be reformed. He figured he could be around when the time’s right. Time for everything. Bible said it. For every season, there is a time.
You saw Buzzworm walking the hood every day, walkin’ and talkin’, making contact. Had a wad of cards in his pocket. Card said:
Buzzworm
Angel of Mercy
Central & South Central
Pager # 213-321-BUZZ
24 hrs/7 days
Must be everyone on the street got his calling card with something jotted down on the back: rehab number, free clinic, legal services, shelter, soup kitchen, hotline. He was walking social services. Weren’t for him, been more dead people on the street. Twenty-four-hour service; he meant it. Some poor nobody in trouble at three a.m. paged him, and he was there long before anyone, especially the police.
Everybody knew him. “Hey, Buzz, whassup?” You saw him coming from a long way. Big black seven-foot dude, Vietnam vet, an Afro shirt with palm trees painted all over it, dreads, pager and Walkman belted to his waist, sound plugged into one ear and two or three watches at least on both his wrists.
How many times he’d been stopped for all those watches on his arms. Cops figured he was fencing the things. But like Buzz said, “These part of my collection. Got over two hundred of them, most of them in working mint condition. Worth nothing to nobody but me.” And he was right. This wasn’t no Rolex collection. “Rolex?�
� Made Buzzworm laugh, “I’m no fool.” The Buzzworm Watch Collection included so-called priceless pieces like one of the first Seiko just-shake-me-up-no-winding watches, a solar-powered watch, a genuine 1961 Mickey Mouse original, a glow-in-the-dark with fluorescent green numbers, a square LCDer with big half-inch numbers, case you had trouble seeing. Stuff like that. Picked out at flea markets. Buzzworm swore by the swap meets where life and death meet, he liked to say. Life for a set of pink Bakelite dishes left by your dead Aunt Polly. Life for a bunch of has-been watches.
Everybody was saying, “Hey Buzz, what time’s it?”
Buzzworm’d say, “Time you dropped in get tested for TB. Epidemic’s in town, just to let you know.” Hands out a card with a number.
“Is it true what they say?”
“What’s that?”
“Old Loco’s in jail?”
“Nah. It’s rehab for the fourteenth time.”
“Do you never give up?”
“Never,” Buzzworm smiles. “I never give up. How about you? Using?”
“Me? Ahn ah. Just plain homeless. Doin’ time without the crime.”
Then someone’d ask, “So what you sportin’ today?”
Buzzworm might point to the middle watch on his left arm. He always had what he calls a conversation piece. Could be a silver thing with a gold trim. All the numbers in gold paint. “This one’s a got a long history.” If you wanted to hear a story, you came round to listen, ’cause Buzzworm always had one. He said, “Belonged to a Creole named Cisco. ’Fore that belonged to his dad. Got the initials on the back. See here, F.D. Francisco Duprey. So I’m told Cisco, the son, pawned this piece off six times. Every time Cisco went back to get the watch, but the sixth time, it wasn’t there. And it was the only thing left of his dad’s legacy. Dad give it to him before he died when Cisco was just a kid. He near went crazy. Pulled the dealer out by the collar. ‘Who’d you sell it to?’
“Dealer says, ‘To you. Don’t you remember? You came in yesterday. It’s yours. Always has been. Always will be.’
“Cisco says, ‘I oughta know if I came in here yesterday. What I be doin’ here today, if I got my watch yesterday?’
“Dealer can’t understand it, ‘I swear. It was you. Course you looked kinda strange. Dressed different from usual. Wearin’ a hat. Nice suit too. Double-breasted pinstripe. Don’t you remember? I asked you where you were going dressed up like that.’
“‘I don’t own no pinstripe and don’t wear hats neither.’
“‘Said you was going to a funeral.’
“‘Funeral?’
“‘Don’t you remember?’ says the dealer. ‘About your tie. It was some crazy tie with a lotta colors. I said you oughta change the tie. Wouldn’t do for no funeral.’
“Cisco about turned green. Pulled a photo from his wallet and showed it to the dealer. ‘This the man?’ Sure enough it was a young dude in a pinstripe with a hat and bright colored tie.
“‘That’s you!’ shouted the dealer.
“‘Nope,’ says Cisco. ‘My old man. Died maybe twenty-five years ago.’
“‘Damn. Guess he came back to get his watch.’
“Two days later, Cisco gets killed walking across the street, hit by a car. Despite he’s never had any money, he’s got this insurance policy for a nice funeral. They lay him out nice and tidy, and just before they close the casket, someone notices the watch. He’s wearing his dad’s watch. This watch.”
So what was Buzzworm doing with Cisco’s watch? “That’s another story,” he said. “Point is: Dead come back.”
That was the way it was. Every watch had a story. And with Buzzworm, just about every story had a watch or time or the philosophy which was as aforementioned: Time for everything.
Like it was time to be listening to Papa John on The Blues Hotel. Program from noon to two p.m. on 88.9 FM. Twenty-four hours, Buzzworm was listening to the radio. From station ID to station ID. Unless he meant business, he had it plugged in like supermarket music, just in the background to help you shop, give a little light rhythm to the situation. It was even hooked into his ear when he was sleeping, just whispering like a suggestive dream. And he listened to everything. He listened to rap, jazz, R&B, talk shows, classical, NPR, religious channels, Mexican, even the Korean channel. Didn’t know a thing they were saying, but he liked the sounds. Fact is, he listened to the sounds so much he could imitate them.
So one day he went to see his Korean friend, the hapkido master, and repeated some sounds he’d been hearing. “So Kwon, what’s it mean? What am I saying?” But Kwon was laughing so hard, he couldn’t talk. You ever seen a hapkido master fall over on the mat laughing? It was a scene. Turns out it was a commercial for a laxative.
Buzzworm said the radio’s a habit. He went through rehab twice before he discovered the radio. Now he didn’t do nothing, not even smoking. Cured the smoking, cold turkey. Cured everything. Maybe it was the sound waves bouncing around the brain cells, massaging the nerves. No need for coffee neither. And it didn’t need to be loud, just there, soft in the background, like an inner voice. Sometimes he tried tapes or CDs, but they were not the same. Not as effective, he claimed. Radio had a special wave, a pulse. AM or FM, it didn’t matter, long as it was coming over the air. When Buzzworm’d unplugged himself from his Walkman, meant he was unplugged from his inner voice, and that had to be a little scary. Not for Buzzworm, but for the one he’d unplugged it for. That’s when you maybe had to watch it. Some thought he wasn’t paying no attention with that thing in his ear, but he was paying plenty attention enough.
Used to be Buzzworm spent all his money on dope and smoke. Now he spent it on batteries. Buzzworm had batteries on him like some people got matches or a lighter, Tums or chewing gum. Maybe it might be cheaper to smoke. Batteries’re expensive. Think about it. Maybe fifty cents apiece on the triple-AS for the Walkman, another fifty cents each on the double-a for the pager, special jobber for the cellular, little jobbers for the watches. One day he figured it out. Conceivably he could spend somewhere around $7.38 a day just for energy. Anybody said they’ve got an expensive habit, Buzzworm reminded them about his. But he said, it’s totally legit. Surgeon General didn’t get on his case either. Even if he might be changing seven, eight batteries of various voltages per day, he did try to conserve; unless there was an emergency, he used rechargeables on a regular basis, and he always had those little puppies recharging. Lately he had got himself a solar-powered radio. Plugged himself direct into the sun. Used it during the day and saved the Walkman for nighttime.
Buzzworm had a thing for palm trees too. Maybe ’cause they’re skinny and tall. Maybe if he put his ear to the trunk of a palm tree, he could hear the radio waves descending from the scraggly fronds at the top. And he really knew his palm trees. Family Palmaceae. Four thousand species. Tall ones called Washingtonia Robusta or Mexican Fan Palm. Similar ones with thicker trunks were called Washingtonia Filifera. Mostly you noticed the tallest Robustas. Buzzworm was always talking about them like he was their personal gardener. You caught him staring at palm trees, seemed like he was talking to them.
Sometimes he made people come out of their houses and appreciate what was on their own front lawn. They came out past their screen doors to take a look up at two spiky trunks topped with what, for all they cared, were giant mops. Green giants in dreads is what. But Buzzworm said, “These here are Phoenix Canariensis.”
“Phoenix Canary what? Buzzworm, what’s this got to do with social services?”
“You understand the species of trees in the neighborhood, you understand the nature of my work.”
They shook their heads, but Buzzworm pointed to the palms, “Could both be more than fifty years old by the looks of them. This one on the right’s female. See the orange blossoms? That’s a female. They’ll turn to fruit soon. You must have noticed them before. Look like dates. One on the left is male. Someone planned it that way. Pair of male and female. This is a very nice pair. Could use some trimming inside here.
Also they could use more water. Some people think palms don’t need water, but some water helps. They might well last another fifty years.”
People in the house didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. They probably rented the place and only watered every other week. They didn’t know what good two giant palm trees were except to mark the house where they lived. Seemed like they made a mess when the dead fronds fell, the orange fruit got all over the sidewalk, and the birds made a mess nesting and squabbling about. They said to Buzzworm, “You like these damn palm trees, dig ’em out and haul ’em away. Be our guest.”
“I just want to let you know the age of these fine specimens. Been standin’ here a long time and will continue to long after you and I are gone. These trees’re like my watches here, markin’ time. Palm tree’s smart, knows the time for everything. Knows to put out flowers and fruit when the time’s right, even though out here don’t seem like there’s any seasons to speak of. Suppose we could all learn something from a palm tree that knows the seasons better than us.”
Buzzworm was born and raised near about the corner of Jefferson and Normandie. Said when he was growing up, never noticed trees. No trees to mention. Bushes, dried-up lawns, weeds, asphalt, and concrete. Consequently, no shade this side of town. What’s trees? he always wondered. Never sure about trees, even though he learned to spell it, learned to copy the pictures other kids painted in tempera, two brown strokes for a trunk and that green amorphous do on top, sometimes with red dots they called apples. Never saw one of those in the neighborhood. It was a puzzlement. No trees in this city desert.
One day, however, he was walking his block like always, and he suddenly noticed that row of poles planted every so many yards into the grass or dirt to one side of the sidewalk. His eyes followed the gray-brown poles up to the sky, and for the first time, he recognized what he believed to be a tree. They don’t draw it certain, he thought. Not at all. Brown trunks should be much longer, top do a bush, and absolutely no apples. After that, he started to draw these trees all the time. Too high to see if birds live in them. Too high to check for fruit. But he was sure he had the tallest trees of anyone in the class. He thought if you could get to the top of them, you could see everything. Those trees could see everything. See beyond the street, the houses, the neighborhood. See over the freeway.
Tropic of Orange Page 4
