The Story of You and Me

by DuMond, Pamela

  I’d pushed every guy out of my life for the past year and a half because I was scared to death to fall for anyone with a beating heart. Now I’d fallen for a fuzzball with a beating heart—a kitten. But worse, I feared I was surrendering my heart to a real man.

  The last boy I dated—let’s just say the relationship didn’t turn out so well. When I told Joey, my old boyfriend, that I had MS? He sprinted so fast from my house that I don’t think he even put on his running shoes until he was easily a half a mile away. And to top it off, he had a new girlfriend on his arm within a week, hanging out at all our old haunts. Showing her off to our mutual friends.

  I sincerely hoped Joey had developed a nasty case of blisters from all that running. Everywhere.

  I wasn’t sure I could stay open to a new guy in my life, especially someone who was warm and sweet and strong. Like Alejandro. A man who did not know my life’s reality. And I was still uncertain how much I should share if any of my deets with him.

  Deet #1: The Girl (Me) who you’re driving is keeping secrets from you.

  Deet #2: Same Girl (Me) has one secret you might not be all that happy about upon discovering. In fact, you might even bolt and leave Same Girl high and dry. Just like my dad left my mom.

  “I trust you, Alex,” I said. “But I’m not as tough as you think.” I pulled my legs back inside the car, placed them firmly on the floor and sat up straight in my seat. “Not to be a bitch, but don’t screw it up.”

  “What is the mysterious ‘it’ that I might screw up? If you give me a warning, I might be able to avoid screwing up whatever, ‘it’ is?”

  “You’ll figure it out as soon as you figure out the Ralph thing,” I said.

  It is whatever we are right now. It is the beginning of something between us… or maybe it is nothing.

  He shot me a look that made my heart pound. Stop. And restart again. “I will figure that out you know. Soon.”

  “Good. I’ve been anxiously waiting.”

  “Look,” he said. “I’ve had my share of girls and screw-ups, but overall I’m not a bad person. I’m actually kind of a good person. Or at least a person, who, maybe if I’m lucky, will find meaning in the mundane of everyday life.”

  “I’m not trying to—”

  “I got ‘it.’” He shook his head. “I’m human, Sophie Marie Priebe. I’ll definitely mess it up. But when I do?” He slid his sunglasses down his nose with his index finger and stared down at me with his impossibly sexy hazel eyes. “Remind yourself, Bonita, that you’re hanging out with a guy who has not only the heart, but also the balls to make it right.” He smiled at me and laughed out loud. Which made me laugh too.

  Mick Jagger crooned “Symphony for the Devil” on the Jeep’s sound system. Alejandro dialed up the volume. “Hang on!” He thrust one arm across me holding me back in my seat. “Short cut.” He whip-turned the Jeep onto a side street and we careened down a hill on a narrow one-way street lined with parked cars.

  Chapter Eleven

  The sun was bright, the beach air warm but oddly enough, at the same time cool. It wasn’t like summertime in Wisconsin with ninety-nine percent humidity. Alejandro and I dangled our shoes from our fingers as we walked barefoot through the sand. We trudged past the famous Venice Beach boardwalk on our way to the ocean in the near distance.

  The choppy water had long rolling waves topped with white caps.

  “God.” A dreamy look grew on his face. “It’s a surfer’s paradise today.”

  A pod of wet-suit attired folks with their surfboards bobbed in the ocean water a decent distance from the pier while they waited on their next wave. “I need a picture,” he said. “I need a picture of you in that hat with the ocean in the background.”

  “I’m not very photogenic,” I said.

  “Come on! It’s a freaking perfect day. I want something to remind me.”

  I grumbled. “Okay.”

  He backed away a couple of yards and aimed his iPhone at me.

  I smiled. Awkwardly.

  “You look like you’re at the dentist’s office. Could you do something kind of cheesecakey for me, my little Cheesehead?”

  I stuck my tongue out at him.

  “Tempting,” he said. “But not quite what I had in mind. Come on. Humor me.”

  I bent my knees slightly off to the side, put one hand on them, leaned forward, displayed my modest cleavage, puckered up and blew him a kiss.

  “Way better!” He snapped the shot, checked it and smiled.

  When Alex’s friend Nathan waved to us from the hard sand a hundred yards away.

  Alex waved back. “Ready?” He held out his hand to me.

  “I thought today was about us.”

  “It is,” he said. “Come on!” He grabbed my hand and we jogged across the sand toward his buddies. “I want you to officially meet my fellow Drivers. They’re my best friends.”

  “They tried to steal me away from you two nights after we met.”

  “Of course they did. I’d expect nothing less of them. We’re a little competitive.”

  * * *

  Alex and I stood next to his friends, Nick, Nathan, Tyler and Jackson just yards from where the choppy cold Pacific waters hit the sand. Nathan and Jackson already had their wetsuits on and were checking out Jackson’s new top-of-the-line board. Nick and Tyler were partially suited up which meant they were also half-naked from the waist up.

  They were built. Nick had exotic tats up and down his left arm. Tyler had one ear pierced—and not that hideous hole-in-the-ear the size of Wyoming fad. I tried not to stare, as that would be incredibly wrong considering I was officially under Alex’s care today. What did they put in the water here that grew such awesomely yummy-looking guys? Was it a miracle potion of sunshine and sand and salt water mixed with magical guacamole?

  When Tyler called me out. “Stop trying not to gawk, Sophie. Yeah, we’re privileged sons-of-bitches from SoCal. And not necessarily in the monied sense. We range from poor to stinking rich. Well, at least our parents do.”

  “You must be mistaken, Tyler,” I said. “I was checking out Jackson’s new surfboard—not you.”

  “Speak for yourself, Tyler,” Nathan said. “I have my own money. Gawk all you want, Sophie. We’ve got a bit of a reputation for copping attitude, being smart as well as smart-asses.”

  “But we’re the best Drivers in L.A. And sometimes that combo’s a turn-on,” Nick said. “An aphrodisiac of sorts.” He yanked on the top part of his wetsuit. “We’re kind of like firemen.” He winked at me.

  “Not to brag,” Jackson said, “but the Drivers, and well, their best friend—lucky me—usually score the hottest chicks in a hundred mile radius.”

  I backed away from them as well as Alex. “Have I just meandered into the beginning of a low-budget porn movie?” I asked.

  Alejandro and the guys looked at each other.

  “Nah,” Nathan said.

  “We’re in Venice,” Nick said. “The cheap porn’s shot in Chatsworth. That’s in the Valley.”

  “Whatev. You all need to tone down the self-promotion right now,” I said. “Bragging about your this and that as well as how many people you sleep with makes you sound like dicks.”

  “You’re getting the wrong impression,” Tyler said.

  “Maybe I’m getting the wrong impression,” I said, “because you all are giving that. So—what’s it really like to be a Driver? Better question—why did you all become Drivers?”

  Tyler shook his head and kicked one foot in the sand. He gazed at Nathan, who stared at Nick, who shrugged and tossed the gaze back to Alex like it was a puck in a hockey game during playoffs.

  “Being a Driver is the best of the best, Sophie,” Tyler said. “When it’s not tough. Or humiliating. Or carving out a piece of your heart that you believed you already lost a while back.”

  Nick rubbed his tatted arm. “None of us here became Drivers out of good will. We became drivers out of need.”

  “Enough,” Ale
x said. “I don’t want to talk about the whys today. Just want to have some fun.”

  “Hey,” Jackson said. “I’m not a Driver. I’m just friends with them. Got any cute midwestern friends who might be interested in a road trip?” He winked at me.

  “Shut up, Jackson,” Nathan said. “Take your new baby out on the water.”

  “Yes!” I said. “Gorgeous board. Take it out immediately.” I gave Jackson a thumbs up. “I’m dying to see what it does, how you do, you know, the whole shebang.”

  He smiled. “Thanks, Sophie!” He strode toward the ocean, clutching his board. Waded into the surf, one hand on his new toy as he guided it through the choppy waters.

  “Your Cheesehead doesn’t surf, does she, Alex?” Tyler asked.

  I frowned. “Cheesehead has a name. It’s Sophie,” I said.

  Alex pulled me even tighter into his side, if that was possible.

  “They have lakes in the Midwest,” he said. “Besides, she’s taking Genetics with Schillinger this summer. And, researching a book on alternative healing.”

  “Sophie?” Tyler tucked a stray curl of his light brown hair behind one ear. “Just one more question.”

  “Sure.”

  “You were checking out Jackson’s new board, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What color is it?”

  Crap.

  “Considering you all were huddled in front of it like the Wise Men at the baby Jesus’s manger, I could only see the very top of it.” I jutted my chin out. “Which appeared white.”

  I prayed for a long hard second that the top of Jackson’s new board was white.

  The sea of gorgeous men standing around me parted as Tyler, Nick, Nathan, and Alejandro turned and squinted at Jackson in the water. He was deep out in the surf, sitting on his board, which appeared multi-colored, patiently waiting on his wave.

  “Lucky bastard got the top of the line again,” Nathan said.

  “He ain’t a bastard. His dad can totally afford it,” Tyler said. “It looks red and blue to me.”

  “Yeah,” Alejandro said. “But the top of it’s solid white.”

  I said a silent prayer to the Saint of Confused Women Everywhere. “And that,” I jabbed my index finger in Jackson’s direction, “should be a God-given sign to stop testing this midwestern chick. I’m out of here, Alejandro,” I said. “I’m dying to see the boardwalk.”

  “I’m coming with you.” He stared somewhat wistfully at Jackson bobbing out in the Pacific.

  “No.” I pulled the list of healers from my purse. I knew there were a few in Venice. I’d find one to be a distraction and buy time for Alejandro to have some fun with his friends.

  “My friend Javier has a tat parlor on the boardwalk called InkBaby,” Nick said. “He did all my work.” Nick’s tats were extensive and amazing. “He even did Alex’s tattoo.”

  “You have a tat?” I asked.

  “Just one,” Alex said.

  “I’ve never seen it.”

  Alex raised one eyebrow. “There’s a lot of me you haven’t seen.”

  Tyler laughed but covered it with a cough.

  Nick rolled his eyes and did the universal symbol for “zip it” across his lips. “You and Sophie should check out Javier’s shop.”

  “I will, thanks,” I said.

  Nick smiled at me. Was I really winning over Alejandro’s friends? Did I even want to be doing this? It just meant more connections that needed to be eliminated in the near future.

  I scanned my list of healers, but the only one had three big black squiggly lines that Lizzie Sparks had drawn through the man’s information. The address on Venice boardwalk was still visible through her scratchings.

  “Let’s go,” Alex said.

  “You stay. I’m going to knock down another thing on my to-do list.” I said. “Meet you in an hour?”

  “You sure?” he said, but didn’t release his hand from my side.

  I leaned into him and planted a kiss on his body part that was closest to my lips—his tan, very muscular shoulder.

  He jumped and for a second loosened his hold on my waist. Exactly the response I was looking for.

  “I’m positive.” I extricated myself from his arm and walked away from him and his friends.

  “Kissing a man’s shoulder has consequences, you know,” Alex called after me.

  My back was to him when I smiled, attempted to wipe that smile from my face and in a moment of gloriousness, realized it was okay to smile. It really was.

  * * *

  I walked down the Venice boardwalk. It was the most amazing group of shops, eateries and little kiosks run by folks selling tarot readings, sunglasses, funky art and jewelry. The people seemed to be of all ages, cultures, and socio-economic groups. There were sunburnt tourists and dogs dressed up in clothes. People should not dress their dogs up in clothes.

  It was stranger than the Mall of America and had more tourist shops than the Wisconsin Dells. It was kind of what I imagined the funky section of Amsterdam was like but without the legal hookers. Which most likely meant that Venice had illegal hookers. But I really couldn’t be sure. They just might have been tourists wearing super high heels who didn’t realize their shorts were too short. Frankly, I didn’t care because I wasn’t on a hooker quest.

  I was, however, looking for Dr. Carlton Kelsey, vision quest master, guru for more than four decades to the masses, author of at least seven best-selling books. Dr. Kelsey, the mid-sixty something, former USCLA professor who experimented with a wide variety of psychedelics back in the day and purportedly cured himself of cancer. He was donating a free lecture tonight in a meeting hall somewhere above a store on the boardwalk.

  I squinted at the address through Lizzie Sparks’ thick black scratchings. When I spotted a spit-polished, sparkly brown Mercedes SUV with two behemoth bodyguards standing next to it. They wore plain khakis. Their steroidy muscular arms crossed against the front of their blue short-sleeved T-shirts while their purple veiny head-necks popped out of the necklines. The bodyguards looked almost exactly like attack dogs: thick around the chest. Serious. Complete with a reputation to rip you open if you messed with them.

  “Hey,” I said. “I’m trying to find Dr. Carlton Kelsey’s lecture. You all appear… informed. Do you know where this event might be taking place?”

  They regarded each other and nodded. Meathead #1 opened his mouth. “There.” He pointed to a turquoise building in front of us. It had a Vegan Delight fast food joint and medical marijuana clinic on the lower level. A tall concrete staircase was built into the side of the building. “You’re late,” he said. “Dr. Kelsey doesn’t like late.”

  “Story of my life. Thanks.” I waved at the both of them as I climbed the stairs.

  “Dr. Kelsey really hates late,” Meathead #2 said.

  “Then he’ll love trying to convert me.”

  * * *

  I stood at the back of a smaller, weathered lecture hall and took in the surroundings. It was a plain, faded, off-white space with a few windows, creaky old ceiling fans that wobbled like they might spin off the ceiling at any given moment and decapitate someone. There were no posters, or prints, or art of any kind on the walls. Ancient, convention-styled folding chairs lined up in rows in front of a small unassuming stage.

  If you were a wannabe speaker, upcoming author and/or aging guru—this was the perfect space to attempt to re-create yourself on a blank palette.

  The lecture room was full—not packed—but definitely not hurting for people of all ages and many races. Some appeared healthy. Some appeared sick. Some appeared dying. Everyone clutched their Complimentary Welcome Package handed out by one of the two greeters. They stood at the back of the hall with spiffy stick-on nametags on their “KELSEY VISION QUEST: Give Life a Chance!” T-shirts.

  I glanced up at the wobbling fans, located the one that appeared the least deadly and took a seat in the back of the hall a few feet away from it.

  Dr. Carlton Kelsey pac
ed back and forth on a small stage in front of his audience. He was a big man, tall and thick, probably in his late sixties. His full head of hair was silver and pulled back in a ponytail that landed just above his shoulder blades. I sensed Dr. Kelsey was used to larger stages as he almost fell off the edges of the platform and more than once wobbled for a millisecond when he reached its borders.

  “Kelsey Vision Quest,” Carlton Kelsey said, “is the most powerful mind-bending healing experience you can go through in your entire life. We here at Give Life a Chance have been helping folks do this for almost forty years now. We open doors. We open lives. We open your… mind.”

  A few folks in the audience applauded.

  “Life is hard,” he said. “because we make it that way. We worry about things that we have almost no control over. We stress about people who basically give a shit about us. We live small tiny existences watching the years roll by as we develop conditions that are ticking time bombs like heart disease, depression, rheumatoid arthritis and cancers that stem from bad chemicals, bad water, bad genes, as well as all the restrictions and rules that we’ve placed upon ourselves.”

  Dr. Kelsey paused in the middle of the stage and gazed at the audience. Dear God, I could swear he was looking straight at me. I glanced down toward my knees, cleared my throat and ducked my head into my hand.

  “When is it time, people, to heal your disease, or nurse your loved ones back to health? When is it time to reclaim your life? What are you waiting for? A new drug? An experimental surgical procedure? A miracle?”

  I wanted all of the above.

  Chapter Twelve

  A few people in the audience applauded. Some stood up. One man shouted, “Amen!” I wasn’t sure how I felt, so I just stayed silent, butt in chair and watched.

  A middle-aged African-American woman a few rows in front of me slowly stood up. She had no eyebrows, no eyelashes and wore a bright yellow bandanna tied around her head.