From The Dead

by John Herrick

  “Look, you don’t need to do anything except stand there. Besides, you’d be safe; it’s only oral, and I’m the one who would go down. Nobody will find out. Trust me, my dad would kill me if he knew.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and scribbled. “Here’s my cell number. Think about it. Five minutes, and your career takes off. Small price to pay for your big break.”

  He handed the paper to Jesse and then continued his stroll along the beach. From the corner of his eye, Jesse followed Adam Lewis until his figure disappeared into obscurity. Adam never once looked back—this must be ordinary to him, Jesse concluded.

  Jesse’s belly churned. He shoved the paper into his pocket for the next trashcan he found.

  CHAPTER 14

  The following afternoon, Jesse finished a customer’s transaction at LensPerfection and bid her good-bye. With the lunch-hour rush long gone, the store grew dormant. He approached another customer to offer assistance, but the customer declined.

  Jesse’s cell phone vibrated.

  As he rounded back to the checkout counter, he answered his phone in the nick of time before voice mail interfered.

  “This is Maddy. Do you have a minute to talk?” She sounded concerned.

  “I’m at work, but it’s a ghost town in here.” Jesse didn’t concern himself with his reply. He wanted to hear what Maddy had to say.

  Maddy paused. “I’ve always been direct with you, haven’t I?”

  “Of course. What’s wrong?”

  “There’s no easy way to say this, so here’s the deal: We’ve opted to release you as a client.”

  In an instant, Jesse’s mouth filled with marbles and his tongue rested heavy. His life continued to worsen. Desperate, he lacked a backup plan.

  Maddy filled the awkward silence. “The agency needs to trim its client roster so we can focus our attention in a more strategic manner. You’re not alone; we’ve released 20 percent of our clients.”

  Broken, Jesse tried to think on his feet. “What can I do to avoid this?”

  “I don’t have a choice; I had to examine my roster and make objective cuts. I wish I could keep you, but I’ve have a hard time placing you for projects. As you know, your last audition was the first in two years, and I—“

  “Couldn’t we give it another month?”

  Maddy listened. Throughout their professional partnership, she had listened and understood. But today that era had come to a halt.

  “I’d keep you on board if I could.” She paused. “Others may not recognize your talent, Jesse, but I believe in you. We’ve partnered together for a long time, and you’ve been a pleasure to work with. You’re not a prima donna. You’re patient, kindhearted. I wish I could partner with more clients like you. But in the end, that’s just not enough.” Jesse could almost hear her tongue in cheek as she said, “When you win your Academy Award, I’ll cheer for you from the seats.”

  Even tender remarks could puncture a wounded spirit.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled.

  “Good-bye, Jesse.”

  * * *

  He didn’t head straight home that evening. Though hungry, he had no desire to eat. He cruised westbound along Ventura Boulevard until he tired and headed back. Well past sunset, he passed the series of manicured palm trees that poked through shadows.

  He had fought his tears for the remainder of his shift. But once he climbed in his car, they poured forth. And under the guise of night, those tears were his alone, revealed only by the illumination of streetlights that raced past him. The tears were overdue, stifled for many months. He didn’t want his emotions to flow, but deep down, Jesse was tenderhearted.

  Still, he had no other choice but to press forward—even if he had no idea how to do so.

  Jada would never see the tears. Nor would anyone else.

  It had taken Jesse years to secure an agent in Maddy. Now that she was out of the picture, the horizon appeared bleak. His chances of locating a role just grew slimmer—if that were possible.

  And then, while he turned left onto Van Nuys and headed home, it hit him: He might have another option.

  When he left for work earlier that morning, he realized he’d miscalculated his laundry schedule and had worn yesterday’s jeans a second day to bridge the time gap. But maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing …

  He dried his eyes with his sleeve and cleared his voice to hide any evidence of his emotional valley. With one hand on the wheel, Jesse dug through his pocket in search of his trump card. Had he gotten rid of it? Coins, mints, cell phone …

  There it was.

  He removed the crumpled piece of paper and smoothed it against the dashboard. As he drove, he angled the paper and tried to decipher the digits beneath the streetlights. He hated to do this, but after eleven years in L.A., he’d grown sick of failure.

  Five minutes. Was it such a horrible trade?

  Five minutes for a career breakthrough. He possessed the talent to carry him in the long run; he simply needed an open door. Wasn’t that worth five minutes?

  The call wasn’t easy. Jesse stalled for time: He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, calculated how many minutes until he arrived home, counted car dealerships along the way. At last, he tightened his jaw and grabbed his cell phone.

  He dialed the number. It rang numerous times, and Jesse grew relieved when an answer didn’t appear forthcoming. Ready to flip his phone shut, he heard a voice on the other end.

  “This is Adam.”

  Jesse winced. Anger bubbled in the pit of his stomach—not anger at Adam Lewis, but anger at himself because he had stooped so low. Jesse bit his lip and moved forward.

  “It’s Jesse.” No response. “From yesterday in Malibu—the beach.” He gritted his teeth. “The offer.”

  “Oh yeah, I remember. I take it you’ve thought about it?” Adam shouted over music that blared in the background. A group of people with raised voices walked past him in laugher. The call was impersonal. “Can you hold on a sec? I’ll find a quiet spot.”

  As the music grew muted on Adam’s end, Jesse pulled in front of his own apartment building and turned off the engine. He remained in the car and listened.

  “You still there?” Adam said.

  “The answer’s yes.”

  “You mean we have a deal?”

  “I’ll do it. But I want to clarify: Your dad has a role available, right? This isn’t a situation where we go through with this, and then I get put on a waiting list?”

  “He has a role he needs to fill. Don’t worry, I don’t offer to do this often.”

  “Why me?”

  “Tall, blond—“

  Jesse didn’t want to hear this after all. “Never mind. I understand.”

  “So we’re set?”

  “Like I said, I’ll do it. Not a public place though.”

  “It won’t be.”

  And they made arrangements. They would meet at Adam’s house. They figured a time when Jesse wasn’t scheduled to work; when the Lewis family’s housekeeper wouldn’t be in the house; when Mick Lewis would be out of town, with no chance of unplanned interruptions.

  In a matter of days, Jesse’s career could surge.

  His mind was relieved.

  His stomach was queasy.

  CHAPTER 15

  On Saturday afternoon, Jesse parked his car in the garage at Hollywood & Highland Center, bought a latte at a Java Cup, and roamed down Hollywood Boulevard. Jesse’s sister, Eden, had asked him for a memorabilia trinket, so he’d headed out to the largest tourist area he knew. Jada had said she wanted to shop for clothes that day—alone.

  He didn’t miss the days when he and Jada lived in an apartment down the street. He didn’t miss the automobile congestion or foot traffic or the smog that thickened nearby.

  As he headed down the sidewalk, he observed the usual platter of American hors d’oeuvres: Starving-artist locals. An individual dressed in a fusion of Goth and drag. Pale-skinned visitors in fluorescent T-shirts at street corners who hu
ddled around caricature maps of narrow streets and ballooned buildings. Jesse passed themed museums crammed into retail-shop-sized allocations; he peered into dives that sold key chains, miniature Oscar statuettes, and rolls of camera film. And most of the employees had a dream.

  First, Jesse ducked into a shop to purchase a “Best Sister” Oscar statuette for Eden. Then he made his way further, along the Walk of Fame, where he tread upon terrazzo tiles of pink stars against a charcoal background, stamped with bronze seals to represent the celebrity’s media sector. Jesse walked past Elton John’s star, defaced by a worn decal applied by a passerby.

  He arrived at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, where he scanned the series of handprints and footprints embedded in concrete slabs at the Theatre’s forefront. The uneven imprints rippled under the soles of his feet as he walked on them. While some were recent, others had existed for decades. Jada dreamed of a star on the Walk of Fame; but in Jesse’s view, the concrete prints represented living individuals who had applied their hands and feet to the ground as they had to their careers. For Jesse, these prints provided evidence that, yes, dreams indeed come to fruition.

  Jesse noticed the horse mascot, which walked upright on its hind legs in the Theatre’s far corner, near the entrance. Unless he was mistaken, the costumed character was Clickety Clack.

  It couldn’t be him, Jesse mused.

  As he sneaked up behind the horse, which clipped along and waved to kids in strollers, Jesse heard the sound of tin-can hoofs reminiscent of the character’s name.

  “Gavin, is that you?”

  Clickety Clack spun on its hind hoofs and spread its front legs apart like arms, a toothy smile stitched upon its furry face. As the character tilted its head back, Jesse caught a glimpse up the horse’s nostrils, the location of two black-screened peepholes.

  Gavin grunted. “Rescue me, man. This sucks. I’m burning up inside this costume.”

  “I thought you worked at the shopping place.”

  With his front hoof, Gavin gestured toward the massive theater beside him. “The movie version opens next week. They’ve got me out here promoting it. I’ve already gotten kicked in the gonads by a teenager. Fun and games for me.” With a tone of sarcasm, he added, “If I do a good job, they’ll promote me to the popcorn costume.”

  “I don’t know about that promotion. You make a convincing horse.”

  “Yeah, well, it smells like ass in here.”

  “Clever, but your pun is inaccurate.”

  “I’ll work on it. Anyway, this beats working in a wax museum down the street. I had a job in one of those in a former life. Like being surrounded by dead people. Felt like a morgue in there, cold as it was. Avoid it if you can.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “How’d your audition go?”

  “It didn’t pan out,” Jesse replied. “My agent just dropped me.”

  Gavin clucked his tongue and leaned on his other hind hoof, which caused another clack to issue forth from the speaker inside the horse’s derriere. “To be honest, I expect mine to give me a phone call of abandonment before the end of the year. Any possible leads to cover you in the meantime?”

  Hesitant, Jesse feigned interest in a man who stood at a corner and handed out game-show tickets. “Yeah, I’ve lined one up—almost. One technicality to work out, but it sounds promising.”

  “In that case, congratulations! You’ve gotta celebrate the little things.”

  If only. Jesse hoped word would never get around regarding the specifics. He wanted to bolt before Gavin probed for more details—or asked Jesse to hook him up with a similar so-called opportunity. “Listen, I don’t mean to brush you off, but I’d better run. Look out for those abusive teenagers you mentioned; it would be a shame to see you submit a workers’ comp claim.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that. The next surly looking kid gets a rubber-horseshoe print across his pimpled face.”

  * * *

  Jesse jingled his keys as he approached the door to his apartment, though he didn’t need them after all. Before he reached the door, he watched it open from the other side. But Jada didn’t walk out. Dr. Dale did.

  Focused on his own car keys, Dale failed to notice Jesse until they were face-to-face in the corridor. Unable to hide a double-take when he laid eyes on Jesse, Dale regained his composure. “Jesse! Good to see you again! I needed to pick up a script from Jada.” He waved the roll of paper in his hand.

  “You’re advising another project?”

  “You got it.” Dale’s face was flushed, as if he had stopped by after a three-mile treadmill run. Then again, Dale was a smoker. That ruddy effect must not have required a lot of exertion.

  “See you around, Dale.”

  “Later.” He headed off, but stopped at the top of the stairs and snapped his fingers. “Oh, I almost forgot: Remember our talk the other night—the symptoms you’ve experienced?”

  Jesse’s eyes darted to the apartment door, but then he relaxed. If Jada were within earshot, she would have graced them with her presence by now. “Yeah, sorry about that. After I got it off my chest, I realized how ridiculous it sounded to be so concerned about it.”

  “I’m glad you mentioned it. Your symptoms aren’t disconcerting at face value. But when I considered how close together they occurred, combined with their abrupt onset, it made me think.” Dale leaned against the banister. “So I did some research. Bear in mind, you haven’t had any tests run, and this isn’t an official diagnosis. But the symptoms could point to a blood disorder.”

  Jesse sucked air but guarded against a visible reaction. “So I should be worried?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say so. Like I said, this is based solely on research and not tests, so it could be a coincidence. And even if it were a blood disorder, like a type of anemia, it may not be cause for concern. Anemias vary according to which type of blood cell is affected, as well as how those blood cells behave, such as overproduction or underproduction. Again, you’d want tests. In most cases, these tend to be treatable conditions. If it’s not severe—and I’d be surprised if it were—it might mean a dietary supplement and a minor change in your daily activity.”

  “I feel fine, just tire easily on occasion. You think it’s minor?”

  “My thoughts aren’t concrete. The more I researched, the more your symptoms seemed to point to a condition called Baer’s Disease. It sounds bad but it’s much like a form of anemia and is treatable. It’s uncommon, but a possibility. Symptoms show up for no reason—the same sort you described. They don’t appear to be much of a threat, and they don’t need to be.”

  “So I can forget about it?”

  “I didn’t say that. Left untreated, the condition worsens. Catch it sooner rather than later, then your options improve and you can get it under control. In the meantime, don’t make a blood donation—that could be fatal with this condition, as you might imagine.” When Jesse winced, Dale waved it off. “Don’t worry about it. They always ask you those things before you try to donate. Beyond that, I recommend you see your doctor and have some tests ordered.”

  “See my doctor? I don’t have health coverage, Dale—I’m a starving artist with a part-time job.”

  “You’re not on Jada’s plan either?”

  “We’re not married and never took steps to pursue coverage. It didn’t seem like a big deal. I’m only twenty-nine.”

  “I hear you. A lot of young guys try to go without health coverage. It works out fine, unless something goes wrong. If I were in that line of medicine, I’d help you out on a pro-bono basis. Unfortunately, however, you’re talking to a cardiologist here. And one who smokes, so what do I know, right? Just think about it.”

  “I will. Thanks for your help. You’re Jada’s friend and don’t really know me, so I appreciate it.”

  Dale shrugged. While he examined the soles of his shoes, he said, “I’m a doctor; curiosity gets the best of me.” He checked his watch. “I need to head to the hospital, so I’ll see you a
round.”

  Jesse pictured the medical bills that could pile up—and all to prove what was, in all likelihood, a minor nuisance. Didn’t Dale himself say this could be a coincidence? Jesse knew someone who had surgery once, and six months after, bills continued to appear in the mailbox—three hundred dollars here, seven hundred dollars there. Without medical coverage, those bills would have scrubbed the guy’s finances clean.

  Fuck it. Jesse didn’t survive in L.A. through worry or by cowering at every detail that tried to force him into retreat. He’d come here to find freedom.

  Medical tests would hassle his finances. His symptoms were common and a coincidence.

  Jesse listened to the engine of Dale’s Maserati as it sped around the corner and out of range.

  When a bricklayer builds a wall, he begins at ground level and works his way up. At first, the wall isn’t impressive. But as he stacks layer upon layer, eventually he requires a ladder because the wall towers over his head, obstructs his view, and closes him in.

  With all his recent downturns, Jesse related to a bricklayer, one who woke up each morning and faced the same cold, rough wall and its chipped, jagged surface. The bricklayer must become impatient. Yes, albeit metaphorical, he and the bricklayer faced similar circumstances, except for one difference: Jesse didn’t feel like he’d laid his own bricks, and he sure as hell hadn’t selected the color.

  Jesse gripped his keys and felt their rigid edges dig into his palm.

  Surely Jada had her own secrets. What was one more secret kept from her?

  CHAPTER 16

  On the lifestyle ladder, Jesse thought he understood where he resided—until he drove deeper into the hills of Malibu. On countless occasions he’d seen the homes, but never from such close proximity. And so today, as he wound his way up the road to Mick Lewis’s home, Jesse gained new appreciation for how a clean, well-maintained Honda can feel like a rust-mobile in these surroundings.