‘How could something so soft feel so hard’ he only has a moment for the thought as his breath is knocked out of him and he rebounds into the air again. This time he ends up sprawled in the floor in the narrow alley between the bed and wall. The damage he sustains by his collision with the wall will not be lasting. Max played half back for his college football team and knows how to take a hit.
He decides it will be best to hold out in his current position throughout the duration of the quake. At least the bed provides some cover from the -usually mundane- knickknacks that had now become deadly projectiles. The shaking had already lasted for what seemed like an eternity with no end in sight, though in actuality it had been less than a minute since that first ominous resonance. Max reaches out for one sturdy leg of his headboard and holds on like a bull rider.
Moments later the quake begins –mercifully- to rewind and retreat back into the depths. As if it senses that Max is now out of reach of its deadly tentacles it retracts into its lair; presumably to spring again at a later time on a less gamely victim. And just like that –faster than it had come-, the shaking has subsided and the room lies still. The sole exception is a framed Jerry Rice jersey that swings like a pendulum from a screw that had nearly been ripped from a stud. The quake is over and once again, Max will live to tell about it.
A loud, ‘BOOM!’ rocks the entire house like the shockwave of an atom bomb and Max can hear the windows rattle in their frames. He holds on for a recommencement of the shaking that never comes.
Without taking a moment to assess the damage in his room Max quickly stands and wedges his feet into a pair of nearby sneakers forcing the backs of the shoes down under his heels until they resemble slippers more than Nikes. Max has always been cool under pressure and even though he’s rattled, he has the presence of mind to don the shoes and protect his feet from the broken glass that is sure to be littering the upper floors of his home.
Without hesitation Max throws, open the -previously unreachable- door and turns to the stairwell on his right. This particular set of stairs would only get Max as far as the second floor. He takes the first eight steps in two bounds hoisting his self with the help of the banisters affixed to the narrow walls on either side of him. He touches down gracefully on the landing and at once is glad he’d thought to put on the shoes as he hears the crunch of shattered glass under foot. The glass was from a window high on the landing but at ground level outside.
Without hesitation, he spins and takes the remaining steps while calling out–with a level of desperation that startles him- “Big Mama!”
Chapter 3 – Big Mama
Max’s grandmother is all the family he has left, and his love and gratitude for her is evident in his cries. He races with greater speed and agility than he’d ever displayed on a football field as he covers the length of the living room and starts up the last flight of steps.
Max reaches her door, which is almost always left open, a fact that had led to much embarrassment on his part on several occasions when he was younger. The door hangs askew from a single hinge -half in the room and half out- creating a collage of triangles with varying dimensions with the door jam around it. Max approaches the door with trepidation. His grandmother is indeed elderly but has never been hard of hearing; yet she has not answered his desperate calls.
“Mama,” He speaks in almost a whisper as he places his hands on either side of the door. The sight of the door is suddenly morose like a hospital curtain drawn to disguise the death beyond its opaque secrecy. He grips the sides of the door tightly and forces it further into the room. The door’s lowest corner rakes across the carpet with a sound of fibrous friction. The room is dark. It has no window facing the direction of the slowly setting moon.
“Big Mama?” Max whispers again into the eerily still and quiet room that seems to stretch out before him,
“Are you alright?”
A voice -small but strong- interrupts Max’s worst thoughts,
“I will be, as soon as you get off your ass and give me a hand up boy.”
She sounds a little raspy but the voice is unmistakably Big Mama.
Max’s heart flutters for a moment with a dissolving grief and budding relief as he steps to the sound of his grandmother’s voice. His eyes can just make out her form lying face down with her left hand and right elbow propping up her substantial frame. Max pauses for a moment to try and ascertain the full extent of her situation. She had apparently been thrown from her bed, no small feat given her three hundred -plus pounds build.
“Don’t just stand there gawkin’. Help me up boy!”
Max determines quickly that if she had sustained any real damage during the quake then her mind would probably not be so clear. She obviously knows who he is and that she was in need of help, and also has managed to maintain her usual snappy personality. He bends to the task of helping her up to her feet.
***
After a sleepless morning –wrought with aftershocks of a smaller magnitude than the original quake, but similarly unnerving- Max and his grandmother survey the damage.
“Look here Max; I’m quite capable of cleaning up this mess without trippin’ over your useless hide every time I turn around. You may know how to catch a football but you don’t know a damn thing about tending nobody’s house.”
Even though she was some 30 years out of the south, Max could still hear that pleasant drawl in her speech. A characteristic that Max had always felt intensified her “Big Mama” persona. She was the family’s matriarch and large in girth, thus she was crowned with the moniker ‘Big Mama’. It was a popular nickname bestowed upon the matriarch of many black families. More importantly, it was a sign of respect and a term of endearment.
“You’ve been planning this trip with your friends for a while now and you deserve it, ain’t nothing’ here but a little broken glass and a few pictures that need straightening. I’m fix’n to handle that right now.”
Big Mama had a pleasant but authoritative demeanor. Her short, marbled gray hair formed looping and lustrous Shirley Temple-like curls on her head that jostled about as she spoke. Her soft features imbued her with a naturally youthful beauty that most women struggled –or paid- for at her age.
She waives a meaty hand in the direction of the debris that had comprised her curio cabinet prior to the quake. Mere hours ago it had harbored dozens of domestic mementos that she’d collected throughout her modest travels in the years since her husband Leonard– Max’s Grandfather – had died. Upon his death, she had come into a sum of money considered trivial by most, but to a lady of her simple taste and in her twilight years it amounted to a wealth of freedom. It had given her the means to fulfill her long dormant desire to see the sights from sea to shining sea.
She was orphaned at the tender age of thirteen. Where most would have starved or turned to a life of crime or prostitution she picked out a hardscrabble existence of odd jobs and errands on the unforgiving streets of Baton Rouge. She was a survivor. Homeless, she slept wherever and whenever she found safety until she was taken in by a gentle man of twice her years. At the tender age of seventeen, he would become her first love, and in time her husband.
Before Leonard’s death, she had never ventured beyond the county limits. Her travels since had enlivened her, given her a second youth. However, with this youth, instead of being sequestered in the rural south she would live the life of a free spirit. That youthful veracity was not only Max’s favorite thing about her; it was also the thing that had pulled him back from the edge during a darker time in his own youth. Max had experienced much pain and loss for an adult of so few years and his grandmother had always been his grounding rod. She not only kept him sane, she kept him from becoming jaded considering all he’s done and all that had been done to him.
Max smiles broadly and Big Mama’s face softens. He reaches out his hand and she settles her hand onto his.
“Thank you Big Mama.”
His sincerity, gratitude and affection for her are app
arent in his voice. Not just for her encouragement to proceed with his trip but for her unflinching support of him through times both blessed and hellish.
Max gently squeezes her plump hand with his own large and powerful hand and his grandmother is visibly moved by this subtle and rare display of affection from him. She struggles against a well of emotion that effervesces from deep within her. Max, apparently feeling the same thing, releases her hand. A few moments pass before he trusts himself to speak without his voice cracking.
“I’ll call Vinny.”
Chapter 4 – The Trip
Vincent Neumann –better known as Vinny by his friends- enjoyed the bohemian-like simplicity of his life. He made it a point to do as little as possible, as often as possible. Vinny lived by the philosophy that in order to live a long and blissful life one must take nothing seriously. In fact, he only had three exceptions to his golden rule –his education and his two best friends. This weekend the plan was to take time out from the former to spend more time with the latter.
He had become estranged from his family at the tender age of seventeen when his parents divorced and he setoff for higher learning. His father’s disappointment in him for not stepping into the shoes that he had laced for him was thick as molasses. The family’s used car lot was not large by any means, but it had supported the Neumanns for three generations.
His father would ask him, “Are you too good to make a living the way your father and grandfathers did? You think you’re too smart for the rest of us Neumanns don’t you?”
The day the scholarship package arrived from Northridge College he finally was able to answer his father’s questions the way he had always wanted, “yes,” he had said simply when last presented with his father’s rhetoric.
Soon after, he packed the few things his father would allow him to take and walked out the front door with his head high and grinning ear to ear. He held no resentment toward his father for trying to control the fate of his only son. At least his father had cared enough to be concerned about his future. His mother was the polar opposite. She made a colloquial phrase like “how was your day?” sound arduous. It was as if even while making the query she was praying that it would go unanswered, lest she has to sit through a long and dull explanation of his day’s events. Sometimes Vinny would just mumble a nonsensical word as response in order to release her from the obligation of a true conversation. He had become particularly fond of answering her with the names of different dog breeds. His mother would say, “How was your day?” and Vinny would respond with something random like, “dirty Poodle” or “Saint Bernards are hungry.” Either his mother never noticed or she just pretended not to for fear that a questioning glance may lead to further communication. She was content to watch her soaps and game shows and to have dinner prepared by six-thirty every night. In the end, Vinny was sure that it was his mother’s passionless personality that had driven her and his father apart.
Vinny decided on the day he moved that he would never become like his parents –one, overbearing, and the other, emotionally absent. He had since come up with his present approach to life, i.e. take one day at a time, never rush anything, and care for as little as possible. So far, this way of thinking seemed to be working for him.
He lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment just off of campus and spent most of his days –when studying wasn’t required- grilling on his hibachi, drinking Coronas, listening to Bob Marley and smoking whatever flavor of marijuana that he could afford that week. His life was simple and slow, just the way he liked it. In fact, after three years of school, Vinny had yet to declare his major, and he was in no rush to do so. The only thing in his life that he ever really had to do was keep his grades from slipping. If his GPA ever dropped too low he would be in danger of losing his scholarship and with it, his bread and butter since his academic full ride also covered his room and board. The only thing that truly threatened this perfect existence that he had created was the emotion he felt for Brooke Acevedo. He knew a girl like that could change his whole perspective.
***
The sound of Vinny’s phone ringing shatters a deafening silence in his small apartment causing him to flinch and lacerate his palm with a shard from his favorite beer mug. The quake had claimed the mug and Vinny had been pining over it when the phone rang. The –now bloody- shard contained three letters, an h and double o. The fragmented -and bloodstained- hoo coupled with the ringing phone strikes Vinny as a bit ominous and gives him pause. He doesn’t consider himself a superstitious person but he likes to keep an open mind.
“One never knows, do one?” Vinny mutters as he eyes the cackling telephone.
This phrase is a favorite of Vinny’s that he uses whenever situations arise that appear to defy coincidence.
Vinny winces as a trickle of blood meandering down the lifeline of his right palm drips to his white carpet. This reels him back from his contemplative state and his lack of assuredness toward the ringing phone begins to ebb, giving rise to surprise that his phone is ringing at all. For hours after the quake, he tried unsuccessfully to make a call to anyone that he thought might answer, if for no other reason than to hear another soul’s voice after what he regarded as a near death experience. After the Northridge quake, it had been some time before telecommunications had been restored.
Brrrng, the phone blurts out yet again and Vinny reaches for it with his remaining good hand. Upon lifting the receiver to his ear and before he could speak he hears three simple but very familiar words, “Lets do it!”
After an hour on the northbound 101 and an additional 20 minutes driving east, Maximilian Mills, better known as Max by his friends, had heard every rendition of his name that he thought possible, until now. Vinny and Brooke were playing the name game again and this time Brooke was ahead.
“Maxy Pad,” Vinny smiles wanly, reciting one of his old favorites.
“Maximilian Smell,” retorts Brooke.
Trying to be a good sport about the game being played at his expense, and glad to finally be talking about something besides the earthquake, Max says, “Hey that’s pretty good. That should count for two.”
Vinny replies, “You’re right, and with that I concede victory to the lovely Miss Brooke since I see our exit quickly approaching and have no idea where I’m going after that. Who has the directions?”
Vinny’s - once stylish but now ancient- Audi 5000 sputtered down the road like a steam engine on diminishing tender. Max often referred to it as the ultimate polluting machine. The car was a sixteenth birthday gift/bribe from his father. His father allowed him to keep it in hopes that it would remain a continuous reminder of the life he left behind.
“I know the way,” says Max.
“Reeeally,” replies Vinny, elongating the word in mocking surprise. “I didn’t think you’d ever left the valley.”
“Well, some us po’ black folk do sneak off the plantation from time to time,” replies Max in his best Stepin Fetchit. He continues, “but I guess you good white folk wouldn’t know nuttin’ ‘bout dat.”
Brooke’s head is now thrown back with her right hand over her mouth attempting, but not succeeding, to stifle a laugh.
Vinny says, “Ha Ha you’re freakin’ hilarious. Speaking of white folks, what kind of name is Maximilian Mills for a black man anyway?” doing his best to turn the screw in what he knew was a sore spot for Max.
Max subconsciously cocks his head to one side and turns his gaze to the world flying by beyond his window, “Well you know, my mother, she had high ideals.” His voice trails off, and all laughter - even Vinny’s - falls silent.
***
Some time later and upon reaching the town of Ojai, they decide to cruise the main street before heading up into the mountains to their final destination. The quaint little town was tucked away in a hidden valley to the south east of Santa Barbara. Bright clear afternoon sunshine reflects off of stained glass and freshly cleaned vehicles that line the street. Tourists and residents alike scurry along
the boulevard ducking in and out of curio shops and ice cream parlors. People waive at each other and pause for polite conversation about last Sunday’s service and the price of beef at the local butcher’s shop. Shopkeepers sweep the days dust away from their storefronts. It’s a tranquil lifestyle revered by some and reviled by others.
Max looks on and marvels at how distant he feels from his old neighborhood –with much emphasis on hood. He wonders if any of these people know what it’s like where he came from, or even care. But, why should they? What does the life of one poor black kid from almost one hundred miles away matter in the big scheme of things? Not much…to most.
The Audi suddenly backfires with a loud crack like a gunshot and draws the attention of several onlookers including a sheriff’s deputy who just exited a squad car in front of the station. The deputy scans the Audi and its occupants carefully as they drive by. Vinny is careful not to surpass the twenty-five mph speed limit, but Max (feeling out of his element) can’t help telling him to slow down. Vinny understands Max’s position and complies. When it comes to Max, Vinny knows better than anyone that old habits die hard.
Max is suddenly filled with a desire to exit the rustic little town and surround himself with some familiar faces. He’s not sure why but a since of foreboding has washed over him and left him with a chill. It could just be that he feels so out of his element.
As if reading his mind Brooke says, “I’ve had enough sites-seeing. Can we head up the mountain now?”
Vinny agrees and turns off of Main Street.
As Max, Brooke and Vinny wind through mountain roads Brooke watches the sunlight blink through furs and oaks. The visual effect this creates reminds her of a video from an old 8mm wind up camera and gives her the sensation that everything is slowing down. Each frame of this mock film seems to gradually reveal a surrealist cinematic and somewhat portentous plot. The feeling gives her a brief shiver. The rapid snapshots transpose the canyon below and leave a bright outline of light like a negative on her eyes.
One Blink From Oblivion Page 2
