Bright Shiny Morning

by James Frey

  She had an interview the next day. It was in the morning she woke up early put on her best skirt she felt hopeful and confident if she could get a job she could go to school at night, she knew whatever the work was she could handle it. She took a bus into Pasadena, with traffic it took fifty minutes without traffic it would have taken ten. She got off the bus and walked to the house, it was another fifteen minutes the sun was up it was already hot she was starting to sweat. When she found the address she stopped in front of a gate and stared through black iron bars. The house was huge, looked more like a museum than a house. Two long wings spreading out on either side of a massive columned entrance. The yard was huge and perfectly green, split by a white stone driveway. As she stared at the house, a voice buzzed her from a small speaker discreetly built into the stone wall that held the gates,

  Are you the girl that works for my sister?

  She looked at the speaker. Her mother recommended that she speak some English, but not let her prospective employer know that she was fluent. It would allow her employer to feel superior to her, which wealthy Americans tended to like, and feel that they would be able to speak and communicate in their home without worry of eavesdropping, which they also tended to like.

  Yes.

  I’ll open the gate. Come to the front door.

  Sí.

  The gate started silently opening, Esperanza walked towards the house it began looming over her the closer she got the more intimidating it became and as she started up the steps that led to the door, the door opened. A stern, seventy-year-old woman stood waiting for her. The woman had white hair and piercing blue eyes, she was tall and gaunt, had a severe jawline and defined cheekbones, wore an expensive flowered dress. Even though it was only eight in the morning, she looked like she had been up for hours and was ready for a dinner date at the club or some cards with her bridge group. She looked Esperanza over, which made Esperanza nervous and insecure. She spoke.

  How was it getting here?

  Okay.

  No problems?

  No.

  I’ve had people get lost because they couldn’t read the English bus and street signs that we use here in America.

  It’s okay for me.

  Esperanza reached the top of the stairs, stood in front of the woman,

  who continued to look her over, everything she felt, nervous insecure self-conscious, felt worse.

  My name is Elizabeth Campbell. You can call me Mrs. Campbell.

  Esperanza looked at the white marble floor, nodded.

  Your name is?

  She looked up.

  Esperanza.

  Have you ever cleaned a home as large as this one?

  No.

  Do you think you are capable of it?

  Sí.

  Why do you think you are capable of it?

  I work hard to clean.

  You understand that in my home I make the rules and you do not question them?

  Sí.

  Are you sure you understand me?

  Sí.

  Mrs. Campbell stared at her.

  Why don’t you come in and I’ll show you the maid’s quarters.

  Mrs. Campbell turned and walked into the house, Esperanza followed, she carefully closed the door behind her. They walked through the foyer, which had twenty-foot ceilings and a huge crystal chandelier and oil portraits in gilded frames of Mrs. Campbell’s relatives, they walked past a grand staircase that curved gently up, they walked into a small hall past a laundry room to a small door. Mrs. Campbell never looked back assumed Esperanza was behind her. She opened the door walked down a flight of stairs into a concrete reinforced basement. There were laundry machines and a sink along one wall, a mass of cleaning supplies and mops, brooms and a vacuum against another, a small cot and a wardrobe next to the supplies. Mrs. Campbell turned around, spoke.

  This is your area. Like the rest of the house, I expect it to be kept spotless. The wardrobe is for your extra uniforms, which I will supply to you, and for your formal uniform, which you will wear when I have guests. The cot is for the occasions when you have to stay overnight. It doesn’t happen often, but if it’s required, I’ll expect that you do so without complaint. If I ever find you sleeping during the day, you will be immediately terminated. You will do all of the laundry down here, though I will expect you to continue to work on other things while you do the laundry. I do not like loafing. I pay you to work, not loaf.

  Esperanza looked around the room. It was gray, drab and depressing.

  Like the dungeon beneath a palace. Mrs. Campbell snapped her fingers in front of her face.

  Did you hear me?

  Esperanza looked at her, visibly hurt.

  I want to know if you understood what I said about loafing?

  Esperanza nodded, hurt.

  And you understood everything else?

  Sí.

  I doubt it, but I guess we’ll see.

  I understand, Mrs. Campbell.

  I’ll show you the rest of the house.

  They walked upstairs, walked around the house, it took over an hour, they walked to the guest house, which was larger than most normal houses, four bedrooms and four bathrooms it took half an hour. When they were finished, Mrs. Campbell walked Esperanza to the front door.

  When can you start?

  When you like?

  Tomorrow morning?

  Okay.

  You’ll have to press and iron one of the uniforms before you begin, and if it doesn’t fit you’ll need to take it home with you and tailor it.

  Sí.

  Any questions?

  How much you pay me?

  I will pay you three hundred and fifty dollars a week. That’s good money for someone like you.

  That’s not enough.

  Mrs. Campbell looked shocked.

  Excuse me?

  The house is very big. You must pay me more.

  You are not to make demands on me, young lady, do you understand me?

  Esperanza nodded again, by this time, she was a wreck.

  Sí.

  Do you understand me?

  Esperanza recoiled. Wrecked.

  Sí.

  She stared at Esperanza. Esperanza stared at the floor.

  How much do you think you deserve?

  I don’t know.

  You’ll get four hundred. Not a penny more. If you don’t like it, I’ll find someone else to do it. There are plenty of people like you in this city and it won’t be any trouble.

  Sí.

  I will see you tomorrow then. And if you’re late, your first day will be your last.

  Gracias.

  Esperanza turned and walked away, hurried down the driveway, whatever confidence or hope she had coming into the interview was gone, she just wanted to be away, away from Elizabeth Campbell, who she knew was staring at her from the doorway.

  In 1892, Edward Doheny and Charles Canfield discover oil in a friend’s front yard after noticing that the wheels of his cart were always covered with a wet, black substance. Doheny immediately buys a thousand acres of land surrounding the house, just outside of what was then Los Angeles proper and what is now the Echo Park neighborhood. He starts drilling and within a year has 500 oil wells. Within two years there are 1,400 oil wells in Los Angeles County. By the early 1920s, almost a quarter of the world’s oil is supplied by the wells in Los Angeles.

  Dylan walks up and down Riverside Drive, which, theoretically, runs alongside the Los Angeles River. The river is a forty-foot-wide concrete ditch that carries sewage and rain overflow into the Pacific Ocean. It rains an average of thirty days a year in LA and there is usually no rain between April and November, so it isn’t much of a river. Dylan walks into every gas station every bodyshop every auto-repair shop he finds on the drive he fills out applications looks for work. After three days he finds a motorcycle repair shop that’s looking for someone. The owner of the shop is a member of a biker gang (though he calls it a motorcycle club) called the Mongrels, he’s six foot
five, 320 pounds, has a braided ponytail that hangs to his waist, is probably the scariest looking human Dylan has ever seen. The man, who calls himself Tiny, looks at him, speaks.

  How good are you at fixing bikes?

  I can fix anything.

  My wife’s a fucking pain in the ass, can you fix her?

  Probably not.

  How good are you at fixing bikes?

  I can fix anything with an engine.

  Go fix that pile of shit over there.

  He points to an old Harley in the back of the shop. It’s covered with rust and the engine is in pieces on the floor.

  What’s wrong with it?

  You said you can fix anything with a fucking engine, go fucking figure it out.

  Dylan walks over to the bike, Tiny walks to his office, where he picks up the phone, dials it, and starts yelling at someone. Dylan starts looking at the pieces of the engine spread across the floor. He takes off his shirt, starts handling the parts, looking closely at them, when he needs to wipe grease off his hands, he wipes them on his pants. He walks to a large battered steel tool chest, casually picks up a couple tools, walks back to the bike. He quickly puts the engine back together. He tries to start the bike, nothing. Tries again, nothing. Makes a couple of adjustments, tries again, nothing. He takes the engine apart again, organizes it on the floor.

  The entire process takes three hours. When he’s finished, he walks over to Tiny’s office. Tiny is still on the phone, still yelling. Dylan stands at the door and waits for him, when Tiny sees him, he cups the phone, yells at Dylan.

  What the fuck do you want?

  I figured out what’s wrong with the engine.

  What?

  It’s an unfixable piece of shit and you should throw it away.

  Tiny laughs.

  I’ve sent four other dumbasses back there to look at that thing and you’re the first one with enough sense to tell me what I already knew.

  So I’ve got the job?

  Hold on.

  Tiny puts the phone back to his ear, speaks.

  I gotta call you back.

  He waits.

  No. I gotta fucking call you back.

  He waits.

  Listen, shit-for-fucking-brains, there’s someone in my fucking office and I can’t fucking talk.

  He slams the phone down without waiting for a response, shakes his head, speaks.

  People are fucking stupid, man. Every day I’m amazed at how fucking stupid people are.

  Yeah.

  You better not be fucking stupid or I’ll throw you outta here on your ass.

  I’m not.

  We’ll see. You passed my test, but I ain’t convinced yet. You might still turn out to be a dumbfuck.

  Dylan laughs.

  Hours are nine to five. Sometimes might be earlier, sometimes might be later. Just depends. Pay is six bucks an hour, I’ll pay you in cash. Ain’t no benefits ’cept you get to hang around me all day.

  Six bucks an hour seems a little light.

  I’m paying you in cash so you ain’t got no taxes, and if you don’t like it, don’t take the job. Sooner or later I’ll find me some illegal-immigrant beaner I can pay four an hour.

  I’ll take it.

  There you go, you passed dumbass test #2.

  Dylan laughs.

  One other thing, maybe the most important thing.

  Yeah.

  Things happen here and are said here that are private, if you understand what I’m saying. You ever talk to anyone else about ’em, and you and whoever you care about will end up in a bad situation. You try talking to me about ’em and I’ll hit you in the goddamn mouth.

  Understood.

  Good. Now get the fuck outta here. I’ll see you in the morning.

  Dylan turns and leaves, walks two miles back to the motel. When he gets to the room, Maddie is gone. There’s no note, no message. He walks out to the balcony looks up and down the row of rooms, tries to listen for her voice, hoping he hears her in one of the rooms, terrified that she might be in one of the rooms, which are inhabited by an alcoholic couple in their seventies, a reformed, or so he says, bank robber, a meth dealer, two aspiring porn actresses who star in teen-themed films, a guy who calls himself Andy the pimp-ass motherfucker. He walks along the row of rooms listens starts to panic he walks downstairs walks along the row of rooms on the first floor he only knows one of the residents a former rock star turned heroin addict he doesn’t hear a thing anywhere. He walks into the lobby asks the man behind the desk who watches a ten-year-old sitcom on a small color TV the man shrugs and says got no idea, man, I ain’t seen a thing.

  Dylan walks back to the room. He opens the door leaves it open lights a cigarette wishes he had something to drink tries to figure out what to do, call the police, go walk around, she doesn’t have any friends in LA nowhere to go no one to see he thinks about his neighbors which one, which one, she comes to the door, speaks.

  Hi.

  He looks up. She’s holding a bucket of fried chicken and a bottle of cheap champagne.

  Where you’ve been? I’ve been freaking out.

  She walks towards him, speaks.

  I went out to find a job.

  Kisses him.

  And I found one.

  She smiles, does a little victory dance.

  Where?

  99 cent store.

  He laughs.

  Seriously?

  Yeah. I’m a cashier. I’m getting a uniform and a hat.

  He laughs again.

  Awesome.

  Since we’re gonna have some money coming in, I got us a little surprise.

  She sets the chicken and the champagne on the table. Dylan’s still sitting on the bed.

  I was really worried.

  I’m a big girl.

  There’s a bunch of crazy people in this motel.

  I know. That’s why—

  She reaches into her pocket, pulls out a small spray cartridge.

  I bought some mace at the 99 cent store. It only cost 66 cents with my new employee discount.

  He smiles. She smiles.

  Come over here and eat and drink some champagne with me.

  He stands, takes a couple steps over.

  How’d you get champagne?

  Walked into a liquor store and bought it. Guy was staring at my boobs the whole time, never even asked me for ID.

  You have nice boobs.

  She smiles.

  If you’re a good boy and you eat your dinner I might let you see them.

  He sits down, grabs one of the pieces of chicken, takes a giant bite. She laughs. They eat, talk, he tells her about his job, about Tiny, she tells him to be careful, he says he’ll work there until something better comes along.

  As they drink the champagne, they both get happy, playful, neither were big drinkers at home, neither has ever had champagne. They end up in bed feeling, exploring, playing, doing all of the things they couldn’t do in the backseats of cars and under the Ping-Pong tables of friends when they lived at home. She shows him everything he wants to see, gives him whatever he wants, takes from him whatever she wants. They stay up late they go again, again, they lie in each other’s arms and say I love you they’re nineteen and on their own and they’re in love and they still believe in the future.

  Next day they start their jobs, they wake up get coffee together stop in a donut shop. He has a Boston crème and she has a maple bar they kiss and go their separate ways. Maddie walks to the store it’s four blocks away.

  She finds the manager, whose name is Dale, he walks her back to the locker room. He’s in his late thirties, tall and thin his hair is falling out, he wears a thin, patchy mustache. He opens the door for Maddie, follows her in, closes the door behind him. The room has two walls covered with rows of metal lockers, benches in front of them. Along one of the other walls there’s a sink and a counter with a coffee machine and a basket of snacks on the counter. Dale speaks.

  We each get a locker. You keep your unifor
m in it, and your clothes while you’re working. Can’t have no drugs or alcohol in there, and you can’t have no weapons. If I find any that shit in there I’ll take it and keep it.

  If I’m really pissed I might give it to the authorities or some such person like ’em. On breaks you can hang out in here if you want to. I tend to get out of the store, but some people like it in here. And there ain’t no fooling around allowed with any of the other employees, unless it’s a girl and I get to watch, or it’s me.

  He smiles. Maddie speaks.

  That a joke?

  He laughs.

  Sure is, little sister. Or maybe not. That’s for you to decide. He laughs again, a bit louder.

  Do you have my uniform?

  Sure do. It’s in my office. I’ll go get it for you. You can choose a locker while I’m gone.

  He leaves. She looks at the lockers, looks at the ones without locks on them, opens one of them there’s a pile of dirty socks in it, she shuts it immediately. She opens another there’s a bag of half-eaten potato chips and an army of ants she shuts it. She opens two more both empty but they don’t feel right to her she looks for one in a corner away from most of the locks. She finds one, opens it, there’s nothing in it. She stares at it, puts her head inside of it, smells it. The door opens, Dale walks in with a 99-cent store shirt and visor, which are red, yellow and orange with black 99s printed all over them. He speaks.

  How’s it smell?

  She pulls her head out, blushes with embarrassment. Okay.

  You like smelling things?

  Not really.

  Here’s your uniform.

  He hands her the shirt and visor.

  Thank you.

  We prefer you wear white pants with it. Makes them colors really pop.

  Okay.

  You got any?

  No.

  Get ’em with your first paycheck. And get some white panties too. If you don’t, people be able to see what color you’re wearing through your pants.