by James Frey
I love you. I miss you. When you left my mother’s house, I left. I packed my things and stayed in the basement of a friend’s house until I found my own apartment. As soon as I was settled, I started looking for you. You never told me your last name, you never told me where you lived. I didn’t know where to go or how to find you. I hired a private detective and spent all my free time driving around East LA hoping I would find you somewhere. I always imagined I would see you walking down the street and I would jump out of the car and you would see me and come running towards me and we would kiss and go right back to the way things were.
It would be like some Hollywood movie with a perfect ending and we would live happily ever after. Obviously it didn’t happen. I never found you or saw you. The PI was able to find you through one of the women who used to ride the bus with you. Once he told me where you were and what you were doing, I tried to figure out what to say to you. I had it all planned and I was ready to say it when I walked in here before, but when I saw you, I froze, and when you told me to leave, I was too overwhelmed to do anything but what you asked. And it was the same every night after.
I’d come prepared to tell you what I needed to tell you and you’d tell me to leave and I would be overwhelmed and walk out. I figured at some point you’d ask me what I wanted, but you never did, so I gave up. I thought maybe having you reject me would help me get over you, but it didn’t.
Every day, all day, all I did was think about you and hate myself for not having the guts to say what I wanted to say to you. So this time, I had a drink or two or three and I’m not leaving until I say what I have to say. He takes another deep breath.
I love you. I miss you. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, inside and outside and in every way, and part of the reason you’re so beautiful is because you have no idea how beautiful you are. I can’t live without you. I don’t want to live without you. I don’t care about my mother or my family or living a life that doesn’t have you in it. I should have run after you when you left, but I was scared and didn’t know what to do. If I could do it over I would run after you and never let you leave me, never, never. I want you to give me another chance. I want you to give us another chance. I know you felt what I did when we were together and I want you to give it another chance. Please. I promise I’ll never let you leave again, and I’ll never not stand up for you again, and I’ll never let anyone make you feel the way she did again. Please. I love you, and I miss you.
He stares at her, she stares at him. The women look at each other, both nod, both are impressed. Esperanza smiles, speaks.
My last name is Hernandez.
He smiles.
I know.
She smiles.
And I live in East Los Angeles.
He smiles.
I know.
She smiles.
And I’ve missed you too.
In 1997, after intense lobbying from the automotive and oil industries, Congress reduces funding meant for the Metropolitan Transit Authority of Los Angeles to expand the scope of construction of the new Los Angeles subway.
He had a wife. He had three children. He had a good job and a house and the respect of his neighbors. He had a life and he had a name.
There was an accident. It wasn’t his fault he was hit from behind while he was coming home from work. His car got pushed off an overpass and it flipped as it was falling the roof hit the ground. They couldn’t believe he was alive.
He was in a coma for eight months. When he woke up he was different. As soon as he could walk, he left the hospital. They brought him back. He left again. They brought him back he left again.
When he went home he was confused. He didn’t know the children, and he didn’t want them. He didn’t know his wife and he didn’t want to know her. He left and they brought him back. He left again they brought him back they hoped he would change. He left again they brought him back. He left again they let him go.
He has been walking for several years. He wears a backpack with a change of clothes and a toothbrush and a bar of soap. He has an ATM card each month his former wife, who is remarried but still mourns him, puts $200 in the account. He uses the money to eat, to buy new shoes, for toothpaste and soap. He has no idea where the money comes from and he doesn’t care.
He sleeps where he can, when he can, sometimes during the day, sometimes at night, for three or four hours at a time. If he doesn’t feel safe he will not sleep, and he’ll keep walking until he finds somewhere that he feels is safe. As he walks endlessly walks he talks to himself. And as his process of walking is a process of repetition, one foot in front of the other in front of the other, his process of speech is a process of repetition, word after word, the same words in more or less the same order, word after word. He calls himself the Prophet. And so, as the Prophet walks, the Prophet speaks.
I walk through the Land of Angels, I walk through the Land of Dreams.
I see the people who live here ten, twelve, someday fifteen, twenty, twenty-five million black white yellow and brown separate and together loving hating killing mixing helping each other or not, they are all here and more every day, spreading piling joining crowding crushing there are more every day. I see them come. Come on bus and foot. In cars and planes overhead in helicopters if they’re rich in the backs of cargo trucks and on the tops of freight trains I saw a man come on a horse it got hit crossing the highway. They come to live on this land more in this place than any other thousands of square miles I walk them every day. Years of walking and I haven’t seen it all. Year after year after year I have yet to step foot on every street on every road every boulevard and avenue, every highway freeway expressway interchange, every beach, every bluff, every path through hills untamed, every trail through mountains without a house on them, every dead stream in every empty desert, every scrub-filled field fighting to live for a decade or more I have walked and I have yet to see it, know it, hear it and feel it there’s room for more. And so they come. To live with Angels and chase their dreams. It ain’t all bright lights and billboards. Some dream of a roof, some dream of a bed, some dream of a job, some dream of enough money to eat, some dream the dream forgetting, leaving, hiding, transforming, becoming, some dream the simple dream of getting through a day without worrying about dying, some dream of families here or there or wherever they left them dream of bringing them and starting over and actually having a fucking chance, some dream of being allowed to live, speak, believe and dress as they please. Some dream of bright lights and billboards but they are few to the many who dream of a place that will accept them, nourish them, allow them to grow into whatever flower or whatever poison they want to become, allow them to scream yell decry pray beg discuss deal buy sell steal give take become or not whatever the fuck they want because it’s possible, it’s possible here. In gas stations and mini-malls. In studios and stages. On the beaches in the hills. In houses bigger than any man needs or deserves in houses so decrepit they don’t deserve to stand. In churches, temples, mosques, in caves filled with bottles and drawings on the walls. In trailers and tents under the deep blue sky. In row after row block after block of ugly motherfucking buildings, identical houses, in jail cells and towers of glass. Day after day I see them. I walk and I hear them. I walk and I feel them. I walk in the Land of Angels, I walk in the Land of Dreams.
By the year 2000, Los Angeles is the most diverse, fastest-growing major metropolitan area in the United States. If it were its own country, it would have the fifteenth-largest economy in the world. It is estimated that by the year 2030, it will be the largest metropolitan area in the country.
The sun rises in a clear sky that moves from black to gray to white to deep, pure crystal blue.
Esperanza sleeps. Her aunts uncles and cousins spread through the kitchen, dining room, living room and back patio all talking about what they think he’s going to be like the first Anglo to come to their house for dinner. Esperanza says she loves him that he is the only man she has ever loved, that
she believes she will spend the rest of her life with him, that he loves her, that she is the only woman he has ever loved, that he believes he will spend the rest of his life with her. Her mother and father sit together on the front porch holding hands he won’t arrive for hours but they want to be the first to greet him.
Amberton walks onto the set he is greeted by the director, the producers, the other actors. They shake his hand tell him how much they admire him and how excited they are to work with him. He goes to makeup, he goes to wardrobe, he goes to his trailer and has a cup of herbal tea and an egg-white omelette and piece of multigrain toast. He brushes his teeth they shine he checks his hair it’s perfect he takes a step back and looks at himself in the mirror it’s smaller than he would like it to be but for now it’s fine he likes what he sees, he knows he’ll look good on film, that his fans will be happy. There’s a knock on the door he steps over to it and opens it a tall blond blue-eyed twenty-two-year-old production assistant asks him if he’s finished with breakfast and would he like his plate taken away. Amberton smiles, introduces himself, and invites him inside.
Old Man Joe lies silent and serene on the sand his eyes are closed he can hear the waves he can taste the salt his hands lie still upon his chest his breath is easy his heart beats steady. He has fourteen dollars in his pocket and two bottles of Chablis in the tank and all he needs in the world, all he needs to know, all he needs to feel, all he needs to own, all he needs to live, all he needs in the world he has he lies silent and serene in the sand, his eyes closed, hands still, heart steady.
Maddie sits staring out the window sleep never comes anymore. Her neighbor found her and released her she left the apartment immediately ran from the building ran into the night ran. Next morning she went to the course and found Shaka she was too scared to call the police and believed they would come back for her and their child if she did. Shaka called his wife. She picked Maddie up and took her home and held her as she cried and made her eat and taught her to pray. They go to church together every morning and they get on their knees and look to the cross and try to believe that someday he’ll come back. She knows at some point she’ll have to find a job, Shaka offered her one working in the office at the course but it’s too close, too close. She lives in their back bedroom and spends her days looking at an album of pictures that were taken at their wedding. They are the only pictures she has of him, the only pictures of the two of them together. When the child moves inside her she holds the album close and says this is your father, he loved you, he loved you.
The sun rises in a clear sky that moves from black to gray to white to deep, pure crystal blue.
One in Georgia packs his things he’s going to take a bus. Four in Mexico walk across scorched earth water in packs on their back. Two in Indiana best friends coming together they pack their best clothes while their parents wait to take them to the airport. One in Canada drives south.
Sixty from China in a cargo container sail east. Four in New York pool their cash and buy a car and drop out of school and drive west. Sixteen cars of a passenger train crossing the Mojave only one stop left. One in Miami doesn’t know how she’s going to get there. Three in Montana have a truck none of them have any idea what they’re going to do once they arrive. A plane from Brazil sold out landing at LAX. Six in Chicago dreaming on shared stages they rented a van they’ll see if any of them can make it. Two from Arizona hitchhiking. Four more just crossed in Texas walking. Another one in Ohio with a motorcycle and a dream. All of them with their dreams. It calls to them and they believe it and they cannot say no to it, they cannot say no.
It calls to them.
It calls.
Calls.
Thank you Maya and Maren, I love you. Thank you Mom and Dad, Bob and Laura. Thank you Peggy and Jagadish, Amar and Elizabeth, Abby and Nick. Thank you David Krintzman. Thank you Eric Simonoff. Thank you Jonathan Burnham. Thank you Glenn Horowitz. Thank you Jenny Meyer.
Thank you Billy Hult. Thank you Lisa Kussell and Nanci Ryder. Thank you Josh Kilmer-Purcell and Brent Ridge. Thank you Rick Meyer. Thank you Kevin Huvane, Todd Feldman, Rich Green, Jay Baker, Jack Whigman.
Thank you Tim Duggan. Thank you Jane Friedman, Brian Murray, Michael Morrison, Kathy Schneider, Tina Andreadis, Carrie Kania, Tara Cook, Allison Lorentzen. Thank you Bennett Ashley, Tina Bennett, Eadie Klemm. Thank you Richard Prince, John McWhinnie, Bill Powers, Terry Richardson. Thank you Scott Wardrop and Jacob Niggeman. Thank you Jeff Dawson, Peter Nagusky, Bill Adler, Kevin Chase, Eben Strousse, Chris Wardwell, Nikki Motley, Nancy Booth, Susan Kirshenbaum, Kathleen Hanrahan and Ray Mirza, Geren Lockhart, Sarah Watson. Thank you Cynthia Rowley, Joe Dolce, Tracey Jackson, Allison Gollust. Thank you Michael Craven and Warren Wibbelsman. Thank you Marty Singer and Lynda Goldman. Thank you Nan Talese. Thank you Roland Philipps, Job Lisman, Françoise Triffaux, Albert Bonnier, Sabine Schultz, Ziv Lewis. Thank you Bret Easton Ellis. Thank you Tony Scott and Michael Costigan.
Thank you Sonny Barger and Fritz Clap. Thank you Colin Farrell and Shea Whigham. Thank you Bruce Willis. Thank you Stephen Mitchell, Byron Katie, Heather Parry, Kevin Kendrick, Mark Hyatt, Malerie Marder, Danny Glasser, Josh Richman, Milo Ventimiglia, Merck Mercuriadis.
Thank you Elizabeth and Philippe Faraut. Thank you Suzy and Jean Pierre Faraut. Merci beaucoup aux personnes de Beaulieu Sur-Mer, France.
Thank you Pat McKibbin and Mary Schoenlein, Erica and Joe Hren, Dan Gualtieri. Thank you Nils Johnson-Shelton and Suzi Jones, Jan and Chuck Rolph, Sam Wright, Jay Dobyns, Sloane Crosley, Amy Todd-Middleton.
Thank you Davidson Goldin, Todd Rubenstein, James McKinnon, Rupert Hamond-Chambers, Dan Montgomery, Sue and John Von Brachel, Alicia Bona, Steven Spandorfer, Courtenay Morris and Jeffrey Gettleman. Thank you Elizabeth and Pete Sosnow, Jonathan Fader, David Vigliano, Holly and Jim Parmalee, Susie and Dave Gilbert, Nic Kelman, Marc Joseph and Donna Wingate, Timory and Keith King, Scott Schnay, Karen and Ted Casey, Amy and Nils Lofgren, Ashley and Parag Soni, Richard Wells.
Thank you Alan Green. Thank you Preacher my pal, Bella I miss you.
Thank you Joel Spencer and Joy Kasson and Jan Sayers and all the people at BJI. Thank you Dr. John Barrie, IParadigms and Ithenticate. Thank you Drivesavers for saving my ass and saving a large portion of this book.
Thank you to those who wrote me letters and emails thank you. Thank you to the booksellers thank you. Thank you to the readers, the readers, the readers, thank you.
About the Author
JAMES FREY is originally from Cleveland. He is the author of A Million Little Pieces and My Friend Leonard. He lives in New York.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Also by JAMES FREY
A Million Little Pieces
My Friend Leonard
Credits
Jacket photographs by Richard Prince
Jacket design by Archie Ferguson
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
BRIGHT SHINY MORNING. Copyright © 2008 by James Frey. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition © April 2008 ISBN 9780061795640
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321)
>
Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
55 Avenue Road, Suite 2900
Toronto, ON, M5R, 3L2, Canada
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited
P.O. Box 1
Auckland, New Zealand
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
77-85 Fulham Palace Road
London, W6 8JB, UK
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
10 East 53rd Street
New York, NY 10022
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com
