The Low Desert

by Tod Goldberg

  “No,” Blake said. He didn’t spend a lot of time around young people, generally, so this was going to take some getting used to. Strangers didn’t usually talk to him. Blake didn’t usually talk to strangers. That was his whole thing.

  “Cool,” the kid said. “What’re you in for?”

  “In?”

  “Like, what do you want to do? I’m on that sports tip. I can talk for hours about any sport. Throw one at me. Anything. I got it down now where I can have a hot take for thirty seconds on any sport. My radio name is Down-to-Go. Try me.”

  “Jai alai,” Blake said.

  “The fuck is that?”

  “National sport of the Basques,” Blake said.

  Down-to-Go just stared at him. “The fuck is a Basque?”

  Before Blake could answer, Professor Rhodes got up to the podium. “Okay, everyone,” she said, “welcome back. I see some familiar faces. We’re going to have a fun semester, I promise. For the newbies, it’s cool if you call me Dusty, since I’ve seen too many of you on Friday nights at the Red Dawn acting like a fool, and you’ve seen me, too.”

  This got half the class to laugh. Blake had never been in the Red Dawn before, but he knew where it was: across from the Lusty Lady Strip Club on Perez Road, an industrial section of Cathedral City. Not that he’d been in there, either, but next door to the Lusty Lady was a storage facility owned by the Mexican Mafia. The kind of place where they tied a motherfucker up before they drove him out to the desert. Red Dawn, meanwhile, was the kind of bar where eighties cover bands played on Tuesday nights, or where local rock DJs might spin their favorite eighties dance hits for people born in the 2000s. Blake didn’t go out much. All the bombing he’d been around had left him with low-grade tinnitus.

  “I’m not spinning there this term, so you’re all safe,” Professor Rhodes continued. More laughter. “All right, I’m going to pass out the syllabus and then we’ll get started getting comfortable on some of the equipment, so everyone fire up your computers and load GarageBand. Down-to-Go, can you help any of the newbies with getting their mics set up? We’re going to get everyone talking day one. Just like if you were coming out of a coma.”

  FOR THE FIRST six weeks of classes, Blake Danger found it fairly easy to keep up. His English composition class was pretty fun—the professor had them writing poems and short essays about their childhood, which Blake liked doing, since it reminded him of things he’d forgotten, like his third and fifth stepfathers, who were the same guy—and Western Civ was fine, except that half his class had never heard of Mesopotamia before, whereas he’d spent a decade there, blowing shit up, rebuilding it, and then blowing it back up again. Math was math. But JOUR 121 was where Blake found himself making friends and learning new things. He’d started out hating the sound of his voice, but Professor Rhodes had forced that out of him by assigning a podcast project where he interviewed people who lived in his gated community. He’d gone door-to-door with his iPhone and a mic and asked each person the same five questions—Where were you born? What was your first job? Who was your first love? What is your first memory? What is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?—which he then edited into a tight package, with voice-over and sound effects.

  Funny things was, it wasn’t like he knew his neighbors beforehand. In fact, he’d practiced not knowing them, avoiding eye contact whenever possible, and now he had this assignment . . . and Blake was a man who took his assignments seriously, so he’d emailed the entire HOA asking for volunteers and was surprised that almost everyone wanted to talk. “There’s nothing people love more than opening up about themselves,” Professor Rhodes had told him early on in the process. “You won’t get them to shut up now.”

  It was true. Blake couldn’t go to the mailbox without getting drawn into a conversation about HOA politics.

  The grass should be greener.

  The pool should be warmer.

  The short-term renters should be shot.

  It was only a matter of time before Blake was put up for office, because he agreed with everyone, on everything.

  He’d emailed his assignment in the night before. So when Professor Rhodes walked up to Blake that morning in Beeps Café, the shitty coffee joint on campus, and asked if she could join him, he was both nervous and excited. Has she listened? Does she want to talk about it? Am I any good? She was dressed in what Blake had come to realize was her uniform—the same black getup she’d worn on the first day of class—including the sunglasses, which she kept on.

  “I need you to tell me something honestly,” she said to Blake.

  “Okay,” he said. She hated it. Dammit. He knew it. She’s going to ask me if I even graduated high school. I’ll have to tell her I took the GED.

  “I wouldn’t ask this if you were one of the kids, by the way,” she said. “And maybe I shouldn’t be asking you, regardless, because of FERPA or HIPAA or OSHA or, I dunno, Ke$ha.” She leaned toward Blake, like she was waiting for him to laugh, but Blake was feeling like that time he got interrogated by that warlord in Darfur. “Anyway. I’m not loaded up with friends in this place, so, here we are. You seem like a nice person. Are you a nice person?”

  “I try to be,” Blake said. “But I often fail.”

  “Right. That’s what we should all be doing, right? Trying to be nice people.” She cleared her throat. Then took off her sunglasses. “Can you tell that I have a black eye?”

  Professor Rhodes’s right eyeball looked like a stop sign, but the skin around it was the same color as the rest of her face, which Blake realized was a trick of makeup. Concealer, powder, enough foundation to hold the Taj Mahal.

  “No,” Blake said.

  “Really?”

  “No,” Blake said again. “It’s clear you have an eye injury. It’s not clear that the injury extends to the rest of your face. But looking closely, I see some swelling and slight discoloration. Someone sees you, they’re going to know that you hurt yourself, but they aren’t going to know how you hurt yourself. But if you start to sweat,” he drew a circle in the air around her eye, “there will be questions.”

  “I can’t be walking around this place looking like I got into a fight,” she said. “That’s how adjuncts lose their jobs.”

  “Did someone hurt you?”

  She put her sunglasses back on. “I’ve been taking self-defense classes,” she said. “This seventeen-year-old girl who works at the yogurt shop across the street? Sprinkles? She kicked me in the face like we were in a cage match. And then I sort of . . . lost it. And then she kicked me again.” Professor Rhodes shook her head. “I’m the only person who has ever taken a self-defense class and got beaten up in the class. Unreal, right?”

  “Self-defense isn’t about winning. It’s about surviving. You need to learn how to fight, not how to defend yourself.”

  “You ever see Play Misty for Me? The Clint Eastwood movie about the DJ?”

  “Is this one of those movies with the chimpanzee?”

  Professor Rhodes thought for a moment. “No,” she said. “Could be. I don’t think so. Anyway. It’s terrible. Clint’s a DJ and he has a fling with one of his fans, she starts calling him all the time, there’s another woman, blah blah blah, murder, murder, etc.”

  “I mostly watch documentaries.”

  “The point is, I’m in a situation with a stalker.”

  “This stalker,” Blake said. “Do you know him?”

  “Her,” she said. “She works here.”

  “At the college?”

  “Yes,” she said, “campus security. She walked me to my car one night, then a couple nights later she shows up at Red Dawn, not a huge surprise, right? Like, small town, people hang out wherever, but then two nights after that, I’m here on campus to watch a play—Noises Off, which was terrible—and she sits down next to me in the auditorium. Then she starts calling in and winning contests at my other job on KRIP. Duran Duran tickets one week, Robbie Knievel tickets another week, free pizzas, whatever, just so she has a re
ason to show up to the station.”

  “She asked you out?”

  “Yeah, that first night. Real casual. I didn’t think anything about it. Asked if I wanted to meet up for a bite sometime and I was like, Yeah, sure, sometime. It was late and I wanted to go home. Then she’s at Red Dawn and she’s like, How about tonight? And it’s loud, so I can’t quite figure out what’s happening, so I say, Sure, yes, later. I get off work, it’s three a.m., I’m dead, and she’s sitting on the hood of my car, waiting for me. Just a real creeper vibe, so I went back inside, had one of the bartenders walk me out, and I guess that pissed her off. So now I just see her everywhere, but she doesn’t actually speak to me. Which is creepy, yes?”

  “Have you talked to the university about this?”

  “Do you know what I get paid for teaching here? Fifty bucks an hour. That’s a hundred and fifty bucks a class. That’s it. I go to HR and complain about a campus security guard stalking me by, you know, following me around campus, you know what they’re going to say? She’s doing her job. And then fall semester will roll around and I’ll be out of a job for causing problems and then I’ll be replaced by that twerp from KDZT. Mike on the Mic in the Morning? You know him?”

  “No.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “So now I’m in self-defense classes and Buffy the Yogurt Slayer kicked my ass. I might burn down Sprinkles.”

  “Don’t do that,” Blake said.

  “Yeah, that would be obvious. Can you do that for me?”

  Blake considered this. “It will take me some time,” he said. “Tell me about this stalker. Does she have a name?”

  “Annie Levy. And she’s not a campus cop. She’s just, like, a woman on a bike with a flashlight.”

  “Okay,” Blake said. “That’s a problem I could solve for you.”

  “In addition to burning down Sprinkles?”

  “Yes.”

  Professor Rhodes cocked her head at Blake. “That would be inappropriate,” she said. “Since you’re my student.”

  “Situation like this,” Blake said, “rules of engagement are fungible.”

  “Say you took care of this problem. What would that entail, exactly?”

  “Well,” Blake said, “I could either kill this person, hobble them permanently, or encourage their behavior to change by suggesting that I might kill or hobble them.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said. “And what would this cost me?”

  “Cost you? Nothing.”

  “I’d want to pay,” she said, “for ethical reasons.”

  “If I killed this woman,” Blake said, “that would be more than you could afford. And I don’t typically kill women. Hobbling, we could negotiate a price. Payment plan if need be. A stern talking-to, I’d call that $500.”

  “Would you take that on a Starbucks gift card?”

  “Money is money,” Blake said. “I understand you’d probably be worried about a trace on it, so yes, a gift card would be fine.”

  Professor Rhodes sipped her coffee. Took a deep breath. Sat back in her seat. Let out a chuckle. “Can you imagine? If only it were all so easy,” she said. “Anyway. Thanks for listening, Blake Danger. It’s probably nothing. Just an annoyance to deal with.”

  “Do you really only get $150 per class?” Blake asked after a while.

  “Yep,” Professor Rhodes said. “I mean, it’s fine. It’s my side gig. I’m not working at Red Dawn this semester, because of this whole stalker shit. Plus, I got super tired of running into students there. Now that weed is legal, it’s less fun to get high in the bathroom and then watch your students attempt to get their mack on to old New Wave songs.”

  “If teaching pays so little,” Blake said, “why do it?”

  “It’s not about the money,” she said. “It’s a calling. I love to teach. Simple as that.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “There’s not something you love to do?”

  “No,” he said.

  “How is that possible? You just sit at home in the dark all day? There must be something.”

  Fact was, he did like sitting in the dark. If his tinnitus was bothering him, he’d sit in his living room, lights turned down, white noise machine droning in the background, Thor on his lap, reading on his Kindle. Blake thought for a bit. “Walking my dog,” he said. “I like watching him see the world.”

  “Well,” Professor Rhodes said, “then maybe you should start a dog-walking service. Imagine how much joy you would get from that.”

  “How does one imagine joy?” Blake said.

  “You see, not to be overly personal? But this is what I hate about people.” She took down the rest of her coffee. “I wouldn’t feel right existing only for myself. I have zero money. I have a job playing music for a living at a radio station whose signal is literally thirty-five square miles. But they let me play what I want, which is pretty cool, right? Because maybe you’ll hear a cool song and buy a record and some starving artist somewhere makes a buck. And then I teach a couple classes and maybe I get some kid who has no idea she has any talent and I’m the first person, ever, to tell her that she does. And then she maybe goes to a four-year college, gets a degree, wins a Pulitzer Prize. I don’t know. Whatever. Just gets a decent job that makes her happy. If I played a small role in that? I can imagine joy from that. Even if I only get $150 a class.”

  “I’ve offended you.”

  “No,” she said. “If you really feel that way, then you need to make some changes, Blake Danger. That’s my advice to you, as your teacher. It should be easy to imagine joy.”

  “My line of work,” Blake said, “it’s often about making other people feel good. But I don’t get a lot out of it.”

  “What is it you do, exactly? You told me once.”

  “I’m a goon,” he said.

  “Is that how you think of yourself?”

  “It’s what I am.”

  “We all feel that way sometimes,” she said. “I’m not trying to tell you how to live, Blake Danger, I’m just telling you how I live. Maybe you just need to figure out a way to give back, even if it’s not in the scope of your job.”

  This made sense to Blake. “Is that my assignment?”

  “It’s your mission,” she said. “I want graphs and tables and all that. Keep a list. Update it daily. Extra credit if it becomes a super-cool podcast.” Professor Rhodes pulled out her phone, checked the time. “Oh, shit, we’re going to be late. Can I tell you something?”

  “You can.”

  “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” she said, “but I listened to your homework in the car coming over here, and I think you could do this professionally.” She grabbed up her book bag. “Oh, shit,” she said again, but quietly this time. “Don’t raise a fuss, but my stalker is pretending to peruse the pastries.”

  “Where? On a watch face.”

  “Does it matter if it’s a.m. or p.m.?”

  “No,” Blake said.

  “Three o’clock.”

  Blake looked to his right. There was a woman in a security uniform with her back to Blake. She was about five foot six, long black hair tied into a sensible work ponytail, flashlight on her belt. If Blake had to make a threat assessment, he’d say she was more likely to poison Ms. Rhodes than shoot her. “Next couple days,” he said, “only drink bottled water. And never leave it unattended.”

  ANNIE LEVY LIVED in a second-floor apartment a mile from College of the Desert. The complex was behind a gate, which meant absolutely nothing to Blake or anyone else who wanted to do some bad shit. A gate made the people inside feel safe. It merely told criminals that they’d need to hop a fence if they wanted whatever they were after, so after Blake followed Annie home, he parked his car at the Whole Foods a block away and then slid over the block-wall fence.

  Blake was dressed as unintimidating as possible. Tan cargo shorts, a blue T-shirt, a white Nike sweat-wicking golf hat, a fanny pack, his encrypted iPhone set to record. That he had zip ties, a blackjack, and
a Sig in the fanny pack would be of some concern if a cop or a security guard searched him, but Blake didn’t see that happening.

  A cop or security guard might stop him. But no one was searching him.

  Blake made his way up the stairs to Annie’s place, nodded at a man walking down. He was in his early sixties and dressed in a ratty white tuxedo jacket, a bow tie loose around his shirt collar. So many people around Palm Springs wore cheap tuxedos for their jobs at restaurants that Blake thought it made the value of black tie worthless these days, except in places like Monte Carlo, where people followed certain fashion rules. Blake had tuxedos in storage around the world, because he was too big to get a rental, so he had one in Paris, one in Phnom Penh, one in Brisbane, one in São Paulo, one in New York, one in Chicago, one at home. Being a goon meant not worrying about whether or not you had a tux.

  “Pardon me,” Blake said to the man, who was now at the bottom of the stairs, Blake on the landing outside Annie’s door, “can I ask you something.”

  “You just did,” he said, like he was the first guy to ever say that.

  “Does your job give you joy?”

  “Do I look happy?”

  “Not really.”

  “And I’m already ten minutes late,” he said.

  “Would you be interested in six lightly used tuxedos? You’d need to get them tailored.”

  “Yeah,” the man said, “leave them and an envelope filled with cash at my door, Mr. Bond.”

  Easy enough.

  Blake waited for the man to drive off before knocking on Annie’s door.

  “Who is it?” she said. Blake could tell she was staring at him through the peephole. Different situation, he’d shove his Smith & Wesson tactical pen through the hole, come out with her eye.

  “You don’t know me,” he said.

  “Why are you at my door?”

  “I’m here to talk to you about stalking Professor Rhodes.”

  Silence.

  “You’re freaking her out,” Blake said. “You’ll be surprised to learn she doesn’t want to go out with you. In fact, it’s the opposite. She’s training for the moment when she can break your arm, or leg, or skull. Personally, I think breaking your pelvis would make more of a statement, but Professor Rhodes is a pacifist.”