Friday, May 13, 2005
Chapter 2
...continued from here. The story starts here.
On the opposite fringe of the little knot of spectators, Sarah watched as the young man rushed after the stretcher.
She tried not to show her interest. I'm just another busybody neighbor, she told herself. She thought Jake had spoken to him, singled him out as he was wheeled past. Why? Jake had called him by name. Alvin. Who was Alvin? She didn't know any Alvin, which was probably a good sign, considering all that had happened. Maybe he was someone she could trust. Maybe not.
The siren growled to life as the ambulance started to roll away, leaving a little clearing in the center of the scene. Alvin dropped the duffel and guitar case and moved toward it, but one of the policemen blocked the young man's way, and there was no getting around him. He was a burly foot soldier who didn't know exactly why he was there, and so figured the safe course of action was to obstruct all movement. Alvin struggled to break away, but the cop held on until it was too late.
Alvin half-ran a few steps down the street, knowing it was hopeless, and turned back to the policeman, shouting "Where are they taking him? God damnit, where are they taking my brother?" The cop had started to walk away, no longer interested, and Alvin took his elbow and spun the big man around. The two men squared off. Sarah knew there would be a scuffle, she knew how it would end, and she made her decision.
"Alvin, you finally made it!" she cried, almost running toward the angry tableau. "We've been waiting all day." She tried to put sweet familiarity in her voice. Both men glanced at her, not seeing her. She saw that Alvin was only a second away from punching the cop, and she saved him by wading in, throwing her arms around him and planting a kiss on his cheek. Alvin tried to pull away, but Sarah was as determined as the cop had been a moment earlier, and she held on tight.
"You know this guy?" The cop, starting to deflate, deciding the kid wasn't worth any trouble.
"Know him? Well, of course I know him! Come on, honey, they're all waiting to see you." Talking fast, saying anything to keep the kid from saying anything. Tugging him away. "You know my mother doesn't like to be kept waiting." The cop wanted to give somebody some shit about interfering with an officer in the line of duty, but the moment was passing fast and the line of duty seemed to be evaporating. He spoke the familiar crime-scene litany to Alvin, and to Sarah and the group of onlookers.
"OK, folks, move along. Nothing to see here. C'mon, let's get going. Party's over now."
Sarah was practically dragging Alvin now. "I have a car. We can follow Jake. Please come with me."
Alvin looked at her for the first time. He was confused, but she was not giving him much choice, and she seemed willing to help him get to his brother. He followed along, grabbing his stuff as she dragged him past it. Maybe this was how they did things in California. Maybe she'd slip out of her black sweater and her black capris, and she'd turn out to be one of those bikini babes. She'd look pretty good, too, he thought.
She caught his look and moved to sidetrack him. "They'll probably take him to Freeman. I know the way." They had arrived at a 10-year-old brown Plymouth. Sarah unlocked the trunk and turned to look at him. "Throw that stuff in here. We have to get moving. Who are you, anyway?"
Automatically, Alvin stowed his things in the trunk and slammed it shut as Sarah slid in behind the wheel. She started the motor and reached across to open the passenger door. "You coming?"
Alvin came around and got in the car as she pulled away. He yanked the door shut before it hit a trash can on the curb, and turned in the seat to have another look at this crazy broad. Jake's age, he guessed, which would make her a couple of years older than him. All in black, shiny black hair, some of it coming down her forehead, almost touching her eyes, the rest of it pulled back in a practical ponytail. ¶ 5/13/2005 12:44:00 AM 2 comments
On the opposite fringe of the little knot of spectators, Sarah watched as the young man rushed after the stretcher.
She tried not to show her interest. I'm just another busybody neighbor, she told herself. She thought Jake had spoken to him, singled him out as he was wheeled past. Why? Jake had called him by name. Alvin. Who was Alvin? She didn't know any Alvin, which was probably a good sign, considering all that had happened. Maybe he was someone she could trust. Maybe not.
The siren growled to life as the ambulance started to roll away, leaving a little clearing in the center of the scene. Alvin dropped the duffel and guitar case and moved toward it, but one of the policemen blocked the young man's way, and there was no getting around him. He was a burly foot soldier who didn't know exactly why he was there, and so figured the safe course of action was to obstruct all movement. Alvin struggled to break away, but the cop held on until it was too late.
Alvin half-ran a few steps down the street, knowing it was hopeless, and turned back to the policeman, shouting "Where are they taking him? God damnit, where are they taking my brother?" The cop had started to walk away, no longer interested, and Alvin took his elbow and spun the big man around. The two men squared off. Sarah knew there would be a scuffle, she knew how it would end, and she made her decision.
"Alvin, you finally made it!" she cried, almost running toward the angry tableau. "We've been waiting all day." She tried to put sweet familiarity in her voice. Both men glanced at her, not seeing her. She saw that Alvin was only a second away from punching the cop, and she saved him by wading in, throwing her arms around him and planting a kiss on his cheek. Alvin tried to pull away, but Sarah was as determined as the cop had been a moment earlier, and she held on tight.
"You know this guy?" The cop, starting to deflate, deciding the kid wasn't worth any trouble.
"Know him? Well, of course I know him! Come on, honey, they're all waiting to see you." Talking fast, saying anything to keep the kid from saying anything. Tugging him away. "You know my mother doesn't like to be kept waiting." The cop wanted to give somebody some shit about interfering with an officer in the line of duty, but the moment was passing fast and the line of duty seemed to be evaporating. He spoke the familiar crime-scene litany to Alvin, and to Sarah and the group of onlookers.
"OK, folks, move along. Nothing to see here. C'mon, let's get going. Party's over now."
Sarah was practically dragging Alvin now. "I have a car. We can follow Jake. Please come with me."
Alvin looked at her for the first time. He was confused, but she was not giving him much choice, and she seemed willing to help him get to his brother. He followed along, grabbing his stuff as she dragged him past it. Maybe this was how they did things in California. Maybe she'd slip out of her black sweater and her black capris, and she'd turn out to be one of those bikini babes. She'd look pretty good, too, he thought.
She caught his look and moved to sidetrack him. "They'll probably take him to Freeman. I know the way." They had arrived at a 10-year-old brown Plymouth. Sarah unlocked the trunk and turned to look at him. "Throw that stuff in here. We have to get moving. Who are you, anyway?"
Automatically, Alvin stowed his things in the trunk and slammed it shut as Sarah slid in behind the wheel. She started the motor and reached across to open the passenger door. "You coming?"
Alvin came around and got in the car as she pulled away. He yanked the door shut before it hit a trash can on the curb, and turned in the seat to have another look at this crazy broad. Jake's age, he guessed, which would make her a couple of years older than him. All in black, shiny black hair, some of it coming down her forehead, almost touching her eyes, the rest of it pulled back in a practical ponytail. ¶ 5/13/2005 12:44:00 AM 2 comments
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Chapter 1
...continued from here. The story starts here.
The third bus dropped him off in the city of Venice.
He'd been riding and changing buses for nearly three hours, inching his way across the endless city toward Jake's place at the beach. He was surprised to discover that he wasn't the only person in Los Angeles who didn't know where the hell he was. Even the people who lived here didn't know anything. He'd given the first driver Jake's address, and the guy had glanced at him for a split second, then turned back to his driving.
"Where is that?" Friendly, but stupid.
"I don't know. I was hoping you'd tell me." No sense pissing him off so soon. "Venice?"
That was the magic word. The bus rumbled twenty or thirty blocks while the guy hashed out a plan, talking to himself the whole time, working through the possibilities. Eventually he came up with an itinerary, involving a couple of transfers. It was barely comprehensible, but it worked.
By the time the kid got off at Pacific Avenue it was early afternoon and the sky had turned a bright, hazy gray, fading to brown at the horizon, when you could see it. It was hot, but there was no visible sun. There was a taste in the air that the kid had never known before, since he had never been less than a thousand miles from the sea, and now he was just two blocks from it. The bus lumbered away, and he stood there and looked after it.
A seagull wheeled far overhead. A siren howled in the distance. But for that there was no sound and no movement on the street. The Pacific Ocean lurked unseen just on the other side of some buildings to his left, and the lack of anything beyond it made him feel as if he were standing at the end of the world. The corner he was on featured two broken down apartment buildings, an empty lot and a corner grocery. He went into the little shop to buy cigarettes and a Coke and to ask about the address he was looking for. The guy at the counter was 40, completely bald and muscled like Marciano. His chest rippled under his shirt when he pushed the change across the counter. He shrugged at the address. "It's down Pacific." The kid borrowed an opener for the Coke, drained most of the bottle, then set out to find Jake.
It was a neighborhood of flaky stucco apartments, four and eight to a building, jammed side by side and all of them touching the sidewalk. The street curved gently to the right and disappeared a few blocks ahead. Parked cars lined both sides. As he rounded the curve, things started to happen.
An ambulance overtook him from behind and raced past. Two boys on bicycles followed, and behind that a police black-and-white went by, too fast for the narrow, curving street. Rounding the curve himself, he saw the official vehicles parked all over the street. Ambulance, couple of squad cars, paramedics, fire truck. Uniforms all over the place. As always, the cops had drawn a small crowd, and now they were engaged in crowd control. They were standing in various heroic poses around the scene, refusing to speak to the curious neighbors. The kid had been looking at addresses, and now he saw that he must be very near his destination.
The cops seemed to be guarding one of the apartment buildings, and they seemed to be too late. The windows on the ground floor were smashed, glass and pieces of the frames blown outward and strewn on the sidewalk. The front door was hanging by one hinge. The kid couldn't see the address on the building, and then he had gone as far as he could without knocking down one of the cops.
Through the broken doorway came the ambulance attendants rolling a stretcher, it's occupant under a sheet and showing only a bloody face. As they rushed past the dangling door it twisted off it's remaining hinge and fell face up on the sidewalk, revealing the four tin numbers tacked there. It was Jake's address. As the stretcher went by, the bloody face looked up at the kid.
"Hey Alvin," it said. "When did you hit town?" Then Jake was gone, stuffed into the waiting ambulance. ¶ 5/12/2005 01:53:00 PM 0 comments
The third bus dropped him off in the city of Venice.
He'd been riding and changing buses for nearly three hours, inching his way across the endless city toward Jake's place at the beach. He was surprised to discover that he wasn't the only person in Los Angeles who didn't know where the hell he was. Even the people who lived here didn't know anything. He'd given the first driver Jake's address, and the guy had glanced at him for a split second, then turned back to his driving.
"Where is that?" Friendly, but stupid.
"I don't know. I was hoping you'd tell me." No sense pissing him off so soon. "Venice?"
That was the magic word. The bus rumbled twenty or thirty blocks while the guy hashed out a plan, talking to himself the whole time, working through the possibilities. Eventually he came up with an itinerary, involving a couple of transfers. It was barely comprehensible, but it worked.
By the time the kid got off at Pacific Avenue it was early afternoon and the sky had turned a bright, hazy gray, fading to brown at the horizon, when you could see it. It was hot, but there was no visible sun. There was a taste in the air that the kid had never known before, since he had never been less than a thousand miles from the sea, and now he was just two blocks from it. The bus lumbered away, and he stood there and looked after it.
A seagull wheeled far overhead. A siren howled in the distance. But for that there was no sound and no movement on the street. The Pacific Ocean lurked unseen just on the other side of some buildings to his left, and the lack of anything beyond it made him feel as if he were standing at the end of the world. The corner he was on featured two broken down apartment buildings, an empty lot and a corner grocery. He went into the little shop to buy cigarettes and a Coke and to ask about the address he was looking for. The guy at the counter was 40, completely bald and muscled like Marciano. His chest rippled under his shirt when he pushed the change across the counter. He shrugged at the address. "It's down Pacific." The kid borrowed an opener for the Coke, drained most of the bottle, then set out to find Jake.
It was a neighborhood of flaky stucco apartments, four and eight to a building, jammed side by side and all of them touching the sidewalk. The street curved gently to the right and disappeared a few blocks ahead. Parked cars lined both sides. As he rounded the curve, things started to happen.
An ambulance overtook him from behind and raced past. Two boys on bicycles followed, and behind that a police black-and-white went by, too fast for the narrow, curving street. Rounding the curve himself, he saw the official vehicles parked all over the street. Ambulance, couple of squad cars, paramedics, fire truck. Uniforms all over the place. As always, the cops had drawn a small crowd, and now they were engaged in crowd control. They were standing in various heroic poses around the scene, refusing to speak to the curious neighbors. The kid had been looking at addresses, and now he saw that he must be very near his destination.
The cops seemed to be guarding one of the apartment buildings, and they seemed to be too late. The windows on the ground floor were smashed, glass and pieces of the frames blown outward and strewn on the sidewalk. The front door was hanging by one hinge. The kid couldn't see the address on the building, and then he had gone as far as he could without knocking down one of the cops.
Through the broken doorway came the ambulance attendants rolling a stretcher, it's occupant under a sheet and showing only a bloody face. As they rushed past the dangling door it twisted off it's remaining hinge and fell face up on the sidewalk, revealing the four tin numbers tacked there. It was Jake's address. As the stretcher went by, the bloody face looked up at the kid.
"Hey Alvin," it said. "When did you hit town?" Then Jake was gone, stuffed into the waiting ambulance. ¶ 5/12/2005 01:53:00 PM 0 comments
Prologue
The kid hit town on the Super Chief from Kansas City, mid-morning in L.A.
Union Station, maybe he'd get back there some day, look around. Some kind of museum, nothing like it back home. He'd never ride the train again, though. Fucking snooty porters. A buck for a pillow. He'd rolled up his heavy coat and slept on that. Never wear that fucking thing again, either. Not in the promised land.
First day of summer in Los Angeles, and you could hardly see the end of the block, fucking air was so thick. It burned, too. Old timers would tell him You shoulda been here in fifty-seven, fifty-eight. Air was so bad it'd chip your teeth. Fuck them. This was bad enough. He could barely open his eyes. It felt like he was in a burning house. He walked out the front, past the cab stand, dropped his duffel bag and guitar case and hung the coat on a parking meter. Dug through the pockets for the phone number he had written down, found it, and went looking for a pay phone, leaving the coat behind. Who needed it here? He'd get something nice in L.A., something with some eyeball, who needs the farmer suit?
First things first, though. Call Jake. Jake had been out here for a year, knew the ropes, said he had a gig for the kid, make some real money for a change. Hah. Money for a change. Tired of working for change, those dives in K.C. Fucking drunks didn't know their butts from page eight, comes to good music. Night after night in those dives, he couldn't play bad enough to bother anybody. He tried, too, at first a wrong note in an old standard, then whole wrong chords. Nobody noticed, fucking drunks puttin' their cheap hustles on each other, telling him tone it down, man, people are tryin' ta talk.
Fuck you, he thought. People are tryin' to play music. No more of that shit out here. They had good clubs here on the coast, famous places, clean places, where people came to listen. Places like Shelley's, and The Lighthouse, and up north The Hungry i. He was already thinking the coast, trying it on, rolling it around in his mind. I'm on the coast.
He found a phone booth, went in and dialed, his eyes burning and watering. Five rings, six. He fished a Lucky out of his shirt pocket, lit it with the old Zippo. Eight rings. He hadn't told Jake he was coming, and now he started to regret it. He thought he'd surprise his big brother. Hey, man, I'm here! Maybe it wasn't such a hot idea. Ten rings. He hung up the phone. He was sweating now, and the muggy brown air felt good when he opened the door of the booth.
Jake lived in Venice. The kid still had the postcard, a couple of broads in skimpy bikinis, Greetings From Venice Beach, California! Fucking Venice, like that place in Italy. Nothing was real out here. Those broads looked real, though. The address on Pacific Avenue. It's not much, Jake had said, but I'm never home anyway. Never home. Probably should have picked up on that, he thought now. He dropped the cigarette on the curb, put the sun at his back, and started walking.
In no time he was lost. The streets wouldn't let him keep the sun at his back, and soon the sun was straight overhead anyway. Good thing he'd dumped the coat. He rubbed his eyes for the hundredth time with his sweaty hands, and cursed the heat and the filthy air. A city bus lurched toward him, spewing black smoke. He had fifty bucks or so left in his pocket, lucky those porters had let him keep that much, a half pack of Lucky Strikes, his eyes and his feet burned and he had no idea where the hell he was. The bus door opened and the driver looked out at him, bored. The kid looked up and down the street, but there was no one coming to his rescue. He stepped aboard, heading for the promised land.
Continued here. ¶ 5/12/2005 01:51:00 PM 0 comments
The kid hit town on the Super Chief from Kansas City, mid-morning in L.A.
Union Station, maybe he'd get back there some day, look around. Some kind of museum, nothing like it back home. He'd never ride the train again, though. Fucking snooty porters. A buck for a pillow. He'd rolled up his heavy coat and slept on that. Never wear that fucking thing again, either. Not in the promised land.
First day of summer in Los Angeles, and you could hardly see the end of the block, fucking air was so thick. It burned, too. Old timers would tell him You shoulda been here in fifty-seven, fifty-eight. Air was so bad it'd chip your teeth. Fuck them. This was bad enough. He could barely open his eyes. It felt like he was in a burning house. He walked out the front, past the cab stand, dropped his duffel bag and guitar case and hung the coat on a parking meter. Dug through the pockets for the phone number he had written down, found it, and went looking for a pay phone, leaving the coat behind. Who needed it here? He'd get something nice in L.A., something with some eyeball, who needs the farmer suit?
First things first, though. Call Jake. Jake had been out here for a year, knew the ropes, said he had a gig for the kid, make some real money for a change. Hah. Money for a change. Tired of working for change, those dives in K.C. Fucking drunks didn't know their butts from page eight, comes to good music. Night after night in those dives, he couldn't play bad enough to bother anybody. He tried, too, at first a wrong note in an old standard, then whole wrong chords. Nobody noticed, fucking drunks puttin' their cheap hustles on each other, telling him tone it down, man, people are tryin' ta talk.
Fuck you, he thought. People are tryin' to play music. No more of that shit out here. They had good clubs here on the coast, famous places, clean places, where people came to listen. Places like Shelley's, and The Lighthouse, and up north The Hungry i. He was already thinking the coast, trying it on, rolling it around in his mind. I'm on the coast.
He found a phone booth, went in and dialed, his eyes burning and watering. Five rings, six. He fished a Lucky out of his shirt pocket, lit it with the old Zippo. Eight rings. He hadn't told Jake he was coming, and now he started to regret it. He thought he'd surprise his big brother. Hey, man, I'm here! Maybe it wasn't such a hot idea. Ten rings. He hung up the phone. He was sweating now, and the muggy brown air felt good when he opened the door of the booth.
Jake lived in Venice. The kid still had the postcard, a couple of broads in skimpy bikinis, Greetings From Venice Beach, California! Fucking Venice, like that place in Italy. Nothing was real out here. Those broads looked real, though. The address on Pacific Avenue. It's not much, Jake had said, but I'm never home anyway. Never home. Probably should have picked up on that, he thought now. He dropped the cigarette on the curb, put the sun at his back, and started walking.
In no time he was lost. The streets wouldn't let him keep the sun at his back, and soon the sun was straight overhead anyway. Good thing he'd dumped the coat. He rubbed his eyes for the hundredth time with his sweaty hands, and cursed the heat and the filthy air. A city bus lurched toward him, spewing black smoke. He had fifty bucks or so left in his pocket, lucky those porters had let him keep that much, a half pack of Lucky Strikes, his eyes and his feet burned and he had no idea where the hell he was. The bus door opened and the driver looked out at him, bored. The kid looked up and down the street, but there was no one coming to his rescue. He stepped aboard, heading for the promised land.
Continued here. ¶ 5/12/2005 01:51:00 PM 0 comments
