CHAPTER XII. THE STRANGE TERRITORY

Your hero goes into a skid.

Anselm was a Boy Scout. He should have been prepared? The footloose seek adventure, strapping on their boots, while strollers of more sense rarely shed the slippers. Things did go from bad to worse, but I am really not to blame, in the final reckoning. Put yourself in my shoes. The mountain road sign reads, BEWARE FALLING ROCKS. But really, what can you do?!

 I stood in strange territory. A lost soul will grasp at any straw of direction, and the chipped lettering spelled some semblance, an exception to the recondite signage of Santa Ana South. I had never done this before. The novice pushed through an old glass door and further freight filled a laden hull of reservation. Some women are just down on their luck, posting an indictment. The weary embodiment sank into a worn armchair, barely registering my arrival. Business as usual. What should a new customer say, in the circumstances? I grunted a guilty greeting. She remarked, as I sat, that I looked just like her father. The minister passed away last year. Was such a shabby apparition really cut from a man of the cloth? And what would he think, if he knew? The preacher’s daughter brought our brief pleasantries to a close, pulled up a baggy sweater to spill an immodesty into plain sight. What was I doing? A mortal mistake, a man like me. She stifled a yawn, undressing in front of a stranger was routine. Was it too late?

We were not alone. A sallow individual with shaven head, monkish brown cape, and clasped hands occupied a dilapidated church pew, lost in meditation. Café Bolivia drew its sparse clientele from the district’s struggling artist population, the garments on extended hiatus from the Laundromat, the furniture discarded from an adjacent thrift shop. The catalogue continued, a large green fly on an unchecked excursion across the pastry case. Framed portraits lined the walls, the menace of gang members splashed in black against a pool of red. The artwork was for sale, the price confirming my exile from the real world. And the extortion extended to their exotic coffee blend, a buck and a quarter, and no refill. The most egregious assault rode a different modality. Unchecked baby screams had been provoking me to fantasies of tabloid mayhem, although other patrons showed no distress, indulging the disturbance with smiles of sympathy. The plumage might conflict. But all the birds were cool.

 My prose was plodding. And as the afternoon wore on, my inspiration faded further with the light. I had left the store in Ivan’s incapable hands. Possibly the world’s least assiduous salesman, The Terrible can nevertheless rise to the occasion if his opponent absolutely insists on a purchase. And he is honest. But business sales were out of mind, my other work the only occupant. That industry, too, was turning little profit.

I can still write. Although my first publication has resisted replication. I pitched the amorous adventures of a gangly young park ranger, strumming a guitar and working his way through the tents and cabins of a succession of nubile visitors. Private frolics were interrupted by marauding bears, swarming insects, sudden thunderstorms, and the rescue of canyon-fallen hikers. All jolly good fun. My agent had her finger on the pulse; Seasonal Employment rewarded her confidence.

Literature is my life. Low comedy pays the rent. That seasonal employee took his instrument and a young camper behind the bushes of a forest glade, where she removed her clothes to the sound of music and scent of insect repellent. But while she was nakedly distracted, a gang of marmots stole her every garment. Please, revenge on Rebecca was the farthest thing from my mind! The young women may not have been totally dissimilar, but is not imitation the sincerest form of flattery? I had completely moved on, trust me, and now added physical miles to our distance, my percentage underwriting my relocation. The book attracted further attention, to subsequent regret, the screenwriters tasked with so sexing up the action that the Village Voice titled its review “Ranger on the Rampage.” The long-delayed cinematic release was a flop, the ill-advised contract paid nothing, but the movie afforded a brief cachet, attendance at book signings spiking over the months that ensued. Against my better judgment, my wife persuaded me to break out the ranger uniform for the occasion from a forgotten trunk in the garage. And that titillating title made its mark in the language of our love: Swann and Odette had their cattleyas; Mae West challenged swains to come up and see her sometime; Marvin grooved her good. Christine signaled heat with her R-word, which happens to rhyme with danger.

 The bothered clock ticks slowly. My well of patience was running dry. I had no earplugs. You suspect another motive? A young acquaintance might work in the district, but you should pay the matter no mind. In any case, the owner was a great guy, and big men are territorial. A certain member of his staff might appear, penciled in for the late shift, but so what? The fish could lie easy, my vessel on no trawl. I was here to work, the laptop incontrovertible evidence. I am a writer. And if the venue I chanced upon for the struggle happened, without the remotest foresight, to be that café, well . . .

A writer has his needs. Little wonder that my prose was plodding—Please put a plug in it! The joyless bundle latched onto the distended nipple that hovered over my computer screen, its dam stroking wisps of fluffy hair with fingers that bore no ring. I met her eye—Sweetheart, you insist on waving your jugs in my face. The display brought no arousal, the piglet welcome to the teats. I ventured a disinterested smile and deleted another sentence as the exhibitionist suckled the fruit of her illicit liaison, while flicking through a community broadsheet. The bawling ceased only to uncover my displeasure at the music selection. I can stomach the Dead, in measured doses, but any place of hospitality boasting a sound system should really have more than one album at the disposal. What in the world ever happened to sweet Jane?

—Jane, ignore the impertinence. The world I have the misfortune to inhabit is drug addled, poorly educated, and ill-read, unworthy of your time.— 

 I had met a girl. We passed time on a beach. You know the story, but I told no one else. The notary had nothing to hide, was just preempting a tedious audit. Yes, we lay on the sand together. The memory would buffet a man of feeble construction, her voice lingering as the tide wiped away all trace. Anselm Thomas Merrywood is built of solid timber! We enjoyed some understanding, but I am aware of circumstance, the fellowship of weed showing no fine discrimination. Christine stoops to intimation, supposing a breezy butterfly longing to emerge from a caterpillar of caution. And who drunk her tea every day at four?! I take pride in my character, am content with my life, have enjoyed my manly success, if you really need to know. In any case, the volumes on my shelves offer all the company I desire. Some men have ideas, but trust me, this one labors under no illusion. If I chanced . . .

 The writer’s concentration confronted a novel challenge. Our population exploded, a clutch of high school kids descending on the barren nest like pigeons. The youngsters deposited skateboards by an adjacent table and peeled off backpacks plastered with peculiar patch and gaudy sticker. The birds returned from the cash register pecking at doughnuts and clawing soda cans, mistook my naturalist’s eye for an attempt at greeting. The minors registered a serious writer, accorded him due respect. At least they should have. Textbooks, notepads, and pencil cases now cluttered the furniture. Boy sat next to girl, but no evident pairings precipitated out of the mix, and books stayed shut as they hunkered over new-fangled devices of distraction. My manager, too, has caught the plague, picking some manner of berry, and the missionary is leading me to reconsider her position. A religious hush took over the fledgling flock, though ripples of mirth suggested other channels of communication. A budding Spanish rose, with rich curls and black eyes of trouble, somehow came to my notice, although a bothersome back distracted my attention. It often happens when I spend hours in heedless hunch! The gaming boys were either oblivious to their comely companion, or their junior operating systems had yet to load the program. They seemed like good kids.

 We lay on a beach. Many a memoirist will sift through the sands, a few see a bigger picture. A sleuth was replaying his tape, amplifying the signal, but please suffer no suspicion: A code just calls for a break. And the meaning proved opaque, the interpretation as little settled as the resolution of an optical illusion. Chicks click with older guys. I was no mere familial imposition. Don’t be getting ideas, my gangster. I must not abuse the credit.

 The suckling was sated into stupor. Mom bagged her sleeping charge and hoisted the pack onto her ample frame of likely food-stamp provenance. “Lovely talking to you, sir, hope to see you again. Have a blessed day.” Her essential goodness registering too late, I followed its disappearance around the corner.

The peace was soon broken. A brash warlord usurped her chair; his tailored gray suit, starched white shirt, and red power tie broke a compact, but he little noticed and had less reason to care. Compromising the all-business presentation, Johnny-come-lately jabbered like a vagrant, a black leech in his ear. He was apparently haranguing an assistant, our whole menagerie privy to minutia of relentless profiteering. The animals began to stir. Hipsters who had endured baby screams without a ripple now glared across the room; the Dalai Lama showed signs of reluctant life; even the slacker kids joined the opposition, the world intruding with the rare disturbance that could pry them from the gadget. An aging hippie, comic book in hand, assumed leadership—“Sir, if you don’t mind”—and motioned with a fan. Slick Rick returned a middle finger.

 A man meets a girl. He might give her an occasional thought. I also think about Eleanor Roosevelt, is there a law? I might find myself doodling the letters, but what’s in a name? You can get anything you want at Alice’s restaurant! I might drive by her house, but the street offers a convenient shortcut. She was a girl of  nineteen; I was a man of dignity and a call to her home too forward. Besides, what would I think to say? If Bill picked up, he would only make some absurd assumption. A chance meeting would more satisfactorily scratch the itch, although the prick was puny. But how many cafés lay within the perimeter of reckoning? What days did she work? A thorough search could exhaust the whole summer, not that I had the least inclination, of course. She had already moved on from a short-lived and insignificant employment. She had invented the job, in mischievous anticipation. At this very minute, our babe was bathing in Bali, boozing in Budapest, bonking in Barcelona.

 Bolivia fell to Pizarro. And a latter conquistador showed no mercy, the volume of the diction compounding the venality of the deal. My creative impediment was proving similarly stubborn. Why not stretch the legs? Have no fear, I was set on serious writing, not some silly surveillance. I was only thinking of my work! A more inviting locale might well unblock the flow.

 And the weather warranted a walk. Another station might just happen to be the one, affording some quiet amusement: The scribe would be sitting in a quiet corner, engrossed in his work. A server returns from a break, spots a familiar face, shuffles over to say hello. She hopes he doesn’t mind the interruption. The preoccupied writer will look up in surprise. Alice, how nice to see you, of course I don’t mind. I remember now, you said you worked in a café. What a coincidence.

 BERLIN was now hidden from view. I have never been, but the destination must offer some reward, virtue visible on the visage of its visitor. The souvenir wearer had patiently helped an elderly gentleman read the menu, chalked high up on the wall. Our public-spirited citizen was making good use of the wait, her nose in a book. A trim bottom nestled in snug jeans. Cast no aspersions, I noticed only because the line formed in single file ahead. But my back, how much longer would I have to stand?! I had followed the mass of dark hair, fading T-shirt, coiled wool scarf, and shouldered book bag over the crosswalk, but would have stopped in anyway, Fertile Crescent marking the last café on the strip.

A writer needs his observation. But a quick scan revealed no familiar face, not that I had the motive. Still, remarking the subdued music and well-tended plants, I decided to weigh anchor, Mesopotamian fertility more inviting than Bolivian blight. The price list on the wall extended less welcome, but a thorough emptying of my pockets proved the possibility, foreign travel rarely coming cheap. The pleasing booklover deciding on decaf indicated her preference for a mug of in-house consumption, though it was really all the same to me. Our barista, pert and chatty, her nametag an open invitation, had her thing, asking all comers a stock question, And what would you like?

“Chloe, do you really want to know?” I had a ready response, delivered with a roguish grin. If I could just ignore the vertebrae, the vexation returning with a vengeance! My moment arrived, and she looked straight through. A landfill of patchy facial hair, gratuitous tattoo, derailed baseball cap, and jeans of alarmingly low elevation festered to my rear. They knew each other. Interminable minutes passed as she grinned to his grunt, giggled to his cuss, glued to his insufferable mug. She would do unspeakable things for the oaf. I have noted the human need to understand, but on occasion the fog thickens to rank impenetrability.

Customers vented sighs. At least they should have. But the glacial service might redeem itself, make good an afternoon of futility. BERLIN and I were standing side by side. My motor idling, I eyed her paperback. And quietly rubbing the seat of distress, a daredevil engaged his overdrive of bravado.

“I hope you’ve got plenty more pages to read. This could take a while.”

“Whatever, they’re a cute couple.” Her educated enunciation allowed me to overlook the lapse of judgment.

“Decaf latte.” Chloe interrupted our burgeoning acquaintance. But I had made a connection.

I found the front. My espresso came to a drip, Chloe to no tip. Two nearby tables were vacant, and my new friend glanced back at me before her installation, I’m almost sure. Were I to wobble my wares to a more distant destination, I would spill half the purchase, so I could only follow her lead. But I had come to work, remember. We sat facing each other, though I was really little heedful. Unfortunately, I was more than conscious of a stab in the back. But what would you expect, when a writer works the whole afternoon on the hardest wood?

Had I looked up, I could have remarked natural good looks, a complexion of no cosmetic enhancement, long wild hair, and the insouciant apparel of the gainfully unemployed. An avid reader, she would respect my vocation, though my present page was blank.

I recalled another. They would have a similar youth. And they shared a further distinction: A man of straight lace, I still rhapsodize over Bohemia. I mention the coincidence as a mere aside, wasn’t fishing for free spirit, let alone expecting a catch. This was not the day. The family friend would have other opportunities—a cocktail party, backyard barbecue, graduation ceremony—though he would be wearing an uncle’s hat and facing a father’s suspicion. Which rancor had no reason. I was innocent of intention, as I have already made clear.

A writer faced the block. Words refused to emerge, like a load of constipation. Inspiration came to the rescue, a book cover of familiar tease, deliberately tilted towards my table? I had written no full sentence; a deliberate pause could serve a double purpose. Her coffee finished, her concentration wavering, the demure bibliophile would welcome an interruption. A chair was tucked into her table. Who does not like to talk books? She had chatted with another neighbor. Women enjoy my company. I was feeling it today, yeah baby!

Merrywood! . . . Watch me take a plunge . . . In the shallow end, again.

—Humbert, get over yourself. You found some fame, but you fascinate only like the mangled steel of freeway pileup. No rational reader man finds the words worthy of belief. However, when a girl is willing to be seen with you in public, she makes an announcement. What was I supposed to think?—

 “Young lady.” A dutiful priest stood at an altar. “We belong to a church, you’re reading the liturgy.” The duty was not free, purchased at the price of some perpendicular problem.

The worshipper kept her eyes on the page, awaiting benediction. Her finger traced a line, her lips mouthed a prayer.

“May I?” Braving my back, I took the empty pew. The scholar devotes his day to literature, but the scoundrel knows his women, trust me.

“Light of my life, fire of my loins.” A man of fine attunement can recite from memory. I might be a few years older, but a silver tongue enhances the silver hair. The audience was duly impressed, but greeted my esprit with coy silence. She wanted further demonstration? Easy enough, I could draw on a whole reservoir of proof. My gaze settled on the wall above her head, where leafy fronds gave their encouragement. “I stood listening to that musical vibration from my lofty slope, to those flashes of separate cries with a kind of demure murmur for background, and then I knew that the hopelessly poignant thing was not Lolita’s absence from my side, but the absence of her voice from that concord.” The learning astonished, my listener finding no meet response.

“I own a bookstore.” A leading light knows when to dim the dazzle. “The Last Refuge, you might have heard of us.” A man of substance had established his credentials. “Literature creates a bond, don’t you think?” An assiduous reader got the message. My rare find closed her book, the striking eyes giving me full attention.

“Asshole!”

God, no.

“What gives you the fucking right?” The rage packed a brutal punch. “Can’t a woman get any peace?” The ugly witch pushed back her straggling hair, her outburst turning heads across the room. A daylong skid of regret slammed into a solid wall of remorse. “Get the shit out my face.”