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think this is it. final draft. i like it.
Downpour
Damndest thing. One drop. Then another. And another until it
stippled the ground black, moistening Ellroy and I with rain. But the sky was
clear. Cloudless, thick with warmth. I needed a walk. We needed a walk. Sleeves
down, scraggly, unbuttoned, down past liberty port tattoos and a deep breathe.
Long and slow – just like Doc taught me. Three in a row. Heartbeat
tempers, lungs full of oxygen, rain be damned. We push out.
Twenty minutes earlier I was in an office. Small simple joint, laced
with pictures. Her pictures – my boss. Always smiling, staring straight at the
camera, pupils wide, unblinking. We were at a crossroads, I hated my job, she
hated me, and a transfer was in the works. A different location, different
superior, same old shit. I was angry. Not necessarily at my boss or the job,
but at the handwriting on the wall.
Fast and loose
was my mantra, and it had worked up until a year ago.
I’d given up the ghost, said adios to writing, to film, and hello to
retail. Albeit upper-level management, the world was still “sell.”
Unfortunately wordsmithing just wasn’t panning out. Gigs here and there, film
festivals, a few commissions, but never enough. So I branched out. Sold out.
Took passion to the pasture, suffocated the scribe. Before I knew it, I was
tending rabbits by the river. And I knew it was wrong. Knew if I kept it
up, someday I’d end up with a pistol pressed against my temple. Nonetheless,
I’d been locked into a straight job. Responsibilities abounded. Cheeks sore
from forced smiles. Fluorescent light. Polished linoleum. Covered and aligned
packages of a million different cereal boxes. Pampers; pushing product; playing
nice – it all overwhelmed me. Twisted my guts. Even the latrines, typically
delegated to respite, provided no solace. No, no. Cold aluminum horseshoe lids
stuck sticky against my khakis. The roar of bright bleached bulbs overhead
exposed every flaw, every imperfection – a quick glance in the mirror and it
was clogged pores and blemishes, ingrown hairs. Hands shaking, gripping the
sink, heartbeat kicked in overdrive, sweat pouring past my brow, pooling in my
eyes. I wanted to cry. Wanted to flush myself down the drain. Just get away,
far, far away. But I was stuck, tethered like a fetus, mainlining sustenance. I
did not know what to do.
Ellroy is a dog. An eight-pound dachshund dog. He’s three years old
and believes himself a boy. In fact, he is my boy. A furry little boy stuck in
a furry little dachshund body. We walk, he leads. Quarterbacks our expeditions,
if you will. Eight-pounds of pup escorting 195-pounds of former Marine.
Nevertheless, we walked the walk that day, peppered with rain, taking our time.
The air was rich, smelled like earth and fresh cut grass. Los Angeles smog
smothered en route – Mother Nature doing her best, washing what we She could.
Rounding a bend, Ellroy bolted, barreled into the underbrush of a nearby
canyon. Took off after him, but the little bugger was damn fast – he had caught
a scent.
I called out. Yelled. Ran. Skidded down an ice-plant slope, nearly
sheared by errant glass bottles and automobile detritus. FWOOMP! I hit
hard – the canyon’s lost world taking me by surprise.
It was green, so green. Trash – mostly booze, dead Christmas trees,
tires, and a shopping cart – all intertwined with viral-like weeds. A moment to
take it all in – the dull roar of traffic setting an unusual tone. And then I
heard it, a scream. A little boy confronted by something aghast. Parted weeds,
busted beer bottles under-toe, I found a bristling Ellroy, and his cackles
raised high. He continued to bark as I approached. A boy’s bark. Pushing
further, I saw what Ellroy was seeing. It was ugly.
En Route
Years ago. Darkness illuminated by orange and white – artillery shells
pounded a little town named Al Nasiriyah, Iraq. A Master Sgt – like Meriwether
Lewis, perched on the hood of a HMMV, declared war in the name of the US
Marines. It was the first time for me. Lost my virginity on the side of the
road. Awkward – very. Tense – yes. He had been inside a Toyota. New model.
Dead not too long. Slumped against the steering wheel in a rather unnatural
position. His face was peeled off to a certain extent and blood congealed
between his unshaven cheek. The gray blazer he wore to the end of the world was
shot full of holes. But no blood there. Flies. Two million flies assembled on
his back, on his face, on his hair. From what I could tell, he was middle-aged.
Perhaps a guy fleeing from the approaching American Invasion launched a few
days prior. He was late. And he paid stiffly, serving as a warning to all those
who passed his gruesome corpse. He must’ve given many a young man their first
glimpse of death in a war that would last many years. I imagine there are quite
a few veterans who sit up at night thinking about the man in the gray blazer.
His new Toyota. The steering wheel splattered with blood and spit. His stubble
poking through red, still growing. I do.
Brett T.
Ellroy nearly squirmed out my grip several times before I managed to
pop a safe squat in the undergrowth. Hand over his muzzle, sitting in my lap,
Ellroy and I looked down on a crumpled figure of a woman. An older woman. Clad
in denim and dirt, missing a shoe. A stocking foot jutted from under a dingy
pair of Wranglers.
Ellroy and I
sat silently. The pooch eventually tired of the escape and remorsefully sat
between my legs. There was static in the air. An electricity of silence – the
city above muted, encapsulated by an unsightly reality. This woman – someone’s
mother, sister, cousin – she lie in the weeds of suburban Los Angeles, dead and
steaming. Body stiff by the time we met, presumably dead for some time. Up
above, the traffic hummed, the metropolis chugged away. But these were the
facts:
A woman was
dead.
She had been
for days.
She wore
tattered clothes. Filthy, stinking clothes.
A grocery bag
nearby revealed a toothbrush, soap, and pills.
A Jehovah
Witness “bulletin,” well travelled, dog-eared and grubby, was rolled tight with
rubber bands. A bible, Gideon-type, same condition, lie nearby.
A name: Brett
T. It was scribbled inside the bible, Gideon-type. Several pages had been
ripped out. No particular order, just torn clean. Ellroy remained calm. His
nose tilted up, herky-jerky. Wet sniffer twitched, invisible calling cards
drifting past, his eyes opened wide. Then he became restless. Twisted.
Whined. It was obvious he had caught another scent. Ellroy patrolled the
surrounding area. Discarded what he deemed useless; he quickly disappeared into
waist-high weeds.
The smell stays with you. Human death is sweet, acrid, and for many, disturbing
to the core. Like burnt hair. Charred toenails. And there is nothing worse than
smelling the dead before bed. Bad seeds eager to germinate. So I left. Searched
out Ellroy and found him some ten-feet away, nose to the ground. Taco Bell
wrappers lead to a raised portion of canyon. Cattails obfuscated several sheets
of cardboard. There, Ellroy halted, looked at me and sat still. I inched up,
right close to the pressed paper. And there, tunneled into the limestone wall,
abutting the second largest city in the world stood the entrance to a cave. The
genetic code inseminated by Neanderthals so many generations ago, was suddenly
thrust in my lap. This was her home. A cave. Brett T., most probably homeless,
living on the fringe, had been living inside a cave along a main thoroughfare
in the City of Angels. We entered cautiously – Ellroy sensed my apprehension. I
called out. No answer. My iPhone powered up, it guided us inside. Dark, dank,
and smelled like sweet onions. A laundry basket up front held foodstuffs. A
pillow, damp, crusted with stains, hugged the wall. Bottles, aligned and empty,
mostly booze, mostly malt-type encircled the floor. Ellroy and I pushed
further, deep into this bizarre domicile, right up to the back wall. And that’s
where I found it. Leather-bound, cracked with age. A time capsule pulled from
1978. It was not easy reading the first few pages.
Blue Birds
The bodies were stripped of clothing, shoes, some sporting erections,
others blank-faced and mouths agape. This was my Second Act. No time to sit and
wax poetically. It was time to go. Hard-boiled was the tone. “Blitzkrieg,” was
the gambit. Up and around marshes, Bedouins side-eyed the massive trail of
American vehicles. Marsh Arabs waved. Little girls still pretty, sans burkas.
The boys helped old men – pushing carts full of booty. Artifacts. Microwaves.
Televisions. Circumnavigated several small villas, rolled into a nameless
hamlet of mud huts along the Tigris. Old, perhaps ancient. We halted in
place – food and drink before Baghdad. The Combat Operations Center went up.
The Marines dug in. The sun went down. The sky a fiery copper, and just
so damn pretty. 360 degrees of security set. 240 machine-guns; SAWs;
fragmentation grenades; new batteries for our night vision; Grunts fat and happy
– bellies full of dehydrated vanilla pound cake. The adjacent town had been
cleared – so they said. Only “friendlies,” but we wanted to make sure. The
usual suspects gathered: the Texan, Arab Translator, and several shit-bird
Lance Corporals. All trigger pullers. All anxious for our story. The bars, the
women, the friends wondering if it could’ve been them. So we left. Armed to the
teeth, over-killed on grenades, ammo and honed blades.
Contact Right! A BMP – Russian troop carrier, gutted. Still smoking. A
round detonated from the heat. Some pencils, pens, a button here and there,
shreds of clothing, food. Still smoking. What happened to the poor bastards
manning the Soviet hand-me-down? We found them a short time later. Pieces.
Teeth. Molars. A canine. Pieces. We pushed on. An abandoned bungalow
begged us to bust in. Large parlor, a mirror shattered, potatoes still in the
pan. Clothing was scattered, personal particulars askew. Something caught
me eye – tiny stones. Lined up along a windowsill, baking in the sun, stamped
with script. “Prayer stones,” said the Texan. I took one. Clay or
compressed sand. Maybe limestone. Hell if I know, but I’ve still got it. We
left, headed towards another bungalow. Empty spare an aviary, brimming with
parrots. Parakeets to be exact – blue and yellow and green. Chirping away like
there wasn’t a war on. Some rigid on the cage floor. Tried to take a few out.
Free them. But as soon as I grabbed one – crunch! The sonofabitch clamped down
on my hand like it was going out of style. So I left, leaving the door ajar.
Headed towards the river. Past a palm groove that obscured thousands of enemy
artillery rounds (future IEDs). Dates clung high up under massive fronds. Tree
tops seared by rocket fire. It’s a Mailer novel – “The Naked and the
Dead.” And then we saw them. Little old ladies. White fabric in hand, waving,
forced smiles. Ugly as sin. Teeth yellowed and missing. Breath – a pungent odor
of garlic and weeks of mutton. Such an ugly place Iraq, I remember thinking.
The Translator asked their business. “Salvaging personal things.” Where were
their men? “Gone, maybe dead.” They whispered to one another. More strained
smiles, heavy accent: “Fuck Saddam,” said one little old lady, leader of the
pack. Couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, fuck Saddam,” I said. The Marines cleared
the house as the Translator and I watched the old gals. “Siddown,” I said. They
sat. We fixed our M-16s in their general direction. “No more Saddam,” said the
ringleader. No more Saddam. How absurd. These little old ladies seated
on dirt, assault weapons pointed inches from their heads, on the order of a
23-year old punk – me. Looked down at them – homely, scared, just living life
on the Tigris. Something that’s been done for a millennia. KA-BOOM! Impacts.
Couldn’t tell if they were incoming or outgoing. The tone shifted. Anxiety
amplified. I was a kid again – the little old ladies saw it in my eyes.
WHOOMP! WHOOMP! WHOOMP! Huey’s piled past, sucking air, engaging targets.
Could only imagine what was going on in these little old ladies heads’. These
kids with their guns. These mind-rattling explosions. Our homes sacked by
infidels. It was a shit fest to
be sure. But they’d slice my throat given the chance. Given the knife. Given
the opportunity. And this is why I must point my semi-automatic rifle inches
from your gourd, ma’am. I’m sorry. Honest. It’s all just so goddamn ugly. But I
can’t apologize now. Nope. Maybe someday. When it’s settled and there’s a
Starbucks on every corner – someday. I can explain why I treated you like a
dirty dog. But not today. Today is war. And my burden is staying alive. Suddenly glass shattered. A door
was kicked in. Wood splintered. Pots and pans tumbled, rumbled. A sickening
feeling surged out my gut, up my esophagus, caused me to suck at my teeth.
“Hurry the fuck up numb-nuts,” I said. A beat or two. Maybe three, but us numb-nuts
eventually headed out. KA-BOOM! A direct hit. The Tigris exploded, sprayed
water high, falling in droplets. Mist suspended in air. I could taste it. It
coated my face. It made my heart race. Another impact pounded the earth. The
ground rolled like an earthquake. Something beyond a single man’s control and
it was scary. WHOOSH! “Oh shit,” I said. And the fear set in. Real fear. But
this wasn’t reality – we all knew this, we all said this. This was a movie, our
movie. Lets leave, go home. Negative – feces was really hitting fan by now,
Marines scrambled out bungalows, goats going ape, projectiles screamed
overhead. Fear ratcheted to panic. Mother!
Father! Band of Brothers! Tom Hanks! Get your ass over here and save me too!
Write my epilogue, sir, and say it rustic-like, with self assured confidence –
“20 years with the Postal Service, three kids, a good dog, a good boat, a good
woman, died in his sleep with a shit-eating grin at 85.” But I’m left in
the lurch. Abandoned. The little old ladies got hysteric. Chickens, sans heads.
They peppered our Translator with questions.
“Who was
firing?”
“What should
we do?”
“Where do we
go?”
“What the fuck
is all this?”
But we didn’t stick around. We had no answers. En route to our
position, I could hear the parakeets chirping away. They sounded excited. I
wanted to kill them.
Disjointed
She was crazy. Completely bat-shit crazy. Brett T. had been homeless
for seventeen years according to her journal – which Ellroy and I recently
discovered. She was 56-years old. A mother from Carlton, Oregon. She also liked
Nutella – several empty jars were scattered about her cave dwelling as proof.
I’d like to say Brett T. inspired me to follow my dreams. To take life by the
balls. Live every day as it were my last. Yet, surrounded by the stagnant
innards of a homeless woman’s existence, I longed for annihilation. A quick,
painless, stop-the-inevitable-downward-spiral death. And an In-N-Out cheeseburger.
War Drums
The sun filtered through white whippets of smoke. It was late in the
invasion – hope knee deep. A wooden fence post hung limp in my hand. An
undefined flavor drifted throughout the forward operating base. Bacon;
porterhouse; popcorn; gasoline and albacore. Troops instinctively avoided the
epicenter of odor. And rightly so, several 55-gallons drums full of human waste
roasted asunder. Excrement. Shit. Poo-poo. A Forward Operating Base’s
colon. And it was my job to dispose of said poo-poo via emollition. I can
remember the crackle. The stirring. The incessant buzzing of flies – some of
which would land on my face, my squinting eyelids, my ears. Thoughts abounded,
mostly of home. Mostly a portion of coast off L.A. They call it Japanese Cove.
Overlooking the Pacific, it is untouched by gentrification, somehow remaining
wild. It is a long, long stretch of land that goes for miles, bordered by steep
cliffs and rolling hills of grain. Cottontail rabbits, stalwarts of the South
Bay, dart past dogs, surfers and are generally left alone. Fighting formations
of Brown-billed pelicans cast shadows along the rolling hills. The sun
dips just so, creating a silver-white sea, undulating gently. Year ago, a
massive hunk of driftwood had wedged itself against the tide pools – coral and
sea creatures cementing themselves solid, locking the timber in place. You must
prostrate yourself along the smooth edge of the wood, drenched in warmth, eyes
closed, a deep, deep breath, and the heart will relax…completely. Some seals
may bark off yonder, but don’t worry they won’t attack. And if you lie still
long enough, the tide pools will come alive. Hermit crabs fight for land,
stealing one another’s homes, tumbling down deep crevasses. Anemones
encapsulated by warm salt-water bend with the sea. Orange starfish sprinkled purple;
hang like graffiti along the abutments. Rockfish. Tiny babes wandering a world
of hazard. Don’t think about that though. Just let the sun hit you and the
breeze cool you and lock eyes with a pretty little tide pool, and I’m telling
you, it could end right then and there. And you would be fine. Content.
Anyways, that’s what I was thinking about that day, many years ago, burning
shit. If I survive this, that’s all I
want. A place in the sun, near the sea.
Departure
Ellroy was the first to exit Brett T’s cave. Her journal was barely
readable.
Mostly rants.
Nothing salient. No details. We walked several yards from Brett T’s, corpse,
and took fresh air. It did not help. Not much, at least. I could still taste
Brett T. Shortly after calling the Fuzz; I tried to make sense of things. We
left the inner city, driving west. Salt was in the air.
Warmth
It hit the spot. A fine cheeseburger to be sure, yet I was distracted.
Brett T., the cave, the past few hours of my life – an “Afterschool Special,”
in need of an explanation. Ellroy was stumped. He hadn’t a clue. I explained to
him where I was – a pivotal point in my life. A tipping point of sorts – ditch
wordsmithing, embrace retail. Dreams were for kids and the lucky ones. And luck
rarely lasts. Only survives so many firefights and IEDs. I came out alive.
Every digit intact. Many aches. Few pains. But such was life. Spy the Greatest
Generation: storming Normandy, scaling sea walls, hand-to-hand with Gestapo,
green hells at Guadalcanal. But then what?
It Also Rises
I pulled up along the coast. We got out –
rucksack sitting high up along my back. Ambled the path, humped the hill.
Ellroy quick on the crabs, I found my piece of driftwood. It had changed,
eroded a bit, but still jutted out along the coast. The sun felt good against
my bare chest, skin browning, and sweat beading. I took out a pad of paper and
began writing. It had been awhile, but the rhythm returned. My hand cramped and
I rubbed it several times, tendons eventually loosening, prose eventually
flowing. This went on for quite some time. Before I knew it, a big yellow moon
had crept above the sea, casting just enough light for me to finish the second
act of story I had no idea would end.
