by Ken O'Steen
It was cloudy, so walking in the parking lot of the market didn’t give me the feeling of sun-swept blessedness it sometimes did. But crossing high ground that was free of shadows under a blustering, bruised sky had an exotic edge of the continent feel that was just as good. My buddy was stationed near the door, but he was sleeping on his feet, so I didn’t nod. I came back outside with a bottle of OJ. He was alert, and on duty when I reappeared and I paid him his salary. Since the parking lot was empty except for the one car, the one belonging to me, and the horizon appeared tranquil for the time being, I suggested we turn two of the cinder blocks standing against the building over and have a seat.
Neither of us had a lot to say. It seemed as though both of us were feeling fortunate to sit contentedly in the open air and meditate. He began to draw in the dirt with the mouth of an empty plastic bottle that previously had contained 40-weight. Eventually he had sketched a picture of what looked to be a dinosaur, or an armored personnel carrier, or a sprouting potato.
“A lot of hill people come in looking for blank cd’s,” he told me out of the blue. “I know that, you see, because sometimes I’m in the store when they ask about them.”
“Hmmm.”
“Billy doesn’t have them.”
“I don’t have a cd burner. I come in for water and juice, occasionally raisins.”
“I don’t have one of the burners either. I come for water. I take the plastic jugs of it with me down to the beach.”
“Do you sleep down there?”
“Only if it’s really hot. Otherwise, you see, it’s way too cold.”
“Chilly wind.”
“Real chilly. But on warm days I can take a dip, freshen up you see.”
“The Pacific comes in handy.”
“It sure does. I work my way in that direction. There’s another store about a mile from here, and I work part-time there, too. Perrino’s.”
“Not familiar. You work there?”
“Yeah, you know.”
“Oh yeah. Hill People cruise in there too?”
“More. Perrino’s has a great big section of herbs and supplemental sorts of things those guys like, you see. They have enough money so, say when they’re feeling down, or they’ve got the blues, or they’re pretty tired, they can afford the stuff that puts them back in the pink, you know.”
“It’s my impression that as a general group they are quite concerned about their wellness, as I believe they call it.”
“Their wellness?”
“Um hmmm.”
“Is that a word? Wellness?”
“It’s being used as one. I think that’s all that counts.”
“You never know what’s coming next.”
“Nope.”
“Down at Perrino’s, they also have a fantastic newsstand, this really super fine selection of magazines, you see. They give me a leftover LA Times almost every night I go there. They know I like Guitar Player. And an Utne Reader, they give me an Utne Reader.”
“You’ve got your ocean, your steady work, and your reading material.”
“And fresh air…for southern California, I mean. I get pretty much exercise on an average day.”
“I bet you do.”
“There are grills at the park, too. Everything’s convenient.”
“Yep.”
“How are you doin’?”
“Living on easy street. Staying with a friend.”
“Excellent.”
“He has a place right down on the beach.”
“Ooooooohhhhhhhh. Sweet,” he said, still adding Cranes, tire-jacks, or umbrellas to his pictorial in the dirt.
“Definitely. Very sweet.”
“What in the hell do you think the Chinese put in that Hot and Sour soup they make?”
“Goddamned if I know, but it sure does clear your sinuses.”
“It’s like medicine.”
“It is.”
“But what in the hell is in it? There’s tofu…uh, sprouts….”
“There’s some of that sesame oil in there I think. Beyond that, it’s a mystery.”
“Nobody knows.”
“Nobody knows, except the Chinese I guess.”
“Nobody knows…except the Chinese.”
About that time we went back for the most part to sitting quietly. By the time I left fifteen or twenty minutes later we had probably spoken no more than ten or fifteen sentences more between us.
That night, I closed all but one of the windows in the cottage after gusts blowing ashore sent a finished drawing of Lila’s, and some miscellaneous pieces of paper of my own kiting around the room with tornadic flourish. We were about to sleep. Lila put her book down, and shortly thereafter I turned the television off. I’d been reading also, though watching the Animal Channel with the sound turned down at the same time, just for kicks.
“Still on The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft?” I asked, referring to the book Lila was reading then. “I love that thing.”
“Nooooo.”
“Feels right to be reading it now, doesn’t it?”
“I can see the parallels.”
Before I turned the lights out I threw an extra blanket across the bed. I flipped the switch, and climbed in. Since all but one of the windows facing the ocean had been closed, the strong, nippy breeze coming through the window left open felt exactly right. Before long, the nights would be cold enough that we would not be able to have much air at all. And eventually we would need to use the floor heaters and mini-heaters we’d had since we were in the guesthouse on the Westside. But tonight, we were scrunched up comfortably, now addicted to the sound of wind whistling through the screens and the tumbling in of waves.
“So, in the Gissing biographies you read, Gissing really lived in that place, or was that only fantasy?”
“I don’t know if I’d call it fantasy, as much as fiction like his other books. I’m sure a lot of Ryecroft’s opinions and observations reflected Gissing’s. But I don’t think the circumstances of the book…the pastoral setting, the annuity, and all of that, reflected circumstances in Gissing’s actual life. It’s been a long time since I read the bios, though.”
“That makes it kind of sad, if that’s true.”
“Bittersweet, melancholy, yeah,” I said, joining Lila in advancing the covers to just below our chins. “There were a lot of those elements in his life, and in the books. But I like the stories he told. Doesn’t matter when they’re told, if a writer’s stories seem exactly right for me they seem exactly right, know what I mean? At least it’s that way with the best stuff.”
“Yeah. That’s the attraction. But then, we’re a lot alike.” Before I could say anything, she added, “God help me.”
I dug into her ribs with my fingers and tickled her till she screamed a little. When we were settled down, she said, “For me, Gissing’s among the best. He gets these really strikingly precise observations into the most unprepossessing, but still, somehow beautiful prose. His subject matter is really his own, almost entirely unheard of in this day and time. I especially admire the ones like that, who carve their own niche, and stay with it, to some extent. Sort of the antithesis of professional or careerist.”
“You messed up the covers,” I said.
“You did,” she said, as I was readjusting my pillow, and making a comfortable dent in it to rest my head.
Just as I was sighing with the relief of sinking into the mattress Lila said, “Would you do me a big, big favor?”
“Oh no.”
“It’s not so bad. Will you get me some water?”
“Fuck.”
“I know, I know. Pleeeeeze?”
I got up and pulled a bottle of water out of the refrigerator. I got back into bed, holding the bottle away from her at arm’s length. “Say please.”
“I already did.”
“Say it again.”
“PLEASE.”
I handed her the water. �
�Now drink your water and go to sleep”