by Weston Ochse
"Are you sure?"
Definitely.
Hemingway roared as he leaped to attack the man on the right. The rebar whipped round and round through the air then came down in an arc barely missing the target. The man lurched backwards, stumbling on the alley debris until his back struck the wall of a building. He brought his arms up to ward off a blow.
Hemingway roared again, this time banging the rebar against the trashcan lid like a demented berserker. The man bolted.
Gak!
Hemingway spun and discovered Homer on the floor of the alley, the remaining man's hands throttling his neck. Both men's eyes bulged— one from the effort to kill, the other from the effort to live. Tossing his weapons aside, Hemingway dove across the separating space, desperate to save his friend.
The big man caught the attacker in a body block, his weight carrying the man from Homer to the alley floor. They tumbled into a brace of trashcans. Hemingway scrambled to his knees before the other could recover. Larger and well-heeled in the fighting arts, it wasn't but a moment until Hemingway had the smaller desperate man in a headlock. The man thrashed for several seconds, grasping at Hemingway's iron grip. By the time he'd began to punch Hemingway, he was too weak to affect any reasonable power. His struggles swiftly grew weaker with each passing moment. Ten seconds later it was all over.
Hemingway tossed the unconscious man aside and crawled to where Homer lay gasping. He helped his friend to his feet then examined the bruising around the neck. Although the damage was slight, the muscles would ache for several days.
"You okay?" asked Hemingway.
My own fault. This is what happens when you follow the directions of a blind man.
Hemingway understood, but as always, there was nothing that could be done. Homer only saw the target in his mind's eye.
"Now what?" asked Hemingway.
Place the letter.
He reached into his back pocket and brought out an envelope that had been folded in half. He knelt before the unconscious man and slid the letter deep into a side pocket in the man's jacket. The letter identified the man by his name, date of birth, and place of birth. The oracles had dreamed of him the night before. Although they couldn't see that far into the future, they knew that he'd be of help to them sometime later on. The letter would come in handy when the man was hit by a taxi this afternoon. A record's search at the hospital would indicate that the wife he'd left five years ago had died, leaving his son without a family.
Half an hour later, after cleaning themselves in the back of a Tommy Burger fast food restaurant, Homer and Hemingway stood on a street corner.
"Hey Homer?" asked Hemingway watching the traffic rush by.
Homer's hand rested on the larger man's shoulder, as they both waited for the light to change. Yeah?
"What does it sound like right now?"
Why do you care?
"Because I miss all the sounds that other people hear," said Hemingway.
How can you miss something you've never had?
"I could leave you in the middle of the cross-walk, and let you answer that question."
Father Jim had long ago explained to Homer and Hemingway that their symbiotic relationship was proof that a higher power existed, for who but a divine spirit would provide the trajectory of friendship between a deaf boy and a blind boy. Father Jim always spoke of trajectories, as if the world were a physics equation, and the answers formulaic. Nothing was by chance. There was no thing as accident. Everything is an intersection of time, space and physical objects. Everything has a trajectory.
Now, middle-aged and closer than any married couple could ever be, Hemingway and Homer stood at the crossroads of Sunset and La Brea. One stared across the street at the red light waiting for the light to change. The other had never seen the color red. One led, and the other followed. One spoke, the other listened. Such was the life of Homer and Hemingway. Named by Father Jim at the Lost Angels Children's Home, the pair had arrived within days of each other back in the summer of 1962 and had been placed in the same rusty bunk. Homer, who slept on the lower bunk, was a born storyteller. Like his namesake, he'd been cursed with blindness; only his disability came from a bullet that had stuck him in the head when he was just a toddler, leaving him blind and unable to speak. Born deaf, Hemingway was by nature more reclusive. But if there was ever an opportunity to prove himself a man, it was the strapping young ten year old who dared anyone to challenge him, whether it be a race, or a fight, or a game of chance. He was the one who championed young Homer, protecting him from the other boys at the home. And because of his generosity, Homer spoke to him, his, the only sound the sandy-haired boy would ever hear.
But if you left me, then you'd have no one to talk to, said the rail-thin man wearing blackened John Lennon glasses. Homer wore an LA Dodgers T-shirt, jeans and canvas tennis shoes. His clothes were well-worn, but clean. The jeans even had creases from where a lady at the home pressed them.
"Such is the conundrum," said Hemingway, dressed in a similar style. His only difference was the Spearmint Rhino T-shirt over a broad muscular chest, an advertisement for a men's only social club with the outlines of a naked woman the centerpiece for his torso. A pie-shaped wedge of dirt spoiled the picture at the shoulder, a souvenir from his scuffle in the alley. "So what about it?"
A young black woman in a too-tight denim skirt and tube top standing next to them glanced over and gave him the stink eye. Hemingway leered hard enough to make her glance away, well aware that he and Homer appeared nothing more than two homeless men in search of a Mad Dog afternoon. Theirs was a disguise they'd cultivated. Low men such as themselves needed to blend in, or else they'd be too easily identified. Here in the Los Angeles landscape, nothing was more at home than two homeless men shambling from street to street.
When the light changed, Hemingway grabbed the hand that rested on his shoulder, and guided Homer across busy Sunset Blvd. People hurried past in both directions. Homer and Hemingway crabbed like rummies, cumbersome steps mostly in balance.
Obscene horns blaring from cars with impatient drivers. The buzz of a billion trillion volts of electricity ominous as it powers everything around you. Shouting from the laundry down the block, where two Hispanic women are arguing over a man. A jet passing overhead, the roar temporarily drowning out every other sound. The beep of the warning from the stop sign, telling us sightless fools to hurry up. A siren somewhere proving the savagery of man.
As Homer set the aural scene, Hemingway stilled his chaotic thoughts and concentrated on each description, attempting to translate the words into impulses to stimulate his brain into hearing. But just as Homer dreamed the black dreams of a blind man, so did he dream the soundless dreams of a deaf man, his imagination unable to make that leap across a chasm it couldn't find. All that he had was Homer's descriptions.
Sometimes he felt cheated. Sometimes not being able to hear left him feeling morose and bitter. But then he'd remember his friend Homer and the oracles of the home, and was thankful that he'd been spared their trajectory.
They had a busy day ahead of them and a lot of ground to cover. They had to reach Los Feliz Boulevard which was nearly twelve miles of city streets away. Neither Hemingway nor Homer looked forward to reaching their destination. But luckily Balas del Dios were rare occurrences. After all, most of the times that bullets were fired into the air during celebrations, the trajectories were benign. But then there were those rare times when the bullets seemed destined to find a target. The bullet lodged in Homer's skull was the direct result of a reveler firing a .38 Special in celebration of the outcome of some long forgotten wrestling match, the bullet arching towards God, then falling back to strike a nine year old Homer as he stood beside his mother as they waited at a bus stop. Six weeks into his coma, with the doctor's bills piling up, his mother had left him for dead. One week after that, he awoke and was taken in by Father Jim, who'd arrived just in time, as if he'd known the boy had nowhere to go.
Once they hit Silver
Lake Road, they headed north, only stopping around noon so each could eat an ear of roasted corn and share an iced lemonade at a catering truck with the garish logo of a dancing taco. Three blocks later, Homer made signs that they were approaching their target. They'd turned north onto Hillhurst and stood on Los Feliz Boulevard. The place was a mix of retro clothing stores, antique fronts, and yuppie attempts at chic modernization. All around people went about their own business.
"I don't see anyone," murmured Hemingway. "Can't you give me anymore information? Can't you be clearer?"
Homer wished he could. Sometimes the information was vague like it was today. He'd felt like a homing pigeon. He didn't know where he was going, until he actually faced that direction. And his only clue was the image of the statue of Hyperion, the Sun God, an unwanted harbinger from an age-old lecture.
There has to be something. Keep trying Hemingway.
Half a block further, Hemingway stopped.
What is it?
"Probably nothing," said Hemingway as he stared at the immense neon sign. In towering purple letters it said The Derby: Hollywood. He relayed his find to Homer.
I've heard of the place. An old 1940s dinner club.
"Just a sign," said Hemingway.
Nothing is as it seems. I feel him nearby, said Homer. Pay close attention and look past the obvious.
When they'd turned sixteen, Father Jim had taken them aside. There was no party. They had too many boys at the home for a party. But sixteen was a special time at the home, and one day late into summer, Father Jim took them to the Hyperion Water Treatment Plant in South Los Angeles. For a long time, all of the city's run-off went through Hyperion. Whether it was rain, drain or the results of ten thousand flushes, everything eventually ended up at Hyperion. Father Jim let them talk to the workers where they were told stories of money, and needles, and the trash of the city that kept sticking to the grates. Occasionally, they'd find babies, some miscarriages, so small that they didn't seem real. But by the averted glances as the workers described the process of removing the bodies, it was obvious that the babies were all too real. As a way of changing the subject, they recounted the tale of a flyblown horse, and how they had to hire a towing company to remove the body. But the tales of the flushed babies stayed with Hemingway and Homer.
"Everything eventually ends up at Hyperion. Someone, somewhere, shoves a body down the drain, and the body travels a lonely underground path, only to be plucked from a grate before it can return to the ocean where all life was first created."
They hadn't fully understood then, but the words had stayed with them.
"Their trajectory was determined by the person who threw them away. They had no chance, these babies. You two, on the other hand, have a chance. Not by accident, your tragic trajectories intersected with mine; especially yours, Homer. Yours was a divine trajectory. You were reinvented by a bullet fired from an indifferent man.
"Do you ever wonder why people fire their guns into the air? Why not at the ground or at a tree or into the water? Why into the air? Could it be that they're challenging God? Don't they realize that these bullets they fire towards the heavens, eventually lose power and fall back to the earth? More importantly, and here's the best question of them all—is God as indifferent as these men? These are all questions you will ask yourself over the years. These are all questions that must be answered. Let these be your driving force, powering you through life as God's chosen low men. But to fully understand, you need to pay attention and look past the obvious."
And then Hemingway saw him.
A boy and his mother walked beneath the sign and paused before a store window. The boy couldn’t have been more than five years old. With black hair, dirty brown skin and wide brown eyes, he seemed like any other underprivileged Mexican kid. He held his mother’s hand while she stared longingly at a red dress in the window of an upscale clothing store, out of place in the low-income streets of Rampart. The boy wore a yellow shirt, which had captured the residue of more than one meal. He wore blue shorts and black Nike flip-flops.
Do you see him?
“I hate this part.”
Do you see him or don’t you?
“All I see is a boy and his mother,” murmured Hemingway.
Yes. I feel it. That’s him. Homer squeezed his friend’s wrist. Remember. This is God’s will and we're his low men.
"I don't like it."
"We're saving the kid. We're designing a better future for him.
"I still don’t have to like it."
No you don’t. Then after a moment he added, but you still have to do it.
"Fine," moaned Hemingway. "How long do we have?"
Only a few more seconds.
Homer heard a cheer erupt from a nearby radio. A Mexican announcer screamed the word Goal, his excitement drawing the word out endlessly. A dozen voices joined in as they shouted their joy. Mexico had defeated Costa Rico in soccer. From far off, he heard a series of gunshots.
Hemingway had been so busy watching the men in the barbershop he'd almost missed the signal. The men had suddenly leapt to their feet and had begun to embrace each other in the oddest way, he couldn't have helped but stare.
Now! came Homer's command. Do it now!
Hemingway glanced once at his blind friend, then returned his attention to the boy. From his position twenty feet down the sidewalk, he could make out the disinterest in the boy's eyes. The way the kid shuffled his feet, it was clear he'd like to be anywhere but out with his mom window-shopping.
If he only knew.
Hemingway surged into motion, waving his arms wildly, attempting to gain the boy's attention.
Hurry.
The boy glanced in his direction, and then looked away. But his curiosity got the better of him. He looked again. This time, Hemingway shuffled several feet closer and was waving one hand in greeting, trying to show the boy how friendly he was. When the boy regarded him, Hemingway smiled hugely. He waggled his finger for the boy to come closer. The boy glanced up at his mother who was still entranced by what she saw in the window. The boy seemed to make a decision, then, and let go of his mother's hand. He smiled timidly.
Hurry. Faster.
Hemingway motioned for the boy to come closer with both of his hands. The child took one step. Two steps. Then he turned back to his mother.
God but you must hurry.
Hemingway felt desperate. Things were happening too slowly.
Then Homer heard the approaching car, the screech of its failing brakes, then the clamorous sound of it crashing through the parking meter as it leapt the curb.
When the boy saw the car, he fell back several more feet as he tried to get out of the vehicle's centrifugal trajectory. His mouth shot slack as the Caprice struck his mother square in the back, carrying her through the window and into the red dress on display. When the car finally stopped, only the rear bumper was visible. The red dress was lying upon the ground like a puddle of so much blood.
Not yet. A little more.
The boy turned towards Hemingway. Through tear-shocked eyes, he was trying to make sense of what had just happened.
Hemingway waved frantically, desperate for the boy to move two more steps closer. Then he grimaced as he held out his arms. The boy deserved better. He needed love at a time like this. Not what Hemingway promised him, but real love.
The boy staggered one step. Then two.
Perfect, sighed Homer.
Then the child lurched and fell as the descending bullet intersected with his brain.
Hemingway lowered his arms and let them dangle at his sides.
The boy lay in an expanding pool of blood. His feet twitched.
Hemingway grimaced and grasped Homer's outstretched hand. Both men backed away from the wounded child, then turned. Neither smiled at their success. Neither was proud of a job well done. Why should they? They were low men and had the worst job of all.
They hurried along, aware that they needed to make some distance from
the body in the event that they'd been seen. Even though the child would survive, Hemingway couldn't help but feel uneasy about his part in the divination. Now without a family, once Saint Mary's released the boy, Father Jim would take him in. The boy would join twenty-four of his fellow oracles already in training. Father Jim had dreamed of the boy, just as he'd dreamed of Homer. Only Father Jim could dream of an oracle.
Hemingway guided Homer somberly down Sunset, reminding himself that if it hadn't been for them, that the boy would have most surely died. Hemingway wished the thought made him feel better. He allowed himself a few more moments of self-pity, and then reminded himself that he'd have a lifetime to make it up to the boy. After all, within a few weeks the boy would be arriving at the home where Homer and the others would begin his training. In time, the boy would get over the loss of his mother. In time, he'd get over his blindness and learn to see in the special way. In time, he'd learn to speak the way Homer did. And if Hemingway was really lucky, the kid would divine the cruelty of necessity and never ask the question – Why didn't you save my mother, too?
The answer that the child would eventually learn would concern the geometry of God and the necessity of precise trajectories. And then, once he understood, he could become one of God's contemptible few. He'd become a low man too.
***
Story Notes: This is another one of my L.A. stories. The idea came to me when I was driving down Sunset one day and I saw two homeless men similar to Hemingway and Homer. One was clearly blind, and I thought it curiously endearing that they’d help each other. Also that week in the news a child was killed when a bullet shot into the air came down. Where I come from the idea of firing into the air would never occur to us, so this was a very different idea for me to grasp. And I took it from there.
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The Secret Lives of Heroes
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