A Postmodern Love

by Nick Totem

  Thomas looked through the darkened window of the black truck but couldn’t see much, and very quickly he surveyed the street in both direction. The street was deserted and they were alone. A sudden gust of cold wind descended from the overcast sky and a few drops of moisture sprinkled down, sticking to Thomas’s glasses. He stared at the brutish face. Though the baseball cap cast a shadow over the man’s face, he could make out the man’s eyes returning the look and the minute twitches of his face. Then abruptly Thomas turned and walked back to his car.

  He swerved the car from the curb, the tires burning against the asphalt. He retraced his route. Heading away from the apartment and the working class neighborhood, going toward his house in Hermosa Beach, he drove almost unconsciously. But he passed the street leading to home, and he went further until the road ended. He realized where he was only when he saw the ocean. Far out the sky and water conjoined in a grayish murkiness, and short bursts of cold wind blew in the smell of the sea. Only when his feet were planted firmly in the sand and the waves were crashing in front of him did he turn back to the present predicament. On the sand, the crashes of the waves repeated monotonously. The grayish dough of the sky spanned in all directions.

  At length, he began to think through confusion and anger. He laid down what he knew about her: a young beautiful woman who was in need of money, jobless, and, beside some friends, she had no family. And, and, could it be? He forced himself to confront it. The encounter yesterday, when he had arched over her and looked down at her, when all the sweetness in the world had been channeled through him, had been an exchange. Was she the type of woman who could take money and lay down her body in return? What about all that talk of art, of philosophy, of the Bohemian life, of the supposed loan that she would repay? Were they no more than the sleight of hand of a con artist? Anger, sadness, regret, foolishness—all swirled around him, but through this blinding swirl he also saw love, that he had truly fallen in love. Suddenly he fell on his knees and started to punch the sand, grunting through clenched teeth, until his knuckles ached.

  A squadron of seagulls flew low, and seeing them, Thomas got up. With a strange detachment, he looked at the hole in the sand that his fist had just made. He began to walk. Above his head hovered dark emotions, but through them Thomas also kept seeing the warmth of love, and like something that was truly immortal, love glinted brighter and brighter.

  Slowly different scenarios occurred to him. Even if it was true that Lana was in need of money, that she had borrowed money from him and from the loan shark, it still did not make her a bad person, just someone in a precarious situation. Her elegance, the movement of her lips when speaking, and the haughty, aristocratic manners of her voice, now seized his mind. He had seen things like that before. One time when he was in high school and was cruising with Mike on Sunset Boulevard, he had seen a prostitute in a red mini-skirt walking along the pavement. Even now he could still see her beautiful face, the red lipstick, the sultry eyes, and wondered how such a beautiful woman could ever end up on the street. He recalled, too, the times during high school and college when he had watched porn and wondered how beautiful women could ever end up as such. What a waste, what a waste, he had conceived then, a young man full of naive righteousness. Damn the pornographers, damn the pimps of the world. Strangely, he was thinking and feeling the exact same thing now. But he had known these things more intimately than he cared to admit; Crystal came to mind, and he was forced to admit that he was not so innocent. And he couldn’t quite believe that someone like Lana could ever be a low-life whore. The rapture he had had when he had been around her also recurred to him, and so he considered her predicament further. If she had done bad things, maybe it was because she had to. So she was in a bad spot, and the money she owed the loan shark wouldn’t just go away. Perhaps he could talk her into going to the police, but what good would that do? No crime had been committed.

  Thomas could sometimes be aware of his own motives, and it was during such times that he willed himself to stop some foolish behaviors. Sometime, he became aware only in retrospect when he analyzed and understood. On this occasion, however, the motive was deep in his brain. From this obscure place, a desire rose, a desire for a beautiful woman, a desire to protect what should be his. The desire was magnified by his love and morphed by pity that a beautiful woman should be trapped in a most unfortunate circumstance.

  As though being carried away by the cold wind, he suddenly rushed toward his car. A singular resolve had coalesced from all his emotions and was buffeted by righteousness, a resolve to save her before it was too late. The car sped, and soon he was in front of his house. In the closet was a safe. Inside was an envelope; it containeds a stack of one hundred dollar bills about one inch thick. It was all the cash from his patients, saved up over the years, that he had not needed to use. He counted the bills. The amount was a little more than nine thousand dollars. He closed the safe and headed out, but he stopped at the front door and turned back. He opened the safe again and took out a plastic box with a handle. He unlatched the lid. It was a .40 caliber Beretta with an extra clip. He picked up the gun and felt a slight sleekness of gun oil. He popped the clip out; it was full. He drew back the slide to see a bullet already in the chamber. He must take it with him; after all, he did insinuate to the man with the baseball cap about a gun. Without thinking through his plans any further, without even imagining what would happen if he were to pull the gun on the man, he felt a strong compulsion to take it.

  The bank was just down the street. He had been banking there for years and they knew him well. It was past ten thirty, and only one other customer was in the bank. The teller greeted him courteously; he had seen her many times before. They had a few customary exchanges as the machine counted the money.

  Inside the car, Thomas put the money together, all twenty thousand dollars in one-hundred dollar bills. He was beginning to question whether he should go through with this. From the clutches of the loan sharks and the pimps and the pornographers, a young beautiful woman needed rescuing, a beautiful woman with whom he was in love. Half-aware that his state of mind was twisted by strong emotions and that his reason was compromised, he knew he needed a cool head to help him think through the right course of action. There was only one person who could help him with this, and that was Mike. But he already knew what Mike, the cool-headed doctor, would say: Forget the whole thing, cut your losses, and never try to contact Lana again. But he had experienced happiness already, and therefore the decision was already foregone.

  He drove to Lana’s apartment. Parked at a distance, he put the envelope in his jacket’s pocket. He tucked the gun under his belt where he could reach it easily. The Beretta had been with him in Iraq, but the last time he had gone to the shooting range was six months ago. Now he mentally ran through the motions, how to hold the gun, what to do if it were to jam. He could see himself taking out the gun, aiming at the man’s savage face, and squeezing the trigger. At last he was ready, and his whole body shook slightly, but his hands were steady as though they were dissociated from the rest of his body, perhaps because of his training as a surgeon. He got out of the car and walked toward the front gate. From afar, he could see the man with the baseball cap still leaning against the black truck. He could see that the man had turned to him and was watching him. At last Thomas stood in front of the man.

  With his arms folded across his chest, the man looked back at Thomas, but there was nothing alarmed in his eyes, as if the man had seen it all before, had been through such things before.

  Thomas, his face deadpan and his hand within reach of the gun, stood staring at the man. He watched the man’s hands because the hands do the killing. A cold wind brushed past his face, and his glasses were slightly fogged up with perspiration. The man’s face twitched.

  Thomas stared at the man for a long while. Then he slowly took the envelope out of his pocket, and, bringing it up to eye-level, he said, “Twenty grand. Here is the money. You leave her the fuck alone. If I see
you around here again, you’ll regret it. Those scars on your belly won’t be your last.” He threw the envelope at the man, who caught it.

  The man opened the envelope, looked at the money, and grinned.

  “Now get the fuck out of here.”

  “Girl don’t need protection.” The man walked around the car. “Jesus bless you.” Still grinning, the man got into the truck and drove away.

  8

  Thomas stared at the black truck until it was gone. Then he turned toward the apartment but knew she could not possibly be in there. He went back to his car. Only after he had put the gun back in the box did the stupidity of it strike him; was he really going to shoot that man in the face? He was capable of it, at least in a fit of passion; he would have reacted if the man had come at him. His mind had refused to acknowledge the consequences if he had shot the man. He would have to endure a lengthy trial and, being in California, probably go to prison, even if he had done it in self defense. “Hah,” he gasped. The shock of what could have happened paralyzed him as he sat in the car, eyeing the street and the opaque sky. At length, that the worst did not happen slowly brought him relief, but doubt also seeped into his mind, that he had been too rash. What did the man mean by “Girl don’t need protection”?

  He called Lana again, and the call went to straight to voicemail. He texted her, “Hi, please call me asap. I need to talk to you.”

  How long was he going to wait there? He didn’t know, but there was no where else to go. Suddenly, he got out of the car, ran through the gate and up to her door. He knocked loudly and truly expected that she would emerge at any moment. No answer. From an adjacent apartment, a curtain moved. He decided to leave.

  Where could she be?

  He drove aimlessly about. Noon passed, so he stopped by a Middle Eastern restaurant and went in, though he wasn’t hungry. He ate hurriedly, without tasting his food. Afterward, he took a walk on the beach, or rather he found himself wandering at the beach, remembering that he had been at the beach earlier that morning only when he saw the waves again. Events like driving, eating, walking, that were based in the physical world, flitted through; his body seemed only tangentially connected to it. Had he really saved her? Was she a good person? Had he been too rash in giving that man the money? He kept checking his phone, but there was no text from Lana.

  Toward the late afternoon, a cold wind came in from the ocean and a hollowness settled in his head. He wanted to seek the warmth and comfort of his bedroom. He could see himself snugly in bed and drifting into sleep, but, instead, he drove to her apartment again. Standing by the door without knocking, he put his ear to it. All quiet inside.

  As he descended the stairs, he saw a door with an old greenish coat of paint that was chipped along the edges and a sign with white letters attached to the door at eye level: Manager’s Office. He knocked. The curtain along the side window moved, and a pair of eyes inspected him. The door opened.

  “Can I help you?” a man said with a slight Spanish accent. He had a dark complexion and smooth hair combed over the side of his head. His face held a rigid smile.

  “Are you the manager?” Thomas asked.

  “Yes. What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to ask you about the apartment upstairs. Unit 202.” He looked past the man. The office was actually another apartment unit, stuffy with a plethora of furniture and knick-knacks.

  “I’m sorry,” the manager said, and his face became stern. “I can’t talk about the tenants. It’s a privacy policy.”

  “Look, I just need to get some information.”

  “You’re a cop?”

  “No, I’m actually a doctor.” Thomas took out his wallet and held out his driver’s license and his Medical Board Identification. “See. Thomas Wilde. I’m just trying to help this woman.”

  “She’s a patient?” The manager inspected the IDs closely.

  “Yes, but I can’t say much. It’s patient confidentiality. I’m trying to help her. She may be in trouble.”

  “All right, Doc.” The manager gave back his IDs. “What you wanna know?”

  “How long has she been living here?” Thomas said.

  “Let’s see. She moved in the first of last month.”

  “Did she sign a long lease?”

  “Nah, just month to month. We’re not the Four Seasons, know what I mean.”

  “Have you seen anyone coming by here for her? Hanging out with her?”

  “Don’t know, Doc. All sorts of people coming and going here. Saw her only once or twice. Pretty girl, you know.” The manager took a step back inside his apartment.

  Thomas, still holding his wallet, brought it up in front of him and yanked out a hundred dollar bill, and said, “Do you think I can see the inside of her apartment?”

  The manager snatched the bill and said, “No problem, Doc.” He went out and closed the door behind him. “C’mon.”

  Thomas followed him. That he was transgressing a boundary of decency struck him instantly, but he simply must do something, anything at all to know more, whatever that was.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name.”

  “José Rodriguez.”

  “Is it okay if we go inside the apartment when she’s not home?” Thomas asked. “I mean I don’t want you to get into trouble or anything like that.”

  “No trouble, Doc. I sometimes gotta go into these units when they’re not home. You know, just to fix stuff, check on things. As long as you don’t take anything. And most of them got nothing worth taking anyway. Know what I mean.”

  At the door, José knocked and called out loudly, “Anyone home?” and then turned to Thomas, “I know she’s gone, but just in case.”

  Thomas nodded and held his breath as José opened the door.

  “Well, what you wanna to see, Doc?” José said.

  “Hmm, hah hmm. Well, you know I . . . just want to check. You know . . . hah . . . to make sure she’s not incapacitated in here.” Then he found his lead, “To make sure she is not sick and bed-ridden without anyone caring for her. That sometimes happens with really sick patients with whom we can’t make contact.” He moved slowly into the bedroom. “You know, one time we had to call the sheriff to come to a patient’s home because we couldn’t make contact. It was a medical emergency.”

  “What kind of a doc are you anyway?” José said from the doorway.

  “A cancer doctor.” Out of the manager’s view, Thomas went inside the bedroom. The bed was still made. He went to the closet next to the bed and opened the door; it was empty.

  “So she got cancer?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Oh, patient confidential, right?”

  “Yeah.” Thomas entered the bathroom. There was nothing there, not even a toothbrush.

  “She’s not here,” José stated.

  “Apparently not.” He stood there thinking.

  “Anything else, doc?”

  “No.” Thomas went out the door.

  Outside, as Thomas was waiting for José to lock the door, he said, “Will you keep an eye out for her? And let me know when she comes back. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  José looked at him askance and grinned. “Sure, Doc. Anything to help you.”

  Thomas wrote his cellphone number on a business card and gave it to José. “Thank you, José.”

  “Welcome, Doc. Let you know right away anything up.”

  “Yeah, or anyone comes by. Thanks.”

  Later that night, Thomas drove by and looked up at the window where Lana had waved to him that first night. It was completely dark. He walked along the street to look for the truck and the man with the baseball cap, but there was no sign of him. After loitering half an hour he drove away.

  By the next morning, Thomas had given up checking his cellphone. He went to her apartment again. There was no answer at the door. He stopped by the manager’s office. José hadn’t seen anything either. That night, her window remained dark.

  The following
day, Thomas knocked on her door again. Again, there was no answer.

  She was gone.

  9

  “Girl don’t need protection.”

  These words swelled to great proportions with all sorts of nuanced meanings in the following days as Thomas mulled over what he had done. He tried to analyze the situation and himself, and in the end always found himself hard up against futility. By these words, did the man make a slip? Did the man mean to convey a message that Lana was a part of it? Did the man mean to tell him that the game was over, they had gotten his money, and he should now forget about her? That it was all a very expensive illusion? These words forced the unthinkable into reality, that it had been a scam and she’d played a twisted part in it.

  Thomas tried his best to return to his routine. He saw his usual load of patients in the morning and afternoon clinic. He went back to his schedule of surgeries. But in between the brief moments of concentrating on the patients and their symptoms, his mind whizzed away to her face, to her apartment, to the man in the baseball cap, so much so that he found himself asking patients to repeat themselves and often struggling to come up with treatment plans. After work or during lunch breaks, when he could sit very still by himself, rage flooded him. The intense love for Lana also came back, love that was once deepened by pity now became lost in anger. In his most feverish moments, with clenched fists he wished he had put a bullet in that brutish face, consequences be damned. It would have been worth it, and thinking so, a chill washed over him.

  Yet during the moments of calmness, when he walked along the beach at night and listened to the crash of the waves, he could think clearly and knew that it was not so much the money but that a chance of great love and true happiness had been lost. A deep, dull pain radiated outward from his stomach. Slowly though, the sordid reality was transformed from being unverifiable to being beyond doubt, that Lana was indeed part of the scam. Thomas accepted its verdict. Most inexplicably, however, there were times when he still entertained the idea that she had no part in it and that she was beyond reproach. “Let it be a lesson,” he told himself, a dear and belated lesson for a man his age.