In the corner of the patio she was drawn to an exotic, Nordic-looking woman doing a tarot reading for a customer. Joy looked on in consideration. She wondered if she should have her cards read too. She recalled having had her palm read a few years back. That was fun, though she had to admit to herself that she couldn’t remember anything profound having been said.
Joy checked her cell phone for messages, shook her head in irritation, and began to type a text message. She changed her mind after a few taps, canceled, and set her phone back down.
Bored, she reached for a Los Angeles Times left behind at a nearby table. Her eyes were immediately drawn to a large headline: Masked Bank Robber Strikes Again. She glanced at the article but did not find the story of a ski mask-wearing thief and his series of robberies particularly interesting. She continued to flip through the paper and pulled out a section that did pique her interest. She folded the paper and began to read a piece entitled: The Greatest Hobby of All.
Joy’s brow lifted in surprise, drooped in consternation, and then she frowned in disappointment as she read that this would be the Hobby Guy’s final column. She read Hobby Guy’s departing words: “…that a life well-lived might be the greatest hobby of all.” Joy looked up contemplatively, the words having struck a chord with her.
Just then she saw a handsome, grinning man enter the patio. Brock Parker, thirty-four, was Joy’s fiancé. He waved and headed towards her. On his way he made eye contact and smiled at a table of three attractive women. Joy’s expression turned from pensive to irked. Brock strolled over to Joy, kissed her on the cheek, and pulled a chair out across from her and sat down.
“Sorry I’m late,” Brock said. He nodded at the paper Joy was holding. “What’s the news?” He reached over and pushed down the paper to get a glimpse at what Joy was reading. He groaned. “Him again? So, what’s sissy-boy writing about this week, needlepoint?”
Unamused, Joy replied, “His farewell column. And he’s not a sissy.”
“No? Then how come he never writes about cool outdoor things? Hiking, camping, hunting, stuff like that?”
“Most hobbies are things you can do around the home, Brock.”
“Boring,” he sang.
“You’re boring,” Joy retaliated.
Brock smiled. “It’s because I was late, right? I said I was sorry. Come on, Joy, you know I’m working a big case. The bastard struck again yesterday and got away with ten grand.”
“I’m sorry,” Joy said. “Any leads?”
“None. The guy is either really good or really lucky. After each robbery, he seemed to vanish from the scene without a trace. But he’ll make a mistake. They always do.”
“Maybe you should ask her,” Joy suggested, indicating the tarot card reader with a toss of her head.
Brock glanced over at the enchanting woman. “I’m not that desperate,” he snorted. “See that guy she’s talking to? He just likes having the attention of a hot-looking babe. Cheaper than a back-alley—”
“Don’t be gross,” Joy interrupted.
“People are gross. I see it every day.”
“Not all people. Not most people.”
“More than you think, trust me.”
“Anyway, you never know. She’s supposed to be very good at what she does. Maybe she can tell you something that gets you thinking outside the box.”
“First you call me boring and now you call me a blockhead?”
“I’m just saying that you’ve been after this bank robber for months and that maybe you could use some fresh perspective.”
“No, Joy. What I need is a decent lead, not some misty-eyed fortune-teller spouting a bunch of mumbo-jumbo she thinks I want to hear. If I ever need a little perspective or inspiration, I got my collection of Marlowe, Spade, and Sherlock Holmes for that. Those characters are a whole lot less fictitious than anything a tarot-reading gypsy flimflammer could tell me. I wouldn’t be caught dead talking to one of those scam artists.”
“I don’t know,” Joy said. “I think there’s something to what they say. And like I said, I heard that this woman in particular is especially gifted.”
“Come on, Joy, don’t tell me you’re taken in by these frauds. People hear what they want to hear, see what they want to see.”
“So why can’t it work both ways?”
“Huh?”
“Maybe you only hear and see what you want.”
“Not the same thing, sorry. Witnesses, fingerprints, videotape, a piece of thread even; these are tangible facts with meaning.”
“Hunches have meaning,” Joy said. “Intuition, dreams, and coincidences have meaning.”
“Subjective and unverifiable.”
“The absence of proof is not proof of absence,” Joy declared.
“It is if you’re a cop.”
“I’m just saying that there are a lot of things we don’t understand in this world—more than we do understand—and that we should keep an open mind. You left-brained know-it-alls can be just as fatuous as those you love to ridicule.”
“Whoa, so sorry. I keep forgetting that you were weaned by hippies and spent your youth in a perpetual state of Woodstock. But your parents grew out of it, so why can’t you?”
“I did, and look where it got me.”
“Sure, take a look,” Brock said. “A good education, nice clothes and car, money, and—” He smiled. “Me!”
“Brock…,” Joy said, working up the courage to finish her sentence. “I want to postpone the wedding. I’m sorry.”
“Huh?” Brock said, dumfounded. “Joy, I’m just teasing you. You know—”
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and I’m not ready. I’m not sure we’re right for each other.”
“‘Not right for…?’ What’s gotten into you? What became of Tahoe? It was only a couple of weeks ago. I thought we agreed that it was the perfect weekend.” He peered into her eyes, the wheels spinning in his head. “It’s about moving, isn’t it? About transferring from LA. It’s not my fault if none of the police departments in those hick-towns you so want to move to aren’t hiring. Fifty résumés and twenty interviews in the past year and not a peep back from any of them.”
“No, Brock, it’s not that.”
“Then, what? Don’t tell me it’s because I don’t subscribe to your superstitious sentimentality.”
“I’m just saying I need more time, that’s all.”
“What am I supposed to do? Sit on my thumbs until your tea leaves give you the okay?”
“I just think we needn’t rush into anything. We’ll know if we are meant for each other.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” Brock snapped. “What a cop-out. What, did you wake up this morning and your horoscope said it’s a good day to abandon all rationality and break up with your boyfriend? I don’t believe in leaving anything to fate. Fate is for cowards and ignoramuses.”
“No, Brock, it has nothing to do with that. I just want to be sure.”
“What will it take?” he demanded.
“I told you. Time.”
“Not good enough.”
Joy sighed as if in preparation for something she had known was long overdue. Pondering whether to continue, she spotted a belching, grimy, turd-smeared Greyhound bus. Between the gaps in the trellis, she watched it limp to a jerking halt. The bus looked like it had just completed a perilous journey from Damascus to Baghdad.
···
Curious pedestrians gawked at the Greyhound in incredulity.
Inside the bus panicky passengers banged at the jammed door, howling to get out. An odd clanging sound was heard. A few desperate souls squeezed through stuck windows and dropped head first or bellyflopped to the ground. Some didn’t get up.
The Greyhound was a filthy, smoking, barely recognizable remnant of its former sparkling self. Its back bumper hung half-off. Two wheels bent inward like knocking kneecaps, both held on by a single bolt at the end of their threads. The windows were smeared with grime, bird droppings, barf, and oh my
God, was that blood?
The panels to the empty luggage compartments hung open; the luggage now strewn along I-40 somewhere between Flagstaff and Barstow. Shredded windshield wipers screeched and scraped at the paste-covered shattered glass.
The pedestrians sniffed at the air. The bus seemed to secrete a foul stench that smelled of vomit, dirty diapers, and was that…bacon?
The stuck door burst open, whereupon a group of passengers tumbled out in a heap. At the same time, someone banged open the back emergency exit and bounded out holding a badly dented fire extinguisher. The extinguisher sprayed uncontrollably, dousing nearby onlookers with white foam. Behind the man leaped one passenger after another as from a flaming ship.
The travelers were a haggard and miserable-looking group, and those who weren’t whimpering or weeping, were screaming and cursing at one another.
Two passengers dragged a delirious, big bruiser of a man wearing a Guns N’ Roses tank top from the back of the bus. They abandoned the man curled up on the sidewalk, where he rocked in the fetal position, babbled incoherently, and sucked his thumb. One rider, an old woman with a walking cane and absent her wig, strolled over to the quivering biker-looking man. The bald woman whacked him repeatedly with her cane, and then spat on him. Satisfied, she returned to the throng and chipped in her share of outrage.
The last traveler out was Murphy Drummer, his small suitcase in hand. Murphy was the only occupant who emerged unscathed from the tortuous journey. He quickly distanced himself from the suspicious glares of his fellow passengers.
The bus driver, frazzled, shirt soaked with sweat, and looking a little afraid for his life, stepped from the bus. “Your attention, please!” he said.
The passengers responded with a chorus of verbal abuse.
“Another bus is on its way—”
In no mood to be placated, the passengers showered the poor driver with another salvo of insults and curses.
“Your money will be refunded, and we will do everything we can to reimburse you for any damages or losses.”
The passengers weren’t buying any of it. They heaped more abuse on the cringing driver. The wigless old lady suggested lynching him.
Guilt-ridden, Murphy casually inched away from the mob.
The bus driver continued his pleading, “In all my years I’ve never experienced such a run of bad luck…”
Having gained a safety zone between himself and the angry rabble, Murphy looked around for a place of sanctuary, a place where the world might be safe from him. He spotted a sign that read, “Beach 100 Yards.”
Murphy looked at the distance that separated him from the Pacific Ocean. “Like running the gauntlet,” he said.
While the other passengers continued to bicker among themselves and harass the bus driver, Murphy, wheeling his carry-on suitcase behind him, strolled off in the direction of the beach, and The Parcae Cafe.
···
Angry and upset, Brock threw up his arms in frustration. “What do you want from me, Joy?”
“A little patience would be nice.”
“And what about you?” he retorted.
“Me?”
“Yeah. It hardly seems fair that I have to do all the work.”
“Work? What work?”
“Waiting is work. Wondering and worrying and playing this stupid game is work.”
“Well, I’m sorry if you see it that way.”
“Honestly, Joy, can’t you see how selfish you’re being?”
“Maybe I am. But then that’s just one of the many things you need to think about.”
“I need to think about? You spoiled brat. The only thing you’ve ever known is having your own way.”
“That’s not true.”
“The hell it isn’t. You’ve lived a charmed life, and you don’t even know it.”
“I’m lucky, I know that.”
“Do you? Really? I wonder.”
“Hey, I don’t have to work if I don’t want to, but I do.”
“You call those insipid columns you write ‘work’? You’ve never covered anything more exciting than a garage sale or some socialite’s stupid open house. Besides, the only reason you’re even at that rag is because of your dad’s connections.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Brock, that I’m not wracked with guilt for being fortunate in having the parents I do. I write what I’m told to write. If I had it my way I would be writing other things, and one day I will.”
Joy stood to leave. She was never comfortable with confrontation.
“In the meantime,” she added. “I have one of my insipid columns to write.” She huffed off.
“Oh, come on, Joy!” Brock called after her. “I didn’t mean—Joy!”
As Joy stamped out of the cafe, Murphy stepped onto the sidewalk a few feet behind her.
Brock became aware of the other customers’ reproachful looks, but said nothing. Then he saw the tarot reader considering him with a wry smile.
“What are you smirking at, lady?” he snapped.
Without a word the tarot reader twirled a card between her fingers and returned her attention to the client in front of her.
Through the patio’s trellis, Brock spotted Joy striding down the sidewalk. “Joy, hold on!”
Brock sprang from his seat, unwittingly brushing the section of the paper that Joy had been reading to the ground. He threw some money on the table and started after her. A gust of wind snatched The Greatest Hobby of All from the floor of the patio, wafted it up and over the trellis, and carried it fluttering away.
Joy ignored Brock’s plea and continued walking.
Murphy paused and looked behind. His murphometer was signaling incoming. He groaned.
In his haste, Brock collided with a waiter. A tray full of Mai Tais doused Brock, the waiter, and the table of three women Brock had smiled at earlier. The delicate goblets shattered on the brick patio.
“Dude!” the waiter cried.
Hearing the ruckus, Joy glanced back, snickered, and kept walking.
Distressed and guilt-ridden, Murphy thought only of obtaining the tranquility inherent in the name, “Pacific Ocean.”
Surfing the Gauntlet
Joy turned a corner and closed in on the beach’s oceanfront, Murphy still a few feet behind her.
Murphy’s first glimpse of the white, sandy beach and the vast, glimmering ocean beyond filled him with awe. His delight, however, was cut short by what he noticed next: a boardwalk teeming with skateboarders, rollerbladers, cyclists, and swarms of strolling pedestrians.
His dread swelled when he saw ahead the myriad of cafes, boutiques, and vendors. Worse still, the horde of tourists only grew larger as he neared the promenade. His dismay doubled at the sight of dozens of street performers. Before him were acrobats, jugglers, fortune-tellers, musicians, mimes, and sketch artists. Entrepreneurs hawking their knockoff merchandise of clothes, bags, and electronics only intensified his anxiety. To Murphy’s mind, they were all unwitting victims for the mischief and mayhem that only he could attract.
Beyond the boisterous scene, the shimmering sea and empty beach beckoned. But the concern on Murphy’s face told that he thought reaching that Shangri-La would be akin to navigating a minefield.
Joy tapped at her iPhone and brought up a dictation app. She began to speak into it as she strolled: “Boardwalk story. Saturday, July 9th…”
A bearded and beefy man with stringy, slate-gray hair tied into a stubby ponytail and wearing a dirty apron exited the side door of a Chinese restaurant. Two bulging garbage bags at his side, he waddled towards a large dumpster.
Her eyes on the bustling boardwalk ahead, and so blind to the approaching dishwasher, Joy continued her dictation: “There’s something about our little boardwalk on a sunny, Saturday afternoon that evokes—”
Murphy leaped to Joy’s side. He grabbed her elbow and yanked her away a split moment before the garbage bags burst and their slop went spilling all over the sidewalk, just missing Joy.
“Hey!” she shrieked.
“Aw, crap,” groaned the dishwasher. “Double-strength bags my ass.”
Slack-jawed, Joy wasn’t sure if she should be angry or grateful. She gave her rescuer the once over. She noted his small suitcase and appraised his neat, well-dressed and unthreatening demeanor.
Before she could decide, Murphy said, “I’m very sorry, ma’am. Excuse me…” And then he hurried off.
Puzzled, Joy followed her rescuer with her eyes. “…Evokes surprise,” she dictated into her phone, finishing her sentence. She clicked off her recorder and watched Murphy weave through the flocks of tourists and pedestrians.
Joy glanced back over her shoulder and saw Brock searching desperately for her among the crowd. She frowned and began to snake her way through the droves of day-trippers to distance herself from him. Before she knew it she found herself within a few feet of Murphy. She thought he appeared anxious about something.
Murphy, on full alert and sensing danger everywhere, eyed a wad of pink, gooey bubble gum on the sidewalk. He bounded in front of an approaching pedestrian, a man whose attention was glued to a group of bikini-clad women playing beach volleyball. Murphy stopped the man with a thrust-out arm just as the fellow was about to step on the sticky glob. The startled man regained his composure when he saw Murphy withdraw a tissue from his pocket, pick up the gum, and then nonchalantly chuck it into a trash bin thirteen feet away.
“Nice shot!” the man exclaimed.
Murphy continued on his quest to get to the seashore.
Joy, her interest piqued, decided to shadow the curious stranger.
Again she witnessed Murphy snap into action. She saw him dash suddenly towards an elderly woman walking a small dog, a brown and white Shih Tzu. Murphy grabbed up the dog a moment before the little fella was nearly run over by a bicyclist zipping from out of nowhere.
Murphy’s Luck Page 4