“No. That was my choice.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’d leave too. My father’s really cool. I wish I could live with him.”
“Why don’t you?”
“We’ve talked about it. But it’s hard with him getting transferred all the time. I might someday.” She pulled up her treat bag and held it out to me. “You should try one of my chocolate chip cookies. I baked them.”
I took a cookie out of the bag and took a bite. It was delicious. “You made these?”
“Yeah. I like to bake.”
“They’re really good.”
“Thank you. Have more.”
I reached into the bag and grabbed two more. “How much farther is it to Los Angeles from here?”
“About seven hours. We arrive a little after eight.” She leaned back. “We better get some sleep.”
“Good idea,” I said. I stowed the cookies in my pack, then leaned back against the window. I woke a few hours later when the bus made a short stop in Barstow. Monica had her head resting on my shoulder. I liked that. I went back to sleep.
The next time I woke we were pulling into the Los Angeles station. The sun was bright and Monica was reading, holding an open Bible in her lap. She looked over and smiled at me. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” I said groggily. I looked out the window. The Greyhound station looked as sketchy as the one in Ogden except with more people who looked homeless. A lot more. The place was teeming with people. “Are we here?”
“Welcome to Los Angeles.”
I glanced down at the Bible. Just seeing it made me uncomfortable. “You read that?”
“Yeah. Do you?”
“I used to.”
She didn’t ask why I’d stopped. Instead she shut the book, reached into her sack of goodies, and brought me out a cookie. “Here. Have some breakfast.”
I took the cookie, even though I already had two more in my bag. I knew I’d need them for later. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I ate the cookie while we waited for the line of people ahead of us to get off the bus. We were the last two off.
Monica got her suitcases, then said to me, “It was really nice meeting you, Charles.” She handed me a piece of paper. “That’s my phone number. If you ever need anything, just call.”
I took the paper, even though I had nothing to call her with. “Thank you. It was nice meeting you too. Thanks for all the food.”
“You’re welcome. So where do you go now?”
I glanced around. I had no idea where I was. “I guess I’ll just walk around.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just sleep on the beach. We’re close to the beach, aren’t we?”
Monica frowned. “The police won’t let you sleep there. And it wouldn’t be safe.”
“I can always find someplace on the street.”
Her frown deepened. “That’s not a good way to start a new life. There are people on the street . . . predators. And gangs.”
“Like the Sureños.”
“How do you know about the Sureños?” she asked.
“I just heard. I can handle myself.”
“I’m not saying you can’t, I’m just saying it’s not a good way to start a new life.”
I shrugged. “What else am I going to do?”
She hesitated a moment, then said, “Were you serious about doing yard work?”
“Yeah.”
“Then I’ll introduce you to my friend’s brother.” She paused. “I should probably warn you, though, his crew is all Mexican. Are you okay with that?”
Her question stung me. “That’s no problem.” I squinted. “Don’t you like Mexicans?”
“Like half my friends are Mexicans. That’s how I know that some people don’t like them. Some people just have problems with anyone who’s not the same race.”
“I’m okay with Mexicans,” I said.
“Good. Then I’ll introduce you to Ryan. In the meantime, you can stay with me until you can find a place to live. Somewhere besides outside.”
Her offer surprised me. “Will your mom be okay with that?”
“She’ll be fine,” she said. “You’ll understand when you meet her. If you meet her. She probably won’t even know you’re there.”
I had no idea what she was talking about.
Chapter Nineteen
There is nothing simple about simple kindness. Neither she nor I will ever know how much suffering she has saved me from.
—CHARLES JAMES’S DIARY
We each took one of Monica’s bags and dragged them out to the parking strip at the south end of the station. I was exhausted from the ride and hungry, but the California air felt nice: it was warm and sweet, almost like it was perfumed. Ogden wasn’t perfumed. If anything, it was the opposite.
“How are we getting to your house?” I asked.
“My friend’s picking us up.” She suddenly glanced over to an old yellow-and-white Volkswagen Beetle. “That’s her right there. In the Bug.”
As we approached, a young woman got out of the car. She was tan with short, dark hair. She was shorter than Monica but, like her, very pretty. The women hugged.
“How was Idaho?” she asked.
“It was good.”
“Dad’s good?”
“Dad’s always good.”
“But you’re not moving there.”
“No plans so far.”
“Never,” she said. “You’re never leaving me.” That’s when she noticed me. “Who’s this?”
“This is Charles,” Monica said. “I met him on the bus.” She turned to me. “This is my best friend, Carly.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said. Carly didn’t reply.
“Charles wants to work with Ryan.”
“That will make Ryan happy. He just fired two guys and he’s had to fill in for them. He hates to work.”
“Charles’s father does landscaping,” Monica said.
“That’s a plus. Where are you from?”
“Ogden,” I said.
“Ogden, Idaho?”
“No. It’s in Utah.”
“Never heard of it,” she said, walking back to her car. “I went to Utah once. Hated it.” Without stopping to breathe she said, “You can put one of the bags in the trunk. The other has to go in the back seat.”
I was lugging the larger bag toward the back of the car when I heard her say, “He’s pretty cute.” A moment later she shouted at me. “Hey, Einstein. The trunk’s in front. It’s a Volkswagen.”
I turned around to see her open the hood, revealing an empty space. My face warmed with embarrassment. I didn’t know that VWs had their engines in back.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Your pack might fit up here with it. But you’ll have to put the other bag in the backseat with you. Monica travels like a rock star. Big bags, small car.”
Monica leaned in to me and said, “Sorry. Carly’s a little brusque sometimes.”
I didn’t know what the word meant.
It wasn’t easy getting Monica’s bag into the backseat. Worse, it took more than half the space and I barely fit, squished between the bag and the side of the car.
Carly’s Beetle smelled like incense, ketchup, and motor oil. (I have since learned that all old VWs smell like motor oil.) The car was dirty, filled with fast-food wrappers, paper Coke cups, and other trash. She pretty much used the backseat as a landfill, though the front wasn’t a whole lot better. There was a plastic skeleton holding a rose hanging from her rearview mirror.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” Carly said. “This place is so dodgy. When I pulled up, there was a guy peeing against that wall right there.”
“Thank you for sharing that,” Monica said, turning back toward me. “You okay back there?”
“I’m good.”
“I can’t even see you.”
“It’s tight.”
“Where are we taki
ng Sir Charles?” Carly asked.
“My place. He’s going to stay with me for a while.”
“How is Susan going to feel about a houseguest?”
“If she ever drops by sober, I’ll ask. I bet it will be a week before she even knows I’m back.”
Culver City was only a little more than fifteen minutes from the Greyhound station. We pulled into a suburban neighborhood much nicer than mine back in Utah, though that’s hardly difficult. Monica’s house was small, a little dated but clean, and the yard was tidy.
“How long have you lived here?” I asked.
“Almost three years. It’s my mom’s boyfriend’s place. He rents it to us.”
Carly pulled into the driveway and turned off her car. “There you go, signed, sealed, and delivered.”
“Thanks, Carly,” Monica said. “I owe you.”
“Do you ever.”
“Want to get pizza tonight?”
“I’ve got a date. Marco.”
“I thought you were dropping Marco,” Monica said.
“I was going to, until he bought me a necklace.”
“You are such a gold digger.”
“Guilty,” she replied. “I’m like a bird. I’m a sucker for shiny things. Speaking of boys, how come Josh boy didn’t pick you up?”
“He’s in Germany.”
“He’s always in Germany. When does he get back?”
“Next Wednesday.”
“Then let’s hang out while we can. You know how he is when he’s around. He’s like a human straitjacket.”
“No, he’s not.”
“Denial ain’t a river, baby,” Carly said.
I wondered who Josh was.
Monica got out of the car, then pulled her seat forward so I could get out. Or at least breathe. I climbed out and pulled the bag out after me. Then I lifted the bag and my backpack from the trunk.
“Thank you,” Monica said, as I set the second bag down.
“Yeah, thanks, Chuck,” Carly said. “And welcome to California.”
She backed out into the street without looking, causing an oncoming car to slam on its brakes. She drove off honking her horn.
“She’s so weird,” Monica said. She smiled at me. “Let’s get you settled.”
Chapter Twenty
The relationship between a patient and a counselor is a peculiar thing. I find myself wanting to act more sane to win her approval.
—CHARLES JAMES’S DIARY
Dr. Fordham’s timer rang lightly. She reached over and turned it off. Turning back to me, she said, “Is this Monica the same Monica you were married to?”
I was surprised that she had made the connection. “Yes.”
“And she’s still in California?”
“Yes.”
She nodded slowly, then said, “I think we should explore this some more. Thank you for sharing with me. You mentioned that you’re leaving on some kind of an extended sales tour?”
“I’m launching a new product.”
“When do you leave?”
“Next Tuesday. The third.”
“Would you like to meet again before then?”
“Yes. Do you have an opening?”
“I’ll make time. I’d like to continue on this while it’s still fresh. I think it will help you.”
“How about tomorrow?” I asked.
She looked at her phone and said, “I don’t have anything available tomorrow. How about Saturday morning at ten?”
“You work Saturdays?”
“Sometimes.”
“I’ll take it. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, standing. I likewise stood. Near the door she said, “You’re a very interesting man, Charles.”
“Is that good?”
She smiled. “Usually. Though I’ve had some really interesting clients whom I wouldn’t classify as good.”
“Share one.”
She looked a little guilty but said, “All right, but no names. My second year of practice I had a man who suffered from boanthropy.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a delusional disorder where a person believes they are a cow or an ox. He was kind of on the border, dreaming a lot about it. Then one day his wife called me and said he was in the backyard on his hands and knees grazing.”
“Like King Nebuchadnezzer,” I said. “Daniel four thirty-three.”
“You definitely are an interesting man,” she said. “In a good way. Now let’s see if we can make you a happy one.”
I grinned. “I don’t know. What did Bones on Star Trek always say? ‘Dammit, Jim, I’m a doctor, not a magician.’ ”
She laughed. “That’s really funny.”
I stopped at the door. “Hey, would you like to get a coffee sometime?”
Her expression immediately closed off. “Thank you. But I can’t associate with my clients like that.”
“Fraternizing with the enlisted men?” I said.
“Something like that.”
“I understand.”
“Thank you, though. That’s very flattering.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“I’ll see you Saturday.” She smiled. “And I’ll bring coffee.”
“Saturday,” I said. “I look forward to it.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The difference between winners and losers is that winners see a helpful incline to climb to the top where losers just see a mountain.
—CHARLES JAMES’S DIARY
FRIDAY, APRIL 29
I don’t know what had possessed me to ask Christine out. Maybe it was because except with Monica I’d never shared such intimate details of my life. I mean, after that last session I felt like we should have shared a cigarette or something.
Friday morning I went into the office just to make sure that everything was ready to go. It wasn’t. Amanda was waiting for me to arrive. She looked upset.
“Glenn needs to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“Bad news. There was a miscommunication at the printers. The boxes weren’t printed today, which means they won’t be shipped out until next Wednesday.”
“My presentation is Wednesday.”
“I know.”
“We have two hundred and eighty thousand dollars in hall rental and advertising and you’re telling me we have nothing to sell?”
“We don’t have the new product to sell. We have everything else.”
“I didn’t spend over a quarter-million dollars to sell old product. Get Glenn.”
“Yes, sir.”
A moment later a sheepish-looking Glenn walked into my office. He appeared terrified. “So you’ve heard about the printer’s screwup.”
I crossed my arms at the chest. “No. I’ve heard about your screwup. I pay you to make sure that I have what I need when I need it. Will I have my Internet Gold packages when I need them?”
“No, sir.”
“Wrong answer. And don’t tell me who failed. You failed. And failure is not an option. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So let me tell you how this is going to turn out. Unless you’d like to reimburse me the quarter-million dollars I’ve put out in promotion, I’m going to have six hundred boxes on the ground in Cincinnati by midnight, Tuesday, May third. Even if you have to hand-draw each package and drive it to Ohio yourself.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell Progressive Printing that if they value my million-plus dollars of annual business, they will call in a night shift, bump other clients, or get the owners down there to run the presses themselves—whatever they need to do to get our product for us.
“They’re starting to take us for granted. Let them know in no uncertain terms that if my job’s not done, we’re done with them. They had the artwork with a week to spare. Their mistake is not my problem.”
Glenn fidgeted. “And if they say no?”
“Then you will find a hungrier printer and offer them our mi
llion-dollar account if they pull this off. There are at least a thousand printers in America who would kill for that opportunity. All that stands between you and my boxes is your willingness to accept failure as a lifestyle. I don’t care which way you go, but get it done. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Text me when you’ve done your job.”
“Yes, sir.”
He just stood there looking at me.
“Get out of here, you’ve got work to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
He turned and ran out of my office.
Amanda walked in. “So?”
“He’ll have my boxes. I don’t care how he gets them, but he’ll have them.”
“I hope he can get it done.”
“He will,” I said. “He’s got a baby on the way and an ornery wife. Maybe I should just call his wife.”
Amanda smiled. “That’s not a bad idea.”
“If life has taught me anything, it’s that there’s always a back door.”
“And if not?”
I looked at her. “Then we’ll be interviewing for his replacement.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Without passion, we are doomed to mediocrity.
—CHARLES JAMES’S DIARY
SATURDAY, APRIL 30
I had the dream again. Only this time there were differences. First, the dream was more detailed and lucid than anything I’d experienced before. The flames were higher and closer. I could feel the heat more intensely, to the point that I groaned in pain. Fire was falling from the sky, bouncing off the road like flaming hail. I don’t know why it didn’t burn me up or hit me. There was one more thing. There were sirens this time. A lots of sirens. The screaming was louder.
I woke with my hands over my ears, drenched in sweat and shaking. I sat up and looked at my phone to see what time it was: 4:17 a.m. There was a text from Glenn.
Progressive Printers guarantees that you will have a minimum of 600 Internet Gold packages in Cincinnati by Tuesday night.
Funny how a little perspective can move mountains. I’d never understood why people were so quick to accept defeat. That’s why I’m the boss and they’re not.
I slept in, finally getting up at eight. I went to a window and opened it. The weather was cloudy but warm. I changed into my exercise clothes, then went downstairs to my gym and worked out on my elliptical for an hour. Afterward I showered and dressed, drank a protein shake with a raw egg and energy shot blended in, then drove downtown to see my shrink.
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