He ripped the paper from the screen and read it.
The association was fining them fifty dollars because the string Maureen had used to tie up her drooping chrysanthemums was white instead of green. All lines or cords used by a homeowner to tie plants to stakes were required to be green in order to blend in with the foliage and not distract from the lot's natural state.
He felt the muscles of his face harden into a painful grimace, and he squeezed shut his eyes. "Fuckers!" he yelled at the top of his lungs.
"Fuckers!"
Taking a deep harsh breath, tears stinging his eyes, he crumpled up the paper, balled it in his fist, and walked angrily into the house.
July.
The monsoons came just as Ray had promised they would. With the turn of the calendar page, afternoon skies were suddenly filled with massive thunderheads, and short summer storms brought the nearly unbearable heat of midday down to a level that made for cool and pleasant evenings. From the deck, Barry could watch the buildup of the storms, see the coalescing clouds, watch the rain as it came up from the south and moved like a light white curtain over the canyon lands and through the hilly forest toward Corban and Bonita Vista. It was beautiful, and he wished he were writer enough to capture that ephemeral splendor, but his forte was the grotesque, not the sublime, and translating such a magnificent sight into words was beyond his abilities.
He sat with Maureen, drinking iced tea, staring out at the landscape.
There were scattered showers to the south, squares of gray and white that touched the earth and looked like ghostly extensions of the more solid clouds above. Occasional spikes of lightning and the rumble of accompanying thunder belied the tranquillity of the scene but were nevertheless equally majestic, and at one point Barry saw three jagged bolts of lightning hit the ground at once.
From the road came the sound of a muffler less engine, and Barry peeked over to see who it was. A second later, a pickup packed with sand came speeding up the road, the vehicle's driver obviously attempting to get a running start on the steepest part of the hill. Despite the driver's intentions, the grade proved too tough, and the truck stalled out just above their house. The pickup was blocked from view by a pine tree, but Barry heard the engine attempting to turn over, and after one false start, the vehicle slid back down the hill into view, braking to a hard stop directly in front of their driveway. He looked over at Maureen.
"Don't you even think about it," she said.
"The guy obviously needs help. And this isn't California," he pointed out. "It's not part of some scam. He's not going to shoot us and rob us."
"Never can tell."
He shook his head and was about to go downstairs and ask the man if he needed any assistance, when another pickup pulled up behind the first and stopped.
"Saved by the bell," Maureen said.
The man who emerged from the second truck was tall and heavy, wearing too-new jeans, a fancy western shirt, and the sort of shiny oversized belt buckle that had been fodder for urban comedians for decades. A
shock of white hair over a ruddy bulldog face gave the man an air of impatient arrogance, and while Barry had automatically assumed that the man had stopped to help, he knew even before the cowboy opened his mouth that that was not the case.
"You got a permit?"
The driver who stuck his head out of the window to answer was dark and spoke in a thick Mexican accent. "Yes, sir. Of course, of course. I
have my green card."
"I don't mean a permit to work in this country. I figure you got that.
I'm talking about a work permit for Bonita Vista. Does your boss have a permit to do work in our neighborhood?"
Sound carried up here, but if there was an answer, Barry couldn't hear it.
You see, you gotta get the permission of the homeowners' association before you can do any work in Bonita Vista. Any work. I don't care what the man hirin ' you said, that's the way it is, comprende?
There was derision in the Spanish word, derision and an aggressive hostility. Barry could hear it all the way up on the deck, and it was clear that the driver sensed it as well. His response was low and cowed, subservient. He immediately tried to start the truck again, and although the first two efforts were unsuccessful, on the third the engine caught and held.
The white-haired man thunked his hand on the door of the pickup. "Now you turn this baby around. And you tell your boss what I told you, you hear? No permit from the association, no work in Bonita Vista. Got it?"
Again, if there was an answer Barry didn't hear it, but the pickup did not try to continue up the road and instead backed around the other truck and headed down the hill in reverse, the loud engine fading into the distance.
The white-haired man returned to his own vehicle. He looked up at Barry as he walked, scowling, as if aware that his conversation had been overheard, and Barry quickly looked away, moving out of the man's line of sight, nervous for some reason, not wanting to acknowledge that he'd been listening.
The man got in his pickup and drove away.
"Did you hear that?" Barry asked Maureen.
She sipped her iced tea, nodded. "There are racist assholes everywhere."
That was not what Barry had gotten from the exchange, although it was undoubtedly true.
He had the distinct impression that any worker, regardless of his ethnicity, would have been questioned. It was not a race thing ... it was an association thing. He looked out once again at the approaching storm, but the pettiness of the people on the ground had drained the majesty from the sky, and he was no longer able to enjoy the view the way he had before.
They sat there the rest of the afternoon, as the rain approached and overtook them, whip crack thunder that sounded simultaneously with the flash of paparazzi lightning shaking the house and raiding the windows as though they were in an earthquake. They bore the brunt of the storm for a good half hour before it finally broke, and Maureen went back inside to start dinner.
Barry remained on the deck as dusk approached, ignoring the book he'd brought out to read, simply staring at the scenery. The sunset was dazzling. A section of the butte that stood like a sentinel at the far-off end of the forest where it segued into desert canyon was illuminated by a swath of light that lent the tan rock a brilliant fiery orange hue. The remnants of the afternoon's monsoon clouds dispersing across the western sky were transformed into what looked like puffy strings of cotton candy by the gradations of pink generated by the setting sun.
It was impressive, it was awe-inspiring.
But as hard as he tried to enjoy the view, he could not stop thinking about the cowboy and the Mexican worker and the homeowners'
association.
The next day was the fourth.
The Fourth of July had never been one of their big holidays, and although they slept in, waking up over an hour later than usual, they made no special plans to celebrate. Maureen allowed him to barbecue fat-free hot dogs for dinner in a modified concession to tradition, but the remainder of their plans consisted of doing yard work during the day and watching TV at night.
The day passed uneventfully, and they stopped working when the rains came, Maureen grabbing the rake, clippers, and broom, with Barry taking the shovel and the half-filled Hefty bag, both of them running for the shelter of the lower deck. The storm quit in time for him to barbecue, and they ate in front of the television, watching the two Flint movies back-to-back on AMC. Afterward, they showered together, made love, and went to sleep early.
They were startled awake by a loud boom that sounded like a bomb going off in the air above the house but that Barry recognized instantly as the sound of fireworks.
Despite the recent rains, it had been an exceptionally dry spring, and the national forest sign at the edge of town still had Smokey the Bear pointing to a red flag, warning of high fire danger. Barry's first thought was to wonder who was stupid enough to set off fireworks under such conditions. He got out of bed, slipped on a robe, and walked o
ver to the sliding glass door. He pulled aside the curtain and watched a fat raccoon scramble off the lower deck and down an adjacent tree.
Maureen, still naked, moved up behind him and leaned on his shoulder, yawning in his ear. "Were those fireworks?"
"Sounded like it. But I don't see--"
Another one went off, the trace appearing to originate from the bottom of the hill near the tennis courts. A weak blue burst temporarily lit up a close section of sky, sparkles falling onto the pines.
"Isn't that a fire hazard?" Maureen asked, suddenly more awake.
"It seems like it to me."
"You think someone's setting them off illegally? Maybe kids are--"
Barry shook his head. "These are professional fireworks. Kids don't have the equipment to shoot off skyrockets like this. You need launchers. Besides, these kinds of fireworks are expensive."
They waited for several moments but nothing else went up.
"Maybe they were illegal," he conceded.
"Maybe the police or the rangers or the firemen got to them already and put a stop to it."
"No." Barry pointed. Another trace went up, and an anemic burst of red exploded above the trees.
Maureen smiled. "If this is supposed to be professional, it's pretty pathetic."
"We're spoiled." In southern California, spectacular fireworks could be viewed every weekend at various tourist attractions, along with the ubiquitous nightly displays at Disneyland: consistently impressive shows that could be seen from the beach to the Fullerton hills.
They stood, waited, and a few minutes later another skyrocket went off.
"I'm going to bed," Maureen said, yawning. "This isn't worth staying up for."
Barry agreed, and they both went back to bed, falling asleep to the intermittent sounds of exploding gunpowder.
Barry awoke late. Maureen was already out of bed, and the smell of eggs and hash browns wafted down from upstairs. He dressed quickly, ran a hand through his hair, and headed up to the kitchen. It was a beautiful day. Maureen had opened all the drapes and windows, and morning sunlight streamed in from a cloudless blue sky.
"Breakfast'll be ready in a few minutes." Maureen pointed her spatula at a folded newspaper lying atop the dining table. "Check out the paper. Top story."
"Got any coffee?"
"Check out the paper first."
Barry walked over to the table, unfolded the newspaper, and stared down at the banner headline.
Bonita Vista to Set Off Fireworks Despite Fire Danger He started reading.
The Corban Weekly Standard came out every Tuesday, its stories written the week or weekend before, so there was no reporting on last night's display, only a pre-event article that addressed the situation from the vantage point of a few days prior. But there was no mistaking the tone of the piece or the anger that quoted Corbanites seemed to feel toward the arrogance of the Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association, sponsors of the display.
Apparently, Corban was running short on water this summer due to the extended drought conditions of the previous winter, something of which Barry had not been aware. Several years before, a similar situation had arisen, and for two weeks in mid-July, before late monsoons once again raised the water table, tanker trucks from Salt Lake City had brought water to the town and people had been forced to line up with plastic containers in order to get drinking water. Such an extreme situation was not expected this year, but voluntary rationing was currently in place, and it was suggested that people with lawns not water them and that no one wash their cars.
The article went on to say that Bonita Vista had its own wells, so it was not tied to the Corban water supply and was not suffering the same shortage. But water district officials said that it was still callous, insensitive, and potentially devastating to the surrounding forest to put on the display. "Those fireworks could cause a fire that would require digging into our reserves and could completely deplete our water resources," the superintendent said. A representative of the Forest Service concurred, adding that it would take several weeks of consistent monsoons before the trees and brush were no longer dried out and the area was no longer considered at risk. The chief of the volunteer fire department said bluntly that his men should not have to bail out Bonita Vista because of their shortsightedness and stupidity but that they would have to, since a blaze would endanger the town and surrounding countryside.
The homeowners' association didn't care about these objections and intended to continue with their display no matter what. The final quote in the story was from his old pal Neil Campbell. "We're not just doing this for the benefit of Bonita Vista," Campbell stated. "These fireworks will be able to be seen for miles and everyone will be able to enjoy them. They're our present to the town of Corban and the people living in this area. Happy Fourth of July!"
Barry looked up and grimaced. "I need some coffee," he said.
Maureen motioned toward the coffeemaker. "I figured you would."
"Jesus. Not only was it stupid from a PR standpoint, but it was dangerous on top of that."
"And the fireworks sucked besides."
"According to Ray, we don't even have any fire hydrants up here. One of the few things the association's actually supposed to do, take care of public safety, they can't be bothered with. It's more important to fine us over the color of our garden ties than make sure we can fight off a forest fire."
"Typical," she said.
Barry poured himself a cup of coffee. "Are you still enamored with your precious homeowners' association?"
"I was never enamored."
"But you're a little less happy with them now than you used to be, aren't you?"
She scooped up a pile of hash browns, then placed a fried egg next to the potatoes on the plate. "Here," she told Barry. "Breakfast's ready. Eat."
The writing had stopped.
Barry still went down to his office each day, still fired up the old computer, still sat in his chair in front of the screen and attempted to finish the novel that was rapidly approaching its deadline ... but nothing came.
This time, he conceded, it might be writer's block.
His inability to progress any further with his story coincided precisely with Ray's death. He'd taken a few days off because he hadn't felt like working, then the weekend of the Fourth had arrived and he never worked on a holiday weekend. But when he finally went down to his office the following week, he discovered that the well had run dry.
He knew exactly what was going to happen next in the narrative--he'd plotted out in his mind the events that were to take place in the current chapter and all he really had to do was fill in the blanks--but he just couldn't seem to get from A to B. He was stymied, stuck.
And he'd been stuck now for almost a week.
Logically, there was no reason this should have occurred. He'd been under deadline two years ago when his mom had died, and he'd managed to finish that book on time. Hell, he'd found the writing process therapeutic, and he'd ended up finishing the novel ahead of schedule, focusing on it to the exclusion of nearly everything else. And his mom had certainly meant more to him than Ray.
But still the writing had stopped.
He'd said nothing to Maureen, had been pulling a Jack Torrence on her, but oddly enough he'd found himself confiding in Hank and Bert and the gang at the coffee shop. They'd been cool to him after the debacle of the fireworks, unable this time to completely divorce him from the actions of Bonita Vista, but he assured them that he was just as outraged as they were, and he described the way he and Maureen had been awakened by the blasts and had had no idea where they'd been coming from.
His explanation was accepted, but there was not the wholesale wholehearted forgiveness that had accompanied his protestations of innocence after the dog death. He'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time once too often, and it was clear to him that if it happened again, suspicion would definitely be directed his way.
It was not fair... but he understood it. He might not condone the
actions of the association, but he lived in Bonita Vista, paid his dues, and bore some of the responsibility. And as much as he tried to disassociate himself from his neighbors and align himself with the townies, the fact was that there was no rationing in the gated community. The realities of the water shortage did not affect him, and he felt a little like a condescending nobleman assuring the poor populace that he sympathized with their plight and understood their feelings. Even now, over a week later, he still sensed some residual resentment--not on the part of Hank or Lyle or any of the core group, but from some of the casual coffee shop patrons--and while he didn't like it, he could not really blame them.
Once again, he spent the morning in front of his computer. He tried to concentrate on the unfinished novel before him, but as usual his mind wandered to other things: an old girlfriend, the movie he'd watched last night on HBO, the groceries he needed to buy on the way home today, what he'd do with the money if he sold his next novel for ten million dollars.
He usually ate lunch around noon, but nothing was happening here and he closed up shop shortly after eleven, heading over to Bert's. It hadn't rained yesterday--the first time in over a week--and the air was hot and dry. Grasshoppers jumped up from the path before him, and several bounced off his jeans.
Bert, his daughter, and a youngish, short-haired man Barry didn't recognize were the only ones in the coffee shop, but Joe arrived soon after Barry sat down and ordered his iced tea, and fifteen minutes after that, the regulars were all in place.
Lyle was the last to show up, and he had news. "Word is," he said, sitting in his usual seat, "that the water restrictions are going to be lifted if we have one more week of monsoons."
"Who told you that?"
The Association Page 15