The Gold Coast

by Kim Stanley Robinson

  “That’s too bad. I like her.”

  “Me too. We’ve just both been busy.”

  “Well, you should call her.”

  “Yeah, I will.”

  “And you should give your uncle Tom a call too. Have you done that lately?”

  “No, but I will, I promise. Okay, I’m off. Thanks for the help, Dad.”

  Dennis can see him forgetting the promises to call even as he walks out of the door. “See you. Be careful,” he says. Try not to get stuck in your car’s motor compartment. As the door slams shut Dennis laughs, very shortly.

  5

  Jim tracks away angry. He forgets instantly about calling Sheila, about calling Uncle Tom; he’s too absorbed in his own feelings. Long minutes alone on the freeway, so much of life spent this way; thinking angrily, sifting and rearranging events until it’s all his father’s fault, until he’s angry only at Dennis and not at himself. That look over the glasses, after he managed to extricate himself from his damned car! Humiliating.

  He parks in South Coast Plaza’s subterranean garage, takes the elevator up to the top of the mall, south end; some of the most expensive apartments in OC are up here. Through one soundproofed door comes the thump of percussion and a tiny wash of voices. In Jim goes.

  Sandy and Angela’s ap consists of six big rooms, set like boxcars one after the next. Window walls in each face southwest; it’s a heliotropic home. Outside these windows a balcony extends the whole length of the ap. The balcony and all the rooms but the bedroom are filled with people, maybe sixty of them. It’s the nightly party, no one is too excited. Sandy’s not there yet. Jim walks into the kitchen, the first room. There are houseplants everywhere, giant ones in giant glazed pots. They look so healthy they might be plastic; people say Angela has a polymer thumb.

  Jim sees no one he particularly wants to talk to, and continues through the kitchen to the balcony. He leans on the chest-high railing and looks down at the lightshow of coastal OC, pulsing at the speed of a rapid heartbeat. That’s his town.

  Jim’s depressed. He’s a part-time word processor for a title and real estate company, a part-time night school teacher at Trabuco Junior College. His father thinks he’s a failure; his friends think he’s a fool. This last has been his angle, of course, he’s cultivated it because laughs are at a premium among his friends, and they’re all comedians; the fool routine keeps Jim from being nothing more than part of the laughtrack. But it can get old, old, old. How much nicer it would be to be … well, something else.

  Sandy shows up, three hours late to his own party. SOP. “Hellooo!” he shouts, and Angela Mendez his ally comes over to give him a kiss. He moves on, his pale freckled skin flushed with excitement. “Hey, hello! Why are you just sitting there?” He goes to the music wall, cranks the volume up to say a hundred thirty decibels, Laura’s Big Tits singing “Want Becomes Need” over thick percussion that sounds like twenty spastics in a room full of snare drums. “Yeah!” Sandy pulls some girls off the long beige couch in the video room, starts them dancing around the screens hanging from the ceiling, he won’t be satisfied until everyone is dancing for at least one number, this is understood and everyone gets up and starts to bounce, happy at the action. Sandy flies from dancer to dancer, shoves his face right in theirs, psycho grin pulsating, pale blue eyes popping like they might fall out and bob at the end of springs any second now: “You look too normal! Try this!” And they’re holding eyedroppers full of Sandy’s latest, Social Affability, Apprehension of Beauty, Get Wired, who knows what the little label will say this time, but it’s sure to be fun. Sandy’s the best drug designer in OC—famous, really. And he doesn’t disdain the old-fashioned highs either. Angela is mixing pitchers of margaritas in the kitchen, Sandy is stopping at certain broad-leafed houseplants and pulling giant spliffs from hiding places, lighting them with a magnum blowtorch, throwing them at people, shouting, “Smoke this!” Jim, looking in from the balcony, can only laugh. There is a Sandy who is subtle, thoughtful, quick-witted, a culturevulture in Jim’s own league; but that isn’t him in there, putting the jumper cables to his own party. Time for a different act: Wired Host. Is there an eyedropper with that on the label?

  Jim goes to work on an eyedropper called Pattern Perception (so his name has been chosen!), with a couple whose names he can almost remember. Blink, blink. Are those stars or streetlights? “I’m fourth-generation OC,” he tells them apropos of nothing. “I have it in my genes, this place, I have a race memory of what it used to be like when the orange groves were here.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Nowadays we’d have a hard time living that slowly though, don’t you think?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  There’s something lacking in this conversation. Jim is about to ask his companions if they have brains at home they can plug in but forgot to bring, or if they have to pretend like this all the time, when Tashi interrupts. “Hey McPherson,” he says from the French doors to the game room. “Come take up the paddle.”

  Of course this is Jim the Fool they’re requesting. His ping-pong style is a bit unorthodox, call it clumsy in fact; but that’s okay. Any request is better than none.

  Arthur Bastanchury is just finishing off Humphrey Riggs, and Humphrey, Jim’s boss at the real estate office, hands over the sweaty paddle to Jim with a muttered curse. Jim’s up against the Ping-Pong King.

  Arthur Bastanchury, the Ping-Pong King, is about six feet two, eyes of blue, dark-haired and wide-shouldered. Women like him. He’s also a dedicated antiwar activist and underground newspaper publisher, which Jim admires, as Jim has socialist ideas himself. And an all-round Good Guy. Yes, Arthur, in Jim’s opinion, is someone to reckon with.

  They take a long warm-up, and Jim discovers he has blinked the wrong amount of Pattern Perception. He can see the cat’s cradle in time that he and Arthur are creating, but only well after the fact, and the contrail-like after-images of the white ball are distracting. It looks like trouble for McPherson.

  They start and it turns out to be even worse than he expected. Jim’s got quick hands, but he is awkward, there’s no denying it. And his fine-tuning is badly out of order. Giving up, more or less, he decides to go recklessly on the attack, thinking Let’s get this fucking pinko, which is funny since he actually agrees completely with what he knows of Arthur’s political views. But now it’s useful to go into a redkiller mindset.

  Also useful not to care about appearances; Arthur is a power player with a monster slam, and Jim has to make some, well, funny moves—twists and contortions, dives into the walls and such.… In fact, Angela hears he’s playing and comes in to move her plants out of danger. Fine, more room to maneuver.

  Still, Jim is losing badly when he tries a vicious topspin and smacks himself right in the forehead with the edge of his paddle. General laughter accompanies this move; but actually, after the pain recedes and the black lights leave his vision, the blow seems to have stimulated something inside Jim’s brain. Synapses are knocked into new arrangements, new axons sprout immediately, the whole game suddenly becomes very clear. He can see two or three hits ahead of time where the ball is destined to go.

  Jim rises to a new level, a pure overcompetency, his backhand slam begins to work, any opportunity on that side and a snap of the wrist sends over a crosscourt shot angled so sharply that people sitting right at netside take it in the face. Alternate those with down-the-line backhands, tailing away. These slaps plus the bold, not to say idiotic, dives into the wall to retrieve slams when on defense, reverse the game’s momentum. He takes his last serves and wins going away, 21–17.

  “Two out of three,” Arthur says, not amused.

  But it’s a mistake to go for a rematch when Jim is on like this. So much of ping-pong is just the confidence to hit the thing as hard as possible, after all. Second game Jim feels the power flow through him, and there’s nothing Arthur can do about it.

  Jim can even take the luxury of noticing that the video room next door is filling up with spect
ators. Sandy has turned on the game room cameras, and the watchers are treated to eight shots of live action, all played out on the big screenwall and the various free screens hanging from silver springs that extend down from the ceiling: Jim and Arthur, flying around from every angle. The game room clears out, in fact, as people go into the video room to observe the spectacle, and the two players have room to really go at it.

  But Arthur’s out of luck tonight, Jim’s getting a sort of … uncanny ability here, premonitions so strong that he has to hold back on his swing to allow Arthur time to hit it to the preordained spots. What a joy, this silly table game.

  Second game, 21–13. Arthur tosses his paddle on the table. “Whew!” He grins, gracious in defeat: “You’re hot tonight, Jim Dandy. Time for those margaritas.”

  Jim starts to wind down. He looks around; Tashi and Abe weren’t even in the game room or the video room. Too bad they missed it, Jim likes his friends to see him being more than just The Fool. Oh well. The act is its own reward, right?

  Sometimes Jim has a hard time convincing himself of this.

  “Nice game,” says a voice behind him. He turns; it’s Virginia Novello.

  Adrenaline makes a little comeback. Virginia, Arthur Bastanchury’s ally until just a couple months ago, is Jim’s idea of female perfection. Standing right there in front of him.

  Long straight thick blond hair,

  Bleached by sun but still full of red and yellow.

  Yes, they sell that hair color, and call it California Gold.

  She’s a touch under medium height.

  It’s the body women go to the spa to work for.

  Virginia goes there herself.

  Sleeveless blouse, embroidered white on white, scoop neck.

  Muscular biceps, little toy triceps,

  Perfectly defined under smooth tanned skin. Whoah.

  Aesthetic standards change over time, but why?

  The California Model’s features: small fine nose, curvy mouth, wide-set blue eyes.

  This is the Look, in the society of the Look:

  Freckles on cheeks, under a sunburn that might start peeling right now.

  That brake light in your brain.…

  Well, it’s worth a little adrenaline, Jim thinks. Of course everyone is beautiful these days, we’re in California after all, but for Jim, Virginia Novello is it. And here she is talking to him. She has before, of course, a bit remotely perhaps, and in the context of Arthurness, but now … Jim offers her his new margarita and she takes a sip. Arm muscles slide and bunch under tan skin, silky hairs on forearm gleam in the light. Her white blouse is a nice change from all the spectrum-slide primaries in the room. These are fabrics that are colored in a very narrow band of the spectrum, say fifteen hertz, so that you can, for instance, just begin to see a blue blouse shade into violet, or yellow into green, across the whole of the piece of cloth. It’s a great look, and very popular because of that, but still, a change is nice. Kind of bold.

  “Ping-pong is funny,” Jim says. “It really varies from day to day how much you can count on your game working. You know?”

  “I think most sports are like that. The edge comes rarely. Maybe it goes beyond sports, eh?”

  Jim nods, regarding her. Her smile, seldom seen, small and controlled, is actually quite nice. He doesn’t know much about her, despite the admiration from a distance. Business executive of some sort? Funny match with Arthur’s political activism. Maybe that’s why they broke up. Let’s not worry about it.

  They go out on the balcony, and Jim asks her about her work. She helps to administer Fashion Island, the old mall above Newport Beach. So she’s working for the management company hired by the Irvine Corporation, which owns the land. The old rancho dismemberment wealth, extending two hundred years into time … although Irvine’s only a name now, the family long out of it. Jim talks about this aspect of the land ownership of OC, and Virginia listens, interested and inquisitive. “It’s funny, you never think about how things got this way,” she says brightly.

  Well. Jim does. But he passes on that. He tells her about the recent archaeological dig under Fluffy Donuts, making himself the butt of the jokes, and she laughs. The Fool, after all, can be a useful role, as he already knows. Especially after a show of competence at the ping-pong table; then it can be mistaken for modesty. They watch cars track over the freeways. Leaning over the red geraniums that line the balcony’s top, their arms brush together. It’s accidental and means nothing, sure.

  “Do you surf?” Virginia asks.

  “No. Tash tried to teach me, but the moment I stand the board flies away and I fall down.”

  She laughs. “You’ve got to just commit and jump up without thinking about balance. I bet I could teach you.”

  “Really? I’d love it.” No lie. Virginia at the beach? What an image. “Tash just always says, like I’ve done it on purpose, ‘Don’t fall, Jim.’”

  She laughs again.

  Now, at this time Jim is in alliance with Sheila Mayer. As his mom would be quick to point out. They’ve been allied for almost four months now, and it’s been a pretty good four months, too. But Jim has been taking it for granted for some time; the thrill is gone, and Sheila is a Lagunatic and doesn’t get up to central OC more than twice a week, and Jim has been entertaining himself pretty frequently with other women he’s met at Sandy’s. All his friends therefore know about it, and he’s come to consider himself a free man, though Sheila might be surprised to hear it. But there’s not been a really comfortable time to discuss it with her, yet. He will soon. Meanwhile he fancies that his infidelities make him a little less The Fool in the eyes of his friends, a little more The Man of the World.

  And at the moment he isn’t thinking about any of that anyway. He’s forgotten Sheila, in fact, and if he’s thinking about friends, it’s only a vague underfeeling that he would be really impressive if allied with Virginia Novello.

  They talk for quite some time about the relative values of surfing and bodysurfing, and other philosophical issues of that sort. They go in and sit down on one of the long beige couches and drink more margaritas. They talk about Jim’s work, people they know in common, music groups they like. The party is getting emptier, only the old regulars left, Sandy and Angela’s actual friends. Sandy drops by and crouches at their feet to chat for a while. “Did Jim tell you about our attack on the parking lot?”

  “Yeah, I want to see this piece of ancient wood you liberated.”

  “Did you bring it, Jim?”

  “I’m having it made into the handle of my ping-pong paddle.” They laugh; he made a joke, apparently! This must really be his night.

  Tashi’s ally Erica stands over Sandy, grabs him by his long red ponytail and pulls. “Sandy, are you going to open the sauna and jacuzzi tonight?”

  “Yeah, haven’t I already? Man, what time is it? One?” The psycho grin grows impossibly wide, Sandy goggles at Erica with his lecher leer. “Come on along while I turn on the heat, you can test it out for me.”

  “Test what out for you?”

  Arms around each other they walk toward the sauna and jacuzzi room at the end of the ap, calling for Tash and Angela.

  “Want to jacuzzi?” Virginia asks Jim.

  “Sure,” he says coolly.

  They follow Sandy and Erica and Tash and Angela and Rose and Gabriela and Humphrey and one or two others down the hall and into the Jacuzzi room. Sandy snaps on light, water heater, sauna heater, water jets. The room is hot, humid, filled with Angela’s most tropical houseplants, hanging in a network of macramé. Redwood decking, redwood walls, domed skylight, big blue ceramic tile Jacuzzi bath: yes, Sandy and Angela live a good life. They go into the changing rooms and strip.

  Of course they do this often at Sandy’s place, social nudity is casual and no big deal at all. That’s why Jim’s left eye has gotten stuck looking straight into his nose, from trying to watch both Virginia and Erica undress at the same time. Surreptitious knuckle in there to free the poor thing
, for more looking you bet; video saturation has trained Jim, like everyone else, to a fine appreciation of the female image. Now when arms are crossed and those blouses come over those heads in a single fluid motion, breasts falling free, hair shaken out all over shoulders, the men exhale a happy connoisseur’s sigh. No doubt the women get a little peak in the readout too, moment of pseudotaboo exhibitionism here, quite a thrill just to Take It All Off in Front of Everybody, whoah, besides here’s all these wrestler/surfer muscles everywhere.… But it’s a casual scene, sure, of course, obviously.

  Naked, they go out into the Jacuzzi room and step into the bath. Rose and Gabriela, long-time allies, duck each other under the hot water. Steam and laughter fill the room. Debbie Riggs, Humphrey’s sister, comes in to find out what the noise is all about. The water’s too hot for Virginia and she sits dripping on the decking beside Jim. They all talk.

  Bodies. Wet skin over muscles. We all know the shapes.

  Ruddy light breaks in wet curls of hair.

  Wrestlers’ bodies, swimmers’ bodies, surfers’ bodies, spa bodies.

  Tall breasts, full from the collarbones down.

  Cocks float in the bubbles, snaking here and there, hello? hello?

  Hello?

  Curled pubic hair: equilateral eye magnets.

  Blink blink, blink blink, blink blink (in the brain).

  Virginia leans forward over powerful thighs to check one manicured and painted toenail. She’s gone for the muscly look, especially in arms and legs, although her lats show a lot of rowing and her abdominals a lot of sit-ups. It’s a nicely balanced look, refreshing after some of the other women’s extremism: Rose, for instance, who has left her upper body childlike while her bottom and legs are immensely strong, or Gabriela, who has bench presser’s pecs and campily big breasts over boyish hips and long slim legs … both just going with their original forms, both bizarrely attractive in their own ways; but there’s something to be said for moderation, the standard proportions taken to their perfect end point.