by John O'Brien
He deals first with the generic things, things that, when scattered, will bear no reflection of him or his life. Methodically each book on his shelf is inspected for clues about its owner, a handwritten name: If found, return to…, a penned inscription: With love to Ben, who has always enjoyed Fuk-en-her., or a shopping list, a note, forgotten by his wife: grapefruit, six-pack or sale twelve, chicken + ? OK?—call B. These details, when found, are removed and the book packed neatly in a box. Pans, lamps, old clothes, things that are usable but have limited value are boxed with the books. Boxes run out and bags take over. Desk accessories, tools, a phone, a vacuum cleaner, an old television—like the Grinch stealing Christmas, Ben stuffs the bulk of his belongings into jumbo plastic trash bags and stuffs the bags into his car. Trip by trip, hour by hour, he delivers his ex-stuff to local organizations. Goodwill gets some, a Venice halfway house receives kitchen utensils and a TV, men wandering the boardwalk are enriched with clothes and canned food to add to their already overloaded shopping carts, an acquaintance down the street scores a stereo and a quick explanation that Ben is leaving town in a hurry to take a new job in Denver. Ben labors into the night, glass at his side and refreshed by his own industriousness. Bags are left outside the gates of closed charities. A neighbor boy sleeps, unaware that he is now the owner of a slightly used French ten speed bicycle which, newly polished, sits bearing a note on the back porch. On and on, he works as much out of compulsion as out of thoughtfulness, for he cannot bear to see waste, much less generate it. Also, his cause is well served. So separated from him and each other, his possessions no longer have a story to tell. They are reduced to elements, building blocks of a modern American existence. No longer parts summing into a whole, they are without collective meaning, an eraser mark on the page of his life.
His energy is there for him, running with him, high and constant. For him there is a grim thrill in this crystallization of intent. Just as a woman will break an engagement by returning the ring, it is this activity, this thing to be done, that is calling together for Ben all his recent meandering. Motion, long absent and now that much more refreshing, motion toward his future is what he is generating. The rush is tangible and of such intensity so as to preclude abstract considerations of backward and forward, to and from, growth and death. These terms are not of the moment; arguably, they are not of any moment. This tapestry which he is unraveling never really told a story to begin with; it was always non-figurative and woven without volition.
Very drunk, but well fueled with purpose, he turns to the more detailed task of purging the very personal things. He builds a small fire in the brazier on his patio. In goes the amateur artwork, that he has created: the photographs, a carved piece of pine, a watercolor painted over a love poem to his wife, a story he had written. In goes his file drawer: the medical records, the ten-forty copies, the car repair receipts, the warranties, the birth and marriage certificates. In goes the scrapbook: the polaroids of parties, the postcards from Hawaii, the totem-pole-esque strips of vending machine photos carried away from arcades and fairs. He scoops out the accumulated debris and ashes; then, using charcoal lighter, and in an effort not so much to destroy as to ruin, to render worthless, he tosses into the flames those things that he will not keep, but doesn’t want anyone else to possess: his camera, his motorcycle jacket, his wife’s left-behind clothes, a clock purchased in Paris, a rosewood cigar box crafted by his father, a pair of binoculars brought away from World War Two by his grandfather, his engraved stationery, gifts with too much meaning to live on without him, purchased art that he can finally possess only by effecting its destruction. More cleaning of ashes, then it burns on—a fire in the gestalt. He works, it burns, until the task is done and the fire itself is gone.
It is morning. He calls his landlord: he will be out of the apartment by the end of the month, big new job in Denver. He’s sorry about the short notice, but he won’t be needing his security deposit back. The place will be clean, but would it be okay if he left behind a few pieces of furniture? He’s sure that the balance due him will more than cover the cost of having it hauled away. He’s grateful for everything and wishes good luck. A loose end is tied.
Apart from his bed and some heavy furniture, what remains, what he owns, what’s left, fits into a suitcase. Ben looks around himself, surveying the apartment. The job has been well done. How right, he thinks, that what I have done so well here is to undo. And indeed, he continues to be a tireless architect of his own undoing.
After a nap he decides on a late lunch of gin and an apple, which seems to go down more easily than vodka and a green pepper did; he is able to eat two sections of the apple. Though there is no longer any reason for him to stay in Los Angeles—he has long since forsaken any friends that he may have had here—he is still reluctant, almost apprehensive, to leave for Las Vegas. It may be simply that he knows that the five hour drive, once just an overgrown commute to him, will be difficult if not hellish in his present condition. More likely he is experiencing an unaddressed second thought, irrational anxiety born from his cognizance that this is to be a one way trip, and if he can avoid the final journey he can avoid the final destination. But in fact he is already well along on this trip, and going to Las Vegas is merely kindling a fire that is even now raging. He will go soon, he wants to. Tonight is here however, and so he cleans up and heads out for the bars. In the mood to pay four and five dollars for each drink, he has donned his suit. He finds nothing more entertaining than bars in overpriced chichi restaurants. A lone alcoholic, albeit well-dressed and formerly good-looking, he will embarrass the rude staff and intrigue the young girls who are always in search of cocaine and Porsches.
And so he finds himself at such a place in Malibu. After the breezy drive up the coast he is ready for this, his last night in LA. He has never been to this place, and the white smocked bartenders have never seen him. He is grateful to sit and drink anonymously; he will enjoy this aspect of Vegas. There was a time when he nurtured his stature as a regular in bars all over Los Angeles. He would make special trips out to bars that he had been away from simply to reaffirm his familiarity. He enjoyed being called by name, having his drink order predicted, or at least guessed at. But now he is known to those places as a pathetic drunk. Like the incident at the bar in Venice, he must now endure judgment as part of his bar tab. They hate to see him. They roll their eyes. They shake their heads. Serving him has become a moral question for bartenders that once poured liquor into his glass freely. On me! they would exclaim, and marvel at his ability to drink enormous quantities and never give a hint of intoxication. He was a star. Now he is a case.
It is early in the evening. He is still riding a wave of purpose and has the extra internal energy to prove it. His head is not yet drooping. He doesn’t appear to be brooding over his drink. So, if one can look past the bloated condition of his face, Ben looks okay, even rather dashing, sitting confidently at the marble bar, looking like someone who knows what he’s doing, like someone who is bearing up under unreasonable pain. This vision is not lost on an attractive woman in her thirties who has entered the bar alone and taken a seat on the opposite side from Ben. She watches him through a jungle of chrome-spouted bottles, hoping to catch his eye. When she does, realizing that this may be her only communication with him, she gives him a meaningful, somehow profound smile.
It is a remarkable smile, extremely familiar but without a trace of professionalism, and Ben wonders at its intensity. It is a touch, a piece of communication. The smile she gives to him is a daring embrace. It pleads for an answer. It is a gamble. It is an affirmation of humanity. It is a sympathetic speech that is intended to cut through the fact of where they are and suggest where they could be. It says: You may be able to save my life, I know that I can save yours. It says: I know that you know me, I know you. It is shrouded in abysmal despair, and yet remains hopeful. It is an assertion of strength; it craves but does not need. Ben comprehends it all, yet finds himself unable to respond. Locked in a ci
rcle of logical inaccessibility, he thinks: I am not good enough to be with you, and because I will not be with you, I am not good enough. His gaze instantly assumes a downward cant. The girl, having not yet received her order, leaves. Too much has transpired. The bartender, holding her drink, looks around the room for her. Ben calls him over and explains that the girl, a friend of his, had to leave suddenly. Ben pays for her drink.
In the face of this further confirmation of his inability to perform a function, to have a value, he swings moodily downward. An angel from the city of… came to see him on his last night in her town, and all he could do was look at his glass. The evening’s adventure has been pretty much ruined, for he was just offered the grand prize, and he turned away. Given that, what exactly should he be looking forward to? He doubts that even a cheerful chat with Camus, an existential pep talk, could inspire him to endure this particular absurdity.
Having properly set himself up now, he plunges wildly back into his liquor, ordering and reordering at a feverish pace, and drinking a quantity that is unusually high, even for him. He finds himself buying rounds for brief acquaintances at the bar, who down them quickly and move along to dinner or to another seat though they are not quite sure what it is about him that has frightened them. Despite all that he is consuming he is keeping to the right of the line and not becoming overtly obnoxious. Tonight is plastic night and he wants everyone to share the wealth. He will discreetly inebriate LA; it will be his going away party. When he senses people noticing his behavior at one bar, he simply signs the invoice and drives down the road to another. Amused, he thinks that this may be how they ultimately find his corpse, a trail of American Express charges leading right up to the final room service bottle of bourbon clutched in one stiff fist, his heart in the other. Even in his death, no doubt, he will haunt Amex, causing them to be charged the additional fees incurred in getting his rotting stink out of the hotel room. Tonight he has many stops to make before going home, and home is the last stop before Vegas. Tomorrow he will move away from his mailbox, and since he has always been so meticulous about paying his bill in the past, American Express won’t even think twice about a couple of months without a payment. He’ll be wearing a tag on his toe long before the first computer-generated letters start arriving at his last known address. Bar after bar, the rooms fade into each other, and all turn eventually into sand, as he loses his grip and blacks out.
He awakens on a hard cold floor; it is wet. His eyes see only white. As consciousness returns, more or less fully, he realizes that he is on the floor of a public rest room, his head in a urinal. There is sand on the floor, and looking around, he sees that it is one of the public beach rest rooms. Very nice. Sitting up he finds himself still in one piece, unmolested and unrobbed; in any case, his big money is safe at home. Stiffly he stands. He rinses his mouth and splashes his face. Outside, the recently risen sun reveals his car, alone in a parking lot about a hundred yards away. The keys are in his pocket, along with a wad of blue American Express receipts. He is amazed at how well he is taking this. A year ago, if he had found himself sleeping in a urinal, he probably would have committed suicide on the spot—death by grossness. Instead he goes back into the rest room and cleans up as well as he can. He recognized a restaurant up on the road; he is just south of Malibu.
He gets up to his car and pulls out onto the coast highway. He’ll head for home, to shower and rest and get his stuff, and then drive to Las Vegas. He makes a mental note to call ahead and get a room, as he’ll no doubt need a bed as soon as he hits town. A bed, not a urinal, he thinks, that sort of thing has got to stop before it gets worse… worse? First he needs a drink. It is early so, thinking that he will have to make do with a six-pack for now, he looks for a market. But apparently his luck is holding; he sees a bona fide fully liquor-licensed restaurant that is serving breakfast. The banner reads: Hair-of-the-shark special. Two eggs, Two strips of bacon, Two pieces of toast, and Two marys, screws, or hounds. Your choice. Bloody marys, screwdrivers, or greyhounds—breakfast of carrion, he thinks, pulling into the lot.
“Hi. Have you had a chance to look at the menu?” says a bouncy young ponytailed girl, pencil at the ready. Ben is seated on the sunny patio, and the waitress is politely ignoring the fact that he is, at best, disheveled.
He envies her seemingly happy life, her willingness to stay ignorant of his miserable condition. He keeps getting whiffs of urine from, he guesses, his own face, and hopes she doesn’t notice; but again, he’s not as mortified about it as he ought to be. Perhaps this is how the mind starts going. An early warning sign of mental illness: the subject readily accepts the odor of piss on his own face.
“Good Morning,” he says, “I would like a piece of dry white toast and two double Bombay-tonics, please.” He awaits her reaction. Inside he feels anxiety rearing its nasty little head. He knows that he is still well-loaded from last night, but just the same its time for more. Now.
“That’s all?” she asks, getting it all down. Surprisingly, she is not surprised. Perhaps she is not as young as she looks.
“That’s it for now,” he says. “Oh, you do take American Express here, right?”
“Yes sir, sure do.” For some reason, she beams with this information. “But there is a ten dollar minimum.”
“No problem,” he says, urine assailing his nostrils. “Could you point me to the rest room? I’ve had a little accident.”
She picks up his menu. “Right down there,” she says, pointing.
He gets up, and with difficulty, walks. The rich odor from the coffee machine reaches him and momentarily replaces the foul smells of his night. He hears a sea gull scream, feels a cool ocean breeze. He already misses Los Angeles, the whole fucking place.
lemons
Her first sensation is thirst; then she feels wet. Her bed is saturated with sweat, so much that it could be wrung from the sheets, and it has grown cold and terribly uncomfortable during the night. It is her sweat, and though she hates the way it feels, against and alienated from her skin, she remains where she is, staring at the ceiling and vaguely wondering why the cracks in the plaster no longer bother her. Al, her old and new lover, occupies the place next to her. Still asleep, the expression on his face is one of garlic aplomb. His eyes are deep in their sockets, as if in retreat from too many miles witnessed. Sera’s eyes do not move; her mouth is dry and open. The bed is cold, wet, and fucked-up, and she wonders if it isn’t time to get out of it; indeed, the sun is already stale in the sky.
Awakening two hours later, Al finds her lying next to him. The wetness of the bed delivers its message to him, and he secretly revels in the fact that he can still create this much terror in her. Safely on his target, he now admits to himself his recent doubts about his power over her. Clearly it continues to exist; she remains his possession.
“I missed you, Sera. You have been lonely,” he says, master of the assertive question.
She blinks and turns her head to him—two motions. “I’m older now, Al.”
“But still a flower. Why such a little home? Why such a little life?” He slides his hand under the sheet and grasps firmly between her legs, his large hand easily encompassing her, meeting neither resistance nor acceptance. “You have been lonely.”
Suddenly the cracked plaster on the ceiling makes sense. She has been lonely. His voice makes sense. This voice from so long ago—she was so young and clean then, had never been bruised—makes sense, could almost be soothing. She feels so many blanks, so many vacant strings of thought. “I’ve been all right,” she says.
“You don’t look like you have been all right, flower. You have bruises on your face. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you. I have been trying to keep an eye on you for the last week, but I also had other business. This will not happen again. I will keep you safe.” He rolls to her side and whispers, “We are both older. You have been lonely.”
The flow of sweat resumes; she has never been so thirsty. “I am lonely, Al.”
�
�Yes,” he says, mounting her, “so am I.” And later: “I am very hungry, Sera. We must discuss things as you make my breakfast.”
Sera expressionless and Al indifferent, they sit at her little table and eat, he more than she; in fact, she not at all.
“I cannot stay here with you, Sera. At least not until you find a larger apartment. We will have the money—you know how much money I can bring you—and we will find a big apartment… no, a condominium! I like it here in Las Vegas. I have not been here for years—since before I knew you. But I like it. I think we can make a fortune again here.” Taking a bite of food, he smiles hungrily at her. “You are sly! You knew all along that there was money here, didn’t you?” Protracted, pensive chewing, a swallow, then: “Why else would you have run away.”
She tenses and looks down at her cold food. Will he hurt me now?
As before in the bed, he can smell her fear, and it is enough. This is all he needs, just a little confirmation. He laughs, “No… I told you that you have nothing to fear from me. Just accept me, Sera. We belong together.”
Not knowing what else to do, she nods. She thinks to smile, and does that; she used to do that a lot. Apart from these little gestures, she has no idea what to do or how to behave. She decides to sit still and wait for his cue. Beyond that it’s just fog.
“What I wish to tell you is this: I must move into one of the hotels—temporarily, of course. I need some time to establish new contacts for us. Also, you can see that these are not the sort of surroundings I am accustomed to. You know, I truly belong in wealth and luxury. You will call this morning and find a suite for me in one of the tall buildings. Perhaps the Sahara would be best. I remember it from my last trip. It is not the mockery that some of the newer hotels are.”