Looking for Przybylski

by K. C. Frederick

  “It takes a lot of work to build up a twelve-minute sketch,” Lennie says. “There’s a lot of trial and error. That’s where the comedy clubs come in. I can try things out there.”

  “Tell me one of your jokes,” Ziggy says.

  Lennie looks around suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

  “I’d just like to hear one,” Ziggy says.

  Lennie glances around once more, then leans toward Ziggy and whispers, “The place I used to live in was so crummy, even the cockroaches were wearing flea collars.”

  Ziggy laughs softly. “That’s pretty good,” he says. “Thanks.”

  The two of them drink their coffee in silence after that, taking in the scene around them: a couple of tough-looking women carry their coffee to a table, their jeans stuffed into their boots so that they look like aviators from the First World War. A scowling black man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a shaved head is reading a book in the corner. On the other side of the room, a furtive Hispanic man and woman are bent toward each other whispering, as if in prayer; and a preening young white guy in jeans whose tee-shirt sleeves are rolled up to call attention to his muscles, looks at the women and nods in response to something nobody’s said to him.

  “It’s hard to believe that trip’s really over,” Lennie says spiritlessly.

  Ziggy smiles. “Amen.”

  “All of a sudden I feel as if I’ve walked all the way from New York,” Lennie says, and Ziggy waits for more, but he finishes his coffee in silence.

  “Well,” Ziggy says after a while. “I guess here’s where we say adios.”

  “You’ve got that number I gave you?” Lennie asks. “Just in case you have any news about that undertaker of yours.”

  “Yeah,” Ziggy says. “Right.”

  Seconds later they shake hands and part company, possibly forever. Ziggy is alone in Los Angeles, and it occurs to him that now he has no one with whom he can talk about the trip he’s just taken who’d understand him. Is it just going to fade away then?

  He knows he has things to do and he ought to be doing them, but he isn’t ready yet for any purposeful action. Just now nobody in the world knows where he is, he’s completely out of touch, and it gives him an eerie feeling somewhere between giddiness and terror. Without any real sense of destination, he takes a walk around the area. Jesus, this is a seedy neighborhood, he thinks, but isn’t that where they always put the bus station? Still, it’s a different kind of seediness from what he knows in Detroit, though he can’t put his finger on that difference. As he makes his way down the street, he has the sense that there’s something off about this scene, and it isn’t just that there are palm trees out here. No, it’s more than that. It seems somehow too bright—he feels exposed on the wide, sunny streets—he keeps looking for shade, like an escaped convict fleeing the searchlight. No wonder they wear sunglasses all the time here.

  It’s only after a couple of seconds that he realizes he’s seen something out of the corner of his eye that makes him wish he’d been paying more attention: a guy who just turned the corner looked familiar for some reason. Then it strikes him: the Indian who harassed him in Chicago. Could it be? The thought pulls him up short. No, he decides, it was just someone of about the same general build, dressed like the Indian. A bum’s a bum, after all, and there are plenty of them all over.

  Still, maybe that Chicago Indian was right in his prophecy. It’s not that the trip turned out to be a disaster or anything like that. But Ziggy’s certainly feeling a letdown now that he’s here.

  There’s not much inducement for him to stay where he is, and he has to get some things settled soon, doesn’t he? All along he’s had the idea of crashing with Father Teddy as a way of at least postponing the time when he’ll have to stay with Charlie and Gloria, and he’d assumed it would be a done deal. Now, here in the dingy neighborhood surrounding the bus station, he realizes how cockeyed that idea might turn out to be. There are a thousand reasons why he might not be able to pull it off, beginning with the possibility that Teddy no longer lives at that address. Then what?

  Recognizing that if he’s going to find out, it’s better to do so sooner rather than later, he goes to a phone booth whose graffiti informs him that “Janna Sucks,” as well as listing a number “gerinteed” to provide a good time amid a clutch of names, some of them accompanied by crude drawings of animals and an occasional bit of Spanish. He pulls out of his wallet the piece of paper on which Father Bruno had written the address: “Teddy K., 605 Oceanside Lane, Venice CA 90291.” Luckily, a search through the phone book comes up with a number. A good sign! Then he steels himself to his next task and looks through the P’s for Przybylski. Nothing. He looks again, checking his spelling, and gets the same result. For an instant the bottom drops out of everything. If there’s no Przybylski in Los Angeles, what’s the point of his coming all the way out here? Of course, he might live in one of the suburbs. But why didn’t he try to find out this information when he was back in Detroit? Is it because that might have discouraged him from taking the trip when he really wanted to?

  All at once it’s very important that he get in touch with Father Teddy, who’s at least one connection to Detroit, one possible justification for this long trek of his. He lights up and dials, his hands shaking.

  The phone only rings once before it’s answered enthusiastically. “Yes, yes?” the man on the other end of the line practically croons, as if he’s been waiting all day to be informed that he’s just won the lottery. Ziggy hopes he isn’t going to disappoint him too much. “Teddy?” he says. “Father Teddy Krawek?”

  The voice he hears is suddenly filled with suspicion. “Who is this? What do you want?”

  Ziggy waits before going on. “It’s Ziggy Czarnecki from Detroit,” he says, trying to sound cordial. “St. Connie’s. I’m sure you must remember me.”

  It takes the other man several seconds to process the information, during which time Ziggy pulls down a long drag on his cigarette. “Yeah,” the voice responds at last, sounding a little relieved. “Sorry if I seemed suspicious. It’s just that it’s been a long time since anybody addressed me as a priest.” Then he adds, “Or called me Teddy.”

  “Sure, sure,” Ziggy says. “What do you call yourself now?”

  “Ted,” the man says. There are vague traces of the voice Ziggy remembers from Detroit, but even after only a few sentences he has the sense that some change has taken place: he doesn’t sound like a priest anymore.

  “Oh, OK,” Ziggy says. “It sounded as if you were expecting someone else when I called,” he offers tentatively.

  The ex-priest hesitates a moment before responding. “Yeah,” he admits. “I was hoping it was a woman.”

  A woman? This is a complication Ziggy hadn’t expected. “Ah,” he nods. “Your . . .” His voice trails off.

  “Yeah,” Ted answers. “We’ve been having our differences and I kind of hoped she was over it.” Ziggy watches the cars in the street. “By the way,” Ted says, “where are you?”

  “I’m here in Los Angeles, near the Greyhound station,” Ziggy answers, recognizing that they’ve come to a critical point. “I came on the bus. In fact,” he says, “that’s why I was calling you. I talked to Father Bruno not long ago and he mentioned you.”

  “Oh, how is old Bruno?” Ted asks.

  “He’s doing fine,” Ziggy says, though that wasn’t really the impression he’d got when he saw the priest. Ted says nothing more and Ziggy realizes he’s got to get to the point. “I was . . .” he starts, “I was hoping I might be able to stay with you a couple of days. You see, I have kind of a project I have to get finished here.” Having said it, he realizes how stupid it all sounds. Why couldn’t he have tried to settle some of these things in advance? He barely knows the ex-priest and he’s hitting him with quite a request out of the blue.

  It’s obvious Ted is thinking the same thing. For a long time he doesn’t say anything. At last he speaks. “This is kind of an awkward time, but . . . I
mean, my situation right now is kind of in flux . . .”

  The woman, of course. “I should have given you a little more warning,” Ziggy offers.

  Ted, though, doesn’t appear to be listening. “Well, yeah,” he says, as if to himself, “on the other hand, this might be just what the doctor ordered.” He considers this for a moment. “You see,” he goes on, “Linda moved out last week so I’ve got the room, at least for now.” Once more he’s silent. “And anything would be better than living alone again,” he says after a while. Uh-oh, Ziggy thinks, am I going to have to hold hands with him to get him through his loneliness? But at least it sounds promising. “And, who knows,” the other man’s voice suddenly lifts, “maybe if I’ve got someone staying with me, she’ll decide to come back. Hah, that’s the kind of problem I wouldn’t mind having. Yeah,” he says with more conviction, “sure. Where are you? Oh, yeah, you said: near the bus station. The one downtown?”

  When Ziggy explains his situation, Ted tells him he’ll be there in a half hour. “I’ll be driving a green Valiant,” he says.

  He’s as good as his word, though he’d have been more accurate if he’d described his car as a beat-up green Valiant. There are a few dents on the driver’s side of the car, which may be ten years old and probably hasn’t been washed since it was bought. But then, Ziggy thinks, I wasn’t really expecting a shiny new Cadillac.

  Ted bounds out of the car. He’s wearing chinos and a faded blue tee shirt. “Ziggy, it’s good to see you,” he says with some of the old priestly affability, though it’s in fact an awkward moment, the two of them not really having been friends in the old days, and they shake hands formally. Looking at the man with the short gray beard, you’d never guess his former profession. In his fifties now, he’s become pudgier with the years, softer, with pouches under his eyes; his sideburns are low and his thin sandy hair has been allowed to grow long. Father Teddy, a hippie? Still, once his greeting is over, something flickers in his gray eyes that reminds Ziggy of the boyish priest of decades ago, the look of someone who’s lost something and isn’t sure whether he wants to find it.

  Ziggy, who should have guessed it from the phone call, finds out right away that Ted isn’t shy about talking about his life. On the way to his place he manages to cover a lot of ground, detailing his various travels and jobs since he left the priesthood. He’s been a janitor, he tells Ziggy proudly, a coffee roaster and a telemarketer. Currently he’s working part-time at a used bookstore in Santa Monica called Old Words.

  “You probably want to know why I’m not a priest anymore,” he suggests.

  In truth, Ziggy could live without that particular piece of information, but he can see that Ted wants to be asked. “Sure,” he says.

  “Ah,” Ted’s voice goes a little dreamy, “that’s a kind of mystery, isn’t it?” He’s silent for a time, and Ziggy can imagine he’s remembering those days. “There are times when I wake up,” he goes on, “and it’s as if a breeze comes from a certain direction bringing some kind of smell—maybe incense,” he laughs to himself, “and I find myself missing all that majesty, the . . . the bigness of life, the drama of salvation.” He shakes his head. “Why did I leave it? I guess in the end I lost the talent for it.” He’s quiet for a moment. “It was like playing an instrument. I used to be able to play it beautifully, I could play it naturally, and then all at once I lost the gift. So I had to say goodbye to the majesty, but what I’ve found is fine, it’s not negligible, is it, life?”

  Ziggy can only shake his head. Staying with this guy may be harder than he thought.

  “It’s actually a dream I’ve had,” Ted goes on. “I’m on stage and sometimes I’m holding a horn, sometimes it’s a violin, and the audience is waiting for me to play but the instrument is totally alien to me—I literally don’t know which end is up.” He sighs. “Linda says it’s important to work these issues out in dreams. Sorry,” he says at last, “I guess your being here just brings up all those old memories.”

  Ziggy’s been paying attention to the exit signs on the freeway and notes that they’re getting off in Santa Monica, where Ted said he works. They move along a wide bright roadway until at last they come to the ocean, and Ted turns left onto a street that’s separated from the Pacific by a park with vivid green grass and tall palms whose trunks are covered with a rough bark as they climb toward feather-duster tops far above. But Ziggy’s eyes are carried beyond the palms to the Pacific itself, a vast sheet of blue spread out below them, sunlight and ocean as far as the eye can see. He’s seen plenty of pictures, of course, he’s seen it in the movies, but the reality takes his breath away.

  “I thought we’d come this way,” Ted says. “It’s nicer.”

  Ziggy’s barely listening, caught up in the sense that he’s looking at the western ocean for the first time. Can it really be true that the first bit of land you’d bump into out there would be Hawaii? And if you kept on going you’d wind up in Asia. Whatever he’d come to California looking for, at least he’s got this.

  Soon they’re in Venice, which is considerably less tidy than Santa Monica. There are many canals, though, which vaguely remind Ziggy of his long-lost place on Harsens Island. Ted turns away from the canals and pulls up in front of a tiny bungalow, like something out of a children’s story, with not only a scruffy palm tree that’s dropped some of its dead fronds onto the lawn, but also, among the fronds, an old brown sofa, which is pretty much in keeping with the décor of other places Ziggy’s seen in this neighborhood—where furniture and sculpture abound on people’s lawns.

  “Be it ever so humble,” Ted says, ushering him in. The place is even smaller once Ziggy’s inside, a fact that’s exaggerated by the abundance of plants that crowd the room. In pots on the floor, on windowsills, hanging by cloth holders from the ceiling, they turn the room into a jungle. Ziggy’s never seen so many plants outside of a greenhouse and Ted quickly explains that this is Linda’s influence. “She’s got a passion for living things,” he says, “a real gift.” Then he adds, “Linda saved my life.” Ziggy nods, still marveling at the idea of the former priest caught up in romantic tangles like everyone else.

  It’s clear Ted wants to talk about this Linda, and Ziggy asks, “Linda’s the woman you’re having a fight with?”

  Ted runs his hand through his hair. “Oh, not so much a fight as . . . I guess, we’re temporarily out of alignment.” He smiles. “Linda’s a very passionate person and she can be pretty volatile.” He seems to want to say more but suddenly breaks off. “Look, you don’t mind sleeping on the sofa, do you?” he says, and Ziggy’s first thought is that he means the one on the lawn; but he sees another, just as beat-up, in the room. The rest of the furniture is a mismatched jumble of styles that might have been picked up at yard sales. Bright strips of red and yellow cloth with bold designs hang on opposite walls.

  “Sure,” Ziggy nods.

  “I thought maybe we’d go for a little walk along the beach,” Ted says once Ziggy’s settled. “It’ll help you get oriented to the neighborhood.”

  As they walk along the paved strip in the sand, accompanied by other pedestrians as well as bicyclists, roller-skaters and skateboarders, Ziggy listens and takes in his surroundings. In the dazzling light, his eyes keep being pulled out over the large stretch of sand to the ocean, but his gaze constantly returns to something closer at hand. Women in the scantiest of bikinis are stretched out on blankets, their dark skin glistening; a couple of blond young guys in baggy shorts carry surfboards like African tribesmen advancing behind their shields, while in an enclosed area a clutch of shirtless muscle-bound men, oblivious to everything that’s going on around them, pump iron, their animal grunts accompanying the clang of metal. A pair of young guys with shaved heads and dressed like Asian monks are chanting something in a language that isn’t English. Kites of all shapes soar in the blue sky high above, their colorful tails fluttering behind them. Ziggy’s suddenly assaulted by the smell of sun tan lotion and Mexican food, mixing with the briny
tang of the ocean. A warm breeze strokes his bare arms, occasionally carrying bits of sand. Who’d have believed Ziggy if he’d have told them he’d be walking along a beach in California with Father Teddy Krawek, once a sanctimonious asshole and now an aging hippie who can’t stop talking about his girlfriend?

  Ted has been explaining his situation to Ziggy: he and Linda have been living together for about a year. “We’ve had these conflicts before,” he says. “Basically, she needs her space and I respect that in her.”

  “What are you two fighting about?” Ziggy asks, thinking that these things seem to be a lot more complicated these days.

  Ted shakes his head. “It’s stupid, really. She wanted us to go on this weekend retreat run by this guru who calls himself Dev Shakramuti. I told her I thought the guy was a phony and she actually agreed, but by that time the whole conflict wasn’t even about that anymore. She accused me of throwing my weight around—me, can you believe it?” He sighs and Ziggy watches a plane climb over the Pacific. “Well, I’ve known Linda long enough to understand that once one of these dramas gets started, it has to play out to the end.” He smiles. “I didn’t always know that. You know, I was pretty close to despair when I met her.” He’s silent a while, working something through in his head. “Well,” he says at last, “I guess I have to play the bad guy in this story. It isn’t fair, but it’s going to be OK.” He looks at Ziggy. “Boy, have I learned a lot about human relations from Linda. I’d have been a better priest if I knew then what I know now.”

  They walk on in silence until Ziggy says, “You still miss those days, you said?”

  Ted shrugs. “I can’t go back. I know that. I miss the certainty sometimes, I guess.” He shakes his head. “But, no, I couldn’t go back there now.”

  Clearly, what he can go back to with enthusiasm is talking about Linda. She grew up in a middle-sized city in Ohio, he tells Ziggy. “She was young and starry-eyed like a lot of us, she married too early and walked right into a disaster. Fred, her husband, was someone who was vain and insecure, and because he was so scared he wouldn’t measure up, he had to be in charge, he was a know-it-all. Of course, given the way she was raised, Linda felt it was her job to support him by agreeing with him even when she knew he was full of it. Apparently he went from job to job, mostly in sales of some kind, and he had to get himself pumped up, usually at her expense. In the end, for all the support Linda gave him, he accused her of undercutting his confidence. The creep had the gall to use that as an excuse to justify his affair with one of his prospective clients.