He dozed. Came to. Dozed. And then, out of some beaten fog of a dream, he heard footsteps crunching gravel, a yip from Pal, and a voice—Sky’s voice—raised in song: “Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus, right down Santa Claus Lane.”
Knitsy stirred, and they both came up simultaneously into the bewilderment of the day. Her hair was bunched on one side, her dress torn at the collar to reveal a stained thermal T-shirt beneath it. A warm, brewing odor rose from her. She looked at Raymond and her eyes retreated into her head.
Sky was standing over them now, a silver twelve-pack of beer in each hand. “Hey, you two lovebirds, Christmas came early this year,” he said, handing a can first to Raymond, then Knitsy. The can was cold; the top peeled back with a hiss. Raymond didn’t want a beer—he wanted to clean up his act, go back to Dana and beg her to let him in, if only for a shower and a shave and a change of clothes so he could go back to his boss—his ex-boss, the smug, fat, self-satisfied son of a bitch who’d canned him because he had a couple of drinks and came back late from lunch once or twice—and grovel at his feet, at anybody’s feet, because he was out of money and out of luck and this was no way to live. But he took that beer and he thanked Sky for it, and for the next one after that, and before long the sun got caught in the trees and every single thing, every little detail, seemed just as fine as fine could be.
WHEN THE BEER was gone and he could taste nothing in his throat but the rinsed-out metallic sourness of it, he pushed himself up and stood unsteadily in the high weeds. Judging from the sun, it must have been past noon, not that it mattered, because Dana didn’t get home from work till five and if he went over there and tried the door or the windows or even sat out back in the lawnchair, the old lady next door would have the cops on him in a heartbeat. She was his enemy, in collusion with Dana, and the two of them were out to destroy him, he saw that much now. And what had he done to deserve it? He’d got drunk a couple times, that was all, and when Dana came needling at him, he’d defended himself—with his hands, not his fists, his hands—and she’d gone running next door to Mrs. Ruiz and Mrs. Ruiz had called the cops for her. So he couldn’t go there, not till Dana came home, and even then it was a stretch to think she’d open the door to him, but what choice did he have?
There was a smell of menthol on the air, and he couldn’t place it at first, until he looked down and saw the litter of eucalyptus buds scattered underfoot, every one a perfectly formed little nugget awaiting a layer of dirt and a little rain. They were beautiful in their way, all these silver nuggets spread out before him like spare change, and he fumbled open his fly and gave them a little dose of salts and urea to help them along, a real altruist, a nature boy all the way. Was he laughing? Yes, sure he was, and why not? Nature boy. “There was a boy, a very strange and something boy,” he sang, and then he was singing “Here Comes Santa Claus,” because Sky had put it in his head and he couldn’t get it out.
Beyond the railroad tracks was the freeway, and he could hear the continuous rush of tires like white noise in the background of the film that was his life, a confused film begun somewhere in the middle with a close-up of his dangling empty hands and pulling back for a shot of Knitsy passed out on the tarp, her head thrown back and her mouth hanging open so you could see that at least at some point in her life she’d been to the dentist. Pal wasn’t in the frame. Or Sky either. Half an hour ago he’d slipped a couple of beers in his pockets, whistled for the dog, and headed up the tracks in the direction of the pier. Raymond looked off down the tracks a long moment, looked to Knitsy, sprawled there in the weeds as if she’d been flung off the back of the train as it roared by—Lovebirds? What in Christ’s name had Sky meant by that?—then started up the slope to where the rails burned in the light.
He wasn’t a bum and he wasn’t a drunk, not the way these others were, and he kept telling himself that as he made his way along the tracks, lit up on Sky’s beer under the noonday sun that was peeling the skin off the tip of his nose. He’d always had a place to stay, always fended for himself, and that was the way it was going to be this time too. All it was was a binge, and the binge was over—it was over now—even if he didn’t want it to be. He was out of money, and that was that. He was going to walk into town, find the unemployment office, and put in an application, and then he was going to see if he could patch things up with Dana, at least until he could collect his first check and find himself a room someplace—and no sense kidding himself, Dana was nothing but a pain in the ass, dragging him down with her bourbon, bourbon, bourbon, and he was through with her. Finally and absolutely. He didn’t even like bourbon. Please. Give him vodka any day.
The tracks swept around a bend ahead and followed a trestle over the boulevard that ran along the beach, and he was thinking he didn’t want to risk the trestle—you were always reading about somebody getting hit by a train out here, the last time a deaf-mute who couldn’t hear the whistle, and that was pathetic—when he saw a figure approaching him in the distance. It was Dougie—or Droogie—and he had something in his hand, a pole or a stick, that caught the sun in a metallic shimmer. When he got closer, Raymond saw that it was a length of pipe ripped out of one of the public restrooms in the park or lifted from a construction site, and Dougie kept swinging it out away from his body and clapping it back in again as if he were trying to tenderize the flesh of his leg. He stopped ten feet from Raymond, and Raymond stopped too. “You seen Knitsy? Because I’m going to kill the bitch.”
Raymond didn’t answer. The beer had made him slow.
“What are you, deaf, motherfucker? I said, you seen Knitsy?”
It took him a minute, staring into the slits of the man’s eyes as if he could find the answer there. He was conflicted. He was. But the pipe focused his attention. “I don’t know, I think she’s”—he gestured with a jerk of his head—“back there, you know, in the trees back there.”
The man took a step closer and swiped at the near rail with the pipe till it clanged and clanged again. “Son of a bitch. It’s Sky, then, right? She’s with Sky? Because I’m going to kill his ass too.”
Raymond didn’t have anything to say to this. He just shrugged and moved on, even as Dougie cursed at his back. “I won’t forget you either, you sorry son of a bitch. Payback time, I’m telling you, payback,” but Raymond just kept going, all the way down the tracks and across the trestle and into town. It was nothing to him. He was out of this. He was gone. Let them work it out among themselves, that’s what he figured.
HE WAITED till six, when he was sure she’d be there, and walked up the familiar street with its kids and dogs and beat-up cars and the men home from work and sitting out on the porch with a beer to take in the lingering sun, another day down, a job well done and a beer well deserved. Nobody waved to him, nobody said a word or even looked at him twice, and you would have thought he’d never lived here, never paid rent or electric bills or brought back a distillery’s worth of bourbon in the plastic two-liter jug, night after night for a year and more. All right. Well, fuck them. He didn’t need them or anybody else, except maybe Dana and a little sympathy. A shower, a shave, a couple of bucks to get him back on his feet again, that was all, because he’d had enough of sleeping in the bushes like some vagrant.
The only problem was, Dana wasn’t home. He didn’t hear the buzz of the TV she switched on the minute she came in the door and kept going till she passed out in front of it at midnight, or the canned diarrhea of the easy-listening crap she played on the radio in the kitchen all the time. He knocked. Rang the buzzer. Leaned out away from the porch to cup his hands over the shifting mirror of the front window and peer inside. But by this time Mrs. Ruiz was out on her own porch, twenty feet away, giving him an uncompromising look out of her flat black old-lady’s eyes.
He thought of the Wildcat then—that’s where she’d be, sitting at the bar with one of her hopeless, titanic, frizzy-haired friends from work with their dried-blood fingernails and greasy lipstick, knocking back bourbon and wat
er as if they were afraid Prohibition was going to start up again at the stroke of the hour. It would be a walk—two miles, at least, but he was used to walking since his last DUI, and he had nothing better to do. The afternoon had been an exercise in futility, because by the time he got to the head of the line at the unemployment office he realized he was wearing the pussy hat (no choice, what with the state of his hair) and that they’d probably laugh him out of the place, so he just turned around and walked out the door. He was hungry—he hadn’t put anything on his stomach since the pizza the night before—but he wouldn’t go to the soup kitchen or the mission or whatever it was. That was were the bums went, and he was no bum, not yet anyway. Once the effects of the beer wore off, he wanted a drink, but without money or an ATM card or a bank account to go with it, he just couldn’t see how he was going to get one. For a while there he’d lingered in the back of the liquor department at the grocery store, thinking to liberate something from the cooler, but they had television monitors mounted on the walls and a vigilant little smooth-skinned guy with a mustache and a tie who kept asking if he could help him find anything, and that was probably the low point of his day. Till now. Because now he just backed down off the porch, shot Mrs. Ruiz a look of burning hate, and started walking.
There was some coming and going at the Wildcat, people milling around the door in schools like fish, like barracuda—or no, like guppies, bloated and shining with all their trumped-up colors—but he peered in the window and didn’t see Dana there at the bar. In the off chance she was in the ladies’ or in the back room, he went in to have a look for himself. She wasn’t there. It was crowded, though, the speakers were putting out music and there was a pervasive rising odor of rum and sour mix that brought him back to happier times, like the week before last. He took the opportunity to duck into the men’s and wash some of the grit off his face and hands and smooth back the gray-flecked scrub of a beard that made him look about sixty years old, though he was only thirty-two—or no, thirty-three. Thirty-three, last birthday. He thought to reverse the hat, too, just for the sake of respectability, and then he stood at the bar awhile, hoping somebody would turn up and stand him a couple of drinks. Nobody did. Steve, the bartender, asked him if he wanted anything, and he asked Steve if he’d seen Dana. Yeah, she’d been in earlier. Did he want anything?
“Double vodka on the rocks.”
“You going to pay for it this time?”
“When did I never pay?”
There was a song on he hated. Somebody jostled him, gave him a look. Steve didn’t answer.
“Can I put it on Dana’s tab?”
“Dana doesn’t have a tab. It’s cash only, my friend.”
He got loud then, because he wanted that drink, and they knew him, didn’t they? What did they think he was, some kind of dead-beat or something? But when Steve came out from behind the bar he felt it all go out of him in a long hissing rush of air. “All right,” he said. “Okay, I hear you,” and then he was back out on the street.
His feet hurt. He was at the tail end of a week-long drunk and he felt sick and debilitated, his stomach clenched around a hard little ball of nothing, his head full of beating wings, the rasp of feathers, a hiss that was no sound at all. Dana was out there somewhere—it wasn’t that big a town, a grid of palmy streets configured around the tourist haven of the main drag, and a bar and T-shirt shop on every corner—and if he could only find her, go down on his knees to her, abase himself, beg and whine and lie and wheedle, she would relent, he knew she would. He was heading back up the street with the appealing idea of forcing a back window at the house, climbing in, making a sandwich and washing it down with bourbon and just crawling into bed and let come what will, when he spotted Dana’s car in the lot behind the movie theater.
That was her car, no doubt about it, a ravaged brown Corolla with a rearranged front bumper and the dark slit at the top of the passenger’s side window where it wouldn’t roll up all the way. He crossed the street, sidled through the lot like any other carefree moviegoer and casually worked his arm through the crack of the window till he caught the handle and popped open the door. There was change in the glove compartment, maybe twelve or thirteen dollars’ worth of quarters, dimes and nickels—and one Sacajawea dollar—she kept there against emergencies, and it took him no more than thirty seconds to scoop it up and weigh down his pockets. Then he relocked the door, eased it shut and headed back down the block, looking for the nearest liquor store.
IT WAS GETTING DARK when he made his way down to the beach, hoping to find Sky there, singing one of his Christmas songs, singing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” or “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus,” singing just for the sheer joy of it, because every day was Christmas when you had your SSI check in your pocket and an ever-changing cast of lubricated tourists to provide you with doggie bags of veal piccata and a fistful of change. He had a pint of Popov in one hand and a Big Mac in the other, and he was alternately taking a swig from the bottle and a bite of the sandwich, feeling good all over again. A police cruiser came down the street as he was crossing at the light, but the bottle was clothed in its brown paper bag and the eyes of the men behind the windshield passed over him as if he didn’t exist.
The cool breath of a breeze rode up off the water. He could hear the waves lifting and falling against the plane of the beach with a low reverberant boom, could feel the concussion radiating through the worn-out soles of his sneakers and up into his feet and ankles like a new kind of friction. The parking lot was deserted, five cars exactly, and the gulls had taken over as if he’d walked into that other movie, the Hitchcock one, what was it called? With Tippi Hedren? They were grouped at the edge of the pavement, a hundred of them or more, pale and motionless as statues. “Tippi, Tippi, Tippi,” he said aloud. “The Tipster.” There was a smell of iodine and whatever the tide had brought in.
He went from fire to fire on the beach, shared a swig of vodka in exchange for whatever the huddled groups were drinking, saw the guy with the broken glasses—Herbert, his name was Herbert—and a few other faces he vaguely recognized, but no Sky and no Pal. The night was clear, the stars alive and spread over the deepening sky all the way out to the Channel Islands and down as far as Rincón to the east. He shuffled through the still-warm sand in a kind of bliss, the second pint of vodka pressed to his lips, all the rough edges of things worn smooth, all his problems reduced to zero. He was going to find Sky, Sky his benefactor, the songbird, and see if he wanted a hit or two of vodka, and maybe they could sit around the fire and sing, order up another pizza, lie there and stare up at the stars as if they owned them all. It was early yet. The night was young.
The train gave him his first scare. He’d just come across the trestle and stepped to one side, careful of his footing in the loose stone, when the whistle sounded behind him. He was drunk and slow to react, sure, but it just about scared him out of his skin nonetheless. There was a rush of air and then the train—it was a freight, a thousand dark, clanking cars—went by like thunder, like war. He twisted his right ankle trying to lurch out of the way and went down hard in the bushes, but he held on to the bottle, that was the important thing, because the bottle—and most of it was left—was an offering for Sky, and maybe Knitsy too, if she was there. For a long while, as the sound of the train faded in the distance, he sat there in the dark, rubbing his ankle and laughing softly to himself—he could have been like the deaf-mute, somebody Dana would read about in the morning paper. Raymond Leitner, cut down by the southbound. After a week-long illness. Currently—make that permanently—unemployed. Survived by his loving mother. Wherever she might be.
When he got close enough to the camp to see the glow of candlelight suffusing the walls of the wigwam, he was startled by a sudden harsh shout and then Pal started barking, and there was movement there, framed against the drizzle of the light. “I said you ever touch her I’m going to kill your ass, because she’s my soulmate, you motherfucker, my soulmate, and you know it!”
Sky’s voice sang out, harsh and ragged, “Get off of me, get out of here, go on, get out!” And the barking. The barking rose to a frenzy, high-pitched, breathless, and then suddenly there was the dull wet thump of a blow, and the barking ceased, even as the movement shook the floating walls and the light snuffed out. “Here comes, you son of a bitch,” Dougie’s voice shouted out, “I’ll give you here comes,” and there was that wet sound again, the percussion of unyielding metal and yielding flesh, and again, and again.
Raymond froze. He took a step back in the dark, collided with something that shouldn’t have been there, a solid immovable shape stretched out across the flat of the ground—and the tarp, the tarp he’d slept on—and the ankle gave way. He went down again, and the bottle with him, the sudden explosion of its shattering like gunfire in the night. His blood raced. He felt around him for a branch, a rock, anything, and that was when his hands told him what it was he’d tripped over. Her hair was the first thing, then the slick cotton of the dress, and everything wet and cold.
The night went silent. He couldn’t see, all the shadings of uncommitted dark swelling and shrinking around him. A shadow rose up then out of the black pool of the ground no more than twenty feet away, rose to full height, and began to slash at the darkness where the wigwam would have been, and Dougie was cursing, raging, beating at everything in the night till the galvanized post rang out against the stones. Raymond was no longer drunk. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe. The post rose and fell till the shadows changed shape and the curses subsided into sobs and choked, half-formed phrases, to barks and whispers, and then there was another sound, the clangor of the post flung away against the stones of the railway bed and a new metallic sound, the whirring of gears, and suddenly the shadow was moving off down the deserted tracks on the dark skeleton of a mountain bike.
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