HOPE FOR CHANGE... But Settle for a Bailout

by Bill Orton

  “Just because I fixed ‘em doesn’t mean I like driving ‘em.” Lori shifted. “You know I’ve always been a bike person.”

  Larry and Lori passed quietly through the working-class town of Wilmington, before cutting across the narrow strip of Los Angeles known as Harbor City which, with Harbor Gateway, connects the port and harbor area to the rest of the city. Beyond, in Torrance, the working-class made way for the middle-class until, as P.C.H. wound into the Beach Cities, retail and beachfront high-rises suggested wealth and leisure.

  “You don’t seem too excited about this ‘being rich’ thing,” said Lori.

  “Oh, no, I totally am,” said Larry, watching suburbia pass by. “I wanna send an email to someone,” he said. “Find out if she can meet us up there, or maybe go with us.”

  “What do you mean, ‘go up with us?’” asked Lori, as she slowed and began actively checking individual street signs. “You aren’t just cashing this thing down here?”

  “I gotta do this right,” said Larry, pulling a bag of chips from his still-teeming bag of snack food. “I wanna cash this up in Sacramento.”

  Lori broke hard approaching a red light, sending them both forward into the unyielding seatbelts. “Sacramento!” Lori yelled. “We can’t take this car to Sacramento. It’s not even my car, Larry, if you remember. I don’t have a car. You don’t, either. Remember?”

  Larry ate chips. “Maybe we can just do a Bucksters or McDonalds for a signal.”

  .

  Lori slowly snaked her way down Esplanade, until finding the high-rise matching the number she had written down. They could hear the pounding of the ocean. She used the plastic card the District Manager had given her to open the garage and parked in space 128, as instructed. The card allowed them into the elevator that carried them to the 7th floor. When Lori unlocked the door, the sound of the ocean and smell of salt hit them both, as the unit overlooked the beach directly below. Lori repeatedly uttered “wow” and “amazing” as she walked through the apartment. Larry slid the balcony door closed and closed the windows, muting but not entirely masking the sound of the sea.

  “I need the keys and that card thing,” said Larry. “I left my tablet and our survival supplies in the car,” he said, clutching the bag of chips he had been munching on his way up from the garage. When he exited the elevator in the garage, a tall redhead entered silently. Larry got to 128, gathered up the snack bags that had spilled from the paper sack and grabbed his tablet. He booted up the unit and stopped first at the elevator and, a moment later, on the first floor, trying to get a signal. Successful in the lobby, he opened Yahoo mail and typed:

  To: december@missmilkshakes.com

  Subject: Can you do Sacramento?

  December, Hey, got a bunch of money coming to me. Am gonna drive to Sac in a convertible tomorrow to get it. Do dinner and hotel at Harris Ranch. RU available? My treat. Sky’s the limit. — Lottery Larry

  Larry put the tablet to sleep and slipped it into the snack sack, to an audible crunch from the bags below it. He slid the card to call the elevator. On the 7th floor, standing outside the door, he heard yelling from inside the unit. He unlocked the door as quietly as he could and entered silently. Directly front of him, Larry saw the backside of the tall redhead he passed exiting the elevator. He and Lori were struggling and yelling.

  “Stop it,” screamed Lori. “No!”

  “What the...,” said the redhead, as something smacked into the back of his head.

  “You heard the lady,” said Larry, a bag of raw, unsalted trail mix in his left hand. He chucked the bag and hit the redhead just below the eye, causing him to grunt. Lori broke away. Her tee-shirt was torn and she had scratches on her face. Larry threw an oversized bag of peanut M&Ms.

  “Who the fuck are you?” yelled the redhead, as he took a bag of Doritos square in the cheek. He turned away from Lori to face Larry.

  “I’m her bodyguard, asshole,” said Larry, as he drew close enough to push the redhead backwards. Lori went to her knees and the redhead fell backward, lost his balance against Lori and wound up on the floor, with Larry quickly scrambling to get on top of him. As Lori held the redhead’s hands, Larry smooshed and then tore open a bag of Cheetos and poured them into the redhead’s face, concentrating the orange chip dust onto his eyes. Larry used his other hand to smoosh the orange puffs into the redhead’s face as Lori pulled both of the District Manager’s hands above his head. Larry grabbed the largest intact cheese puff and stuffed it into the redhead’s nostril and repeated it for the other. He grabbed for the top item in Lori’s folded laundry, pulling out a white fuzzy sock with what looked like some sort of face on it.

  “Not Lambchop,” yelled Lori, putting her knee onto one of the redhead’s wrists as she grabbed a balled-up pair of pantyhose from the bag and rolled them to Larry, who stuffed them into the redhead’s mouth.

  His mouth gagged, his nostrils stuffed, the pair holding his hands and sitting on him, there was little the District Manager could do. He shook his head and blinked rapidly, but the orange dust was as stuck to his face as if to pre-licked fingers. “Able to breathe?” The redhead shook his head and Larry pulled out one of the puffs.

  Larry turned the redhead onto his belly and told Lori to switch places. Lori tightly gripped each of the District Manager’s wrists and pushed his hands high up into his back. Larry scrambled about, found a pen and paper and got on his knees, leaning low so as to get face-to-face with the redhead. Larry grabbed the kid’s hair and used it like a mop handle, dragging his face back and forth into the orange chip debris, smooshing it deeper into the plush cream-colored carpet. Larry pulled the red hair and whispered into the kid’s ear.

  “You’re gonna sign two notes, your Assholiness,” said Larry. “You’re allowing Lori to borrow your car during her vacation and you’re fine with that or we release note two, in which you confess to having tried to rape her.” When the redhead appeared to object, Larry reached for another cheese puff and restuffed the empty nostril. Larry pulled out his cell phone. “Let’s take some pictures.” Larry shot several images of the redhead, his face caked in orange paste, chips in his nose, gagged. Larry looked at each one and showed them, in turn, to the kid. “Now some video,” said Larry, pointing the camera. He let go of the kid’s hair, pulled out the pantyhose, and leaned in. “Out loud, now: ‘It’s okay that Lori’s using my car. I tried to rape her.’ ”

  The redhead said nothing. Larry pushed his face deep into the carpet, matted with food and sweat. He used a knee to keep the redhead’s face deep in the carpet as he tore open the pork rinds he had thrown earlier. He ground them into the redhead’s face and repeated the instructions.

  “Lori..., she is using my car... it’s okay,” said the redhead.

  Larry scooped up a mixture of orange and light brown mush and pushed it into the redhead’s cheek. Nothing. Larry held his hand just below the kid’s nose and put his middle finger on his thumb, before releasing it, thwacking the cheese puff deeper into the nostril. Nothing. Larry thwacked the second puff. Nothing. Larry stuck his finger into the stub of the puff and jammed it deep into the nose itself, then pulled it out and wiped it on the redhead’s lips.

  “I... I tried to... rape Lori,” said the District Manager.

  “And one last photo,” said Larry, snapping and showing before he pocketed his phone and went to the counter to write out the two notes, while Lori held the District Manager’s wrists high in his back. Circling through the apartment, Larry found two cell phones and a wallet. He opened the sliding glass door and hurled each of the phones out towards the ocean below,

  “Was the iPhone the company line?” Larry asked the redhead, who didn’t answer. Sifting through the wallet, Larry found the driver’s license, which he flicked out the window, and proof of auto liability insurance, which he pocketed.

  .

  “You and that carnival arm!” yelled Lori, as she drove up Hawthorne Boulevard.

  “It’s hard to knock over metal milk bot
tles,” said Larry.

  “You’re gonna have to win me some more stuffed animals one day,” said Lori. “We’re headed for the 405, but this thing’s almost out’ta gas.”

  “We’re fine,” said Larry. “My Grandma deposited three months of rent and pocket money, so I got us covered. But I’m hungry.”

  .

  “Oh!” screeched Larry, looking at his tablet, while Lori ate from his fries, dipping them into his side of tartar sauce. “Oh my God! She wants to come! Is Harbor City close?”

  Lori mixed her salad with her fork, and looked up at Larry. “Who wants to come?”

  “December Carrera,” said Larry. “Miss Milkshakes, from the internet.”

  “Classy, Larry,” said Lori, sipping her iced tea. “It’s not a big car.”

  “She’s not a big girl,” answered Larry. “Well, except for her milkshakes.”

  .

  Lori exited the 110 Fwy at Anaheim Street and motored past the Phillips 66 refinery. “Right back where we started from,” she said.

  As they passed the refinery’s old corporate logo – an orange globe – Larry pointed. “Looks like your District Manager’s face.”

  “You think he’ll call the cops?” asked Lori.

  “Probably not right away,” said Larry.

  “Maybe not at all, since you have that video,” said Lori, “though I can kiss the job goodbye.”

  “My phone doesn’t have video,” said Larry.

  “What?

  “He just has to think it does,” said Larry. “I uploaded the photos, though.”

  Lori pulled in to a Mobil station and snaked through the cars at the gas islands, parking in front of the Food Store.

  “I though this kind of food is against your religion,” said Larry.

  “Clean bathrooms are my religion,” said Lori. “Any supplies you’ll need? Cheetos, trail mix... condoms?”

  “Lori?”

  “Who’s this woman,” said Lori. “This Milkshake girl? Should I be worried?”

  “She’s nice,” said Larry. “You’ll like her.”

  .

  The convertible pulled up to a multiplex notable for being the sole building on either side of the street with a uniform coat of paint –walls, trim, and doors were all one color. Larry pushed the door buzzer for #9 CARRERA.

  A breathy voice answered.

  “Hi, December. It’s Larry.”

  The breathy voice got out the three words, “Be right down,” and Larry stood next to the door. He made a mostly unsuccessful effort to straighten his hair, using his fingers as a comb. The door opened, and a woman with dark hair, black like a crow, stepped out, pulling a full-sized suitcase and carrying a SpongeBob day bag.

  “Hi,” said Miss Milkshakes, holding her hand out in the way one would if the other person were to kiss it. “I wouldn’t go with you, except you’re so nice on the site, and I know you’re a gentleman. Oooooo, nice car.” Upon seeing Lori behind the wheel, December quickly asked, “Who’s dat?”

  “My friend,” said Larry. “She’s driving.”

  “Do you need her?” asked December. “I can drive.”

  “No, I need her.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “No,” said Larry. “No.”

  “She won’t be after this, hunny,” said December, climbing in to the front seat, leaving Larry to lift the heavily-packed suitcase into the back seat. “Careful. There’s a video camera in there.” Larry climbed into the back and wedged himself into what remained of the narrow back seat.

  Miss Milkshakes extended her hand to Lori, who ignored the gesture, only uttering, “Hey.”

  “She definitely won’t be after this,” said December, over her shoulder to Larry. Lori pulled out from Belle Porte onto Anaheim, and back towards the 110 Harbor Fwy.

  CHAPTER Five

  Heard it on the Grapevine

  “How come Miss Got-the-Keys don’t know where the secret button is,” yelled December, standing alongside the passenger’s door of the convertible, which was idling on the emergency shoulder of the 405 Fwy north. Cars whooshed past as Larry felt under the folded top. “Did you guys steal dis car or what?”

  “No,” said Larry, his face suddenly brightening. He pulled at a latch under the top and one side sprang up. “It’s manual.” Larry circled to the other side and reached under for the second latch.

  Miss Milkshakes drew close and used her elbows to push together her breasts, giving Larry a glimpse into the deep, long, straight line of her cleavage. “No one is taking me to jail, if that’s the way it is,” she said, relaxing her elbows.

  Larry wiggled the top into place, grabbing a glance toward December, smiling, and latching the passenger’s side, as she smiled slyly. Lori latched the driver’s side as Larry opened the passenger’s door, flipped the seat forward and wedged himself into the rear seat

  “She’s trash, you know,” said Lori to Larry, before December slipped into the passenger’s seat.

  “And we’re not?” said Larry.

  Lori started the engine, signaled and pulled into traffic, driving silently as December searched the radio dial. She cycled quickly through the buttons – pop, oldies, classical, KROQ – and, grumbling about “white girl music,” rolled through the dial, pausing at and then passing several hip-hop numbers before stopping at a Spanish-language station.

  December reached to the right side of her seat and adjusted it so she was back far enough that she could see Larry, wedged against the driver’s side of the narrow back seat. The angle gave Larry a clear view to her entire upper body, and she smiled in the same sly way as from outside, as he lingered on her face and then his eyes would periodically roam.

  “Sky’s the limit, huh?” said December. “So, what are we going to do next? Steal a plane?”

  Lori dialed 90.7 on the radio and two Spanish-speaking DJs cut to music from Colombia.

  “Who’s dat?” said December, only slightly less catty.

  “KPFK,” said Lori, blankly.

  “We’re not stealing,” said Larry, and December quickly returned to him. “We’re driving up to pick up a big pile of money I got coming.”

  “Pile, huh?” said December. “What? D’j’ou win the lottery, or something?”

  Larry said nothing. December quickly turned to Lori, who stared straight ahead. Looking to Larry, December said she would need his help at the hotel, because she had to do her regularly-scheduled show. He could be the cameraman. It’d be fun, she assured him. But Miss-Got-the-Keys couldn’t be there. Strictly business.

  “Like I said, Larry,” said Lori, not breaking her concentration on the road. “Like I....”

  “I am not trash, white girl,” spat December. “You think I don’t have ears?”

  “Trash,” said Lori.

  “How come when people say ‘trash,’ it’s white people they’re talking about?” said December. “What are you, driver girl?”

  “I’m in management,” said Lori, never shifting her gaze from the roadway.

  “Yeh, right,” said December. “Ripped tee-shirt and clothes in a bag, driving some stolen car.”

  “Leave her alone!” said Larry. “It’s not stolen.”

  December slid a bit lower in her seat and, put on coo-ey eyes when she spoke to Larry. “Like I told you, hunny. She ain’t gonna be nothing to you after this.”

  .

  Lori pulled into the Mobil station in Gorman where unleaded 87 stood solidly 6O cents a gallon more than in Harbor City. “Wonder if this one has a clean bathroom?” said Lori, getting out. Looking to Larry, she said the tank was half full but it couldn’t hurt to top off.

  She pocketed the keys and went in to the station’s Food Store.

  Larry flipped up the driver’s seat, opened the door and worked his way out of the car. He unzipped and unsnapped his wallet, and fingered between the carefully-folded lottery tickets and a slip of winning numbers to pull out his VISA card. He slid the card at the pump and entered his ZIP code and began pum
ping fuel.

  December got out and joined Larry. “Hunny, you need someone young and pretty,” said December, leaning against the car. “Not someone old, like her.”

  “We go back,” said Larry, as he replaced the nozzle. “We got history.”

  “Dat’s what I mean,” said December. “Old.” December turned and walked away, towards the food store. Lori crossed the lot to the line of pumps and, as she did, December veered in her course so as to not come within talking distance as they crossed paths. When Lori got to the car, Larry was watching December walking off.

  “Do we really have to bring her?” said Lori. “We’re still less than a hundred miles. We could turn around and then head back up after dumping her.”

  Larry opened the driver’s door, pushed the seat forward and climbed into the back, turning his upper body so he could fit up against the rear seat when the front seat was pushed back into place. Lori got in. They waited in silence for Miss Milkshakes, who came out several minutes later, a tall beverage in one hand and a bag in her arms. Lori snorted.

  December handed the beverage into the passenger’s window and when Lori made no effort to reach for it, Larry shifted his body such that he could slide close enough to grab the cup. December got in, and only when strapped in and after choosing a bag of corn chips did she reach for her cup. Larry re-adjusted, re-slid and re-wedged himself into place. Lori made her way back onto the Five North.

  .

  “I can only imagine the sort of show you put on in a hotel room” said Lori, clearly aiming the comment to December, but not turning her head. “Let me guess: you’re in the entertainment business?”

  December puckered to sip from her straw and looked at Larry. “I keep fans entertained.” She took another sip of her drink. “I take care of myself, old lady.”

  “I don’t have to do porn,” spat back Lori.