I ask, “Do you need to take your kids to their game? I can totally just pee quick and get out of your hair. I don’t have to wash up.”
Steph waves a dismissive hand, “You go ahead and wash up. Tyler can wait. Aubrey’s game doesn’t start for two hours, so she’s fine. But if Tyler is late, he’s late. Technically, he should be sitting out today anyway because he thought it would be fun to use his father’s golf clubs to behead my rose bushes. His father insisted the boy is merely showing an interest in golf. Yeah, right,” Steph chuckles. “Can I get you anything to eat? A sandwich or something?”
I’m going to cry, but I don’t.
“You know what?” Steph says, “I’m going to veto my husband on this one. Tyler needs to learn not to be a rose murderer. Go ahead and take a shower. Get cleaned up. We have time. I’ll get the kids out of the car and make you something to eat.”
A lone tear dribbles down my cheek. I can’t help it. Steph is too nice for words. All I can do is nod silently.
“There’s body wash and shampoo and conditioner in the cupboard with the face wash.” She wrinkles her nose. “None of it’s the cheap stuff. It’ll feel good on your skin. And you’ll feel better under that hot water. We have a big tank, so you won’t run out. Stay in as long as you want. I’ll get you when the food is ready.”
Steph smiles at me and gently pulls the bathroom door shut. “Enjoy.”
The latch clicks softly and I’m sobbing on my knees on the soft bathroom rug.
It’s amazing how a random act of extreme kindness can do that to you.
Chapter 28
VICTORY
“Mommy, is Victory our new babysitter?” Aubrey asks, staring at me while I eat the turkey sandwich Steph made for me.
Aubry sits beside me at the sun drenched island bar in the middle of Steph’s gigantic kitchen. The sun has crested the hills.
Aubry is six and a half. I know because she’s told me three times since I came out of the shower. She’s super cute and asks a million questions.
“No, honey,” Steph says before taking a sip of her iced tea. “You already have a babysitter.”
Steph glances out the windows at the sun bright day and says, “It’s going to be a hot one today.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I mumble while chewing on my sandwich. I’m used to the heat. I grew up in the desert, in Bakersfield, which is hotter than L.A.
The bar where I sit is easily four times the size of the studio apartment I shared with Scott until last night. The semi circle countertop is polished stone, I’m not sure what kind, but it looks expensive and it seats eight. Six light fixtures dangle from the ceiling above the counter, and each one has a fancy glass shade that looks hand made. The cabinets in the kitchen are all cream colored wood. I can’t figure out where the refrigerator is until Steph opens one of the big cabinets in the wall, which turns out to be the fridge. I thought all refrigerators were white metal and people stuck bills and stuff to them with magnets.
Steph asks, “Victory, would you like a glass of almond milk?”
“I do!” Aubrey pleads.
“I was asking Victory,” Steph chastises gently. “You had yours at breakfast.”
“Oooh!” Aubrey pouts.
Steph ignores her and looks at me, holding up a carton.
“I’ve never had almond milk.”
“It’s good,” Steph smiles, “I’ll pour you a glass. You look like you need it.”
The almond milk tastes like vanilla and I like it. I finish my sandwich and blot my lips with the cloth napkin Steph gave me. The only place I ever see cloth napkins is at restaurants. Steph is way classier than any mom I’ve ever known. She’s way richer too.
“Would you look at the time?” Steph says after glancing at the fancy clock on the far wall. It’s made from a piece of rock that matches the countertop and has dimensional metal numbers attached all the way around, almost like a name badge on a car.
I’ve never seen a clock that matches the counters.
Steph smiles and takes my empty plate and puts it in the dishwasher. “I really need to get Aubry to her game.”
“Oh, cool,” I say. “I should be going anyway.”
“Tyler!” Steph hollers, “Let’s go!”
Tyler is sitting on the gigantic leather couch in the room connected to the kitchen, playing video games on a movie theater sized flat screen TV. “I missed my game, remember! It’s already over,” he complains.
“You’re going to watch your sister’s game,” Steph commands.
“I don’t want to watch Aubrey play!” he moans. Explosions boom from the TV as Tyler blows up spaceships and kills aliens.
“You’re going whether you want to or not!” Steph says in a strong voice. “Turn off your Playstation.”
“Fine!” Tyler grumbles, drops his game controller on the couch, and lumbers around toward the kitchen, looking suspiciously zombie-like.
“Put your controller away,” Steph orders. “I don’t want to sit on it again. The last time I did, I had a bruise on my butt for a week!”
Tyler does as ordered but sighs heavily as if his mom just asked him to re-roof the house.
Steph smiles at me like everything is normal and sighs herself, “Ready?”
I stand up and push my barstool under the counter. I would do more to show my gratitude, but Steph does everything before I have a chance.
Aubry slides off her stool and runs out of the kitchen.
“Aubry!” Steph barks at her back, “Did you go to the bathroom?”
“Noooo!” Aubry calls out from the other room.
“Then go to the bathroom!”
I hear what I think is the guest bathroom door close a second later.
I say to Steph, “You make motherhood look so easy.”
She chuckles, “It’s all an act. Besides, I’ve had practice. Tyler, go wait in the car.”
He trudges out of the room and moans, “I don’t want to go. I missed my game!”
Steph rolls her eyes then smiles at me, “Is there anything else I can get you, Victory? A banana for the road?” Before I can object, she peels one from the bunch in the fruit bowl on the counter top and hands it to me.
“Thanks. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all this.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she smiles and glances around. In a low voice she says, “I didn’t want to talk with the kids in the room, but are you okay?” She’s got this compassionate look on her face that makes me want to unload my life story on her.
I’m so grateful for her genuine interest. But I’m afraid if I start talking, I won’t stop. And she has to take her kids to soccer. “I’m fine, really,” I say way more confidently than I feel. “I can take care of myself.”
“You’re not in any kind of trouble, are you?”
I shake my head, “No. Nothing serious. I just need to find a new apartment. I can manage.”
She levels a serious motherly look at me similar to the one I saw her use with Tyler and Aubrey many times this morning, “Are you sure?”
I grin, “I’m fine. Really.”
“I went to the bathroom,” Aubrey says, standing at the hallway entrance to the kitchen.
“And we’re off!” Steph smiles at me.
We walk out to her driveway together.
Steph asks, “Where is your car parked, Victory?”
“Oh, a couple blocks from here.”
Steph eyes me suspiciously, “I’ll drive you. Hop in.” When Steph opens her door, she starts yelling, “Tyler! No more Angry Birds on my iPhone! In my purse, now!” She holds out an expectant hand.
Tyler hands it over with a scowl, “But I had fifty thousand points!”
Steph ignores him and grins at me, “He’s a goblin. I don’t know where he came from.”
I giggle and climb into the front passenger seat.
Steph starts the car.
From the back seat, Aubry says, “Can you play my Kidz Bop CD, Mommy?”
“Sure, honey
,” Steph says and pushes a disc into the player. The Kidz Bop version of One Direction’s Best Song Ever plays as Steph backs the car out of the driveway.
When the chorus starts, Aubry sings along quietly to herself, but changes the lyrics to, “You are the best mom ever!”
I glance back at Aubry and see that she’s looking out the window, singing simply because she feels like it. It’s obvious she’s not doing it to get anyone’s attention.
Steph turns to me, her eyes damp, and mumbles, “That’s why I’m a mom.”
I get choked up too. Maybe my die hard music career dream is a waste of time and happiness is as close as your family. All I need to do first is find myself a good man like Steph did and get started. Except when I consider what I went through with Scott, maybe that’s harder than building a successful music career.
Who knows?
I certainly don’t.
Steph drives us up the street toward my car.
“There it is!” I point.
Steph stops the SUV beside my Altima.
I smile, “Thanks again, Steph. I wish there was some way I could repay you.”
“There is,” Steph says while she searches through her purse. “Here, take this.”
I hold out my hand and she slips a twenty dollar bill into it. “Oh,” I say, “I can’t take this.”
“You will, and that’s final,” she grins. It’s a gentle smile. She’s not mothering me, but she’s clearly insisting. “Use it for lunch and dinner, okay?”
“Okay,” I nod.
“Now, I have to get Aubrey to her game. You take care of yourself, Victory.”
“I will,” I giggle.
They drive off and I’m feeling a million times better than I was an hour ago. The shower at Steph’s house has done wonders for my cramped neck. The icepicks are gone and the clay slabs have softened into pliable leather. I’m hoping all the cramping will be gone by the end of the day. I don’t have to pee, which is good, and I have a belly full of lunch and love.
I stick my key in the lock of my Altima and turn it. It doesn’t click like it usually does. It’s already unlocked. I could’ve sworn I locked it.
Oh well.
I notice my speaker cabinet in the back and…my Marshall head is not in the front seat. Neither is my Line 6 practice amp.
Wait.
That can’t be right.
I watched Kellan put them in the front seat myself last night. My speaker cabinet is in the back seat where he put it. So where did my Marshall head and Line 6 go? I don’t get it.
I sit down in my car and close the door and look around thoughtfully.
I remember when I changed in the car last night, my Marshall and Line 6 were in the passenger seat, so it was super cramped changing. I remember.
I remember! They were right here!
No!
NO!
Someone broke into my car!
Someone stole my amps!
This can’t be.
Fear seizes my chest.
I jump out of the car and check the trunk. It’s not even latched. It’s open about an inch. Rocks drop down my throat. I can’t breath as I yank the garbage bags out of the trunk and drop them on the street.
I choke.
I stop breathing.
My guitar is gone.
My precious white Fender Strat.
My baby.
Stolen.
Panic coils around me like a big jungle snake and crushes the wind out of me.
My only guitar is gone.
My dad gave me that guitar. He bought it new when he was 18 and played it until he gave it to me for Christmas when I was seven. It’s the best guitar I’ve ever played. Nothing can replace it.
What am I gonna do?
My first thought is to run down the street after Steph and beg for help, not that she could or would do anything. But it doesn’t matter anyway.
She’s long gone.
Now I am in serious trouble. I don’t have enough money in the bank to replace my amps and my guitar. Not even close.
I’m screwed.
“SCOOOOTTTTT!!!” I scream at the top of my lungs.
This is totally his fault. HIS FAULT!
Fuck, fuck, FUCK!!!
What am I going to do?
I slump against the side of my car, throw my head back, and scream at the top of my lungs again.
“SCOOOOTTTT!!! YOU FUCKING PRIIIICCKKKK!!!”
Chapter 29
VICTORY
Fucking L.A.
It took less than an hour for someone to find my car in a rich neighborhood and break into it. Are there roaming packs of car thieves looking for any opportunity to make a quick score, no matter how much it hurts the victim?
Yes.
Why did I ever move here?
No!
I can’t think like that.
I won’t let this setback stop me. I’ll find another guitar. Maybe I can borrow one. I just have to find someone who can lend me one that isn’t a piece of crap. I’ll make some calls later today.
Right now, I have to get to work.
Before leaving Steph’s neighborhood, I change into a sleeveless Whitesnake t-shirt and tight jeans in the seat of my car. I accessorize with a selection of cheap bracelets and necklaces I have in the trunk. The fact that my jewelry wasn’t stolen is proof of its value.
I apply eyeliner in my rearview mirror and run a brush through my air dried hair. It’s messy, not matted. Good enough. I pull on my thrift store motorcycle boots and I’m ready to go.
Hollywood traffic on Saturday morning is as bad as any other day in L.A. I hammer my steering wheel with my hands while I wait at a stoplight on Sunset Boulevard.
“Shouldn’t you people be relaxing in bed!” I shout to no one. “I have to get to work!”
Nobody cares.
Welcome to L.A.
Everyone who moves to Los Angeles learns quickly that life in L.A. is hot, expensive, grid-locked around the clock, and there is no parking. Unless you’re rich, in which case, it’s hot, expensive, grid-locked around the clock, and there is no parking.
There’s no escaping it.
L.A. is an equal opportunity aggravator.
I finally reach guitar alley on Sunset Boulevard. It’s a two block stretch in Hollywood that has about twenty guitar and music stores on both sides of the street. I don’t know how they all stay in business being so close together.
The biggest store, Guitar Central, is the size of your average department store. I can get lost in that place for hours on end. On any given day, you’re likely to cross paths with one or more famous musicians shopping to pick up another guitar to add to their collection.
Despite all the cars already driving the streets, it takes forever to find parking because there really are fewer people going to work on a Saturday morning, which means no free spaces in the neighborhoods.
Not long after I moved to L.A., I realized there are twice as many cars in the city as parking spaces. If people didn’t drive around at all hours, there would be constant rioting over the lack of parking.
Eventually some guy in gym clothes climbs into a Jeep at the end of the street and drives off. I floor it to get to the open space before someone else swoops in to steal it.
I parallel park in the space, which is between one of nine apartment buildings on one side of the street, and old bungalows and an Elementary school on the other.
Earlier I discovered that whoever broke into my car punched out the lock on my front passenger door with a screwdriver. I can lock it from the inside, but anyone walking along with their own Craftsman brand skeleton key can easily get in.
I hope my stuff is safe out here. Not that I have any options. Or much left worth stealing. I tell myself my stuff will be fine and walk toward Sunset.
The day is heating up to a broil.
The concrete sidewalk bounces the heat back at me while the black asphalt sucks it up and saves it for later, when the sun goes down. The asphalt wi
ll hold the heat long into the night like a brick oven.
Good thing my t-shirt is sleeveless. I need to practice not sweating because my access to showers is now limited, unless I go down to Venice or Santa Monica and use the outdoor beach showers.
At least I have a swimsuit.
I may be living in it for awhile.
Despite my predicament, I still have a job that I love.
Once on Sunset, I open the door to Big Momma’s Guitars. The sleigh bells hanging from a leather thong inside the door jingle my arrival. The interior is A/C cooled.
What a relief.
The walls are lined with real wood paneling that gives the shop a pleasant cedar scent. Vintage acoustic and electric guitars and basses hang from the walls, all of them recognizable to any serious collector.
Big Momma’s is owned by Karen Boone and Johnny Stokes. They’re both old hippies. I think they’re married, but I’m not entirely sure. Neither wear rings. They’re the happiest couple I’ve ever known, beyond perfect for each other. Lightning in a bottle.
Everyone should be so lucky.
Framed black and white photographs hang on the walls as proof of their timeless love. Each photo shows Johnny and Karen in the 1960s and 70s partying with every famous rock musician you can name from that era. Mick Jagger, Robert Plant, Joni Mitchell, David Bowie, Elton John. There’s too many to list. But in every photo, Karen and Johnny ignore the superstars surrounding them. They’re more interested in each other and are always pictured smiling while holding hands, or kissing each other affectionately on the cheek or romantically on the mouth, or draping their arms around each other like best friends.
“Morning, Victory,” Johnny smiles at me. He’s a handsome aging hippie with a trim silver goatee. Most days, like today, he wears a fringe leather vest over a variety of tie-dyed t-shirts, and often bell bottoms.
Johnny is at work behind one of the glass counters that holds a collection of guitar strings, slides, capos, and picks. A red Gibson ES-335 hollow body electric is cradled in a plush purple-furred guitar block laying on the counter. The guitar is the same one still used by Chuck Berry, and the one Marty McFly uses when he plays Johnny B. Goode in that old 80s movie Back To The Future.
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