Romeo's Hammer

by James Scott Bell

  “A what?”

  “Makes you stop and think. It’s always good to stop every now and then and think, don’t you think?”

  His brow furrowed as the question trudged through the mud of his synapses.

  “I guess so, man,” he said finally. “What do you think about?”

  I picked up a fistful of sand in my right hand and let it slowly run out. “Whether there’s ultimate truth, or whether we’re just accidents of blind materialistic forces.”

  C Dog sat silent, eyes unmoving for a long time. Then he made a whoosh sound and ran his hand over his head.

  Whoosh indeed, C Dog. That sound may sum up all our attempts to make sense of existence. At least you have a band. Make music, my friend.

  “You look like you can fight,” C Dog said.

  “I don’t like violence,” I said.

  “I’m gonna take some MMA.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Somebody mouths off, I want to shut his face and make him hurt.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not the way. Not the way at all.”

  “Huh?”

  “The way. It is not.”

  “What’s the way, man?”

  “You don’t find meaning through the physical dominance of another, just because of a verbal insult.”

  C Dog’s mouth was now hanging open. His red-rimmed eyes blinked twice, lingeringly, as if trying to focus.

  Then he said, “You talk kind of weird, man.”

  I didn’t argue.

  “But I kind of like it,” he said. “You wanna come over sometime and shotgun some brew and we can talk more?”

  “We will talk of many things,” I said.

  He prepped another bowl.

  A WOMAN AND a little boy had come down to the beach. The woman looked like the grandmother. She held the boy’s hand as they tested the water with their feet.

  The boy giggled.

  That was a nice sound.

  It was interrupted by three guys and three girls who ran down from the parking lot to the beach. They had beers and a football and beach bodies and weren’t shy about showing them off.

  A couple of the guys upped the volume on their laughter and observations of the world. These observations married the word Mother with another word that started with an F. This began a cycle that fed on itself. The word led to laughter, and the laughter to more of the word.

  The grandmother with the little boy looked at the guys.

  I got up and walked over to the group.

  “Greetings,” I said.

  They looked at me. One of them, the biggest one, was about my size. Obviously pushed weights. He had an iron-mail tattoo that covered the upper left quadrant of his chest and went down his left arm to the elbow. Looked like the fighting sleeve on Spartacus.

  “You guys from around here?” I said.

  “What’s up?” the big one said.

  I said, “We have families come down here, so I thought maybe you could watch the language a little.”

  The others in the group looked at the big guy to see what he’d do. He was clearly the Moe of these stooges, the unofficial leader.

  “We’re just hangin’, man, it’s a public beach,” Spartacus said.

  “Right on,” I said. “Just thought you could tone it down.”

  “Sure, sure,” he said. Then smiled. Then added, in a loud voice, that it was a good effing idea.

  He did not use the word effing.

  Gales of laughter from the others.

  “All right,” I said “You made your point. How about, as a favor to me, a resident of these shores, you refrain from the harsher language choices when children are near.”

  “Man, you talk funny.” He took a step toward me. “Like you’re backassing me.”

  “Far be it from me to do that, friend,” I said. “If anything, I’m frontassing. If that’s anatomically possible.”

  Sparty did a grab-hand on his crotch.

  “Is that necessary?” I said.

  Sparty smiled. Then turned his back and said he wanted to play some more mothereffing football.

  I tapped him on the shoulder.

  He whipped around with a right cross aimed at my jaw. I ducked it and stepped back.

  “Whoa, hold off there, Lightning,” I said. “That’s not the way.”

  “Get outta here,” Sparty said, “or you’ll get more of the same.”

  “You mean missing me with a punch?”

  One of the other stooges spoke up. He was a little leaner than Sparty. “Dude, he’s a third-degree black belt in Karate. You don’t want to mess with him.”

  “Really?” I said. “Third degree?”

  Sparty smiled.

  “That’s a fine achievement,” I said. “You do know that kara is an ancient word that means to cleanse oneself of evil thoughts, and to be humbly receptive to peace and gentleness. Yes? You are therefore abusing your own discipline. That’s not a good way to live—”

  “Shut it!”

  “You see?”

  “Last warning,” he said.

  “You don’t intend to smooth out your tongue?” I said.

  He made with the F-bomb again.

  I turned and walked toward the water.

  Sparty and his friends laughed and tossed some insults at my back, peppered with the language I had requested they eschew.

  Where the water met the sand was a dump of wet kelp. The amber-colored tangle had a healthy crop of bulbs. I found one the size of large egg and pulled it off and stuck it in the pocket of my shorts.

  The boys were tossing the football. Sparty’s back was to me. One of others warned him I was coming.

  Sparty, football in hand, turned.

  And threw the ball as hard as he could at me.

  It hit my abs and I cradled it with my left hand. A nice catch, I must say.

  I turned and threw the football into the water.

  Now it was about saving face. Sparty couldn’t afford to be cleansed or humbled in front of the ladies and the stooges.

  He came at me and decided to lead with his left foot.

  It was awful. If this guy was third-degree black belt in any form of Karate I was the world’s greatest living philosopher.

  I grabbed his leg under my arm and gave him four iron fingers to the throat.

  He hit the sand like a little girl’s doll, his eyes wide and his mouth open as he gasped for air.

  I took out the seaweed bulb and shoved it in his mouth. He was going to have some fun breathing now.

  The shock to the stooges must have been real, because not one of them moved.

  Sparty made horrible gasping sounds. His face reddened nicely.

  “Anyone else?” I said.

  “Damn, man!” the lean one said. “He’s hurt!”

  I raised my finger. “What did I say about the language?”

  He stopped talking.

  “Now,” I said, “I’m going to suggest you all go find another beach.”

  Spartacus wheezed, coughed. The bulb came out of his mouth. I shoved it back in and closed his mouth by shoving his chin.

  “Get him out of here,” I said.

  I backed away as the group came to him and helped him up. He spat the bulb out and coughed. As they made their way to the parking lot one of the girls gave me the finger.

  Who says people don’t communicate anymore?

  I decided then I needed a swim to wash off the stink of my latest encounter. I’d almost forgotten about the grandmother and the boy. Just before I took to the surf she walked toward me.

  “God bless you,” she said.

  The boy was looking at me curiously. I put out my hand. He gave me five.

  A blessing and a five.

  I figured that was the best I could do for the morning.

  C Dog was still sitting where I’d left him. “Man, that was so cool.”

  “Nothing cool about it,” I said.

  “Oh, man!” His big, dopey grin got on my nerves.


  “I’ll see you,” I said, and ran into the ocean. I dove at a wave, feeling the cool crispness of the Pacific in November. I thought of Ishmael then, at the beginning of Moby-Dick. He said he suffered from a damp, drizzly November in his soul and his answer was to put out to sea.

  He took a boat.

  I swam.

  At least I didn’t run into any whales.

  NEXT MORNING I went back to the hospital to see about my mermaid. I checked in at the desk. The receptionist ran her finger along a clipboard, nodded.

  “I have your name,” she said and handed me a visitor badge.

  It was nice knowing someone had my name.

  “You’ll find her in Room 210,” the receptionist said. I took the elevator to the second floor and walked a short distance to Room 210. The door was open.

  Hospital rooms all smell the same to me. A mix of antiseptic cleaning agent and human frailty. This one was no different. The human frailty was sitting on an incline in one of the two beds.

  She looked halfway normal now. Her hair was brushed and her eyes clear.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Are you the one who found me?” she said.

  “I am.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How you feeling?”

  “Okay,” she said. She pinched her hospital gown between her thumb and forefinger. “I didn’t have any clothes on, did I?”

  “I put my T-shirt on you. I hope you don’t mind. I wasn’t sweating yet.”

  She glanced past me as if trying to see if anyone was listening.

  “Does anybody know I’m here?” she said.

  “Well,” I said, “there’s me and Dr. Murray and the staff here.”

  “Who’s Dr. Murray?”

  “She’s a friend, lives in Paradise Cove. She’s the one who figured out you had poison in you.”

  She closed her eyes.

  I said, “Is there somebody we can contact?”

  “Please just get me out of here.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “I have friends.”

  “How’d you get poisoned?”

  She turned her head away.

  I slid a chair over and sat. “Why don’t you try to tell me what happened. Maybe I can help.”

  “No,” she said quickly, turning to look at me. Then thought a moment. “Why would you want to try, anyway? You don’t know me.”

  “I carried you into my home,” I said. “I figure we are acquainted.”

  “Can you just get me out of here?”

  “Would it help if I told you that you can trust me?”

  She shook her head.

  “Can I at least know your name?” I said.

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But you can call me Mike.”

  A voice behind me said, “And you both can call me Deputy Stevens.”

  THE WOMAN TENSED.

  I stood to face the cop. He was average height, blond-haired. He could have stepped right off the beach and into the county sheriff’s uniform he wore. He eyed me coolly.

  “Morning,” I said.

  He nodded. “I understand there was a possible homicide attempt.”

  “Please make him go away!” the woman said.

  “Ma’am?” the deputy said.

  “I don’t want to talk to anybody!”

  “I’m here to help you.”

  “No! I won’t say anything!”

  “Ma’am, if you’ll just––” He started to go around me.

  I slid in front of him. “Maybe this isn’t the right time.”

  “Who are you, anyway?” he said.

  “A friend.”

  “Well, friend, you can leave the room now.”

  “No,” the woman said.

  “She’d rather not talk,” I said.

  “Back off, please.”

  “Now look, Deputy Stevens, she doesn’t have to talk to you. She’s not a suspect.”

  “She’s a victim.”

  “No, I’m not!” she said.

  “There you go,” I said.

  “I’m going to find out what happened to her,” Deputy Stevens said.

  “Only if she voluntarily chooses to talk,” I said. “She can refuse.”

  “You a lawyer?”

  “I work for a lawyer.”

  Deputy Stevens’s brain started chugging. “You can talk to me voluntarily, ma’am. There’s no reason you wouldn’t want to do that, is there?”

  “That’s a very clever question,” I said. “Socratic.”

  He blinked. “What did you just say to me?”

  “Socratic.”

  He looked me up and down.

  “You the boyfriend?” he said. “Maybe you did it.”

  “No!” the woman said.

  He looked over my shoulder. “Ma’am, may I speak to you?”

  “I don’t want to,” she said in almost a whisper.

  “I guess that’s it,” I said.

  He looked at me again. “You live around here?”

  “Close by.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t see the relevance of that question. Socrates would tell you—”

  “This is a small town,” Deputy Stevens said. “You better remember that.”

  “Your card would remind me,” I said.

  He angry-frowned at me as he fished out a card.

  “I’ll let you know if she changes her mind,” I said.

  “I won’t,” she said.

  Deputy Stevens took a step back, gave us each one more lawman’s stare, then left.

  “Are we going to get in trouble?” the woman said.

  “I’m always in trouble,” I said. “You’re fine. But why don’t you want to talk to him? Is it because somebody tried to kill you, and you’re afraid of this person?”

  Her face matched the sheet. “Please, just get me out of here.”

  “This isn’t a prison. I’ll go talk to the doctor. But can I at least know your name?”

  She looked at me and for the first time I saw warmth in her eyes.

  “Okay,” she said. “Brooklyn.”

  DR. GABRIELLA PEDROZA met me at the nurse’s station.

  “Nice to see you again,” she said.

  “Can she leave now?” I said.

  “With you?”

  I nodded.

  “Certainly, if that’s what she wants,” she said. “I’ll give you some instructions for her.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  “You’re the one who should be thanked. You saved her life.” She paused. “If you want to let me know how she’s doing, you can always leave me a message here. I’ll return your call.”

  I shook her hand.

  It was a little after nine when I walked Brooklyn outside and into the sun. No fog this morning. Brooklyn was back in my T-shirt and sweat pants and hospital-issued slippers. She kicked off the slippers and tossed them into a trash bin.

  “I prefer bare feet,” she said.

  We got in Spinoza and I said, “Where can I take you?”

  “Kahuna’s,” she said.

  Kahuna’s is a local restaurant and bar on PCH. They serve killer huevos rancheros.

  “You want breakfast?” I said.

  “Yes!”

  “Can I buy?”

  KAHUNA’S LOOKS LIKE a Polynesian beach hut on steroids, with twin gables adorned by fake thatched-palm leaves. Calls to mind the romance of the South Seas or another clever L.A. cover job, like a Beverly Hills toupee.

  The young hostess, dressed in a floral-print sarong, greeted Brooklyn by name. She showed us to a table by the window looking out at the ocean, just as a pelican glided along the surface looking for his own breakfast.

  “I wish I could fly,” Brooklyn said.

  The pelican didn’t find anything, made a big U-turn in the air, came back.

  “It won’t be long now,” she said.

  “What won’t be?” I said.

  “Everything will be all
right now.” She said it as if trying to convince herself.

  A waitress came to the table. Brooklyn ordered Earl Grey tea and steel-cut oatmeal. I asked for coffee and the aforementioned huevos rancheros.

  Our pelican was still coming up with bupkis.

  “What’s it say on your arm?” Brooklyn said.

  “Vincit Omnia Veritas,” I said. “Latin for truth conquers all things.”

  “Uck,” she said.

  “Uck?”

  “Conquer. I don’t like that word.”

  “No?”

  “We have too much killing in the world.”

  “Truth doesn’t want to kill you. It wants to set you free.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “I wasn’t being funny.”

  She leaned forward, giving me a serious look. “Earth is about to be reborn.”

  “It could use it,” I said.

  “It’s true. Michael has spoken.”

  For a second, I thought she meant me.

  “The angel,” she said.

  Ruled me out.

  “The archangel from the Bible?” I said.

  “He’s real. He speaks through chosen people. That’s how I know Earth is going to be reborn. He’s returning to Earth.”

  The waitress came back with our drinks. The coffee was good and strong. Brooklyn unpackaged her tea bag, laid it in the cup, then poured the hot water in.

  “Can I ask you something?” I said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “When I picked you up on the beach, you said something. You were obviously out of it, but it sounded like higog.”

  She stared at me. Like she was trying to remember.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “No worries,” I said.

  She looked out the window. “Look at her. Isn’t she beautiful?”

  “The ocean?”

  “And all we do is hurt her. In hurting her, we are hurting ourselves. We have a collective soul and we damage it and then we turn on ourselves.”

  She looked back at me. “Does that make sense?”

  “Maybe people are just messed up. All world religions and philosophies recognize that. People are just a roiling mass of conflict.”

  “But what makes them that way?”

  “It’s the big question, isn’t it? Why are we the way we are? What can we do about it? Do we even care about doing anything about it?”

  “That’s why we have to get back to Earth,” she said. “Earth is the only thing that matters, the only thing nurtures us and lasts.”