by J. Bengtsson
This wasn’t my crowd.
But for one magical moment, I’d made them mine.
And before the lights went back up on the house, I turned and walked off.
I was no one’s pity vote.
2
Jess: Angel Line Tours
“Hey! Keep it moving.”
The warning was issued by a security guard cruising up on his Segway. I sighed. Not another newbie. I swear they swapped these guys out quicker than I could fast-forward through a Progressive commercial. And the new guys were always so gung ho, believing their pseudo cop uniform and safety-first scooter helmet made them real-life law enforcement agents when in reality, their minimum wage salaries didn’t leave much room for heroics.
Some of these guys were cool with me, even looking the other way when I crept ever so slowly past the homes they were hired to guard. We all had jobs, after all, and I’d been doing mine for a long time. Surely they could cut me some slack. I mean, come on, they had to know I was coming into this neighborhood no matter what their objections. This was Goldfinch Road, after all, home to more celebrities per capita than any other residential area in the world. Don’t fact-check me on that, but it sounded true enough that I regularly spouted the narrative to my customers. And really, it was a logical conclusion to make given the number of heavy hitters who lived on the block.
Every day, sometimes multiple times a day, I guided a new group of sightseers through the streets and hills of the Los Angeles jungle. Born and raised in these parts, I liked to think of myself as a seasoned Angeleno. I knew where the hidden gems were in the Southland as well as where those famous gems were hidden… inside their luxury mansions well away from us normals.
Some might accuse me of being no better than the paparazzi, stalking the rich and famous for my own economic gain, and maybe to an extent that was true. Technically, it was my bus that blocked the entrances to their stately mansions as they tried to back their Bentleys out of the driveway. It was also my early-bird-catches-the-worm customers who got that makeup-free shot of a certain starlet walking her dog in the wee hours of the morning. And it was, no doubt, my faint voice projected forth by the bus’s speaker system that wafted out over their open-air verandas while they were bathing in the sun.
Sure, there were times I felt bad about reducing the ‘haves’ to circus animals, but if they didn’t want the inconvenience of celebrity, then maybe they needed to be… well… less awesome. The way I saw it, the Hollywood elite needed me as much as I needed them. After all, it was us ordinary folk—the ones who watched their movies, listened to their music, and bought tickets to see their stately homes—who kept the pretty people in the lap of luxury.
Paul Blart Rent-A-Cop raced toward me at breakneck Segway speeds of up to eight miles per hour. Oh boy, he was an eager beaver, that one. Did he really think I was going to comply with him—a guy fresh out of his one-hour online training course? Besides, what was he going to do? Arrest me for driving my miniaturized sightseeing bus into this tony neighborhood? Last time I checked, the rich and famous didn’t yet own the streets.
Pretending not to hear his warning, I continued on with the lively story I’d been telling before his interruption. “… and then Katelyn’s husband arrived home unexpectedly, forcing her boyfriend to jump out of that second-story window right over there.”
I pointed out the one with the yellow curtains even though I had no conceivable way of knowing the exact window the man had actually jumped from. Not that it mattered. These were the stories my customers wanted to hear, so if I had to embellish a bit, so be it. As long as I kept the retelling exciting, and relatively kid-friendly for the young ones on my bus, no one questioned my facts.
“As I’m sure any of you who watch TMZ remember, Katelyn’s boyfriend landed flat on his back, breaking several bones, which completely immobilized him. The ambulance and police were called, and there, splayed out in the spotlight of the news station’s helicopter—bare as the day he was born—was none other than Hollywood bad boy Reggie Bowman.”
I paused for the reaction I knew was coming and was not disappointed. Chatter instantly erupted among the crowd as they discussed the incident amongst themselves. A few heads bobbed. A couple of smiles. After four hours, I knew who in this group were my reliable tour-goers, the ones who laughed at my jokes and made eye contact when I hit them with an interesting fact. I also knew who to avoid—the grumps who came on the tour looking to be miserable and left feeling no happier than when they’d arrived. There were the wiggly kids, the bored teens, and the tourists who didn’t speak a lick of English but who nodded enthusiastically all the same.
“I said, move your bus.”
This time the security guard didn’t just repeat his previous warning but also pounded on the side of my open-air trolley-style bus with a baton he used to… what… knock hummingbirds out of trees? It’s not like there was a lot of high crime in an area where housing prices started in the tens of millions.
“This is public property,” I replied, never letting the fake smile break from my lips. “According to the ordinance code 7845, all buses under thirty-five feet are allowed to pass on city streets without incident.”
There was no ordinance code 7845. I’d made that up too. But hey, it sounded good, and I was banking on this wannabe cherry cop accepting my lie through ignorance alone. The truth was these high-end residential areas had all sorts of bogus laws they’d enacted to keep my kind out. But us entertainment whores—the city’s tour guides and paparazzi—regularly shirked their rules and regulations. What the high and mighty never factored in when trying to intimidate was the near impossible task of taking on an industry that had no shame.
“You know what I think?” the security guard asked, posturing himself hips out, chest puffed. “I think you’re full of shit.”
I raised a brow. How dare he question my lies! I hated when dicks thought. “Sir, there are children on the bus.”
He turned his head, assessing my passengers before focusing his attention back on me. “Then don’t bring them along when you’re breaking the law, miss.”
Flipping open the windshield on his helmet, the security guard who fancied himself a cop spat out a stream of tobacco before fixing his stare on me. Our eyes both widened as instant recognition passed between us.
“Jesse?” he asked, genuine shock in his tone.
My brain took a second to compute. He was seven years older, rounder around the middle, and squinting at me through eyes that hate, but I’d know that face anywhere: Cody Weller. Hastily, I looked to my left then my right, trying to find some way—any way—to disappear. Even diving headfirst into a manhole would’ve been preferable to the stare of the man who’d once conspired with other like-minded high school douchebags to destroy my life. I’d actively worked to avoid the whole lot of them since my varsity blues days, but I supposed there were two universal truths in life. One was that you could never outrun your past, and the other was that you’d never find an unsightly manhole on a street like Goldfinch… unless it were coated in gold.
“Still leading sightseeing tours, I see. Would’ve thought you’d have moved on by now,” he sneered.
I would have said the same about his job… if I could speak. But for some reason, seeing Cody Weller caused my throat to dehydrate on the spot. Unable to form the words needed to get the bus moving, I turned to my driver, Vernon, and silently motioned for him to go.
“You’re not even going to talk to me?” Cody asked, seemingly offended that the girl he’d had a hand in unraveling didn’t have the good graces to reply to his smug insults. “That’s not very nice, Jesse.”
Nice? Back in the day, I’d been lukewarm nice to him, and what had that gotten me? Humiliation and a juvenile rap sheet. Yeah, I wasn’t being nice anymore. Not with Cody or any of the other elite group of oppressors I’d once called friends. Seeing him reminded me of how gullible I’d been, trusting in people who turned on me the first chance they got. I’d thought I b
elonged. I’d thought I was special. I’d thought wrong.
Speeding up my ‘move it’ arm gesture, I had to discreetly kick Vern in the calf to get him going. Putting the bus in gear, he popped forward, sending me lurching into the passengers in the front row.
Had he been a split-second faster, my driver would’ve spared me, and my passengers, Cody’s final parting words.
“Well, okay then. It was good seeing you too, Jesse. Oh, and I’ll be sure to tell Nicky you said hello—you stupid bitch.”
Whoa. Damn, dude. Cody just demonstrated why I never allowed my personal life to encroach on my professional one. His less-than-complimentary parting shot penetrated the ears of just about every customer on my bus. Even the hard-of-hearing folks were filled in by their able-eared peeps.
“That’s it,” I said, forcing a smile. “He’s off my Christmas card list.”
That got me a spattering of nervous giggles, which was what I’d been aiming for. I had to warm my customers back up before I could make them forget any of that nastiness had ever occurred. This called for a scandalously delicious story, and I just so happened to have an arsenal of those at my disposal. Launching into a Hollywood tale of woe, I didn’t hold back, delivering one tantalizing ‘fact’ after another until I had my passengers, once again, happily eating out of the palm my hand. Who needed Cody’s drama when you had me spinning a much juicer tale?
And, really, what did I care what Cody thought of me? He was a nonfactor in my life. If he insisted on living in the past, well, that spoke more to his emotional health than it did mine. Although I will admit, his mention of Nick rattled me a bit. Cody sure did seem to imply he and Nick were unusually chummy. That was interesting, given the fact that last I’d heard, Nick had conveniently left the country and was now hiding out on some Caribbean island. Wouldn’t he be oh-so-surprised when Cody shared the wonderful news with him that his former girlfriend had been spotted in LA—right where she’d always been? Asshole. I hoped Nick choked on his Bahama Mama.
“Angels, get your cameras ready,” I said, shaking off the negativity. There would be plenty of time for that when I was alone and digging the peanut butter out of the bottom of the jar with a Hershey bar. “As soon as the bus in front of us pulls away, Vern’s going to slide us into a sweet little vista spot where you’ll be able to get the picture of the Hollywood sign that I’ve been promising you all day. The sign is, of course, an iconic Los Angeles mainstay and has been on the mountainside since 1923. It originally read ‘Hollywoodland’ to advertise a new housing development and was lit up with over four thousand lights that flashed in sequence. Changing the burnt-out lights was such a huge chore back in the day that the sign even had its own dedicated maintenance man who lived in a little cabin off the big D.”
Well, would you look at that! My low-key dick reference must’ve woken the harshest critic of the day: seventeen-year-old Chase, who was now observing me through half-opened, marginally interested eyes.
In the beginning of the tour—when he’d still been conscious—I’d done my best to wipe that ‘everything sucks’ frown off his face, but once those eyelids started drooping, I’d left the surly teen for dead.
And I had half a mind to continue ignoring him, but that didn’t make good fiscal sense. All guides knew that the last few minutes of a sightseeing tour were the most important. It was our last chance to remind our passengers of what awesome human beings we were. In my case, in particular, customer gratitude made the difference between a couple of bucks being shoved into the tip jar and a down payment on my electricity bill. I hated to be so focused on money, but that was the way of the world… or at least the way of my world.
Yep, if I didn’t get a healthy amount of monetary appreciation today, I’d be turning my ride-share app on after work, and what do you know… working again. Wouldn’t that be fun? Ugh.
So mingling it was.
Crouching down to address the sleepy teen personally, I said. “Three more minutes, Chase, then you’re home free.”
Chase afforded me his first smile of the day, proving that somewhere deep inside, he had a beating heart … until I realized he was actually just looking down my shirt. The perv.
I narrowed my eyes on his complacent face and let him know in no uncertain terms that I had his pimply-faced number. Years of dealing with guys like him making lewd comments or gestures on my bus—even grabbing my body parts on occasion as I walked by their seats—had taught me a thing or two about perseverance. My go-to weapon of choice? Emasculation.
“In your dreams, little dude,” I whispered in his ear before standing up, patting his head like the childish man-boy he was, and walking away. That oughta do it. I smiled before moving on to a more agreeable man. This one was in his eighties and possessed an infectious giggle—but no other real meaningful communication skills to speak of.
“How’re you doing, Lloyd?” I raised my voice to accommodate his old age. “You hanging in there?”
“What’s that, hon?” He cupped his hand behind his ear.
His wife backhanded him in the chest and screamed, “She said, how are you doing!”
My ears shrieked from the sheer volume of her helpfulness.
He smiled up at me with glazed-over eyes. “Yes, it is.”
Fighting off a giggle, I nodded in agreement. Whatever he’d heard was fine by me. In fact, sometimes I wished I could go through life like Lloyd, with a wax log jammed into my ears preventing me from hearing the likes of the Codys of the world.
As I moved past the old man, he gently touched my wrist, his bushy brows furrowed in concentration. “If you want something you’ve never had,” he said, his voice crackling with wisdom. “You have to do something you’ve never done.”
I blinked back my surprise, looking around to see if anyone else had seen Zoltare turn on unexpectedly to foretell my future. But when no one else appeared alarmed, I had to question what I’d heard.
“What did you say, Lloyd?” I asked.
A contented smile settled back over his face. Lloyd was through prophesizing. That was okay because I didn’t need him to repeat it. His words were now circulating through my head on repeat. As if it were that easy! There were a lot of things I’d never had. But things I’d done? Well, now, that was a different story. Some of those things were good—real good—but too many of them were bad. Had Lloyd wasted his words on me, or did he give the same advice to everyone he met? I wanted to believe this was divine intervention, but the likelihood was old Lloyd had swiped that quote from a Reader’s Digest magazine forty years earlier.
So, why were his words still churning in my head, inspiring me? Lloyd was right. I had to try something new. This whole spinning my wheels thing was getting me nowhere, and I was too young to give up on my dreams—whatever they might be. Yes, Lloyd, I thought to myself. Yes to all of it. It was time to shake things up and go a little crazy… but not too much, because crazy and me had always been a recipe for disaster.
Committing his guidance to memory, I finished our bizarre conversation. “Thank you, Lloyd.”
He nodded. “Yes, it is, dear.”
Encounters like this were why I loved my work. Sure, it would’ve been nice to have a job that brought in more than minimum wage plus tips, but I doubted said fictional job would have sprinkled my life with the quirky people I met every single day. There really was nothing like connecting with people of all walks of life in an environment that unified us all. I mean, come on, if there was one thing humankind could agree on, it was that we loved celebrities. For a short snapshot in time, my passengers and I were all on the same team, all wanting the same thing—to feel special in the place where dreams come true.
And since it was my job to transport these everyday folks into that world of beauty, glamour, and wealth, I had to look the part myself. There was no rolling out of bed, winding my long dark hair into a bun, and going makeup-free to this job. I took care to rock the canvas I’d been given, and every morning, I emerged from my modes
t apartment looking and feeling like I belonged. I was selling a dream, after all, and the more presentable and personable I was to my customers, the more generous they’d be when our shared adventure came to a close.
Vern brought the bus to a complete stop at the vista point. My passengers sprang to their feet as the cameras began to click. I took those few spare moments to discreetly check my phone. Oh goody. I had a message waiting for me from the president of Angel Line Tours—my sister Andrea. Try as I might, there was no holding back the roll of my irritated eyes. Not exactly the sisterly thing to do, but then, we weren’t really the sisterly types. Ever since my mother stole her father from her mother—and then had me—there had been a strain in our relationship; never mind that the entire affair had taken place over twenty-six years ago. Andrea proved slow to forgive.
I read the text. “You’re late!”
That was Andrea for you—never a ‘hey sis, how are you?’ or ‘love you, Jesse.’ No, my sister started every conversation with an exclamation point, putting me on the defense before the first stone was cast. After years of trying to make amends for my very existence, I’d stopped trying. She was never going to like me or even respect me, so what was the point? Now I just lowered myself to her level and let the negativity fly.
I quickly tapped out a reasonable reply. “No shit?”
“This is the part where you explain why you are rolling in twenty minutes late.”
“Right, so here’s the deal. The chocolate glazed donuts are back at Krispy Kreme—but only for two days. What was I supposed to do?”
She shot back a response in record time. “Not funny.”
I was going for sarcastic, but whatever. Andrea had a way of turning everything around and making it my fault. And while she might be justified in the story of our lives, traffic was one monster I wasn’t taking the fall for.
“I was stuck in traffic,” I replied, as if it were even necessary to spell out the obvious. In LA, not being stuck in traffic was what made the news around here. “Chill out.”