Point Dume

by Katie Arnoldi

  JANICE IN TREATMENT

  JANICE HAD NO IDEA THAT SHE WAS SO FURIOUS WITH HER parents. Until she’d started seeing Dr. Deperno, she would have told you that she had an unusually good relationship with both her mother and father, that she’d led a perfectly happy childhood, and she was very content with her life. But after about five sessions, her self-made fairytale about the life of Janice Bane lay shattered at her feet. The new Janice was mad as hell. Her therapist asked her to make a list of all the things that upset her and start each one with “I am mad because . . .”

  Janice’s List:

  I am mad because my parents called me Chubbers until I was fourteen years old. Once I hit high school I lost a lot of weight and it turned out I had a really nice figure. Then they just called me Janice.

  I am mad because after I lost the weight, my father started making inappropriate jokes about the way I looked and my mother just laughed and told him he was naughty.

  I am mad because I caught my father spying on me one night when I was getting dressed. He’d been drinking and had climbed up a ladder outside my bedroom to “change a light bulb” but he knew I was changing for a date. I was naked when I looked up and saw him there, staring at me, leering. I screamed at the top of my lungs and he jumped off the ladder. My mother came running. I was hysterical and told her what happened. She patted my shoulder, told me everything was going to be okay, and then rushed off to find my father. I don’t know if I went on the date or not. I do remember that I spent a lot of time locked in my room and everyone pretty much stayed away from me for the next week. Then one morning my mother stormed into my room and announced it was time that I “snap out of this”. She said I was being overly dramatic and it was affecting the whole family. She said I should go back to normal.

  I am mad because my father never said he was sorry.

  I am mad because even right now, I somehow feel guilty about the whole thing.

  I am mad because I listened to my mother and swallowed my rage.

  I am mad because I believed that I was only good enough to follow my mother’s lead and become a housewife just like her.

  I am mad because I’ve spent my whole life trying to please everyone around me and never really thought about what I want.

  I’m mad because I never considered that I might actually have something to offer.

  I AM MAD BECAUSE I MARRIED A MAN WHO IS JUST LIKE MY FATHER.

  ELLIS AND PABLO : HEART TO HEART

  “IT DOESN’T JUST SLIDE OUT.”

  “I know, Ellis. It’s a big deal.”

  “And there’s ton of shit to learn.”

  “I got a couple books. If you want ‘em.”

  “You bought books?”

  “Just two.”

  “You should see what’s happening to my body. Look at this weird stripe on my belly.”

  “Linea nigra. It looks kind of cool.”

  “And it’s gonna hurt. I mean bad.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m not allowed to eat sushi because it’s raw, cooked fish because of mercury or smoked fish because of listeria. Can’t have deli meat, soft cheeses, caffeine, alcohol or any unwashed fruits or vegetables.”

  “You were never a big cheese eater, were you?”

  “Tuna melts?”

  “Right. . . . That sucks.”

  “I gotta do this birthing class.”

  “I like hypnobirthing.”

  “What the fuck is hypnobirthing?”

  “Hypnotherapy. They use song and guided imagery. It’s kind of new. I read up on it. But there are lots of traditional classes if you’d feel more comfortable.”

  “Oh god.”

  “I could go with you.”

  “You know they told me I should stop surfing until after the baby? Pollution. Can you believe that shit? What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

  “When do the classes start?”

  “Am I supposed to sit in the house and what? Knit? I don’t know how to fucking knit.”

  “Lamaze doesn’t usually get going until about seven months. But I think the Bradley technique starts sooner. That could be good.”

  “You’re scaring me, Pablo.”

  “You know, water birthing is cool. I woulda liked to be born like that.”

  “I can’t talk about this anymore.”

  FRANK HAS A NEW HOBBY

  TENNIS! WHY HAD HE EVER STOPPED PLAYING? FRANK loved tennis and had, in fact, been something of a star in high school. Turned out that all these years later, he still had what it took. He’d recently taken it up again and was obsessed, played at the club almost every afternoon. There was a tournament coming up and he was rising steadily through the ranks. What a hoot. And it was a great bunch of guys. He realized that he’d missed that too, the camaraderie of men. Just shooting the shit. Plus, he was beating most of their asses, nice to be admired.

  Frank drove out his front gate and headed for the club. He had a great day planned: round of golf in the morning on the north course, late lunch with the guys and then afternoon doubles followed by a round or two of drinks. Couldn’t get much better than that.

  Frank headed down the canyon, turned left onto the highway and saw that there was another south swell starting to build. He hadn’t surfed in the last few weeks. There were only so many hours in a day and he feared running into Ellis. He thought maybe he’d let surfing go for now, just focus on the tennis. Safer that way. She had been a terrible mistake. God, he was lucky. The thought of his wife and girlfriend sitting together on the beach at Pablo’s birthday party still sent him into a cold sweat. Ellis had a mean streak. He could be in fricking divorce court by now if she’d opened her mouth. He was one lucky guy to have dodged that bullet. Lesson learned. Next time, if there was a next time, and let’s hope there wouldn’t be a next time, but he was a man after all, next time he wouldn’t cross the tracks. He’d stay in his own socio-economic neighborhood, fish in his own waters. You just can’t mix it up like that. Also, the next one should be married so they’d be on equal footing—same amount to lose.

  The traffic into town was sluggish this morning. Tee time was still an hour off; he should be able to make it. The winds were picking up again. That could mess up his game. It seemed that the Santa Anas were always stronger in the hills, canyons and by the ocean. Why was that? He could google it but knew he would probably forget.

  Janice hadn’t been sleeping lately. She said the winds were keeping her up but Frank wasn’t buying it. Ever since that night she’d gone to the party with the Yoga bimbos she’d been different, quiet. She’d started to see a therapist and at first Frank had been upset. He didn’t like the idea of his wife telling some stranger their personal business. He’d asked her, “Do you talk about me?” She’d just looked at him like he was an idiot and said, “No Frank, I talk about me.”

  Frank had done a little survey of his tennis buddies and it turned out that six out of the seven guys he spoke to had wives in therapy. It seemed that it was just something that women had to do once they reached a certain age. Everyone agreed it was hard to understand what they had to complain about when they were given everything they could possibly wish for. Seemed ridiculous. Stan Owens said that it had been hell around his house for the first six month of treatment because his wife Alison was constantly angry with everybody. She got on a kick about “her needs” and everyone respecting “her space”. But Stan said that lately things had been much better. His wife was getting back to her old self and the two of them were getting along better than ever. He encouraged Frank to hang in there.

  The other thing that made Frank feel better was that three out of the seven guys had wives who were going back to school for their degrees. A couple of the women were even studying psychology, which is what Janice hoped to do. Again, it seemed like this was just something that wives did once they stopped having babies, nothing to worry about. But Frank could not understand why in the hell anyone would voluntarily go back into a classroom. The idea of homework? And wh
at was she going to do with that degree? Spend her days locked in some office talking to people about their problems? Pure hell. Why couldn’t she take up horses? That’s what two of his other friends’ wives were into and their butts were unbelievably high and tight. Yeah, horses. He’d run that by her tonight.

  Frank turned into the club and waved as the security guard raised the gate. He was a fat guy, Bob or Bill, who didn’t like to get up off his ass and come out of the guardhouse so he just waved everyone through. Some security! Anybody in a decent car could drive right in. Lard-ass didn’t even seem to check windshields for the club sticker. Frank thought he might mention it to the manager next time their paths crossed.

  The back lot by the men’s locker room was where Frank and his buddies liked to park, but today all those spaces were full. What the fuck? This lot was never full.

  Frank turned around and drove back to the main entrance for valet service and pulled in right behind Charles Worthington’s powder blue Bentley. What kind of man drove a baby blue car? A freakazoid, that’s who. Skinny, balding, Worthington climbed out and rushed around to open the door for his passenger, practically knocking the valet to the ground in the process. He offered his hand and out stepped another Amazonian nightmare. Swear-to-god she was a linebacker in a miniskirt and heels. She had tree trunk thighs, massive, rock-hard ass, tiny waist and the biggest set of knockers that they sell. Her hair was bleached blond and curly and even from where Frank sat in his car he could tell she had on a shit-load of make-up. Where did he find them? Every week or two he showed up with a new GI Joe in a dress and sent shockwaves through the dining room. All the women were outraged that he would bring “that kind of element” to the club. But there was nothing anyone could do. Charles Worthington had more money than God and his family was one of the founding members. No one could touch him. Frank and the guys had an on-going bet about the gender of Worthington’s dates. Frank was convinced they were females on steroids but some of the guys weren’t so sure. They all made a point of saying hello and introducing themselves each time a new gal came on the scene so they could hear the woman’s deep, manly voice. The guys all joked, said it was repulsive, Frank right along with them. But truth be told, Frank found all that muscle kind of attractive. He watched Worthington and his lady walk to towards the entrance and found himself wondering what she’d look like naked, all shaved up and ready. He’d like to know, like to see it firsthand—just one time. It’d be like going on vacation to an exotic locale—Borneo or Dubai.

  The valet opened his door and Frank got out. He was late. He’d have to rush to make his tee time. He grabbed his bag and headed towards the locker room.

  PABLO BEHIND ENEMY LINES

  I ALWAYS LEAVE MY CAMPER IN ONE OF STATE PARKING LOTS where there are plenty of other cars then take my bike and ride up into the canyons. You can’t be too careful. It’s fire season so there’s all those pyro-wannabe nutcases who formed the “Arson Watch Committee”. They roam the mountains and canyons, looking for suspicious activity. They wear special hats and t-shirts and report directly to the sheriff. I just don’t want anybody getting a bead on my rig and connecting it to anything “suspicious”. Also, those cartel guys aren’t exactly sweethearts. I’ve been flying under the radar for all these years because I’ve been careful, invisible. I want it to stay that way.

  Today I’m wearing a white t-shirt and my Smoky Branch pants. Again, a guy in full camo on a bike riding up into the remote backcountry would be something you might notice. But a guy in a white t-shirt and camo pants just looks like every other asshole wandering around the mall. Yeah, I’m just a guy with a backpack, out for a little bike ride in the mountains. Lucky for me, camo is an accepted fashion statement pretty much across the board. We all have our fantasies. I love seeing young mothers decked out in American Woodland or Tri-Color Desert. I just wonder if they’ve ever stopped to think what they’re wearing as they hand the infant another bottle of formula or whip a runny nose. Crazy country. Anyway, I’ll wear the white t-shirt until I get to the place where I stash my bike, then I’ll switch it for the Smoky Branch shirt, strap on The Judge and sneak off to see what’s what.

  This wind is a very lucky break for me. It’s noisy as hell, everything crashing around. I won’t have to be quite as careful on the mission today. Days like this you can walk right up on a deer or a little bobcat if you’re downwind and lucky; they just can’t hear you. I’ve done it a bunch of times. And there’s this grumpy old badger that lives up here in a little burrow. I hardly ever see him on the calm days but when these winds kick up, he seems to get all confused and comes waddling out of his hole trying to figure out what’s going on. I love seeing that little guy.

  I’m starting with the three-leaf hybrid. You remember, the guys who use that crazy rodenticide? Kill all the animals? My Blueberry Madness? According to my calculations, they have another month to go before they’re ready to harvest because this is the second crop of the season. But since I’m out here, I like to keep tabs on everyone.

  And I come up over the ridge and . . . Fucking A! These motherfuckers harvested early. What the fuck? I swear those plants didn’t have enough time. How’d they do that? There is not a single bud left in what I would guess was a five thousand plant garden. Nothing. Nada. This is not fair. Goddamn it. I went easy on their first harvest because I didn’t want to raise any warning flags. That’s it. No more Blueberry Madness for the entire year. That’s gonna wipe out a whole section of my clientele. I mean, I could lose a good 40% of my business and you know where they’ll go? One of those boutique “pharmacies” where they can chose from over fifty different kinds of weed, all with exotic names. I’m fucked. Those goddamn animal-butchering motherfuckers.

  Wait, no. You know what? This is my own fault. The whole thing with Ellis and I’m not thinking clearly. I should have been here last week. Hell, I should have been out here every couple of days for the last month. That’s my usual procedure. Hot weather and environmental changes and hasten or slow the ripening process. The harvest time varies and I need to be monitoring it all summer. But I haven’t been myself lately, haven’t been thinking clearly. The baby. And really, what does that mean? I’ve gotten a couple of other girls pregnant along the way so I know I’m capable of step one. They both got abortions so I never had to deal with step two. It’s the rest of the steps that scare the hell out me. What will we do? All live happily ever after in Ellis’ little house? And I’ll be called daddy? The kid can’t very well grow up telling everyone that his father is a lazy-ass pot dealer, right? I’m gonna get a job? I just can’t see that. I don’t do well with stress. But what’s the alternative? Ellis and the kid in her house while I remain the same fucked up guy just down the beach, living in my camper? I mean, it could be Frank’s but she’s done with him so even if he is biologically responsible, she’ll never let him in. I’m the logical guy for the job. She can’t do this alone and I’m ready to step up. I really am. But is that what she wants? I wish she’d just tell me what to do.

  Okay, this site is history. Nothing here but a bunch of trash, an old car battery for recharging their cell phones, and a bunch of propane tanks for the stove. Look, they left their tent and sleeping bags behind. Think they’ll use the same ones next season. These guys are by far the funkiest of the growers. Total pigs. Sometimes, if they’re in a rush, they’ll leave behind a plant or two but there’s nothing here. I’m gonna take my bike up to the fire road and ride over to the PBJ area. I better not be too late.

  FELIX MAKES A CHOICE

  IT WAS DON JEFE WHO HEARD THE ROCK DROP AND THE grunting thud of the intruder as he was knocked to the ground there in the underbrush. Dogs have superior hearing to humans and Felix was very appreciative for Don Jefe’s well-trained ears. He never would have heard with the wind blowing so hard. Felix grabbed his shotgun and quietly walked toward the area that Don Jefe indicated. Rigoberta was begging him to be careful. The Sacapunta kitties, and the birds that he’d made up in the trees, were encou
raging him to kill whoever it was, shoot him in the face, blow him away. They were suddenly vicious creatures and Felix demanded their silence. He took a deep breath to calm himself and proceeded.

  It was a gringo dressed in camouflage, apparently unconscious. A very big rock had fallen on his head. There was blood matting his blond hair but not a lot of blood. He didn’t move. He could be faking it. Felix aimed the barrel of the gun at his skull and took a step closer. He could hear Rigoberta sobbing back in the camp. Why couldn’t that woman get a hold of herself? She was not helping. Felix nudged the man with his foot. No response.

  “He’s faking,” yelled the sacapunta kitties. “Kill him while you can.”

  Felix ignored them. He nudged the man a little harder. Still nothing.

  “Blow his head off,” squawked the birds.

  Felix hauled off and delivered a brutal kick right to the ribcage but man didn’t move or even wince. Don Jefe was barking and Rigoberta was yelling something about how Felix was going to die and she couldn’t live without him. Felix blocked the voices as he bent and rolled the man over onto his back. There was a gun strapped to his chest, which Felix grabbed. Having two firearms made him feel a tiny bit calmer. He pulled a roll of duct tape from his back pocket and bound the gringo’s hands and feet. This guy was definitely unconscious. His nose was bleeding but it didn’t look broken. Felix dragged him back into the camp.