SUMMER IN THE CITY
I always had this feeling that I'd find Jesus one Sunday morning. I hoped I never would, but the truth is, I saw it coming around every corner. I thought I'd see him on a highway in Middle America, framed by fields in all their agrarian glory; or maybe in a lonely sleepy bar in Mexico, or after a long night of biting my nails and doing cocaine. Sure, he never came, or in any case I never found him, but in the back of my mind I always thought I knew.
Besides, I always worked Sunday mornings. Maybe that's why our paths never crossed. He probably takes Sundays off. Anyway, he didn't seem like he was on duty the morning of the fire.
I was watching television at work because no one checks into a hotel Sunday at daybreak. The anchor was wearing a bright orange tie and I wondered if he chose it for a special occasion or if it was coincidentally the color of flames. He spoke of a mandatory evacuation a mile south of the hotel, so I wondered if that applied to the hotel as well or if it meant that it would stay open to accommodate the evacuees. Either way, I didn't plan on staying to find out. I grabbed my coat and left without telling my manager. The moment I stepped outside I got ash in my eyes. The air was heavy and oppressive, and the ocean was bleeding into into the sky in a weird shade of gray. You couldn't see the horizon.
Pacific coast highway was a mess, supporting a mass exodus south into Santa Monica. A woman in a Hummer suddenly switched lanes and nearly slammed into my car as I pulled onto the street. I think it was her fault but she honked at me so I wasn't sure. I was going to let it go, yet she pulled up beside me, and rolled down the window, an over-dressed, over-the-hill bitch in canary yellow and enormous sunglasses.
"Learn to drive, cunt."
"I'm sorry."
It wasn't even pride that I swallowed. It was wanting to tell her that I hope her house burns down with all her family photographs and her small children in it and that she's the only one left to survive, all alone in her big Hummer. I drove to my apartment and pulled into the driveway. The sky was now orange, and it reflected in the ocean. There was a person out kayaking, and I wondered why he would be doing that. I parked and lit a cigarette as Leslie walked by.
"You think it's a good idea to be smoking with the fire around?"
"I don't know. You can't light something already on fire, right?"
Leslie smiled and I wondered if she'd had breakfast. Not because I was hungry but because she looked like one of those girls who had to throw up after every meal. She lit up a cigarette and I noticed that she had a chipped tooth. I had never noticed before, or it hadn't been there. I wanted to know what happened, but I decided I probably shouldn't bring it up. I strained my eyes and I thought I could make out flames, way down in the canyon.
"So, are you all ready to get out of here?" I asked. She smiled.
"I'm scared that if I leave, I might never see it again, you know?"
I could never tell what Leslie meant when she smiled. She could be flirting, or she could be pushing back tears.
"What about you?" she asked. "Are you leaving?"
"Oh, I don't know. I'll just wait around for the four horsemen. This is the apocalypse, right?"
Leslie giggled and hugged me.
"Well, I'm gonna hit the road."
Her hugs were like her smiles; she could have been saying goodbye or trying to kiss me. I went inside my house and decided I should probably pack. I wasn't sure what to bring, and what to leave behind. I didn't have any photo albums. I looked in the mirror and decided I should change out of my work clothes. I put a dress on because I wasn't sure what one is supposed to wear for a fire. I figured it would be, at the least, pretty warm if it got close so a dress seemed reasonable.
I kept thinking about Leslie and her chipped tooth. You grow up and they all tell you, “Don’t stereoype.” But stereotyping is fun and I came to the conclusion one night that we’re all kind of like a bad imitation of something, and Leslie was a skinny girl with a chipped tooth and I wondered what she was taking with her and if she had photo albums she was trying to save. I turned on the television and the bitch in the yellow Hummer was talking to a reporter about her mistrust of Malibu emergency response.
"My husband's been a firefighter for twelve years. Before he became a lawyer. We just don't know how everyone's going to cope."
I poured myself a glass of white wine. The bitch wouldn't shut up. Something exploded in the distance. I took my half-empty glass and poured the rest of the wine down the drain. I grabbed my hastily-packed suitcase and threw it in the trunk of my car.
The road taking me down through the canyon down to the valley was eerily empty. Usually there was a garbage truck or two chugging along in front of me that kept me from speeding, but this morning, with the air stinging and propelling my car forward and side to side, my ratty little car was free to charge ahead, unhinged, blind to the speed limit. The static in the airwaves finally gave way to a radio program.
Next, on KSIN, a young lady who thinks that she is possessed by Satan himself. Stay tuned.
Click. I fumbled with the dial and some station was playing a Doobie Brothers song.
Whoa-waltz! to the music!
I left it on. It occurred to me that I wasn't sure where I was headed. I knew where to drive away from, but once the smoke and the orange sky were out of my view, I was without direction. I rolled down my window and stuck my hand outside to feel which way the wind was blowing.
When I made it through the canyon and into the valley, The Valley, I realized I was thirsty. There was a convenience store at the next intersection but it was closed. The bar next to it was open. It was gray and had one small window with a neon sign that said BEER. I went in and sat next to a middle-aged man in a leather vest. He told me his daughter was getting married. When I asked when the wedding will be he said today afternoon.
"It's her first wedding," he explained to me.
I asked where it was to take place and he pointed at the church across the street. People were filing in, for mass I suppose. Some were done up, fresh and clean, clad in Easter colors. Others showed up looking like leftovers from midnight confession. They didn’t seem like they really wanted to be there.
"What can I get you? Holy water?" the bartender asked.
"Just something to put out the fire.”
I told him I had been evacuated because of the fire and he said that the drink was on him. I thanked him and the man in the leather vest turned to me.
“You think it’s gonna burn?”
“What?”
“Your house.”
“Oh.” I said. “Well, it’s not really my house. I rent it.”
He raised his eyebrows and said that surely I must still find it important.
“I don’t know,” I told him. “I’d find it hard to believe that out of all those people, I’m the only one who’s wished, at some point or another, that it would just all burn down.”
He raised his eyebrows again and toasted me; not out of agreement, I felt, but out of some misplaced empathy.
“You know what the nice part about a fire is?” I asked him. “It’s that little green bud of grass I’m going to see in a couple weeks when the ash sinks into the earth and feeds it.”
The man didn’t seem convinced. “That’s not gonna help all those who won’t have a house anymore. They’re gonna be sleeping under a highway bridge and grass don’t grow on concrete.”
And I thought maybe in a smoky, glum bar, next to a man in a leather vest whose daughter was getting married. In a smoky, glum bar across from a church, maybe this was where I would find Him. But the dishwasher clearing the bar was a dark man with deep scar over his eyebrow and his nametag said Jesus, but when he looked at me all that said was, "I ain’t coming.”
Besides, I always worked Sunday mornings. Maybe that's why our paths never crossed. He probably takes Sundays off. Anyway, he didn't seem like he was on duty the morning of the fire.
I was watching television at work because no one checks into a hotel Sunday at daybreak. The anchor was wearing a bright orange tie and I wondered if he chose it for a special occasion or if it was coincidentally the color of flames. He spoke of a mandatory evacuation a mile south of the hotel, so I wondered if that applied to the hotel as well or if it meant that it would stay open to accommodate the evacuees. Either way, I didn't plan on staying to find out. I grabbed my coat and left without telling my manager. The moment I stepped outside I got ash in my eyes. The air was heavy and oppressive, and the ocean was bleeding into into the sky in a weird shade of gray. You couldn't see the horizon.
Pacific coast highway was a mess, supporting a mass exodus south into Santa Monica. A woman in a Hummer suddenly switched lanes and nearly slammed into my car as I pulled onto the street. I think it was her fault but she honked at me so I wasn't sure. I was going to let it go, yet she pulled up beside me, and rolled down the window, an over-dressed, over-the-hill bitch in canary yellow and enormous sunglasses.
"Learn to drive, cunt."
"I'm sorry."
It wasn't even pride that I swallowed. It was wanting to tell her that I hope her house burns down with all her family photographs and her small children in it and that she's the only one left to survive, all alone in her big Hummer. I drove to my apartment and pulled into the driveway. The sky was now orange, and it reflected in the ocean. There was a person out kayaking, and I wondered why he would be doing that. I parked and lit a cigarette as Leslie walked by.
"You think it's a good idea to be smoking with the fire around?"
"I don't know. You can't light something already on fire, right?"
Leslie smiled and I wondered if she'd had breakfast. Not because I was hungry but because she looked like one of those girls who had to throw up after every meal. She lit up a cigarette and I noticed that she had a chipped tooth. I had never noticed before, or it hadn't been there. I wanted to know what happened, but I decided I probably shouldn't bring it up. I strained my eyes and I thought I could make out flames, way down in the canyon.
"So, are you all ready to get out of here?" I asked. She smiled.
"I'm scared that if I leave, I might never see it again, you know?"
I could never tell what Leslie meant when she smiled. She could be flirting, or she could be pushing back tears.
"What about you?" she asked. "Are you leaving?"
"Oh, I don't know. I'll just wait around for the four horsemen. This is the apocalypse, right?"
Leslie giggled and hugged me.
"Well, I'm gonna hit the road."
Her hugs were like her smiles; she could have been saying goodbye or trying to kiss me. I went inside my house and decided I should probably pack. I wasn't sure what to bring, and what to leave behind. I didn't have any photo albums. I looked in the mirror and decided I should change out of my work clothes. I put a dress on because I wasn't sure what one is supposed to wear for a fire. I figured it would be, at the least, pretty warm if it got close so a dress seemed reasonable.
I kept thinking about Leslie and her chipped tooth. You grow up and they all tell you, “Don’t stereoype.” But stereotyping is fun and I came to the conclusion one night that we’re all kind of like a bad imitation of something, and Leslie was a skinny girl with a chipped tooth and I wondered what she was taking with her and if she had photo albums she was trying to save. I turned on the television and the bitch in the yellow Hummer was talking to a reporter about her mistrust of Malibu emergency response.
"My husband's been a firefighter for twelve years. Before he became a lawyer. We just don't know how everyone's going to cope."
I poured myself a glass of white wine. The bitch wouldn't shut up. Something exploded in the distance. I took my half-empty glass and poured the rest of the wine down the drain. I grabbed my hastily-packed suitcase and threw it in the trunk of my car.
The road taking me down through the canyon down to the valley was eerily empty. Usually there was a garbage truck or two chugging along in front of me that kept me from speeding, but this morning, with the air stinging and propelling my car forward and side to side, my ratty little car was free to charge ahead, unhinged, blind to the speed limit. The static in the airwaves finally gave way to a radio program.
Next, on KSIN, a young lady who thinks that she is possessed by Satan himself. Stay tuned.
Click. I fumbled with the dial and some station was playing a Doobie Brothers song.
Whoa-waltz! to the music!
I left it on. It occurred to me that I wasn't sure where I was headed. I knew where to drive away from, but once the smoke and the orange sky were out of my view, I was without direction. I rolled down my window and stuck my hand outside to feel which way the wind was blowing.
When I made it through the canyon and into the valley, The Valley, I realized I was thirsty. There was a convenience store at the next intersection but it was closed. The bar next to it was open. It was gray and had one small window with a neon sign that said BEER. I went in and sat next to a middle-aged man in a leather vest. He told me his daughter was getting married. When I asked when the wedding will be he said today afternoon.
"It's her first wedding," he explained to me.
I asked where it was to take place and he pointed at the church across the street. People were filing in, for mass I suppose. Some were done up, fresh and clean, clad in Easter colors. Others showed up looking like leftovers from midnight confession. They didn’t seem like they really wanted to be there.
"What can I get you? Holy water?" the bartender asked.
"Just something to put out the fire.”
I told him I had been evacuated because of the fire and he said that the drink was on him. I thanked him and the man in the leather vest turned to me.
“You think it’s gonna burn?”
“What?”
“Your house.”
“Oh.” I said. “Well, it’s not really my house. I rent it.”
He raised his eyebrows and said that surely I must still find it important.
“I don’t know,” I told him. “I’d find it hard to believe that out of all those people, I’m the only one who’s wished, at some point or another, that it would just all burn down.”
He raised his eyebrows again and toasted me; not out of agreement, I felt, but out of some misplaced empathy.
“You know what the nice part about a fire is?” I asked him. “It’s that little green bud of grass I’m going to see in a couple weeks when the ash sinks into the earth and feeds it.”
The man didn’t seem convinced. “That’s not gonna help all those who won’t have a house anymore. They’re gonna be sleeping under a highway bridge and grass don’t grow on concrete.”
And I thought maybe in a smoky, glum bar, next to a man in a leather vest whose daughter was getting married. In a smoky, glum bar across from a church, maybe this was where I would find Him. But the dishwasher clearing the bar was a dark man with deep scar over his eyebrow and his nametag said Jesus, but when he looked at me all that said was, "I ain’t coming.”