Chapter 4
I felt shitty for the rest of the day. I couldn't shake this persistent feeling of discontentment, of depression. It was like an attack of free-floating anxiety that took hold of my mind and haunted it and refused to let me go in peace. I tried to lose it in work but I couldn't control any sense of discipline over my actions, and I found my mind wandering.
Finally, I gave up. I got rid of Harvey by telling him I was going to take a drive. More than anything else, I just couldn't face going back into my bedroom. Not with all those mocking, jeering mirrors and all those beautiful women all so desperate to suck on my cock. I had to get away and get a breath of fresh air. The world seemed to be closing in around me and I was smothering.
Spring was in the air, and the moment I sat behind the wheel of my car, I could feel its restlessness settling upon me. Yet it was not an unpleasant restlessness; it was more like a rumbling sense of thwarted freedom trying to break free from the grip of winter. I decided to no longer resist all those dark, volatile forces that were swirling around just under the surface of my skin. I put the roof of my car down, and felt that frustrated independence pulling at me, like magnets trying to suck out the poison that was corrupting my spirit.
I drove away from the city, out towards the hills, going inland on the Ventura Freeway. Surprisingly, traffic was fairly light, and it moved at a good clip. The wind was warm and easy, and I felt relaxed as it blew my hair back and billowed under my clothing. For the first time in a very long while, I didn't feel closed in, and it seemed as though I were escaping from some dark and terrible prison.
I allowed the car to steer itself, taking the lead from the sucking pull of the road, and I found myself headed in a northerly direction, out toward Santa Teresa. I got off the Freeway and took a side road that wound lazily through the Spring-green hills. I drove more slowly now, allowing the soft, loose curves of the roadway to work into my mood, and I savored the budding touch of green that was splashed across the countryside. Nature was coming to life again, and the wheel of a year was closing up the circle. The hills seemed to vibrate with this newness, like white blossoms in the sunshine. In the distance, tall brown trees towered as though they were a part of a bristling forest rug pressed against the rolling hills. And underneath the trees, there was a wild explosion of shrubbery and undergrowth that was like some primitive jungle, impenetrably thick, and the earth itself was sometimes hidden from view.
I pulled off the road and just sat for a long while, trying to make my mind blank so that I was thinking of nothing. And it succeeded for a short period of time until my mind began to wander, and I kept returning to my life and Xanadu, my business. Then, with the return of these thoughts, that same emptiness began to gnaw again at my mind, and I realized that there was no way that I could escape from its cold touch. I saw now that a drive in the country would not get me away from it. And the very thing I was running from-I had brought with me. It was inside of me.
No it wasn't, I amended. It was not inside of me-it was me. I was running from myself.
I sat for a while longer, and I was bitterly disappointed when I started my motor again. I was almost hurt in a sense: as though the season had somehow personally failed to live up to something I had needed. There seemed to be a chill in the air now, and I put the convertible roof of my car back up.
Before I left, I looked at the trees again. But my eyes had taken on my mood, and I didn't see them as I had moments before. There was no more green newness of a season reborn. Now all I could see was the end of that cycle: the fall-yes, the fall! At the end of a scorchingly hot summer, the trees would be like twisted match sticks and that lush green undergrowth would be like a dry, brittle tinderbox ready to burn at the least provocation. All that greenness was a trap-waiting for a single spark that would turn this hillside into a roaring inferno.
And the fire would come, I knew. After the summer, the fire would come, and then all that would be left of this new green land would be a charred, blackened earth and the smoking charcoal stumps of smoldering trees.
I ran into traffic on my way back, and I cursed and muttered under my breath as my treasonous car rolled forward only a few feet at a time, then stopped and waited, then rolled forward a few more inches. It was a slow and frustrating trip, and when I came to the next exit, I guided the car off to a side road. I drove aimlessly for a few minutes, then pulled over to a small, quiet-looking bar at the side of the road I didn't even know what town I was in. I hadn't noticed or thought it important.
I had a drink or two, then realized I was hungry. I asked about a place to eat, and I was directed to a diner a short way down the road. I went there and had a greasy hamburger for want of anything else sensible to eat. After sitting around for a little while longer, I decided to return to the bar for a few more drinks. There didn't seem to be much else to do with the day.
It was getting dark and I had to turn my headlights on, even for the very short trip back to the bar. The road was unlit and I was still unfamiliar with the area.
The bar was nearly deserted and I was glad for that. I had no particular need for company, and there could have been nothing more irritating than to sit in a bar crowded with noisy youths. Even the jukebox was quiet and no one made any attempt to revive it. I had three or four scotches, the last one being a double, and I was well on to feeling quite mellow and very sorry for myself. I called the barman over. "Another," I said. He seemed to be studying my face for a moment or-two then he reached for my glass. He refilled it efficiently and sorted out the correct change from the money I had left on the bar. I had given him a twenty when I had first come in, and there didn't seem to be too much left of it. Still, I didn't make any attempt to check his figuring, and really didn't care whether he was clipping me or not.
After all, I told myself, I was close to being a millionaire, wasn't I?
He slid the drink across the bar to me, and I felt a sudden need to speak to someone. I had been alone most of the day and I was getting tired of the monotonous droning of my depressing thoughts.
"It's pretty quiet around here, isn't it?" I said. I tried to smile but it came out lopsided like a grimace. He studied me a while longer. "Yeah."
"Not much to do around here, is there?" He paused again. "No. This is a quiet town. A neighborhood place. A few regulars. Mostly working people."
I picked up my drink and sipped it. A shudder of bitterness went through my body like a shiver. Then it got warm in my stomach.
"I'm surprised that there's no youngsters in here. I thought they liked to hang out in bars."
He gave me a lopsided, hostile look. "What are you kidding? Hang out in bars? You hardly see kids in a bar any more. It's a dying business. They don't drink. They're all too busy getting stoned on drugs or something. They don't drink."
I sipped my drink again. "Is that a fact."
He seemed to be warming to the conversation, as though he wanted to unburden himself to me. I had touched upon a sensitive spot, and now he was going to give me the real low-down on life.
"Yeah," he continued, shaking his head. "You hear the barbers all the time bitching about how long-hairs are killing the barbering business, but I tell you that's a lot of shit. The real business that these kids are killing is this business. The bar business. The drinking business. I don't know what's going to happen after the present generation of drinkers dies off and we're left with all these marijuana-smoking hippie kids. We'll just go out of business, I guess."
He shook his head bittering. "They don't drink."
I said something appropriately sympathetic, but that didn't seem to bother him. He wasn't going to let go of my ear until I knew every bit of the bitter truth.
"I'll tell you something," he said, beckoning me closer to him. His voice was a husky, conspiratorial whisper. "There is a college right near here. Santa Teresa College. Now you'd think, in the old days, with a college so close that I'd make out like a bandit. But it ain't so. If I had to depend on those kids for a living, I'd starve. And that's a fact."
I was rapidly tiring of his conversation, and I drained my glass. I wanted to get him away from me and I was really sorry now that I'd opened myself up to him.
"Let me have another," I said.
He picked up my glass, but it didn't slow his mouth. He shook his head in a slow, uncomprehending way, and the pain of his life became suddenly very real.
"It makes you wonder what the fuck it was all for," he said slowly. "I mean you work hard all your life. You break your balls to get something. Then somebody does something that you can't do anything about, and you're left with a bag of shit. A fucking bag of shit."
He shook his head again and went to refill my drink. He dropped it off for me, and someone else called him over from the other end of the bar. He drifted away, and I was grateful to be alone.
It seems to be the same all over, I thought. But why doesn't it ever bother people like Harvey, though? People like him seem to be immuned to it. Or maybe they're just insensitive. Money's wrapped too tightly around them so the real world can't get through to them to touch or effect them.
I shook my head. Wow, I thought. The drinks must be getting to me. It's starting to effect my thinking. When I start going off in that direction, thinking the way I'm thinking, then I know something is wrong with me.
I sipped my drink and the ice cube clinked against my teeth. Maybe I am tired, I thought. After all, in the two years that it took to build Xanadu up from nothing, I hadn't once taken a break. No vacations. I was always too busy making money, grabbing power. Maybe it's taking its toll? Maybe I'm mentally exhausted? Maybe I do need a vacation.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I heard a door open, and the sounds of the streets filtered clearly into my awareness. Someone had come into the bar. I turned to see out of bored curiosity, and saw that it was a hippie-type young girl walking in.
She wore the typical costume of her type: faded belled jeans that trailed onto the floor, a loose fitting blue work shirt and long black hair. She wasn't wearing a bra, and her heavy, very large breasts seemed to bobble up and down as she walked. The shirt buttoned down the middle of her chest, and it bulged as she walked, enabling me to catch a generous glimpse of her pink tit under the material. And, of course, on her jeans she had the traditional peace emblem. It was sewn to the tightly fitting jeans right over the curved cheek of her right ass.
She smiled at me as she entered, and it was a warm, friendly smile that lit up her very attractive face. Had she been wearing makeup and different clothing, I could have easily mistaken her for one of my Xanadu girls. She was that pretty. Her blue eyes sparkled, and I noticed that she was carrying something in her hands. It looked like a bunch of frail, transparent flowers. But the colors were all wrong. They were too bright and vivid to be real.
I watched as she walked past me, going toward the bartender who was stationed at the other end of the bar. She leaned across the countertop, with one soft breast resting against the damp wood so that it looked flattened against her chest, and she said something to the bartender that I couldn't hear. He said something back to her, then shook his head.
I drained my drink, and the barman looked over at me and shook his head slowly again. He gave me an exasperated, I-told-you-so look of patient disgust.
I was curious now, and I watched as the girl approached the scattered few men at the bar. She spoke softly to them for a few seconds, and they all shook their head or ignored her until she went away. Finally, she began to walk my way, and I felt an inexplicable ball of tension making a fist in my stomach.
As she got closer, in the better light, I saw she was quite attractive. Quite attractive.
"Hi!" she said happily.
I nodded to her. Pick up? I wondered. She didn't look like a prostitute.
She was very close to me now, and I was aware of a sweet, fresh, clean smell in the air. I stared at her and slowly realized it was the smell of clean hair, as though she had just shampooed it. Her face seemed shiny and fresh, glowing like baby's skin. Her complexion was clear and tanned, and up close, her eyes did seem to sparkle. The smile on her face was broad, and her teeth were straight and very white.
"Hi!" she said again, and her voice almost sang the words. "I'm Heather. How are you?"
Her openness made me smile. There was an almost complete lack of guile in her friendliness. She was addressing me almost as though I were a longstanding friend and not a total stranger.
"Hello," I said back to her. "I'm fine, thank you."
With her right hand, she brushed her long black hair out of her face. She flipped the strands behind her shoulder with a pert jerk of her head. Never once did her beaming smile flicker or dim.
"Would you like to buy a flower?" she asked.
"A flower?" I stared at them. They still didn't look right.
"They're made out of spun glass," she bubbled. "I made them myself."
She handed me one, and I inspected it curiously. The flower was thin and frail-looking, with a slender, green-tinted stem and pale, almost clear leaves. The flower itself came up like a rose, and its petals were a pastel-colored red. I handled it carefully and was afraid it would shatter under my touch it was so delicate.
"It's quite beautiful," I said finally. "How do you make them?"
She smiled and then pursed her lips together. Her eyes were still smiling at me when she said, "Gee. I'm sorry, I can't tell you how I made them. It's a secret method I developed myself. I'm the only one who can make them like this."
I wanted to laugh. Was she truly afraid that I would steal her secret?
I handed her the red flower back and looked at all the others in her hand. She held them like a vivid, glass bouquet of strangely unreal red, green, yellow and blue flowers. Yet they were as exquisite as real flowers, and certainly as delicate.
"They really are remarkable," I said. "I like them very much."
"Thank you. Would you like to buy one? The money goes for a good cause."
I gave her a hard look. "A good cause?"
"I use the money to help put me through college," she said slyly, musically. "Isn't that a good cause?"
I laughed out loud. It was the first time today that I could remember laughing. "I guess it is."
She joined my laughter. "Well, then buy one."
"All right. Sold. How much are they?"
She shrugged her shoulders, and her fine black hair slid off the soft, rounded curve of her neck like a slowly moving black wave. "Give me whatever you think they are worth."
I laughed again. "All right, I'll give you a quarter for the whole bunch."
She bit her lower lip and thought for a second.
"Gee. I can't sell them to you for that little. Not all of them. But I'll tell you what. I'll give you one."
She handed me the glass flower and smiled. "Peace," she said, and she turned to leave.
"Hey! Wait a second." I jumped off my bar seat.
She turned back to me with real surprise in her eyes. She cocked her head the way a puppy dog does.
"Yes?" she asked.
"Don't you want your money?" I asked. "I was only kidding about the quarter."
She smiled at me. "That's all right. Keep the flower. It's a gift."
She began to turn away again, and I had to stop her.
"No!" I insisted. "I want to pay. I was only playing a silly joke on you. It was my fault and I'm sorry."
There was no anger or annoyance in her eyes. "I know that you were only kidding. But keep the flower anyway. It's still a gift."
"No. I insist that you let me pay you. It just wouldn't be fair to you for you to give them away. After all, you must have worked very hard on them. I insist I pay you."
She shrugged her shoulders in an easy, free-floating way. "All right. If it means that much to you."
Perhaps the impact of all the drinks I had had was the cause of my sudden generosity; or perhaps it was the depression that had been hanging so tenaciously onto me all during the day that was responsible. But I realized suddenly that it really didn't matter what the reason for my behavior was. It didn't make any difference-because I wanted to be generous. I wanted to somehow pay her. Not for the flower, but for the way she was making me feel.
I shoved all the change I had on the bar top across towards her. "Here," I said.
Her eyes widened and she looked down at the money. "I can't take that," she said. "There's over ten dollars there."
"Take the money, please."
She shook her head again and set her mouth. "No way. That's too much money."
"I can afford it. I'm almost a millionaire."
"Sure. So am I."
She shoved the money towards me and I pushed it back. "I am," I insisted. "And I can afford it."
She moved her hands expressively, in an open beseeching gesture. "Even if you can afford it, it's too much money. The flowers don't cost that much. They cost less than a dollar to make."
Her honesty was frustrating. I exhaled hotly. "Don't you understand I want to give you this money. Just like you wanted to give me the flower as a gift. This is my gift to you."
She shook her head. "But that's an expensive gift
"Money is the only thing I have to give."
She stopped and thought for a moment. "All right," she said slowly. "You take all these flowers." She handed the bouquet to me. "And I'll go home and get three more to make up to the ten dollars."
"Then it won't be a gift, will it? You'll be selling me something. And I don't want to buy something. I want to give something away."
She walked slowly to the bar and put one hand up on the counter top. "But why?" she asked. "Why do you want to give me a gift?"
I thought for a moment. "Because I've had a really rotten day and you're the first nice thing that's happened to me today. That's why."
She was silent for a moment. "Thank you," she said softly. "That's a really beautiful thing to say to someone. That's really nice."
Her sincerity made me feel self-conscious. I suddenly didn't know what to say. And I realized too that I couldn't give her the money now just as she couldn't accept it now. I didn't know what to do.
"What more can you ask out of life," she said. "To be helpful to someone. To bring happiness. To touch a stranger's life. That's a beautiful thing. It makes life meaningful, doesn't it?"
I thought for a moment. "I guess so," I said, but I really wasn't sure. It's been so long since I'd conditioned myself to think along those lines that I really wasn't sure. I'd forgotten how to judge.
We seemed to have reached an impasse, but I don't think she was aware of it. All she could see was the beauty in my cheap, plastic attempt to buy meaning into my life, and for that I felt bad. I did what I did for selfish reasons, but she saw it as something else.
"I can't take the money," she said. "But thank you."
"I understand," I answered. I thought for a moment. "Can I buy you a drink then?"
She smiled and her eyes sparkled like blue water. "Sure."
I laughed. "You may not know it," I said glancing down at the bartender, "but you've just disproved a very carefully worked out philosophy."
She gave me a searching look that reflected her confusion.
"Never mind," I laughed. "What will you drink?"
"Let me think. Yes! A whisky-sour."
I ordered it and she slid into the bar stool next to me. I glanced over at her and remembered how really pretty she was. Her personality had overshadowed it, if that were possible. She was easily as good-looking as any of the girls I've known, and judging from the firm, youthful hardness under the disguise of her clothing, her body matched and surpassed theirs almost effortlessly. And her attractiveness was a real one, based on pleasing features and natural gifts, and not a result of grease and cosmetics and false eyelashes. I could smell the cleanness of her hair more easily now, and it seemed to please me more than any perfume or pleasant smelling powder than I had ever known.
"You know, I was really depressed before I met you," I confessed. "I really was."
"I didn't do anything," she said modestly. "You were just receptive."
I wasn't about to let her off that easily. "No, it's more than that; much more."
And to my amazement I watched in honest surprise as her cheeks colored. She was blushing!
I laughed, and she laughed at my laughing and at her embarrassment. The bartender brought over our drinks and he gave her a dirty look. He left the drinks on the bar in front of us and walked off, muttering something under his breath about " ... dirty hippies."
"What will we drink to?" I asked.
She thought for a moment. "Peace?"
I shook my head. "I have something better. Let's drink to love."
She laughed. "All right. We'll drink to love."
We clinked our glasses together and sipped from them. I found that I was smiling constantly, even when I brought my glass up to my lips. I was suddenly happy-truly happy. What transformation had come over me in the space of these few small seconds? Was it the girl?
I put my glass down. "What did you say your name was?" I asked. "I forgot what you said."
She took another petite sip from her drink and replaced it on the bar top. "Heather," she said.
"Heather? Heather what?"
"That's all. Just Heather."
"You mean Heather like the flower?"
I picked up one of the delicate glass flowers and handed it to Heather.
She accepted it and stared at it for a moment as though she'd never seen it before or as though she were seeing it now in a different way.
"I guess so," she said. "Heather like the flower."
"That's a pretty name. Heather. I like it."
"Thank you." She smiled a pause. "And what's your name?"
I took another careful sip from my drink. "Steve," I told her. "Steven Brooks."
It was odd, but it didn't seem as though I were lying to her. All of a sudden I just didn't feel like Brian Caldwell any more.