For my mom, who liked the first couple pages before she passed away.



"Where you come from is gone. Where you thought you were going to... weren't never there. And where you are ain't no good unless you can get away from it."

--Ministry, Jesus Built My Hotrod

          For weeks I had been morbidly fascinated by this girl. She worked at Tower Records, you know one of those gothic types with dyed black hair. This one had her head shaved all the way around a couple inches above her ears. The rest of her hair was sort of toussled and gelled up on top. Through a few strands she'd braided a thin silver chain that flopped around loosely. She also had a nipple ring on her left breast, but of course I didn't know this yet.
          I'd been idly stalking her for a couple weeks, harmless stalking by an uncertain boy, a few stolen glances here and there as I pretended to browse the CD bins, maybe even a missed heartbeat when I lucked into her being my cashier out of the three at the counter -- kind of like a slot machine except I only had to get one of three to be a winner. Never an extra word spoken. Couldn't muster it. Didn't know quite what to say, 'cept "thanks" when she handed me my change. Maybe I feebly tried to touch her hand a little when accepting my coins. She seemed clueless, or if not clueless at least bored, and maybe slightly annoyed. Above all, totally indifferent.
          So I couldn't help but think there were higher forces at work in bringing us together, because certainly it wouldn't have happened if we were left alone: me, shy and clumsy; her, aloof. Don't let me give you the impression she was a porcelain statue, cold and lifeless. She showed plenty of life with the people she knew, the people "behind the counter", on the other side, in her world. She'd let a customer wait while she finished a story about her weekend. She'd laugh and grin and chuckle interacting with the fellow clerks, talking about stupid managers and cool bands and rollercoaster relationships. Soon as she turned to the customer though, she was all business, maybe even less than all business. It was more like a chore, and the quicker she could finish, the sooner she could get back to real life.
          Anyway, I'm sure somebody was helping because we finally did manage to meet officially, not just in a "business" capacity. More about the actual meeting later. She consented to a lunch one day with relative cheerfulness. We ate outside at a cafe, chewing sandwiches and sipping coffee. The conversation passed passed tamely, maybe too tamely for her, because she steered the conversation from clothes to leather to sex and then told me brashly that she preferred sex with studded condoms. "Does that intrigue you?" she asked. I didn't know what to say. She seemed pleased at having disarmed me so easily, but kindly changed the topic anyway.
          A few nights later it came up again. I'd never used a studded condom before, only seen 'em in novelty machines in skanky bathrooms. But she had one, a bright fuchsia one, and I was putting it on with her sprawled across the bed waiting for me.
          I got up the next morning and she was gone. We'd slept at her place. It was small but with lots of character, interesting decorations, silver crosses dangling from everywhere like a weird shrine, a tie-dyed sheet on the wall, music posters, and some of her own black and white photos blown up, a couple plants too--I knew she had a nurturing side. I hung out for a while thinking she might be back soon. After an hour I left and went back to school.
          It was about 11:00 when I got back to my dorm. I didn't have a class until 1:15, so I figured I'd do some work. She was invading my head though, and I couldn't concentrate. The girls I'd slept with before had all been so sterile and boxed up, more scared than excited but not knowing it. Jasmine, that's her name by the way, hadn't been like that at all. It had been kind of strange actually. I felt like I had been playing a part in her fantasy. What we had done wasn't really real. She was too relaxed; it was too pleasant, too perfect.
          That night the phone rang. Jasmine said she was going to a club and asked me to come. So I got dressed and went.
          I lay in bed alone thinking that we were a pretty unusual couple, if we even were a couple, which I couldn't tell. She wore her outrageousness. Purple lipstick, shaved head, etc. I guess mine was just in my head. When I looked in the mirror that night before bed, I saw that my lips were slightly purple. Some of her lipstick had rubbed off as we kissed. I mused about my own outrageousness becoming apparent to the world, if I was even an outrageous person. Maybe Jasmine was the first step in the expression of my outrageousness. I imagined myself turning inside out in a B horror movie kind of sensibility. I saw purple seeping out of my head and onto my lips. Soon it would be dripping down my chin. Funny that outrageousness should be purple. I wonder what colors other qualities are. I guess scared is red, for blood, wounded. Pink must be unreality, living in the sunset, another world. What is it with girls and lipstick?
          I got up for class at 8:00 the next morning. I had Greek classical architecture at 9:00. I immersed myself in Doric columns for an hour. I didn't think about Jasmine at all.
          A week went by and I didn't call Jasmine and she didn't call me. Then I went over to her apartment and drew a smiley face on her door. That night she knocked softly at my door.
          We went out for breakfast the next morning. We took my car, an old Honda. It was grey and the passenger door didn't shut all the way because it had been in an accident before I owned it. Actually the door did shut; it just didn't look like it from the outside because the metal was bent out where it should have been flush. It had a great old AM/FM radio too. The reception was always bad, but I kind of liked it like that. It sounded like my teachers, and anchorpeople on TV, and politicians, and newspapers, and MTV VJ's, and especially like stewardesses, excuse me, flight attendants, when they're telling you the safety features of your airplane... only the radio played music. When I revved the engine the speakers crackled.
          Jasmine left her hand on the stick shift so I had to grab it every time I shifted. We didn't talk on the way to breakfast, just listened to the radio pretty loud.
          I had coffee cake and an orange juice, fresh squeezed with lots of pulp and even little bits of seed floating around. Jasmine ordered some sort of tofu dish. I tried not to pay attention. We were eating at a little rinky-dink café called Corner Cornucopia or something like that. It had lots of long, stringy green plants hanging from planters, and the walls were covered with vivid jungle scenes.
          The owner, or manager, or chief loiterer, or whatever she was, was in her late fifties, too old to have been the heart and soul of the sixties. She must have latched on after she became disenchanted with her own generation--sort of like a sixties groupie. Anyway she was pretty nice, very attentive at least. She wore forest green Birkenstocks, a long floral purple skirt, and had her gray hair pulled back in a pony tail that reached almost to the floor. She kept coming by to refill Jasmine's coffee and get me more water or another orange juice. She stopped by three times to make sure our food was OK and tried to strike up some small talk, which we did a fair job of quelling, you know sociable quelling, nothing offensive.
          "Could I get you two anything else? No? You sure now? You really need healthy food to keep up your energy in times like these. I was reading just this morning where Pres. Mulrooney vetoed the Clean Drinking Water Bill. It amazes me that...," she had that spacey, hippy, drugged out way of talking that made it seem like her mind worked slower than her mouth.
          At this point I cut in, directing my gaze away from her and toward Jasmine, "Yeah, Jasmine, you know that reminds me of this article I read in Plutonium last week about...." Hippy-lady shuffled quietly off before I had even finished the sentence.
          I guess she liked us because we were like the sixties of the nineties, at least in certain ways. Jasmine was the fringe element, and I was the student.
          We finished eating, and I paid the bill at one of those old non-electronic cash registers, a quaint little rebellion against the passing of time, not quite an anachronism but soon to be, after this place goes out of business in a year or two. We left, saying bye to Sally, the sixties groupie, promising to return soon.
          It was pretty sunny out as we left the Corner Cornucopia and walked back to the car. People were strolling amiably by, or so they appeared. We passed one couple with triplets in a triple baby carriage, and an old man with a beard who walked slowly and kept smiling at everyone and saying Merry Christmas. A little white dog with a leash trailing behind it followed him. The man was sort of musty-looking in an old green jacket and brown pants, but the dog looked good enough, frisky. I saw a store that had a bunch of glass globes on shelves in its window, so we stopped to look.
          Inside there were more globes, some of them two feet in diameter, sitting on pedestals or in chairs. They were all different colors and perfectly clear, no bubbles at all. Behind the globes on the walls were some random framed prints that added to the earthy-artsy feel of the place.
          The proprieter came out in a minute. I asked her what the globes were for. She went to the counter and came back with a little pamphlet that explained about the globes and their origin.
          The Chinese had been using them for thousands of years, she explained, as a central part of their meditation practices. Now they were making a big hit in the United States, after Ray Davies, the movie star, started raving about their benefits on some talk show. They were called Sfears, because s- before a word in Italian denotes un- something. Hence un-fear. It was a name the American public had really latched onto. It also made a good pun. They were supposed to help alleviate fears and bring relaxation.
          She told me to keep the pamphlet. She also said she was running meditation groups twice a week with instruction on how to use the globes, so I should come back if I had any interest. I thanked her patronizingly and laughed as I walked out the door.
          "Well, so what's the plan, Jasmine?" I asked on our way to the car.
          "Let's go to L.A.," she proposed and scrunched into my shoulder. I wasn't a hard sell. After minimal convincing, I agreed to bail on school and drive off into the sunset.
          We hopped into the car, blasted the radio, and blazed down to my friend Bob's place of work. He worked in a lumber yard and had access to lots of great cutting tools. We squealed into the parking lot at Hank's Lumber and headed over to the chopping shack. Bob could usually be found there. He was busy power sawing something. He had clear goggles on and a big wad of tobacco in his cheek. Some tobacco juice was caught in the upper hairs of his goatee. He didn't notice us when we first walked in. Eventually, when he turned to spit, he saw my shoes, but he didn't get much on them. He looked up and grinned widely at seeing me, nearly pulling my hand off when he shook it. I introduced him to Jasmine. He looked at her and then looked back at me approvingly.
          "How goes it, Travis?" he asked me. "You haven't been around in weeks. School bringing you down? Stealing all your time?"
          "Well, sort of. Jasmine's been stealing my time too. I haven't really had a whole bunch of hanging out time though. How goes it with you?" I offered back.
          "Aww, you know. Same stuff. Same job. Same wood. Same customers. Sort of got myself in a rut. Sometimes it feels like a rhythm though, and that's good."
          "Listen, Bob. You got a chain saw I could borrow for a minute."
          "Sure, what fer? You got a gopher problem?"
          "No, no, nothing like that. I just want to cut the roof off my car. Jasmine and I are going south, and we want a convertible."
          "Oh, sure, I can help you out. As a matter of fact, I can even do it for you. We got a big cutter in the other building that would work great. Why don't you drive it in there. I'll be over in just a second."
          Cruising down the 1 to L.A. in our new convertible, Jasmine and I were both pretty contented, smug with our individuality. That was one of the best days of my life. The sun glared overhead. Heat emanated from all parts of the car, but the ocean breeze kept us perfectly comfortable, more than comfortable.
          We tooled through small costal towns like Pismo Beach, thinking someday we might come back and buy one of the stylin' condos perched on the hills overlooking the ocean. Jasmine and I hadn't known each other long, and who knew how long it would last, but sometimes we talked of permanence, of buying a home together and raising children together, regardless of its truth. It was for the instant, because in that instant we were forever. That was one of the things I found sexiest about Jasmine, that she understood this.
          Her hair tangled in the wind. She didn't care in the least. I told her I'd brush it for her like some queen's attendant when we got somewhere. My hair was too short for the wind to bother me.
          I couldn't help but reach over periodically and touch her. Maybe it was the heat from the sun. Maybe it was her gorgeous legs slipping out of her red sundress when the wind blew. I think there's something about driving too. Maybe the vibration of the road. I couldn't help it though. Eventually I just left my hand on her thigh, pressing and massaging. I didn't face any resistance. In fact soon she put her hand over mine and started guiding my movements. Firmly. I'd been trying to be gentle, but I guess she wasn't in a gentle mood. She was pressing my hand tightly against her thigh, almost cutting off the blood, maneuvering it up further and further.
          She let go of my hand and put both her hands into her hair. She closed her eyes and rocked her head back onto the headrest. I had a hard time keeping my eyes on the road and off her. She was a vision. Delirious youth on a perfect day in a perfect ecstasy. Her legs slid slightly apart, and my fingers came against soft lace panties. She twisted and I tugged and we managed to maneuver the panties down enough.
          Driving a car doesn't lend itself all that readily to digital stimulation of the passenger. I had to torque my right hand a bit to get a decent position. At first I just tickled her pubes, brushing softly over them and against her thighs. Letting her wait. Making her want it, although somehow I knew I wasn't the one in control here. As I let my fingers glide in closer against her moist lips, I heard her suck in a quick breath and felt her legs jerk softly. I was about to climax just from touching her. She relaxed and exhaled.
          I took another glance at the road. Didn't want to pullover. Isn't the same if you do. Gotta be movin', man. I let my fingers work circles against her labia, feeling her grow wetter, hearing her breathing more rhythmic. My fingers were starting to cramp but I didn't give a shit. What's a touch of discomfort in a transcendent moment like this? I could sense she was getting closer, so I got more delicate, moving away from her lips and back to her thigh, using her own lubricant as massage oil. I took my hand away completely and moved it up against her breast. I think the guy passing us on the left was enjoying the show. I tried to caress her breast but almost as soon as I got there she took her hands out of her hair and pushed me straight back where I came from. Maybe I was running the show here after all.
          With my wrist bent and uncomfortable again (although my brain wasn't registering the nerve messages at this point), I brought her breathing back up in no time and began diddling her clitoris. She was rubbing my forearm incoherently but lovingly. For all she cared, my arm could've been a cinder block; she just wanted to be touching something. I liked it just the same.
          She was moving her legs in and out now, rubbing them against my hand, clenching every now and then, which made my job much more difficult. Her head rolled back and forth on the headrest, and her breathing was tinged with quiet moans I could barely make out over the rush of the wind. In a moment she came. Her whole body contracted, every muscle going taut. Then she exhaled loudly, and her head slumped forward over her lap. She sat like that for a second before pulling her head back up with herculean effort. In a moment she had let it slip down against the side of the car. I left my hand on her thigh.
          I was just deciding that she'd fallen asleep like that when she stirred. Her legs were the first to move. She pulled them together and squeezed them against each other. It was like she was rousing herself from some frozen slumber, one part of her body coming alive at a time. Then she arched her back like a cat, rolled her head back and opened her eyes. She looked at the sky for a minute. I looked at her for a minute. Yeah, yeah, driving, the road, whatever. Then she turned her head and looked at me. Her eyes were blank and happy. Her lips were drawn up in a languid Mona Lisa smile. She lingered like that while I alternated between glancing at her and checking the road.
          Then she drew herself up and draped her arms around me, resting her head against my shoulder and cheek. I was in Heaven. I felt at that moment like I was just going to vanish in a puff of smoke. Why? I don't know. Maybe because it doesn't seem like whoever's in charge allows that kind of empyreal happiness. But I guess he/she/it does. Because there I remained, with my glorious, fairy tale girl wrapped around me under a crisp blue sky on our way to LA and beyond.
          She fell asleep like that, and I drove on. It was getting toward dusk, and I was hungry, so I pulled over in Las Piedras. I drove down toward the water and crept smoothly along the beach road to keep from waking Jasmine up. Up ahead I saw a weathered brown building that looked like it'd been made of driftwood. Up a little closer there was a sign in front that said Uncle Moe's Surf-n-Turf. I pulled into the gravel parking lot and couldn't help from jostling the car over the bumps and potholes. Jasmine raised her head from my shoulder, and with sleepy, confused eyes and a sleepy voice said, "Huh, what are we... Where are we?"
          That was a hell of a question I thought, and then gave her the simple answer, "We're at world renowned Uncle Moe's where they've secretly replaced the.... I thought we'd get something to eat. Y'hungry?"
          She surveyed the scene blearily through squinted eyes and then fell back onto my shoulder. I think she mumbled, "Uh, uh," on her way down.
          "Come on. I'm hungry. You're gonna to have to roust yourself. Get on up wit'cha," I said, tickling her lightly.
          She moaned and sat up. She closed her eyes hard, shook her head, opened her eyes wide, and said with new energy, "OK. Let's go. I'm ready now."
          We moseyed into Uncle Moe's. Being a weekday, and on the early side, Uncle Moe's was less than packed. So we got a prime table looking straight out into the ocean. The sun was just starting to set as Uncle Moe sat us down.
          "Drinks to start?" he bellowed in a gruff but friendly voice. Maybe it was just jarring because we'd been in our own dreamy world for the last six hours. If Jasmine hadn't really been awake before, she was now.
          "Maybe a Mai Tai, or one of our Beach Bonanzas, house special?" he continued, tacitly assuring us that he wouldn't be carding.
          "Yeah, I'll have a vodka on the rocks," Jasmine said. You had to like that in a woman. Fuck the spritzers.
          "Uh, how 'bout an Miller for me."
          "I'll be back with those in a second. Why don't you take a look at the menus." Uncle Moe shuffled off. He was a large man we could see now as he walked away. Large in girth, not height, that is. His billowy apron with the giant red lobster had obscured this when he faced us. I was reassured. For some reason I figured this meant he was a good cook.
          To the left of the door Moe disappeared through was a big glass tank full of awkward, slow-moving lobsters with their claws pinioned. I got up to go look at them. Jasmine stared over the ocean. They looked so sad and helpless, with bright blue bands around their claws and constantly getting stepped on. I figured I'd eat one. Put him out of his misery. I picked my dinner and then went back to Jasmine.
          There were two other couples in the place. One was in their fifties and looked like they could've been Moe's first cousins. They barely fit into their booth. They were chuckling and engaged with each other. The other couple was two guys in their early thirties. They weren't talking that much. One would say something and look hopefully at the other. The other would reply tersely and then gaze away. I guessed it was some kind of bad first date.
          My intuition about Moe turned out to be right. The food was amazing. And as we ate the place started to fill up. Jasmine had a salad and the snapper. I told Moe which lobster I wanted and he plucked him from the tank and boiled him up for me.
          Jasmine had seemed a little withdrawn through dinner. I figured she was still dazed and sleepy from our drive. But I guess she was thinking because she looked up from her snapper and said, "I'm happy with you here."
          I was touched. Jasmine wasn't very verbally expressive, and I knew that she really meant it.
          "Me too," I responded.
          "This is perfect. I'm so glad we did it. Everyone always says, wouldn't it be great if we... But they never do."
          "It's not done yet."
          "I know. I mean I'm glad that we started," and then she looked down and arranged a bite of snapper on her fork.
          "Do you do wild stuff like this all the time? Like leaving your job and apartment on no notice. I mean I still don't really know you very well. In some ways I feel like I know you intimately even though we only met a couple weeks ago, but then there's also this unfathomable void. You know, like this part of you I'll never know. And maybe even you don't." She usually wasn't much for pensive, philosophical talks so I figured I'd better take advantage of her current mood.
          "No, not really. I'm usually pretty stable. After high school I fucked around a bit--you know, no job, mooching from my parents, crashing wherever the party was, doing the club thing--but I was always in the same spot. And I never really had a lot of responsibilities that I could shirk if I wanted. I guess I arranged my life like that." She chose to address the easy part of my question.
          "You know, I don't even know how old you are."
          "Eighteen. I took the equivalency when I was sixteen, and I've just been screwing around since. I lived with my mom until she moved to fuckin' podunk middle America. And then I got a job at a cafe and the apartment. It calmed me."
          "Do you want to know how old I am?" I asked.
          "I know. Nineteen. I saw it on your license when we got carded at the club. Birthday's March 23. Too bad I don't know what sign that is. Seems like I'd be an astrology type, huh? Well I'm not."
          She spoke plainly and to the point, but her voice had a dreamy, lilting timbre that made you think of far away places. A voice belied by the words it spoke. A voice that hinted of a deep romanticism if you listened to its sound and not what it said.
          I wanted to hear it some more, so I asked, "So why'd you decide to come with me? I didn't have the sense before that you were all that into me."
          "I just take a little while to warm up to someone. That's all." Her shoulders hunched forward slightly and her arms ran straight down into clasped hands beneath the table. She looked like a shy little girl not wanting to answer some adult question. Her head was cocked to the left and she leaned forward when she said this and looked at me sincerely. She was adorable.
          For a moment we just looked at each other. Then I looked down and had another bite of succulent lobster tail. I dipped it generously in the melted butter.
          She asked, "So why'd you come with me?"
          "I don't know. I like being with you, looking at you, seeing you, hearing your voice, touching you... It seems natural... Like we fit." I was struggling a little for words.
          She helped me out and said, "Yeah, I know what you mean."
          "So what is it that you're warming up to in me?"
          "You're honest. You're true. I need that. It's comforting."
          Then she said she needed to use the bathroom, and I could tell this conversation was finished for the time being. I watched her head toward the lobster tank and then make a left and disappear behind a wall. Her dress swished appetizingly as she strode. She had a jaunty but feminine gait that suggested hard and soft at the same time.
          Uncle Moe popped through the door to the right of the lobster tank, the door to the kitchen, as I was gazing, and proceeded over. He rested his hand on the booth next to my shoulder and propped his weight against it.
          "Well, how'd we do, son?" he queried.
          "It was amazing. Next time I'm in Las Piedras, I'll be sure to stop by."
          "Good, good, please do. You didn't lose your lady friend there, did you?"
          "No, no, just powdering her nose."
          "Are you all through there? Can I take these?"
          "Sure."
          And then we were back on the road, climbing up over the Grapevine with the heater blasting and my reliable Honda topping out at about 55. The convertible was sublime during the day, but I was having some tepid second thoughts now as we struggled toward LA through the chilled night air. Nothing serious, more just idle bitching than anything else. California cools off quickly in the evening.
          Jasmine was wrapped in a woven blanket I picked up in Mexico on a trip with friends. I had my parka on.
          We had been quiet for a while now, sort of a meditative trance that always happens on road trips. The drone of the engine and the oozing warmth of the heater lulling us off.
          Somewhere on the Grapevine, Jasmine slipped into the back seat behind me and started rubbing my back. It felt fantastic. After driving all day, it was a welcome relief. She had great fingers. Strong and deft. She massaged my shoulders and my neck and my temples and played with my hair. When she got tired she ran her fingers along my lips, and I kissed and sucked them. I felt blessed. I must've done something good in a previous life. Finally she curled up in the back seat and went to sleep.
          I pondered about this strange girl I had met and how she seemed to soften and become more comfortable with me and at the same time more reticent. Like she didn't want to speak because now it meant something, where before I'd just been some random dude. Maybe one of many. I'd have to ask her about that.
          I wondered about her past, and her home life. I wondered what she thought about when she gazed out over the ocean and what she dreamt of as a young girl. What drove her to become part of fringe society? Or was that even a choice? Maybe just the way you are. What motivated her to dye her hair black and cut it funky? Was she trying to accost people's sensibilities or did she just like it? I myself thought it was unique and very cute. She sort of mussed it up and wore it all puffy and disheveled on top. I wasn't sure about the braided chain yet, but it was growing on me. What was it that attracted us to each other? I'm sure to everyone we seemed an unlikely pair.
          I entertained myself with these thoughts as the road sped away behind us.
          We made it into LA proper about an hour later. Hopped on the 101 down to Hollywood Boulevard. It was sometime around 10 I guessed. The car clock had fizzled out long ago. Hollywood Boulevard was our initial destination not for the tourist crap but because it was seedy and amusing. We figured it'd be a good place to while away time.
          We headed east off the 101. Many buildings were boarded. Graffiti covered the walls like a creeping vine gone unchecked. Few people were on the streets. The car we were behind was a white Impala, lowered of course with a shining chrome bumper. On it was a sticker that said "I (heart) Michoacan." Up ahead we saw no city lights or hints of civilization, so after a block or two we turned around. I think Jasmine would've kept going. She seemed enthralled.
          Now going the right way, we crossed back over the 101. It was a Wednesday, so the cruising crowd wasn't out in force, but we waited at the stop lights with some low riders: low profile tires and gold hub caps, chain steering wheels, drivers with shades on in the dark. There was much more activity on this side of the 101. Neon. Sidewalks with scintillating silica that caught the headlights and glittered. We saw the Walk of Fame with the names and handprints of celebrities impressed into the sidewalk. It was still reasonably early, so we decided to park and hang out a bit. We got a spot in the first block on some side road and cruised back to the Boulevard.
          We weren't too worried about anything getting stolen 'cause none of it was worth anything. Clothes mostly. Jasmine had brought a Buddha statuette that she was really attached to for some reason.
          I quickened my pace as we got closer. I was excited to be here, someplace new. I was also curious. I wanted to see if there were really all the homeless street kids like the media said. The ones who'd run away from Oklahoma at fourteen and come to Hollywood thinking they'd be the next Marilyn. Some of them not even thinking, just going, just needing a change, a break from their shotgun toting fathers who worked in the fields by day and screamed and hollered by night. The ones the media said turned tricks for twenty bucks to make ends meet. That's what I wanted to see, if we lived in an over-hyped, sensationalized world, or one that was honestly worthy of the ten o'clock news. How much was fabricated?
          "I want to see Clark Gable's star. And Fred Astaire's too," Jasmine chirped like a star-struck fan. Apparently Hollywood had her all worked up too.
          "I didn't know you were into old films."
          "Yeah. I love 'em. I grew up with just my mom, and she worked all the time. So she used to keep me locked in the house. I used to watch the old movie channel. Those films were my only diversion. They'd take me away from my crappy house and off into la-la land." Her tone had been earnest at first, but she slipped into smiling theatrics at the end, mocking the movie affectations that she just admitted to relishing. I guess she thought she was revealing too much and turned it into a joke.
          "Is Gable your favorite?"
          "I don't know if I have a favorite actor. I just like the feel of those movies from Hollywood's heyday. You know, the guy getting the girl and then riding off into the sunset."
          "I didn't know you were such a romantic," I said, sort of teasing.
          "I guess I am. But I like them because they were escape for me, and so they conjure a certain feeling of freedom when I see them and think about them," she continued. "What about you? Do you have a favorite?"
          "Well, I'm more of a contemporary movie guy. I have a hard time watching those old movies. All I think of about old movies is a bunch of ladies in tiaras doing water ballet in a ballroom in an indoor swimming pool... and then a shot from above showing the women forming some elaborate flower shape and then dissolving into another shape, like a kaleidoscope."
          Jasmine laughed. "I know exactly what you're talking about. Yeah, it's kind of cheesy, but if you can put it into perspective... like think about that era and all."
          "The only movies I've seen from that time that I liked, and these may even have come after the ones you like, are the film noir. Like the Big Sleep and Sunset Boulevard and some Bogart and Bacall flick I saw. Those movies seem so classically American to me, gritty, stoic. And black and white was perfect for them."
          There was a pause as we walked. Jasmine had her arm around my waist.
          "It's funny. I wouldn't have pegged you as one to get all starry-eyed over celebrities," I said.
          "It's not really the celebrities I'm into. It's what they remind me of, what they give me, or gave me when I needed an outlet."
          "Do you think you still need an outlet?"
          "Something to plug myself into for a jolt, you mean?" she kidded.
          "Sure."
          "Maybe you're my outlet now," she said and kissed me on the cheek. She had to get on her toes to reach because she was shorter than me. She kissed me again. Then pushed me against the brick wall of a warehouse just beneath a broken, grimy window. Holding my shoulders pinned she just looked at me for a second. Then she kissed me on the lips and said, "Come on. Let's go do something fun," and strode ahead.
          I was dizzy remembering her look and her kiss. I don't think I even heard what she'd said. She turned a few paces off and said again, "Well, come on." I snapped out of it and caught up.
          We were on Hollywood Boulevard now. Not really all that exciting. Lots of gaudy souvenir and lingerie stores. The people on the street were a mixed crowd. There were a fair amount of young people. Mostly latinos and punker street kids huddled in clumps or striding abreast. Girls with blue hair, guys with baggy pants around their asses. Nose rings, earrings, tattoos, mohawks. I dug it. I asked Jasmine if her friends looked and dressed like this.
          She said, "Pretty much, yeah."
          I think she'd toned herself down a bit for me. The red sundress was no doubt something from the back of her closet. But she pulled it off well. I think black was more her custom. She did have combat boots on to temper her look. Sundress and sandals would've been anathema. With boots it was passable.
          We sat down against a building on a corner and watched traffic and people. We sat against the wall around the corner off the main drag. It was a little darker and there were less people, but we could still watch the scene. Some dude walked over to us. He looked about sixteen and emaciated. He was wearing a beaten leather jacket, no shirt, and tight black pants with boots. He also had a chain running between rings on his nipples. Young, innocent face masked by his street front. His hair was bleached blond and cut short.
          He swaggered over and stopped in front of us with his arms crossed.
          "Talk to me, baby. It's all good," he oozed.
          "No thanks," Jasmine said.
          "What's your story?"
          "We're just sitting here," she replied.
          Getting frustrated, "So like, you lookin' to hook up or what?"
          "If you mean a place to sleep, maybe. If you mean something else, we don't have the cash for that."
          I was surprised. I'd been planning on finding some dive motel to sleep at. I guess Jasmine had more economical ideas.
          "No, man, we don't got no place. Not for both of you. Maybe for you," he leered at Jasmine.
          "Oh, well, we're a package deal. Look, we just got here. Where can we go?"
          "Hey, I don't know, man. Try under the freeway or some shit like that. I just work here." He backed away and shuffled off.
          "What'd you think he was gonna invite us home for dinner and tea at the mansion?" I kidded.
          "Hey, you never know. He might've if I were alone. You'd be surprised what guys are willing to do," she said coolly.
          "We've been here like an hour, and already I'm cramping your style," I said probing for reassurance.
          "Are you kidding? You think I was gonna go anywhere with that little rat?" she scorned.
          I felt better.
          "Are you really trying to find some place to sleep? I just thought we'd stay at a cheap motel."
          "Yeah, I know. But the cheaper we go, the longer we can stay. It's not a big deal, but we don't have limitless cash."
          "Well, I'm up for whatever. I don't care where we sleep as long as I can get a shower every couple days."
          "Awww. Poor little Travis doesn't want to get all stinky-winky," she baby-talked. "Don't worry. I'll lick you clean if it comes to that," she whispered with a succubus grin and bit my ear.
          "Works for me," I said. I grabbed her and pressed my lips into hers. They were soft and moist and pliable and tasted like city rain, a cleansing, purifying rain, a welcome relief. We kissed for a while on the gum-spotted sidewalk of Hollywood Boulevard. I got up and took her hand.
          "Come on. Let's mosey around," I volunteered.
          She pulled herself up, and we headed down the street. We ducked into one of the souvenir shops to browse. Hanging from the walls were pale blue t-shirts with glittery iron-ons that showed the Hollywood sign or a palm tree in front of a sunset. The store was packed with stuff. I guess the Pakistani couple who ran the place wanted to maximize their floor space. There were duffle bags piled in the corner, graphing calculators and toaster ovens behind the counter, and knickknacks under the glass display case. The store was maybe 10' by 20'.
          Others browsers eyed the goods along with us. And one kid pocketed some pins that lay in a basket on his way out the door. I don't think anyone else saw. Not much of a loss for the store anyway. How many people are going to buy a pin that says, "I got you, babe!"?
          I was standing in front of the display case, checking out the cheap trinkets and medallions laying dull and muted under the finger-printed glass. The proprietor barked something in Pakistani, I guess, at his wife, who scurried into the back, and then turned to me.
          "You like, I show," he chirped. "Which one?"
          Feeling cruel, I decided to play with the poor guy. Jasmine had come over and was looking at the case next to me.
          "Well, I only have fifty bucks. You probably don't have anything less than that, huh?" I said, discouraged.
          Jasmine turned and looked confused. I ignored her.
          His face brightened. "Oh, we might hab someting here. Let me tink. Dis one ere ees forty-five. Wery, wery nice," he enthused, pulling out an inch tall lead skull that had red glass eyes.
          "I don't know if my mom would really go for that one," I chuckled. "How 'bout this one?" I pointed to a pewter boner that had a ring through the head so you could hang it from a necklace.
          A stunned look flashed over his face and vanished quickly as he remembered he had a customer with fifty bucks burning a hole in his pocket. Jasmine choked off a giggle and wandered over to check out the wax fruit selection.
          "Well, dat one ees more. Special handcraft you see. Not like de udder one. Machine made. Cheap, cheap. Dis cost sixty dollar," he lied through his teeth as he lifted the shaft to show me up close.
          "Well, golly, it sure is perty," I beamed. "I know mumma'd be happier than a rooster in a hen house to get one of them. Can you come off the price a bit though. Sixty's plumb out of my range." I had no idea how much of this he understood.
          "What? Don't got sixty dollar?" he asked, almost insulted.
          "I wish I could. But I'm afraid fifty's all I got," I said pathetically.
          "Tell you what. Because it for mom. I give special deal. One time sale price. I sell fifty dollar," he capitulated. "What you tink? Ees wery nice penis," he continued, pointing out the detail.
          "Well, mister, you drive a hard bargain. But that is one dandy-looking penis. You got yourself a deal."
          The proprietor stifled a squeal of joy and walked the penis over to the register where he started to wrap it in tissue.
          I walked over in front of the register and patted my back pocket.
          "Well, ain't that a bitch," I cursed. "I done gone and left my wallet back in the Caddy," I said sort of to myself, but loud enough for my new friend to hear. He looked up startled. "I'm awful sorry there, mister. You just hold that penis right there for me. I'll be back with my money faster 'an you can skin a prairie dog."
          I turned to go and called out to Jasmine, "Honey, come on back now to the Caddy with me. I gotta go git my wallet." And we sauntered out arm in arm.
          "What's up with fucking with the immigrants?" Jasmine scowled and pushed me. She was just kidding though. "Here they are, trying to earn an honest buck in a foreign land and they gotta deal with bastards like you."
          "Gotta keep 'em on their toes, you know. If you never have a challenge, you get soft. Honest buck, my ass. Sixty bucks for a pewter penis," I guffawed. "You gotta be kidding me."
          "Hey, it was a nice penis though," Jasmine persisted. "Delicate curve, well-proportioned. You were just jealous," she teased.
          "All right, it's true. Do you think Mr. Shopkeeper was the model for that? If so, maybe you'd like to go back," I retorted.
          "No, that's all right. Yours'll do, in a pinch I guess. Which is the only way I can get hold of it."
          "You're reaching now. That's almost funny. I mean I think the foundation's there somewhere; it's just a wording thing. Work on it though," I said condescendingly.
          "No, I like yours plenty," she said and grabbed my waist.
          "I like yours too," I said and chuckled.
          We hadn't really thought about where we were walking. We'd just been going. We were moving away from the car and it must've been around 11:30. The street ahead looked just like the stuff behind us, so we decided to call it a night and maybe come back tomorrow, for lack of anything better to do.
          We turned around and marched toward the car, still arm in arm. I grabbed her hand and gave it a smooch and then slipped it a little tongue. Jasmine yanked it away, startled, "You just can't be plain loving, can you? Always screwin' around," she chided.
          "Aww, I'm sorry. Here, let me try again," I pleaded.
          I took her hand and caressed it like a bird with a broken wing and then brought it gently to my lips and held it there. Then I placed it on my head and made it pat me like a poodle.
          She thought this was very cute and said, "Aaawww," and kissed me on the cheek.
          "See, I am too loving," I contended.
          The car looked intact when we got to it. Everything appeared in order. We took the blanket out of the trunk for Jasmine and then started driving with absolutely no destination. I just headed for what looked more citified. We ended up one street down on Sunset and were rolling toward the ocean. The only item on the agenda was finding a place to sleep. That could wait though. And if we didn't go to sleep, well then, that settled that.
          I took a left somewhere and we ended up going past a grimy, soot-stained warehouse that had a line of death rockers standing in front. We could hear the dull pulse of the bass from inside. The people in line were decked out all in black with an occasional tinge of purple. Jasmine's favorite colors. I could see she was jonesing to go in. She hadn't been with her own kind now for at least a couple days.
          We drove around the block a couple times, trying to find a spot, making our radius larger until we hit a street with a few empties. We decided we'd only go in if cover was less than $10, a pretty safe bet since it was Wednesday night and this didn't seem like a glam club.
          We found our way down to the club, and I got in line. Jasmine asked the doorman what cover was. She came back. $4. I was liking LA already. We waited in line for about 2 minutes. There were maybe 13 people in front of us. I didn't quite fit in. Jeans and a retro, green collared shirt. Although I did have black shoes on. Jasmine looked sort of odd too for this crowd 'cause she was still in her travel/don't-frighten-Travis gear. It didn't matter to me. It's not like I was trying to pick anyone up here. I did have a thing for weird chicks, but Jasmine was all I could handle. In a good way.
          Jasmine paid the cover from our stash. She was in charge of funds. At the beginning of the trip, we'd pooled our funds and agreed to live until the cash ran out. Our total was now about $720, after the splurge at Uncle Moe's. Jasmine had been saving a get-out-of-town pile, and I just emptied the savings account I was supposed to use for textbooks, etc.
          They stamped our hands with phosphorescent pentagrams and admitted us into the sanctuary. Jasmine grabbed my hand and led me down the pitch black hall. I wasn't as clueless as I looked. Even though I didn't have tattoos and Prince Albert piercings, I'd been an industrial fan to some degree. And as we entered the other dimension, I heard the deafening beat of Diatribe blaring in the background and knew this place was going to be OK.
          We emerged into an opening where there was a small dance floor and a bar that bulged out from one wall. Everything had an organic, intestinal feel. A little mucous on the walls, and I could've been in Honey, I Shrunk the Kids and They're Lodged in My Bowels. The floor was pretty crowded, with the goths gyrating inhumanly. There were two openings on the other side of the room, so we went exploring. They both led to other rooms similar to the first, and were each connected together. The place was like a honeycomb labyrinth. Different music filled the other rooms. One was more techno/dance and the other was more Bauhaus gothic stuff.
          Jasmine and I fed ourselves into the ferment in the techno room and danced for a while. Dancing close, but no freaking. Fuck that hip-hop shit.
          Jasmine was gorgeous. Maybe I said that before. She had an air about her that attracted me to no end, an other-worldly presence filled with confidence and energy and wisdom. I loved the way she moved, totally lost in the music. Nothing rehearsed here. Not like the sorority chicks who all learned their moves together in front of mom's mirror at some slumber party. She just felt the music and moved in a primal unity with its rhythms. I wasn't the only one who appreciated her either. She caught lots of sideways glances from dudes who swirled around her admiringly.
          We opted against the overpriced, watered-down bar drinks and figured we'd be each other's opiates. Seated in a cushioned alcove sunk into the wall, we watched other people dance for a while. I held her hand on my lap as we observed the churning throng. Talking was next to impossible over the music, so we just sat and watched and played with each other's fingertips.
          Some lanky guy with long, straight black hair and a ghost white face wandered up to Jasmine. He didn't seem to mind the fact that she was sitting flush against some other guy, namely myself, and holding his hand. The guy had on what looked like a crushed velvet shirt that had laces up the front. I guessed crushed velvet because it had a sort of iridescent sheen under the moody club lights. His feet were shod in leather woodsman's boots. That look was passable in a place like this, and maybe in Sherwood forest, but nowhere else.
          He leaned up against the wall right next to her. He was a tall guy, vampiric-looking. Probably that was his intention. He bent down and spoke something into Jasmine's ear, trying to be suave and seductive. So even the vampires followed normal pick-up etiquette. Jamsine looked critically up at him, shrugged and shook her head coldly. He moved in with attempt number two. This time she frowned at him, turned to me, threw her arms around my neck and started sucking my face. She capped her performance by licking my lips and then touching the tip of my nose with the tip of her tongue. She kept her forehead pressed against mine until she saw her friend meander away out of the corner of her eye.
          Then she breathed in my ear, "What a clown."
          "What'd he say?" I asked loudly back, over the noise.
          "Some flummery about granting me eternal life."
          "What?" I said again, not sure I'd heard right: some nunnery chanting vernal dice.
          "He said he wanted to give me eternal life," she repeated.
          "Oh, and that didn't excite you?"
          "Usually it does. But I just wasn't in the mood tonight."
          "What'd he say the second time?"
          "He said I was throwing away my chance for illicit pleasures and supernatural ecstasy," she stated.
          "Sure, eternal life. Take it or leave it. But illicit pleasures. That's gotta be hard to pass up," I said.
          "That's old hat to me now," she pushed out her bottom lip and threw her hand up in a gesture of indifference.
          "What if I offered you eternal life?"
          "I'd say take me now," she sang theatrically and threw her head back to expose her luscious, pale neck.
          I of course had to bite it softly and then kiss it many times before drawing back. Yelling over the music had been trying, so we resumed spectating. Jasmine got up and, on the second attempt, conveyed clearly to me that she was going to roam around for a bit. I nodded and watched her retreat into the smoky darkness.
          I wondered if maybe she'd spotted some hot guy she wanted to scope alone, or some girl for that matter. I really didn't know Jasmine that well. Her deepest thoughts and fantasies were foreign to me still. I didn't mind her departure though, and I thought maybe I'd take advantage of this time to do a little roaming myself. I knew it was going to be a tough crowd, but defeat makes you a stronger person, right? I strutted casually over to a bulbous pillar that sprouted on the side of the dance floor. A good vantage point, and not too conspicuous. I really was out of my element I realized now that I was alone. I think being with Jasmine made me feel like I fit in anywhere, or at least that I didn't care if I fit in. Now I looked around at the gaunt faces painted with unnatural colors of ochre, orange, and purple on their eyes and lips. Both men and women. Skirts, torn fishnet stockings, and combat boots. Both men and women.
          One girl I noticed in particular. She had on a tight royal blue skirt than ran to her calves, white and blue polkadotted socks, and the requisite boots. On top she was wearing a black long sleeve shirt with a torn Cure t-shirt, slightly too small, over it, accentuating her pert breasts. The shirt had swirls of blue that matched her skirt. Her hair was also the blue of her skirt and showered down wildly around her face. She stroked her eyes with vivid blue eye-liner and hid her lips under ink black lipstick. In the dark of the club, the lipstick gave the eerie effect of making her look like there was a hole through her head where her lips should've been. Not that she was missing just her lips, because then you would've seen teeth and throat. But that that whole portion of her face and head was lost in some time warp.
          She was a slight girl, about 5'4", with pronounced, beautiful features. She looked like she knew it, and had maybe been caused grief by it. She danced with an angry, forceful motion that was still very rhythmic. Her motion was either defensive or very in control. I couldn't tell. And she apparently danced alone. People were close around her, but her interest wasn't focused on anyone. Her eyes moved blankly, and she didn't look wholly there. Lost someplace in her head. In her past maybe. Or future. Or maybe just some drug-induced playground. A Ronald McDonald wonderland where she could prance and frolic without the tedious constraints of reality.
          I was caught up watching her for a while. Turned her faraway dancing into my own escape. After a song or two she moved over to a bench by the wall and sat down next to another couple. She hung out there for a minute and soon another girl came over and joined her. This one had rich black hair that hung straight and was cut sharply at the base of her neck. She pulled out a box of Marlboros, took one out and offered one to the other girl, who accepted. The black-haired girl lit up and then held out the flame for the other. They smoked in poses without talking. The black-haired girl had her legs crossed and was resting one hand on the bench near the other girl who sat stiffly. The girl I'd been watching dance smoked with economy of motion, very different from the way she danced. She hardly moved her body or head when she raised the cigarette for another drag. She looked liked a sentinel now, alert and on-guard but at the same time disinterested.
          The black-haired girl saw another friend and got up about halfway through her cigarette, leaving the other girl alone on the bench. Masochist that I am, I walked over and sat down, not too close though. I at least wanted to hear what she talked like. I don't know that she even saw me at first, or maybe she was hoping if she ignored me I'd go away, or maybe she was hoping I was just some sort of psychedelic tracer that would disappear if she just relaxed. I didn't. I pretended I was just using the bench and didn't have any particular interest in her. I sat comfortably back and regarded the people, inside desperately trying to come up with something to say to this girl who looked like a marble statue--a statue graffitied with blue spray paint. Not defaced, mind you. The graffiti augmented the original creator's vision with a gritty flair.
          "Gotta smoke?" was an obvious line that might save me some embarrassment but was too cliche. Besides I wasn't in this to save face. I was in it for the humiliation. "Hey, I saw the Cure in France" was just plain stupid, but then again everything I thought of might be stupid. I sensed a closing window of opportunity as she started rustling a bit. I thought she might be getting ready to leave. And as I was considering, "Do you think you could do my hair in orange?", she turned to me and said, "If you're sitting there trying to work up something to say to me, you can give your brain a rest."
          I turned, pretending to be shocked and confused. "Excuse me," I said.
          "It's not that you're disgusting or anything. I'm just tired of it," she concluded.
          Well wasn't that a conceited little whore. "What are you talking about?" I bluffed. "Oh, you thought I was going to try to..." I trailed off as she got up and walked calmly away. Maybe not the complete abasement I'd been hoping for, but sufficiently disheartening nonetheless. How the hell did she know? Was I so obvious? Or was it that guys were all the same? I pictured legions of hopeful men standing in line waiting to try their honor for the hand of the princess. I winced at having been a part of that whole sordid procession. Then I felt bad for her and what she had to put up with all the time. I guess she was just trying to be nice in shooting me down. Funny paradox there. And yes, I definitely felt a better man for it. Better and more timid, or shall we say more tactful. And eager to find my sweet Jasmine, who actually saw something redeeming in this lump of a man.
          I stayed seated though. Getting up now would have discredited my claim to the girl that I was just resting there and not trying to pick her up. I had to let a few minutes pass, even though I knew she could care less and there was nobody watching. I did it anyway though. I glanced over at the two guys to my right who were sitting on the far end of the bench embraced. One had a black mesh top on and huge Steve Stevens hair. The other was pressed against the first guy's chest, staring forlornly at the crowd. The guy with the big hair was absent-mindedly stroking the other's ear lobe and also blankly observing the masses.
          I eased up to my feet and started surveying for Jasmine. I did a lap of this room and didn't see her anywhere. So I headed down one of the tubes to another room and looked for her there. It was hard to see through the smoke and dark. I wandered around for what seemed like an hour. Finally I found her in the Bauhaus room and wouldn't you know it, Bela Lugosi's Dead was playing. She was sitting at a cocktail table with some guy. I won't bother describing him because they all looked the same to me by this point. Just piece him together from components I've given you. Like a Mr. Potato Head man. Mix and match. No doubt you'll end up pretty close. Anyway, she was sitting snug next to this guy, sipping a mixed drink and obliging the guy by listening to some inanity he was voicing. I could tell she was only mildly interested by the way she kept stroking her neck. She did this when she got bored. The guy had his hand on Jasmine's thigh, and I didn't want to break up the party. I managed to find an empty seat a table away and played the voyeur.
          I was enthralled, rapt by her every gesture and mannerism, comparing them to everything she did with me, not in a jealous way but more like a psychological study. She swayed slightly with the music. She spent more time looking at her drink than at him. Although it would have been hard to look at him because his mouth was always next to her ear saying something. She smiled courteously when appropriate. All her motions carried a thin veneer of politeness. She seemed a stale caricature of herself. I finally concluded that she was doing the least amount possible to convince this guy she was listening while allowing herself the mental space to ponder other matters. All the polite mannerisms took up very little brain power, like knee-jerk reactions, and allowed her to busy herself with weightier issues.
          I'm not sure what weighty issues she'd be thinking about at two in the morning in the bowels of some night club, but she seemed to be chewing something over. Maybe she was just spacing though. I was captivated watching Jasmine with this guy, so I wasn't in any hurry to get going. I liked watching the guy too. Checking out his moves and realizing what a hard lot women face in this world with men like that out there. A vicious cycle. Women get turned off by the cheeseballs and then are too quick to shoot the others down, leaving us all empty and alone.
          Taking Jasmine's indifference about his hand on her thigh as an invitation for further sorties, he grew bold and moved it from her thigh to around her back. She didn't even look at him but just scooched her chair away a bit so his arm fell off. Unperturbed, he replaced it on the thigh and resumed conversing. Soon though his fingers got antsy and started massaging subtly. Jasmine was getting tired of this dude and since her drink was mostly finished, she decided she didn't need to listen to this guy anymore. She leaned over and said something in his ear, then got up and started looking for me.
          I followed her for a while. She scoped out one room and then decided that it'd be less tiring to just let me find her, so she took a post against one of the walls near the dance floor in the techno room. I waltzed up a minute later, and exclaimed, "I've been looking all over for you. You were hiding in the bathroom, weren't you? Talking shop with the chicks," I said.
          "No, I was just hanging out. I don't know why you didn't see me. I was at a table in the other room," she responded simply.
          "No, I'm just kidding. I knew where you were. I was spying on you. Or shall we saying looking out for you, making sure that big brute didn't try something vulgar," I fessed up.
          "Really? So did I put on a good show?"
          "Eh, it was all right. You probably would've bored someone else, but I was totally intrigued. I particularly enjoyed to slide-the-chair-away move when he put his arm around you."
          "You saw that? Yeah, that's a classic."
          "So'd you think that guy was cute?" I asked.
          "He was O.K. But I wanted a drink, and I didn't want to spend our money on it. He came along at the right time, so I humored him. It wasn't like I took a diamond necklace from him."
          "Damn, I'm not interrogating you here. I'm just asking." She didn't say anything so I continued. "Did you find him attractive? Do you find other people here attractive? I mean I do. And I always wonder about that. I don't want to run out and have sex with these people, but I think some of them are pleasing to look at. And I always have a hard time reconciling that with my vision of perfect love. Because I think no matter who I'm with, I'll always see other people I'm physically attracted to. What do you think?" I was spouting at the mouth. Clearly I had issues.
          "I think it's all a frame of mind. If you want to have perfect love, the thought of being attracted to other women vanishes. If that's what perfect love means to you. Otherwise you could still be completely faithful and enjoy looking at other women. Or for some people perfect love may be the willingness to let the other person be free to explore and share other people's bodies. I think it's all whatever you want it to be." She shrugged.
          God she was profound sometimes. I guess I asked for it though.
          I smiled at her. "So what do you think personally though? What would your perfect love be?"
          "I try not to think that far ahead."
          "Why not?" I persisted.
          "'Cause then I'd miss the other stuff. Like your cute little button nose," she said only half sarcastically. She reached up and pinched my nose softly and grinned at me. She was very good at derailing these conversations. "Do you want to go?" she asked.
          "Sure, do you?"
          "Yeah."
          We held hands as she led the way to the first hallway and toward the exit. We emerged from the anus of the club onto a street virtually ablaze compared to the dimness of the club. All the city lights glanced off the smog layer above and shrouded LA in an orange post-apolalyptic glow. So it was after 2 in the morning, but it seemed like dusk. For some reason it felt like an awakening, an emergence from the coffin or the chrysalis, whichever you prefer. Still wiping the sleep out of my eyes from my long hibernation. I yawned and looked at Jasmine. She appeared so different out in the street, growing sharper in focus. She seemed sweet and lost and drowsy, and I wanted to curl her up in my lap and hum her a lullaby. I'm sure her she would have gladly assented had we a place to curl. The Honda wasn't conducive to lullabies. We started shuffling toward the car with tired steps and a vibrating buzz in our heads.
          After one wrong turn we found our way back to the car, again unmolested, the car that is. I popped out Jasmine's blanket and she fell into the front seat. I was shutting her door when she looked up at me with baby-wide eyes and said, "Will you tuck me in?"
          I stopped and captured that moment in my head so that I would always remember it, so that I could always play back that expression and that plaintive tone whenever I felt lonely. I smiled and leaned slowly down toward her. I touched her cheek with my hand and laid a feathery kiss on her forehead. She lay still, and I tucked the edges of the blanket around her until she was wrapped in a warm, cozy cocoon. I think she'd fallen asleep before I even made my way around the car to my own door.
          I turned the key to the ignition slowly, as if I could quiet the starting of the engine. I pulled smoothly away from the curb and set out to find a place to sleep.
          Sunset seemed to have had a lot of action, so I thought I'd try there. I couldn't remember any motels but that didn't mean anything. I found my way back there and drove casually along under the orange sky. I turned my heater vent toward Jasmine and let the temperate whisps of LA air lick my face. Almost forgetting my mission in my content, sleepy daze, I drove right past a total dive motel with a curvy plastic palm tree in front. Exactly what I'd been looking for. Straight out of True Romance. There was still traffic on the road, so I had to circle the block.
          I pulled right into a residential neighborhood of pastel, one-story houses with brown lawns and cracked sidewalks. I passed a faded street sign that read, Wilson. I felt like a burglar casing my next job as I rolled slowly down the street trying not to wake Jasmine. The houses were all dead dark and silent. Stark contrast from the clubs that pulsed into the wee hours just a short stretch away. The only connection between that side of life and this was the whores who brought their Johns down these quiet streets for servicing, and then fled as quietly as they came, leaving only used condoms in the gutter as notice of their passing. Condoms that would get sullenly ignored by the eighty year-old Russian couple who walked their mangy schnauzer in the hazy dawn. It was somewhat startling to see this entrenched suburbia in the heart of Hollywood, juxtaposed with the Sunset Strip and the canyon mansions and the commercial district and the gay bars, each a unique entity claiming its own space, gasping for a separate, tiny piece of brown LA air.
          I made it back to Sunset and pulled into the motel driveway under a cement balcony. The driveway rolled into a square enclosure (calling it a courtyard seems wrong) that boasted a green fenced swimming pool and four parked cars looking scattered and isolated among the sixteen stalls. I stopped the car next to the office, and wouldn't you know it, guess who was behind the counter. The Dungeons and Dragons playing, vampire guy who'd picked up on Jasmine at the club. Just kidding. It was your standard old, weather-beaten, Camel-smoking, crochety motel hag with spectacles. Her spectacles, bi-focals on closer look, sat precariously on the end of her nose secured by a gold chain that wrapped around her neck and disappeared into layered folds of skin. Some of the paint was flaking off the chain.
          "Help ya?" she barked as I walked in.
          "Yeah, need one bed for a night."
          "'At's twenty-four ninety-five," she wheezed. "Fill this out." She passed me a sheet. Apparently you had to pay up front at this kind of establishment.
          "I forgot my cash. I'll be right back," I told her and scooted out to grab part of our wad.
          She grunted assent.
          I came back with the cash, filled out the form, and handed her the money.
          "Awright. Check out's 11:30 sharp. There's no noise or I call the cops. Room's 7A on the other side of the lot. Cable's free, and ya got to jiggle the toiled handle for it ta flush right." She took a drag of the smoke she'd been holding at her side and turned stiffly to go in the back room where a muffled tv played.
          I pocketed the key and went back to the car. Jasmine still slept soundly. It was comforting to see her there. I drove the car to the spot for 7A and then gently nudged her awake. She moaned and stirred but fell still again. She was breathing through her nose, so I reached up and pinched it shut. She started breathing through her mouth with hardly a break in rhythm. So I kept her nose pinched and placed my lips over hers. She awoke with a gasp and groggily called me a loser for scaring her like that. I said I was sorry but that she made such an irrestible target. She was relatively awake now and realized that we were parked.
          "Where are we?" she asked.
          "The illustrious Sahara Motor Inn," I boasted.
          "Where's the bed?" she muttered, while she struggled out of her blanket cocoon and got out of the car. We opened the trunk which held all our worldly belongings. They consisted of one generic duffle bag and one ratty L.L. Bean travel suitcase. I grabbed both bags, and we trudged up the stairs together. She leaned on me for support up the stairs. The blanket was now wrapped around her like a shawl with her arms tucked away inside.
          I dropped the bags in front of 7A and stuck the key in the wobbly doorknob. It opened with a squeak. Jasmine hopped through the doorway and threw herself onto the bed. I deposited the bags inside by the bed, bolted the door, and turned on the light in the bathroom. The place didn't look half bad. The sink drain showed smudges of rust around the rim, but it was clean at least. I took a long satisfying leak with the door open. Halfway through I realized that I was probably keeping Jasmine from sleeping with the noise of my waterfall, but the door opened outward and I couldn't reach it to pull it shut. Refreshed, I walked out to my blue L.L. Bean bag and retrieved my dop kit. My trusty Crest Compleat toothbrush was a little frayed, but it was a trooper. Always ready to do battle with the Cavity Creeps whenever called upon. It was time for a new brush with strong, young bristles, but I couldn't bring myself to part with the old guy. He'd served me long and well. One more time I lathered him with frothy Colgate and plunged him back toward the molars, right next to the dangling uvula. It was late, and I was relishing the simple act of brushing my teeth far too much. I finished, rinsed, and plopped down next to Jasmine who hadn't moved from her original position.
          I lay on my stomach next to her, watching her face as she slumbered. Then I popped up and went to the foot of the bed to take her shoes off. She had the blanket up around her shoulders so her feet and calves were exposed. I undid the laces on one of her boots and loosened it as much as I could so I wouldn't wake her by pulling it off. It came off without too much struggle, and she seemed to have been undisturbed. So I did the same with the other. I slipped it off slowly. Her old white sock had a hole in the toe and was bunched up above her ankle. I place my hand under her calf and rolled the sock off her foot. God it was exciting to be undressing her as she lay helpless and unaware. Did that make me some kind of twisted pervert I asked myself? No, because she'd be happy to play this role in my fantasy I rationalized and went on. I slid my hand up her fair calf so lightly I hardly even touched it. Then I pulled the blanket off her shoulders and whispered, "Jasmine, you have to get up for a second so we can put you in bed."
          She groaned and I rolled her over toward the side of the bed. I pulled her legs around and then helped her to her feet. She sat back down again. I pulled her up one more time. As she swayed wobbily there, I lifted her dress over her shoulders. She had on white lace underwear, a matching top and bottom. I unclasped her bra and let it drop to the floor. While she stood, I quickly pulled back the bed covers and then let her sit down on the bed. I pushed her feet under the sheets and pulled the blanket snugly up to her chin. Then I went to the other side, undressed myself, and joined her.
          I couldn't very well just go to bed now, not with my radiant, intriguing Jasmine lying half-naked next to me. But I didn't want to wake her, so I slid my foot under her calf and fell dreamily off to sleep like that, feeling secure that she was so close.
          I had forgotten to close the blinds the night before and the sun streamed in around 6:30. I stumbled over and yanked them angrily shut. They were heavy cloth, and thankfully the room fell nearly black. I stumbled back and dropped face down on my pillow. I was out instantly. I woke up a while later when I put my cheek in a puddle of cold drool. I strategically repositioned myself far away to avoid any future mishaps and drifted off again.
          I was wakened again later by Jasmine's leg, breast, and arm falling squishily against me. She was warm and soft. She wasn't trying to wake me up; she had just sleepily readjusted. So I fell asleep once again, this time with a hot human covering.
          Later I felt Jasmine moving again. She was awake now for good I could tell 'cause she was doodling on my back with her finger and she'd slid her knee in between my legs. I guess since she was awake she figured I should be too. I pretended she hadn't woken me though. She stopped doodling and put her hand on the other side of me to brace herself as she leaned in to kiss my nape. The first thing I felt was her breast pressing against my skin. Then her other breast. Then her lips on the sensitive skin on my neck. She planted a field of daisy-soft kisses on my neck and back. I was enjoying this too much to move. She must've known I was awake. She propped herself on her hands and positioned her body directly over mine and then lowered herself lightly against me. Her hands free now, she put them on my shoulders and ran them out to my fingertips. And then she lay still. I was tingling.
          I rolled over on top of her. She was on her back and my back was on her front and I looked at the ceiling. I turned over and straddled her pelvis, sitting on my knees. Her face caught the morning sun and her smile shined vivid in the rays. Her breasts lay shallow and round. I put my hands on her stomach. Her flesh was hot against my fingers. I slid my hands up and cupped the bottoms of her breasts, and then slid up and over them, flicking her nipple ring on the way. She lay motionless and smiling. I rolled my body in toward hers and kissed her deeply. She had succulent lips, not full, but perfectly shaped, and I let mine linger on hers. My hands found her hair as we kissed, and we began to move together. Her hands gripped my back and pressed me firmly against her. I arched my back to look at her face, and she pushed me over so she was on top.
          Now she had an even bigger grin on her face. I was very hard. She put her hands on my chest and ground her pelvis against me. Then she drew herself down toward my feet and rested her chin on one of my thighs. I lifted my head to peer down at her and could just see her over my inflated boxers. She grabbed my underwear and started pulling them down my legs. She hopped off the bottom of the bed to get them fully off. Then she hopped right back up and spread herself full-length over me. She held my arms straight out against the bed and moved her whole body against mine, her stomach, her breasts, her legs. She sucked my neck lightly. Then she pulled herself up and sat on my chest. She smiled again at me and then turned around to face something she apparently found more interesting at the moment.
          She put both her hands against the side of my penis and drifted them up and then off. She did it again. Then pulled it forward and pressed it against my stomach. Then she grabbed it with one hand and moved it in circles. She was like a little girl with a new toy, trying to figure out how it worked. It was nice that she enjoyed dallying, indulging herself. I liked to play together, not just fuck. She batted it once to the side, and then sensed that I was wondering what the hell she was doing down there. So she leaned down. She had to slide her butt back right near my head to get her face at the right spot. I admired her white lace panties from up close now, very close. She breathed hot air on the tip at first. Then she put her lips over the head and swirled her tongue over it. I closed my eyes and breathed in. I opened them to her fit ass bobbing right before my nose. I craned my neck up and bit her softly on the butt. She stopped and leaned around and said snottily, "Look, if you're gonna be difficult I'll just stop right now."
          "Beg pardon, ma'am," I said back.
          "That's better," she said, already turned back around to attend to her toy. She drooped over it again and licked from the base to the tip. Then she took me full in her warm, moist mouth, and I gasped. She started working up and down, and I couldn't help but grab her ass with my hands. She didn't seem too bothered this time. She probably didn't even notice. I ran my hands over her thighs and then felt her swaying breasts. Now she stopped again and said, "Look, just be still would ya. How's a girl s'posed to concentrate?"
          "I just want to touch you."
          "You'll get your chan...," she responded with the last bit garbled because she had already resumed.
          I lay back and just enjoyed. When my eyes were open I stared at her panties and her butt looming inches in front of my face. I left my hands touching her legs. I felt the pleasure swelling and circled my hips with her rhythm. When she could tell I was getting close to orgasm, she stopped and just licked around my head. I grabbed her legs in frustration. She kept going slowly and leaned further forward to taste my balls. I was dying. She relented and put me back in her mouth. Moving her lips firmly up and down she brought me to climax, and I came hot spurts into her mouth as my body contracted. She remained for a moment with her mouth around my shaft. Then she got up and spat in the sink and flopped back down on the bed against me.
          I was sighing in deep breaths. My body felt paralyzed with content and exhaustion. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her closer against me. She wriggled in happily like a baby possum in the pouch.
          We stayed like that for a few minutes. I felt her hot breath against my chest and the rapid beating of her heart. I wished we could stay like this forever. She rubbed my belly lovingly.
          My strength came back, and I squeezed her even tighter. I licked her ear lobe.
          "Did you like it?" she asked innocently.
          "It was amazing. You're amazing," I breathed.
          "I like doing it," she said. "But I don't do it for everyone."
          I raised my eyebrows. "Everyone? Who's everyone?" I questioned.
          "Oh, I just mean like past boyfriends. I only really like doing it for certain people," she explained.
          "I'm glad you like doing it for me."
          "Me too."
          "So, since you brought it up, how many boyfriends have you had?" I probed, maybe not the most tactful.
          "Ahh, I guess we were bound to talk about this stuff eventually. The old how many lovers question. How many people have I slept with you mean?" she asked directly.
          "Fine."
          "Well, let me see... There was Jesse... and Todd... and Scot... and Carlos... and Dana... and John... and Grant. So how many's that?" she finished. She remembered them by name not by number. "And you?" she asked back.
          "Three. Two girlfriends and one random chick at some party. Not real fulfilling."
          "So I win then?" she joked.
          "Yeah, you're the winner. You get the giant condom laurel."
          "What, no prize money?"
          "Sorry, the organizing committee wasted it all on hookers. You can take it up with the executive board though."
          She lapsed into a pretend acceptance speech, "I'd like to thank my sponsors, Sheik and Trojan, and their engineers, whose special high-sensitivity space-age polymers made my job such a pleasure... my manager, Bill, who worked tirelessly to find innocent, young men I could seduce and have my way with... and most of all to my family who's been so supportive all along. I love you mom and dad." She wiped a phony tear from her eye.
          I chuckled. So rare to find a girl who could make you laugh. Plenty of girls who laughed out there, at anything almost, but a girl who could make you laugh was a keeper.
          I rolled over and glanced at the red numbers of the digital clock that was bolted to the night stand. 10:43 it said. Well, we had forty-five minutes in our sanctuary before we had to face the road again.
          "Do you want to shower?" I asked.
          "Surely you don't mean together, you cad?" she said with aristocratic disgust.
          "Why, most certainly, m'lady," I answered and extended my hand to her.
          "Well, if you insist."
          We struggled up out of the bed and she walked in front of me toward the bathroom.
          "Wait," I commanded.
          She stopped in place. I walked up behind her and got down on my knees. Softly I kissed her left butt cheek and then licked along the fringe of her panties.
          She exhaled loudly.
          I ran my hand up her leg and inner thigh and slid it along her crotch. Then I eased the panties down over her legs to the floor, where she stepped out of them and they lay in a delicate little heap. I stood up and hugged her from behind and then dropped my hands and played with her pubic hair. Soft and downy like a baby's hair.
          "O.K. I'm sorry. We can shower now," I said. "I just get distracted sometimes. You understand, right?"
          "No, sure, I do too sometimes," she affirmed as she turned around and cupped my balls. "Sometimes it's just too tempting." She ran her hands through my chest hair and caressed my nipples.
          Well, that was good. So long as we understood each other.
          Now she went into the bathroom, and I followed closely behind. She turned on the water and then said, "Ooops, forgot something," and scurried out of the bathroom. I saw her return to the sink with her toothbrush. I stepped into the steaming shower and drew the curtain across behind me. As I was lathering my armpits, Jasmine stepped in. Every time I saw her, I was struck again by how attractive she was. I don't know whether it was physical or emotional or cosmic or what. I wanted to smother myself in her whenever I looked at her.
          "You're totally, absolutely, mind-bogglingly gorgeous. You know that, don't you?" I praised as she closed the curtain behind her.
          She smiled slightly and said, "That's sweet."
          "I mean it," I reiterated.
          "I know you do. I'm glad I make you happy," she said languidly.
          "Do I make you happy?" I asked.
          "More than you know," she confided.
          I sat under the flowing water and watched the steam envelop Jasmine. She moved forward and said, "You gonna share?"
          "Sorry. I forgot. I was lost for a second."
          "I didn't think you ever got lost," she said as she squeezed around me and stole the water. I mimicked the splashing water and let my fingers dance on her breasts while she scrubbed herself. She finished and gave me my spot back under the water. She picked up the wafer of soap (standard motel issue) and lathered me with the delicate care of a mother bathing her child. I felt totally safe and complete. I rinsed and then lay down in the tub. I beckoned for Jasmine to lay down against me. She sat her butt between my legs and let her back ease against my chest. I set my hands on her hips. We lay together like that and let the warm, chlorinated water cascade over our naked bodies.
          I ran my fingers through her hair and let my lips rest against her head. I started to get aroused again, looking down at her white body and feeling her warmth. My hands found her breasts again, and I pulled her more tightly against me. Now I could reach her vagina. I stroked it and played with her entire body until she was clearly excited. "Hey, I got an idea. Have you ever tried this?" I asked as I wiggled out from behind her and stood up. I moved forward to the faucet and adjusted the water so that it wasn't too hot and so that it was coming from the lower spicket as well as the showerhead.
          "Oh, boy. I'm not a contortionist, you know," she said when she saw my intention.
          "How do you know if you haven't tried," I said.
          I stepped back behind her and helped her slide herself up under the faucet. The water was pouring lightly. She spread her legs and inched under the faucet, giving me an odd sidelong glance as she did. As soon as she got herself placed under the faucet, I could see we'd hit on something good. Her back arched, and she cocked her neck.
          "I think this could work for me," she blurted out between breaths. I sat down behind her and positioned my legs against her body and held her head in my lap. I caressed her breasts while she writhed and torqued under the faucet. Her wriggling stopped as she came to a shuddering climax and collapsed back against me.
          Yeah, I know. All you women out there are saying, "Typical male, selfish lover." She didn't seem to mind any. She may have even liked it better. Besides, I made sure she didn't smack her head on the tub when she climaxed.
          We lay together still and quiet for a while, listening to the patter of water against the metal tub and savoring the relaxing heat of the shower and each other. Finally, I stirred and suggested that we get ready to go. Grudgingly Jasmine agreed and stood up. She took a final rinse. I was still supine and looked up at her as the water poured over her body. Again I felt an overwhelming magnetism for her. I wanted to be as close to her as possible, to touch her, to make a circuit and let her electricity run through me. She finished rinsing and stepped out of the shower with a cheery, "Bye, bye."
          I pulled myself up and lingered under the water. Then I shook myself out of my reverie, turned off the water and stepped out to approach the day. Jasmine was in front of the sink wearing just her underwear, a blue floral print this time. She was leaning forward against the counter and doing some girl stuff to her face. I of course sidled right in behind her and tried to distract her. She had an iron will. All my undulations and probings received not the slightest notice from her. From her composure you would have guessed she was utterly alone. So, feeling mildly reproved, I set about getting dressed and putting a few things back in my suitcase. Once ready, I lounged on the bed, watching Jasmine. She wasn't a big make-up wearer, but even so she had some elaborate cleansing ritual that had to be performed. Special soap, then toner, then longevity cream, and finally a skosh of holy water personally blessed by the Pope. Now she was ready for the day.
          She came away from the mirror and rummaged through her bag. She pulled out a pair of old jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and a black belt. She fit herself back into the bra she'd worn the day before and then put on the rest of the clothes. When she'd finally tugged on her boots, we were ready to venture forth.
          I grabbed the bags and we trudged down to the car. The air was hot and stifling. A brown haze ringed the horizon. I took a deep breath and smiled. This was definitely LA. Jasmine decided to drive today, and I was all too happy to hand over the keys. She stopped in front of the motel office, and I went in to check out. This time an old man was behind the counter. He had greased-back, rust-colored hair and brown, wrinkled skin. Loose skin dripped from the backs of his skinny arms that poked out from a white tank top. I gave him the key, and he looked up our bill. He tried to charge us for a couple phone calls we didn't make. I told him we didn't make any calls and walked out.
          Jasmine had her shades on and looked eager for the day. She'd dialed in some LA radio station and Terrible Lie buzzed through my bad speakers. Feeling sprightly, I jumped over the door and landed square in my seat.
          "Was that s'posed to be impressive?" Jasmine fleered.
          "Hey, now. Don't get sassy with me, little missy."
          "Oh, right, right. I'll pretend I'm duly impressed." She was playing along, but her voice had the slightest tinge of irritation.
          "Now, remember. Not everything in this world is done for the impact it'll make on you. Do consider that I may have just felt like jumping, completely regardless of how it was going to be perceived by you," I voiced with joking bitchiness.
          Jasmine turned up the song on the radio and sang along, "Seems like salvation comes only in my dreams." She pulled forward and waited for traffic to clear before making a left onto Sunset. We hadn't talked about where we were going to go today, so I just sat back and let her go somewhere. No doubt she had something in mind. We drove west along Sunset past the strip and the Roxy. Soon the clubs and stores had turned into gigantic Mediterranean style mansions with Ferraris parked behind gates. Trees and well-manicured greenery bordered the street like amazingly real Hollywood sets. And the road grew winding, through the wealth and the manufactured nature, until we emerged and turned left just before the 405 freeway. It seemed like Jasmine had some destination in mind.
          "Where are we going?" I asked.
          "You'll see."
          "Do you know this area?" I asked because I had no idea where we were and she seemed to be right on target.
          "I've been here once before," she stated.
          It didn't seem like the conversation was flowing between us right now, so I sat back and took in LA. Soon she made a right and we were heading west again. We started driving down a big road between high rises and mini-malls. I peeked at a street sign and learned that we were on Wilshire. I'd never seen so many black Mercedes in my life. Practically every other car, it seemed like. As we kept going down the road, I could see we were heading toward the ocean because the buildings abruptly stopped a ways down. I felt the temperature drop slightly as we got closer, but it was still plenty warm. It reminded me of the drive down Highway 1 the day before. I looked over at Jasmine. She was looking intently at the road. I took her hand from the stick shift and put it on my leg. She glanced over at me, and I couldn't see her eyes behind her shades, but her half-smile was affectionate. She rubbed my leg and turned back to the road. She left her hand on my thigh. I put my hand over it.
          The road ended in a line of palm trees growing up from a grassy park. We had to go left or right. Jasmine turned left and said, "Keep your eyes open for a spot." It was Thursday, so it didn't take us too long to find a place. The crowds that overran the place on weekends must have all been at work. Too bad for them. We got the beach all to ourselves now. Work. What a ball-buster, I thought. I sympathized with the shackled masses and at the same time felt a happy glow that I wasn't one of them.
          Jasmine did a good job of easing the Honda into a tight parallel spot beneath the palms. We loaded up the parking meter with change from my car ashtray and set off toward the beach. I grabbed the blanket as we left.
          A walking overpass crossed Highway 1 below us and then zig-zagged down and deposited us at beach level. On our right was a shack that sold milkshakes and rented rollerblades. We strutted straight toward the beach, sending a flock of seagulls scampering out of our way. On the cement path that bisected the sand, a few rollerbladers and joggers meandered by. We kept going closer toward the waves and then set up camp right where the sand started to decline to the water. Looking left and right, I saw maybe fifteen other sun worshipers loitering in the sand, but no one within forty yards of us. Jasmine immediately stripped to her bra and lay out on the blanket. I took my shirt and pants off, leaving my boxers, and joined her. I looked over at her--pale, porcelain skin beneath the radioactive LA sun--and decided I'd go buy some sunscreen.
          "I'll be back in a second," I told her and then donned my clothes to march back up to the shack we'd passed on the way down. I took some money from the pocket of her jeans. In a minute I was back. She looked asleep. I stripped down again and then leaned over and dripped some cold SPF 15 on her stomach. She exclaimed and sat up quickly. I told her to sit back and I rubbed the lotion into her stomach, all over her stomach, every nook and cranny, even her belly-button. Then I embarked on the legs. She assisted me by lifting them so I could get the backs. Then she sat up and I did her back. I let her handle her face. As I was no bronze god myself, she took the bottle from me and said, "Here, now I'll do you."
          I relaxed and let her massage the lotion into my skin. It turned into an impromptu back-rub, and I drooped forward while she kneaded and caressed my muscles. She had amazing hands. She finished and spread herself out again next to me. We lay and soaked up the sun's primal warming rays.
          Never much of a tanner, I got restless after about fifteen minutes and trotted down to the water for a dip. The Pacific was freezing. East coast weather may suck, but at least the Atlantic gets warm. I watched my feet quickly turn light blue as the water lapped up around them. Suddenly as I was standing there, pondering my toes and trying to muster the courage for a full body submersion, I was tackled from behind and pulled forward into the water. In the tumble I saw flashes of blue and white and knew it was Jasmine. We fell together into calf-deep water that stung from the cold. When I regained my footing, I grabbed Jasmine and flung her further out and then dove after her. I dragged her completely under water and then realized how agonizingly cold I really was. So I scooped Jasmine up in my arms and lumbered out of the water back up to our spot. I plopped her down on the blanket and then sat shivering next to her. Through clenched, chattering teeth, we grinned at each other, and I tried to rub the goosebumps away from Jasmine's arm.
          "Whad'ya have to go and do that for?" I whined.
          "Aww, I was just giving you some help. You'd been standing there for three minutes. If I hadn't pushed you, you never would've gone in," she explained.
          "Maybe that's what I wanted, you control freak," I said and threw sand at her.
          "You loved it," she said. She pushed me down and threw herself over me. "You love it when I take charge. Sometimes I wonder how far you want me to go. Like maybe you want me to discipline you."
          I burst out laughing, and she did too. She jiggled when I laughed because she was sitting on my stomach.
          "Discipline, huh? Is that what your nipple ring's for, some weird bondage practice?"
          "Wouldn't you like to know," she said seductively.
          "Well, maybe I would," I rejoined. "Are you gonna show me?"
          "Only if you beg first," she taunted.
          "Fine, fine. I'll beg sometime. I think the sun's addled my brain though, and you're kind of heavy. Could you get off me now?" With one utterance, I spoiled the whole mood and called Jasmine fat at the same time. She removed herself promptly from my stomach and sullenly laid herself out again on the blanket. We sat in silence. I was a little annoyed that she'd been so quickly offended. Obviously she wasn't fat; my stomach was just tired. And I said everything with a completely amicable tone. I wasn't being rude. Hell, she should know I hadn't the slightest mean intention. All this talk about discipline was frustrating me too, so maybe I was a tad sharp.
          I don't think she was upset though so much by what I said as by the fact that I'd failed to play my designated role to conclusion. I walked off stage right in the midst of my grand soliloquy, the one she had scripted so carefully. I cut her dominance act off before it had even gotten rolling. Well, so I was sorry. But I was perfectly willing to resume at a later time. I wasn't in the mood right now. How 'bout that. A guy not in the mood. Served her right.
          I hugged my knees and watched the waves roll into the sand. The gulls squawked and cawed as they chased down people who'd just bought a sandwich or fries at one of the shacks. I scooted down to the edge of the blanket and wiggled my toes in the sand. Jasmine hadn't moved. I watched the yellow sand seep between my toes and sprinkled them with a fresh dusting. I peered over at Jasmine. I couldn't tell whether her eyes were open or shut beneath the glasses. She just lay still. Her only motion was the subtle rise and fall of her chest with her breathing. I got tired of being stonewalled and wandered off.
          My boxers were still damp, but I put my pants back on anyway. Walking around in exposed, wet underwear that was clinging to my ass didn't seem polite. It wasn't too uncomfortable with the jeans back on though, once you got used to it. It was kind of nice actually, after it warmed up, like when you wet your pants as a kid. Freud would've approved. I trudged through the sand back up to the shack and then realized I didn't have any particular destination in mind. So I sat on the bench in front of the shack and watched a few rollerbladers zoom by. One hot girl in cut-off jeans and a bikini top skated hesitantly, always on the verge of a spill, as her muscle-bound boyfriend held her up.
          Having a minute to myself was peaceful. Jasmine and I had been together almost every waking hour for.... Wow, it had only been just over twenty-four hours since we left. I didn't know whether that was a good or bad sign. It felt like a lot longer than that. Maybe because the slightest experience with Jasmine was intense and memorable to me. It wasn't tedium in the least. I relished all our time together, but still a little distance afforded me a welcome respite. I sat with my elbows on my knees and my chin on my hands. The world rushed by like a time-lapse film. The few whispy clouds merged together and dissolved. Waves rolled in with the monotonous consistency of a tribal drum. Gulls zipped in and out of my vision as I stared straight ahead at the horizon. How many miles off was it again, like two? My math teacher had told me once, and I guess I could figure it out again if I had to, given that the earth was 25,000 miles in circumference. Random, incoherent thoughts like this played through my mind. I don't think I blinked for a long time. Nature's thespians had sucked me in, and I became a captive audience to their drama.
          A rollerblader who sprawled into the sand in front of me brought me back to reality. It occurred to me I'd been sitting there for quite some time. That's all right I figured; Jasmine couldn't go anywhere without me. Not that she would, but the keys were in my jeans pocket--the fifth one that is, reason #406. I decided to savor my solitude and roamed down toward the pier that jutted into the sea. As I neared I could see the wood was salt-ridden and rotting, and it looked altogether feeble, as if a sturdy ocean breath would send it crashing down like a line of dominos. There were some shops and stuff on the pier, along with a ferris wheel that wasn't moving. I headed up to check it out.
          Most of the stores were closed, but the seafood odors of a few open-air restaurants wafted around me. At the end of the pier, isolated clumps of immigrant fishermen cast their lines, hoping for something to put on the table that night. I inspected their buckets, saw a few paltry mackerel that looked more like bait fish than dinner. Leaning against the moldy railing, I submitted to the ocean breeze and gazed resolutely at the sea. I felt like a salty Ahab on the prow of a sea-tossed whaler.
          To my left, one of the fishermen hooked something and with no fight simply lifted the fish out of the water and reeled it up. The fish was maybe six inches in length, and it shivered and wiggled on its long journey up to the deck of the pier. He plopped it in his bucket, and the fish splashed around for a moment before becoming quiet. I looked to the right and found I could see Jasmine as a tiny speck in the distance. At first I didn't think it was her because there were two other dots with her, but I could definitely make out the blue and white of her makeshift bikini. At least she was occupied. And more importantly, at least she hadn't left. Feeling reassured that I didn't need to return right away, I journeyed further south. A field of vacant volleyball nets awaited the weekend revelers. A white tennis club straight out of The Great Gatsby kept its immaculate courts and recreation facilities behind a locked chainlink fence. I plopped down in the sand underneath one of the volleyball nets. I sighted straight up the supporting pole, ready to take a shot at the sky with my imaginary bazooka.
          Then Jasmine entered my mind. I hadn't known her for that long, and we never really talked about our relationship. Because it wasn't like a relationship; it was like two leaves blown together by the wind, becoming entangled and scudding along together for a ways. I never voiced more than superficial expressions of my affection for her, mainly because I didn't know if I felt anything more for her. I knew she made me feel secure and complete, and made me laugh and make myself vulnerable and reach out to her, but I'd never added all these things up before. Besides, I was just learning that I felt all these things about her as we got to know each other. But now, as I remembered the two dots next to her far off down the beach, I contemplated how I would feel without her. My stomach dropped, and I became acutely aware of the gritty sand under my heels and the hardness of the metal pole my head rested against. Without her, all of life's little annoyances and looming iniquities, that I was able to forget when I was with her, came sharply into focus. She was like a filter, muting and alleviating all the discomforts of the world, only opening the shutter wide enough for me to see the sugar-coated candyland. Her voice conjured a childish joy in me, like when you're little and first hear the distant tolling of the ice cream man's truck.
          I wondered what I did for her, if anything. Was I just a diversion? A temporary pit stop in the topsy-turvy course of her life. Did I awaken in her feelings of happiness and unity that she hadn't known for so many years? Or did her overriding disenchantment seep even into our relationship? I knew she'd had a bad childhood, and she was jaded and disappointed, but was that irrevocable? Didn't she find some glimmer of salvation in our time together? Or was I inevitably just another drab character populating her bored and manque wanderings? Another mug shot in the book of criminals that she wearily paused to inspect, but only because the detective insisted. Had she already thrown in the towel? I hoped not. I hoped together we could find something that alone we were blind to. And maybe it was my lingering hope that she clung to. Through me she thought she could rekindle what had burnt out in her long ago.
          I sat up against the pole and looked out to the ocean. I sat there for a while before I realized that the pole really wasn't very comfortable. So I got up and started marching back toward Jasmine. The saltwater had dried and caked on my chest. The sun beat down and warmed my limbs. I walked on the beach instead of the path because the hot sand soothed my feet. About an hour and a half had passed, long enough for any ill-will to be water under the bridge I hoped. I headed down the decline to where we'd set up our blanket and saw that the two figures were still there. Two fit guys in bright swim trunks sat on the blanket next to Jasmine, right in my spot. They seemed to be chatting happily, so I moseyed down. The two guys looked up as I came and watched me sit in the sand on the other side of Jasmine. She was resting on her elbows and turned as I sat down. Her glasses were still on, so I couldn't read her eyes, but her face looked blank. But she sweetly said, "Hi. You were gone for a while."
          "Yeah," I responded.
          "This is Tom, and this is Alex," she said, pointing out her new friends. "This is Travis," she added, pointing to me.
          We exchanged customary handshakes and muttered, "How you doin'?" or "How's it goin'?"
          "They live down here, so I thought they could give us the scoop on the local scene," she commented.
          "Oh, sure," I agreed lifelessly.
          Tom spoke up. "Well, hey, it was great to meet you," he said to Jasmine with a hint of surfer drawl. "And maybe will see you then. You can remember the address?"
          "Yeah, I got it," she said.
          Tom and Alex rose, and Tom passed along a "Hey, take it easy, Travis" before walking off with his buddy.
          I moved around and reclaimed my spot on the blanket, feeling like the #2 male sneaking a play for the alpha male's chick. Jasmine sat up and looked at me. She took her glasses off.
          "Where'd you go for so long?" she asked quietly.
          "I just wandered around. I went out on the pier. I could see you from there. Then I sat under a volleyball net and thought," I replied.
          "Wha'd'ya think about?" she inquired.
          "Random things... and you."
          "What about me?" she persisted.
          "I was just trying to sort out my feelings. I mean we haven't known each other very long."
          "And?" she probed.
          "I just find myself feeling attached to you already. And I don't know if I should, or how you're feeling, or if I should even think about this stuff. You know, I mean, why do we have to think all the time?"
          "I find myself attracted to you too. I guess that's obvious, but I mean even more than that. This sounds totally corny, but you fill a void in me somehow," she revealed softly. "And it's something I thought would always be there, but with you it goes away."
          I was touched because this was the first time Jasmine had spoken intimately with me. And I felt a joyful relief to hear her echo my own feelings. But at the same time I felt a little nervous, because if we both felt the same way, where did we go from there? Did this revelation somehow change the dynamic between us?
          I think Jasmine sensed the same uncertainty because she turned and gazed down the beach until I said, "So who were your two new friends?"
          "Oh, Tom and Alex?" She sure knew their names well. Who else? I ingored her question and waited for her to continue.
          "I don't know. Some guys who came up and started talking to me," she said noncommitally.
          "Remember how I was asking you back in the club about finding other people attractive? Were you attracted to those guys?" I asked, hoping she wouldn't regard my curiousity as jealousy, although there may have been a shade of that too.
          "Yeah, I remember you saying that. And I guess, yeah, I found Tom attractive," she admitted.
          "I always wonder about this. It's the same question really that I asked you before. Do you think that cheapens our relationship in any way? Or can these things exist totally independently? Like can you have a completely different slot in your head for some other guy than for me, or do they cross paths somewhere and maybe interfere with each other?" I posed this question, although I think my own answer had been crystallizing for a few years now. Somehow I felt that they did interfere, but I wasn't sure, and I wanted to hear what she thought.
          "Honestly, I don't really worry about it," she said casually. I felt snubbed, but I wasn't deterred.
          "Well, think about it. Come on, just for a second. Doesn't the fact that he now takes up some space in your head, however small, leave less space for me to occupy?"
          "The way I look at it," she answered, "is that you're still in my head wherever you were before, but now I have a tiny, little extra spot for him. It's not replacing. It's adding."
          That was fair enough. So I dropped the abstract and dug into the particulars. "So what was all that address stuff about?"
          "They want me to go to some party at this guy's house tonight. I thought it sounded kind of fun. Do you mind?" she asked.
          "What, I can't come?"
          "Well, I guess you could, but I just thought it might be good to spend a little time apart," she suggested.
          God, what a reversal. A minute before I thought she was handing me her heart; now it sounded like she was trying to let me down easy.
          "Do you tire of me already?" I said theatrically. "But what about your void? Without me, it may swell and engulf you." I was kidding, but an edge of honesty shot through my jest.
          "You know that's not true. I'm not tired of you. I don't think I could ever be. But do you want to experience everything together? Don't you think we like each other because we come from different pasts and have different perspectives? Isn't that what makes another person interesting? If we do everything together, we won't have anything to offer each other, because we'll both already have it," she said.
          Well, when she put it this way... Sounded like a good argument to me. There was the sticking point that maybe two people could experience the same thing and derive pleasure from the commonality of the experience, but I let it go. I was a laissez faire kind of guy anyway, and if she wanted to go to some kegger with a bunch of bleached-blond pretty boys, that was fine. She'd just want me even more after that... I hoped.
          "Yeah, no, that's fine. I'll go see a movie or something," I acquiesced. "Are you ready to go?"
          "Yeah, let's go get something to eat," she said, a little too cheerily. That reminded me that we hadn't eaten since the night before at Uncle Moe's, and now that I thought about it, I was really hungry.
          We rolled up the blanket. I put my shirt back on, and Jasmine got back into her clothes. I held the blanket rolled up under my arm. Jasmine walked next to me and then slipped her hand into mine. I grudgingly accepted it, but without much response. I couldn't help it. Sure, I believed she was right, and I'd want to be able to do the same thing if I were so moved, but I couldn't help but feel bummed. She took the wind right out of my sails, and even if she was trying to be nice now, the truth was that a portion of her thoughts were elsewhere, and I wanted her absolute attention. She had mine.
          "Do you want to eat at the hut there, or do you want to go somewhere else?" Jasmine asked, continuing to be uncharacteristically chipper.
          No need to waste her good spirits. So I ignored my deflated ego, and responded with some enthusiasm, "Let's eat at the hut. I walked by earlier, and their hamburgers smelled really good."
          "Sounds good to me," she replied happily.
          I didn't know whether her upbeat mood was to try to cheer me up or just because she was flattered that some guys asked her to a party. Man, was I double-thinking everything now or what.
          We pressed up against the counter and ordered two hamburgers, two blueberry milkshakes, and an order of fries to split. A guy with a goatee and a greasy shirt slapped two patties on the grill using a filthy spatula. Adds to the flavor they say. We sat down on the bench in front of the shack and listened to the whirr of the blender. Feeling a little better with food on the way, I patted Jasmine on the thigh and then pulled her over and gave her a long hug. I guess when you're not feeling great, break it down to simple things. Like Henry Miller would say, there's nothing a good meal can't fix. Although some would question if burgers at a shack on the beach counted. It did in my book.
          Jasmine responded warmly and hugged me back. I let my fingers dawdle in her hair and then slide down her neck. What did I care if she was going to some party tonight?; she was with me now. She smiled and kissed me and slid her hand up under my shirt to rub my chest. I almost brought up another theoretical relationship question, but I let it pass and relinquished myself to the beautiful day and my beautiful girl.
          "Hey, food's done" came the call from the counter. We hopped up anxiously. Everything was on one tray, which I grabbed and brought back to the bench. We fought a losing battle against the ocean breeze to keep all our napkins, but enjoyed a scrumptious feast nonetheless. Jasmine fed me some ketchup-drenched fries, and for a moment it all seemed O.K. again. We were back in our escapist fantasy, two twined souls running away from everything.
          We polished off the burgers, and I wiped a smear of ketchup from the corner of Jasmine's mouth. We picked up the unfinished shakes and started walking toward the car, leaving a pile of half-eaten fries for the seagulls. Between sucks on our straws we babbled about the weather and the color of the tainted sky. Cars rushed past in front of us on the 1, stirring up debris in their wakes. We mounted the overpass and paused on top to stare down at the speeding cars. Blurs of red and blue flashed by, framed by the diamond grid of the chain link fence we pressed our faces against. I looked straight down and imagined myself slipping through the fence and falling straight down to the concrete thirty-feet below. I even heard the thud as the first car swerved to avoid me but caught my chest with the left front tire and sent my body flopping along. The resulting 15-car pile up would be plastered all over the news for days.
          I turned and looked at Jasmine. She was staring straight down too. I wondered what she was thinking about, so I asked. She said she was imagining how it would feel to land on the concrete from this high up. See, and you didn't think we were compatible.
          "Do you think it would feel good?" I asked, wondering how much of a masochist she really was.
          "It would feel intense at least," she replied.
          "It might not feel at all," I pointed out.
          "That's true," she acknowledged, "which would still make it worthwhile."
          Sometimes her manner and her distance scared me. She still stared down at the traffic, relishing that fantasy a little too much.
          "Have you ever thought about killing yourself?" I asked.
          She hesitated. "I tried once," she admitted.
          "How?"
          "I took a bunch of pills. My mom found me though, and they took me to the hospital and pumped my stomach."
          "Are you glad they saved you?"
          "Sometimes," she affirmed and turned to look me in the eyes.
          Talk had turned too macabre and gloomy for bright daylight. This was a talk for a full moon. So, obviously changing the subject, I asked her what her favorite ice cream was.
          "Mint chip," she enunciated happily.
          "I like peppermint stick," I said.
          She grimaced at my choice and started walking again. I caught up and held her hand till we got to the car. I shook out the sandy blanket and stowed it in the trunk. Jasmine didn't feel like driving anymore, so I got behind the wheel. Our time on the meter had expired, but we didn't have a ticket. As was becoming our custom, I started driving but without any idea where I was going.
          We headed south, the road roughly paralleling the beach. Palm trees whizzed by on our right, making the beach scene look like one of those flip-the-card movies. I felt tired and numbed from the time in the sun. Jasmine's new friends didn't help either. I tried to be totally unaffected, but I couldn't. She couldn't either. Despite our attempts to pretend, a slight distance separated us. Hopefully it was just temporary. As soon as I had her back in my arms after the party, everything would be O.K. A wisp of hope curled in my heart, but for the most part I didn't care. I just sighed and pursed my lips and let feelings of indifference wash over me in growing waves.
          Soon I'd forgotten I even had a passenger, some random hitchhikeer I'd picked up back in, say, Bakersfield, without a thought, someone to while away the interminable, barren stretches of creased farmland. She was on her way to San Diego she mentioned perfunctorily, as she stepped into the car. I could get her as far as Santa Ana, I offered, but she'd be on her own after that. With a soft grunt and a slight raise of the eyebrows, she assented. Wasn't going to be much of a talker I could see. Maybe I'd made a mistake. She tossed her ragtag belongings in the back seat and settled in, keeping her gaze attached to the dull scenery and her mouth tightly closed.
          That's about what she was to me now, some foreigner. I initially felt obligated to make polite conversation but that quickly trailed off into comfortable silence. We were coming up on Venice now, and the buildings turned funkier and more colorful. Splashes of graffiti marked fences and storefronts, some done by vandals, some by flashy store owners. The road narrowed and started to veer. The black Mercedes of Wilshire were replaced by Toyotas and sky blue Volkswagen bugs.
          I pulled into a gas station to refuel, and Jasmine went inside to pay. When I had finished pumping, Jasmine was still inside. I guess she was making a purchase. While I waited, I had the urge to pull away and drive fast and far. Being without her would be less pain than suffering her infidelities. A fickle man I was. Her simple desire to go to some party had me casting her aside like a used Kleenex. She came back with a bar of Tangy Taffy, the sight of which instantly made me salivate. I re-accustomed myself to her presence. Even though she'd only been gone a few minutes, I'd traveled far away in that time. She offered me a gnaw on her taffy, but I politely declined. That stuff always made me pucker.
          A full tank of gas in our sturdy stallion, we were ready to trot off to world's end. Somehow a full tank of gas makes you feel invincible, renewed--which was a good feeling for me since I'd been feeling so fragile before. The intimacy I'd felt for Jasmine before failed me now. As I pulled out of the station, I considered slipping my hand from the stick shift to her thigh, but it didn't feel right, a little forced. She wasn't acting overly affectionate either, champing on her taffy and glancing around like a fidgety bird.
          Somehow to me the trip seemed over. We had no place to go and were driving aimlessly. It had been exciting and daring at first, but just monotonous now. Everything seemed dulled, the sky hazy, the graffiti weathered, the road continuing listlessly into infinity. Little spiders worked their way over my arms and legs, sealing me up in a numbing cocoon of sticky threads. Uninspired and fading, I cranked up the radio to at least have some stimulation, something to break through the heavy cocoon and reach my mind.
          We were killing time really. Everything was just a slow build-up to Jasmine's departure tonight. Whatever we did today seemed pointless, because it would all be different tomorrow, for good or bad or same. We were in a prolonged pause, a temporal stasis with all emotions and sensations suspended. At least I was. Jasmine could've been giddy with anticipation for all I knew. She might have been sitting there ruminating on what a pussy I was for being all hurt and counting the minutes until she could be away from me. Maybe a few weeks was her usual attention span. She'd sucked all the marrow from my being and was ready to move on to new adventures with new, fresh victims. Or maybe she was nervous that she'd fucked up something good with me and didn't know how to carry on now. How the hell did I know. She sat with that bar of taffy glued to her lips and gave off about as much hint of what she was thinking as I did behind my own steel curtain.
          We passed a deserted flea market on the left. Jasmine snapped up and blurted, "Let's go in there."
          So I wheeled the car around and whipped into the empty blacktop in the center of the market. Wooden stalls lined the blacktop on three sides. I parked right in the center. The pavement was cracked and grey from wear with a few sprouting daffodils. The ghosts of old parking lines were faintly visible, like branches under the surface of a frozen pond. The paint marks ran in directions out of line with the stalls and suggested a forgotten structure torn down long ago. Jasmine walked over to one of the stalls on the side and inspected it. A nicked wooden counter ran about belly-button high. Four posts in the corners supported a bowed, plywood roof. Inside there was nothing. The stall sat unachored on the pavement. I pushed on the counter and the whole structure slid back two inches. Everything seemed very temporary, like the whole market had been plunked down carelessly, ready to be picked up and carted off at a moment's notice.
          Jasmine traipsed along the stalls toward the back, sliding her hand softly against the aging wood. I followed her. Her mood seemed light and airy now. I wasn't sure what had changed. She flowed like an ethereal spirit, disobeying the physical laws that made us mortals clunky and slow. I was intrigued. I felt like a dreamer being beckoned to another world by the floating nymph in front of me, even though she'd made no motion for me to follow. She reached the corner stall in the back. She stopped and turned toward me. Then she smiled shyly and gestured for me to join her. I promptly obliged. As I stepped up to her, she put a finger over her lips to shush me and then leaned up and kissed me gently. Her lips didn't move; she just let them touch lightly against mine and then brought them away. She gazed at me briefly, her eyes wide as if trying to read my feelings. She jumped up onto the counter of the stall and lifted her legs around. After dropping inside, she turned and said, "Well, come on already." I hopped over.
          I looked out over the counter at the car nearly fifty yards away and the road another fifty past. I felt isolated and secure in the decaying hut. On the back wall were some metal hooks screwed in randomly. Trails of rust ran beneath them. One of the hooks had lost its mooring and hung precariously by a single screw clinging to splintered wood. Jasmine stepped in front of me and put her hands on my waist, blocking my view of the hooks, telling me now wasn't the time for quiet contemplation. She looked up at me and kissed me again, this one growing more forceful. She pushed me against the counter and blanketed my body with hers. I was a little overwhelmed and responded tepidly. Where had this mood come from? A few moments ago it seemed she was happiest ignoring me. She stopped kissing me and just rested her hands on my pant waist. She sensed my confusion and waited for it to pass. Then she tried kissing me gently again. I caved. Her lips were soft and slippery. She kissed me with an irresistible affection. She was sincere, and I lost myself in our embrace. The distant rumble of traffic faded, and the world was drowned out in the sweetness of her desire. Two kindred souls, at least for the instant, channeling a desperate oblivion through each other.
          Innocent and pure at first, her kisses grew fierce and passionate. She was running her hands over my chest and into my pants. Soon she'd unbuttoned my pants and dropped them to my shoes. She waited down there, kissing my thighs, peeking up my boxers and smiling at me as she tortured me. Then she worked my boxers down and took my dick in her mouth, warm and soft. She sucked until I was ridiculously hard. Leaving her hand on my balls, she stood up and kissed me once again before turning against the counter. She undid her own jeans and pushed her pants and underwear down in a rush. Remembering something, she stooped down to her jeans and fished a condom out of the pocket, which she handed to me. I tore it open quickly and whipped it on. Probably a new speed record. Then with her back toward me, Jasmine grabbed me with one hand and the counter of the stall with the other. She bent over and guided me inside her. I stopped just as I entered and took her hand off me. She grabbed the counter with this hand also. I rocked back and forward with tiny motions, letting only my tip penetrate. Then I circled in small gyrations, making her desperate before finally plunging in. I leaned over her and pressed my stomach against her back, hugging her tight like a lonely child, as we made love in a decrepit shack somewhere in Venice, CA.
          I left myself buried inside her well after the contractions had died away. It was comforting, being that close to her, as close as I could physically get. And it carried over and made me feel close emotionally too. I stayed leaning against her, breathing hot on her neck and languidly stroking her stomach. Finally I pulled out. I didn't want to really, but I thought she might be getting tired of supporting my weight. I carefully slid the condom off, tied it in a knot, and tossed it in the corner. I thought about throwing it in a trash can but didn't really feel like toting around a used condom. Besides this flea market was too barren; it needed some memories to haunt the shacks.
          Leaving her pants on the ground, Jasmine stood up and hugged me.
          "Do you feel better now?" she asked sincerely.
          "What?" I said, confused.
          "I thought sex would make you feel better."
          I was dumbfounded and speechless. What the hell was she talking about? This was just some sort of appeasement? An act, a ritual, for my benefit? I felt completely disgusted, alienated, alone. Instantly I was cast back into the solitude and numbness I'd felt at the gas station. And while all these emotions rolled through me, she just stood there looking at me like a school girl who'd brought home an A on her report card and was waiting for a cookie.
          "So? How do you feel?" she persisted.
          I couldn't respond. I couldn't understand how two people who seemed to jibe in so many ways could be on opposite sides of the world and not know it. I just stood there and shook my head.
          "What?" she said and moved in to touch my stomach.
          I laughed in disbelief and pushed her hands softly away. I walked back and pulled the loose hook out of the wall. It came with a soft crack. I dropped it. The clang made the ensuing silence even heavier. I ran my hand through my hair and took a breath. I was almost ready to speak. I blinked and rubbed my eyes and started to say, "I just... How can you...." I paused again and tried to regroup. I tried to start again but couldn't. Where does one start? What's the point of saying anything if we don't understand each other?
          I managed to squeeze out, "What was this to you?"
          "What do you mean?" she asked.
          "Good question," I laughed. "Maybe we should ask that every other sentence. Maybe we need to, or not to talk at all."
          "I don't understand."
          "What was this?" I asked again. "Sex as charity? Sex as emotional manipulation? How to Control Your Man with Your Vagina?" I intoned in a mock announcer's voice. I shook my head again and then went on. "Jasmine, I make love with you because I like you. I like touching you and being close to you, not because I'm angry, not because it's some sublimation of violent tendencies. It's not spiteful in any way. I don't understand how you could ever think that."
          She stared quietly at me. "But you feel better now, don't you?"
          "No, I feel worse. I feel like you're a million miles away. I was feeling close and intimate. I didn't want it to ever end, but I feel like you ripped that away from me. It was beautiful to me because it was mutual, mutual physical, mutual emotional, mutual everything. Without that it doesn't mean anything to me. I don't understand how I could be so out of touch with your thoughts. That makes me feel horrible. What were you thinking? Was your heart even halfway in it?"
          "Of course it was," she said, but I didn't really believe her. "Part of the joy for me is making you feel good. And I thought I was doing that."
          I looked down and realized that both of us were standing there naked from the waist down. I couldn't help but chuckle.
          "Pull your pants on for cryin' out loud," I bellowed humorously but it fell flat.
          She started to pull her clothes on anyway. I was in no rush. I felt defiant, standing somewhere in the middle of LA without any pants on, swinging freely in the breeze.
          "Why do you feel like that?" I asked.
          "How much time you got?"
          "I'd like to know. Will you tell me sometime?"
          "Sure. Sometime."
          I pulled my salty, crusty boxers back on, then my jeans. I walked bowlegged until I'd readjusted to the discomfort. Jasmine was leaning against the counter with a faraway look. I hopped over the counter and waited for her. She followed promptly. We walked side by side back to the car, but without touching or talking. I surveyed the flea market one last time, remembering how the shadows from the stall posts cut into each other under the waning sun.
          I started the car but felt like there was no place left to go. I sat there and let it idle.
          Jasmine said, "Aren't we going?"
          "Where? What for?" I answered.
          "Yeah, you're right," she said.
          Judging by the sun it was probably four, maybe four-thirty. We sat there with the car idling for at least ten minutes until I resolved to find a book store. I needed something to do while Jasmine went off on her merry adventures tonight. I pulled back onto the road and headed south, keeping my eyes peeled for either a bookstore or a phone.
          "Let me know if you see a bookstore," I said to Jasmine.
          I didn't hear a response. As luck would have it, about five blocks up we passed a ratty, little bookstore with lots of eastern religious symbols in the window, obscuring the book titles. I pulled over into one of many open parking spots. The bookstore and bordering shops didn't seem to be getting much business. I didn't know whether Jasmine wanted to come, but she got out of the car and followed me to the door. Before entering, I read the flaking sign over the door that said, "Nirvana (something)". I think it used to say Nirvana Books, but the Books part had eroded. I liked it better that way, as if the portal to unearthly delights lay in some run-down, pale blue bookstore. The road is long and hard, they say, especially when they've been scouring the wrong continent. Who knew? All along Nirvana was in a store in Venice. This building was old but couldn't have been there more than forty years. Where was Nirvana before?
          I didn't care too much though because now I was here. I gripped the door handle and plunged the lever with my thumb. The door swung open, and I stepped expectantly into the threshold... where untold pleasures greeted my eyes. Actually, disappointingly, it was just an old bookstore. Eh, I figured as much. Good selection though. Yellowing paperbacks lay in heaps around the floor. The bookshelves lining the walls were stuffed with coverless hardbacks and leather-bound journals. The store looked more like the elaborate personal collection of a devout bibliophile, which maybe it was. At the back of the store behind a short counter reclined a fat man in a Hare Krishna-looking robe. His beard was grey and straggly, and his beady eyes peered down through black nerd glasses at the tome in his hands. He didn't even glance up when we came in. Probably used to non-buying browsers. As I roamed around a subtle order presented itself. The shelves in the back were occult, then moving forward along the left wall was psychology, philosophy, and then religion. On the right wall was medicine, photography, and a smattering of classic works from around the world. The books on the floor seemed to be new arrivals awaiting placement.
          The fat man cleared his throat and shifted his weight over a small padded stool, no doubt necessary to keep the blood from pooling. High risk of genital infarction my med school friend would have said. Should probably put him on some acetylcholinase inhibitors right away. The fat guy seemed content enough without excess diagnoses and prescriptions. I'm sure he had his very own herbal remedies anyway, you know, for the sciatica and bursitis and plain old sore soles. He might've been reading some arcane "old wives" concoction as we spoke.
          Jasmine immediately got sucked into the occult. She reached for a volume on succubus seduction that had a big red pentagram on the cover with a female form entwined through and shackled to it. Two cute, baby horns poked through her forehead and she scowled menacingly over luscious breasts and a svelte body. I'd have to come back for that one when Jasmine was done.
          The carpet was stained and filthy. The whole place reeked of mildew and moldy books. Down the hall behind the fat man I could see a window pane glowing bright under the fading rays of the sun. Sometimes when I stepped I heard a crunch but couldn't detect anything in the long, now brown, shag. Maybe just some dropped stoneground crackers the fat man used to dip in his hummus. I ended up in front of the miscellaneous section and lifted out a dusty book on King Arthur. Fantastic illustrations. Old-style vignettes, just like in vintage fairy tale books, vividly-colored and delicately penned. The young Arthur heaving Excalibur from the stone. I flipped through, neglecting the text for the most part. It seemed a bland accompaniment to such riveting images. I placed the book carefully back in its spot and scanned more titles. The Koran should have been in the religion section I thought, but maybe this was the fat man's private joke. I picked it up and again was swept away by the images. Moslem mosaics surrounded by indecipherable, to me at least, Arabic script. Writing that flowed and curved and became art in itself, without a need for understanding the words. I perused its art and marveled at the wondrous achievements of man (and woman--that damn Life of Brian Loretta won't leave me alone). I closed the covers and returned to the cloying effluvium of the bookstore. I was beginning to get used to it now. I almost even liked it, as it lost it edge.
          I needed something to read though, not just pretty pictures to look at. Circling the shelves I came to psychology and chanced on something of Freud's. Never was too much into all that psychobabble, but might be titillating anyway. Talk of oral and anal and fixations and whatnot. Might even help me channel the anger I knew I'd be feeling toward Jasmine that night when she was gone. I could blame it on my id. Or I could pass the time trying to make friends with him at least. See if I could get my id and superego on talking terms again. They'd been such good friends as children. It pained me to see them bickering so. Besides, any legitimate neurotic should have some Freud under his belt. I didn't consider myself neurotic yet, but I was preparing for an ugly future. Maybe that in itself was a neurosis. I toted the book up to the counter and set it down softly. A little startled, the fat man mumbled and looked up.
          "Hey, Jasmine, can I have some cash?" I called.
          She left her face in an open book and walked over blindly to the counter. She handed me a twenty and walked back.
          The fat man picked up my book and squinted down his nose at the cover. "I got a treasure chest of wisdom in here, and this is what you come up with?!"
          "Not the most persuasive selling tactic I ever heard," I responded.
          "Come on now. Really. This Freud here. It's a knick-knack, a novelty, a token book to leave on the shelf, like a deer's head. You don't actually want to read it. Trust me. Gibberish, the lot of it. How 'bout a little Kahlil Gibran? Now that's some meaty shit."
          "What are you reading?"
          "You know, I don't even know. I just picked it up off the floor. Let's see what it says here." He folded the book in his hand and glanced at the cover. "How 'bout that. Burroughs. Don't know how this got in here. Must've come on one of the new stacks. Usually I don't stock this stuff. I try to keep most of the literature out." He rolled his eyes and sang "literature" in disdain.
          "What's wrong with literature?"
          "Short-sighted, self-indulgent, altogether vain. Where're the universal truths I ask you. Nah, we'd get on much better without the stuff. It's an amusing diversion periodically, but only in small doses. Get your hand 'round some meat, m'boy."
          So the Hare Krishna store owner was gruff and opinionated. Surprising, I'da guessed placid and serene.
          "Meat? I beg your pardon," I parried, wondering if he'd pick up on the allusion.
          "Sure, sure," he rolled on, "Nietsche, Kierkegaard, Rousseau, Locke, Kante, Descartes, Aristotle. Oh, don't stop me!" he cried in a fever.
          "Aren't you a little mired in the classics?" I asked skeptically.
          "Mired!" He seemed legitimately angered, and a mote of frothy spittle catapulted from his lip right onto Freud's book. "Try set free. Try lifted to the very heavens of human understanding, you ignoramus!"
          "Another unique selling tactic," I commented.
          "Why--are--they--classic!" he raved and pounded his fist on the counter to emphasize each word.
          "Is that a question?"
          Jasmine was interested by his fervor and dropped her book by her side to observe his histrionics.
          "A statement. A statement of profound truth. Man's truth. The only truth we have. The closest we've ever come to a shred of meaning. Millions of lives lived and died and what to show of it. That's what I say." He'd burned out and slumped back onto his stool, a rather small stool for such a large man.
          "So you're saying I shouldn't read the Freud then?" I said innocently.
          He looked defeated but made a last pass. "You can read Freud... if you want to fill your mind with piddle... if you want to waste the one life you have on schlock."
          "Have you read him?"
          "Don't insult me! Would I 'a' said not to read him if I hadn't read him myself. I ain't tryin' to snow you, boy. I'm here to help."
          "America's so afraid of sex. I just thought it'd be interesting to read someone who's sexually frank."
          "You want sexually frank, read the Khamasutra. Pictures, positions, everything."
          "Yeah, but that's just like flipping through a porn comic book."
          "Oh, but you're wrong," he rebutted. "Those pages are infused with ages of knowledge. More than Freud could have ever conceived."
          "But Freud's more contemporary."
          "So am I. But I can guarantee you don't want to read what I've written."
          "Are you saying you won't let me purchase this book?" I asked in sum.
          "I'm just politely asking you to reconsider. There are piles of books in this store that I'd give my enthusiastic thumbs-up to. Why don't you find one of those." His tone had become soft and avuncular. He really was just trying to steer me in what he thought was the right direction.
          I glanced at Jasmine. She was bending over to reach a book on the bottom shelf and looked mighty sexy.
          "O.K. How 'bout this?" I negotiated. "I'll give the store another once around. If I don't find anything that strikes me, then you'll let me buy the Freud and give me a page of your writings."
          He chuckled and his flesh jiggled. "Let's make this fair now. Let's make it worth your while to find something else. You give the store a once around. If you don't find anything other than Freud, I'll give you the Freud--be glad to get rid of it actually--and you cook me dinner tonight."
          I choked in surprise. Now that was incentive. Who'd want to spend an entire evening with this windbag? He probably farted and drooled at dinner too. Jasmine came over and laid her arm around my shoulders. "Yeah, and then what? Dinner turns into a happy little slumber party and Travis wakes up walking funny tomorrow? I don't think so," she scowled.
          Wow, she was being protective. I was touched.
          "Hey, easy now," the fat guy responded. "I'm simply a lazy, lonely man who'd just like to relax for an evening with company. It gets old, hustling around the hot kitchen every night. No pederast am I."
          "That's a tall order, my friend," I commented. "But hell, I got nothing better to do tonight. I'll take you up on it." Secretly I also thought that maybe I could rope Jasmine into some marathon dinner chat with this guy so she'd miss her party.
          Jasmine walked back to the occult section, and I started perusing the store once again. I dusted off and opened books on acupressure, Manicheism, chi, Gnosticism, Byzantine generals, Pyrrhus, self-actualization, synthetic drugs, the fourth dimension, and the pituitary gland. All were interesting, but I didn't want to buy any of them. Maybe I'd come back to this place to do some leisure reading.
          In the midst of my browsing, Jasmine walked over pointing to a picture in a book. A red, horned Satan was ravaging a porcelain-skinned girl in her own bed. Jasmine pointed out the lustful gleam in the girl's eye. "Sometimes that's what I want. To become Satan's bride. I used to wish for that when I was younger. I'd given up on God long before, and I hoped that Satan would come and take me. I used to lie in my bed trying to will it to happen. Sometimes I'd concentrate so hard I'd sweat. But Satan never came either." Her voice floated in a distant monotone, almost like she was talking to herself.
          I didn't answer, because to respond would imply that I understood. She paused there peering at the picture and didn't say anything more. Then she walked away.
          I gave up my hunt and returned to the counter. "Looks like I got myself a book and you got yourself a dinner," I told the fat guy. "Since we'll be dining together, I ought to know your name."
          "Roderick. And you?"
          "Travis."
          "And your lovely companion?"
          "Jasmine."
          "That's a beautiful name. Makes me think of spring," he said wistfully.
          "Yeah, that's ironic," Jasmine piped up. "My life's been one long winter."
          "She's got an attitude too. No wonder you like her," Roderick said.
          "Keeps things interesting," I confirmed. "Sometimes she retreats into her little ball though." I said this while looking at Jasmine. She was watching me back.
          "Ball, schmall," she sneered.
          I smiled with adoration. She could always brings things back to their base level.
          "So how do you feel about cooking Roderick dinner with me?" I asked Jasmine.
          "I feel indifferent about it."
          "Roderick, I know she doesn't mean that," I soothed. "She's just in a foul mood because she's got an unrequited love for Satan."
          Roderick pricked up.
          "Is that so? I can be Satan," he joked.
          "No, I wanna be Satan," I chimed in.
          "You can both be Satan if you want," Jasmine said. "It won't do either of you any good."
          Roderick was beginning to grow on me. Sure, he was a greasy, brash oddball in a Hare Krishna outfit, but that was endearing if you saw it right. I felt like I had a compatriot now, someone on my side when Jasmine got bitter and unruly. It hadn't really happened before, but I was beginning to see a testy side to my pulchritudinous traveling bride. Soon to pass, I hoped.
          I walked over to Jasmine, out of Roderick's earshot, and said softly, "Are you getting sick of my new friend and his digs?"
          "No, this is fine. I'm sorry. I'm just feeling stretched. I think I'm tired from the sun and the sex," she stated plainly.
          "Are you up for this dinner thing? I figured we had nothing else to do."
          "Yeah, what the hell. He seems amusing enough. Besides I'd like to see what he eats."
          I rubbed her lower back and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She didn't seem to mind too much. Then I walked back to Roderick.
          "So what time's dinner?"
          "I usually eat around eight. Preparation's close to an hour though, so we should get started reasonably soon."
          "O.K. now, Roderick. Don't go getting into your head that we're going to be dinner slaves," I warned. "It's going to be an amicable thing, like one old friend inviting another over for dinner. We're going to cook, and you're going to eat and pretend you like it even if you don't."
          "All right. No need to mutiny before the ship's even left port," he replied defensively.
          "So where's your house?"
          "You're in it."
          "Well, that's convenient. I take it you have all the dinner supplies. The deal was to cook dinner, not buy it."
          "Oh, yeah. I got plenty. I'll leave the menu in your hands. Are you a good cook?" Roderick asked.
          "Not really. Jasmine, do you cook?" I asked.
          "That's such a vague question," she answered. "There are so many levels. That's like asking a sidewalk artist if he paints, and then asking Picasso if he paints. They'll both tell you yes."
          Everything was becoming such a chore with her. But she was right anyhow.
          "O.K. Julia Childs, what level of cook are you?"
          "I'm pretty good in my field," she smiled, pleased that I bent to her conversation and proud of her cooking ability.
          I shook my head wearily. "And your field is?" Getting a straight answer was like trying to wrench a tennis ball from a playful labrador's mouth.
          "I do a good veal parmigiana, a couple good pasta dishes. I also make chicken breast with a mushroom cream sauce. From there I can also improvise with almost anything," she boasted.
          "I never knew you were so multi-talented," I teased. "How'd you learn to cook?"
          "I had a lot of time on my hands when I was young, remember? Getting locked in the house, watching old movies. Ring a bell? Well, I also spent time cooking. I'd have dinner ready for my mom when she came home from work."
          "You never cooked for me," I whined.
          "When? When did I have the chance? What was I s'posed to do, tell Uncle Moe to step aside and let me whip up a little something in his kitchen?" she answered, a shade petulant.
          "Well, you have a point," I conceded. "But if I find the facilities, will you cook for me sometime?"
          "I'm going to be cooking for you tonight, no doubt."
          "What do you mean? I'm going to help." It dawned on me that Jasmine really wasn't being very agreeable. "Or maybe I won't. Would you prefer the time alone?"
          "No, I wouldn't. I'd prefer to see you chopping and grating like a bitch."
          I burst out laughing. Jasmine giggled. Even Roderick chortled.
          "Fine then. I'll be your cook's helper. Command me as you will. But no naughty stuff in the kitchen. Roderick doesn't want any special sauce on his chicken breast."
          "Pig," she cried. "Cooking's a sacred act, not to be cheapened with lewd remarks."
          Now I knew she was totally kidding. Nothing was sacred to Jasmine. Especially not the remnants of her past. She'd be happy to defile cooking because cooking was part of her childhood. And she cheerily trod on any part of her past in an effort to erase and forget it. But aside from the talk about her mom keeping her locked in the house, she hadn't been too open with me about her past. Maybe I could pry it out of her when the time was right. I was definitely curious. What had spawned her distaste for life? Or was it genetic and she just blamed it on her past blah, blah, blah... Either way I was curious.
          Roderick raised himself from the stool and said, "Shall I show you to the kitchen?"
          "Aren't you jumping the gun just a bit? We've got plenty of time. Why don't you read us some of your writing first, or tell us a long story about why you wear that Hare Krishna costume," Jasmine said.
          "That could be fun," Roderick agreed. "It's close enough to six. Let me lock up and then we'll start."
          Start what?, I was thinking. Lock up? Now I was getting a little nervous. Whose bright idea was it to have dinner with a loony Venetian anyway? But as Roderick clumsily shambled to the door and turned the Open sign to Closed, I could see we didn't have anything to worry about. I got the sense he was genuine, just a lonely guy reading his life away. Also, I don't think he had the physical prowess to keep me and Jasmine cooped up like Gimps from Pulp Fiction. His robes swished as he walked and the light from the store window shone through the gauzy, patterned fabric. He was illuminated like an angel. How could he harbor any ill intentions? Then my eyes flicked to his grimy, unkempt beard and his retro-cool nerd glasses, and his face morphed into all the serial killers I'd ever seen pictures of. But this was more a mind game than any real fear. It was exciting to imagine ourselves on the verge of some murder spree at the hands of a book-lover-gone-bad. I wondered if he had fantasized about the librarian when he was in grade school. The slim, sixty year-old who kept her silver hair in an immaculate bun. Yeah, she's the one who turned him onto reading... and other avocations.
          Roderick had trudged all the way back to the counter by now, and I put aside my daydreaming.
          "Follow me," said Roderick, and he headed down the hall toward the door with the glowing pane of glass I'd seen earlier. He opened the door and led us onto an enclosed cement patio. It was made up of square cement blocks, kind of like a sidewalk. Over the years the blocks had shifted slightly and pushed each other out of whack. The middle block was gone, and a juniper grew there. The slow, persistent force of its roots had raised the edges of the six cement blocks surrounding it.
          The air was balmy, and the sun had just dipped below the wall. We enjoyed a calming shade. Roderick offered us seats around a white metal patio table with three metal chairs. The salt air had rusted the furniture in patches, but the seats had pads and were comfortable. Even though the patio looked poorly tended, the juniper was robust and healthy. Roderick's baby I guessed.
          "Got any pets, Roderick?" I asked as I scooted my chair into the table.
          "Can't. Get allergies somethin' awful. Real shame too. I had a cat when I was little that I loved to death. Wish I could have another."
          "Aw, that's sad," Jasmine commented. "Can't they give you stuff for allergies these days?"
          "Sure, but it's expensive. They run all these tests to find out what you're allergic to. Then they give you stuff for that. My insurance won't pay for it, and I have a hard enough time just paying those bills. Then there'd be pet food and pet shots. I can't afford to spend on luxuries like that." He spoke with the resolution of an ascetic. He didn't even allow himself to think about it. Clearly he would've loved to have a pet, but his voice didn't convey the sadness of longing, just the metallic ring of real-world constraints.
          Changing the subject, I interjected, "I like your tree. That's a juniper, right?"
          "Sure is," he said with pride. "Ancient plant, the juniper. Full of historical significance."
          I hoped he wouldn't dive into some windy monologue about the juniper, and he didn't. He hadn't seated himself yet. He just stood behind his chair, resting his arms on its back.
          "Excuse me," he said. "Back in a second." He turned and walked back inside.
          Jasmine looked at me oddly, and I shrugged. Maybe she'd been thinking the serial killer thing too. I looked around the patio. On two sides the patio was blocked by pale blue walls the same color as the front of the store, and on the other two by windows looking into Roderick's house. I could see Roderick moving down a hall. Then he disappeared into a door.
          "Do you think this guy's creepy?" Jasmine asked me.
          "Not really. Do you?"
          "No. I'd be a hyprocrite if I did. Look at me." She gestured at herself, indicating her hair and appearance, although jeans and a shirt was quite tame for her. "I kind of like him."
          "Me too. I haven't figured out why he's in the robes though. He doesn't seem too religious, or maybe he is, but not in the annoying proselytizing sense, which is what a guy wearing those robes should be."
          "Yeah, I know. I'll ask him when he comes back," Jasmine said. "If he's not carrying a hatchet, that is," she kidded.
          We saw Roderick re-emerge from the door and shamble back down the hall and out onto the patio. He was holding a spiral bound notebook. We both watched him as he settled himself into the constricting patio chair. He scooted in and dropped the notebook on the table. It clanged on the metal mesh, and the table wobbled a touch. On the front of the notebook were the spec's: yellow-tint and wide-ruled.
          "You assumed that I was a writer just because I like to read. Actually, I draw," he said and flipped the notebook open to the first page. It was a pencil sketch of a twisted bonzai on a craggy peak, and it was amazing. Each miniscule leaf was carefully rendered to illustrate its outline and subtle bends. The texture of the ridged, weathered limbs, including knots and imperfections, looked so real I wanted to touch the page. The bonzai overlooked a barren gorge that receded into a misty distance with perfect proportion--an awe-inspiring vista. All this on a page of cheap, lined, scratch paper.
          Jasmine had slid her chair around next to mine, and we were both gazing in wonder at this tiny miracle. Roderick was nervous about showing his work and shifted uneasily in his chair.
          "Look at that." Jasmine pointed to a small hawk I hadn't noticed before that was circling a river at the bottom of the gorge. "You can almost see the individual feathers."
          It was true. The precision of the drawing made me think of those painstakingly detailed model ships in glass bottles. But the eye for detail wasn't the genius of the picture. It had a resonance, as if I'd lived in that valley for a lifetime, grown up in it, raised a family, buried relatives there. It was as if that image contained cherished memories for me I never knew I had. And I wanted to keep looking at it like an old yearbook. And while I studied the image, a moving weariness and solitude drifted into my head and lingered there. The bonzai's loneliness. Roderick's loneliness.
          Jasmine lifted her gaze from the picture. "I don't know what to say. How do you put words to something that says everything? To me it means beauty... and longing... and truth... and nature... and cruelty... and I could go on." Jasmine was rarely effusive.
          "So you liked it?" Roderick asked with child-like vulnerability.
          "It's wonderful," she affirmed.
          "Did you ever paint professionally?" I asked
          "No. It's just a hobby, something I did since I was little." Roderick had grown sheepish and quiet since bringing out the notebook, a marked change from his prior brashness. "I'm kind of embarrassed about it. But no one's ever seen my drawings, and I didn't know if I'd ever have visitors again." He related this with uninflected truth. It wasn't a sympathy ploy in the least, more an apology.
          "You shouldn't be embarrassed at all. Man, if I could draw like that...." My head spun with images of fame and museum exhibits. Sure, the art world was cutthroat, and I was no connoisseur, but that image was more captivating than most stuff I'd seen hanging on museum walls.
          Jasmine flipped the page eagerly. A shriveled writer sat hunched over his desk, scribbling words under the stark light of a single desk lamp. The lamp-light fell in a perfect circle on his journal. The room was dark and grimy, like a nineteenth century hovel you'd find on the back streets of Paris, overlooking a cemetery or a brick wall. The man's face was contorted with concentration, and he gripped his pen rigidly, the veins in his hands pronounced. The rest of the sparse items in the room were in disarray. Clothes flung over the bed. A suitcase lying half-open in the corner. The drawing was labeled Dostoevsky. It contained the same immaculate detail and profound emotion. I should say the same sense of detail and emotion, because while the drawing was phenomenal, it suggested a different style than the first. Lines were more blurred and wavering, blending into forms and textures. The first had been strict and precise. The second was pervaded by a weaving dizziness that offered a glimpse of the writer's mental state.
          I was even more astounded now. Variety to me is the mark of true genius. That Roderick was able create an image like the first was remarkable. That he could create a second, of equal intensity and power, with a style so different one would've guessed another artist altogether, and all with a simple #2 pencil, was mind-boggling. I wondered how many other undiscovered geniuses the world over were languishing in anonymity and loneliness.
          I was finding it hard to talk to Roderick now. Where I had been full of playful banter and subtle condescension, I was now struck by a reverent awe. To avoid conversing, I flipped to the next page.
          This image was a rendering of an Islamic mosaic with each of the tiny tiles shaded with colored pencil. The colors were less than inspiring, set against the muddling yellow paper. The drawing depicted a religious procession with Mohammed at the head. I regarded the picture as an exercise in masochism. What artist would want to compose an image of tiny little squares when he could simply draw connected, flowing curves and graded shading? Roderick had stayed true to the nature of mosaics and made each square a solid color. He placed each in a roughly parallel position, just enough askew to capture the slight, realistic imperfections of mosaic artisans working with stone in mortar. Attempting a similar drawing would've driven me mad. Where'd he find the patience? The work of a restless mind, I guess.
          And on we flipped. Each page offered a revelation of masterful skill and striking poignance. His subjects were limitless: a girl on a swing set, clouds, the gutted entrails of a diviner's prediction, close-up of a giant rat, abstract representations of emotion, Rockwellian family scenes, unfinished exercises in texture and lighting, epic battle scenes, a wildflower in a damp grotto. His imagination was limitless. After about a half hour, Jasmine and I had perused the entire notebook without speaking a word to each other or Roderick. Roderick's nervous fidgeting had quieted a while ago once he recognized our sincere appreciation.
          I looked at Jasmine and just shook my head in disbelief.
          She glanced over at Roderick who was sitting quiet and attentive. "No one's ever seen these before?" Jasmine asked softly.
          "No," he answered. "These are just the ones I've done in the last couple years, but even when I was a kid no one ever saw them. When I was about twelve, I showed my mom a portrait I did of her. 'That's fine, Junior,' she said and reached to pour herself another shot of Scotch. I don't know if she could even make it out, her eyes were so glazed over. So then I just did it for myself." Roderick was slowly turning back into himself. He ended his statement with a shrug and a tilt of the head.
          "Did you ever think of trying to sell them?" Jasmine asked.
          "Who wants pencil sketches on binder paper?"
          "Well, yeah, but you could do some on nice paper," Jasmine countered.
          "Never wanted to. I like 'em the way they are."
          Made perfect sense to me.
          "Will you do a drawing for us?" Jasmine asked hopefully.
          "Eh, depends if dinner's any good."
          "We should get to it soon," Jasmine said. "I have to get out of here at some point."
          She hadn't forgotten. Too bad. If Roderick's amazing art gallery couldn't take her mind off this party, nothing would. I felt a twang of bitterness, but took a breath and tried to let it go.
          "All right. I'm about as ready as I'll ever be," I mentioned. "Lead us to the kitchen, Roderick."
          Roderick heaved himself up out of the patio chair and opened the door for us. He turned left down the hall we'd seen him walk down before. He turned left again at the corner and led us into an open dining area that bordered the kitchen.
          "Use anything thing you want. I'm going to sit and relax, so no questions about where I keep the Basil. Have at it, Wolfgang," he said to Jasmine.
          Jasmine marched into the small kitchen and started to get her bearings. She opened the fifties-style refrigerator and took inventory of the old but salvageable vegetables and the just-molding cheese. She checked the freezer and noted a few stacks of frozen chicken and beef. In the cupboards she came across mountains of soup, mostly Campbell's chunky style. I was out of my element in the kitchen, so I just lounged against the counter and watched her take charge. She hunted for proper pots and pans, and then stood and pondered. She'd found a spice rack in one of the cupboards and checked it again. She thought again for a minute. Then she was resolved. She grabbed three slabs of frozen chicken and set them in a pot of water to defrost. She dug through the fridge and tossed lettuce, tomatoes, carrots, arugula, and what looked like Belgian endive. I was proud of myself for knowing that. She unearthed some soup cans from the back of the cupboard. Before I could see what she'd gotten, she handed me some shallots and ordered, "Mince these."
          I considered asking her how the hell I was supposed to mince something, but figured she might get upset and smack me. So I did the sensible thing; I found a knife and started chopping. I sliced slowly and precisely, making sure my superlative mincing would contribute to Jasmine's culinary masterpiece. I was dismayed though when she leaned over to check my work and commented not on the outstanding consistency and elegant geometry of my chops but on my slowness. Hey, Rome wasn't built in a day, and neither were shallots minced.
          While I continued chopping, a little faster and less artistically, she simmered and basted and performed arcane kitchen rituals that meant nothing to me but were clearly vital to her final concoction. When I finally finished chopping the shallots, Jasmine slid them off the chopping block into a greased pan which she set on the stove next to a pot and another pan. The stove was an old white gas stove which sent up feeble blue flames. Half the openings didn't work, so the gas flared up irregularly along the heating ring. Based on my shallot-mincing ineptitude, I think Jasmine decided my tour of duty was over. She quietly went about her business and let me stand idly around observing. She had one pot and two pans going on the stove, all doing something important. With her precise internal cook's clock, she knew exactly when ingredients needed to be added and contents shifted to other pots. It was like watching a conductor, intent and meticulous. She whirled about the kitchen, adjusting the stove, adding dashes of spices, and even chopping vegetables for the salad during lag time. I felt slighted that she deemed me too incompetent even for the salad chopping. Feeling a little useless, I wandered away to find Roderick and left Jasmine to her magic.
          Roderick had plopped himself down in the dining room and was admiring a copy of the Utne Reader. The chairs surrounding the dining room table were uniform wooden chairs that matched the table, except for his. He sat at the head in a padded lounge chair. I suspected he pulled the table toward him when he ate, rather than scooting in the chair, because the chair looked much too heavy to move. I dropped into a chair next to him and gazed out the window at the juniper on the patio, slowly fading in the dying light. Roderick looked absorbed, so I didn't bother to try to strike up conversation.
          "Glad you came out. I didn't want you screwing up my dinner." He wasn't joking. But he wasn't trying to be insulting either. He was just speaking his mind, unaware of propriety or etiquette. I guess living alone for however many years will do that to you. Kind of like being raised by wolves.
          "What do you mean? I was fantastic in there. I think you'll see when dinner's ready that the shallots really make the meal."
          "No need to get uppity. It's not in our blood." My God! Was Roderick a chauvinist? The same sensitive, searching man whose pictures could pluck the heartstrings like an angel playing her harp?
          "What, you don't think men can cook?"
          "Sure, men can cook, physically. But they can't cook. Y'ever see Like Water for Chocolate? Ya think a man could do that?"
          Roderick was a bottomless well of surprises. I didn't think his interests ranged beyond the dusty books in his front room. Apparently he was a movie-goer too. Or a movie-renter at least. More likely. Roderick still held the Utne Reader before his face. His left arm rested on the arm of the chair, and some of his loose flesh seeped down into the space between the chair and the lounge-lever of his La-Z-Boy.
          "Aside from when that woman's water breaks, sure."
          "You're wrong," he decreed, almost before I'd finished.
          I let it go. I got the sense it wasn't debatable. When I looked over at Roderick again, the magazine was still pressed to his nose, and his eyes were scanning the pages through his black glasses. I wondered if he could carry on a conversation and read at the same time.
          "Ya think Plato had it right? With the realm of absolutes and all?" I asked, hoping to provoke some lengthy discourse. I kept my eyes glued on Roderick.
          "'At's pretty much hogwash the way I see it. What, do these absolutes all hang out together in some alternate dimension? It's a nice idea. Food for thought, but people go too far with these things." He lips moved, and his eyes didn't break their rhythm along the page. "Absolute happiness. Absolute beauty. Absolute evil. It's all too cut and dried. No humanity in it." No doubt about it. He read and spoke without missing a beat. That talent had to be marketable somehow.
          "And the 50% sperm count decrease in humans over the twentieth century?" I thought I could throw him.
          "I'm no doctor. I've got a couple books I could recommend you to though. Anything to keep that Freud out of your head," he responded smoothly. So much for my little game. Roderick was the real article. A veritable fat-man savant. I turned back to the juniper and pondered my own lack of exceptional ability. It all washed away when Jasmine and I were getting along. When we were together, I didn't even think of myself; I was too absorbed in her every word and motion. No time to scrutinize and consider my inadequacies. Too focused on soaking up every drop of her being.
          Roderick broke the silence and said, "How'd you two meet?"
          "Not getting enough gossip in your Utne Reader there huh? Need something a little juicier?" I laughed.
          "Listen, my life's been dry enough for the last twenty years. I need a little dirt. Indulge me."
          "Fair enough. It was a stormy fall day," I started theatrically. "The sky crackled with lightning. A violent wind snapped branches from trees. The city was in a tumult. Just kidding. I don't know. I walked into Tower Records one day and bought some CD's. She was one of the cashiers--unfortunately not the one helping me--and I just dug her. I bought a lot of CD's in the next couple weeks. I started to learn when her hours were even. But I never worked up the guts to say anything to her. That makes it even worse you know. 'Cause you build it up and build it up until it becomes too frightening to even attempt. Sometimes she was behind the cash registers. Sometimes she was stocking. Sometimes she just seemed to be wasting time. But I couldn't think of a way to approach her. I think she caught me ogling her once or twice and figured I had an interest. Because she started doing things closer to me. She'd stock CDs right next to where I was browsing. Or she'd walk customers down my aisle to lead them to their selection and brush right past me. She's got a spiteful streak, and I think she was just trying to torture me. She never did anything overt, just subtle, noncommital things that I could read into when I was there and then go home and think about and convince myself I was being an idiot, that she was just doing her job."
          I was speaking softly because I didn't want Jasmine to hear all this. She was just through the doorway in the kitchen. She knew it all already, but she didn't need to hear it again. If she thought I was too into her, she might start lording it over me.
          "So even though she was giving me hints--or maybe just playing with me, but what I was taking as hints--I still didn't have the balls to say even hi. One day, of the many days I was there, I had my head down and was pretending to stare at some Spahn Ranch--she must've thought I was a die-hard music fan with the amount of time I spent there--and she was changing one of the big posters on the wall. She was on a step stool and was trying to hang this big unwieldy thing on two small hooks. It wasn't really a poster. It was more one of those square, artsy, promotional pictures with a band's name splashed all over it. You know what I'm talking about." Roderick shook his head. He'd put down his magazine now and was gazing at the window. The light outside had grown so dim that the window became a mirror relfecting back the dining room.
          "No? You haven't been to Tower before?" He shook his head again. "Oh, well, they've got these wall hangings that look like modern art pastiches. Like when a band has a new album, they put up one of these things. So Jasmine was trying to hang one. And she was struggling to get it set on the hooks, and one side just wouldn't catch. So she kept working it. One foot slipped off the stool, and she went crashing to the floor. I saw all this because she was facing the wall, and I knew I could watch her without her seeing me. She landed in my aisle almost right at my feet with the poster still in her hands. I looked down and saw her sprawled out. Hesitantly I moved over. She wasn't that hurt, and she was already starting to pick herself up. I braved my first words to her and asked if she was all right, and immediately felt like an idiot. Even then I thought I should have something clever to say. She smiled and said, 'Yeah, I'm O.K. Thanks.'
          'Are you sure?' I repeated.
          'Yeah, really.'
          'You should probably sue,' I joked.
          'For what, nothing's hurt... yet,' she said. I'm not sure what she meant by that.
          She really didn't look injured at all. She was standing in front of me, nice and chipper, with the poster at her side.
          'I guess it sounded a lot worse than it was,' I said.
          I remember this dialogue because I played it over and over in my mind later, thinking how stupid I sounded and trying to decide what I could've said instead."
          "Yeah, no Hemingway material there, my friend," Roderick derided.
          "What do you want? I was flustered. This was my magic moment. I was nervous."
          "Duly noted. Continue."
          "So there's kind of a pause now. We're both still facing each other, and it's like someone needs to say something. I'm at a loss for words. So she comes to the rescue and says, 'Wanna know a secret?'
          'Um, yeah,' I said dumbly, wondering what secret she could possibly want to share.
          'I'm glad I finally met you. I figured if I didn't meet you soon, you'd start stalking me or something.' I looked at her confused. 'I've seen you in the store the past couple weeks. I don't think you're just checking out the CD's,' she accused me flirtatiously.
          I think I turned beet red; it felt like it. My cover was blown, and I was totally embarrassed. I felt like some lecherous pervert.
          'I was obvious?' I asked, owning up.
          'Well, it wasn't... obvious. But it was noticeable,' she said. She could tell I was uncomfortable and she said, 'Oh, don't be all embarrassed. It was cute. I'm flattered.'
          So there. That's how we met. You happy?"
          "Yeah, pretty much. That's a good story. But I'm afraid I can't respect you anymore," Roderick said.
          "What do you mean?"
          "She went easy on you. That was lecherous behavior if I ever saw it. You're a regular Nabokov. Frankly, I'm afraid to go to sleep tonight for fear that you'll be lurking in the corner."
          "Don't flatter yourself."
          "Why don't you go see where my dinner is?" Roderick suggested.
          I frowned at him. "I thought we were clear on this dinner slave stuff."
          "How's it going in there, dear?" Roderick called out to the kitchen.
          "Settle down" came the muted reply from the kitchen.
          "She is sassy though," Roderick said admiringly.
          We dropped into silence again for a moment, and Roderick stroked his greasy grey beard. I sat across from the window and watched his profile in the reflection. He was an extremely large man. The bulk of his mass sank down into the groaning springs of the La-Z-Boy, but a fair portion rode above the armrest. His robes had parted in a spot, and a sliver of blue-white flesh peeked at me in the window.
          I got up to go check on dinner. As I turned toward the kitchen, I heard a muffled "uh, huh" from Roderick's direction.
          "All I have to do is plant the seed..." he boasted. I realized I was doing exactly what he'd asked me to do a short time before, go see about the food. But I went anyway.
          Jasmine had three plates set out and was ladling a creamy, white sauce out over them from a pan. I leaned up against the counter and watched her put the finishing touches on the meal. On each of the three plates she had laid a tender chicken breast over a bed of wild rice. She christened each breast with a measure of her secret white sauce that sent up wisps of steam and smelled wonderful. A fresh, bountiful salad nearly overflowed its dark wooden bowl on the counter next to the plates.
          She stepped back with the sauce pan still in her hand and inspected the three plates. Satisfied she returned the pan to the stove, removed her oven mitt, and said, "All right. You can help now. Why don't you set the table. Here. I found the silverware. I don't think he has any napkins. The paper towels are under the sink." Having put me to work, she splashed oil and vinegar over the salad and mixed it with the big brown serving fork and spoon. I went out to set the table.
          Roderick was sitting as I left him, with his left hand still tugging on his beard. The fibers stuck together in clumps from the grease. He hardly noticed me as I set three places. I put Jasmine's utensils opposite me and right next to Roderick. I figured we'd make him the center of attention. After all it was his dinner, and he was the host.
          I went back to the kitchen and passed Jasmine as she carried the salad bowl out. I grabbed two of the plates to bring to the dining room. The delicate aroma of her sauce drifted lazily to my nostrils. It smelled faintly of white wine. Probably Wine-in-a-Box from the looks of Roderick's eating habits. I settled the two plates in front of Jasmine and Roderick and returned for my own. When we were all just seated, Roderick pointed out, "...and to drink?"
          "Begging your pardon. What mayest I bring for you, Grand Sir?" Jasmine sang in an attentive falsetto.
          Roderick paused to let those words echo in his head. Then contentedly he answered, "Why, whatever's in the fridge. Thank you, dear."
          Jasmine glanced at me before rising. I think she was going to pass the task off to me, but she realized she had committed herself and grunted in irritation as she rose. She came back with a saffron-colored Rubbermaid pitcher half-filled with red Cool-Aid. She carried three plastic glasses in her other hand. Each glass had a different superhero, Batman, Superman, and Aquaman. Apparently Roderick had picked these up at some fast food promotion, and it must've been a while back. Whatever happened to Aquaman? She placed the glasses before us and plunked the pitcher down hard in protest. The red fluid sloshed but didn't spill. I checked the spout of the pitcher for lip marks. I'm sure Roderick didn't bother with the inconvenience of glasses when alone. I could clearly picture him standing in his robes--or worse, in his underwear, just risen from bed on a midnight eating binge--in front of the fridge chugging Cool-Aid straight from the pitcher. I was none too eager but didn't deny Roderick when he offered to pour me a glass.
          Just like a cozy family we were, gathered around the table, ready for our meal. And just like a real family a silence had descended on us. Roderick said sincerely, "Jasmine, thank you for preparing the meal. It looks scrumptious. I don't know how many years it's been since I enjoyed a real, home-cooked dinner."
          "You're welcome. I hope you like it. It's a white wine sauce I learned from my mom. I threw in some secrets too, but your spice rack is a little lacking. I had to chisel the thyme out of the container, but I think it's still O.K."
          We dug in, and as she'd promised, it was very good. The chicken was tender and light. The wine sauce and subtle spices danced over our tongues, and the wild rice complemented the flavor with a rich, wholesome earthiness. The presentation wasn't Spago, but its simplicity was more appropriate for this meal. After my first few bites my hunger grew, and I devoured the meal greedily. I realized no one was talking. We all had our faces down in our plates. After a while Jasmine and Roderick slowed their eating pace. I washed down a bite with a swig of Cool-Aid, and asked Roderick, "So where do you come up with your ideas for drawing?"
          Roderick clearly felt shy talking about his secret passion and answered sheepishly, "I read them."
          "You get your ideas from books?"
          "Yeah. I read a scene and then try to conjure an image in my head. Sometimes I try to imagine exactly what the author pictured. Sometimes I imagine what I think he should've pictured."
          "So the one labeled Dostoevsky, is that how you envisioned him, or is that a scene from one of his books?"
          "That's from Crime and Punishment, where Raskolnikov is holed up in his hovel succumbing to the guilt and dread of his crime."
          "Your style varies a lot. Do you change it to suit the tone of the author?"
          "I just make it however I see."
          "Why do you pick certain images?" Jasmine asked.
          "I feel like I'm on trial here," Roderick protested, sinking back in his chair. Then he scooted forward and grabbed the salad bowl to dish himself some greens. He concentrated to keep the billowy greens from falling off his small salad plate, garnishing his catch with a few bonus carrots specially selected from the depths of the bowl. He speared a carrot and crunched noisily while Jasmine and I both waited for him to respond. He took his time, so I dished out some salad for Jasmine and myself. After Roderick had polished off three carrot slices, he said unexpectedly, "They're the ones I see most clearly. I don't really think about it. They sort of come to me. And it's not when I'm reading. Sometimes I see them in dreams, or just when I'm sitting. When I'm reading, I'm usually just reading. It takes time for the image to form itself. And I keep refining it while I'm drawing it."
          "But I mean, what moves you about them? How do you feel emotionally? Do they hold special meaning?" she continued.
          "Typical woman question," Roderick scoffed and shook his head. "Some do. Some don't. Sometimes it's pure boredom that makes me draw, and sometimes I feel like a divine spirit is guiding my hand. Those are the times that move me, when I feel part of something larger." Roderick was opening up more than he'd probably ever done in his life, and it clearly made him nervous. He started munching salad again. With a full mouth he said, "That's plenty. What about you two? Are you going to share your cores with me too?"
          "What do you want to know?" Jasmine volunteered.
          "Are you happy?"
          "Not really."
          "Why not?"
          "I don't usually think about that."
          "Are you happy sometimes?"
          "For fleeting instants, yeah."
          "What about you, Travis?"
          "I'm pretty happy mostly. Do you think that's the mark of a dull mind?"
          "Maybe just a reppressed one," Jasmine chipped in.
          "I don't think happiness has anything to do with intelligence. You'd think the smart people could figure it out better, but that hardly seems the case. Maybe smart people recognize their plight more clearly," Roderick opined.
          "That's what I mean. Maybe if I were smarter I'd realize that I really shouldn't be happy, that there's plenty for me to bitch about, but right now I just don't see it," I added.
          "Why worry about it then?" Roderick suggested sagely.
          "How can you not?" Jasmine voiced with disgust.
          "So what weighs on you so heavily?" I asked Jasmine, a little bitter.
          "Everything."
          "That's an easy answer."
          "It's true."
          "What doesn't weigh on you?" Roderick asked.
          "Freedom. Open space. Change. Fantasies."
          "What fantasies?" Roderick pried.
          "Just little bubbles of imagination that float around in the back of my head. I see distorted scenes of perfection through their iridescent glaze. Then they collide or pop on their own, and I move on."
          "What are the scenes of? What images? Whose faces?" Roderick continued.
          "I'm done now," Jasmine said.
          "Come now. The lady with so many questions for me must be able to answer a few herself," Roderick said.
          "Fine. Not images really, just a sense of what could be. It's more abstract. I don't see pictures like you do. But I feel an impression of how people could interact and how the world could be... and a gnawing emptiness that it isn't true."
          "Are you making it the way you want it to be?" I asked.
          "I'm trying a little I guess. But sometimes I feel overwhelmed."
          "And Travis, what do you have to add to this conversation?" Roderick asked.
          "Nothing probably."
          "So there is a touch of despair in you. I knew there had to be. Why else would you be so attracted to Jasmine."
          "I'm not so attracted to Jasmine," I said defensively. When the other two stared at me, calling my bluff, I said, "All right. So I'm a despairing being like the rest of you poor fools. But I'm trying not to cave. There's got to be something good that can be made of it."
          "Youthful naivete. So charming, don't you think?" Roderick commented to Jasmine.
          "Quite," she agreed. Jasmine and Roderick seemed to have built a casual rapport sometime during the evening. I noticed and felt excluded. They commented on me like I was a specimen in a terrarium, or a piece of art on the wall. Jasmine saw something admirable in me though. Why else would she still be here? But maybe the honeymoon was over and she'd disappear into the anonymity of her party tonight, never to be heard from again.
          I felt ganged up on. "Yeah, so? Hope's much more courageous than your defeatist gloom and doom."
          "Ah, he's a scrapper, ready to stand up and fight for his ideals," Roderick judged.
          "Yes, and so blindly loyal to the cause," Jasmine added. "Touching really."
          I didn't want to play their little game anymore so I stared back at them in silence, then at Roderick's profile in the window again, then at Jasmine. On her features lay a hint of tenderness and of mourning, like a queen sending a cherished knight off to hopeless battle. The eyebrows curled slightly up. The eyes, full and wide, offered a motherly comfort. Her lips tensed once or twice as she concentrated on me and wrestled with her thoughts. Maybe she knew something I didn't. Or maybe she'd just given up too soon. I glanced over at Roderick. He could've cared less. Age had built a brick wall for him, and he settled comfortably behind it while my feeble snowballs splattered harmlessly against it and melted away.
          "What's up with those robes, Roderick?" I asked suddenly.
          "Most people are afraid to ask," he chuckled. "They were a present."
          "You look like a Hare Krishna," I said.
          "Makes sense since they're Hare Krishna robes."
          "How'd you get them?"
          "I mugged and pummeled a Hare. I even took his white flowers." Roderick smiled with his happy thought.
          "Come on. What'd you find 'em at a flea market or something?" I prodded.
          "No, they were a present I said. A Hare came into the store one day, and we got to talking. I'd always been intrigued by these cult fellows. I played the lonely, old man, and his eyes lit up with the possibility of a new recruit. He invited me to one of their meetings. One thing led to another and soon I was vowing my allegiance, and, more importantly, getting fitted for these stylish robes. Soon as I got the robes I jumped ship. I was curious about the process, but I never intended to be a Hare. I can't stand their damn chant. Hare, Hare... Hare... Krishna, Hare, Hare. You've never worn more comfortable clothes though. Sartorial geniuses, those Hares. I haven't taken them off since."
          "You do wash them, don't you?" Jasmine asked hopefully.
          "Sure, once I start to work up a nice East European funk. For the most part though, I find they clean themselves."
          I looked back at the pitcher of Kool-Aid and hoped urgently that Roderick didn't rub the spout on his robes after taking a swig. Charming as he was, Roderick would make one hell of a roommate.
          "So you went through the whole indoctrination process just to get a set of robes?" I asked.
          "Well, no. Initially it was just curiosity. I wanted to see what this cult thing was about. But I'll admit I had my eye on the robes. And once I tried them on, oh, it was so worth it."
          "That's truly twisted," I observed.
          "Oh, I don't know. Guys go through the same thing just to get laid," Jasmine pointed out snidely.
          "Yeah, you're right. There are a lot of parallels: brainwashing, demanding all your worldly possessions, separating you from family and friends."
          Jasmine conceded with a shrug.
          "Is that how it works? No wonder I never got any," Roderick joked. We chuckled courteously.
          "You know, Roderick. I hate to break up the party, but I'm supposed to be somewhere pretty soon," Jasmine said. Unfortunately for me she still hadn't forgotten. I guess her getting laid comment sparked her memory.
          "The old 'gotta be somewhere' line. I've heard that before. I'm offended that you don't feel you can be honest with me," Roderick said.
          I chimed in, giving Jasmine a stony look, "Actually, she really does have to be somewhere, a party with some random surfer dudes she met today."
          "So that's the tension I've been feeling. Let's see if we can't work this out," Roderick said in a fatherly tone. "Jasmine, share with me now what makes you feel you need to go to this party."
          "When'd you become a psychoanalyst? Maybe you've been reading too much Freud yourself," Jasmine quipped.
          "Jack-of-many-trades I am. But really, I'm curious. Were they unbearably attractive? Are you bored? Do you feel like you need time away from Travis? You can tell me," Roderick said soothingly.
          "Yeah, they were cute. But that's not it. Honestly, I don't really like most men, even if they are cute. It's just it's something different. It's new people in a new place. It might make a good story."
          "And how do you think Travis feels about this?"
          "Travis's a big boy. I wouldn't hold it against him if he wanted to do the same."
          "Is that really how you feel?" Roderick questioned condescendingly, clearly relishing his role as the therapist.
          "What is this? I don't need this."
          "Where's your sense of humor?" Roderick grumbled disappointedly. "Really, did you think about Travis?" he asked sincerely.
          "Of course. But I didn't want to dwell on it. It wouldn't make me happy if he wanted to do the same, but I'd want him to do it. If I had talked about it, it just would've become a bigger issue. What's the big deal really? I'm going to some party. So what?"
          "How do you feel about it, Travis?" Roderick asked.
          "I'm O.K. with it. In my own little fantasy world I would hope that she'd want to be with me. But I know what's in my head doesn't jibe with what's real. I'm a little hurt but at the same time I want her to be free to do whatever she wants."
          Roderick had an amazing quality for eliciting people's honest thoughts. I realized I was spilling my guts and said, "What the hell am I telling you all this for?"
          "You're not telling me. You're telling Jasmine."
          It dawned on me that that's exactly what I was doing. Roderick continued, "So, Jasmine, is this a reflection on Travis or a reflection on you?"
          "It's not Travis," she answered. "If anything it's me. Maybe I'm scared to be spending so much time with someone. Maybe I'm scared that I'm beginning to have feelings for him and I want to get away. I don't know. It just seemed like something to do."
          "Travis, do you take it as a reflection on you?" Roderick posed.
          "I don't think I can help not to. In a way I see that it might just be the stuff swirling around in her own head, but the bottom line is that she wants to spend an evening with some cheesy guys she doesn't even know instead of me. I feel a little rejected."
          "It's not rejection," Jasmine cut in. "If anything it's a compliment. If I didn't like you I wouldn't mind being with you," she concluded with inimitable female logic.
          "So it's because you like me that you don't want to be with me," I laughed in disbelief.
          "Well, yeah. Spending so much time with someone is intense. It makes me a little creepy."
          "Fuck, I don't know if I like this talking thing. It just seems to be getting worse and worse. I'm creeping you out?"
          "No, I'm creeping me out. I just need a little space to regroup."
          "O.K.," I acknowledged. "It doesn't mean I have to be happy about it though."
          "I know."
          Roderick had been presiding over this exchange with quiet satisfaction. He propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his hands. His head followed the comments back and forth like a tennis fan. Jasmine and I looked at each other for a moment. I sighed and then looked at Roderick. He was motionless, still enraptured by the success of his little experiment, his first foray into therapy. A wry, deluded smile settled on his furry lips. It looked to me like he was lost in his own thoughts and paying no attention to us, probably musing about his lost calling as a psycotherapist.
          "Well, Roderick, we probably should be going," I told him.
          He turned to me and looked suddenly sad.
          "If you must," he responded curtly. I felt horrible now. The weight of our departure fell over me like a pall. Here was a lonely, aging man who had no friends, probably no family, and very few customers. I couldn't figure out how he supported himself, certainly not with book sales. Our visit had been a spot of light in an otherwise bleak existence. I felt glued to my chair. I looked at Jasmine. A pained expression covered her features, and I sensed she felt the same thing. We all felt it, but what could we do? I comforted myself with the thought that Roderick would at least have the memory of our visit. I even lied to myself that I'd send him some postcards and stay in touch.
          "Roderick, will you draw a picture of me and Travis?" she asked tenderly.
          Roderick looked up at her slowly and nodded with a smile. "I think I even have a sheet of nice paper," he said. "Watch yourselves," he said as he pushed the table away from his La-Z-Boy. He got up with some effort and waddled out of the room.
          I looked across the table admiringly at Jasmine. What she had asked was perfect. I'd been struggling and she rescued us all. It was actually a gift we were giving to Roderick, not him to us. We were giving him a piece of connection to the world. We would go forth to far and sundry places, and vicariously he would be with us. He wouldn't die completely anonymous. His drawing would be like the butterfly that flaps its wings in China. However minute his impact, it would still cause a ripple. He wouldn't be nothing.
          I felt contented, and I saw Jasmine through rose-tinted eyes. I gazed at her and swelled with awe and love and a kindred humanity.
          When Roderick came back, he held a battered easel in one hand and a sheet of clean white paper in the other. Tucked between his fingers was a marred, stubby, yellow #2 pencil with half the eraser torn off. Roderick set up the easel at the head of the table, opposite his lounge chair. His actions, while clumsy, carried the energy of purpose. He stooped down with a grunt to adjust the height of the easel. Then he made a drawing motion to confirm its new height. He placed the white paper against a piece of cardboard and laid the two together on the easel. Satisfied with the arrangement he circled the table and plopped back down in his La-Z-Boy.
          "What, are you just going to will us onto the page?" Jasmine asked sarcastically. I think she felt embarrassed by her previous sensitivity and wanted to make amends.
          "Tut, tut," said Roderick sharply. "What's a painting without a plan? I need to think."
          Jasmine settled back into silence. I rested my chin on the table and watched Roderick think. His face gave no sign of concentration or struggle. He was completely blank. The occasional blink signaled that he hadn't transformed into a grotesque Hare Krishna wax statue. A few minutes passed. Jasmine was slumped back into her uncomfortable dinner chair with her arms crossed. I could see her body jiggling with the anxious tapping of her foot under the table. She clearly was thinking she'd made a mistake asking for the picture. Right now she just wanted to be at a party with a bunch of strangers and away from this certified weirdness. It didn't bother me in the least. Where'd I have to be? Jasmine's frustration gave me a subtle twinge of pleasure that I didn't try to suppress. Served her right.
          Jasmine and I both turned at the preliminary groans and wheezes that signaled Roderick was ready to rise. He heaved himself out of the chair and returned to the easel.
          "Just sit there," he commanded.
          I pasted an angelic half-smile on my face. With my chin held high I gazed theatrically at some magnificent dream miles away. If I had to sit there I could at least amuse myself. I felt just like a kid in one of those 18th century photographs of the entire family, the ones where the film took an eternity to expose so everyone had to sit immaculately still and grim. Well, I was the trouble-maker kid who looked straight at the camera but threw his eyeballs to the far right. The kid imagined himself like a painting in a fun house where the eyes track you at all positions. The family never knew until the portrait came back. The kid got a stinging whooping, but he found a contentment in his irreverence that superseded the pain.
          Actually I wasn't ruining the picture. I was just enjoying the attention. Quickly I bored of my pose and looked over at Jasmine. She was still jiggling nervously and casting sideways glances at Roderick. Slowly she calmed down though. Roderick hadn't even begun drawing yet. He was just sizing up his 8 1/2 x 11 canvas and throwing around tentative practice strokes. He squinted his eyes and bobbed his head back and forth. Then he looked up at the two of us. We looked anxiously back. He hoisted the stubby pencil in his left hand and made the first stroke. He paused to appraise the first line and then dove in with a flurry of more strokes. Suddenly he stopped and shook his head. He whipped the sheet from the easel and crumpled it into a tight ball. He threw it at Jasmine and hit her right on the forehead.
          "I never could use this damn thing," he griped and trudged out of the room. I looked quizzically at Jasmine. She shrugged. He stomped noisily back with a fresh sheet of paper and a notebook. He ignored the easel and moved back to his lounge chair. He shifted a few times to get comfortable in the chair. Then he settled the piece of paper on top of the notebook and began to draw. He was much more comfortable like this, and his drawing fell into an easy, consistent rhythm. His tongue darted out periodically, and he sucked his upper lip down into his teeth as he concentrated. He hardly glanced up at us as he worked. The image must've been clearly ingrained in his mind and didn't need refreshing. He cast his head about at different angles to regard the evolving picture.
          Jasmine quietly got up and crept around toward Roderick. As soon as she got close, Roderick hugged the drawing to his chest and stared at her coldly.
          Jasmine laughed tensely. "I just wanted to see," she explained.
          "I know exactly what you wanted," Roderick barked. "Now go sit down."
          "Damn, Roderick. I cook you dinner and this is how you treat me," Jasmine whined as she moved back to her seat.
          Roderick had already started drawing again as he replied, "I didn't nose around the kitchen while you were cooking, did I?"
          I rested my head on the table and closed my eyes, assuming this would be a long process. I must've drifted off. I awoke with Roderick tapping my shoulder.
          "It's done," he said unemotionally.
          Drowsily I looked over at Jasmine's chair. It was empty. She was standing by the easel.
          "Come over here," Roderick said and walked to the easel. I got up and followed him.
          "O.K. Now turn around," he said and waited for us to comply. When we'd turned away from the easel, we heard a shuffle as he placed the picture on it.
          "Have at it," he said. We turned around quickly and stepped up close to get a good look. At first I couldn't see where either Jasmine or I fit into the picture. Wispy clouds filtered across a sun-streaked sky. Below, an image of the world nestled snugly against the sky. The earth was spotted with forests of towering trees and a sinuous river that snaked its way downstream. A small village of grass huts clumped at the bottom, and terraced stucco houses rose on crags from a steamy sea. The picture was beautiful, but I still couldn't see how it was a portrait of me and Jasmine. I figured maybe it was metaphorical, and I looked some more, trying to pick out any male and female symbols.
          While I was doing this, the image resolved itself in my head and I could see clearly the faces of both Jasmine and myself. Jasmine blended into the center of the sky. Her features were formed by the interplay of the clouds and the streaks of the sun. Her hair was long and flowing and wrapped around the edges of the world. My own features grew out of the ground--one eye a forest, the other a lake; my lips a herd of gazelle that crested out of an expansive plateau. The physical elements that made up our images had to be distorted out of scale, but within this distortion the proportion and detail was astounding.
          Roderick had made us archetypes of man and woman. Jasmine laced the sky, ethereal, capricious, flighty. I rose from the soil, earthy, practical, solid. At first I didn't like the way he'd made us separate parts, her the sky and me the earth. But as I absorbed more, I realized Roderick had made the image flow together to suggest unity, not division, an overlapping and interwoven sense of man and woman.
          Before we'd even gotten a chance to really drink it all in, Roderick blurted, "I almost did a porn shot of Jasmine with some other guy. But I decided that'd be a little tasteless."
          I chuckled, half in humor, half in befuddlement. Jasmine ignored him and kept poring over the illustration.
          "Roderick, it's perfect," Jasmine said in a hush, still engrossed by the image.
          Roderick was standing sheepishly to the side. He was clearly nervous about having his work appraised like this. I think his porn comment was to try to distract us and maybe change the subject. Standing slightly pigeon-toed and casting his eyes toward the ground, Roderick looked just like a blushing little boy at his first school dance. Jasmine finally pulled herself away from the picture. She turned and gave Roderick a big smooch on the cheek. She said again, "It's perfect."
          I wasn't really sure what to say. How do you sum up an image, a piece of art, in a sentence or two? Jasmine had done an admirable job. I feared I would only detract. But I was moved by the image, and I wanted to say something to show my appreciation and wonderment.
          "It feels like eternity," I said. Roderick just looked at me and didn't indicate understanding or confusion. I think he knew what I meant though. Even if I wasn't clear, Roderick seemed to have a mind that was almost telepathic. His picture was like a Tao symbol. Yin and Yang. Man and Woman. The balance of qualities that make the world whole. The different natures of man and woman and yet their undeniable interdependence. But also the tension between the opposing entities, the earth and the sky, or up and down, or right and wrong, or any conflict you wanted to suggest, or any question you wanted to ask. It was a picture of everything, and that's why it felt eternal to me.
          Now for a moment we all turned and looked again at the picture in silence. Roderick even seemed to be engaged, because even though he'd created it, he didn't know everything about it. In ways, he was just channeling the images of the world, and he could pause and reflect on these images and learn as much as we could. Finally Jasmine gently lifted the white 8 1/2 x 11 sheet from the easel and asked Roderick if he had anything we could put it in, even two pieces of cardboard.
          Roderick nodded and went out of the room. I looked at Jasmine and asked, "What do you say to something like that? Those pencil scribbles on plain paper should be hanging next to a Rembrandt. Well, maybe not a Rembrandt, but that image held my attention a lot better than most museum pieces. I'd pay to look at that."
          "I know," Jasmine breathed. Then she shook her head. "I wonder if we could do anything for him. Maybe secretly show his work to a studio. It seems sinful for such talent to be hidden away in a run-down bookstore."
          "I heard that," Roderick snapped as he barged back into the room, "and I'm flattered... and offended. I keep this bookstore in pretty good shape, considering."
          "How come you've never tried to show your work?" Jasmine asked.
          "To who?" Roderick sniffed. "A bunch of wine-swilling pretenders in black blazers and tight underwear? What's that do for me? If anyone can see it, where's the value in it? At least this way, it's a gift I can give. Otherwise it's a Budweiser billboard on the 110."
          "That makes sense. But what about the other people? What about all the people like me and Travis out there? People who are never going to randomly stumble into your bookstore and cook you dinner. Wouldn't you like some of them to see what you've done?"
          "Honestly, I don't really care who sees what. There's a little part of me that thinks it'd be nice to have people see and enjoy my drawings. But not because it means that I'm good. Only because I would be affecting their lives, hopefully making them think or smile or wonder. Who am I kidding? If they don't get it from my drawings, they'll get it from someone else's. Interchangeable to some degree. There's enough art out there already," Roderick closed.
          "Not true," I said decisively. "Every little piece of anything enriches the world to some degree, whether it's good or bad. Tastes vary, times vary. Who knows what passing glance will spark a young mind to greatness. That passing glance could be at anything, and maybe it's one of your drawings. If it's not, then maybe that child wallows in sloth and uncertainty, without the inspiration to water the seed."
          "And maybe that passing glance convinces the kid to kill himself, or kill his drunken dad, or lie in the hay with the town wench who gives birth to a son that derails his life. And maybe without the passing glance life goes on as it should have, and everything is just dandy. Truth is it doesn't matter either way," he countered.
          "I was winging it, Roderick," I acknowledged, "and I can't say I can refute you. But then again, I don't think you can refute me either. What's say we go grab a drink and let it all settle into a comfortable fuzz."
          "Darn tootin'!" Roderick exclaimed with an enthusiasm that shocked me. I'd been half kidding, but Roderick seemed to like the idea so much I decided to roll with it.
          "Before we put our party caps on and go rocketing off into oblivion, I've got to be somewhere," Jasmine interjected.
          "And where might that be, my dear?" Roderick questioned giddily, suddenly filled with a festive glee.
          "To the canyon," Jasmine responded. "Driver, fetch the horses."
          "All right, all right," I said drearily, "but you see how you're breaking his heart."
          Jasmine looked down.
          "Nonsense," Roderick chimed in. "Drinking's a man's game. She'd just bring us down."
          Jasmine looked up, grateful for his tactful intervention.
          "You're just dropping her off, right?" Roderick asked. Before I'd answered, he volunteered, "I'll ride along."
          "Why not," I said, a little lacklusterly, although I didn't intend it that way. Each time Jasmine brought up the party I felt betrayed, and I had a hard time hiding it.
          Roderick was still holding the two cardboard sheets he'd walked in with, one in each hand. He looked almost like a cymbal player in a Hare Krishna marching band. He realized he was still holding them and said, "Oh, here," and handed them to Jasmine. She sandwiched Roderick's pencil sketch carefully between the cardboard and then asked, "Do you have a rubberband, or some tape?"
          "My she is a demanding damsel, isn't she?" Roderick said to me. "I guess they all are though, but what do I know?" Roderick tossed his head back foppishly and smiled as he exited the room again. This drinking idea had really gotten him going. I hoped Roderick wasn't an AA veteran who'd abstained for 175 months, and here I was literally yanking the man off the wagon. I remembered he said his mom was a drunk, and I sincerely got a little worried. I decided I'd ask before we went anywhere. I didn't want to be responsible for his relapse.
          Roderick pranced back in carrying some tape which he handed to Jasmine. She set about securing the picture, and Roderick just grinned.
          "I'm not doing anything bad by taking you out for a drink, am I?" I asked.
          "What do you mean, taking me out? Is this a date now?" Roderick joked, and his belly rolled when he laughed.
          "I mean, you seemed so excited about getting a drink that it got me wondering. You said your mom was an alcoholic."
          "I see what you're getting at. Nothing to worry about. I'm not excited about the liquor so much as getting out of this house. I don't think I've been out of here, except to buy food and necessities, for maybe five or six years. That's why I'm champing at the bit. Not for the alcohol. If it'll make you feel better, I'll get a cranberry juice and tonic."
          "If it's not a problem, then let's drink. I know I want to. Every drunk needs a compatriot to make the downward spiral with him."
          "Amen!" Roderick cheered and slapped me on the back. He was becoming more and more familiar every minute, and he was beginning to make me a little nervous. But what the hell. There's nothing like a jolly fat man to lift your spirits.
          Jasmine had finished her taping and asked if we were all ready to go. I looked over at the dinner table and saw all the dirty dishes still sitting there.
          "We should probably do the dishes first," I suggested.
          "Nonsense," Roderick argued. "They're not going to be much more crusted tomorrow than they are now. Leave 'em. Let's go have fun."
          Jasmine threw an admiring half-smile at Roderick and said, "Well, let's go then."
          The three of us marched together down the long hallway back into the musty bookstore. Rays from streetlights pierced the layers of muck on the windows and cascaded dully onto leather book spines. The shop pulsed with an eerie green light, a mutation of the energy-efficient, yellow halogen rays that transformed as they passed through the window grime. A perfect place for a seance I thought. Or just a good place to come scare yourself reading one of the satanic volumes on the shelves. The shadows were thick and spawned wild imaginings.
          Before I knew it, we'd crossed the ten paces through the Twilight Zone, and I was standing on the sidewalk while Roderick fumbled with the keys to lock his beloved bookstore. Jasmine was gazing across the street. As usual, the sky was blocked by a dome of haze that reflected back the city lights in a muted orange, an effect that gave the impression of eternal daytime, or at least never night. I felt like I was awakening to the dawn and some great adventure as we left Roderick's Nirvana Books.
          I led the way to the trusty Grey Honda that sat alone against the curb while a steady stream of blinding headlights rushed past. So many people going somewhere. What could they all possibly have to do? And here I was joining them. I wonder if their stories were better than ours. Doubt it.
          Jasmine jumped into the back to let the more prodigious Roderick squeeze into the front seat. While he was struggling in, she grabbed the seat release, and Roderick jolted back about 10 inches.
          "Much better," he approved.
          I got in and started the car. Jasmine positioned herself in the middle of the back seat and leaned forward to rest her elbows on the front seats. She was smiling and looked happy.
          I pulled onto the thoroughfare and said snottily, "Do you even know where we're going?"
          "2150 Laurel Canyon," she chirped.
          Rats. Foiled again. Just like Boris Badinoff and Natasha.
          "Well, Roderick. Any idea how to get there?" I asked.
          "Sure. Turn around and then make a right on Wilshire."
          Easy enough. I whipped a U when the traffic was thin and started heading back north. Jasmine reached forward and tuned the radio. "A million miles away, away, away," came crackling through the speakers. An 80's classic that made me think of the movie, Valley Girl. One of Cage's guttier performances.
          Roderick started grooving to the music and snapping his fingers. I looked over at him and surrendered myself to giddy laughter. He wasn't fazed at all. I think my laughter inspired him to get even more raucous. What a sight he was. Sometimes you wish your whole life was filmed so you could go back and rewind the good parts. This was one of those scenes. Jasmine started dancing too, and laughing. Before I knew it, we were a car full of dancing fools, rocking out in a chopped up Honda, howling at the orange LA sky, and not caring at all.
          The song ended, and our mirth subsided. Some R&B ballad came on next, and Jasmine was quick to roll the radio dial. She found something agreeable, and we all retired to our own mental spaces. Jasmine sat back. I glanced over at Roderick and saw he was still bobbing slightly as he took in the sights. He rested his arm on the door and looked like a 50's cruiser prowling the strip in a souped up Chevy. Maybe that's what he was imagining. I guess that was his era. He probably never got to do it though, so now was his chance. I smiled inwardly.
          "Wilshire's coming up," Roderick warned.
          I checked the street signs and hung a right. Back to the high rises and fru-fru mini-malls we'd passed on the way to the beach earlier today. What a different feeling it was now. This morning had been limitless with possibility as we drove to the beach, vast and eternal like the ocean itself. Now I felt claustrophobic going back in. Everything closed in on me. The buildings towered inward over the street. Traffic pressed in all around me. Roderick seemed to grow and bubble over into my seat. Everything distorted like I was looking at the world through a fish-eye lens. I just kept driving, letting the lights blur by and trying to anchor myself with the music. Soon I calmed and sank into the serenity of my own personal, psychedelic mind-fuck. I have no idea what Roderick and Jasmine were doing, maybe they were on their own random voyages through time, space, and memory. A phantasmagoria of images, each slowly surfacing, looming full in the frame, and then fading indistinctly as another replaced it. I wonder what Roderick saw. What were the keepsakes of his past? What sepia-tinged memories had he tossed into the attic of his mind? Were they dreams or nightmares? Or did he even remember?
          As we kept driving and the frenzy of lights dimmed into highrise office buildings and posh apartments, I slowly fell out of my haze.
          "None of this was here last time I came through," Roderick commented.
          "In your horse and carriage you mean?" Jasmine kidded sharply. Sometimes she had the prickly quills of a porcupine.
          Roderick wasn't easily offended though. Someone who wore robes and never bathed couldn't afford to be. He merely answered distractedly, "So it seems," and continued staring at the passing scenery. "You're going to want to turn up here on Santa Monica," he advised.
          "Left or right?" I asked.
          "Huh? Oh, left."
          Now we edged back into Commercial Zone. Bars sprouted up. On the right was a giant fitness club with filtered air and women in neon riding exercise bikes.
          "If you want to go left up here somewhere, we can drive through the Strip," Roderick offered.
          I turned left, went up a block or two, and then turned right on Sunset. We drove past the Roxy. Three limos waited obediently out front, kept company by Porsches and BMWs and Mercedes. The beautiful people were slowly filing in between two mammoth vest-clad bouncers. I thought about pulling up in our mutilated old Honda--the fat man, the freak, and the loser--and trying to slip in. Novelty counts for something sometimes. I discarded that whim and drove on.
          "Go left here," Roderick commanded... and we were on Laurel Canyon. Already? I'd hoped the trip would take forever.
          As we were driving up into the winding canyon, Jasmine said, "Can you make out any street numbers?"
          So eager. What had I done wrong? Maybe it wasn't me. Just her and her restlessness. Which hurt anyway because it meant that there were parts of us that didn't fit together. But maybe I'd see things differently in a day. Maybe I'd be happy then because I'd also have the freedom to explore, which is what makes a relationship mean something. If you've pledged undying, eternal faithfulness to each other, then the only place you can go is down. If you don't go surveying the future and plunking down stakes, then every new, happy day together is another flower in the bouquet.
          I tried not to think about it. I gazed up the hills at the snippets of California mansions that could be seen between the lush foliage. High on top were a few squat, modern-looking buildings that presided over the whole valley with movie star ostentation. But man, how cool it would be to relax on the deck of one of those houses, dipping naked into a bubbling hot tub, a glass of champagne in one hand, my adorable companion next to me, and feast our eyes on the orange-tinged nightscape of L.A.
          "I think it's coming up," Jasmine said, and ripped me from my reverie. "It's going to be on the left."
          Suddenly I felt concerned about her. "Jasmine, are you sure you're going to be O.K.? I mean, you don't really know any of these people." This wasn't another stab at trying to get her not to go. I was sincerely feeling a motherly worry about her safety. It had dawned on me as we drove up the twisty road--and inklings of Charles Manson seeped into my skull--that maybe this wasn't the brightest thing in the world. But before Jasmine had even responded, I'd come full circle and was reprimanding myself for being such a pussy.
          "I'll be fine," she said soothingly, and I knew she would. Or at least felt she would.
          "There it is. That next driveway," she said. I looked left and saw 2150 glistening in small numbers on a beige mailbox that protruded subtly from the greenery behind it. The many cars parked snugly on the side of the road were a telltale sign that I'd consciously neglected. I pulled into a circular driveway that surrounded a big semicircle of perfectly manicured lawn. I couldn't tell at night, but I'm sure in the day it glowed an unnatural, neon green. Everything in L.A. seemed artificial, especially the women, because they were, silicon and collagen. A few cars lingered in the driveway off to the side, twins of the cars we'd passed at the Roxy. This house must've been stop #2 on the beautiful people tour, after they'd finished at the Roxy. It was a gorgeous mediterranean home with expansive stone steps leading up to a lacquered oak door.
          I pulled right up in front of the steps. There was a ficus in a plot of shrubs to the right of the steps. From our spot near the door, we could hear the soft hum of mellow, jazzy tunes. I turned around to look at Jasmine. She was peering up at the door. The dark shapes of revelers could be seen brushing back and forth behind the cut glass panels on opposite sides of the door.
          "Well, come on. Roderick and I have drinking to do," I said gruffly.
          Jasmine hopped out. I realized now she was still in her grungy jeans and white t-shirt. Neither of us had showered since the beach. She still looked good though.
          She looked timidly at me and said, "So, what? I guess I'll catch a cab somewhere afterwards. Where are you going to be?"
          Good question, I thought. By that time I probably would've crossed the border and would be home free in Tijuana taking in one of those donkey shows. I was stumped. I had no idea where I'd be and hadn't given a whit of thought to it.
          Jasmine could see I was puzzled and said sarcastically, "Somewhere in the greater metropolitan Los Angeles area, I hope."
          Well, now, let's see... I was having a hard time thinking. Jasmine was getting impatient and twirling her hair in her hand. Shit, how the hell did I know?
          Roderick came to the rescue and said, "Why don't you stay at my place tonight? That way she'll know where to reach you."
          That was one gem of an idea. I almost wished he hadn't said it though because that made it too easy for Jasmine. Otherwise, she would've had to work a little.
          But my petty side vanished and I said, "Roderick, that'd be great if you don't mind."
          "Hell, I'd be thrilled with the company," he answered honestly.
          "All right. Well, I'll just call you there after... when?" Jasmine asked.
          "I don't know. What time are you going to be tired of your new play toys?" I answered.
          "Hard to say. Maybe not until morning," she taunted.
          "Look, don't get all bitchy. I'm trying to be accomodating here. I'm willing to make a point of being home at a certain time, so I can come pick you up. What time do you want that to be?"
          "Do you think you guys will be home by three?" she posed more nicely.
          I looked at Roderick. He laughed and said, "We'll probably be home by one. I only got another good hour or two in me."
          "We'll be home definitely by two. Just call any time after that," I concluded.
          "O.K.," she said and turned to go up the steps. I was watching her mount the second step when she turned around and walked back.
          "That's a great plan except for the fact that I don't know Roderick's number," she said.
          Roderick was cleaning out the gunk from under one of his fingernails and didn't bother to look up to say, "867-5309."
          "Can you remember that?" I asked her.
          "I got it. I got it," she answered and turned again to go.
          I had half a mind to send Roderick in as her chaperone. I watched as she rang the doorbell and the door opened. Jasmine blocked most of the opening, but just past her I could recognize one of the two dudes from the beach. His long wavy hair was combed back sloppily, and he was wearing a pale yellow, Miami Vice dress shirt, unbuttoned a decade too far. He smiled when he saw Jasmine, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and admitted her greedily to the Inner Sanctum. He glanced casually out at us while he shut the door. I thought I observed a sneer flash across his features, but it was probably my paranoia.
          I looked at Roderick. He was still fiddling with his nails. So I started the car and drove out the other end of the driveway. Small, dull-glowing lights edged the driveway like an LAX runway. They didn't provide much illumination, very tasteful and understated. These people had everything right, down to the smallest detail. So I felt just horrible when I clumsily clipped one of the lights on my way out and heard a muffled crunch. I looked back and saw the gaping hole of darkness where the light had been. This single flaw brought the meticulous perfection of the house crashing down, and man I felt just awful. Oh, well, Air Traffic Control would notice and have it fixed lickety-split. I pulled back onto Laurel Canyon, content that nothing was sacred.
          It was just the guys now. Two studs cruising through L.A. in a bitchin' convertible, nowhere to be, not a care in the world. Manly men off to do manly things. Chug some beers, play some pool, pretend I'm not with Roderick when people start giving him shit about his robes.
          I backtracked our winding path up the canyon and emerged back onto Sunset.
          "You holding up O.K., chief?" Roderick asked.
          It was a little weird not having her there, but she'd only been gone about two minutes. If I couldn't handle that, I had a long night ahead of me. "Yeah, I'm all right. You?"
          "I could take her or leave her. It's you I've been after this whole time," Roderick amdmitted with a sideways leer. He gave me the double-raised eyebrow.
          He caught me totally off guard. The thought that he was some lecherous perv hadn't entered my mind once since my initial doubts. Now it all crashed down on me. Some freaky, big, fat man, straight out of a real world Silence of the Lambs, luring tasty innocents into his den of sin, commanding them to "put the lotion on its skin, or it gets the hose." I tried to stay composed but subconsciously drew back and pressed myself closer to the door.
          Roderick guffawed. "Man, I thought you were a cool cat, but look how easily riled you are. I thought you knew me by now. A man can't have any fun anymore. She's gone for two seconds, and look how serious you get."
          I regarded him cautiously.
          "I'm just kidding already," Roderick insisted. "Man alive."
          I believed him and grew comfortable again. "Sorry. I don't know why that weirded me out so much. With Jasmine gone, you're my only sense of connection to anything. I'm totally rootless on this trip. I've got no reference points. I guess I'd made you a reference point, and for an instant I felt rudderless."
          "That's understandable. That's why you were so worried about seeing Jasmine go. But I don't know why you should be worried. She's the one who should be worried..." Roderick said, leaning toward me with a lascivious, drooling grin.
          This time his joke was totally transparent, and I just ignored him.
          "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm just trying to lighten up the situation. I know it's not really a giant thing that she's gone to this party. But I know it's bringing you down. I was just trying to help. Sometimes I'm not the most tactful guy in the world."
          "That's all right, Roderick," I said. "I appreciate that. You don't have to do anything to make me feel better though. I'll mellow. Just hang out and be yourself. We'll have a good time. Speaking of a good time, where are we going?" I'd been mindlessly driving west on Sunset, not thinking at all about our destination.
          "How the hell should I know?" Roderick said. "I haven't been out of my house for the past decade. Sure, I know the streets, but any bar I knew probably now does poodle grooming it's been so long. You've got as good an idea as I do."
          "Come on. You must know something."
          "Honest injun," he said to me, holding up the scout symbol. I loved Roderick's mix of eras and styles. He'd been isolated for so long, he didn't realize what had come and gone. But at the same time, he was sharp enough to pick up on current slang. So sometimes he sounded like an insider, and other times he sounded like Buck Rogers.
          "What's say we just drive around then until we see something good. At least give me a section of town. That should be a manageable request," I said, and it came out sharper than I'd intended. But Roderick was indulging me tonight and ignored it.
          "Why don't we go to Santa Monica?" he said. "It's near the beach. There's got to be something good down there."
          "Aye, aye, cap'n," I said. "Which way?"
          "Hard to port," Roderick answered.
          "What the hell does that mean?"
          "I don't know, but it sounded good, didn't it?" He smiled.
          I'll bet he really did know. "So in English, how do I go?"
          "Just go straight. I'll tell you when we need to turn," he answered.
          We both grew quiet and took in the scenery as Sunset changed from the strip into impeccable mansions with monthly gardening bills that could support eight refugee families for a year.
          I was feeling a little better now. Somehow Jasmine already seemed like a distant memory, even though she wasn't gone for good, at least I didn't think so. I felt good about her memory. It was like a warming campfire, something that soothed and tingled, if you didn't get too close to it. Come to think of it, she herself was a lot like that. Maybe I'd already made the mistake of getting too close and was feeling the first pangs of suffering with her excursion to the party. But like I said, those pangs had subsided. All I knew now was a balmy spring evening, motoring the curves on Sunset with my trusty sidekick, Roderick.
          After we got out of the commercial part of Sunset and into the residential, the road widened and buckled with sweeping curves. I gunned my Honda till the tires screeched as I hugged the edge of the inside lane. I leaned with the curve just for fun. It seemed like it helped even if it didn't. Roderick saw me leaning and played along. He shifted his great frame to the inside when we went right and toward me when we went left. Jasmine was miles away now, as I rocked back and forth with the swaying grades of the road and listened to the wind blow dully past our ears.
          A stoplight brought a pause to my rollicksome motoring. While we waited I looked over at Roderick. He was looking back at me, grinning. His hair had been toussled by the wind and was sprayed out in all directions. With his mussed hair, ceremonial robes, and maniacal grin, he looked just like a mad prophet. It was reassuring that he was on my side. He looked like someone who'd strike you down with a bolt of lightning if you irked him.
          I laughed at Roderick, and Roderick laughed with me, his smile a mile wide. He turned back to watch the light and bounced in his seat with childish enthusiasm. How could I not have fun with this guy? The light turned green, and I wanted to go racing off, but I was trapped behind a piss yellow Gremlin and a, you guessed it, black Mercedes. They were tooling along comfortably side by side. I switched to the lane behind the Mercedes, thinking that car would pull away. Then I switched back as the Gremlin inched forward. As I did, we hit a hill, and the Gremlin lagged. The Mercedes surged up the hill and made a gap for me. I zoomed through but quickly faced the Gremlin's dilemma as my Honda struggled on the hill. Once over the hill, I went tearing off. (Keep in mind "tearing" for this car is about 20 mph under what it would be for any other, except maybe that Gremlin.)
          Towards the bottom of the hill, I saw the 405 stretch out perpindicular in front of us. A trail of red streamed south and a white blur marched north.
          "Don't bother," Roderick said. "Just keep going straight."
          "As you wish," I replied and continued onward over the overpass-- the very same overpass where O.J. made his daring, death-defying, slow-motion escape attempt, Roderick informed me.
          "Hang a Louie up here," he said.
          "A what?!"
          "A Louie, a left. Where you been?" he said scornfully.
          I knew what a Louie was. I just couldn't believe he'd said it. I chuckled and kept silent. I just did as he told. I didn't even want to get into it with him. Not that he was serious, but if I did anything to justify his comment, I'd no doubt be getting an earful.
          "Next stoplight hang a Rhonda," he said seriously.
          "That's it," I burst out. "There's nothing called a Rhonda. I don't know what decade you're from, but it never was, and never will, be called a Rhonda. If you want me to go right, say turn right, say hard to port, say anything you want. But if you tell me to hang a Rhonda, I'm going straight or making a left." I raised my voice, but not in ire. It was in enthusiasm. He was cracking me up, and I needed to release it somehow. I was fighting back a smile as I unleashed my deluge on him.
          He stared at me and rubbed his beard deliberately, crinkling his nose a bit. He wasn't listening to a word I said. He pursed his bottom lip out and posed contemplatively, still stroking his mangy, straggly beard. I don't know how Roderick had gotten along so many years without an audience. He reveled in it.
          I shook my head and gave up. I put the signal on to turn right.
          When he lost his audience, he said in a nasal voice, "O.K. Would you please, sir, be so kind as to maneuver this vehicle in a right-hand manner at the approaching traffic indicator."
          I didn't know what I'd done to get him started. All of a sudden I wasn't quite sure if I liked this new Roderick. Yeah, he was funny. But I kind of wished he'd just be quiet for a minute. I guess I was just being a moody little bitch, but that's how I felt.
          Roderick had regressed, rapidly transmogrifying before my very eyes. I don't think he'd ever gotten the chance to be a kid, to screw around with the boys, make dumb jokes and punch each other in the shoulder. Now was his chance, and he was taking advantage of it. I couldn't blame him for it. And as quickly as I'd gotten annoyed with him, I softened and looked back at him with a renewed affection and sympathy.
          We moved along the new street with spotty traffic. Some of the buildings looked familiar. I checked. We were on Wilshire again. I couldn't seem to get off this damn street. I liked where it led though, to the ocean and infinity. But you had to suffer the neon, the computer stores on every other corner, the up-scale mini-malls, and the chinese restaurants that served patrons on breezy decks with heating lamps, and eventually the high rise office buildings and apartments. I guess all that wasn't so bad really. The strip of Wilshire before the beach still seemed like a portal though, a tunnel you had to traverse to reach the paradise of the ocean. Only we weren't even going to the other side. We were going to stop somewhere smack in the middle of this commercial haven. We were doing our penance for no reward at all. At least that's what I thought. Maybe things mellowed on the tail end of the tunnel.
          We continued along. Roderick stayed quiet. Maybe I'd hurt his feelings. I hadn't said anything to him, but he was a sensitive guy; he probably picked up on my vibe.
          I tested the waters. "Y'ever go to the beach?" (which instantly caused "Y'ever been in a Turkish prison, Billy? Y'ever seen a grown man naked?" to play through my head.)
          "Naw. I'm too old for that stuff," he replied amiably.
          "What're you talking about? I see lots of people your age at the beach."
          "Yeah, but do you appreciate seeing all those people? Or do you secretly scorn them for forcing their flabby, old bodies into your line of sight?"
          Funny that he said that. As a matter of fact, the thought that old people should be banned from beaches had crossed my mind at one point or another. But that was the evil Travis. I put him away and joked, "As long as they wear a full-body bathing suit, or even a wet suit, I'm fine with it."
          "See, I don't have a full-body bathing suit," Roderick argued.
          "Oh, but those robes. They're perfect. Come on, Roderick. People wear anything on Venice Beach, and it's what, three, four blocks from your house? Shit, you'd probably fit in better than I do down there."
          "How do you know?" Roderick questioned.
          "Hey, I've seen those informercials. I watch movies. How 'bout L.A. story? Sarah Jessica Parker gets a high colonic down there. I saw tons of weirdos in that movie," I answered.
          "You callin' me a weirdo, pardner?" Roderick said with a bad John Wayne accent.
          I shrugged. "Sure. What, you think you're not?"
          "No. I just wanted to use my John Wayne."
          "So, what's the deal? Don't you think it'd be fun to go down there and hang out, just watch the people roll by?"
          "Maybe, but I have other things I like to do."
          "Like what? Read and draw? You must've read every book in your store by now, probably twice. And you're drawings are beautiful, but you might get inspiration at the beach. You can't let your mind stagnate or your art will," I said.
          "Trust me. I don't stagnate. My body might, but my head doesn't," he said.
          "I know. I know. Your head probably works twice the pace of mine, even if you do nothing but stare at a blank wall. I'm just throwin' stuff around. Sometimes it's good to break up a routine. It makes you see things differently."
          "It might be good for me, but I'm a lazy man," he said with a sigh.
          "You should give it a try sometime at least." I thought about suggesting we go together to Venice Beach tomorrow, but I realized that I had no idea what I'd be doing tomorrow. Jasmine and I might be on our way to Tijuana... or Albuquerque... or Guam. Who knew. Maybe I'd be riding solo too. I might never see Jasmine again. In which case I'd probably be more than happy to hang out with Roderick for a day. I'd just have to play it by ear. Didn't want to commit to something I couldn't follow through on.
          "Hey, I'm breaking up my routine right now," Roderick said after a pause. "How often do I go out drinking with some runny-nosed free-spirit who tramps through my door and starts bickering with me?"
          "I wasn't bickering," I said defensively. "I was just talking. You were the one getting all ornery."
          "I wasn't ornery," he said calmly. "I was just having a good time, similar to what I'm doing right now." He smiled, and I noticed for the first time a small gap between his two front teeth. I had a hard time making out his lips though beneath his unkempt, salt and pepper shag.
          "Man, now I feel pressured. This is like the only time you've been out in how long... Now I feel like it better be fun, or you'll be an even more adamant recluse," I told him.
          "Don't worry. It doesn't rest on your shoulders. I've been out more than a few times in my life. I don't go out now because I choose not to, not because I'm afraid of it. I'm happy to go out when I've got something to do, or someone to go out with. It's just that that doesn't happen all that often. Even if we don't do anything, I've already had a great time."
          Roderick was a real sweetie. It's too bad some oddball chick hadn't picked him up somewhere along the way. How would she ever have met him though, or he her; he was in his house all the time. Maybe the internet. I could see Roderick as an internet fiend, chatting up the babes, posting witty retorts, crafting miraculous fantasy scenarios with his romantic mind. The women would swoon. I guess e-mail and internet chat came along too late for Roderick. Hey, but it's never too late.
          "Do you have a computer, Roderick?"
          "What would I need a computer for?" he asked, surprised.
          "Oh, I don't know. Lots of things. Doing your accounting, storing scans of your drawings, meeting women. You know."
          "So you're trying to set me up now? What'd I do to deserve that? Am I that pathetic that you think I need something? I thought we were clear on all this stuff. I choose not to, remember," he said like a man firmly rooted in self-delusion.
          "Don't you ever get lonely though?" I prodded. We were catching all the reds, and the ocean was still a lifetime away it seemed. Traffic moved in clumps, and I cruised comfortably along, in no hurry, happy chatting with Roderick. I glanced over at him periodically when he answered, but he just looked straight ahead or to the side at some nondescript and totally un-noteworthy building, seeing something I missed, or just nothing at all. Or maybe he wasn't looking out at all, but in. The boring stores and my slightly disturbing babble forced him back into his own head, where he shot up saccharine memories and wallowed in a temporary, artificial bliss. He talked to the wind, and I had a hard time hearing some of his answers.
          "Not really, no," he muttered with the back of his head. At least I think that's what he said.
          I didn't know whether I should stop or keep going. Was I just being cruel? This man had spent years building up his walls with decks of teetering cards. Who was I to huff and puff? An arrogant bastard. I shut up. About loneliness at least. I wanted to take a happy tack instead. As I thought about it though, I realized that I couldn't really. Questions about first kisses: what if he hadn't ever had one? Questions about true love: what if some woman had broken his heart? Questions about dream girls, soul mates: maybe he figured himself too old to find one.
          I'd opened my mouth a couple times to start one of these questions, but cut myself off before I'd made a sound. I wasn't a therapist. Instead I asked him what his favorite TV show was.
          "Friends," he responded cheerily. "Have you seen it?"
          "Are you kidding? Practically my entire dorm would gather every Thursday for it. That and Seinfeld. It was a weekly ritual."
          "I like Phoebe," he said bashfully.
          "Figures. Leave it to you to like the space cadet."
          "I like her 'cause she doesn't quite get it."
          "I'm surprised you even really watch TV," I told him.
          "A man cannot live on books and drawing alone. I gotta have a break sometime."
          "Do you ever fantasize about Phoebe?" I asked salaciously with a grin. I was growing tired of our boilerplate courtesy chatter. Although the thought was, I'm ashamed to admit, a bit repulsive to me. Maybe that's why I asked.
          Roderick looked at me, sizing me up, gauging my motives. When he satisfied himself that it was pure demented intrigue, he answered.
          "I've got a custom Phoebe blow-up doll in my room," he said without shame. He was chuckling now.
          "Custom?" I asked, shocked and extremely curious.
          Still giggling, he said, "I got a picture of her face from an issue of People. I went down to the local copy place and had them blow up a color copy to life size. Then I epoxied that over the doll. It actually looks pretty real. 'Course I had to cut a hole for her mouth."
          I was laughing to myself now, partly because it was funny and partly to keep myself from apprehending the full horror of the image of Roderick doing bad things to his Phoebe doll.
          "I'm offended," Roderick said as he stopped laughing. "You believed me a little too easily. Just because I live alone and wear robes instantly makes me a pervert?"
          "Of course not, Roderick," I soothed. "Who wouldn't want to believe that. That's true entertainment. I'd be a fool to disbelieve something that good."
          "Well, all right. I'll buy that. I get a little testy sometimes. It's not easy looking like I do. That's why I stay in quite a bit," he explained.
          "Really?" I asked. "Do people actually say things to you?"
          "I can't believe you think they wouldn't. Whatever comes to their minds. Sometimes mumbled under their breath. Sometimes bellowed straight at me. I get stares. I get laughs. But shit, who cares. I thought I didn't. I've been an outcast for so long, I figured I was immune by now. Obviously bits of it stick with me. That's my trip though. Let's go get some beers," he said with conviction.
          "Don't worry about that stuff with me, Roderick. I mean sure, your comic value isn't lost on me. You're a sentient man; I'm sure it's not lost on you either. How could it be? But that's not the reason we hung out with you. If that were it, we would've grabbed a snapshot and been on our way."
          "You don't need to reassure me. I know that. I don't like talking about this stuff. It's so pointless. We're wasting these minutes with this nonsense. We could be chatting about something fun or amusing or deep or passionate. This is just void, filler."
          "Everything's something," I replied. "Are you such a miser that you can't waste a few minutes?"
          "Y'ever feel like your head's gonna split down the middle in a jagged crack and unleash a deluge of gremlins on the world. A Pandora's box. Everything's knocking around inside, tapping on the shell like a gooey chickling struggling to break free. Butterflies, rainbows, murder weapons, throat lozenges. All the rotting detritus of your life and everyone else's bursting forth in a paroxysm of release, raining down on the citizens with splats and sloshes and gushy slurps. People scampering under awnings and desperately rubbing their brand new suits, hoping whatever just splatted on them won't stain. Y'ever feel that?" he asked.
          "I feel like that sometimes. I don't know if it's the same."
          "Sure. How could you? You can make an educated guess though," he said.
          "It's still a guess. Does your head feel like that now?" I asked him.
          "A little. I get kind of claustrophobic sometimes. It happens when I start thinking too much. As long as I can keep my thoughts to a level hum, I'm O.K. It's when they climb to a distracting chorus that I have problems. That's usually when I go take a nap."
          "I could use a nap myself right about now. So I could dream that my fantasy journey was still intact," I said langorously.
          We were going to do great in the bar together, a team of inveterate whiners. Mold our fat behinds around barstools and get down to some serious, disconsolate griping.
          "Hey, look. That guy's leaving," Roderick pointed out. "Why don't you grab that spot, and we'll just walk from here."
          I pulled over and turned on my signal, waiting for the volvo sta-wag to make its casual way out of my spot. We'd come almost all the way to the beach while we talked. I looked around and saw that the trappings of leisure culture had quietly seeped in among the highrises and mini-malls. Bermudas and thongs. College frat boys straight out of the injection molding process in jeans, J. Crew leather boots, braided leather belts, and plaid button downs--exactly half wearing baseball caps. Their cohorts in jeans and black skin-tight tops (aka "the sorority top").
          We stepped out of the Honda and followed the throngs. A block down, we came onto a bustling pedestrian promenade. Four college guys in suits comprised an exquisite string quartet that was playing its way through college. They had tapes for sale. A pot-bellied, mustachioed man entertained a crowd with a comedy routine that made up for lack of humor with pure raucous horsepower. Groups of indistinguishable college guys trooped from sports bar to sports bar. A lady in her mid-thirties, wearing birkenstocks and a faded purple sundress, sold hand crafted silver jewelry. Roderick and I paused at her stall for a moment before moving on.
           We probably weren't going to find the kind of bar here that I was hoping for. I wanted one of those Barfly corner dives with a wretched bar wench who wore too much makeup, especially heavy blue eye-liner, and whose voiced rasped from years of chronic smoking. I also wanted a stocky, bald bartender with a goatee--maybe that was asking too much--at least a mustache. I wanted him wearing a black leather vest without a shirt underneath. On his left shoulder would be tatooed an Asian dragon from the time he'd spent in 'Nam. He was out of shape too. Not the kind of out of shape you'd want to fuck with though. You could tell he'd been fit once. He'd just put a couple layers of pudge on over his muscles. He didn't talk much either, more grunted really... and posed. You know what I'm talking about: arms crossed, looking surly, frowning at the customers; or leaning on the bar, flexing his play-dough biceps.
          I sure wasn't going to find that vision here among the college kids and the yups. I'd probably be hard pressed to find it anywhere outside of the silver screen.
          I softly let my dream go and started looking at our options. Every place that served drinks was either a sports bar or an Italian bistro.
          "You see any place that looks good, Roderick?"
          "I don't think it really matters, as long as they serve alcohol."
          "Well, what about this place then?" I asked, pointing to a crisp, shiny sports bar that had a foosball table in the window. The name on the window read, "Hoppy's."
          "Good as any," Roderick said lethargically and pulled on the brass door handle.
          I followed Roderick inside to the beat of "Hey, Macarena." The place was populated mainly by college guys and girls, probably from UCLA. There were also some older people who looked like the college guys and girls. These were the unfortunate castoffs of the college scene, people who graduated too soon, people who never found marriage, kids, work, any of the post-college scene to be half as meaningful as the free-wheeling, fun-loving days of slosh ball, beer pong, and keg parties.
          The guy to girl ratio, as usual, was about 5 to 1. Any attractive woman had already been absorbed into an amoeba clump of guys. The remaining girls were the less-than-desirables, and they stuck together in supportive pairs, a bar buddy system.
          As I glanced around, I found it disconcerting to realize that, as much as I scorned the college frat dudes and their homogeneity, I looked and dressed pretty much like them. All right, my hair wasn't gelled, and I didn't have the J. Crew boots. But from a distance, if you squinted, I could easily have been one of them. If I saw myself in this bar, I probably would've thrown myself a condescending scoff. The jeans and the tucked-in collared shirt marked me as sure as any wildlife tag, and any visiting scholar would certainly have classified me in the proper taxonomy as "illegitimus fraternitus". If the same scholar had looked at the truly distinguishing markings, he would've seen his error. If he had noticed the black Fluevogs instead of boots (or saddle shoes for the more fashion-adventurous), he would've muttered a knowing "a-ha." Or if in place of the standard issue Tag Heuer watch (or Swiss Army watch for the more disciplinarian) the scholar had seen the silver bracelet, he would've jotted a lengthy comment in his frayed notebook. The details masked me in sameness and marked me in difference. They made me "Everyman!" At least in my head.
          The place was pretty crowded, and we didn't see any seats. So we took a post behind the barstools, just out of the flow of traffic. Roderick had a tough time keeping his inconvenient frame out of the bustling crowd, but he managed to snuggle in behind two girls who were too blitzed to know he was there. We paused for a minute and checked out the people, ignoring each other. I wasn't looking for anything in particular, but it always seemed like a good idea to take in the lay of the land. Maybe it was an ancient pioneering instinct passed down from our forefathers, now just a vestigial urge that took the place in our heads of something truly useful, like a new instinct that would help us in job interviews or Donkey Kong Country.
          Comfortable in our new surroundings, I offered to order up the first round.
          "Whaddya drink?" I asked Roderick.
          "I'w have a wine spwitzer pwease," he answered with a limp wrist.
          "Coming up," I said and turned to try to squeeze up to the bar.
          "Hold up. I'm just kidding," he said. "What are you having?"
          "I don't know. Some beer on draft. Maybe Anchor Steam."
          He squinted. "Just get me whiskey on the rocks."
          I turned back toward the bar. One of the two drunken girls laughed suddenly and tossed her head back into my shoulder. Her hair flew into my face. She wobbled around on her barstool and said with a slur, "I'm so sorry." She also grabbed my bicep to prove her sincerity. After looking into her drunken, puffy face, I assured her it was no problem at all and calmly removed the hand she had left lingering on my arm.
          I eased just past her, nearer the bar. On my other side was a sturdy, short guy who lifted weights and wore a tight forest green t-shirt with the sleeves rolled one turn. He had close-cropped brown hair and was starting to grow a goatee. Sandwiched between the swollen, drunk girl and the swarthy, warthog of a man, I eagerly tried to catch the bartender's attention by waving my $20. He responded quickly and took my order. I picked up the two drinks and squeezed out of my hole. I sloshed some of my beer on my arm as I struggled free. Small price for freedom.
          I handed Roderick his drink, and he cradled it tenderly. I wondered again if maybe I was refreshing a long lost vice of his. Screw it I thought. I can't be every man's keeper. I had a hard enough time keeping myself straight, or crooked, or however it was I kept myself.
          Roderick sipped his drink and grimaced. "Man, I haven't had a real drink in so long I can't handle it anymore."
          "Don't play coy with me," I said. "I stumbled onto your stash in the kitchen."
          "You saw that?" he asked surprised, eyes wide.
          "Well, you must've found the rotting corpse of my grandmother too then. I keep her right next to my booze," he answered in rhythm.
          "That's what that was? I saw a tuft of knotted hair and some bleached bones, but I just figured it was some voodoo talisman."
          A couple people had been casting odd glances at Roderick, but for the most part he settled in nicely. No one seemed to care too much, except one girl who mistakenly brushed against him and then tried to rub his essence off her once she'd passed. I saw her holding her pant leg and stroking as if she were trying to brush off cat hairs. No chairs had opened up, so we stood in our spot, caught up in the echo of conversation and the buzz of the music.
          "So have things changed much?" I asked Roderick.
          "Since when? I go back a couple decades you know."
          "I was thinking the sixties. I figured you hadn't been out of the house in the past two or three," I ribbed.
          "That's about right. Although I did have a bit of a heyday in the seventies." His eyes gleamed wistfully. "That was a crazy time," he breathed dreamily. "Oh, but how have things changed? People are a little tenser now. There's not the connection anymore. In the sixties we were all united against the man, the machine, authority. Now there isn't the overarching enemy to bring people together. I look around and I don't get the sense of camaraderie and brotherhood that I got then. People were more accepting of me then too." Roderick had to speak pretty loudly for me to hear him, but he didn't seem to care if anyone else was listening. "Everyone's on a different team now. The groups of people here stay in their little islands. They don't gel like they used to."
          "It's worse now?"
          "Just different. I liked that time, but I think you can find things you like in any time... if you look hard enough. And if you're lucky," he said.
          "You seem to have stopped looking though," I commented.
          He hesitated. "Maybe I have. Maybe I've grown stubborn in my old age, less adaptable. It's tiresome to keep looking. You get to a point where you stop creating memories and you start reviewing them. Steinbeck has a line in East of Eden about a guy being too young to be "mining" his memories. Maybe I'm still too young, but it seems like the path of least resistance. It's easier to sit and reminisce than to create."
          "You think you're too young for that. I find myself doing that sometimes. Maybe it's not an age thing; maybe it's just a laziness thing. I think I sort of broke free from that with this trip, at least for now. I feel like I'm creating. Maybe I'm creating negative memories--no, not all, not even many. But even negative--I shouldn't call them negative--sad memories have a heft and a hue, sometimes they even have more facets and brilliance than happy memories. Is it the process that goes into the memory, the energy exerted--the amount of turmoil, stress, enthusiasm, love--that determines the weight of a memory regardless of whether it's good or bad?"
          It was easy to talk to Roderick about these things. Some people tuned out if you paused. Some people tuned out regardless. Roderick listened well. He bore with your thoughts and sentiments even if not eloquently expressed. He listened to your head and heart, not your tongue.
          "I'm not sure," he answered thoughtfully. "I wrestle with that myself. I alternate between the quiet peace of a zen mind and the emotional turmoil of a frost-bitten Russian author. When I sit with one for too long, I begin to yearn for the other. All these years and I still haven't settled on an answer."
          "Do you think anyone does?"
          "Yeah. I think lots of people do, too many. Because it's easier."
          Ironic that we were having this conversation in a cheesy bar where I could overhear the drunken, puffy girl saying, "...so then I found out that he said flatulence, not fatulence, and that it didn't have anything to do with my being overweight..."
          "Come on, Roderick, guru, oh keeper of insights and drawer of the mystic images, you gotta have some wisdom from the years to pass on to a young scaper like myself," I entreated.
          "Sorry, not really. Well, if I were going to say anything, I'd tell you not to have an answer. Soon as you do, you start to stagnate. Your brain withers."
          "See. I knew you had something to say."
          My Anchor Steam was going down nice. Roderick looked a little happier with his drink too. He wasn't wincing at each sip anymore.
          The warthog guy in the green shirt and his buddy slipped off their stools and headed out. I eased myself onto the warm cushion. Squeezing his bulk into the small space surrounding the other chair would've proved a tremendous chore, so Roderick sensibly chose to continue standing. The exercise was good for him anyway.
          I hadn't been thinking about Jasmine, but now her face flashed into my head. I pictured her adoring eyes and wondered whether I adored them only because they adored me (or at least appeared to at times). It didn't matter. I saw the flecked green of her irises and the natural earthy mauve of her lips without lipstick, and I didn't care. It's all about selfishness. Her face offered me beauty, something to marvel at, something to receive the love that I wanted to give. Right now I had no concern about what I did for her. She was the conduit that allowed me to be whole. I thought only of this, of how she allowed me to feel love, to feel lust, to prattle my heart's nonsense, to believe in companionship, to lose myself in the nebulous depths of her eyes, to find myself hopelessly adrift on the ocean of her voice, to have someone to impress, to have someone who saw me. She gave me hope and enthusiasm and faith. She let me rekindle my suppressed dreams of life's possibility, even if only for evanescent, gloriously deluded moments, even if her next word snapped me back to reality like a snakebite.
          I didn't notice Roderick watching me until he snapped his fingers in my face.
          "Hey, moonboy, you got some for me?" he said in a druggy voice with drooped eyelids.
          "What are you talking about?" I answered slowly.
          "You looked like you were having a nice time. I wanted to know if maybe you could share some of what took you there."
          "I wish I could. If you want to plug into my head, I'd be happy to."
          "Wouldn't that be cool. Eliminate the need for language, for books too I guess. Then you could store impressions and sensations in a tube and sell those instead. Here you go; first one's free," he said, smirking at the scenes playing through his future vision.
          I took a long draught on my pint glass and a long breath. I looked at Roderick's thick black glasses and felt a surge of fondness for him. I always enjoyed him in a friendly, humorous kind of way. I felt now though like I wanted to hop down and throw my arm around him like two reunited buddies. So I did.
          "You're a good man, Roderick," I said. Stupid, but it capped the moment nicely.
          He laughed. "You're a sentimental one, aren't you?"
          "Why not?" I confirmed and climbed back atop my stool, casually shooing away a lurking stool vulture who'd been eyeing my seat. "What the hell else is there?"
          Roderick threw back the rest of his drink and said, "Amen." Then he waited a moment and said, "Bartender, please, I want some more," and handed me his glass. He held onto his napkin for some reason. I put the glass with the red plastic twizzle stick on the counter behind me, ice cubes melting into an abstract sculpture of two nudes intertwined. I tilted my head back and swallowed the remaining gulps of my beer. I turned back to the bar to deposit my glass. I noticed the ice sculpture had melted and collapsed and now resembled nothing more than a rock pile, albeit a pile of crystalline rocks that caught the light and threw off rainbow-hued glints from certain angles.
          "Roderick, somehow I feel we should be drinking the same thing. Do you want to stay here for our next round?"
          "I don't see any reason not to. I don't think we'd find much different from this," he said.
          "You're probably right, but I'd like to cruise around a little bit and just see what's around."
          "All right. Let's do one more here though. I'm kind of happy with this little niche we've carved out for ourselves right next to the bar."
          He had a point. Prime seats within bartender range were hard to come by.
          "So what are we drinking?" I asked.
          "We're civilized adults here. If you can stomach it," he said with a fake sneer, "I see no reason to shy away from the harder stuff."
          "Yeah, yeah, so what are we drinking?" I repeated.
          "Double shots of bourbon. And I'm getting this round," he said, handing me a $20.
          "Why, you're too kind," I replied, taking his money.
          I turned around again to try to retrieve my bartender friend. A gaggle of giggling girls were occupying him presently. They couldn't make up their minds, and as they were cute and charmingly vacuous, the bartender was more than willing to wait. And he waited. The girls conferred among themselves, with the ringleader turning to apologize to the bartender every few seconds. Finally they settled on Long Island Iced Teas for everyone, and the bartender began fulfilling their order with alacrity. Since he was the only person manning the bar, I had to wait a little while. The other bartender was embroiled in a serious discussion with a busser about the color of the boss's Porsche. They stood in the doorway at the end of the bar and gesticulated. I gesticulated too to get his attention, but to no avail. So I waited.
          Eventually the women were served, and they tittered off to all manner of amusement, namely Brian, Dave, and Troy who sidled promptly over. The bartender now saw me and came over. I paid for the two double bourbons with Roderick's money and handed him the change with his drink. I thrust up my glass for a toast, and the ice cubes tinkled against the side. Roderick deftly slipped his change with one hand into a small purse he had slung over his shoulder. I hadn't even noticed it before it blended so well with his robes. It might've been tucked into a fold of flesh before; I wasn't sure.
          Roderick now hoisted his glass to mine and said, "To Tinker Bell and the Merry Memesters."
          "Roderick, you've been slipping some Wired magazine in with your Buddhist scriptures, haven't you?" I said as we clinked glasses and sipped.
          "I'd like to drink to Nirvana also," I said, "Not the band. I like the concept."
          We clinked and sipped again.
          "If we're going to make this an evening, we really better get a move on," Roderick advised. I didn't know what he meant until he slugged his drink. "Well, how 'bout it?" he asked looking at me anxiously.
          "Here's mud in your eye," I said for no reason at all and put back my own drink. "Hey, what about getting home?" I asked. "I'm not going to drive after any more of these."
          "Fret not. My house isn't really that far from here. We can walk. It won't be fun, especially with my knee acting up, but it's not a marathon."
          "Well, all right then," I enthused, ready to tie one on.
          "You may have to get up at eight to come get your car before you get a ticket," he added.
          "Worries for another day. Shall we mosey on out of here?"
          "I don't see any reason not to," Roderick said looking around, I think at the girls.
          I wadded my wet cocktail napkin and tossed it on the counter. I kept my red twizzle stick and stuck it in my mouth to suck on. Roderick undulated into the stream of people that was flowing toward the door. I followed close behind.
          We stepped outside of Hoppy's and back onto the promenade. The street was paved with bricks and dotted with cement planters holding seedling trees. From the top view, the planters would've been the buttons on a brick-red oxford shirt. A couple skater dudes lounged lazily on the planter right in front of Hoppy's. One wore a red t-shirt with blue sleeves and had on cut-off blue jean shorts. He also had a blue mohawk and a pierced lip. Pretty extreme for Santa Monica. Must've been an expatriate from faraway, less idyllic lands.
          My two drinks were beginning to seep into my blood. The balmy night air mixed with my inchoate buzz to form a rather uplifting tonic. I felt ready to soar. "Roger tower. This is 5489'er. Check. All systems go. 3, 2, 1, ... lift off!" I tucked my arms to my sides, to streamline myself for the hurtling rush into space, but nothing happened. Typical. Maybe I needed some stronger drugs.
          I said the code word and transformed myself from a rocket back into a human. I looked at Roderick. He was just standing there, checking out the scene. We were just to the right of Hoppy's doorway. I noticed Roderick's pouch again and asked him what he kept in it.
          "'Fraid it's nothing too exciting," he said. "Just my money and my keys. Let's see." He dug into the pouch with two pudgy fingers and pulled out a small piece of wax paper that had been folded and taped. "How 'bout that," he exclaimed. "I still have a lock of Baba's hair. Boy, does that take me back. I had no idea this was still here. I haven't used this purse for a while."
          "Who's Baba?" I asked simply.
          "Oh, no one really. To me, I mean. Just another cult icon. He's a demigod to his followers of course."
          "Man, Roderick, you've been into some weird shit."
          "It was a different time then. I think we're coming full circle though. You watch. Ten years and you'll be picking herbs in the woody glades of some commune."
          I looked straight at him with disbelief and a hint of mockery.
          "Well, probably not. But a man can dream, can't he?" he defended himself--and restored his credibility. If he were envisioning me in an earthy frock, prancing among the wildflowers and filling my basket with roots and tubers, I was going to have to seriously question any of his future predictions. Not that I disliked the idea, mind you.
          "Lead the way," I commanded to Roderick, and he set his great frame in motion. He rambled slowly along, pausing to peer into store windows and observe people as they flitted by. Further up we saw an old Jamaican playing the calypso drums. He wore a green and yellow shirt and had his dreads tucked into a knit rasta cap. How come there's always someone playing the calypso drums? Where do they all come from? We listened for a minute, and Roderick dropped the guy a buck before we headed on.
          Apparently Roderick spotted something of interest because his meandering path straightened. We were aimed at a metal door with silver studs on it. One darkened window bordered the door. A diaphanous, black screen had been dropped behind the window, so we couldn't see anything more than the vague outlines of dark shapes. There was no name that I could see. Roderick heaved the great door open and eased inside.
          It was a bar, only very different from the hyper sports bar we'd just left. This was a hip, styly place where people moved much more slowly. It wasn't nearly as packed. Even though the place was almost pitch-black, I could tell that much. In a far corner a jazz trio, pianist, bass, and sax, smoothed out some lonely, rainy ballads. Red, satiny wall paper was lit up from below by a soft, diffuse light that tapered the vivid red into darkness toward the ceiling. The backs of the chairs were covered with a fuzzy leopard skin print. This was my kind of place.
          We nosed around, hunting for a table and found one in an inconvenient corner away from the bar. On the table was a small silver lamp with a white shade. When I didn't see a cord for the lamp, I looked inside the shade and saw a small flame writhing on a low wick. Tres cool. I wanted to take one home, but it was a little too big to stuff down my pants. Roderick sat on the bench cushion by the wall. I took the fuzzy leopard chair facing him.
          Promptly a hot blond girl arrived to take our order. She had her hair up but let selected golden strands dangle enticingly by her face. She knew she was gorgeous, which put me off a bit... but not too much.
          "What can I getcha?" she said, turning her head at the end to look at something more interesting.
          "What do you like?" I said.
          She rolled her eyes slightly and sighed. "I don't drink," she said, again with her head turned away.
          I could see she was going to be no fun at all. Here was a waitress that either 1) didn't care, or 2) thought she was so hot she'd get a good tip regardless of how much of a cold stiff she was. I decided to be troublesome.
          "What are your white wines tonight?"
          "I'd have to go get the list," she said, assured that I wouldn't be so brash as to inconvenience her by asking for it.
          "Could I see it please?"
          She darted a quick, annoyed glance at me and then disappeared into the darkness. Apparently it was she who decided to be truly troublesome. We didn't see her again for almost fifteen minutes, at which point I decided to be proactive.
          "What do you want?" I asked Roderick.
          "Fuck, I don't care. It all tastes like shit anyway. We might as well be doing shots." He was right, you know. Chalk it up to age and experience.
          I just nodded and walked off to the bar. The bitch waitress was waiting by the bar to fill her tray with a set of drinks. I walked up to the bar next to her and waited for the bartender.
          "Four shots of Vodka please," I said.
          "You got it."
          Quickly he slapped four shot glasses right next to each other on the counter behind the bar and filled them all with one pour. Then he picked them all up at once and set them on the bar.
          "Twenty-four," he said, also looking away like the bitchy blond chick. I could tell this guy wasn't rude though; he was just frazzled, or wired.
          I left him a good tip for no reason. It dawned on me that I was pissing our money away. Our money. Mine and Jasmine's. I didn't care at the moment though. I felt a pang of vengeful pleasure that I was spending her money without her, but that passed quickly, and I decided to try not to spend any more tonight.
          I swallowed one of the shots right there, so I'd have less to carry. Then I gathered the remaining three shots and headed back to our table in corner obscurity. I liked the corner. Better vantage point.
          I set the shots down on the table and took my seat again in the fuzzy chair.
          "What're we gonna duke it out for the third shot?" Roderick said.
          "Nope. Them two's for you. I had one at the bar to lighten the load."
          "Well, ain't I a lucky bastard," Roderick said sarcastically.
          I was beginning to wonder if maybe Roderick was a bad drunk. Each drink seemed to sap a shade of his jocularity. Now he was sounding downright somber.
          "Fuck, I'll drink it if you don't want it, y'ingrate," I said, not entirely kidding.
          "Get your hands off that. This is a team endeavor. Tit for tat. How much were they?" he asked.
          "Not much," I said.
          "Come on. I'm getting this. You're just a poor, starving itinerant. I'm a wealthy, bourgeois store owner."
          "You can get the hamburger we're going to need on the way home," I said.
          "That ain't right," Roderick insisted.
          "Well, sure it is. Just consider it payment for a night's lodging. I expect to have clean sheets and a well-fluffed pillow by the way."
          Roderick looked sideways and suppressed a smirk. "Sure, you betcha. That's exactly what you're gonna have," he stammered.
          "On second thought I think I'll just sleep in my clothes on the floor. No, I'm afraid of your floor too. Ya got a couch anywhere?"
          "How 'bout if I Lysol the dining room table? We can spread a blanket over that. Then you just have to make sure not to roll around in your sleep."
          "Looks like that's the best of my options," I said. "Are you going to drink or what? Quit stalling."
          Roderick made a face and hoisted the first shot to his lips. Then he toasted me with the empty glass. We both raised our final two shots and tossed them back. I put my glass down with a thunk and a grimace. Hard alcohol had never been my favorite, although I was beginning to grow into it. With all the Dewar's commercials I couldn't legitimately drink beer and feel good about myself.
          Roderick put his glass down and smiled. He held his arms out like a bird and wiggled his fingers. "Oooh, I'm feeling tingly," he said.
          For some reason I remembered that our waitress had never returned. Then I told Roderick I was feeling a bit tight myself. I'd picked up the word "tight" from my aunt. I loved to connect myself with different eras through vocabulary. It made me feel like a time traveler. Who knows, maybe "tight" would come back into the vernacular one of these days. My dad called good looking women "talent," and I'd heard one of my friends use that term just the other day. Maybe I could get "tight" going again, single-handedly reintroduce the slang of other times. Maybe I could start my own slang. Maybe I could re-engineer the English language. Maybe I could have another drink and bolster these delusions. But I wasn't quite drunk enough for that. I still had enough sense to let the shots kick in before clamoring for more.
          "So, Roderick, you see any cuties in here? You're going to have to scope for me because I can't see anything facing the wall."
          "My seat is good," he said with a happy nod.
          "Did you date much?" I asked bluntly.
          "Where'd that come from?" he asked.
          "I don't know. Just curious," I said.
          "Not really. I had a short-lived heyday like I mentioned in the late sixties and early seventies, but that was about it. Those were good days. Thank god for acid. Girls had no idea what I really looked like. I morphed like a fun house mirror into a god."
          "But you never found anyone you were that into?" I questioned.
          "Honestly, no. There were times when I thought I had. And you know what? Those were times when I did. For as long as I thought that, I had the woman of my dreams. I guess the answer to your question is yes then. But I never found anyone that I'm still into. I don't know what changes. I don't know if it was me or them or something else."
          He paused. I waited and let him keep talking.
          "I had magic times with a few people. Not many. Maybe three. Somehow though we always drifted apart," he said wistfully. "That doesn't mean I never had true love, just not forever. Some people do have it forever. Until death at least. Maybe afterwards too. That'd be nice. Some people seem like they should be together forever. Maybe I didn't look hard enough. Or maybe I didn't allow it to happen. Or maybe they were afraid of it. Or maybe I just wasn't meant to have that--always fun to blame it on some ethereal third-party like fate. What about you?"
          "I don't think I've ever been truly in love. The seeds might be planted with Jasmine but who knows if they'll get watered. Sometimes I wonder if I even want that. In lots of ways, it's my ideal. In other ways, I'd feel freer without it. I question too if marriage is natural. But lots of things aren't natural, and we still do 'em because they're good. Like traffic laws. Maybe people should live in communes and share everything, their bodies, their possessions, the raising of the children. So many goddamned questions you can never know. Just muddle along. No, muddle's not right. It doesn't have to be muddling. For lots of people it is. But you don't have to have an evangelist's certainty to live passionately, intensely, electrically. Asking the questions is half of living. Maybe more. I guess I've gotten off the marriage/love topic, huh?"
          "No, what you said follows. Do you think marriage is a relic of past societies that's no longer applicable? Once a practical social construct that has outlived its usefulness?" he asked.
          Sounded like a baited question to me, like he had his own answer and wanted to tell it to me. But maybe he was just asking, curious about my own insight.
          "No. I don't know why. I don't really have any reason to believe this. But I think that... I don't really know how to say it. I think marriage could be like magic--I don't mean the ceremony; I mean true marriage where two people interweave their souls and live and share life utterly, with support and love and compassion and affection and complete devotion. I think marriage is one of the opportunities we have to truly transcend the bleakness and reach some higher plane. And you know what? I don't think people even have to get married to have that. It doesn't come from words or promises. It comes from action, from doing those things on pure faith that would make love miraculous. Love isn't the reception of affection; it's the giving of your heart and soul on blind faith... All this from a man who's never been married nor even been in love. Amazing what experts, what pontificators, we can be on subjects we're completely ignorant of? This must be the alchohol talking," I concluded quickly, realizing what a windbag I'd become.
          "I don't know why either, but I think you're right. That kind of love doesn't happen often though 'cause people mainly are lazy and fucked-up. Exhibits A and B," Roderick said, pointing at himself and then me.
          "I like to pretend I'm still a clean slate," I objected.
          "And maybe you are," he acknowledged.
          "So do you regret anything?"
          "Life, love, work, family, what?"
          "Love. And then life once you're done," I answered.
          "Yeah, I regret not getting up and making a fool of myself with that darling, dainty brunette who just strutted out the door."
          "What would you have said?" I asked.
          "No idea. Woulda just winged it."
          "Well, let's pick another one out for ya," I suggested.
          "Darn tootin'!" he cheered.
          The alcohol fearlessness was creeping over us like a fog. Together we felt the invicible bravado of a fighter pilot. It wasn't so much confidence as a complete disregard for the pain of failure. I didn't figure on getting too much response from any of the hoity-toity women in the bar, but at this point I really didn't care. It wasn't about that anyway. It was about the process, the war stories of daring sorties behind enemy lines--or more likely getting shot down well in front of enemy lines.
          I scooted my chair around a bit so I could see the other bar patrons. Pretty evenly split, men and women. The age range was larger than at Hoppy's. I saw a few past-their-prime balding men in black t-shirts and blazers. One of them had a gold hoop earring. Surprisingly the one with the earring wasn't with a gorgeous pre-teen. He was paired up with a gorgeous thirty-something. Good for him. Older women can be just as sexy. They have a mature allure, a sophistication, and a comfortable ease. Some at least.
          I continued scanning. Roderick was doing the same. At the next table down from us were two reasonably attractive women. They both had their elbows on the table and were chatting intimately, their faces close together in the gossip-sharing position. A black handbag was cast casually on the small table between them with its strap hanging off the edge. Both were wearing black. The one I could see better had black pants on with a shimmering long-sleeve black shirt that was partially see-through, not so much that it was tacky. She had black sandals laced around her ankles. She looked appealing enough, although I could see the cusp of her buttocks seeping over the edge of her chair. In my drunken condition, this actually turned me on. I couldn't see much of her friend, except for her face. She was hidden by the dim lights and the shadow cast on her by the other one. Her hair was cut short, kind of like a Clooney, only it had more body. A straight Clooney was too easy for a girl. She had to make it difficult by blow drying it and gelling it. Her nose was small and sharp. It made her look incisive. No doubt deceptive.
          "Should we try a warm-up round?" Roderick asked me.
          "What do you mean?"
          "I thought maybe we should start off small and work up."
          "What do you consider small?" I asked.
          "How 'bout those two near us?" he said quietly. "If we get shot down, we don't have far to retreat."
          I looked at them and considered. I felt a pang of nervousness, realizing that I was actually going to be making a try. It's all fun and games to talk about, but when it comes down to actually walking up and talking to a stranger, the nerves enter in. So many things can go wrong. They can be lesbians. They can be embittered, jilted women who are straight but just plain hate men. They can be jaded snobs who delight in rude put-downs. They can be idiots. They can be engaged. Odds are better than 100 to 1 you're going to come away from the encounter disappointed or humiliated. That's what Roderick and I were here for. We knew the odds, and we were playing them. Masochism can be very cathartic, similar to the tail end of a monster hangover. Everything resolves itself with a new clarity.
          My waxing buzz took the edge off my nervousness, and I said, "Would you like to serve first?" Some of you may be thinking that I was pussing out by offering Roderick the first attempt. But truly I was ready at this point. I'd steeled myself and entered the numbing trance of the foolhardy, kind of like what a karate master does just before breaking a cement block with his bare hand.
          "Don't you want a game plan?" Roderick asked.
          "We don't need a fucking game plan. Just wing it. Speak extemporaneously, and tell them that's what you're doing. If they understand that word, they're keepers."
          "You go first," Roderick said like a little kid.
          "What're you afraid of? I got the impression you were a woman's man from your little 70's anecdotes. What happened?" I badgered.
          "We had stronger drugs than alcohol back then," he answered.
          "Fine," I said sharply and pushed my chair back. The butterflies surged again. It dawned on me that, even though I'd snubbed Roderick's game plan suggestion, I'd better have something to say after the initial "hi." I hesitated in the chair while I thought quickly. My head didn't seem to be cooperating.
          "What's wrong, Romeo?" Roderick jeered. "Just go speak extemporaneously," he said annoyingly.
          My head was spinning through all the possibilities. The honesty tack: "Hi. How's it going? You two looked cute, so I thought I'd say hi." Reaction: confused glare of disbelief that someone was dorky enough to really say that, scowl, ignore and return to previous conversation with friend. The lie: "Excuse me. My friend and I have a bet. Have either of you seen An American in Paris?" Wait for them to nod yes. "Can you tell me who Gene Kelly's co-star was?" Downfall: they haven't seen the movie. Safer to use Waiting to Exhale. Upside: if they have seen An American in Paris, you've immediately established yourself as a sweet, sentimental romantic and will receive doting attention until you slip up and mention your latest foray to the Swine and Dine all-you-can-eat mud wrestling arena (all you can eat FOOD, ya perv!). Variations: "Have you seen Jean Claude Van Damme's latest film?" (will provoke a reaction one way or another which can hopefully be parlayed into a conversation); "Have you seen Pornocchio: It's Not his Nose that Grows?" (used for pure clowning when the chicks are unappealing but you're bored enough to screw around). Contingency plan: should the movie be unknown to the girls, a) fake a coughing attack to avoid the uncomfortable silence, b) "Did I say '(whatever you said before)', I'm sorry. I meant '(insert another film here)'. Repeat until they know the movie. c) "Honestly, we don't really have a bet. That was just a line." (Use c if you think the pathetic loser ploy might just confuse her right into your bedroom (kind of like rubbing an alligator on the belly makes him fall asleep).) Each of the above options faces its own unique repercussions which are too lengthy to mention here but are discussed in my upcoming book, Ditzy Bar Wenches and the Men who Annoy Them.
          So see, I was trying. But after all this thought I wasn't any closer to resolution. I needed to float some sort of trial balloon. Maybe I could just go over and say, "If I were to say blah, blah, blah, what would you say? Really. Don't you think the slap's a bit extreme? O.K. How 'bout blah, blah, blah? Worse than the first huh? O.K. Is there anything I could possibly say to you right now that would intrigue you enough to start a conversation? O.K. Thanks for your time."
          "So long, my friend," I said to Roderick and slowly rose from my chair. The two girls were still twittering, wrapped up in their conversation. I moved over casually and said, "Hi."
          I guess they didn't hear me at first. I said hi again. This time the cute girl with the sharp nose stopped talking and looked up at me. She evaluated me for a split second, and after deciding that I wasn't a hideous troll, she threw a noncommmital "hi" back at me and waited for my next move. Her friend also looked cautiously up at me. It was hard for her to peer down her nose at me, seeing as she was sitting and all, but it looked to me like she was.
          "How's it going?" I offered.
          She waited to answer while she sucked something from her teeth. "Fine," she said curtly. But she was still looking at me. I hadn't been dismissed yet.
          "You ever had sex with a fat guy?" I suddenly said. That sentence escaped my mouth like a prisoner going over the wall. All my faculties were armed against errant comments like that--all our lives we're taught to be courteous and sterile--but somehow it had broken through. Maybe the five or so drinks loosened my tongue. It was also my personal revolt against the drabness of introductory banter.
          She giggled. Her friend choked into laughter.
          "Actually, I have," she said with a seductive smile.
          "And?" I said impatiently, rather stunned that she wasn't insulted by my question and that her answer was yes.
          "It was beautiful," she said. "It wasn't about his body. It was his mind, and all the attention he showered on me. I felt like a princess." She delivered her description with a dreamy voice and a dubious sincerity. After she said it she started laughing.
          "So you're just kidding then?" I asked stupidly. In my cloudy state, my mind had a hard time piecing together the clues.
          "Yes, I'm just kidding," she confirmed kindly. "Have you? With a woman, that is."
          "I think I started a bad topic," I said. "I don't know why I asked that. It seemed amusing to me at the time."
          "That's all right. I've never heard that line before. At least it's unique."
          Wow. She was being amazingly accomodating.
          "You two have been engaged in some conversation for a long time. Are you talking about boys?" I asked coyly.
          Her friend smiled and said, "As a matter of fact..."
          The small-nosed girl said, "So you've been spying on us."
          "I wouldn't call it spying really. Well, O.K. maybe I would. You two were talking so close together I thought maybe you were going to kiss. And I didn't want to miss it," I said.
          "You'd like that, huh?" her friend said.
          The small-nosed one looked at her closely.
          "Sure. Who wouldn't?" I said, trying to be supportive.
          "We don't kiss in public," the small-nosed one said.
          "But you do kiss," I asserted hopefully.
          She shrugged.
          "Don't you like how guys are so easily entertained?" I asked.
          "I love it," she said. "I think they're so cute, like little puppy dogs."
          I smiled and tried to lick my balls. "I'll show you cute," I said. Just kidding. I didn't really. I didn't want to alienate myself now. Here were two reasonably cute women who were happy talking about sex with fat guys and lesbianism. I'd struck the mother lode!
          "Do you like that dogs are obedient too?" I asked wryly.
          "That's what I like most," she agreed.
          "I don't have a problem with taking orders," I said. "In fact, I can be downright servile."
          "Oooh, I'm getting tingly already," she kidded. "Do you like leashes?"
          "I think they're important in the cities where there's traffic and... Oh, you mean on me," I joked. "I can't say that I know."
          Her friend said sincerely, "Whaddayou mean you don't know? You've never tried it?"
          I shook my head.
          "I thought everyone had tried that," she said. "I haven't been out with a guy since I was about sixteen who hadn't wanted to do some bondage stuff."
          "Yeah, but this is L.A.," I pointed out.
          "So?" she said defensively.
          "People on the outside don't live like everyone here," I said.
          "Where's the outside?" she asked.
          "Pretty much anywhere that's not under this smog dome, although San Diego counts too," I answered.
          She looked at me for a second in silence. I turned around and made sure Roderick was still there. He was. He tipped his empty glass to me in honor. (Apparently the bitchy waitress hadn't been around to pick up our empty glasses.)
          "So what are your names?" I hated asking stuff like that. It sounded so trite, but I wanted to know. I didn't have any better way.
          "I'm Max," said the small-nosed one.
          I turned to the other.
          "I'm Marla," she said.
          "I'm Travis," I said.
          "Can I call you Butch?" Max asked.
          "Sure, if I can call you Anastasia. Who's Butch?" I said.
          "He's my masturbation fantasy. I change the way he looks, but I usually call him Butch. Sometimes Pierre when I'm feeling romantic. But Butch when I'm feeling dirty, which is most of the time."
          "You two are amazing. I don't think I've ever met two girls who would talk like this with a stranger," I said.
          "You haven't been meeting the right people," Marla said.
          "I guess not," I agreed heartily.
          I had been standing this whole time. Max finally said, "Do you want to sit down?" and scooted down the cushioned bench against the wall to make room for me.
          "I should probably go talk to my friend. Do you mind if he joins us too?" I asked.
          "Sure, why not," Max said looking in Roderick's direction.
          "I'll be right back," I assured them and strolled back to Roderick.
          "You know how I teased you before? I'm sorry. I take it all back. You are Romeo," Roderick said and gave a fake bow.
          "Oh, cut it out. I could've been poor Yorrick, and they wouldn't have cared. They're just enjoying the diversion," I said. "They said they'd like you to join us."
          "Why I'd be delighted," Roderick said and started the process of getting up.
          I grabbed a chair and walked back to the girls' table ahead of Roderick. I placed the chair on the side of the table in between Max and Marla and let Roderick have my coveted spot on the bench next to Max.
          Before he sat down, Roderick said with courtliness, "Good evening, ladies."
          "Good evening," they chimed back.
          "I'm Roderick," he said, and they responded with their names. Then he settled onto the bench, and I sat down in the chair.
          The girls didn't seem at all put off by Roderick's appearance. In fact they seemed a bit intrigued, or at least entertained.
          "Two lovely ladies like you out alone. Did you leave the boyfriends at home tonight?" Roderick said right off the bat.
          Boy, he sure got to the point.
          "Well, yeah," Marla said. "But that doesn't mean we can't chat, right?"
          "You won't find me arguing," Roderick said.
          "Does your boyfriend put up of all this leash business?" I asked Max.
          "Put up with? He never wants to take it off. I have to wrestle it off him in the morning before he goes to work," she said.
          It occurred to me that everything these girls were saying was probably complete bullshit, but I didn't care at all. Where's the harm? I was beginning to get bored though, so I quieted down and let Roderick pipe up. I don't know why I lost interest so quickly. All this superficial stuff just bothered me. Sure, the lesbian thing was entertaining, but I got frustrated that it couldn't be real. The leash thing was fun too but lost its luster because there was no potential for it to happen. These girls were cute, but I knew I wasn't going home with them. I wanted to be with Jasmine, and this conversation was just filler really, a way to kill time. Earlier I thought it might be different, but it wasn't. I remembered why I don't strike up conversations with girls more often.
          "Back up," Roderick said. "I missed the leash stuff."
          "Nothing much to say. We were just talking about bondage and obedience and how I like to control," Max said, expecting Roderick to respond like a Pavlovian dog hearing a bell. And he did. He put his elbow on the small table, lowered his thick black glasses onto his nose, and stared at Max in wonder.
          "When I was young we didn't talk about such things," Roderick said like a priggish school teacher.
          "But we have so much more fun these days," Max replied.
          "I never tried that stuff," Roderick said. "I don't think I'd like hurting people."
          "Oh, I don't hurt people," Marla said. "I just like to humiliate them, water sports especially."
          Roderick began to sense that he was getting a less than factual testimonial from these girls. It was their tone, and they were sharing too much.
          "Tell me about it," Roderick said, calmer now, trying to call their bluff.
          Marla hesitated. I don't think she'd actually thought about it before. "What do you want to know?" she asked.
          "Just walk me through one of your encounters. What are you wearing? What's he wearing? What do you do? You know," Roderick said.
          "What am I, a 900 number?" Marla responded defensively.
          "You're the one who brought it up. I thought you liked talking about this stuff," Roderick said.
          She hesitated again. "Only some of it," she replied lamely.
          This was growing all too wearying for me. "Roderick, didn't you say you needed to feed your llama tonight?" I said.
          He picked up on my hint right away. "By God, that's right," he exclaimed. "You know if he doesn't get fed on time he starts spitting."
          "I'm sorry, but we really should be going," I said to Max and Marla. "I enjoyed talking with you both," I said courteously as I stood up. Roderick got up too.
          "Have a nice evening," Roderick offered in parting.
          They were silent. They looked deflated. They were used to guys being puppy dogs, like Max said, bright-eyed, attentive, and fawning, regardless of how they were treated.
          Roderick and I fought our swaying staggers to the door of the bar. Once outsided, we both breathed more freely. The bar had great decor, but it felt stifling, too many plastic people. The outside was much nicer. Here we could sway and stumble and make dumb jokes to our hearts content.
          Roderick checked his watch. It was almost 1:00. That was hard to believe. It seemed like we'd just gotten here. The crowds of pedestrians had thinned on the promenade. Most of the performers were gone. Now it was just the drunken college boys, and ourselves of course, who roamed the brick pathway.
          "Let's sit for a second," I suggested and planted my butt on the ledge of one of the cement planters.
          Roderick plopped himself next to me with a great sigh. I looked up at the sky, hoping for stars. As usual, I just saw dull orange.
          "So what's next?" Roderick said.
          "I don't know. You got any bright ideas?"
          "Food sounds good."
          "Should we start walking home then, and grab something on the way?" I said.
          "Yeah, I guess," Roderick said reluctantly. He had taken off one of his sandals and was rubbing his swollen foot.
          "Maybe we should get a cab," I said.
          His face lit up. "That there, my friend, is a terrific idea."
          "Let's rest for a minute first," I said, considering his tired feet. After a silence I said, "How come you spend so much time by yourself? Obviously it's not because you're a total misfit. I mean, I had a good time hanging out with you. And you didn't have any problem talking to those girls."
          "I'm not an outcast; I'm a recluse," he answered. "See the difference?"
          "Yeah. That's what my question was. Why are you a recluse?"
          "It's not a decision really. It's a process. I gradually weaned myself from the company of others. I found it liberating. There's a peace in solitude," he spoke.
          "There's a loneliness in solitude too," I said.
          "True. I guess I found that the peace outweighed the loneliness."
          "I wonder if I'll ever decide that," I said.
          "I don't think it's a decision, like I said. It's the agglomeration of thoughts and sentiments over years and years that define who you are and shape your actions. If you find that you're better company to yourself than others, if it makes you happier, or even just less sad, then you'll find that you spend time alone. If not, you'll do something different. No need to ponder over it though."
          "Why not?" I said. "It's not like I'm pushing out some more important thoughts by thinking about this. A thought is a thought is a thought, daggummit, and smells just as bad by any other name." Sometimes I liked to not make sense. Fool's wisdom. Or fool's drivel. But a voice in the distance nonetheless.
          "Yeah. You're right. Why the hell not?"
          The conversation faded into the night air, and we were left with a tangible sense of the present, of immediacy, of focus. I watched the sapling planted behind me sway ever so slightly in the ocean breeze. The wooden stake it had been strapped to held it firm. I heard the muted thump of music playing in one of the nearby bars, traveling through a lacquered mahogany wall to the street and then swishing over the worn bricks to my ear. The burble of voices from the same bar echoed with it. I felt the sandpaper texture of the cement ledge under my fingertips. I smelled the hint of brine and ancient mariner's tales toted along by the tireless wind. All senses fused into a passive serenity. I felt composed, whole, and feared if I moved I'd break the spell.
          Roderick broke it for me. "Whaddya say there, Chiefo? Should we hit the road?"
          It took me a moment to acknowledge and respond, but I finally muttered softly, "Yeah."
          He rose before me, and when I saw him standing and looking impatient, I struggled up myself. "Aren't many cabs in this town, are there?" I asked.
          "Not really. It's too spread out, too sprawled," he answered.
          "So we'll probably have to call for a cab then?"
          "Couldn't hurt."
          "There's a phone there. You got a quarter?" I asked.
          "Let me check." He dug again into his bohemian purse. I noticed this time that it had tiny fringes along the bottom and a woven bead pattern on the side. The beads were hard to notice because the purse had been worn into a uniform dull brown. I wondered where he'd gotten it.
          "Say, that's one spiffy purse," I said like a 50's game show announcer. "Where'd you find that?"
          "Don't you mock me," he smiled back. "This here, my friend, is a genuine, Tonto-approved, all weather, Indian travel tote. Got it in a cereal promotion way back when. Shit, I've had this since I was a kid."
          "That's great, but does it have a quarter in it or what?"
          "Well, now, hold your horses there, tiger. I'm checking." He rummaged through his purse, tossing out a few balls of old lint. "And voila," he said, producing a shiny quarter between his thumb and forefinger.
          I stepped up to the phone booth and propped the phone book against my knee. The pages were hard and crinkly, and I didn't want to know why. I tried to flip through them with a minimum of contact. Taxicab service was the listing. And there, of course, was AAA Taxis. I called, and they asked me where we were.
          I cupped the phone and said, "Roderick, what streets are we at?"
          He shrugged. "Why don't you say Wilshire and the pedestrian mall in Santa Monica?"
          So that's what I said, and the guy happened to know what I meant.
          "Be dere in ten minutes," he said with a Brooklyn accent and hung up.
          "O.K., Roderick, we got ten minutes to kill," I said. We went to the place where the cab was supposed to pick us up and sat down. Exactly eighteen minutes later the cab showed. It was a beat-up, faded yellow Ford. The seats in the back had duct tape covering the cracks in the upholstery. We got in. Our grizzled driver was wearing a red and black flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off. Pudgy arms rested casually on the steering wheel. He had a long earring dangling from his right ear. It swung like a pendulum when he leaned back and said, "Where to, fellas?"
          Roderick directed him, and I sat back, my eyes peeled for some fast food joint that could sate the craving only a fast food joint can. Better find someplace closer to Roderick's house, I thought. He didn't want to be walking much. Neither did I for that matter.
          We pulled a U and started back up Wilshire. We passed my Honda on the left, waiting patiently. I guess the driver knew a faster way to Roderick's than Jasmine and I had gone earlier that day. Our route had been the one by the beach. He was taking something further inland. Soon he turned right and headed down a large thoroughfare. Roderick was tapping a beat on his leg and staring out the window. This street was dotted with Wendy's and Denny's and Burger King and Taco Bell. I was salivating.
          "Let me know when we're close to your house, so we can stop and get something to eat," I said.
          "Will do. We've got a little way yet."
          The driver turned on some music. Oddly enough it was a rabid techno beat. The driver turned it up, a little too much. Roderick started tapping in rhythm to the song. I was the young one. I was the one who was supposed to like this stuff, but it was grating on me, and the two old guys were loving it. I tried to melt into the rhythm and not let it bother me. I spaced out for a while until Roderick said, "All right. If you see something good, let me know."
          "How 'bout that Burger King down a ways on the right. You see it?" I said.
          "You know how long it's been since I sank my teeth into a plump, greasy burger?" he said with relish.
          "Probably last time was when you stopped at the diner in your convertible Caddy and the big-breasted, rollerblading waitress brought one out to you," I joked.
          "Hey, I'm not that old. Damn, there's no respect anymore," Roderick said, not at all serious. "It's been a long time anyway."
          "Do you prefer flame broiled or fried?" I said.
          "What difference does it make?"
          "Exactly. But the advertising sharks in their glass skyscrapers would have you believe it does. And I for one buy it hook, line, and sinker. That's why we're going to Burger King, see?" I said.
          "No. But please don't explain," Roderick said.
          The Burger Kind was fast approaching.
          "You can let us out at that Burger King," I told the driver.
          "Yous got it," he said and eased the cab alongside the curb in front of the giant BK sign.
          The meter read $6.50. Roderick started going for his purse.
          "What are you doing? I'll get it," I said.
          "No, no, no. You got the last round. I'm getting this and your food. Unless you're a millionaire you'll be running out of money soon enough," he said.
          He was right too. I'd been burning through the money tonight (at least when considered as a proportion of the total sum).
          "All right. Well, thanks, Roderick," I accepted. He was the rich, bourgeois store owner after all.
          Roderick managed to scrape together the cash for the cabby and then maneuvered himself out of the cab. He shut the door, and the cab pulled away. At that point I turned toward the Burger King and noticed that it looked awful dark. I studied it for a second before realizing it was closed and then quickly took off after the departing cab. Either the cabby didn't see me or he was unhappy with our tip. He just kept going. I returned to Roderick somewhat winded. Then I realized that we were within walking distance to Roderick's house. We didn't need a cab from here. He smiled smugly at me to point out my stupidity. "Oh, impetuous youth," he said like someone reading poetry. "The wheels are always turning, but you're never getting anywhere."
          "Yeah, whatever," I responded, a lazy yet often effective retort.
          I craned my neck up at the tall BK sign perched atop a mammoth black pole, shining bright, emblazoned against the orange night sky.
          "Why don't they turn this thing off when they're closed?" I said, annoyed.
          "Would you black out a giant advertisement that you paid for? It's like buying 30 seconds of commercial time and only using 15. Well, maybe like using 25, 'cause not that many people see the sign at night anyway," he said.
          "Yeah, but this is negative advertising. Now I'm pissed at Burger King, and I'm going to make a point of shopping elsewhere," I ranted.
          I walked up to the front door and pressed my face against the dark glass, trying to peer inside. When I got up close, I could make out all the fixtures of an empty, lifeless Burger King: the shiny, metallic counter, the fake plants on the garbage cans that said, "Please Pitch In!", the plastic covered cash registers. It seemed so lonely. Where were the pimply, brace-faced boys and girls in their paper hats? Where was the senile lady waiting in line, muttering nonsense? Where was the self-important clown of a manager directing his crew of underlings? How 'bout the hiss of the drink machine, the spatter of frying fries? I missed the person who returned his burger because he asked for no pickles. I missed the unhappy teen in baggy maroon pants stooped over a spilled coke, mopping lethargically. I missed the bright red, plastic booster chairs. I missed the strawberry milkshakes. It was all shut down now... like gotterdammerung... lifeless, limp, abandoned. I thought maybe if I kept looking I could get all my imaginings to materialize into reality, bring back the happy Burger King family that I knew and loved.
          I stared for a minute more, until I satisfied myself that there was no magical Burger King who'd come flitting down from fantasyland to reincarnate all my youthful memories. I turned away from the desolate husk of a building and walked slowly back to where Roderick was standing.
          "What was so interesting in there? You see gremlins playing with the drive-thru speaker or something?" Roderick said.
          "I saw lots of things," I said nostalgically. "I saw my youth. I saw society. I saw a decaying piece of America."
          "Did you see any rats?" he asked. "I've always had my suspicions about these places."
          "Nope. Surgically clean from my vantage point. Everything shined with a Lysol gleam."
          Roderick started walking down the street. I followed him.
          "Are we going home now?" I asked.
          "Unless you got a better idea," he said.
          My buzz was beginning to wear off. I felt muddle-headed, and I remembered Jasmine. More than anything else I just wanted to go to sleep.
          "No," I answered. "Where am I going to sleep?"
          "That's a good question. I don't really have anything that's soft and long. No couches. I have a couple blankets. We could lay some down for you as a mattress."
          "That sounds fine. Can I sleep with the books in the haunted room?" I asked.
          "Sure. How'd you know it was haunted?"
          "What?" I exclaimed. "I was just kidding."
          "Me too," he said with a smile. He got me thinking though. I remembered the eerie, green light streaming through the grimy windows; the tattered, leather-bound tomes that looked like they'd come straight from Salem; the faded runes scrawled on the book spines, ready to glow and shoot evil rays at me as soon as I closed my eyes. I wasn't so sure I wanted to sleep there anymore. Part of me wanted to tempt fate though. Even though it was ridiculous to think that anything supernatural would happen, my boyish imagination got the best of me. Probably it wouldn't, but a part of me wanted to believe that it could. I felt like one of the neighborhood kids on his way to spend the night in the haunted mansion on the crag with the twisted, leafless tree.
          I occupied myself with fantasies of horned succubi descending on me in the middle of the night. Roderick and I walked in silence. Maybe he was thinking about the same thing. We'd been walking along the sidewalk for a ways. Now Roderick turned right and headed through the parking lot of a boarded up gas station.
          "Where are we going?" I asked.
          "I know a shortcut," he said.
          "I thought you never got out," I said.
          "Not much with people. I go for walks sometimes. Gotta keep up my girlish figure, you know," and he sucked up his chest and posed like a beauty pageant contestant.
          "O.K., O.K. Just walk," I said hurriedly, hoping Roderick would stop that.
          We reached a chain link fence behind the gas station. One side had been ripped from the post, and the fence sagged uselessly, leaving an easy path through. Roderick walked over the fence into a little clearing. Beyond the clearing was a row of dilapidated shacks. It looked like we were coming into an abandoned shantytown. In one of the shacks, submerged in shadows, was a door. He strode straight to it. If he hadn't been here before, there was no way he could've seen it. We walked into the shack and then out a side opening and into a wide open parking lot.
          I realized now this was the place where Jasmine and I had stopped earlier that day, the flea market. It seemed a lot more forbidding at night. My memory of us together seemed years past, and the shadows and sharp angles of the shacks accentuated my sudden sense of loneliness. In the day the diffuse L.A. sunlight filtered down through the haze and softened the corners and splinters of the flea market, made it seem like a grainy photo or an impressionist painting. At night, the painter's brush was gone, and the shacks took on the raw edge of an amateur home video capturing a crime. They loomed tall and misshapen, bulging with dark secrets. I felt like I'd been transported into an old German expressionist film. Here were the grotesque angles and distorted perspective of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. I was walking through the surreal vision of some tormented filmmaker. Roderick had marched me through a portal into another dimension. But I kept walking, and as we neared the streetlights, their fuzzy glow brought back a sense of the softness I remembered from the day. The shadows drew back, and the lights enfolded us in their buzzing, luminous cones.
          We reached the street Jasmine and I had driven down from the beach, the street that Roderick's shop was on. A few, isolated cars zoomed by at intervals. We crossed the street. Roderick seemed to be walking a little funny.
          "You doin' O.K. there?" I asked.
          "Yeah, I'm all right. My feet just aren't used to this kind of mileage."
          "How far is it from here? I can't remember," I said.
          "Not far. Couple blocks," he replied.
          I looked at my feet as we walked. The sidewalk was in bad shape, cracked and uneven. A daffodil sprouted from an impossible crevice. Roderick lived in sort of a shabby area. The houses were salt-rotted and minimally cared for. A newly renovated, two story duplex seemed out of place amid the squat, weathered dwellings. The people in the homes were probably named Jed and Beauregard and Mabel. No doubt Jed was wearing his wife-beater underwear shirt and staring at the tele. I reprimanded myself for being such a snob. There was a dignity to this area too, a sense of struggle and modesty. Many of these people probably had much better stories to tell than the rich bastards in their manicured homes on Sunset and Laurel Canyon. Take Roderick for example. Well, he was an exception though. You probably couldn't find another one of him no matter where you looked. He reminded me of Ignatius J. Reilly, although Roderick was much more together. I guess just the oddness and eccentricities. Supercilious and fastidious were two words that came to mind when I thought of Ignatius (two words he'd probably use too). Not true of Roderick.
          "What do you think of reincarnation?" Roderick asked me as we plodded along.
          "I like it as long as I get to be a higher-order mammal. None of this ant or algae stuff for me. I don't care if they're just as important."
          "I could be an ant. I could be algae too. There's probably all sorts of neat ant things you get to do: laying a scent to show the way to food, rubbing antennaes in greeting with your compatriots, protecting the queen from attack, burrowing labyrinthine tunnels. I don't know what algae does, but it probably has some good stuff too," Roderick reasoned.
          "When you put it like that, it doesn't sound so bad. You should've been a PR guy," I posed. "Maybe you should be the guy in the reincarnation center who convinces everyone to come back as the creatures no one else wants to be. I'm sure the line's always really long for lions and dolphins and golden retrievers. You can be at the other end yelling: 'No line down here for slugs and crustacea. No line at all. Step right up.' Then you could explain why it's so great to be a slug. I'm sure the world would quickly be overrun with slugs and scorpions (although they're arachnids, aren't they?) and all sorts of pinching creatures."
          "That's a nice thought," Roderick mused. I looked at him to see if he was being sarcastic. He wasn't.
          "You'd like the world to be overrun by creepy-crawlies?" I asked, confused.
          "No, no. I meant I liked the idea of the reincarnation center, with people standing in lines and one guy in the back raising his hand and saying, 'Oh, oh. I want to be the sea otter.' It makes death a very human experience."
          "I see what you mean. What do you think death's like?"
          "Ain't even gonna speculate," Roderick said. "Haven't the foggiest."
          "I just let it be whatever I want it to be. It's much nicer that way. Whatever it's really like is irrelevant, at least to me now, while I'm alive. So I just make it whatever I want."
          "I don't usually make it anything at all," Roderick said. "I haven't thought much about death since I was a little kid. I remember concentrating hard and really feeling the concept that when you die you're gone forever. It's an empty, ominous feeling. I didn't like it, so I haven't thought much about it since."
          "Yeah, I've done that too. That's why I think I sugarcoat it now. I don't like to consider that possibility. Maybe if I were truly at ease with myself and the universe, I could accept that. But like I said, I don't even want to be an ant; how could I accept being nothing?"
          "Ya think two people maybe had this same conversation on this same spot a hundred years ago?" Roderick asked.
          I thought. "No," I said after careful consideration.
          "O.K. How 'bout a hundred years ago anywhere?"
          "Sure," I answered.
          "So do you ever wonder what's the point of us going through it again?" he questioned.
          "Yeah, I've thought about that. But I think there's a point to it. I think it's different every time, maybe subtly, but enough."
          "Do you ever wonder what's the point of wondering what's the point?" he said. It made me think of fractals somehow, a pattern being made up of smaller images of the same pattern; each time you go to a successively smaller layer, the same pattern appears. O.K. I was tired, but it sort of made sense. It was an infinite recursion, wondering what's the point of wondering what's the point of wondering... ad infinitum.
          "No, but I wonder what's the point of answering your question?" I said.
          "There you go," he replied. "See, you're getting it."
          We walked on. Finally we reached the flaking entrance to Nirvana Books. "Why Nirvana?" I asked Roderick as I looked at the eroding name painted in the front window.
          "I don't know. Sounded mystical and spiritual. I figured it'd draw the kind of clientele I was looking for," he said.
          "That's it. No great story about being a monk in Tibet or having a holy vision on some mountaintop."
          "Nope, just sounded good," he said as he rattled the key in the lock and jostled open the door. Nothing had changed inside. Motes of dust hovered about and glinted green in the streetlights' rays. The books lay undisturbed under their blanket of grey fuzz. Roderick waited for me to come in and then locked the door behind me. This room at night still captivated me. I gazed absently around at the books, wondering at all the thoughts and prophecies and creeds within.
          "Are you coming or what?" Roderick said to me from the hall.
          "Sure, sure," I said softly and headed down the hall with him. The floor squeaked in the middle of the hall under the shag carpet.
          "So you still want to sleep in the haunted room?" he said.
          "Why not?" I answered.
          "All right. Well, here, I'll give you some blankets and you can make a nest for yourself out under the books. Probably not the most sanitary place in the world, but I think you'll be O.K. for a night," he said.
          I followed him and thought about what sorts of weird dust mites and leather weevils might be lurking in the other room, ready to feast on human flesh. I was worn out though; I really didn't care.
          Roderick stopped at a closet in the hall just down from the kitchen and yanked the door open. From the top shelf he brought down two musty quilts that had clearly been neglected for years.
          "Here," he said, gingerly holding out the two blankets toward me. I took them and fluffed them a bit. They seemed perfectly functional. They smelled a little stale, but nothing extreme. One of the blankets was well-stuffed and would make a cozy mattress.
          "Do you need to use the bathroom or anything?" Roderick asked.
          "Actually, yeah."
          "There's one at the end of the hall," he said and pointed.
          I visited the facility, which turned out to be pretty clean. I guess 'cause no one had used it for years. As I headed out to the book room, I leaned into Roderick's room and said goodnight. His room was remarkably bare. Aside from a lampshade with bright, goofy 60's flowers all over it (you know, like those things you stick on the floor of the bathtub to keep from slipping), there wasn't too much of note. He had a wooden dresser and some pictures in frames on top. I didn't catch much more because I was in and out in a second. Roderick said goodnight, and I set off toward the scary place.
          I shuffled slowly down the hall, more because I was tired than any real trepidation. I'd been trying to scare myself a little to make it fun earlier, but now I just wanted to crash. I trudged right to the center of the room and dropped the two blankets. I groggily undid the heavier one and spread it out on the floor. Then I laid myself onto it and pulled the other one over me. Before I knew it, I was asleep.
          I woke up to a blinding morning light that seared my eyelids. I blinked hard and pulled myself up onto my elbows. I looked around uncertainly for a moment until I remembered where I was and why. I saw the books and remembered my phantasmagoric visions of magic and succubi which, sadly, never materialized. The room in the morning had lost all trace of mystery and foreboding. In fact, it looked rather drab. Without my off-the-wall fancies to spruce it up, it appeared plain and ordinary. But as I looked around at the hardbacks and the creased paperbacks and the old leather treatises strewn haphazardly along the shelves, I remembered what these books contained--the wisdom, or man's closest attempt, of the world--and I tingled again with a religious awe. I felt like I was in a church gazing reverently on the altar. I blinked one more time, and I was back in Nirvana books in Venice Beach, CA, sleeping on a mangy carpet in a dusty room.
          I had no idea what time it was, but it seemed really early from the angle of the sun. It glared straight through the window and lit up the room with a holy fire, a situation I'd failed to consider when I chose to sleep in this room. I'd forgotten it faced east and had big glass windows. Then again, I wasn't in the most lucid state for thinking last night. I rolled over and looked down the hall. It was quiet and dark. I pushed myself up to my feet and clumsily folded the blankets. My head didn't hurt too badly. I must not have been that drunk. With the blankets bundled in my arms, I walked to the closet and put them away. Then I turned and looked at Roderick's door. It was still shut and there was no light oozing out from the crack under it.
          I started to the kitchen and realized that I hadn't heard the phone ring last night. Jasmine was supposed to call, and I was supposed to go pick her up. I wondered if maybe we'd both been too zonked out to hear the phone ring. Doubtful that he had an answering machine. Hell, I was impressed he even had a phone. I guess he needed one for the bookstore. Maybe she'd called before we got home. No, she would've called again. Either way a few more minutes wasn't going to kill anyone, so I continued to the kitchen to scavenge some edibles.
          I scoured the cupboads and the fridge. No milk, so that ruled out cereal. It didn't look like there was breakfast food of any sort, no oatmeal, no grits (hey, ya never know), no eggs, no bacon. There was bread though, and an old, rounded, 50's looking toaster. It wasn't plugged in, so I plugged it in. Then I thought: maybe it wasn't plugged in for a reason, like maybe it had a short. I hoped I wasn't going to start an electrical fire, but I was on a quest for toast. I dropped two slices in the slots and plunged the knob. It crackled into life and the coils heated to a dull red. Everything seemed fine, so I went looking for more stuff. I found some stale Ritz's, which were palatable enough with peanut butter, a store of which Roderick had plenty. Jars and jars of Skippy occupied a full shelf in one of the cupboards. I respected Roderick for this--a very efficient food, you know, peanut butter. The only thing I saw in the fridge that was readily drinkable was the Kool-Aid from the night before. I cringed but took it out nonetheless. My mouth was parched, and my tongue had a thick film on it. I didn't really care what awful things Roderick might do to the Kool-Aid; I needed liquids.
          I checked on the toaster. It seemed fine. I brought the Ritz's, the peanut butter, and the Kool-Aid over and placed them near the toaster. I surveyed my catch. Not too appetizing, but sufficient for a while. Maybe Roderick would clue me in to his secret stash of good stuff once he woke up. I went searching for a cup. By the time I found it, the bread was toasted (a perfect, crispy golden brown. They sure don't make 'em like they used to). I gathered my supplies and moved everything to the dining room table. I sat in Roderick's La-Z-Boy and started feasting.
          Soon I noticed that the Ritz's were crumbly and disgusting, even with heavy doses of peanut butter. I set those aside. The toast was glorious. I had to leave my La-Z-Boy throne to hunt down a knife to spread the peanut butter, but the minor delay only whetted my desire. I scarfed it down and made hungry Homer Simpson noises. When my mouth became unbearably dry, I reluctantly swigged from my glass of Kool-Aid. I sighed. Man, it was good. I re-filled my cup.
          Roderick's keen ear must've picked up eating noises and alerted his body to the presence of nearby food, because I heard him stirring in his room. I kept eating and waited for him to emerge. Finally his door opened slowly, and a tired and muddled Roderick stumbled out. He was wearing his Hare robes again.
          He shifted his weight slowly from leg to leg and gradually made his way down the hall. I think he might've been sore from all the walking the night before. "Uhhhhhh," he moaned as he stepped into the dining room. He perked up a little when he saw me in his chair.
          "What an impudent boy," he muttered. "When the cat's away, the mice will play," he said nonsensically.
          "Wake up, sleepy head. Sit down and have some grub," I said. "I took the liberty of helping myself. Not that you'd really miss anything I ate, except for maybe the Kool-Aid. I did you a favor eating those Ritz's. They were nasty."
          He looked at me fuzzily and stumbled into the kitchen without saying anything. I heard another moan that sounded like a stretch moan, and then some rattling of pans. I polished off my toast, had another gulp of Kool-Aid, and then got up to see what culinary masterpiece Roderick was creating in there. Somewhere he'd found a box of buckwheat pancake batter.
          "I thought you didn't have any milk," I said. "I didn't see any."
          "I don't," he said, a little more lively, starting to wake up. "Milk doesn't agree with me. These are water-only pancakes."
          "Mmmm, yummy," I said with a sour face.
          "They're good. You'll see."
          "Did Jasmine ever call last night?" I asked.
          "No," he said. "And the light wasn't blinking on the machine either."
          "So you have a machine, huh? I didn't think there was any way..."
          "What kind of an operation do you think I run here? This is a business, man," he said.
          "What time is it?" I asked.
          "Just after 7:00 when I came out of my room."
          "I guess I'll just get the car and then hang out until she calls, if you don't mind," I said. Assuming she calls, I thought to myself.
          He shook his head. "Fine with me."
          "My clothes are pretty nappy and crusted. Do you think I could wash them here after I get my other clothes from the car?" I asked.
          "Sure. I don't have a washing machine though. I'll show you how to do it in the sink if you want. That's how I do my robes."
          "And you wonder why I was surprised about the answering machine," I said.
          Roderick continued mixing his buckwheat batter.
          "Do you think I could walk to the car from here?" I asked.
          "Sure, those youthful legs of yours. We were gonna do it last night. Probably take you half hour though," he answered.
          "That's not that bad. How 'bout I go get the car now, make sure I don't get a ticket? Will you save me one of those pancakes?"
          "I'll save you two."
          "Perfect," I said. "All right. So if I just go left on the street in front of your house, and then all the way to Wilshire? Will that work?"
          "That'll do it. I think that's the easiest. It's probably just as quick when you're walking too," he said.
          "All righty. I'll see you in a bit. Thanks again for letting me crash here," I said.
          Roderick didn't say anything. He just smiled and gestured at me to go away already. I turned and headed back to the book room. I passed the rear courtyard on the way and looked at the juniper catching its first rays of the morning as the sun crested the height of the house. A line of shadow ran across the juniper at the top, slowly sliding downward as the sun rose. Somehow the juniper looked happy, or I made it look happy in my head. I kept going to the book room, unlocked the front door and emerged into the morning.
          Already it felt about 70 degrees. I loved California. I glanced around and took in the morning, squinting in the sunlight. I headed up the street, backtracking the path Roderick and I had taken the night before. The sidewalk looked even more ragged in the daylight, and the houses even shabbier. I passed again the remodeled duplex that seemed so inappropriate amongst its neighbors. I kept walking.
          Traffic was starting to pick up along this road, all the commuters heading to their cubicles and voice mail and corporate policies. I didn't envy them. Strolling carelessly down this tattered sidewalk in the morning warmth, I felt totally free, felt like I was going to disapper into the air with a fizzle and a pop.
          I was happy and the walk went quickly. Soon the road came close to the beach again, and I could see the water through the spaces between the houses. Then the houses stopped, and the beach and the ocean spread out panoramically. I paused to enjoy it. There was a railing bordering the sidewalk, and I walked up and leaned against it while I admired the view. The waves were pretty far away, but I could still faintly make out the rushing sound as they crashed over each other and broke into shore.
          I walked on again, filled with a renewed contentment. I was so busy enjoying the scenery and the bustle of the morning that I almost walked right past Wilshire. I waited for the little green light to flash me the "Walk" sign. Then I crossed, obediently within the painted crosswalk, imagining something horrible would happen to me if I stepped outside the white lines. This part of Wilshire was full of highrise businesses, and cars with ties or high heels behind the wheel squeaked incessantly as they pulled into cement parking garages. Up a couple blocks and I came to the place where Roderick and I had cavorted last night. On both sides, running perpindicular to Wilshire, the brick promenade ran into the distance. At this time of day, there were few people on the walk, not even the store owners were here to open yet.
          I knew my car was close, and I kept my eye open for it on the left. Down a few blocks I found it, undisturbed, ticketless. A layer of ocean dew covered the seats and dash. I wiped the driver's seat with my hand and sat down. I fired up the beast and drove back to Roderick's.
          I parked right in front of the bookstore. The parking spaces were wide open all up the street. It was too early for business yet. Even so, there wasn't much to stop for here anyway. All the buildings around Roderick's were houses, so I'm sure he didn't get much random drop-by traffic. His was a destination bookstore.
          I went to the trunk and yanked out my trusty, L.L. Bean suitcase. Then I walked inside. I found Roderick in the kitchen, washing the dishes and pans.
          "I left you two pancakes on the plate there," he said over the running water when he saw me come in.
          "You know, I think I'd like to shower before I eat, if you don't mind," I said. "Can I use the bathroom I used last night?"
          "You bet. Grab a towel from the hall closet if you need one," he said and returned to the dishes.
          I brought my suitcase with me, removed a towel from the closet, and walked into the bathroom. I flicked on the light. Today, in my more lucid state, I saw clearly the thick film of dust that covered the toilet seat and the counter. There was toilet paper on the roll, so I used that as a rag to wipe up the place. Then I brushed the fuzz off my teeth and slid out of my grimy clothes. I hopped eagerly into the shower. Roderick even had a little bottle of shampoo in the corner. What a host. Then I realized there wasn't any soap. I turned off the water and foraged around the bathroom for soap. I found a lone bar of Dove in the counter under the sink. I unwrapped it and stepped back into the shower. The Venice Beach water was hard and left me feeling like I'd washed off a layer of dirt only to have it replaced by a layer of slippery minerals. I finished showering and toweled off.
          I leafed through the scant selection of clothes in my bag. All felt soft and downy, heavenly compared to the stiff, starchy clothes I'd just taken off. I picked out a pair of baggy brown chinos and tossed on my favorite t-shirt, one from an ad agency that had a disgusting pig wearing a pearl choker. The caption read, "Dressing up the truth since 1989." Feeling refreshed and reinvigorated, I stepped out of the bathroom to go feast on cold buckwheat pancakes.
          Roderick had finished with the dishes and wasn't in the kitchen anymore. I found my plate of two pancakes on the counter with a tall bottle of pure maple syrup and a fork sitting next to it. I repaired to the dining room once again to partake. I sat in Roderick's chair again, half because it was comfortable and half because it felt disobedient. The cold pancakes were surprisingly good. Lots of roughage. I finished up and rinsed my plate. Then I wandered out to find Roderick.
          He was sitting on his stool in the book room jotting a note to himself. A leather book lay open on the counter in front of him. He saw me coming and then finished his note before looking up. He set his notebook on the counter next to the book.
          "So? How were they? Not bad, huh?" he asked enthusiastically.
          "How were what?" I said, confused. He looked a little disappointed. "Oh, oh, the pancakes. They were actually very tasty," I confirmed.
          "See. Huh," he said nodding his head affirmatively. "Old Roderick's got a trick or two up his sleeve."
          "They were pancakes, Roderick," I said simply. "Don't go applying for a job at Spago just yet. I don't know if Wolfgang's ready to put pancakes on the menu."
          "You really know how to hurt a guy," he moped.
          "Someone's got to be the voice of reason around here."
          "They were good though, weren't they?" he said, undeterred, nodding at me and raising his eyebrows.
          "Yes already," I said.
          "I thought so," he said smugly.
          I stepped around a stack of books on the floor and wandered to one of the shelves. I fondled the book spines absently and watched the dust I kicked up shimmer like gold flakes in a crystal river.
          "You get much business here, Roderick?" I asked.
          "I get by," he said.
          "How many do you need to get by? A book a day? Ten a day?" I clarified.
          "Five, six books a day'll do," he said.
          "Do you really sell that many? I can't imagine that many people coming all the way out here for books," I said.
          "I get a number of people dropping by the store, an established clientele. I also have a mail order business too. I got lots of contacts around the world. Whatever you need, I can get. I do most of my business mail order. That way I don't have to worry about excess inventory," he elaborated.
          I don't know why I worried about Roderick. He was a sharp cookie. He had his shit together, even if he did wear Hare Krishna robes.
          "Hey, you gonna show me where to wash my clothes?" I asked.
          "Sure, you can use the bathtub where you just showered. I've got some biodegradable detergent too. Here, follow me," he said and started walking down the hall. He went into his room and came out with the bottle of liquid detergent.
          "Here," he said and handed it to me. Then he started to walk back.
          "What about drying them?" I asked helplessly.
          "Oh, just smooth 'em out, and I'll hang 'em in the back courtyard," he said. Again he started walking back.
          "You know what," I called out to him, "Screw it. This is all way over my head. I'll just do 'em at a laundromat sometime."
          "O.K.," came the muffled reply from down the hall. "Just drop the soap in my room."
          I set the soap in his doorway and went back out to the book room. Roderick was already back on his stool, this time with the leather book in his hands, reading attentively. He didn't look up when I came out. I didn't know what to do with myself. Basically I didn't have any agenda other than to wait until Jasmine called.
          I twiddled my hands for a minute awkwardly. Then I decided to read something. The Freud was in the car, and I didn't feel like making the twenty foot trek to get it. Instead, I went to the healing section and picked up a book on the properties of gems and stones. According to this book, pretty much every stone was good for stopping bleeding, a property one skeptic attributed to the fact that stones were usually cold. Made sense to me. Other stones were supposed to bring emotional balance, help decision making, succor a wounded heart. I set this book down and picked up another one about how to cast spells with stones. I liked this one; it was more practical, more immediate. You cast the spell and then you're done. No need to dally with the stones for years, rubbing them on your body and hoping for some mystic intervention. This book was cut and dried. You wanted luck: well, then you went out before sunrise on the morning of the spring equinox (I think that was it) and gathered up lots of stones and placed them on the fence posts surrounding your house. It didn't talk about what to do if you didn't have any fence posts, or a house. O.K., say you wanted money: well, then you went out before sunrise on the first day of the new year, and you got the biggest rock you could find. Then you brought this rock back to your house and placed it on the mantle, and for a year, you would have good luck. I think there were other little doohickeys and rituals and incantations involved, but that was the gist. Nice, simple, practical, a real page-turner.
          I considered casting a spell on Roderick, but then I read the introduction about how magic should only be used in harmony with nature and never for evil purposes. Well, there went all my fun. I guess I could've cast a happy spell on him, but that didn't have the same allure.
          I set this book down too and got fidgety again. I was a little annoyed Jasmine hadn't called. I felt trapped, like I couldn't go anywhere until she said so. I wasn't really worried about her; I figured she'd be O.K., but I felt like she was taking advantage. Just not cool. Then again, maybe she didn't want to leave until late, and she was trying to be considerate by not waking us up in the middle of the night. Maybe she assumed we were still sleeping and wanted to let us rest. I decided I'd give her until 10. Then what? I don't know. Then I'd re-evaluate.
          I picked up a book on Gnosticism and told Roderick I'd be in the courtyard.
          "Uh, huh," he said without looking up from his own book.
          I pushed open the sliding glass door and took a seat in one of the white metal seats by the juniper. The sun had risen slightly and only half the juniper was in shadows now. I flipped open my book and started reading mindlessly, letting my eyes linger over words and dance through lines without any real concern for the meaning. I was probably sitting there for about half an hour before Roderick came out and tapped on the glass.
          "Your sweety's on the line," he teased.
          I shook my head and laughed anyway. I followed him into the book store and picked up the phone there on the counter.
          "Hi," she said, sounding hoarse and groggy.
          "Hi," I said back nicely.
          "Did you have a good night?" she asked sweetly.
          "Yeah, it was fun. Roderick's quite the player," I said, trying to be light. He caught this and looked up from his book. I smiled at him.
          "I sensed that about him," she agreed, mimicking my tone.
          "We went to a couple bars, had some drinks, just hung out. How was your night?" I asked.
          "It was pretty good," she said. "I'll tell you about it later."
          "Do you want me to come get you?" I asked.
          "Would you?" she said softly.
          "Yeah," I answered. "I'll be there in about twenty minutes."
          "O.K.," she said. "I'll be waiting on the steps. I think everyone here's still asleep."
          "O.K. I'll see you in a minute."
          "Thanks," she said meekly, and we hung up.
          Roderick looked up from his book. "So?" he said grandly.
          "So, I don't know," I said. "You're a nosy bugger."
          "I gotta get what I can. It's not often I have a soap opera walk into my front door," he said and waited for my reaction.
          "If you're looking for a murder or an evil twin or a bastard step-child, I don't think you're going to find it with us," I said.
          "That's not what I want," Roderick said unfazed. "I like the drama of everyday life, of youth."
          I hesitated. "Well, I should go," I mumbled looking at my feet. Then I realized I might be saying bye to Roderick for good. I perked up and walked closer to Roderick. "I might not see you again," I said.
          "No, boy. That's true," he said. He spoke strongly, refusing to get sentimental. "You might not." He paused. "But you'll be O.K. I'll be O.K. Maybe you'll drop me a postcard sometime," he trailed off.
          "I'll send you a postcard sometime," I said. "Roderick, I really had a great time with you. Hopefully someday I'll make it back here to surprise you. You'll look up from your book, peering out through those thick glasses, and you'll see my smiling face. I'll always remember you and your bookstore," I said taking in the room one more time.
          "Ahh, don't get so sappy now, boy," he admonished. "Two days and you'll have forgotten about me. You're young. It's not time for you to remember yet. But some day, down the road, maybe I'll spring up in the back of your head like a roadside weed, and you'll say, 'What was that guy's name? Rufus? Rastafarian? Roderick? Yeah, I think that was it. Roderick. I wonder what ever happened to that crazy old guy and his run-down book store."
          "It's not run-down," I said. "We in the biz like to call that 'character', also known as 'charming' or 'quaint.' I don't know what I can do with the crazy old guy part though," I joked. He smiled.
          He held his great paw out toward me and said, "Well, I'm sure glad you two dropped by."
          I took his hand in mine. I looked at his beady brown eyes through the blurry lenses. I admired his formidable paunch. I felt slightly repulsed by the crumbs in his beard. I chuckled silently at his Hare Krishna robes. Then I joined him in a broad smile, and said, "Me too, Roderick. Me too."
          We lingered briefly in silence. Then he said, "Well, get on with ya already. I don't want to cause another spat with you and the missus."
          "O.K.," I said softly and turned toward the door. I pulled the creaky door open by the loose handle and turned to take a last look at Roderick and his castle, built not of bricks and mortar but of words and wisdoms. I held my hand up to him in parting. He waved me away as if I were a pesky little kid. I stepped outside and brought the door firmly closed behind me. I felt sad leaving Roderick, but it was a sweet melancholy, an experience I'd always remember and treasure.
          The day was heating up already. The sun had clicked a notch higher toward its peak, and I could feel the growing warmth on my skin. I hopped into my car. The vinyl seat pressed warm against my back. I started the car. Before I pulled away, I looked at Roderick's store front and noted the number, 773. I had a present in mind for him, something he'd probably laugh at and toss in the trash, but something I wanted to give him nonetheless.
          I tried to take a last look at Roderick through the store window, but the caked filth and the angle of the sun made it hard to see through. Maybe he saw me though. I pulled away, hoping I remembered how to get to Jasmine's new boyfriend's house.
          There was a fair amount of traffic, so I had to pull into a parking lot to turn around, couldn't just whip a U. Once going the right direction, back toward Wilshire, I looked at one of the street signs to get the name of the street Roderick lived on. Oceanside, it said. A good name. Easy to remember.
          I drove past the beach again, but I didn't feel the elation that had bubbled over in me that morning as I strolled lazily along the sidewalk. I had a chore now, a destination, a direction, and the pleasure of the trip got lost in that. I continued up Oceanside and turned right onto Wilshire. All the sights had become old hat to me now. I passed through the traffic and the buildings like a jaded commuter on his thousandth run. My blinders were on, and I drove disconnected, letting the world pass by without my slightest attention.
          Before I knew it, I was at the fork in Wilshire, and I panicked briefly, trying to remember which direction to go. When I remembered, I had to quickly shunt left a lane or two. The rest of the drive came to me mechanically, without thought or indecision. I noticed the Roxy as I sped by, empty and innocuous in the daylight. Soon I was on Laurel Canyon again, and the anxiousness I'd felt the night before came seeping up through a chink in my armor. It was the same feeling, but for a different reason. Now I was anxious about what it'd be like with Jasmine again. Had anything changed? Maybe everything had changed. I just wanted to turn around and drive away and never have to find out. Instead I drove rigidly on. And when I came to 2150, I pulled slowly into the semicircle driveway, almost hoping she wouldn't be there.
          She was there, sitting on the stone stairs like she said she would be. Her arms were crossed over her knees, and her head rested comfortably on her arms. She looked like she was dozing. The sound of the car brought her to life. She raised her head and blinked groggily in my direction. I pulled up in front of the steps. She still didn't get up. She looked really tired.
          I got out of the car and walked up to her. She craned her neck up at me and squinted in the daylight.
          "Will you help me up?" she asked lazily with a slight smile.
          I grabbed her hands and pulled her up to me. She let herself flop forward like a limp scarecrow right into my arms.
          "I'm tired," she whispered slowly in a cute, hoarse morning voice.
          I picked her up, walked around the car, and placed her gently in the passenger seat. I checked the steps to make sure she hadn't left anything. Then we pulled away, away from the lime-green lawn and the plastic people, away from the house that suddenly had no more significance to me than any corner mini-mart. As we drove away, the mansion receded in both distance and in memory, becoming a mere, trifling speck on the horizon, then vanishing. As we headed down Laurel Canyon, it felt to me like nothing had even happened, like Jasmine and I had been together this whole time. I felt almost like I was just starting my journey with Jasmine. Had you put me back in time two days, back to the 1 heading south, and the first day of our adventure, filled with freedom and anticipation, I wouldn't have noticed a difference. We were beginning again. I wondered how long it would last.
          Jasmine snoozed peacefully in a little ball next to me. She was adorable. The royal blue highlights in her hair shimmered in the sun. Her lips were relaxed, without any of their normal, wakeful animation, the grins and scowls that punctuated her moods, the way she subtly parted them in coy seduction. All traces of personality and character had drawn back behind the veil of sleep. She lay there blank and exposed, like a baby, with a baby's innocence. She reminded me of marble statues I saw in Florence--like an idealized Pieta, calm and serene, almost inhuman.
          I reached the stoplight at the bottom of the hill, and it dawned on me that I had no destination. For some reason, I kind of thought I was heading back to Roderick's. But then I remembered that we'd said goodbye. There was a car behind me, so when the light turned green I turned onto Sunset and stopped at a gas station. I pulled around toward the back, next to the pay phone and out of the way of customers. Then I nudged Jasmine. I considered kissing her but didn't feel like it. Somehow, even though I didn't harbor any ill will toward her about the party, I didn't feel emotionally close to her like I had. I didn't notice this until I pictured myself leaning over toward her and pressing my lips against hers. I just didn't want to, so I touched her softly instead.
          She stirred and sat up. She looked around, wondering where we'd ended up. I think she figured she'd go to sleep and wake up somewhere fun--like a teleporter, close your eyes and when you open them you're in some new fantasy. She was a little disappointed with the gas station.
          "Where are we?" she asked.
          "A gas station on Sunset. I didn't know where we were going," I answered.
          She looked at me for a long time, like she was trying hard to think of someplace to go. "I don't like L.A.," she said finally. "Let's go somewhere else."
          "O.K.," I said. "Go back to sleep. I'll surprise you."
          She smiled dreamily. She curled herself back up into a ball and closed her eyes slowly. I was pretty comfortable lounging in the sun at the back of this gas station. There was a pile of old tires stacked next to a fence. A stream of some viscous green fluid meandered across the hot cement and disappeared into a metal grate. We were tucked off to the side of the building, so the customers didn't bother us. Between the chain link fence that marked the back of the station, some dry, reedy shrubs sprouted and swayed in the soft breeze. From my vantage point I could look straight up the beige hillside and pick out the houses nestled amidst the desert flora. What's the hurry?, I thought to myself and slid down into the car seat for a nap of my own.
          I woke up a while later with the dull, hazy pall of a long, midday nap thrown over me. I felt langorously numb, like I was coming out of a happy, drug-induced anesthesia. I swayed unintentionally and yawned. I rocked my legs tentatively to see if they still worked. Jasmine was still asleep, and her exposed cheek was starting to turn pink in the sun. I went to the trunk and pulled out one of my t-shirts. I gently draped it over her head and made sure it wouldn't bother her breathing. She made a soft moan but fell instantly back into slumber. She must've had a really long night.
          I was feeling slightly more awake now and decided that I'd get started with our trek to nowhere. I pulled the car around and gassed it. I went back to the trunk to pull out a $20 from our stash and paid the mustachioed tough-guy behind the counter. His gas station shirt sleeves were rolled up to expose feeble biceps. We all have our delusions.
          As I pulled away from the pump, a black Mercedes edged into the space behind me. He'd probably be getting the 94 octane. Hey, at least he was pumping his own gas. Or maybe he'd pulled into the self-serve by mistake. Either way I was already motoring up Sunset and had turned my attention to the beautiful people dining at open air cafes that lined the street. He was back at the gas station pulling lint off his silk shirt and inspecting his teeth in the mirrored reflection of his car's newly-waxed paint.
          I scrutinized the diners as I drove past. Men in blazers and jeans. Pony tails that hung down the backs of their chairs. Cell phones in belt holsters. Women with gaudy, fashion sunglasses that rested heavily on their surgically reinforced noses. Dapper waitpeople blowing carefully casual bangs out of their faces, taking orders, and hoping to tickle the fancy of the producer they were serving. Posh dress stores sandwiched between the cafes. A symbiotic relationship. The dress stores lured the crowds, and the cafes refreshed them for more shopping. Was that Fabio pulling out of a parking lot in his forest green Hummer? By god! It was. I swooned and nearly ran into the puffy poodle leading its owner across the crosswalk.
          I screeched to a stop just in time--just in time to receive a supercilious frown from the bejeweled lady who looked more like a poodle than her poodle. She finished crossing the street with her nose in the air. Green again, and I was off, gunning my burly Honda four-cylinder like the Indy 500. Even full out, I barely pulled away from the other cars behind me. After I'd made it up into fourth gear, I decided I'd had too much fun for the day and settled down. I cruised calmly along Sunset again, for what seemed like the hundredth time this trip. I even recognized a gardener at one of the mansions who'd been clipping hedges the day before. I felt like a true citizen now, a regular. I drove on. Finally when I hit the 405, I veered into the onramp lane and headed south.
          I had fantasies of On the Road, heading south across the border, into Tijuana and beyond, all the way to the tip of Ar-hen-tina (pronounced with exaggerated accent). Legends of the exotic locals who wore nothing but g-string bikinis filled my head.
          The notorious L.A. traffic was fairly light this time of day. We flowed smoothly south like a surge of red blood cells in a vein. You've seen those shots of blood flowing through a vein, right? That's exactly what I felt like. All the on-ramps and off-ramps and six lane superhighways that wound together in a maze of concrete were just like the vascular system, except the roads were bigger... and made of concrete... and carried cars instead of cells... and so on. But close enough. ("Aside from the aquaducts, public health, sanitation, peace, agriculture, and public roads, what 'ave the Romans ever done for us?")
          I slapped myself and drove on. There was a peaceful vacuity to driving, like a valium daze. It was its own narcotic. I sank back into the lush folds of my road buzz--the drone of the engine, the vibrations of the road holding up the walls to my happy state. When the car stopped, the walls came crashing down. I wanted to drive forever. Maybe I would.
          I don't know how much time had passed. It seemed to be mid afternoon now by the angle of the sun. Jasmine sat up and rubbed her eyes. She yawned and out of the corner of my eye, I could see she was watching me. I pretended not to notice and kept staring blankly forward, vacantly watching the road and steering lazily with one arm on the bottom of the steering wheel. She kept watching me for a while. Finally I turned, and she smiled. I didn't smile back, not because I was upset at her; it just seemed like too much effort. Maybe I smiled with my eyes. She was always a big fan of what people's eyes said. I tried to say "Please pass the pickles" with my eyes, but either she didn't pick up on it, or she ignored it. I smiled now, amused with myself. I turned back to the road.
          "Mmmmuh," she whined, wanting attention. I looked over at her, and she was holding out her hand for me. I took it in mine and rested both our hands on her leg. To me it felt like I was holding the hand of my little sister. No tingle, no attraction, just a familial comfort. She placed her other hand over mine. We drove like this for a long time. Then she picked my hand up and kissed it, and set it down in her lap again. I looked over at her, and she looked back with wide eyes.
          "Do you want to get something to eat?" I asked.
          She nodded. I kept my eyes open for a commercial-looking exit that might have some good places to eat. Good in my book was a deli instead of McDonald's (even despite the ArchDeluxe). I pulled off a few exits up. Down the road a ways we found a small deli that had real German chocolate. Jasmine was excited like a puppy (including the drooling). She changed her mind about three times before settling on a plain slab of milk chocolate in a shiny purple wrapper. Once the dessert shopping was done, we ordered our regular meal. We both got turkey and swiss on wheat. She nixed the onions on hers. We sat down at one of the small, round tables to wait for our food. The air-conditioning felt great after hours under the sun. We looked at each other casually and waited in silence for our food. It was a comfortable silence though.
          Jasmine stripped off a corner of the wrapper and nibbled on her chocolate. She held it out to me and said, "Uh?" I nodded and leaned over to take my own nibble. I'm not a huge chocolate fan, but it was pretty tasty. I watched her restrain herself from gobbling down the whole bar. She made a clear line with the wrapper where she was going to stop. Once she got to that point, she put it down and fidgeted nervously.
          The lady in the apron behind the counter said, "Here you go," and I got up to retrieve our meal. The sandwiches were on a plastic tray in individual red and white checked paper containers. Each had a soggy pickle on the side. I walked the sandwiches back and sat down again. We started eating in quiet.
          "Mmmm. This is good," Jasmine said enthusiastically.
          "Yeah. Mine too," I agreed. I felt now for the first time since I'd picked her up that somehow we were skirting the issue. I thought before that we were just comfortable with each other and not talking. Now I began to sense the beginning of an edgy nervousness between us. I wasn't about to bring anything up though. If she wanted to talk, she was more than welcome. But I wasn't going to let myself get dragged into it. I continued with the banal chatter.
          "My pickle's kind of limp though. I like 'em better firm."
          She smiled impishly. "That's not usually something you want to share with a woman."
          I looked down sheepishly, but half amused. I was a shade perturbed that she could be jovial and put a cheery gloss on things. At the same time, I was happy that she did. Maybe it was jealousy. I wanted to feel light and jocular like she did, or at least pretended. Instead I'd felt more subdued and even spiteful. I had intended to drive our conversation into the ground with incessant, boring chit-chat. Speak worthless nothings until it became maddeningly dull and someone snapped and released a flow of true feelings. I had a hard time doing it though when she tickled me under the chin with her retorts.
          "Don't worry. I'd never share a limp pickle," I assured her, trying to prolong the levity. It may not have been that funny, but I liked this interchange better than the idle banter we'd started to fall into.
          "I know you wouldn't, dear," she said soothingly. "That's what I like about you most."
          I smiled, but in some paranoid way I wondered if she weren't making an underhanded slight, subtly saying that was my only redeeming quality.
          "Yes, it is quite an admirable trait, isn't it?" I said back, half-mockingly.
          She didn't answer. Instead took another bite of turkey and swiss. A piece of shredded lettuce got caught on her lip, and she licked it up. With her, the slightest actions were sometimes frighteningly sexy. Unwittingly I stopped thinking about something to say and just watched her eat and chew. She watched me back as she ate, a little bit confused about my unwavering attention. She didn't seem to care though 'cause she just kept chomping away on her sandwich and looking at me disinterestedly. She reminded me of a squirrel chewing on a nut, keeping its eyes wide open for danger, but nonetheless nibbling contentedly away.
          I exhaled and scratched my leg. Then I picked up my own sandwich and took a bite.
          "Did you have fun with Roderick?" she asked with a full mouth.
          "Mm-Hmm," I muttered back. I waited to swallow and then said, "I had a surprisingly good time. I mean I figured it'd be interesting at least, but I really liked him. We bonded."
          "He didn't try to snuggle up to you in the middle of the night or anything weird, did he?" she asked.
          I laughed softly. That was Jasmine's deep-rooted general distrust seeping through. "No, he was fine," I said. "Although I did have a strange dream that fuzzy gerbils were overruning the world. Do you think that means anything?"
          "Probably just latent homosexual tendencies," she quipped with a straight face. How could I be mad at this girl?
          We finished our food in relative quiet. The lady behind the counter asked us once how everything was, and I nodded with my mouth full. She seemed satisfied and returned to slicing a pressed turkey loaf. I tossed my napkins and trash onto the tray. Jasmine picked it up and slid everything into the garbage. Then she strode energetically out the door and to the car. She was already sprawled in the back seat when I got to the car. Her eyes were closed, so I left her alone and started the car. I got back onto the 405 south, and the freeway daze rose up around me once again. I hunkered down in my pscyhedelic capsule where blurred countryside flashed by at breakneck speeds. It was like a new Disney ride, definitely an E ticket.
          Somewhere along my dizzy journey, I wrapped around onto another freeway and started heading east. I drove straight for hours, until the sun descended behind me and stretched my car into a long shadow. I hadn't heard a peep from Jasmine the entire time. And honestly I hadn't even remembered she was with me until now. I glanced into the back seat, and she was curled into a fetal position, quietly dozing, with one hand swept softly across her lips. I couldn't tell whether she had a finger in her mouth or not.
          The desert terrain took on a surreal coloring in the dusk, full of rich browns and beiges, warmed by the twilight sun. Decrepit wooden fences and scraggly shrubs cast spiky shadows. I wasn't sure what road I was on, but it wasn't too popular. Two lanes ran each direction, deep, black asphalt into infinity. I'd been passed a while back by a big white Cadillac, but that was it. The Cadillac had a leather roof with those tiny, round moon windows on the sides. I didn't see the driver as he passed, but through his back window I saw a white cowboy hat.
          I decided I'd found the road to Nowhere. I also decided that the road to Nowhere was long, and I probably needed a snack on the way. There were no signs. I had no idea when the next gas station or food stop was. By now my gas was running a little low. I kept my eyes peeled and my fingers crossed that I'd run into a mini-mart soon (or a jack rabbit. Either way I'd have something to eat).
          I watched the shadows deepen and the rich colors dwindle toward a lackluster grey. It was like a giant vampire was sucking the life out of the earth. I saw it fade and die before my very eyes. And now it was dark.
          I flicked on my feeble headlights and turned on the heater. The desert cooled quickly once the sun departed. I passed through a gap between two mountains. When I emerged I saw the flicker of a small cluster of lights. Thank God. I was ravenous by now. So was my car. He was squeaking, "Feed me, feed me."
          Through the dim glow of my old headlights I steered toward the town. One of the headlights was slightly off kilter and illuminated random detritus in the gulley on the side of the road. The town approached quickly and thankfully had both a gas station and an A&W. I wondered why these days you could only find A&W's way out in the middle of nowhere. Maybe these franchises hadn't yet heard that all their sister operations in the cities were defunct and kaput, so they went on happily ignorant of the inevitable doom that awaited them. And God bless 'em for it. Long live the frosty A&W rootbeer float! I tried to remember if A&W had a mascot. I kept thinking of the bear for Super Sugar Crisp though.
          I wheeled into the Quickie Mart and gassed up with cash from our slowly diminishing pile. I checked on Jasmine again. Her eyes were still closed, but I don't think she was asleep. I left her alone anyway. Next stop was the A&W.
          A few cars littered the parking lot. Most were probably the employees'. I pulled into a spot right in front of the door and turned off the car. Without looking back, I reached around and poked Jasmine. By accident I poked her in the breast, and she whined, "Hey."
          "You eating?" I asked, still looking forward. I didn't feel like going through the hassle of turning all the way around.
          There was silence for a second. "Yeah, I guess," she mumbled, and I heard the rustling of her getting up. I stepped out of the car and waited for her. She stood up on the back seat and leaped out, expecting me to catch her. She smiled girlishly when I did and then pranced inside. I followed behind.
          The first thing I saw inside was the trademark A&W circular fireplace. It sprouted up right in the middle of the store and had the flexible mesh skirt to contain errant embers. Even though it was spring, the grey, charred remains of real logs sat in the bottom of the fireplace. It gave the place a rustic feel, like a ski lodge. Jasmine stood a few paces back from the counter and studied the giant plastic menu. I ambled up next to her and checked out the menu too. I was just going through the motions though because before I'd set foot in the place I knew what I was going to order: cheeseburger, fries, and rootbeer float. The all-american meal. The lifeblood of our decaying society. The single-handed cause for lower test scores, higher deficits, and militant white supremacists. And I was going to relish every bite.
          Jasmine ordered the Extra Bargain Meal #3 from the fat, pimply cashier in the tight pink frock. Her name tag said, "Eunice." Her frock stretched and creased in its struggle to contain her pudge.
          "And what might I get for you today, sir?" she asked pleasantly with a smile. She crinkled her nose to realign her glasses.
          Jasmine and I loitered until Eunice loaded our food onto a tray. I paid the extra buck and got my float in an authentic glass A&W mug. The rootbeer foam was flowing over the mug when Eunice plopped it on the tray.
          We sat down at a table near the window. The overflowed rootbeer made a puddle on the tray and soaked into the paper wrappers of our food. My sesame seed bun was sogged in a spot. I attacked my float with the long, bright red spoon, shaving the ice cream into a smaller and smaller ball.
          Jasmine and I continued our reticent ways. I gazed at the window while I ate mostly. So did Jasmine. We couldn't see much because it was dark outside. It seemed like anything we talked about would fall painfully short until we talked about the night before. I wanted to think that it didn't matter, that I didn't care. But I did. I wanted to know. But I also didn't want to ask her. It seemed like prying. And why should it matter really? That night was past. But much as I wanted to accept that idea, I couldn't. I wasn't so concerned about what had happened. I more just wanted to know that we could talk about anything, share anything, about our pasts, or futures, or thoughts, whatever. But maybe that didn't make any difference either, so I kept quiet and ate.
          My float was tasty. The burger was all right, and the fries were a little hard--left under the heating light too long. I ate 'em all anyway. Over the muffled sounds of crunching fries, Jasmine asked, "Where are we?"
          "Don't really know," I answered. "We're going sort of east though."
          Jasmine nodded. "O.K. I don't know how far you want to go, but let's just not go through Nebraska."
          "Why?"
          "'Cause I don't want to," she said, a shade bitchy.
          "What, do you have an illegitimate child there you're afraid of running into?" I said sharply.
          "Kind of the other way around."
          "What, I do?" I said, laughing.
          "No," she said softly and looked down at her food before speaking again. "That's where my mom lives now."
          This was one of the few times I'd ever heard her mention her mom. I asked her casually a couple times before, when we were getting ready to head out, like "What'll your parents think?" stuff. She usually said something curt like "Fuck 'em." I never heard much more.
          "When did she move? Didn't you used to live with her in California?"
          "Yeah, until I was about sixteen. Then she met this guy and wanted to move. I wanted to stay. So I lied about my age, got a job at this little cafe, and stayed."
          Getting anything personal out of Jasmine was like prying teeth, and I never knew when I'd crossed the line. Sometimes she didn't want to talk about it, and sometimes she was comforted by my interest and concern. "How'd you afford to live?"
          "I just lived cheap. I shared a one-bedroom apartment with two other girls in a shitty area. I ate a lot of tuna and cereal and ramen."
          "Are you still friends with the other two girls?"
          "No, they were just roommates."
          I felt a little like I was conducting an interrogation. Question-answer, question-answer. "How come you don't like telling me about this stuff?" I asked.
          "I don't know. What difference does it make?" she said like your standard cynic. She ran her hand through her hair and got a faraway look in her eye.
          "Exactly. So why not tell me about it?"
          She breathed in through her nose and licked her teeth and thought for a second. "Because... it's wasting words."
          I tried to stifle my laughter, but it snuck through. She looked at me seriously. I kept chuckling, maybe even more when I saw how truly serious she was. I tried to speak several times but surrendered to giggles each time. Finally I managed to blurt out an incredulous, "Wasting words?" But that was all I could muster.
          She looked at me with a condesceding smirk and waited for me to get ahold of myself. When I had settled down, she repeated, "Yeah, wasting words."
          I smiled again and looked away, gathering myself. "What else is there to do? Why not waste words? It's not like they're expensive." I started chuckling again. "It's not like your mom's gonna come say: 'You better not waste any of those words on your plate. They're people starving in Ethiopia who'd be thrilled to have those words." I snorted, which set off my giggling even more.
          She thought that was somewhat funny. I could tell because her half-smile was genuine this time. But she tried to remain aloof. She was about to say something, but I broke in.
          "Strike me down, Lord," I sang in a reverend's fervor, "for I am guilt-e. I cannot, I say cannot, in good conscience go on." I switched to Jim Baker voice. "I have... sinned against you. I... I used an unnecessary participle. I have... wantonly... wasted... a word." I grimaced in anguish.
          "Are you quite through?" she asked. But she couldn't remain untouched by my giddiness. Serious as she tried to be, the corners of her lips still curled up slightly.
          In Jim Baker's southern accent, I answered, "Yes... yes, I think I am through." But I wasn't really. I returned to my normal voice. "Am I going to Hell now for all those words I just wasted? Because if ever a wasted word was spoken, not one was more wasted than those words I just spoke."
          She still looked at me in silence, but all traces of her reserve had melted away. She looked at me now in quiet, open affection. "You're so adorable," she said, emphasizing the "so".
          This knocked me speechless. I felt the shyness of a little kid dancing in front of a mirror who suddenly discovers someone's watching. I kind of glanced around nervously, not knowing what to say. I dragged a fry through the pile of ketchup and made ketchup scribbles.
          Jasmine looked at me kindly. "See, I knew when I saw you following me around in the Tower that you were a sweetie."
          "I'm not a sweetie," I said, with that instinctive male rebellion to being called cute, sweet, nice, etc. It was kind of like being called "fat but has a great personality". "I didn't follow you around at the Tower either. I just... made myself available. I'm not some psycho stalker."
          "Geez, you try to say something nice..."
          "Well next time don't try 'sweetie' and 'stalker'."
          "How 'bout honeybunch... or cuteypie...." She got up and moved around the table and sat down right next to me on the orange plastic bench. "Or pumpkin... or lima bean... or sweetikins..." She squished into me and tickled me while she cooed the names. I got embarrassed and finally squeezed out the other side of the table and stood up.
          She put on a pouty face and looked up at me. "Awww. Where'd ya go?"
          I drew back and looked at her like she was some monster with long tentacles. "Nina was a strange girl, and I was a fraid of a girl like that," I recited, slightly modifying that 44 lines about 88 women song.
          "Why dontcha come back, please hurry, why wontcha come back," she sang just like that other song. She swayed to the rhythm on the orange plastic bench seat.
          "Why ya always gotta be so weird?" I said with a Brooklyn accent.
          "Oh, come on, you love it. Come back and sit with me," she said with her pouty face on again.
          I relented and sat down next to her. She immediately rolled over and put her head in my lap. She looked up at me with her lapis eyes and made kissing motions with her lips. She looked like a goldfish, but I didn't say so. It was a very cute goldfish anyway. I gazed down at her and stroked her hair. She had thick ebony-black hair that fell in silky strands when I released it from my fingers. I put my other hand on her stomach.
          I began to feel some of my old attraction for her. Some internal circuit breaker snapped as soon as I did though, and I went numb again. I regarded her face impassively, like a painter remembering the lines and shadows for a canvas... and maybe even like a detective scrutinizing a dead victim for clues.
          I think Jasmine felt the change in me because she sat up. She popped a last fry in her mouth and then said, "Ready?" I swallowed the last gulp of my float and stood up behind her. She waited for me at the door, watching me tentatively. She didn't try to touch me when I walked up, just opened the door for me and then followed me out.
          "Ya wanna keep going?" I asked once we were back in the car.
          "Of course," she said.
          "Just drive forever? Drive into oblivion?" I asked.
          "Promise?" she asked plaintively.
          I pulled out of the A&W parking lot. The car bounced through the deep gutter and then smoothed out on the slick black asphalt of the newly-paved road. I found my way back to the freeway, back onto the desolate desert road sheathed in darkness. The air had cooled considerably. Jasmine reached around and picked up the blanket from the back seat. She leaned over and tucked a corner under me, stretched it over my legs, and then pulled the rest over her. I reached down and turned on the heater. Then I flicked on the radio quietly. It was static. Way out in the hinterlands, I was relegated to evangelists, country, and fuzz. I left it on the fuzz. It was comforting somehow. We drove for a while and then Jasmine asked, "What was your childhood like?"
          It was hard to condense ten years of my life into a single response. I said, "It was good. There was good and bad. But I think most of it's just perspective."
          "What do you mean?"
          "My parents got divorced when I was about five. But I have happy memories. I got a chance to be a little kid, to have chicken fights in the wilderness, to play tag on the school roof on balmy, summer nights... It was good."
          Jasmine wasn't watching me, but I could tell she was listening. I had to talk kind of loud to be heard over the wind. The radio wasn't loud enough to matter.
          "What do you remember about being a kid?" she asked.
          "Lots of things. Like what?"
          "Like everything. We've got time."
          "In the apartment complex I used to live in, all the kids hung out together. They were different ages, but that didn't matter so much. Everyone had their own role. We used to play this game called the tripping game. All the kids would meet on this lawn in the center of the complex. The older kids would line up, and then when they said 'go,' the young kids would have to sprint in between them, and they'd try to trip us. We tried to leap high enough to clear their legs, but we didn't always make it."
          "That doesn't sound like much fun," Jasmine commented.
          "Actually it was. And there was this one kid, a little older than me. One time he came down to play with his shin guards on, and everyone made fun of him. He was kind of a whiny, weasely guy anyway. Then we used to play wiffle ball on that same lawn. My apartment was on the second floor of the outfield. If you got it on my porch, it was a home run."
          "Yeah," she said, prompting me to continue.
          I thought for a second. "I remember in kindergarten playing cootie kisser. You know what that is?"
          "Yes," she said emphatically and rolled her eyes at me.
          "O.K. Sorry," I said. "Anyway, we were playing one day, and somehow--I'm not sure how because I was so fleet of foot that they never caught me--some girl got hold of me. I kept running, but she was pulling me in like a giant octopus. Just when I thought I was done for, I had a flash of inspiration. I couldn't slip free of her steel grasp, so instead I wriggled out of my parka vest and scooted to safety. I was pretty smug until the end of the day when I had to beg her for my vest back."
          "That's cute," Jasmine said. "I'll bet you were a precious little child," she said like a doting aunt.
          "I was pretty cute," I bragged. "My hair used to be totally blond. My mom let it grow out into long curls. I had pink cheeks and blue eyes and big lips. I was your standard cherub," I concluded boastfully.
          "So what happened?" she teased.
          "Yeah, yeah, yeah. What about you?"
          "I don't want to talk about me yet. Tell me some more."
          I paused and thought. "We used to play tag in the summers on the roof of my junior high. Once it got dark, about 9, we'd all convene on the blacktop. The nights were lazy and warm. Someone would be chosen 'it.' Then we'd scamper up onto the roof and scope out hiding places and escape routes.
          "There was this one place where a V roof overlooked this other lower flat roof. The gap was about six feet, but it really wasn't that far because the V roof was three or four feet higher. It was more a matter of guts to clear it. Some people were ballsy enough and some weren't. So that was always a good place to hide near. Then if someone came, you could make the leap. Hopefully they'd be too chicken to follow. If they chickened out, you'd stick your tongue out at them from the other side.
          "Sometimes the cops would come, but they never found us. I don't know how they even knew we were there. Maybe some old bag neighbor ratted on us. They'd roll into the parking lot with their search light searching. All we had to do was stay quiet. They never came up on the roof. Even if they did, there's no way they would've caught us.
          "Once we'd all tired out and the game was done, sometimes we'd sit at the edge of the roof and look out over the black top and the field. You could actually see pretty well when the sky was clear and your eyes had adjusted to the darkness. We'd dangle our feet over the edge and chatter. Sometimes we'd pry up roof tiles and hurl them out onto the field. They flew pretty well. Is that enough?" I asked.
          "What, you don't want to talk about this stuff?"
          "No, I like it. I just don't want to bore you."
          "You never bore me," she said and brushed her hand down my arm. "What else?"
          "There's a lot else. I don't really know what to tell you, so I'm just saying whatever comes to mind." I paused. "Every once in a while I used to smoke cloves way out in my friend's back yard. After school we'd go hide out under the trees, away from his house where no one would see us. There was this irrigation ditch out there. We sat on the side of it and shot the breeze. I remember beige dirt and a white plastic pipe running through the ditch. On the day I'm thinking of the sky was spotted with puffy white clouds. And the wind made the bushes sway softly around us.
          "I used to catch lizards too. That was fun. There were two kinds where I lived: the bluebelly and the alligator lizard. The bluebellies were the ones you wanted. They had this great, shimmery blue stomach. You tried to stay away from the alligator lizards 'cause they'd bite. Once I was at my babysitter's house out in the boonies, and there was a lizard inside the house. I tried to catch it but only got its tail, which came off in my hand and started jumping around. I dropped it quickly, and my babysitter started screaming as this disembodied tail flopped around the floor. Don't worry," I told Jasmine as an aside. "They grow new tails."
          "That's good. I was about to pull off your tail, see how you like it," she said. "Now I don't have to."
          "I don't think mine would grow back. I don't think mine's a tail either," I said and smirked at her.
          She just looked at me. Then she turned and looked out into the darkness. We were doing about 65 and her hair flailed around in the wind. "I bet there are a lot of good stories out there," she said. "You know like duels and vendettas... and ladies of ill-repute... way back when."
          "Yeah if you go out there far enough. Around here it's probably always been just a bunch of tumbleweed and blanched bull horns."
          "Yeah, probably. But somewhere out there." She looked back at me. "O.K. what else?"
          "I think I'm about storied out right now. Maybe I'll tell you some more later."
          "Didn't you have any bad things?"
          I thought. "Yeah, I had bad things, but those aren't what I dwell on. I mean my parents split up when I was five. That's not real easy to deal with for a little kid. At least they didn't fight much. But it still sucked. That's the world you know growing up. Home, two parents, cat, etc. Then the inconceivable happens. It's like, who knew that was an option. It seems like part of your world has been taken away. Now you only have half all the time. When you're with your mom, you're not with your dad, and vice versa. But you know, in a lot of ways it was a good thing too.
          "Yeah, I guess it's almost easier when you don't know it any other way," she said.
          "What do you mean?"
          "Like if you never have two parents. Then you don't know the difference. I just grew up with my mom really. My dad split when I was about one. My mom always said it was better that way 'cause he was drunk all the time, and coked up when he could afford it."
          "Have you seen him since?" I asked.
          "No. He moved and I never cared enough to go looking. I mean what's it gonna do for me?"
          "Yeah. All these people go on quests for the parents they somehow never knew. I don't quite get it. Maybe it'd be different for me if I didn't know both my parents. Maybe I'd be curious. But I don't know. I think it's just people looking for something. They think to themselves, 'I've got this gnawing emptiness inside me. It must be because I never had this person in my life. Maybe if I find him or her, everything will be all better.' It's just people looking for something."
          "Maybe," Jasmine said. "I considered it once or twice, more because it'd be weird than anything else. The thought of shocking some old guy by showing up and announcing myself as his daughter always kinda turned me on. I let it go though."
          I smiled and said sarcastically, "So do you have man-issues then?" I glanced at her. She was looking at me earnestly and silently, like she didn't even know I said anything. I looked back ahead.
          After a short pause she said, "I don't know. Maybe. Sometimes I do weird shit, and I don't really know why. I wonder if there's stuff going on in me that I don't know about, behind-the-scenes stuff."
          The road was smooth, and we were cruising into the void. I'd felt alone for a while, but again I had inklings that Jasmine and I had some sort of a bond, a complicity in utter escape. The tires whirred and the headlights bobbed. The vivid yellow double-line persevered next to us, matching our pace exactly. It ran unnaturally straight. One of the accomplishments of man. Get a guy in a orange vest and a hard hat out here with another guy in an orange vest and a hard hat, give one of 'em a funny looking telescope, and before you know it they'll have you a line that's straighter than a churchfull of Southern Baptists. A few stars glowed dully overhead. The air felt fresh and dry.
          "Do you think we really know ourselves?" Jasmine asked me. "Like backwards and forwards. Everything."
          "Pretty much, yeah. I guess it's hard to completely understand all our feelings, but I think you pretty much control who you are. If you want to be something, you can be that way. Or if you don't, then you can do that too. People have too many excuses. It's their grandma's fault, or their kindergarten teacher's fault, or society's fault." I paused. "Listen to me rant. I'm as bad as they are. You know what I really think. I don't think it makes a bit of difference."
          "That's an easy answer," she responded.
          "Yep. That's why I like it."
          "I guess I like it too," she said and touched my hand. I looked down, but she had already slid her hand back into her lap.
          We drove in silence for a spell, the air whisking through our hair and the heater dutifully spewing warmth at our feet and legs. I started thinking about things. I thought about Jasmine as a little girl, growing up with her mom, maybe making her mom a clay pot in art class. I pictured her with pig tails and tennis shoes climbing a tree. I wondered when the pessimism of maturity overwhelmed her bright girlish spirit. Or was she one of those kids who are adult from about the age of five? That seemed more like it. It was hard for me to transform her in my head from the way she was now into some idyllic vision of a little girl. In some way I could see it, but at the same time it didn't seem to fit. I couldn't see her as a kid playing house and serving tea to make-believe friends, but I could see her with poignant, hopeful eyes and a heart-wrenching innocence. But I had to look really deep.
          I'd spent many years learning how not to think, and I exercised that discipline now. My mind used to become cluttered with nonsense. It clouded my head. So I learned to calm the noise. I sank back into the chair. I put my hand in front of the heater vent and savored the warmth. My foot was starting to cramp against the accelerator, so I readjusted my driving leg. Then I leaned over and stuck my head into the wind. I opened my mouth and let the blast fill my cheeks. I relaxed and let them flap. I had a hard time seeing with the wind in my eyes, but I could make out shapes well enough to keep us on the road.
          In the distance I made out two specks of light coming toward us. I kept my head out the window and guided the car up against the center line. The lights grew bigger. They were high above the road, probably a semi. Something hit me in the face and stung a bit, maybe a bug. I kept my head out. We drew closer to the approaching car, and I could see that it was a mammoth semi with a curved wind deflector on the roof of the cab. I imagined edging my car slightly into the other lane, leaving my head out the window, and letting the semi take it clean off with a muffled 'schwump'. As the semi neared, I edged the car the other way, toward the side, but still imagined my impending demise. I saw it so clearly--my head contacting the left side of the grill, mushing and severing from my neck at impact, and rolling unevenly to a halt fifty yards away--that I even got nervous just before it whooshed by. But I survived.
          I pulled my head back into the car and glanced around, not knowing what to do with myself now. Already I was bored again. I looked at Jasmine. She was bored too. I had an urge to poke her in the side, but I fought it and it went away. I was restless and antsy now, and she seemed the logical target. I bounced up and down in my seat until she looked at me. Then I looked back at the road, pretending I hadn't done anything. I saw her look away, and I did it again. She looked at me again. This time I grinned back stupidly. She just shook her head at me. I slumped back into my seat, snubbed. I tried to stretch my legs but couldn't get them quite straight in my small car. I realized the radio was still quietly hissing static, so I started scanning the stations.
          I punched my pre-sets for fun, to see if they happened to land on anything out here. The first two were dense fuzz. The third was a Spanish station that faded in and out with a staccato cackle. The fourth offered up a hearty polka. I listened for a minute, first out of curiosity and then out of sheer amazement that people actually liked this. I listened hard, trying to pick out nuances that might catch someone's fancy. I gave up and moved on. The fifth pre-set was also fuzz, framed vaguely by a distant male voice. The voice sounded like a WWII war correspondent, or the guy who narrated all the junior high science films--same guy you know.
          I pressed the sixth preset and was greeted by a Spanish ballad, sung by a husky-voiced woman. I reached back for some of my high school Spanish and tried to understand the lyrics. After five verses and two choruses, all I'd come up with was "mi querida" and "el dolor," meaning my dearest and the pain. I kept listening though because it had a sweet, poignant sound that dragged me out of my boredom. The woman's voice carried a lush tone that took me to Mediterranean sea cliffs... and then pushed me over the ledge and left me plummeting to the rocks below.
          Suddenly it seemed dumb to me that I was with Jasmine, this alluring, intelligent person, and we were just sitting quietly next to each other, wasting time. I felt like we should be talking or something. I'm sure if we were, I would've felt like not, but such are the vagaries of life--that's what I learned on a cartoon one day. So I looked at Jasmine to make sure she was awake. She was. Just staring placidly into the darkness, her body swaying to undulations in the road. I looked back forward and set about composing an interesting question that would spark some profound discourse.
          My friend, Alan, always liked scenarios, so I tried out a couple of those in my head. "What if you were three feet tall, had green skin, and suffered from 'big, nobbly warts all over [your] long, hairy face' and you were 'very, very ugly indeed'?" While that question did bring up some pertinent philosophical issues (e.g. what would Deepak Chopra say about the mind-body relationship if your body were short and green?), it just didn't seem to have the legs I was looking for. I wanted something that could carry us for two, three days. "How much wood could a woodchuck chuck...?" The timeless questions were still very valid, but I wanted something new. I probably needed a good "why" question, something open-ended.
          And what finally came out of my mouth was, "So'd you have a good time last night?" She turned and regarded me seriously, then looked at her finger and picked a nail. She didn't seem too eager to talk, so I turned my attention back to driving and left her alone.
          After a momentous silence, she said, "It was O.K."
          I wasn't going to beg her for elaboration, so I just sat.
          Finally she said, slightly exasperated, "What do you want to know?"
          "I don't know, what do I want to know? It sounds like there actually is something to know." I wasn't going to grill her. Whatever. I let her off easy and lobbed a softball at her, "So what were the people like?"
          She hesitated. "They were pretty cool. Not really my scene, but it was interesting. Sort of the beautiful crowd. Lots of people who looked like they'd been transplanted into the party from a bad soap opera. Most of 'em were pretty nice though. I figured people would've ignored me more than they did."
          "Huh," I said. I didn't know what to ask next. I let it alone. I'd thrown the topic out there; she could talk if she wanted to.
          "So how was your night?" she asked hopefully.
          I was annoyed she even asked. I didn't want to talk about my night. Talking about my night would've been idle chit-chat. It would've been the easy way out. I didn't bother answering at first. Then I said sulkily, "It was fine."
          "What'd you guys do?" she continued eagerly.
          "Look, I don't really feel like talking about that right now. If you don't want to talk about whatever it is you don't want to talk about, then let's just be silent," I said plainly.
          She mulled that over. "How come you don't have to talk about what you don't want to, but I do?" she questioned defensively.
          "You don't. That's what I just said."
          "Is it?" she asked.
          I sighed, frustrated, and kept driving. We fell into another silence. An upbeat Spanish Polka--well, not really a Polka, but one of those frantic songs with mariachis that cholos listen to in their lowriders--had subsumed the previous sultry ballad. I reached down and turned it up. My speakers crackled under the strain.
          Jasmine frowned at me and then flipped down the volume in annoyance. "What's your deal?" she demanded.
          "What's your damage, Heather?" I chanted back.
          Now it was her turn to be frustrated. She sank back into her chair and crossed her arms. I looked over. Her lips were pursed, and she just sat there shaking her head. I considered saying something but said fuck it instead. Jasmine stewed. I didn't really care at the moment. I turned the Latin samba up again and danced a little in my seat, pretty much achieving my goal of being an obnoxious bastard. It got to her.
          "Fine. You wanna know what happened last night?" she burst out.
          I continued grooving and didn't pay attention.
          "Don't be a dick," she said. "Look, you wanna know. I'm gonna tell you."
          Truth was I did want to know, and I didn't want to risk pissing her off further so that she didn't tell me at all. I turned and granted her my grudging attention.
          "I got together with Tom," she declared.
          This wasn't really news to me. But it gave me a slight stabbing pain to hear it affirmed. I looked back at the road and soaked it in.
          "Yeah, well I got together with Roderick," I launched back.
          At first she couldn't tell whether I was kidding or not. Until I started chuckling. Then she looked at me in mild shock. Obviously she'd expected a different reaction. I just smiled softly. Somehow it really didn't make a bit of difference, her getting together with some dude. Why should I care?
          "You're not going psycho on me, are you?" she asked. "That laughter isn't gonna grow into some maniacal cackle where you pull out an axe and chop me up, is it?"
          I smiled more and at the end narrowed my eyes and squinted at her like a psycho. Then I giggled and said, "Who knows."
          She pulled her knees underneath her on the seat and leaned toward me. "Aw, you wouldn't do that to me," she insisted in a cute voice, warming over her distance and trying to melt mine.
          I halfway smiled at her and then turned away.
          "So you don't mind?" she asked hesitantly.
          "It's not that I totally don't mind. It's your life; you can do what you want. It just makes me feel not as close to you," I answered.
          She dropped her head and pondered that. Then she looked up at me and bit her lip but didn't say anything. I waited for her to say something. She just said, "Yeah," and then looked down again. She put her legs down and sat facing forward again. She slumped in her seat and picked her nails some more.
          "I think I'm gay now," I said. "Roderick was amazing." My attempt to lighten the situation fell totally flat. Jasmine didn't stir, just kept prying at her cuticles. "O.K. Sorry," I said. I opened my mouth to say something else but stopped. Why did I have to be the peacemaker? I didn't do anything. I zoned out and drove and forgot about the girl next to me.
          About ten minutes later, I heard a voice. "I don't know why," it said. I came to from my stupor and realized Jasmine had just said that. I glanced over at her to make sure I hadn't imagined it. She was looking at me. I waited. "I don't know why I did it," she said again. I listened. "I mean, he was cute. I was attracted to him. I just kind of figured why not," she trailed off.
          "Did you sleep with him?" I asked.
          She didn't answer right away. She looked at me, trying to read my face, trying to find some clue about how she should answer. But I didn't have an answer for her. She nodded slowly.
          This road went on forever it seemed. The double yellow line still paced us doggedly. I don't think we'd seen another car for miles. Or maybe I just hadn't seen it. For some reason I wanted to speak nonsense. I wanted to recite unintelligible Old English prose, maybe throwing in some Celtic war cries. I tried to remember the Jabberwocky: "beware the Jubjub bird and the frumious bandersnatch" was how it came to me, not sure if that's right. I wanted to get sucked down a whirlpool of words and sing-songy phrases and wave a cheery goodbye as I stuck in the drain for a second before getting pulled through with a 'thwuck'. I didn't feel like talking. I felt like hearing. But I knew I couldn't be left alone to hear until I had talked, at least a little.
          I turned to Jasmine. "I'm not mad," I said honestly, and then gave my eyes back to the road. My head I kept for myself. I let my head lull me with haunting melodies and echoes, enchanting soundscapes that rose from nowhere and supplanted the monotony of the road. "Maundering through the blear" was one of the lyrics in my internal sonic pastiche. Thanks to Señor Abbey for that one. He wrote an interesting article about the biology of beauty once. Saw it in an old Esquire. Reduces it all to neurons and synapses, in a way. Seems a shame but may be right. How could I blame this big pile of neurons and synapses sitting to my right? It was all biochemically preordained. The Age of Enlightenment was long over. Free will went out the window with... who? Gimme one of the great Enlightenment thinkers. I don't know. You get the idea.
          So there I was, sitting next to this sack of neurons and synapses--flesh and blood too. And pheremones and whatnot. At this point I was 100 miles away though. My axons had short-circuited. (Maybe a problem with my myelin sheaths. (That was for you, Todd.)) I didn't feel anything for her. No distaste, no ire. But no affection either. I felt sort of cheery even, far away, floating.
          "I don't know what else I can say?" Jasmine said, a hint of anguish seeping through. "In a way, I wish I hadn't. But in a way, I'm glad I did. I don't want to hurt you, but I can't live my life worrying about other people." She paused.
          I heard snatches of her sentences 'cause I wasn't really listening. ...know what else... (dot of light passing through sky, maybe plane full of gamblers en route to Vegas)... glad I did... (scratching itch on left thigh)... can't live... (picture Jasmine's face on the Mona Lisa)... worrying about other people.
          "I'm sorry, what?" I said and chuckled. This was the same thing I said when Hunter tried to tell me something but I got too distracted by his mammoth, lamb chop sideburns.
          "Fuck you," Jasmine said curtly. "I did it, so fuckin' deal," she ended.
          I stuck my jaw out and pinched my lips together and nodded my head. "You're right," I acknowledged. "You can do whatever you want. And I can be hurt about what you want. But that's my deal. Unless you choose to make it yours too."
          I looked at her to see if she was listening. She was. Intently. Her features were settled into a somber melancholy. Big blue wistful eyes. Strands of hair flapping against her statuesque, porcelain face. She blinked and a single tear streaked down her right cheek. She sighed, and I looked back at the road.
          I looked back at her, and she was still looking at me. "Will you hold my hand?" she asked plaintively, softly. I put my hand, palm up, on my leg, and she placed hers in mine. It felt a little forced to me at first, but was comforting eventually. Our talk subsided, and we hurtled quietly forward over this anonymous road.
          My neurons starting firing again, and I was glad to be with Jasmine. Periodically I felt her fingers move a bit. I couldn't tell whether it was unconscious or not.
          The road since A&W had been desolate. Occasionally I saw some lights on a lone farm off in the distance, but mainly it was darkness. I was starting to get tired, and I wanted an excuse to not have to interact with Jasmine--sleep was a good one. It's not that I was upset, just hurt, and everything seemed a little strained. I needed a motel.
          Just as I was thinking this, we passed a green highway sign with one of those "gas, food, lodging" placards. The lodging part, you know the line house--had a little curlicue of smoke drifting out a line chimney. Made me think of Smokey the Bear. Anyway, I only had to wait out two miles before I could step into the line house, turn into a stick figure, and warm myself before a two-dimensional fire. If that wasn't something to look forward to. I decided artbitrarily that that was where we were going to stop tonight.
          Jasmine was still gently holding my hand. I slipped my hand out of hers on the pretense that I had to scratch my neck. When I was done, I set it on the steering wheel. I wasn't trying to make a statement. Suddenly it was just getting too cutesy for me. It didn't seem to bother her. She just left her hand resting on my thigh.
          Without thinking I took the "lodging" turnoff. When I stopped for the stop sign, my brain snapped into action, and I realized that I was close to bed. I was at a four-way intersection. Straight turned into a dirt road that ran up into some hills. Right was darkness. Left were some lights about half a mile up. We drove up that way. First passed a bowling alley, the Chamber of Commerce, the Elks' Lodge, an Arby's, then, thankfully, a Motel 6. I steered into the near empty parking lot.
          We got a room and lugged our crap up the stairs to 2C. I was a little disappointed when I opened the door to see that Tom Bodett hadn't "left the light on for me." Understandably so. When Jasmine flicked the switch, we were greeted by a garish print that hung over the bed. It was a clown in full clown get-up but with a sad face. He had a tear painted under his eye to the right of his giant red nose. The original had been an oil, and the print reflected the original's thick, crude strokes. I had to look at it closely because I thought I could even make out the ridges from the paint strokes. When I got close, the ridges resolved into tiny little silk screen dots. Hey, an impressionist piece too. What a talent this clown painter was! The lime green carpet wasn't a real decorating piece de resistance either, but what's a motel room without such trappings?
          Once my brain had stopped reeling from the color scheme, I threw myself face down on the bed and proceeded to drool on the pillow. Jasmine shuffled around and then went into the bathroom. I fell asleep almost instantly but woke up when I felt the drool against my cheek. I got up and brushed my teeth next to Jasmine who was also using the sink. Then I stripped my clothes off on the way back to the bed and slid hastily underneath the covers.
          I had many dreams. Dreams of flying and chasing. Dreams of running through a fog and my limbs seizing up into slow-mo while vague shapes rushed past me. I also remembered a dream where I'd been hiding under water from the cavalry, only I could breathe under water and every breath caused my back to break the surface of the water. There were legions of infantrymen scouring the banks of the river, and I had to hold my breath to keep them from spotting me. Finally I couldn't hold my breath any longer and woke in a paroxysm of coughing. I opened my eyes and looked anxiously around the room. It was still dark, and Jasmine was sleeping quietly. My stirring didn't disturb her. I settled back into the covers and fell into a heavy dreamless sleep.
          Later, a ray of light snuck through the blinds and fell onto my eyelid. I angrily repositioned my head and fell back asleep. Next time a whole army of rays broke through the blinds and assaulted me relentlessly. I pulled the blanket over my head and returned again to a fitful sleep. I sensed Jasmine moving around, but I refused to get up. I knew it must be late by now. I didn't really care. What was I getting up for? Why leave the comfort of my warm blanket and soft bed? What did the day offer me that could beat that? I turned over again and balled the blanket over my eyes to make it dark. Finally I felt Jasmine's warm hand on my exposed shoulder.
          "Travis. Travis. Are you going to get up?" she said softly. I rolled over away from her and pulled the blanket up. I had really staled on this whole thing. I just wanted to be by myself. Jasmine laid herself on my back. "Come on. Don't sleep forever. Who's gonna play with me?"
          "You can play with you," I said. I felt a little better. That was a fun image. Her weight on my back made me sour again. I wanted to roll her off me, but I refrained.
          "Would you get up then?" she asked.
          Hmmm. That might be just the incentive I needed. "Uhhh," I grunted, more from the weight of her than any excitement, but she took this as an affirmative.
          "O.K. Get up then," she commanded.
          I didn't move. "You can't just do it like that. So mechanical. You need some foreplay. You need to treat yourself tenderly for a while." I laughed. "Whisper some sweet nothings or something and get back to me when you're ready. I'm not going anywhere," I said lazily out the corner of my mouth. My words were slightly garbled by the pillow case that rested against my lips.
          "But I need you for that," she cooed.
          I thought about making some comment about her needing Tom for that. No need to spoil a perfectly cozy morning. "I thought the whole point of this arrangement was to minimize my obligations and let me sleep," I complained. "If you get me involved, you're missing the point."
          "Fine. I don't need you," she huffed and rolled off me. She didn't get off the bed though. I tried to go back to sleep, but I was disturbed in a few minutes by a gentle rocking motion transmitted by the mattress. I peeked out from under the blanket and saw Jasmine sitting up next to me. She was topless, and her head was thrown back, resting against the wall. Her eyes were closed, and she was breathing heavily. I couldn't see her hands. She had a perfect, amazing stomach, delicately sculpted, her muscles tensing and soft ridges showing when she contracted. I scrolled my eyes up her stomach past her breasts up to her face. I was intrigued by her expressions. I watched her face as her features flipped from relaxed to pained to ecstatic. She climaxed, and her neck dropped forward. She sat like that in exhaustion without moving, just breathing deeply. Then she took a breath, slowly opened her eyes, and looked down at me. She saw I was watching her.
          "Are you awake now?" she asked with raised eyebrows.
          I smirked up at her. "It looks like you are at least."
          "Now I'm gonna need a nap," she said with a contented smile.
          "O.K. Come nap with me," I said.
          She snuggled under the blanket and pressed her warm naked body up against mine. She melted into me, her curves fitting perfectly with mine. As a pencil drawing, our forms would have been a single squiggly line. One side was me, and the other was Jasmine.
          I don't think I fell asleep again, but my head was muddled and groggy under the hot blanket. The morning wore on, and I wasn't quite asleep but I was far from awake. I started to get a headache and decided that opening my eyes might help. I eased my body up, trying not to disturb Jasmine. She was awake anyway. "Morning," she said hoarsely.
          I looked at her from behind half-closed eyes and smiled like a druggie savoring a fresh fix. I was relishing my moment of oblivion, trying to hang onto it. Still incoherent and befuddled from sleeping too long, comfortably so, but the thumping pain in my head slowly dragged me into clarity.
          When my brain came back to me I was hit with the unhappy realization that, since I was awake, I now had to decide what to do. I looked at Jasmine. I looked around the room. I didn't want to have to do anything. But that's kind of a requisite to being awake: you have to do something. Not sure why. Never made a lot of sense to me. That's just how it works. What I really wanted to do was go back to sleep. It was far too late for that though (rules, you know). And Jasmine was busy bouncing on the bed to make sure I didn't crawl back into my dreamworld.
          I sighed in defeat and said, "Fine. What do we do now?"
          "Don't we have somewhere to be?"
          "No. That's exactly the problem. If we did, I'd be going and not fretting."
          "Well, let's pick somewhere then," she said cheerily. "Let's see." She clasped her hands, cocked her head, and stared at a spot on the ceiling while she thought. She also made funny sucking noises. I guess they helped her concentrate. "Let's go to Corpus Christi," she resolved.
          "What?!" I gasped, not so much in disgust at Corpus Christi (they have great windsurfing there I hear) but more in surprise. "Why?"
          "I'unno. You got a better idea?"
          "What are we doing?" I asked pensively. "Not where are we going. What are we doing?"
          "What do you mean?"
          "We're in some motel in the middle of Nevada. Is that what state we're in? I'm with some random girl I met in a Tower Records. I just spent an entire evening with some nut named Roderick and felt closer to him than I do with most people I've known for years... which worries me. I quit school in the middle of the quarter and am driving aimlessly around the country in a grey Honda with the roof cut off. What do you mean what do I mean?"
          "Oh, that. Why do you have to make order of it? Why do you have to fit it all into some neat framework?"
          "I don't know. Maybe it's a guy thing. Don't you think about this stuff?"
          "A little bit I guess."
          "I need a destination I think. Either that or I need a more tumultuous ride. I think I'm just losing interest," I confided.
          She paused. "In me?" she asked.
          "I don't know. Maybe a little. I don't like being in the middle of nowhere. I need something to stimulate me, a change of scenery. Trees or grass or weeds or billboards or neon or traffic lights. Just something different. I'm tired of the desert. I'm tired of the desolation."
          She didn't say anything at first. "What do you want to do?"
          "I think I'm disenchanted. Nothing works out like it could. I'm trying to pretend that I'm cool with you sleeping with some dude. But that makes me sad. Somehow it's cut off my whole intrigue with you... This is weird, me telling you all this. Do you want me too?"
          "Yes," she said.
          "I don't know how to say it. It makes you normal. It makes you just like everyone else, no sense of idealism. I feel like I want someone who'll play in the clouds with me." I paused. "I sound like a chick, huh? I don't mean it that way. It's not that I'm bummed that you slept with that guy. I'm bummed that you wanted to sleep with that guy. It's just me concocting fantasies and watching them dissipate. But then I say this and think to myself, hell, there are lots of girls I'd want to sleep with. I just don't want to sleep with them now, when I'm with you, or didn't. What the hell do I know?"
          "I understand. I know. I'm confused too. When I try to take my head out of the equation, stuff like this happens. But when I leave it in, I just go back and forth and don't get anywhere. It just all becomes more than I want to concern myself with. Let's not talk anymore," Jasmine suggested.
          "O.K. We never decided what we're doing though," I reminded her.
          "Yeah, huh? Details, details..."
          "I've never had New York pizza... or been on a subway."
          "You're saying you want to go to New York?" she asked, surprised.
          "Why not? What else is there to do?"
          "As long as you promise that we can hit Scranton on the way back," she joked.
          "Way back?" I said. I craned my head around and admired the clown on the wall. "I'm starting to feel better already. Then once we get to New York, we can pick someplace else."
          "You're really planning on stretching the money we got left."
          "Oh, yeah... that. Well, I can dream, can't I?" I said.
          "Sounds like you do too much of that as it is," she poked.
          I pinned her arms and planted a long kiss on her. I was feeling very light somehow. She was still naked, and still adorable. How could I help myself? Then I popped off the bed and starting throwing my stuff together.
          We rambled down the stairwell with ratty hair and loose steps. The metal railings clanged with every footfall. My left shoe was untied and the string slapped each stair on the way down. The day was hot already, and a steady wind did nothing to quell the increasing sun.
          Everything was feeling routine. Late morning wake up. Loaded up the car like usual. Nothing really on the agenda. Only today we had a destination, which infused all my motions with a nagging significance. I felt like someone was trying to whisper something to me under the wind... but I couldn't quite make it out. At one point I thought I saw something out the corner of my eye, but I glanced up to spy nothing but empty parking lot and a lone pick-up buzzing down the interstate about a hundred yards off.
          "Wow, I just had deja vu," Jasmine said while hoisting her duffle into the trunk.
          "That's funny. I kinda did too. It's eerie, huh? I feel like I'm in the presence of ghosts or something."
          "Maybe we're on some ancient Indian burial ground," Jasmine said slyly. She opened her eyes wide and wiggled her fingers like she was casting a spell.
          I drove us up to the office, and Jasmine ran in to handle the bill. She came back out to the car with a big grin.
          "Why are you so happy?" I asked.
          "Nothing. Just am all of a sudden. Leaving always makes me feel free."
          "What about arriving somewhere?"
          "Nah. That's more of a drag."
          "Maybe you should be a flight attendant," I suggested.
          "Yeah, but for each departure there's an arrival."
          "Maybe you should do like Cain in Kung Fu."
          "Isn't that what I'm doing?"
          I'd pulled back onto the frontage road and was heading toward the entrance to our trusty freeway. Before I knew it we were cruising down the freeway just like the day before with the radio crackling intermittently. Only difference I could tell was Jasmine was wearing tight shiny black pants today and a white, cut-off t-shirt with an American flag right between her breasts.
          I was feeling a little claustrophobic. Too much time in the same car on the same road with the same person and no end in sight. But I was a fan of her new outfit, and when I felt too tense I just copped a glance of her stomach and everything was OK again.
          "So Teddy, tell me a little about yourself," Jasmine said.
          "Well..." I adopted a thick southern drawl. "I grew up a coal miner's son in a poor town just west of the Alleghanies."
          "Don't you mean the Appalachians?" she corrected.
          "I don't know, do I?"
          "I don't want to hear about that stuff anyway. Tell me something interesting."
          "All right. Did you know Coca-Cola used to have cocaine in it?" I offered.
          "No, come on. Don't you have anything interesting to say?"
          "Damn. Tough crowd. I don't know. Haven't we covered everything?" I said lamely.
          "In like a week? We've covered you're whole life? Tell me a secret," she persisted.
          "You tell me one." The wind hummed past and the sun crept higher. We were driving straight towards it.
          "I lost my virginity when I was twelve," she said. "I lost it to my 18-year old cousin... and it wasn't voluntary."
          I wasn't sure how to respond, so I just let her talk some more. "How'd it happen?" I asked.
          She reflected and then said, "I was staying at my aunt's house for a week while my mom went on a vacation with her new boyfriend. It was a shitty little place over in the East Bay right near Hayward. You know those ratty houses that sit in between warehouses and look totally out of place, always painted some flaking pastel? It was one of those places. It had a front stoop too." She grew quiet as she remembered more clearly. "Anyway, so I had to stay there for a while. My aunt set up a little cot for me in the other bedroom, the one she didn't use, the one her ugly son slept in. So the first couple days were all right. It was summer; I found things to do, a couple kids to play with. My aunt taught me how to play chess too. I was lonely though. I missed my mom."
          Jasmine was sure telling the story the roundabout way. I wanted to hear it the way she wanted to tell it though, so I listened.
          "My aunt was a horrible cook. Macaroni and cheese for dinner. Bologna sandwiches with Velveeta for lunch, on Wonderbread of course. Her husband wasn't really around much either. Occasionally he'd stumble through with bloodshot, rheumy eyes, drag his hairy knuckles on the carpet and then clomp out. I felt like a total outsider just trying to get out of everyone's way all the time." She took a deep breath.