Paul from New Jersey. (One) Fiction

Maxwell Andersen did not ask me about New Jersey. In an e-mail, he mentioned he was from Brea. Apparently, there is a great mall there, but I know little of California. Maxwell told me he preferred “Maxwell” to “Max” and when we met at Starbucks, his handshake was firm; sure. We both ordered a tall Americano and discussed how the bills would be paid and how the apartment would be kept clean. I told him I had enough savings to cover costs until I found an accounting job. He was relaxed but solid, and within fifteen minutes we agreed to become roommates. He would be the first person not to know, that, up to two weeks ago, I was deaf.

“You’ll like L.A.,” Maxwell said as we walked to our cars, “Man…your room! On a clear day you can see Century City. Sometimes the ocean.” Maxwell’s words were what I had imagined the Southern Californian vernacular to be; a confidently relaxed cadence with tones of independence.

“Any weird neighbors,” I asked?

“Nah, not really. Well, this Bailey dude… he never says hello – like literally, never says hello. That’s not cool.”

“Is he from New Jersey,” I joked.

“Haha…no man…Texas.”

I followed Maxwell to my new home. My velour seats still smelled of Nebraskan dust and discarded Slim-Jim wrappers, and I was ready to park and toss the keys aside for a day or two. The cross-country drive was a long ride to make alone. I took off on the Turnpike at twilight, having said goodbye that afternoon to my mom and, for four days, I spoke only when necessary and never more than needed.

As our cars slowed and we prepped to make a right turn, I noticed the skinny jeaned rockers and moms with inspired twelve year olds jiving across the street from Sam Ash to The Guitar Shop. Once Maxwell and I turned, we pulled immediately over and parked in front of a two story apartment building. The faded stucco front was covered with blooming bougainvillea and two palm trees towered over the front patio.

“This is it,” Maxwell exclaimed!

With a suitcase in one hand and one box in another, I swiftly followed Maxwell through the entrance and onto the bleached brick courtyard, which was bedecked with various plants and flowers. The sun poured into the square like hot tea on a cold Mount Vernon night. We scurried up the iron steps to the second level and, before I had time to pause, I was inside my new home; a twenties Spanish inspired two bedroom.

Maxwell took me right to my room. As he had said, the view from the twenty-foot wide window was breathtaking. West Los Angeles sprawled ahead of me.

“Do you need help with the other boxes,” Maxwell asked?

“Nope, this is it.”

“That’s not much stuff.”

“Nope.”

Maxwell stepped backward and left my bedroom. The unfilled room with white walls had a plain appeal to it. I sat down on the parquet floor with my back leaning against the wall and I tilted my head toward the ceiling. I now rented an empty room; a new start. There would be no questions to answer and no description of life before, or after, sound. I would no longer be isolated. That part of my past had gone the way of Jimmy Hoffa, buried in a cement coffin.

As the late afternoon light crept into the room and an orange glow warmed the walls, I stood up to unpack my suitcase and box. All that traveled with me were the things I needed, clothes hangers, a suit and tie, a sleeping bag, and poems by William Ernest Benley. At some point, I would find the time to shop Ikea and buy new things that were appropriate for Los Angeles living.

As I rolled out my sleeping bag, I heard a double knock on my door. Knowing it was Maxwell, I invited him in.

“Wanna see the rest of the place? You haven’t even been in the kitchen. I got some rad sausage cooking.”

“Sure,” I said, “just let me finish folding this bag.”

“Man! I can’t believe this is all you brought. Not even any music?”

“No music,” I said as I ignored his uninvited pacing.

“How’s a man to survive? Music, it’s like, what defines you. What are your favorite bands?”

I looked at Maxwell’s face as he waited for a response. It was a look I had seen many times before. His dimpled expression and wide-eyed curiosity came with the expectation that I, like him, was somehow committed to music; that I was somehow a hip hop fan or an indie follower. If I could answer, any and all type of music would be “cool”, but I could not answer and, like those lessons from my past, I knew a truthful response would end with my isolation.

“I like all kinds. Rock and stuff.”

“Cool. We should go to Cochella,” he said.

“Sure. That’d be fun,” I said, not knowing what Cochella was.

“Come to the kitchen. Gotta check the meat.”

“In a minute,” I exclaimed as I refolded the sleeping bag cover.

My breath felt heavy and the back of my throat was sore. For fresh air, I went to the window and twisted the glass slats open. As I turned the knob, I looked down into the courtyard and noticed the young man, who I assumed was Bailey, sitting in a wrought iron chair dozing away. He wore a black cowboy hat that covered his eyes and nose, but left his lips and stubble chin exposed. He wore a brown corduroy blazer and light denim jeans that hugged his thighs, and his shoes were white All-Stars splattered with paint. Next to him was a guitar case, which was clutched in his left hand. I watched him, and as I heard Maxwell call my name, Bailey tilted his head up.

To be continued...

Del Taco Detour

There is a place South of Los Angeles that is the crest of a bluff named Inspiration Point. This vista reveals a view of the Pacific Ocean, a distant Catalina Island, and pools of aqua ocean that swirl around weathered boulders. The sight is stunning and it is easy to affix this place as one of California’s golden treasures. It certainly is one of my favorite places, perhaps my most; that is, it was, up to now.

No, I did not fall, nor were there clouds covering the coast, nor were there reasons for deflective drama.

Twice a year, I descend to Inspiration Point as part of a routine trip to the Otolaryngologist. Predictably, from Hollywood, I take La Brea Avenue South, to the 110 South, to the 405 South, to the 55 South and then South onto the Pacific Coast Highway. My schedule first takes me to the doctor, and then it is direct to the top of the point. Once there, I always want more than its present beauty; I want its namesake. “I will have this,” I tell myself.

For a moment, I would feel the beauty of the bluff, but as I retraced my route home, that feeling would fade.

As I practice present thinking, and my thought’s stride improves, I not only feel happier, but sparkling surprises have begun to sprout.

On my trip today, my bladder, about to burst, screamed for a bathroom break and I dreamed only for the familiar Golden Arches; that palace of ten piece McNuggets and double cheeseburgers and an available bathroom. That dream stopped when I saw an immediate, present, solution to my situation. Del Taco. Once inside, and once relieved, I realized, I had never eaten at Del Taco.

Let me say, the crispy fish taco with medium spicy sauce is just so succulent; far better than a McMeal.

The needs of the present moment gave me something new and something good. After lunch, I visited the doctor as normal, then drove straight to that place that purports inspiration. As always, the view was beautiful. Except, this time, I was bored.

Because I now practice present thinking, I knew that I did not have to stay on the bluff as I would have done in the past, nor did I have to repeat “I want this.”

So I left.

I put my car into drive and headed North on the Pacific Coast Highway. On this return home, I decided to try something new, like I had done for lunch. I took the PCH all the way home and I discovered new towns and different views, but it was not what I saw that defined the present moment, it was what I did in that moment. Perhaps that’s the point of inspiration.

See you tomorrow!

"Old Faithful" Works

Before the eruption, I could hear the deep whirl of traveling water. I knew the destination would, again, be my bathroom and, like Old Faithful, a geyser of two inch high water burst out of my bathtub drain and filled the basin with foreign waters. On this day, at this discharge, I had just arrived from work and with me, in my gut, I carried a tight knot of romantic rejection. Simultaneously, I watched over the water and wished for approval, but instead of a prolonged thought on the way things should be, I came to a delightful conclusion. “This doesn’t work.”

This is when I stopped. This was the moment I asked myself “what do I need to do, to make this moment work?” I did not like being in that time, but I knew well enough to know that getting away from the bathtub and away from the rejection was not the answer. In fact, I did not have any answers. All I felt I had, was that moment; the present.

I stepped further into bathroom, where I sat on the countertop. This was the transition from stopping one state of thought to starting a new state of thought. I chose to do nothing but sit and feel that tight knot of romantic rejection while I watched the water play its predictable part.

After being in some difficult time, the water in the bathtub drained away and the knot loosened, and I found myself happier than when I first walked through my apartment door. This better feeling had a sense of accomplishment to it, which made me want more of it, and while I had no answers, I now knew I could begin with the question; does this work?

If one applies this question to the things one currently does, one is automatically focused on the present and if one does it right, finds honesty too. After all, if one answers the question with “no,” then the future or past can’t change that very moment of existence.

That evening, I phoned my apartment manager about the bathtub for the tenth or twelfth time, but in this instance, I told him the only acceptable outcome was a working bathroom. I said I would not tolerate a patchwork plan or entertain excuses, and within twenty-four hours, I had a fully functioning bathroom.

I am about to enter my third week of practicing present thinking, and the more I do this, the more I understand that is the moment that is the true “Old Faithful”.

See you tomorrow!