Authors: Tareka Watson
We go to a place called
Narcissus
, which turns out to be a perfect name. Everybody seems to
have put tremendous care and effort into what they look like, insistent upon being seen even
more than on seeing something or somebody else, no matter how spectacular. I’m used to
roadhouses and country/western bars, with denim and leather and beers. This is a world of
flashing lights, girls in half-dresses which cling to their glistening bodies, glow sticks floating
everywhere. The music is ear-splittingly loud, a synthetic drum pulsing in a never-ending beat
that seems to match that of my own heart and extends from one song to another.
Well, not
songs
exactly. Back home I’d hear tunes with lyrics and bands with drums and
guitars. Here it’s all synthesizers and digital sound processors, a single melody repeated over
and over. The place smells of stale beer, perfume and sweat.
But it
is
hard to resist. I feel that throb pulsing through me. My hips move without me
initiating it and, after not too long, without me being able to stop it.
And why should I?
I ask myself. Emily dives right in, giving her little body over to the
music.
She’s quite sexy
, I have to admit in a purely objective way. She’s little and curvy and fit,
like a gymnast. And as she sways and grinds, hands over her head, eyes closed and lips pursed, I
can’t help but join in.
It isn’t too long until young men are dancing around us. I attribute it more to Emily than to
myself; but whatever the reason, they’re close and interested and numerous. These are very
good-looking young men, too. They’ve put a lot of time into their hair, their clothes, even their
eyebrows. Much more than I do, but I can’t deny that they look good.
Real good.
My heart beats louder, perfectly in sync with that unending beat; my lungs pumping in time,
my blood and pulse locked with that pounding bass drum. My skin tingles, sweat cooling the
stifling heat that collects on the dance floor. I lose track of time. Without the three-minute
increment of one pop song into the next, it’s hard to tell how long I’ve been dancing.
My shoulders roll and my hips buck. I throw my head back, my long brown hair flying
around my head. My mouth goes dry, sweat cooling my skin, goosebumps rising on the backs of
my arms. But that drum keeps pounding, the synth strings keep driving those minimalist
harmonies into my brain. The room starts to spin around me, the heat pressing on me from all
sides. My legs get the message my brain is scrambling to send.
I push my way through the dance floor, leaving Emily surrounded by the group of grinding
admirers; if they can take their attention off themselves long enough to lust after her the way she
seems to want them to.
I make it back to our little table and find Quinton sitting, sipping a St. Pauli Girl and smiling
at the dancing bodies, flashing lights and blaring music. I sit down and he turns his smile on me,
stretching even wider.
I ask, “You don’t dance?”
He shakes his head. “Emily likes it though.”
We both look out on the dance floor, Emily a twisting and tantalizing centerpiece in a circle
of young men. They dance, they sweat; they flicker in the strobed, colored light.
Quinton tries to keep that smile on his face, dropping it long enough to take another sip of his
beer and gaze into the crowd. But I can see the sadness that creeps over him, the dissatisfaction.
I can see that he puts it away, into some corner of his mind, heart, body and soul. I know
because I do the same thing.
All too often.
I can’t resist leaning forward a bit to ask, “Would you mind if we stepped outside for a
moment?”
Quinton gives it a little thought, looking back at Emily amongst her gyrating men. He looks
back at me, nods, and soon enough we’re outside; nice and cool and quiet.
“Wow,” I say, shaking my head, “we don’t have too many places like this back in Boulder.”
“I remember my first year here, it wasn’t quite the same.”
“The city’s changed?”
“Not sure; I was six, we came in from Portland so my dad could work for Disney. Contract
law was his idea, actually, hoped I’d stay with the House of Mouse. And my brother’s an
animator there.”
“Wow, that’s pretty exciting.”
“His kids think so too. But Pixar’s killing him with all that computer generated stuff.” We
sit in the growing awkwardness; the silence stretching out around us, constricting us like some
big, invisible snake. “Hey, we better get back inside, Emily’s gonna be -”
“Jealous?”
Quinton clears his throat. “I was gonna say
concerned
.” After a little, wriggling silence, he
adds, “
Jealous
sounds about right though.”
So he opens the door and holds it as I step inside.
CHAPTER THREE
“There’s no more land, Addie,” Randolph says as he steps on the accelerator and pushes that
beautiful Benz down the 10 freeway going east. We head out of Los Angeles and into San
Bernardino, endless rows of suburban houses in varying degrees of decay. Randolph goes on to
say, “That’s why land is the best investment in the world; doubles every ten years no matter
what. They didn’t teach you that in business school?”
“I may have heard it somewhere.”
“Well, believe it. Stocks, bonds, metals, forget all that. If gold and diamonds come out of
the earth, and they’re the most valuable things there are, how much more valuable is the Earth
itself?”
I give it a little thought, trying to follow his circuitous logic.“I don’t think it works that
way.”
“Exactly!” He steps on the gas, the engine grinding louder. “That’s why we invest in real
estate.”
After a moment, I ask, “We?”
He shrugs, giving it some thought, keeping his eyes on the road, his hands on the wheel.
“You’re my junior associate, that’s an integral part of the team. I mean, look around you, who
else is there but us?”
“Is it ... is it just us? I haven’t been to the offices ... ”
“Offices?” He chuckles, his white teeth flashing. “I do most of my business on site. I meet
with investors at
their
offices, I buy real estate where it is. I don’t really have an office.” After a
weird little moment, he says, “Who has an office anymore these days? Even accountants only
keep them for half the year. Doctors and lawyers and senators have offices.”
“But, your mail? Where do we do business when we’re not ... driving around?”
“My mail comes to my house, where I keep a small home office. You’ll be keeping track of
a lot of things from a home office of your own, Addie. You’ll just have to be available for me
when I need you. Don’t over-worry things, it’ll work out.”
Randolph pulls off the freeway and drives a few miles into the flat, barely beating heart of
Riverside. Block after block, street after street, house after house; it’s a blur of suburbia and a
flash photo of a time that the country has left behind.
The era of the Middle Class.
This once-thriving community is pocked with empty houses marked by boarded-up windows
tagged with graffiti. Some stores are even boarded up, helicopters flying overhead. I have to
ask, “You’re investing in property here?”
“Absolutely.”
“Your own money?”
“Absolutely not!” He chuckles. “Well, it’s not
all
my own anyway. I represent little
companies that are put together byseveral investors, like a cartel. And I’m one of the investors,
in this case anyway.”
I take a look at the neighborhood as we glide down the streets; the blocks of houses are
punctuated by timeworn liquor store signs, old motels, little churches. I say, “And what are you
investing in here?”
Randolph shoots me a little grin. “The future!”
We drive down another residential street and park at the corner, near one rundown house
with signs taped to the window from the inside, declaring it a hazard and announcing plans for its
sale. The word
foreclosed
jumps out at me as we walk past the overgrown brown lawn and peek
inside.
I say, “Doesn’t seem like much.”
“Addie, what’s the first rule of business?”
I don’t have to give it much thought. “Supply and demand.”
“That’s right. People will always need a place to live, a roof over their heads. Maslow’s
hierarchy of needs puts it in
safety
, the second basic level on the list of mandatory elements of a
sustainable life. That means there’ll always be a demand.”
I peek into a crack between two boards over one of the windows; at the ratty carpet of this
single-story home, the soiled walls, the piles of books and clothes and other junk on the floor.
“Doesn’t seem like there’ll be much demand for this place, even if you fix it up. How many
families around here can afford to pay what you’d need to charge?”
“None, Addie, that’s the entire point!” I look at him, waiting for the explanation I know is
coming. Unwilling to disappoint me (not for the last time, I hope) Randolph goes on to say, “But
put up a few walls, a new kitchen sink, buy a few appliances and a fresh coat of paint and this
three-bedroom single-family house becomes two rentable units; a one-bedroom and a twobedroom. More affordable for the renter, more flexible for the owner. There’s also a university
nearby, and several technical schools, which means a steady influx of students to rent to. And
once the owner or owners are ready to sell, the property is worth even more because it’s both a
single-family and a duplex; perfect for a family with a teenager, or an older person who wants to
rent out the other unit for some extra cash and to have somebody nearby.” Randolph turns, as if
struck by inspiration. “That’s a great idea; contact the local homecare agencies and hook them
up with special rates. We’ll do about eight of these; it’s a lot quicker and easier than renovating
a big twentyunit apartment building, because you can do them one at a time.”
I look at the house and, I have to admit, I see it through new eyes.
Randolph’s eyes.
I imagine ten empty houses giving shelter to twenty or thirty or even as many as forty people
each, at rates they can afford.
Filled, rented houses are bound to elevate the area,
I reason,
and
that itself will bring up property values.
“My partners and I are spending two million on as many of these as we can get. We’re
looking for seven or eight houses for one million, then put another mil into renovating. Since
we’re buying the houses for about half their normal worth, there’s no way we’re gonna lose.”
“You’re spending two million? Aren’t you borrowing any of that?”
“We’re borrowing
all
of it!” Randolph winks. “That’s how I know it’ll work.”
I take a deep breath. “I have to say, it’s impressive.”
He looks at the house with his hands on his hips, feet astride. “It really is. Okay, get
Parmenter Realty on the phone. Let’s get this done!”
And that’s just what we do. We place a number of calls, of which I only hear Randolph’s
end, but I learn a lot; mostly about attitude. Randolph is quick and sharp, his voice always
reasonable but his word unyielding.
“No ... ” he says calmly, “that’s on you, and you know it ... that’s not my concern ... three
weeks? I can’t manage that. But I can give you three days, can you make that work? ... No?
Are you sure, because I could make a few calls and ... Oh, okay, three days then.” Every call
ends with a smile, most of them his.
A lot of them mine.
Finally we call it a day and get dinner at
Scarpetta
, in fabulous Beverly Hills. We drive past
row after row of mansions, stately behind impressive lawns and arching driveways, double gates
and rod-iron fences. Everything about the area feels elite, wealthy; the trees seem perfectly
trimmed, the wide streets are immaculate and well-lit.
I have the amazing coconut panna cotta guava soup with caramelized pineapple, and it’s so
warm and sweet and thick that every sip fills my mouth and my body and my heart. I’ve never
eaten anything like it. A nice chardonnay is the perfect contrast, cool and crisp.
Randolph asks, “How do you like Los Angeles so far?”
I try not to show too much too soon, lest I come off like a little kid at Disneyland, which is
actually how I feel. Instead I say, “You’ve got some very good soup.”
We share a little silence, then an even smaller chuckle. He takes a bite of his short rib
agnolotti, which looks as succulent and delectable as it smells, glistening with juices.
I catch him up on my brothers and father, not wanting to linger on the subject. I’m more
interested in learning about him. He takes a sip of wine, seeming to admire the glisten of golden
light that flickers off the crystal stem.
“I was married,” he says after as much prodding as I dare. “She was ... just a great girl, quite
lovely, so smart. History buff, was going to teach at U.C.L.A., before the diagnosis.” He peers
into an imagined distance, a terrible memory. Finally, he says, “We thought the baby might have
survived. It was the last joke we shared, Melanie and I, which would grow to maturity first.
Turns out, it was the tumor.”
“Oh, Randolph -”
“Yeah, it was ... ” He swallows hard and takes another drink, this one longer, nearly draining
the glass. “It was years ago,” he adds, forcing his smile beyond its own endurance.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “I didn’t mean to bring up any unpleasant memories.”
“No, not at all, it’s okay. She wanted me to move on, be happy.”
After a tense moment, I feel like I have to ask, “Have you moved on? Are you happy?”
“I ... ” But the words stick in his throat and even another gulp of chardonnay cannot free
them, until he coughs a little and says, “I’m still here.”
I let the moment sit, not sure what to say. I decide to change tack a bit, in fact as much as I
can. When I finally decide to speak, I still can’t think of what to say.
Thankfully, he asks me, “How about you? I imagine you have big plans for your future.”
I think about it, not very pleased with what I come up with. “I haven’t given it nearly enough
thought, I’m afraid. I was so concerned with getting out of Colorado, getting through day to day,
I just figured the future would sort of take care of itself. I have to admit, it seems to be doing just
that.”
“You’ve been lucky, Addie.” Now Randolph looks at me with greater gravity; eyes piercing,
voice lower,tone more serious. “No business anywhere ever has succeeded without the
concerted attention of the people who run it. Businesses that run themselves run themselves into
the ground. Businesses that thrive have leaders with drive.”
I can’t help but smile. “That sounds like good advice.”
“As you’ll soon see.”
“And what about you?” I have to ask. “What are your plans?”
He sets his fork down, the little clink rising up to punctuate his silent pause. After a sip of
wine and a bit of thought, he says, “I’d like to try again, raise a family, children.” He stares right
into my eyes, a thrush of excitement coursing through me. “Meanwhile, I plan to double my
worth every three years until I’m fifty, then retire.”
“Success, money, family, love,” I say, raising my glass, “what else could a person ask for?”
“Nothing at all, Addie. But first, they
do
have to ask.” I smile and nod as I consider, and
Rudolph goes on to say, “But asking for these things and getting them is only the beginning.
Having a healthy career and a strong personal life are worthy goals -”