One Night (7 page)

The police glowered at people, then sat at the two booths behind us, the larger corner booths closest to the Carson Boulevard exit from the 605. They were behind Orange County. They sat facing me.

I looked at the man from Orange County.

I said, “That wasn't funny.”

“Guess I was mistaken.”

“I'm not laughing.”

“Neither am I. I'm ready to get out of here now.”

“We ordered coffee. Sit. Don't rush. Take a breath. Act normal.”

A couple of the officers gazed at me. I had tried to con a few people that evening. Had been in the parking lot at the casino. Had stopped by two Chevron gas stations, then at the Cash for Gold at Makena Plaza. Had stopped and tried my luck at two Starbucks, Walmart, and a dozen other stores. I'd been all over Hawaiian Gardens. Someone could've called it in. Hoped there wasn't a BOLO out on me.

The man from Orange County had gone cold, hard, angry, his jaw tight.

Coffee came. He sipped. While I sat trying to pretend I wasn't on edge, every ten seconds the waitress stopped and refilled the cups. I gulped and gulped and gulped. Within moments, there was so much caffeine in my body, each time I blinked I saw God. The man from Orange County drank coffee like it was water. He wasn't talking. He was distracted. He stared at the television at times; other times he checked his phone, or just spied around the room. Something was pulling at him, pulling hard.

He said, “Local news is about to come on.”

“Do you want to tell the cops about the hit-and-run?”

“Why don't you walk over there and tell them?”

“Is that really your wife's Christmas present? Is that car stolen? Who are you?”

“I gave you my card.”

“I threw it away.”

“Too bad.”

Police radios squawked and added noise to the sudden din in the den of bottom-feeders.

From the speakers on the wall, Frank Sinatra sang a classic Christmas song.

Now anxious to leave, the man from Orange County said, “Let me handle the bill.”

“I invited you back to this five-star joint.”

“You're used to picking up the tab for your boyfriend, aren't you?”

“And you're used to paying for everything for your wife, aren't you?”

He said, “We could flip for it.”

“Heads.”

The coin went high, landed, and I slid the tab to his side of the table.

He stood up, regarded the police officers, made direct eye contact, and gave them all season's greetings. The long arm of the law reciprocated. He stood and scowled as if they should know him.

The cops went back to talking to one another.

Then the man from Orange County followed me as we left. Spoons clanked, chatter rose, radios squawked. I felt like I was being watched. I looked back. Every police officer's neck was stretched near to breaking, their eyes glued on me. Men. Easily distracted from what is important.

The night my ex had his daughter, our daughter, when it was his weekend for court-ordered visitation, she had stressed him. She had cried because she wasn't feeling well. A Lakers game was on. He couldn't watch it in peace, and that had stressed him. I was in Canada working on a film. The last film I'd ever worked on. Hollywood can kiss my ass. I should've been with Natalie Rose, not chasing a stupid dream. He had taken a drink to calm his nerves. Once the bottle was opened, the demons had him, and, as the Lakers went down in flames, he drank the river dry. I should've been with Natalie Rose. Or she should've been with me. I failed to protect her.

The thought hit me hard. I stopped walking and my hands became fists. I wanted to scream my child's name until my throat bled from the pain. Then I felt so angry I quivered. So friggin' angry. Had been so angry that I had stopped speaking to the father of my long-dead child; had refused to acknowledge he ever existed. After we buried our daughter, I shut him out of my life. Seeing the boys in blue gave me a jolt. Seeing them look at me and grin felt disgusting.

My chest rising and falling, I turned around, stormed by the man from Orange County, hurried over to the officers, and snapped, “Stop looking at my ass. I know you're saying foul and disgusting crap as I walk away. How about some respect for the people who pay your salary? You see me with a man and do that mess? Half of you are wearing rings. Stop being disgusting and do your damn jobs.”

One of the cops said, “Jackie Summers? I was just telling them that I knew you.”

“Do I know you?”

“No, but I used to work with Ricky Summers.”

“You know my ex-husband?”

“Yeah. We know Ricky. I haven't talked to him since I went to his wedding back in July.”

“He's remarried?”

“He married another police officer. They're having a baby soon. You didn't know?”

A fist closed around my heart and a leviathan of animosity and hurt and resentment came down on me. I turned away from them, almost ran away from them, and headed back toward the register, marched up to the man from Orange County. Body tense, I stood close to him, real close, and allowed the men with badges and guns to see me with a handsome man in a tailored suit. I put my hand inside the man from Orange County's hand. Surprised by my touch, he looked at me. I didn't care that he wore a wedding ring. He was a man of quality. Let the cops gossip like bitches. Let them tell Ricky.

The man from Orange County asked, “What just happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Something happened. What did you say to the cops?”

“Nothing that I haven't said before to a thousand and one disgusting men like them.”

“Should I go have a word?”

“Time on the clock only goes forward. I just need to get away from the past.”

Behind us, the preview for the local news came on—again the story about the mother who had lost it and killed her three children. She had used a knife. Again I experienced coldness and lost focus before the news said the next story would be about the old businessman who had been robbed and beaten half to death during an apparent home invasion. It seemed trivial when they said the old man might not live until the sun rose tomorrow. I tried to speculate what could have happened to the mother of those children. Couldn't imagine. The kids would never be able to experience a full life, their lives taken before they could have fun in school, date, go to prom, and marry. Was going to be a bad Christmas for more than a few families. There is never a good time for bereavement, but deaths at Christmastime are the absolute worst. I thought about my child, how I had felt, what I felt now, and I felt for those families. Someone changed the channel, brought me out of my trance, and suddenly the game was on.

They did that for the police, did that for the men who were still watching me.

They stared at me because they knew me.

They knew my story.

They knew my truth.

Behind my smile existed so many levels of pain, so much hurt, and sleeping hostility.

I checked my phone for the umpteenth time, in vain.

God had stopping crying and the ice water from heaven had been put on pause.

We stood in the frigid air and he inspected his damaged car for a moment. There was enough light to see that beauty had turned into a beast. It hurt me to see an expensive car like that damaged.

I took a deep breath. Calmed down. Wasn't my Christmas present; wasn't my problem.

I said, “That's at least eight thousand in damage.”

“More like twenty-five. I have insurance.”

“Oh, right. What was I thinking? People like you have full coverage and not just liability. I'd have to take my car to a shop in Hawthorne and let an illegal immigrant fix it, and I would have to pay cash.”

“I still have to pay the thousand-dollar deductible, and the value will take a dive.”

“So that means you want half of the two grand back?”

“I don't care about that money. Means nothing at all to me.”

“Good, because I've gotten kinda used to having it now.”

He set free a few curses, kicked away broken parts, squatted, took out a white handkerchief, covered his right hand, then ripped away parts of the fiberglass that would have rubbed against his tire.

I asked, “Is it drivable?”

He nodded, stood, took a deep breath.

I asked, “Heading to go see after your distraught wife?”

“Edwards Cinema is right there. Might take in a movie, blow some time.”

I looked at my phone, said, “I might need to blow a little more time, too.”

“After I see a movie, after I take a moment to de-stress, then I'll go find my wife.”

“Which movie are you going to see?”

He looked at a movie app on his phone and said, “The remake of
Annie
just started.”

“I should head toward my boyfriend's area, but I want to see
Annie
. Movies make me happy.”

“I don't mind the company, but we'd need to rush.”

I said, “Let me get my car.”

He looked at the traffic and said, “It's right there. We could just walk across the street.”

“Nobody in California walks. It makes you look homeless or poor.”

He started walking toward the street and said, “We'd only have to find another parking space.”

I pulled my jacket tighter, my breath fogging out in resentment and abhorrence as I strolled.

My ex-husband had remarried. Our child had died, and he had moved on so damn easily.

At the crosswalk, we had to wait for the light to change. Cars drove close to the curb, sent spray our way. He took my hand, pulled me back from the curb. I was about to pull away, but I didn't.

The traffic was as cold and mean as his expression.

He said, “Wind is picking up. Let's jaywalk.”

“You're going to break the law?”

“You're bold enough to run a scam, but scared to jaywalk?”

“Whatever. If we get a $250 ticket, you're paying for mine, too.”

He held my hand with his injured hand, protected me, put his body on the side of stopped traffic and shielded me as we crossed the street, walking around slow-moving cars like we were in New York. When we crossed the street, I thought the man from Orange County would let my hand go, but he held it, had me walk on the inside, the position a lady walked in, not on the outside, the position where a man puts a woman who is for sale. The man I'd thought was a disgusting asshole was a gentleman. I thought about my boyfriend and felt guilty, but I adjusted my hand until our fingers were interlocked. We remained that way until we made it past the line of traffic struggling to get into the Long Beach Towne Center, down the sidewalk, through frigid air and drizzle, past shopping madness, past waterlogged Christmas trees, past signs that read “Happy Holidays,” none saying “Merry Christmas” because they were cowards who didn't want to offend those who had different beliefs. When we made it to the front of the cinema, he let my hand go so he could take his wallet out. Just like that, I sort of missed the connection. Missed the sensation of touch. He had already given me money and a meal, and now he was going to pay for the movie.

I told him, “No. This is on me. It's my turn.”

“We could flip for it.”

“Does your wife ever pay for anything?”

“Not even Decadence.”

He put his wallet away. I bought the tickets, paid for popcorn, bought sodas. It felt good doing that. It felt good not coming off like I was a freeloader or a gold digger. I appreciated what he had, but what he had belonged to him. It belonged to him and his wife. My life would change. I'd get past the grief and be able to function on the level I used to function. I would get my own townhome one day.

We entered the crowded theater, where we were forced to sit down front, and we had missed the first ten minutes of the movie. We sat down, heads back, and watched the movie, casually eating popcorn, without talking, but we shared the armrest between us, sat with our arms touching. A guy in front of us was sending text messages when we sat down. The man from Orange County made a negative sound.

I guess he was used to going to the opera, or to the theatre on London's West End.

The seating was uncomfortable, and I leaned toward the man from Orange County because a fat dude was on the other side of me and I didn't want a stranger touching me. I was so close to the man from Orange County that my head was almost on his shoulder. Seconds after we sat down, we were laughing at what was funny, being quiet during the serious moments. We shared moments created by Hollywood, and it felt as if there was a thin psychological closeness between us. I bit my bottom lip; I hadn't been to a movie in a while. I used to take Natalie Rose to the movie theater at the Baldwin Hills Crenshaw mall every weekend. She could watch the same kiddie movie every week; she didn't care. She would memorize the dialogue and start to talk along with the actors, and she would sing with every song to the point of distraction. Now I looked around the theater, looked for children, looked for her.

He asked me, “You okay?”

I pushed my lips up into a faux smile. “I'm great. What's the problem?”

“That bright light from that big phone isn't bothering you? It's like the sun in my eyes.”

The guy in front of us continued sending text messages, text after text. Orange County was very agitated, and that energy moved from his body to where we were connected, rolled into my system. He pulled away from me, leaned forward, grabbed the headrest of the guy's chair, pulled it all the way back, then made it throw the guy forward. The rude guy jumped and looked back.

Orange County leaned forward and said, “That's what it feels like to have you in front of me sending text after text after goddamn text. Turn the damn phone off or I will keep popping your seat.”

“Don't come at me like that. You don't know me.”

“Did you not see the message that said to turn off all phones and not text? Or do they need to put your goddamn name and photo in the announcement so your dumb ass will know you're included?”

The rude guy looked Orange County up and down, saw a man who was pissed off to the max, then told his date to not worry about the assholes behind them. Orange County sat back down. I sat back down. The guy in front of us mumbled something, some insult to his date, directed at us, then got up and left. His date and two other friends followed. They said some vulgar things on the way out—had to get in the last word. Orange County was about to get up, but I held his hand and he sat back in his seat.

The rude asshole who had been in front of us came back with security. They came in like Nazis with flashlights and pulled the man from Orange County and me from our seats, escorted us to the lobby, and asked us to leave. I was about to pitch a bitch, but Orange County just smiled at them and told them to refund my money for the tickets, popcorn, and soda. I gave them back the change they had given me and they gave me back my same hundred-dollar bill. I wanted my damn c-note back. I pitched a fit and made them find the one I had given them, just to give them some trouble.

We were led to the front door like illegal aliens from south of the border being deported back into Tijuana. I bounced my body like I was in a hip-hop video, threw up two stiff middle fingers, and shouted over and over like I was Iggy Azalea in a bad mood, “Merry Kiss-My-Ass, bitches.”

We moved with excitement and anger through the yuletide crowd, and went back out into the darkness. I turned my cell back on; still no return message from Chicken and Waffles.

I said, “Well, that was the best ten-minute date I ever had.”

“It wasn't a date. And I think that was about five minutes.”

“Oh, yeah. Right. We're just holding hands and kicking it like homies.”

Orange County turned his phone back on. It buzzed with messages. His jaw tightened again.

I asked, “Any messages from your distraught and jealous skinny white wife?”

“She's called and sent quite a few texts, and so have a few other people we know.”

“Everything okay?”

“As good as it's going to get until something changes for the better or the worse.”

“Guess you won't be getting her over-the-top luxury car fixed before Christmas.”

“She doesn't deserve it.”

My box cutter was in my hand. I expected to see the assholes we had had a moment with following us. Orange County was tense, his hands in fists, and he kept looking back. No one was there.

I asked, “Are we jaywalking again?”

He took my hand and mocked my tirade, “Merry Christmas, bitches.”

“It's Merry Kiss-My-Ass, bitches. If you're going to steal my punch lines, get them right.”

“Whatever.”

He held my hand and it felt natural. My hand slid into his. The warmth of his hand surrounded mine and made me wish Carson Boulevard was miles more than six lanes wide. He let my hand go when we made it to the sidewalk. I put my hand in my pocket, missing the sensation of being touched.