“You buy my pig? You buy my pig?” said the man. “Ten dollars! Ten dollars!”
“No, I don’t want your pig!” Rallston yelled back.
“Eight dollars, eight dollars! For your wife! You give to your wife!” said the man.
Rallston’s phone rang and he picked it up from the seat beside him. “Hello,” he answered in an annoyed tone.
“Rallston, where are you?” said Oswald.
“I’m in hell.”
“Tell me you found him!”
“No, I didn’t find him,” said Rallston, his heart sinking at the admission.
“Well, I guess that’s it then. It would take a miracle at this point,” said Oswald.
“I’m on my way back. I’ll be there in three hours,” said Rallston. “We’ll have to go with what we’ve got.”
The silence on the other end was palpable. At least it was over. Rallston’s career was finished. He had to admit feeling some relief at this fact, though it pained him that he’d come up short in the end. He knew that when August finally surfaced it would break his old reporter’s heart.
“I’ll see you this afternoon,” Rallston added. He hung up his phone and turned his head to see a portrait of Elvis outside his window; neon on black velvet. Again he focused straight ahead, pursing his lips as he edged his car another few feet forward.
Chapter Forty-Four
The clinic waiting room was like any other, with several rows of chairs and a fish tank mounted along one wall; a calming influence for a roomful of crazies, no doubt. Warren sat filling out the necessary forms, putting in his personal information, health history, and trying to explain his case in a few short paragraphs. When he was finished he took his clipboard to a desk and handed it over to the nurse on duty.
“Thank you, have a seat and we’ll call you,” the nurse said.
Warren returned to his chair and flipped through a stack of magazines on the table beside him. Most were old and outdated; copies of
National Geographic
, along with some news magazines and one recent edition of
Stars and Stripes
. Amongst these he found one copy of
People Magazine
, dated just a few weeks before. This he picked up and flipped through idly. None of it interested him much, until he turned a page and saw a picture of himself staring back.
Newcomer Earns Nomination
, read the headline. He skimmed through the story long enough to realize he’d been nominated for an Oscar. His blood ran cold. What would people think if they knew the truth; that he’d spent the last three years on the street? That he’d allowed his whole life to crumble over misguided love? That he was sitting even now at the VA hospital, waiting his turn to see a shrink? He quickly closed the magazine and put it down, burying it under the stack. He picked up a
National Geographic
instead, opening it to an article on tropical fish of the Red Sea reefs. Much better. Soothing images for just another crazy man.
When they finally called his name, Warren was escorted into the back by a different nurse, who took his vital statistics; temperature, height, weight, blood pressure, and then left him in a private room, sitting in a comfortable padded chair. Within a few minutes, the door opened and a woman in a white lab coat walked in, holding a clipboard of her own in one hand. “Hello, Warren,” she said with practiced cheer. She was of medium height, with short, curly blond hair, and an air of professionalism. “I’m Doctor Lewis.” She sat in a seat opposite and looked over his paperwork. “I see it’s been quite some time since you’ve been in for a visit. In Georgia last time?”
“That’s right,” Warren admitted. “Three years ago.”
“So what brought you back in to see us now?”
“I need to put my life back on track. I didn’t know where else to turn.”
Dr. Lewis nodded as she flipped to the next page. “Well we’re glad to see you. Coming in was the right decision. I only wish you’d come in sooner.”
“Yeah…” Warren didn’t like being made to feel guilty. He’d had enough of that in his life already.
“How have things been going for you over these past years?”
“Not so good.”
“I’m at a bit of a loss without your full records here, but perhaps you can fill me in a little bit. You’re still having the same symptoms? The anxiety? The depression? Flashbacks?”
“Depression yes, off and on.”
“How about flashbacks? Do you see yourself on the battlefield? Do certain events keep coming back to you, in dreams perhaps?”
“I don’t have any flashbacks. Dreams, sometimes, sure.”
“Recurring?”
Warren lifted his fingers to his chin. “I had some difficult times over there, just like we all did. Certain images come back to me.”
Dr. Lewis nodded and made some notes. “How about sleeplessness? Do you lie awake at night?”
“Not really. Sometimes I sleep too much.”
“I see.” She made some more notes.
“These recurring dreams you mentioned…would you like to tell me about them?”
Warren considered this question. He didn’t mind, but he knew that wasn’t why he was here. His experiences in combat had shaken him; that was true. He’d even thought at one point that that they were responsible for his breakdown. That’s what the Army told him. It is what everyone told him, but he knew there was more to it. His breakdown had to do with a lot more than the war. It had to do with the fact that everything he wanted in life was just out of reach; his career as a musician, the respect of his father, and most importantly, the heart of the woman he loved. Warren returned home from war to be faced by the realization that he would never have any of these things. In the end he’d finally snapped. They found him curled up in a ball, naked in a shower on the base, unable to talk, unable to move. His medical discharge came shortly thereafter. Sure he qualified for benefits, but Warren was too proud to accept them. Instead he’d headed west, into three years of self-imposed exile. Sitting here with this psychiatrist, everything became clear to Warren. He knew he could never fully explain himself. She wanted him to talk about firefights and IED’s. All Warren could think about was love. All he could think about was Bridget.
“What is your most vivid memory of your time overseas?” Dr. Lewis continued.
“I think coming in here was a mistake,” said Warren.
“I’m sorry, we don’t have to talk about that if you don’t want to. We can talk about something else. What would you like to talk about?”
“Do you know when they hold the Oscars?” Warren asked.
“What?” Dr. Lewis was taken aback. She hadn’t expected this question.
“The Academy Awards. Do you know when they are?”
“I don’t know,” said Dr. Lewis. “Maybe this weekend, but I’m not entirely sure. Why do you ask?”
“I think I know what I have to do,” Warren replied. “To get my life on track.”
“What do you have to do?” she asked, with clinical curiosity.
“I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” he answered. “I’ve got to be going.” Warren stood and moved toward the door.
“Wait, don’t go! We’re only just getting started!” Dr. Lewis’ professionalism began to melt away as she saw that she was about to lose him.
“Don’t worry, Doctor. I’ll be fine.” Warren walked out the door and hurried down the hall. He went on out of the office and caught an elevator to the first floor. In the lobby he went to the nearest payphone, picked up the receiver and dropped some change in the slot. When he’d dialed, a woman’s voice answered on the other end of the line.
“Hello?” she said.
“Dorothy?” he asked.
“Yes,” came a tentative response.
“Dorothy, it’s me. Warren.”
“Warren?” she replied in disbelief and then broke down sobbing.
“Dorothy, I need to see you. I need some help.”
“Yes, yes,” she managed. “Where are you?”
“I’m at the VA on Canal Street. Look, Dorothy, I’m sorry to have to ask you this but I need to borrow some money. I’ve got to fly out to LA as soon as possible.”
“Stay where you are, I’ll be there in thirty minutes!”
“I’ll meet you right out front.”
“Don’t you go anywhere! Promise me you won’t go anywhere.”
“I’ll be here, Dorothy.” Warren hung up the phone and walked outside to wait.
Chapter Forty-Five
The scene in front of the Dolby Theatre as the limousines began arriving could best be described as controlled chaos; mass pandemonium held in check by red velvet ropes and heavy security. As the stars emerged to face a gauntlet of reporters, flashbulbs popped and hordes of fans screamed wildly as they clambered for a view from the grandstand. Like the sound of waves crashing in a stormy sea, the roar peaked with each new arrival and then faded as the crowd eagerly awaited the next.
“Here we go again,” said Jessica Turnbull to Roger Craddock as their limousine inched toward the front of the line.
“Come on, you know you love it,” said Craddock.
“Look at these people. Don’t they have anything better to do?” responded Jessica, but Craddock was right. She loved it. She lived for it, in fact; except for the part about Warren August being nominated. That nearly killed her. Especially considering that after years in the movies, she’d never been nominated herself. Of course there was no way he could win. Jessica tried to comfort herself with that thought.
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll smile,” said Craddock.
“Don’t worry dear, I know my job,” she said.
When the limousine stopped, Craddock emerged first and then held Jessica’s hand as she stepped onto the curb. It was only when she appeared, in a low-cut red dress, that the cheers swelled and the flashbulbs popped. Craddock escorted her up the carpet toward the television cameras.
Further up the street, Sydney Rallston walked briskly toward the ceremony. He held his pad of paper and his recorder in one hand but he didn’t expect to use them. His mood was somber. Rallston was exhausted. He’d been back and forth across the country, down some of LA’s meanest streets and through the slimy depths of Tijuana. His career was finally coming to a close. Oswald had run the story that morning, or what Rallston was able to provide in any case. It was still a major scoop by any measure, but Rallston wanted more. It wasn’t complete without Warren August himself. At this point Rallston almost didn’t want to attend the awards at all, but something inside told him that he had to see it through. He had to be there in person when the winner was announced, even if the elusive Warren August wasn’t.
When Rallston arrived at the theater he went through the press entrance, pulling out a credential and flashing it to the guards. Once inside, he went straight to the nearest bar for a glass of whisky. He knew it wouldn’t be his last.
Five blocks away, as an orange glow faded from the sky, Smiley, Slim and Duke sat on the steps of the homeless shelter watching white spotlight beams sweep across the gathering darkness. While those in the entertainment industry celebrated their glory, it was just another night to these men. Dinner was over and there was nothing much left to do until bedtime.
“I want to watch some TV,” said Smiley. “Let’s go up to the boulevard.”
“Oh, man, I don’t want to watch no TV on the boulevard.” said Slim. “You can’t hear nothin’. It ain’t no fun when you can’t hear nothin’.”
“You got a better idea?” Smiley asked.
“No,” admitted Slim glumly.
“Come on, then,” said Smiley, standing. Duke and Slim slowly got to their feet and followed along. At Hollywood Boulevard they turned left, away from all of the commotion.
“Maybe we should go check out that ruckus,” said Duke, looking back toward the crowds.
“Nah. Too many cops,” said Smiley.
Instead they walked a few blocks in the other direction until they came to an electronics shop with big screen televisions lined up on the inside of the window. Smiley sidled up to one showing bikini-clad women in a beer commercial. “Don’t need sound t’appreciate that,” he said.
“Come on, man. Let’s go someplace else,” Slim complained.
“Hold on, I’m watchin’,” said Smiley.
The three men stood side-by-side in front of the TV, taking in the tropical beach scene. When the ad was over the screen shifted to a live shot in front of the Oscar telecast.
“Hot damn, that’s right up the street!” said Slim.
“We should walk up there,” said Duke. “Hell, we ain’t got nothin’ better to do. We might as well take a gander.”
“No, man, you can see it better from here anyhow,” said Smiley.
The telecast moved inside and panned across the crowd. As it swept past the celebrities, Smiley recognized Jessica Turnbull. “Hey, there’s that rich bitch!” he shouted in awe.
“Where?” said Slim.
“Right there!” said Smiley, as the camera paused on a shot of Jessica doing her best to smile modestly.
“I’ll be damned,” said Duke.
Next came a clip from the movie,
The South Side
. Jessica wore a slinky 1930’s-style dress. A man in a brown suit stood with his back to her while she pounded on him from behind with her fists as she sobbed, finally draping herself across him. The man turned to face her. It was Warren August. He grabbed her in his arms and kissed her passionately. The three homeless friends stared at the screen in disbelief. “Holy mother of God,” said Duke.
“That’s our Warren!” said Slim in awe.
“He
is
a movie star!” said Smiley.
“I don’t believe it!” said Slim. “Where is that mother?”
“He should see this,” said Duke.
“I hain’t seen that dude in a month.” said Slim.
“Me neither,” said Duke.
Slim waved a hand in the air. “I bet that sucker’s down there right now, walkin’ on the red carpet.”
“We ought’a go see. Maybe he’d get us in,” said Duke.
“Now I know you’re dreaming,” said Slim.
“Yeah, well we still ought’a go.”
Smiley shrugged. “’Spose maybe so…” The three of them shuffled off toward the commotion.
From their place in the wings, the seat-fillers could see nothing of the ceremony taking place just on the other side of the doorway, but they could hear everything. By the time the opening monologue was finished, Bridget knew that she might be thrust into the heart of the action at any moment. She was second in line, behind Charles. In front of them stood the organizer, who held a clipboard and wore a wireless headset.