The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras (26 page)

Because of the elevation and heavy foliage, the only building I could see was part of the Getty Museum a couple of miles away on the other side of

405. I wished I were there staring at the art instead of on a stranger’s porch

staring at his lock. But I stayed where I was.

Then I rang the doorbell and waited.

No one answered. Maybe the bell was out of order. I knocked rather loudly on the door. When no one answered the second time, I got back in my car and drove down to Sepulveda to the store I had spotted earlier.

It was an Ace hardware store; I was starting to feel at home in them. I bought fifty dollars worth of supplies then returned to Carl’s Jr. and called the same number again with the same result.

Then I went back to the house and went through the same routine. I rang the doorbell and waited. When no one answered, I knocked rather loudly on the door. When no one answered the second time, I went back to the rental car like I had done before, but this time I didn’t drive away. Instead, I brought my supplies from the hardware store and a box I had brought from Albuquerque and sat everything on the front porch.

As I lined up everything I would need on the porch, I was wishing I didn’t have to do this in broad daylight, but I didn’t have a choice. I certainly wasn’t going to break in at night when someone would be home.

Of course they might return at any point, so I set to work.

I’m a treasure hunter, not a burglar, so I have no idea how to break in to a house. I had put together my own plan, perhaps unorthodox, but it suited my needs.

I took a new lockset out of its plastic packaging, thinking as I did so that it should be easier to break into the house than it was to break into the plastic packaging. I studied how the lockset worked, took out its cylinder, and put the lockset down on the porch. I took out the new screwdriver I’d purchased and put it next to the lockset.

Then I took out the sledgehammer.

I checked my watch and gave the lock on the door a solid blow. The brand was Defiant, no doubt a good serviceable look, but it couldn’t defy a thirty-five pound sledge. It broke off like a dry stick. Pieces of the lock fell around my feet with a clinking noise, and I heard other parts of it fall off inside the house.

I also heard the alarm go off, but I had anticipated that. I ran inside the house and was gone for perhaps forty-five seconds. Then I came back to the front door and removed the cylinder from the lock I had destroyed. I put the old cylinder in the new lockset and installed the entire unit in the door. This takes only a few seconds because all you do is insert two long bolts from the plate that goes on the inside part of the door through to the plate that goes on the outside and then tighten them up. It takes longer to describe than to do. I wiped everything clean, turned the thumbscrew, wiped off the inside knob with my handkerchief, and pulled the door shut.

I tried it just to be sure, and it was locked as tightly as when I had arrived. I wiped off the outside parts of the lock, picked up the broken lock parts and tools, and returned to the car. All of this had taken less than three minutes.

The homeowners now had a new lockset identical in appearance to the one I had smashed. Even their old keys would fit. I figured they might wonder why the alarm went off, but false alarms are triggered every day. Maybe they would put it down to a surge in the power source and forget about it. And nothing was missing, so why worry?

I had been on Sunset for about two blocks and was driving along in a leisurely fashion when I saw a police car with its lights flashing start up the hill. I headed back down Sepulveda. About halfway to the airport, there was a forlorn looking strip mall with a nail salon, a discount clothing store, a cell phone dealer, a doughnut shop, and several vacant spaces. I drove around back, wiped down all my new hardware and the broken lock parts and threw it all into their dumpster.

I had some time to kill, so I consulted the map and drove to Venice. I discovered that it actually does have canals like its eponymous sister in Italy.

It also had a guy playing guitar on roller skates, a panhandler advertising himself as “The Worlds Greatest Wino,” street dancers, comedians, jugglers, weightlifters, skaters, preachers, artists, scantily clad women and even more scantily clad men. And New Mexicans think Santa Fe is weird!

It was a depressing combination of hyperactivity and forced gaiety, the buskers pretending they like the tourists, and the tourists pretending they liked being there. I understood the phrase, ‘alone in a crowd’.

I left the boardwalk and walked down to the beach. I’d never seen an ocean in person, so I decided I might as well have a look. Of course I had seen a lot of beaches in movies and magazines. I’d never understood the appeal. After seeing the one at Venice, I understood the appeal even less. The sand was just like the sand in New Mexico—gritty. The water was too cold for swimming. The view was boring, water as far as the eye could see. I wanted to go home.

The flight out was the first time I’d ever been in a commercial plane. A friend of my parents who was a pilot at Sandia Air Force base had once taken me up in a T-28, and I got airsick. Fortunately, the commercial plane ride to LAX had been smooth. And of course the pilot had not done the loops and barrel rolls that the Air Force pilot had executed for my entertainment.

I suspected the afternoon desert wind would have begun before the return flight, and it might not be so smooth, so after returning the car and catching the shuttle back to the terminal, I went to the bar to fortify myself for the flight home. In a truly upscale bar—and I don’t know of many these days—you can specify how you want your drink prepared and be assured it will happen as you direct. Airport bars don’t fit in that category, so a margarita was out. So was champagne since they had only one brand on offer, something fermented in bulk and then bottled. I won’t mention the brand, but it is a common given name for French men and rhymes with ashtray, which, come to think of it, is appropriate.

I ordered a double Jim Beam on the rocks and retired to a corner table to sip and to review what I had just done. After being falsely accused by Susannah on several occasions, I had finally done it; I had broken into a house. I had not broken into the Valle del Rio Museum even though I admit I gained entrance by subterfuge. I had not broken into Berdal’s apartment the first time even though I admit I did pose as a prospective renter. And I hadn’t broken in the second time either—although I was trying to—because Susannah herself had kicked the door open. But no one had been with me today. I had not tricked anyone. I had plainly and simply without any delusion or assistance broken into a house. I was now a burglar.

But wait! I wasn’t really a burglar because I hadn’t stolen anything. That made me feel better. That and the second double bourbon.

I thought about the cactus scent and green-plant overtones of tequila and how it resonates with the desert. I didn’t know what resonates with California. Wine, I guess, but I don’t like wine except when it has bubbles.

But the bourbon was right for the moment. The woodsy smell and smoky flavor comforted me like a familiar jacket on a cold night. So I had a third. Or was it a sixth? They were doubles after all.

Whatever the number was, I could have purchased an entire bottle back in New Mexico for less. But I wasn’t in New Mexico, and I was about to get on a plane where the seats are uncomfortable even if you’re only five-six, and I needed fortification.

I was almost airsick as we bounced and lurched through the sky. I made a mental note never to fly again, but even as I made it, I knew it was like those New Year resolutions. What choice is there? If you ever have to reach some distant location like California, you could spend ten hours behind the wheel, or you could go by bus which is even worse because it’s also ten hours but you’re crowded up with strangers and have no control over where or when to stop. Or you could take a train, which, if you must travel, is the most civilized way to go. You can walk around the train, visit the bar car, have a meal at a table in the dining car, even have your own compartment if you wish. But when I checked on an Amtrak ticket, it seemed from the price they quoted that they wanted to sell me the compartment rather than just renting it to me overnight, so here I was— sick, scared, and slightly drunk.

I had broken into a house, taken nothing, and left two things, but it was for a good cause. In a way, I was sad. But in another way, I was happy. But that’s the way life is, isn’t it?

58

I got back before five, but I was in no shape to meet Susannah for drinks, soI called and left a message that I couldn’t make it. I fixed myself a deluxe

tapatia, a fried corn tortilla topped with refried beans, diced tomatoes, sliced jalapeños, shredded cheese, and fresh cilantro. Sort of like a giant nacho. Despite the bourbon and the bumpy flight, I decided to risk a cold beer. It seemed to have a medicinal effect.

The weather had turned warmer, so I climbed into my hammock to rest. I fell asleep and awoke around midnight to the smell of damp chamisa and the feel of light cool rain on my face. I stumbled inside and slept for another eight hours. After my usual shower and my usual breakfast, I was ready for my meeting with Kaylee and Arturo.

I asked Arturo to wait in the shop and tell me if any customers came in. I took Kaylee back to my living quarters.

“Is there anything you want to tell me about your former life in Texas?” I asked her.

“No.”

“You’re not a fugitive from justice? The police aren’t looking for you?”

“No.”

“How about someone who’s not a policeman? A former boyfriend, a parent, a social worker or parole officer.”

“Hubert, I’m not a criminal.”

“O.K., what are you?”

She looked into my eyes. “I’m just a high school drop-out from Texas who was in a bad situation. One day it got worse, and I ran away. I didn’t plan it; I just walked out the door and started hitching west. I’ve never planned anything in my life. I didn’t plan to drop out of school. I just got tired of failing, so I quit going. I didn’t plan to work as a waitress; I just saw a sign and went in. I didn’t plan to get involved with who I got involved with; he just walked in the diner one day and I left with him after work.”

She lowered her head and started crying.

“I’m sorry to make you dredge up sad memories,” I said.

She looked up at me and she was smiling. “I’m not sad, Hubert, I’m happy. These are tears of joy. For the first time in my life, I have a plan. I want to marry Arturo, work my way up to waitress, and make enough money so that we can get a place on our own. Maybe someday I’ll be so rich, I can buy one of your pots.”

“Do you love Arturo?”

“I don’t know what love is, Hubert. He’s a very nice person, and I like to be with him. Isn’t that enough?”

“I guess so. Can you go out and ask Arturo to come in and watch the place while he’s here.”

“Remember the first time I came here? I offered to watch the shop, but you didn’t trust me.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. She got up, and I stood up out of habit, and she thrust herself against me and gave me a big wet kiss. Then she stepped back with a big smile and said, “Just wanted you to get a hint of what you passed up,” and she went to get Arturo. I think it was that sense of humor Tristan mentioned.

Arturo was shorter than me, about Kaylee’s height, and slight of build. He had smooth light brown skin, big damp eyes, and a long horsey face and nose. Underneath the big smile was a look of apprehension. He shook my hand limply and I sat down, but he remained standing.

“Mr. Schuze,” he began, and I smiled because he pronounced it “choose” which struck me as charmingly unsophisticated. “I am here today,” he continued quite formally, “to ask for the hand of Kaylee.”

I realized he had been holding his breath, and now that he had got out the line he memorized, he let out a long sigh.

“Do you love her?”

“More than anything in the world. She is the most beautiful girl I ever see, and she is the first girl who is ever nice to me.”

I stood up and offered my hand again. “Congratulations,” I said. He ran out to the front and they were gone.

59

Old Town has twenty-four businesses classified as galleries. I’m one of those twenty-four.

Nine gift or souvenir shops also compete for the tourist dollar along with fourteen jewelers, an equal number of ‘specialty shops’ and thirteen eating establishments from coffee shops to upscale restaurants.

What binds us together in Old Town is architecture, low adobe buildings with odd angles and organic shapes, hidden patios, brick paths, small gardens, wooden balconies, and wrought iron benches. And three hundred years of history.

The center of it all is the gazebo, half bandstand, half Danish wedding cake, a quirky construction on an adobe base with a hexagonal roof. Or maybe it’s octagonal; the wooden posts seem misaligned with the roof they support, so not even Pythagoras could count the angles.

The finials are Victorian gingerbread and the eclectic theme is topped off by a cupula that would be right at home on top of a lighthouse.

Something is usually happening under the gazebo, be it a band concert or a political debate.

On this day, it was a wedding.

Arturo and Kaylee stood in front of a justice of the peace who made short work of pronouncing them man and wife.

Father Groaz was there along with Whit Fletcher, Tristan and his neighbor Emily, but the largest contingent was the staff from La Placita. The pot scrubbers and busboys were dressed in clean white guayaberas, and they had taken up a collection to pay for a mariachi band called Los Lobos Solitarios who led a procession to the restaurant playing Las Mañanitas.

I listened to the slow melodic thumping of the guitaron, heard the plaintive voices of the singers and the staff who joined in, and smelled the scent of roasting chiles and frying tortillas wafting from the kitchen. I silently thanked the fates for having me be born in Albuquerque.