CHAPTER II: Parallel Universes
“I think there’s gay dolphins...”
Vera and I spent the night in our usual spot, Fowler’s Porch. It sounds like an official place but it’s literally the 4 x 7 fenced in space attached to our friend’s beachside apartment. It’s right on the Walk so it’s perfect for us. Some people give Fowler a bad time because he never lets us stay inside the apartment itself, but it’s his own space and he’s livin’ his own life, who cares? We don’t that’s for sure. There’s only enough room behind the fence for us and a potted plant, but that’s an advantage in our opinion because no one tries to latch on to our good fortune. Few things are more obnoxious than someone weaseling their way into your spot after discovering there’s room for more. Plus in the morning we can hop the fence, and bam, across the way is Vera’s square by the sand.
Most days I do a perimeter check—aka I ride my hoverboard all the way up and down the Walk to wake myself up. Usually I stop halfway at this tattoo shop called Sagittarius and grab a Rockstar out of their secret mini fridge. I talk them up throughout the day and they pay me in energy drinks. After that I continue on whatever adventure suits my fancy. Which reminds me, before my couch surfing extravaganza the previous day, I’d witnessed an interaction that I wanted to investigate further. I was on Pacific Ave headed for my buddy’s surf shop, Smurf’s Turf. He gives out free stuff to anyone who can say the name without messing up.
—Smurf’s Turf Smur Shfop, dammit to hell!
When I got there it was closed. There was a note on the door that said, GONE SURFING UNTIL I COME BACK. What did you expect? This is a surf shop, sue me. P.S. Please don’t. So, I sat down on the curb and had a cigarette. During that time I saw a richy rich—my term for people who wears suits all the time and look like a million bucks—walk out of a coffee shop and give one of his two cups to a homeless guy in the alley. At first I thought, oh how nice. Rich Guy Feels Good About Himself After Buying Hot Beverage For Homeless, the title of the article reads. Then I realized they weren’t talking like strangers, but friends that saw each other regularly. They were telling stories, laughing, I wasn’t sure what to think. My first instinct was that the richy rich was this dude’s Fowler. That explanation seemed accurate up until he handed the homeless man a small six-shooter. I don’t know my bullet related weapons at all, literally at all, but it had a stubby barrel, a dark grip, and a spinning cartridge. They shook hands and walked away from each other like it was business as usual. I thought to myself—But what business, and why is it usual? I couldn’t come up with any explanation that had a good result. Was the richy rich paying the guy to off somebody? Was he a secret bodyguard? Was the gun a sample of the stuff they were smuggling? Were there drugs in the cartridge? Were they selling drugs? Drugs?!
Procedural crime dramas had warped my brain, as you can tell.
My unavoidable tendency to assume the cinematic worst lead me to seek out that same spot on the sidewalk at the same time the next day. It was my only reasonable shot at catching a second performance. But, life itself certainly had other plans. Vera caught me in a friendship trap right before I set off from Fowler’s on my hoverboard.
—Where are you going?
—I’m gonna see about richy rich and the shiny gun for charity after I get a Rockstar at Sagittarius.
—That’s quite the mouth full, but I need you to help me move all my stuff to The Cosmic Crystal. I have an interview in Los Angeles this afternoon, remember?
—Refresh my memory.
—There’s a new tattoo shop, The Violet Window, they’re looking for artists. I told you like three times.
—I thought the whole reason you moved here was to avoid having a job. Tattooing Specifically.
—Yeah well turns out I don’t like sleeping outside every night and I kinda wanna live somewhere. Thus I need more money, and thus, a job. Oh and we can’t forget these.
Vera pointed off to the side of her square. There was a typewriter and a box of scrapped poems sitting on the ground.
—Why do you have little miss Laurel’s typewriter?
—She asked if I’d watch over it while she was gone. I’m gonna bring it with us.
—Where’d she go?
—I don’t know. We’ll just stash it at the Crystal with everything else.
—Do we have to do it right this minute?
—No, but I wanna get to LA as soon as possible. You should come with me. You’d like it.
—….
—Please?
I looked off into the distance and saw my hopes of being a vigilante detective shatter into a million chem-trail shaped pieces.
—Oh alright. Why’d you have to say please?
—You know you love me.
—Don’t say it like that it weirds me out.
—Please? Or that you love me?
—Either one. Never say neither of either ever again.
—Go get your can of chemicals and then we’ll get going. Oh, and see if you can snag some BB’s from ReMex so we can keep our actual mouths full, yada?
—Yup.
I shoved off lazily. BB’s stood for Breakfast Burritos. We’d made friends with this lady who owns a restaurant—ReMex—so she gives us food if we promise to come back and pick up the tables and chairs she puts out every day.
Not being able to investigate the mystery of richy rich and the shiny gun was frustrating. There are so many instances like that where something happens, and you know it’s significant to somebody’s story, but you don’t know what that story is. You just happened to drop in on a specific detail of it, and without context it means nothing. Yet still, in the back of your mind you have to wonder if there was a reason you picked up on it. If there isn’t, then why the hell does it happen? Are we just supposed to go about the rest of our lives thinking, well I saw an upper class gentleman casually give a gun to a homeless man in broad daylight once, I don’t know what it was about, but damn, I remember it. I hate not having closure, I guess. I have to assume that everything I encounter in life will come in handy at some point, that it will have some future function. Otherwise I get depressed. I mean, if the random stuff has no significance, then the memory is just a loose end floating in space with no purpose other than the fact that it exists. It also begs the question, how can the details of your own story have significance if your life changing event is a random detail to someone else?
—I need some Taurine to clean my brain. Early morning philosophy turns me into a wrist cutter.
I soaked up some sun and snapped the hell out of it. I was in Venice beach—heaven for freaks—I had all sorts of connections for food, drinks, and sleeping arrangements. My friends were there, Vera was there, and this was my dream. I’m livin’ my dream—I told myself, and that was that. I grabbed my morning beverage from the tat shop and made for ReMex.
Mamma K was already there with a line out the door.
—You’re popular today.
—Never too popular for my favorite ruffian. What’ll it be?
—Two double B’s with chorizo in one…
—And the fake stuff in the other, you bet.
She wrote down the order and put us on the top of the list, much to the chagrin of the next yuppie in line. I took a seat at the bar beside the cash register.
—You seen Pete lately?
I shook my head.
—Well, if you do tell him I’m closin’ up early next Friday.
—Why’s that?
—I keep his cash box locked up in here over the weekend.
—Oh I know that K, why you closing early that day?
—For the show on Windward.
—You like the Doors?
—Don’t act too surprised, I was a kid at one time. Played my fair share a music too. If fact, I’d say I got more right to like ‘em then you do fellah. I lent Robbie a handful a guitar picks once you know.
I thought—Robbie doesn’t use guitar picks. Mamma K is sweet, but she has a tendency to embellish on things that may or may not have happened in the first place.
—You’ll have to tell me that story sometime.
—Oh I will. Here’s your double B’s, I labeled them.
—I’ll see ya later.
—I want those tables stowed by five o-clock ya hear?
—I won’t forget.
I did forget, in case you end up wondering why I make no reference to cleaning up tables later on. I gotta remember to stop saying the word Forget. I have this theory that saying it makes your brain do it. What do you think?
I left the restaurant with my bag of tin foil wrapped goodness and headed back in Vera’s direction. Along the way I was stopped by several self-promoting hip-hop artists. Which, I don’t mind so much, but it gets old. They’re always too focused on their own agenda to realize they’ve seen you before. Autopilot marketing.
—I said no the first time.
Vera had all her drawings, trinkets, and tiny trees organized in a cardboard box by the time I got back. Her canvass prints and the antique end table she used as a desk were the only main attractions left.
—What’s the plan?
—Did you get the food?
—Do you always answer questions with more questions? Yes, I did get the food.
—That would explain the plastic bag.
—Circle gets the square.
Vera took a break and we went to town on the burritos.
—Oops, wrong one.
*switch*
—So, seriously, what’re you thinking?
—I say we steal a hand cart from the green doctors and flip the table upside down. We’ll put this box and my paintings in the hollow part, Laurel’s typewriter can go in there too. We’ll put the rug over the top, then we’ll roll on over.
—I’m guessing I’ll be the cart operator.
—Yep, I’ll grab the chair and the cash box.
—Keep the money close. Smart woman.
—Don’t say woman, it’s offensive.
—What are we living in? The 10’s! We’re way past that.
—I’m just givin’ you shit.
—You’re still thinking about that dream aren’t you? Mr. IsThisEnoughForYou.
—A little bit, yeah. It freaked me out.
—I know what you mean, I’ve got the same thing going on with this richy rich situation.
—That’s true. Are we weird? I don’t wanna be weird.
—WWW dot, that’s us.
—….
—Vera, you’ve got a piece of cake tattooed on your collarbone, you sell flash art to strangers on the beach. Weird fell by the wayside a long time ago.
—The first thing you think of is my cake tattoo?
—Seeing as you’ve only got Illuminati propaganda all over the rest of you, yeah, it stands out.
—It is not propaganda! I only have one eye Ollie! I was practically born into the Illuminati.
—Them’s dangerous words my friend. Besides, you do not have one eye, you have two. One just happens to be blind. You and Mamma K would get along great.
—You’re just jealous because I have supernatural powers.
—Again with the supernatural.
—Well, my good eye see’s the regular world, and my blind eye sees the spirit world.
—Is that your new thing? You’ve got the all seeing eye in your skull socket?
—Skull Socket. That’s a fucking great band name.
—A song title at least. You done?
I held out my hand and took Vera’s meticulously crafted tin-foil ball; all that remained of her breakfast. We zipped our lips and got to work. I went over to the green doctors and asked if I could use their hand cart for the next hour. Big surprise, they didn’t give a shit. Once everything was packed up, we started south toward The Cosmic Crystal Shop in silence.
Vera and I often have differences of opinion—in case you couldn’t tell based on the conversation you just read—but for the most part we’re incredibly compatible human beings. We don’t always have to be talking, and that’s the key. Some of the best times we have are the long silent trips down the Walk. It’s perfect. I don’t know. Vera is in her mind, projecting her own peculiar visions; drifting in the daydream of the city’s edge. I’m looking here, there, and everywhere for any spark of intrigue. Every once in a while we’ll both be paying attention to the same thing. Otherwise, we get to spend some quiet time in our own little worlds. Both of those worlds just happen to look, feel, smell, and sound exactly the same.
Break On Through To The Other Side—rattling in my brain.
+++