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It all became perfectly clear. The sparrow with the yellow circle on its chest tapping on my office window for hours on end. The homeless man blocking traffic in the middle of rush hour on Wilshire, smiling, waving both arms like he was some conductor, orchestrating the honks and screams of pissed-off drivers to perfection. And all those damn little ¼-inch cuts that covered my hands and wrists. It all made such perfect sense.

This realization seared a hole through my mind as I fell off the Belle Oaks Tower Suites balcony and down to the sidewalk twenty stories below.

I’m sorry. I’m getting ahead of myself. My name’s Harold. Harold Mayer.

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Santa Anas

When your skin goes tight with expectation and dread and the sickly sweet smell of burnt sagebrush lingers

When the wave riders commune in the blown glass shallows and even the damn palm trees are pushed to their limit

When the sudden clarity that opened to reveal the endless possibilities shrivels in the dry desert heat

The campfire has jumped the ring and we become the stories to tell.

 

After the Ecstasy

MIKE, 23, sits parked in the driver's side of his beat-up '96 Toyota Avalon. Through the passenger window, he eyes the front door of an unremarkable Long Beach tract home. He points the end of his cellphone toward his mouth. 

M: You don't get it. This dude's just... weird.

JASON, 24, comes through on speaker-phone.

J: Like he's gonna touch you?

M: Nah, man.

J: Shank you?

M: I can't describe it. He just talks about the most random stuff. And he won't shut up. He's just so...

J: Weird. I get it. Pop in, pop out. Boom. Done. I told you I could have picked-up.

M: Nah, he's my connect. Plus he'll remember me. Maybe.

J: Aight. Peace.

Mike hangs ups. His eyes are trained on the house's front door. He sighs. 

M: Shit.

____________________


Without a word, AARON, 36, leads Mike into his living room. It’s sparsely decorated with a grey modern sectional set squarely in front of a 60-inch LED flat-panel. Mike seats himself on the couch and picks at a frayed seam in his jeans. Aaron disappears to an adjacent room. Mike's taken aback by Aaron's silence, but he's not about to push it.

Aaron returns with a wooden cigar box in his hands. He looks shell-shocked.

M: So it's 80, right? 

Aaron slowly lowers himself to the sofa, clutching the cigar box tightly, not saying a word. Mike nods in the direction of the flat-screen. On it, time-lapse footage of Chinese factory workers assembling cheap electronics.

M: "Samsara," right? Is this the Blu-ray?

A: He's dead.

M. What? 

A: He's dead. 

Mike sighs. You can almost read "here we go" streak across his face. He eyes the cigar box longingly.

M: Who's dead?

A: Abel. This guy I know. Name's Abel. I just found out.

M: Oh, yeah? I'm sorry, man. We can just do this and then I'll be out of your way.

A: I barely knew him. 

Mike can feel himself getting sucked in...

M: Oh yeah?

A: He sort of knew my brother. They were in the same class. In high school. And he drew. He drew a lot. He was like this really great drawer.

deeper...

M: So what happened?

A: Building collapsed. He was on the ground floor.

Stuck. 

M: What?

Aaron shakes his head in disbelief.

A: He was sitting on the toilet, man. They found him with his pants around his ankles.

M: Holy shit.

Aaron slowly sets the cigar box on his lap, and looks off, lost in thought.

A: I was in 9th grade, and he was a junior. It was just before summer break, and I see him out on the bleachers, like he always was, hunched over his notebook. This thick beat-up spiral-bound notebook. But for some reason, I decide to walk over. And he looks at me, and he nods. Like it’s cool if I check out what he’s working on. But you don’t understand, he never let anyone see what he was working on. No one. Ever. And he nods. At me!

Aaron turns to Mike. Mike nods encouragingly.

A: So I climb up the bleachers and sit next to him. And he shows me this fucking perfect drawing of a venus flytrap. I mean, it was perfect. Not like some lame graffiti-style cartoon, but like that medical, botanical style drawing. You know what I’m talking about?

Mike quickly shakes his head “yes.”

A: And he flips through this notebook, and I’m serious, the whole thing is full of these perfect goddamn drawings of plants and flowers and trees and leaves. Hundreds of them. I mean, all of them were perfect. And the whole time time, he’s not saying a word. Just smiling. And we’re sitting there and we both know that we’re sharing this heavy moment.

Mike catches himself staring intensely at Aaron. Aaron lowers his voice.

A: So two weeks ago, I see him. And I haven’t seen him for like, what, how long has it been since high school? Fifteen? Sixteen years? And he’s working at the mall. At one of those carts that looks like a wagon from the Old West, you know what I mean? And he’s in these baggy-ass slacks and a stained white shirt, and he’s selling cell phone accessories. Fucking bluetooth earpieces and plastic iPhone cases.

Mike shakes his head in disbelief.

A: So I walk straight up to him, and I’m like “Abel!” And he turns and it takes a second, but he recognizes me. And I can tell he’s kind of embarrassed. But whatever, I’m over it. So I give him a “what’s up” and I’m really, truly excited to see him. But he’s still acting all shy, right? So I ask him, straight up, “So are you still drawing?” And I’ll never forget the look he gave me. Until the day I die, I will never forget that look. It was worse than sad. It was like… shame. Like he was ashamed.

Aaron takes a moment.

A: And now he’s gone.

Mike's silent.

A: Is that what happens? Is that how it all ends? Under a pile of concrete with your fucking pants around your ankles? I mean, he had this amazing, beautiful, perfect thing inside of him. And now he’s gone.

All of a sudden, Aaron flips open the cigar box and pulls a out a tiny ziploc with four gel caps half-filled with a whitish crystalline powder.

A: Yeah, it's 80.

Aaron tosses the ziploc into Mike’s lap, but Mike's still lost in thought.

A: Everybody's loving these. But take 'em one at a time, yeah? They hit hard.

Mike snaps to, fumbles for his wallet, and hands over four wadded-up twenties.


____________________

Standing in the front doorway, Mike struggles to find the words.

M: I’m really sorry, man.

Aaron shoots him a heartfelt nod and disappears behind his front door as it closes shut in front of him.

Back in the car, Mike eyes Aaron's front door. His cellphone dings.  He looks down, a text message awaits from Jason. "We good?" Mike sighs, tosses the phone into the passenger seat, and starts the engine.

____________________

 
Later that night, Mike eyes himself in the mirror of a small, dimly lit bathroom. He cools his face with two palms full of water. House music blares. Through the mirror, he eyes the feet of someone sitting in the shut stall behind him. Mike shakes his head. He ducks under the faucet, takes a swig, and tosses back a gel cap.

Back on the dance floor, Mike’s eyes are half-cocked and his head sways loosely to the beat. Jason elbows him in his side. Mike looks over and the two lock eyes. “A-MA-ZING!” Jason mouths. Mike can’t help but nod. And smile. An amazing, beautiful, perfect smile.