Entry #572233, added on 03-20-08 @ 6:49 am EDT
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| Chapter Two: "California Dreamin'" | Entry #572233 |
CHAPTER TWO
“California Dreamin'”
Winter 1971
“Larkspur?” Myles exclaimed, after being informed where we were going. “That’s where Mari’s parents live. You live in Larkspur? We uset‘a live here.”
“Yes, we’ve lived here since we married. It’s perfect for the two of us. You lived in Larkspur too? Where?”
“King Street … on the corner … at the top of the hill.”
“I know where that is, is that where your Mari and Andrea are now?”
“Yep!”
“I can hardly believe we’ve not run into each other before now. When were you living here?”
“Last year, like May and June I think, before Andrea was born. Then we moved to Santa Venetia, Washington Street, in September, I think. Near the Civic Center, you know, where they had that shootout? We were there man … me and Mari …we saw it. Well … not saw it, but we heard it, we walked up there … it was only two blocks.”
“I believe that shootout took place in August.”
“Well … we must’a moved before then … like July.”
“So you’re a shrink?” he said.
“An experimental psychologist,” I said correcting him. “Remember? Graduate of UNC? You remember Chapel Hill don‘t you?” I said jokingly.
“Yea, I remember Chapel Hill all right. You went to school and I partied. You were gonna make something of yourself, follow in daddy‘s footsteps.”
I detected a slight note of cynicism in his tone.
“That’s cool … so now you’re a psych. I’ve been down this road. What is it you do?”
“I work at the college.”
“Man, I know this road,” he said, apparently ignoring my answer.
“It’s the canyon; Janis Joplin usta live down here, somewhere.”
“So I‘ve heard,” I replied, rather uninterested as to where ‘Janis Joplin’ might have once lived.
“I can’t remember, went to her house once, with Mari and Sandy. … And Bill S lives up that road,” he said, looking over his shoulder as we passed.
“Bill S?”
“Yea, … his name is like Slavinsky or some-um’, we just call him Bill S, he lives right up there, on the hill, we just passed the road. Sometimes, when we get stoned, I just call him BS.” Myles laughed.
“But I don‘t think Bill really likes it,” he added.
Attempting to ignore his last comment, I injected, “Michelle and I live about a half mile further ahead.”
“Man I just can’t believe it,” he said.
“It is a small world isn’t it,” I said pondering our chance encounter.
“No, man. … I mean that Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix are dead already.”
We both went silent for a moment or two, each with his own diverse thoughts.
Turning off Wilson Way a moment later onto my dirt drive, bordered on either side by shrubbery, I accelerated up the slight incline and around to the back side of our little house. Actually, I guess it would more properly be described as a bungalow, either way; it was just perfect for the two of us. Sadly though, on my last visit to the area several years ago, I was disheartened to find it had been torn down to make room for a larger and finer house, such is progress I guess. We pulled to a stop at the end of the drive, neatly marked by two railroad ties and a row of small bushes.
I switched off the ignition and looked over at Myles, I must admit, at that moment, I was feeling somewhat proud of my accomplishments, for my cousin was leaning forward under the windshield, gazing up at my house, his head craning around to take in the full panorama. He tucked his head back in, his eyes came to rest on me as though trying to decide if this was for real. My eyebrows shot up as to say, well, what do you think?
Taking a quick second look, he said “This is your place man?”
I just smiled.
“Come on,” I said, popping off my seatbelt and nodding towards the house. He fumbled for his; we both opened our doors at the same time. An old contest, see who could get out first. The sound of only one slam proclaimed once again, we’d tied.
Our house, well not actually ours, we rent it from the widow of a friend of my father. The house, situated near the end of Wilson Way, at the base of King Mountain, is a small two-story bungalow type thing. It was originally built by an associate of my father, I believe in the mid-fifty’s. Old Mr. Turner passed away about three years ago and his wife, a dear friend of the family, just couldn’t continue to stay in what was their retirement home any longer without her husband. My father, having kept close contact with Edith, that’s her name, suggested to her that we might take better care of it for her than perfect strangers, she readily agreed, and we were in.
After we were married, it became our first real home. Mrs. Turner still lives near-by, in Mill Valley.
The upstairs was originally one large bedroom, which we’ve changed into my study. There is a nice sunroom at one end of my study and a porch at the other. The downstairs consist of our bedroom, another bathroom, there’s one upstairs, a fairly large open kitchen, and a spacious living room with a warm fireplace. A porch extends all the way around the house downstairs.
Outside the kitchen door is the back of the house where we were parked and beyond that is a garden area with an old gate, a small fish-pond, a lot of rocks, a bench and a table. Michelle has decorated; I guess you would call it that, the outside area with bird feeders, wind-chimes and those sorts of things. It’s a peaceful place to sit and meditate.
Myles and I arrived at the back door, I held it open, indicating to him he should enter first.
Michelle was sitting at the kitchen table…., she looked up and smiled as we entered.
“Hello Myles, it nice to see you again.”
“Oh … yea …you too,” he said fumbling to remember her name.
Myles stood for a moment taking in the room.
“Bitchin’ place,” he exclaimed.
“Uh … thank you, we like it,” Michelle said.
“Michelle,” I said manifestly, ending Myles’ embarrassment at not remembering her name, “I’m going to show Myles around.”
He hung his sunglasses on the neck of his T-Shirt.
“You listen to KSAN?” he observed as we passed through the kitchen.
Michelle had her little radio set on the Jive 95, there on the kitchen counter.
“They’re the hippest,” she responded, sounding a little hipper herself, I grimaced in her direction, she shrugged one shoulder in response.
“I like Dusty Street,” Myles said. “She’s cool, and Voco. That’s a cool name … Dusty Street I mean, not Voco, I don‘t know what Voco means. I’ll bet that’s not her real name though.”
As he spoke his eyes traveled around the kitchen.
I studied him quietly without appearing to do so, attempting to discern his thoughts. He was just moving his eyes, noting details.
“What?” I inquired.
He glanced at me, “Nothing … just checkin’ it out man,” he said. His beady blue eyes returned to the room.
Myles was thin … no … Myles was skinny, there’s no polite way to put it. His dishwater blond hair I wouldn’t say was dirty, but it was unkempt and shorter than I remembered it being. His clothing … his clothing to was different, instead of custom made it was of the sort one would find at a thrift store. Blue Adidus sneakers, Levi’s, embroidered patches on the knees, a black leather jacket covered what turned out to be a T-Shirt advertising some band, ‘Snake’ I believe it was, he’d apparently seen them at some local club, there were a lot of those around at that time. To the best of my recollection these were the same cloths he’d had on when we picked him up on the side of the road three days earlier. I caught Michelle’s questioning glance indicating her observation of his attire.
“So,” he said nodding his approval.
“Would you care for a drink? Beer, Coke?” Michelle said rising from her seat.
“Got any wine? … I like wine.”
“Ah … Yes,” I said, “Let me see … what kind do you like?”
“Gallo … but a beers fine now that I think about it.”
“We like Olympia.”
“That’s cool. … I drink ‘Lucky‘… cheap,” he made clear.
Myles watched curiously as I poured mine slowly into a glass. After taking his and thanking Michelle, he drained about half of it right out of the can, followed by a crisp belch. I looked at Michelle over my shoulder; she was shaking her head and snickering to herself.
Myles followed me into the living room, passing his hand over the back of our couch as he did so. The room, set apart by the couch was furnished with great taste, mine, by Michelle. Two large armchairs sat aside the fireplace, between them my prize table, made by … me, from the trunk of an old Oak tree I believe it was. It showed three distinct sets of rings, though not readily visible at the time because of the array of magazines spread out across it, and a large ash tray.
“I recognize that ashtray,” Myles exclaimed, “I’ve stuck my butt in there many a time.”
“I see you still have a way with words,” I said, glancing back towards the kitchen, Michelle had obviously overheard his course remark. Up to this point in time I’d really forgotten Myles strange taste for irony, but it all came rushing back to me in a flood of apprehension, was I really prepared to have him back in my life?
He flopped down on my couch and gave me a smile.
“Sorry,” he said, “forgot you’re married now … she’s nice … she’s got class.”
“No problem-o,” I said seating myself at the other end of the couch.
“So tell me … what are you doing in California?” I said, cutting right to the chase. “Last time I saw you, you had that store thing going. What happened?”
“Drugs man.”
He lowered his voice, leaned over towards me, and said:
“Heroin.”
His lips sneered as he said the word.
“Tell me what happened,” I said, my curiosity tingling.
He cautiously glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the kitchen, then looked back at me.
“I haven’t shown you my study,” I said, loud enough for my wife to hear. “Let me show you the upstairs.”
Myles flung himself forward and up off my couch.
“This way, Myles,” I said as we passed Michelle. She was at that moment arranging some beautiful roses; I remember they were, in a tall vase at the center of our dining table.
Myles sat his empty Olympia can down on the counter as he passed.
“We’re going upstairs, going to show Myles my study,” I informed her.
Michelle gave me her, ‘how like a man’ expression.
Leading Myles to the bottom of the stairs, I preceded him up to my study. The stairwell was a sort of an open air affair, one could see through the balustrades into the living room below and the study above.
Talking along the way, I don’t remember about what, I reached the top of the stairs. As I turned I noticed Myles had stopped about halfway up and was looking through the bottom of the balustrades along the floor of my study. No doubt distracted by the sudden silence, he looked up at me, smiled, and in a musing tone of voice said.
“So … that’s what your study looks like to a mouse.”
My eyebrows went up, I slowly shook my head.
“Done?” I asked.
“Yep,” he said sheepishly, resuming his assent.
As he rounded the top of the stairs he started that thing with his eyes again. If this had been three months later I’d have sworn he was ‘casing the joint’. But, as it was, I just chalked it up to his method.
His head bobbing up and down, he proclaimed, “This is cool … I like it.”
“Thanks,” I beamed, “it is nice isn’t it! Check out this view,” I said, indicating the windows with my outstretched arm.
“Wait,” I said, “Check out this porch.”
I opened the door and Myles followed me out into the open air.
The sun was just beginning to shine on the floor of my porch; I knew then, that at time of year, it would be around two o’clock. I was only off by nine minutes I determined after a brief glance at my watch.
“What do you think?” I asked, looking towards him.
He was turning his head from side to side taking in the magnificent view, then it was bobbing up and down again, I was favored with a smile, his eyes said the rest.
Myles swore under his breath.
Then said, “Far out … this is really nice … it’s peaceful,” his head still bobbing.
He slipped his hand into the breast pocket of the black leather jacked he wore and extracted a pack of cigarettes, Marlboros, flipped open the top and offered me one.
“No thanks,” I said, holding up my hand.
“D’you quit?” he asked as he stuck one between his lips.
“Nope,” I said, flipping the lid of my Zippo igniting his for him. “Just don’t want one.”
“You still like Tampa Jewels?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“I’ve got some inside,” I informed him.
“Maybe later,” he said solemnly.
After an awkward moment or two, and not able to think of anything else to say, I blurted out:
“So … uh … what are you doing in California? … I mean … what happened?”
Myles was staring meditatively into the distance, both hands clutching the handrail. He took another drag off his cigarette and blew out the smoke. Frowning, he gazed down, paused, then in a subdued tone uttered … “Heroin happened.”
This time he said the word in a peculiar sort of way … as though it was an effort to get it out. His disdain for it showed plainly in his voice.
I shook my head slowly, although the news did not come to me as any shock or surprise.
Myles drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes and in what can only be described as a lamentably voice cried:
“I had it made, man … I had it made.”
He relapsed into silence.
Having recalled the salient details, he opened his eyes.
My cousin ran his hand aimlessly along the handrail, paused, cleared his throat, then began:
“I should’a never gone to New York that day. … Nah … I guess it was inevitable.”
He looked in my direction, his eyebrows jumped up as he cried:
“Everybody else was doin’ it.” He flicked his cigarette butt into the air. We watched it bounce on my driveway.
“It was just a matter a time,” he continued turning back towards me, “Even Mari was doin‘it.”
He paused as though expecting me to respond. I remained silent.
He walked to a spot on the porch between the door and the window, turned his back to the wall and slid down into a sitting position. Looking up at me he asked:
“When did you leave Chapel Hill?”
“Let’s see,” I said, casting my mind back. … I graduated in sixty-nine … moved that summer …I think it was in June, I already had my job. … Yep, would have been June of sixty-nine.”
“You left in June. Then I had my new store didn’t I?”
“Your store was over Sutton’s last time I saw you, upstairs. You were living in that apartment with the slot car track I remember and driving that green MGB.”
“Yeah, that’s right about the time I met Mari. She came walking into my store one day with Marianne. Remember Marianne?”
“No, I don‘t think so”
“It doesn’t matter. Anyway that’s how I met Mari; she came in with Marianne one day. You were gone by then, right?”
Must have been, I don’t remember meeting Mari, what’s she look like?”
“Weren’t you there for my birthday party?
“Nope … I was gone by then, because I remember having my twenty-second birthday in California. So it was early June when I left Chapel Hill.
Myles leaned back and lit another one of his cigarettes.
His eyes began to close again, I could see he was remembering, and as he did so, he exhaled smoke, and then spoke:
“Well anyway Mari was there … at my birthday party.”
“She’s pretty,” he said, somewhat answering my earlier question.
“And after the party she stayed. She’d done a lot of speed … meth, in Marin, and hitchhiked to North Carolina to get away from it for a while. So anyway, Marianne knew this couple from Durham who’d came over to my apartment sometimes, and they’d all sit around and shot Heroin at my kitchen table, but I told em, not me man.”
“Well, one weekend, Mari went to Philadelphia with Marianne and they brought some Heroin back with em, but I still wouldn’t have anything to do with it. Everything else yes, but that stuff scared me.”
“You remember how dead it gets in Chapel Hill in the summer?” he said reminding me of how dead it gets in Chapel Hill when the students are gone.
“Anyway, it was in July, near the fourth I think. Mari and Marianne had gone to the mountains I think, so me and Paul and Brian are all up town sitting on the wall, and that place is dead, man … I mean deader than usual. So Paul or Brian, one of um’, I don’t remember which says “Let’s go to New York.” OK we say, why not. But we don’t have a car. Mari’s got mine and those other two bums, they don’t have one. So we’re all thinking. Then I get this idea. My parents are at the beach and my mom’s car is in the driveway. So we hitch out to my parent’s house, get her car and off we go to New York City.
“You stole your mother’s car.” I interrupted.
Myles finished the second part of his sentence, apparently taking no notice of my interruption.
“So, we get to New York and Paul runs right out to score. We were at some dude named Love’s place, with about ten locks on his steel door.
“No! I just borrowed it, he inserted in a protesting voice. “I took it back.”
So Paul gets back with this heroin and everybody pairs up and splits a bag, so I just did it. By now I wanted to. I don’t know what was different, but I just did it.
Myles paused and put his cigarette out on my porch floor. He stood up and walked back to the rail where I was still standing.
He stared off towards Mount Tam for a moment then slowly looked at me with eyes that seemed to have just come back from a long way off.
“Andy’s dead … OD’d.”
I started to ask him if it was the Andy, but he continued on without hesitation.
“When I got back to Chapel Hill, me and Mari started buying dope from Ron in Durham. Then, cause we were rich, we started having it delivered. That’s when Andy died, when Brother was delivering our dope. Brother had to get out’a town for a while after that, cause it was Ron’s dope Andy OD’d on.
Once again Myles was quite for a moment, just staring at nothing. Finally he said, without looking up:
Then me and Mari got married, but we didn’t know we were strung out. We thought everything was going so good, cept for that idiot Earl bringing that dude over to my apartment that OD’d and almost died. It took us four hours to bring him around. People are so stupid!”
What I wanted to say to Myles was not what I said to him. I just said, “Yes they are, aren’t they … people are stupid.”
“And by now, everybody in town really was doing it. There was a heroin Epidemic in Chapel Hill.”
“Anyway, things were going so good for me and Mari that we decided we wanted to have a baby, you know like real married people do; a family. After all we had money, a nice pad, our own business. We were even getting ready to open a second store in Raleigh.”
He paused for rumination.
“Oh yea, now I remember. We’d been doin’ it for about six or seven months, when I … doin’ heroin that is, when I woke up one morning and it was like I had the wool pulled off my eyes.”
He turned to face me and continued, but now he was animated.
“I sat bolt upright in the bed,” he said throwing his head back to demonstrate.
“It was as if some evil force had covered my head with a hood so’s I couldn’t see what was going on till it was too late. Then … the hood gets jerked off … and … sa-prize, you’re a junkie.”
“Well,” he says, “I wake up Mari and give her the bad news, we gotta quit this …,” here he inserted one of his favorite expletives. “Well, that’s easier said than done, let me tell you,” he enlightened me
I lit the cigarette he’d stuck between his lips with my Zippo, and he went on.
“Coincidentally it was about that time that we found out Mari was pregnant and her groinacologist said she had to quit doing drugs.”
I had blissfully forgotten Myles’ knack for making up his own words as he went along … until now.
“Not only that,” he continued after sucking in a breath of fresh air, “but when word got out that Mari was pregnant nobody would sell us dope anymore. Ron’s orders, he was the big dealer in Durham, and he didn’t believe in pregnant women doin’ dope. So we had to quit. I mean we wanted to quit anyway, but now we really had to … for all kinds of reasons, specially the baby.”
I remained silent, he took a moment to smoke and remember, then, went on to finish his story.
“My mom, you know how my mom is, she suspected we were doin’ dope anyway so I told her the predicament we found ourselves in. My mom knew people who knew people she got Mari in the hospital there at UNC to detox, and me on methadone. They weren’t spose to give it out like that, but my mom convinced ‘em, her doctor friends I guess. I couldn’t go in the hospital, cause I had to run the store.
I watched him flick another cigarette butt onto my driveway. I promised myself to say something to him about that later.
“It worked fine for Mari, but after she got out of the hospital they started dropping me like a rock. By the third day I was dope sick and ready to head back to Durham. Those doctors didn’t know what they were doing with that stuff, Methadone was so new.”
He shrugged his shoulders and said:
“There was only one thing left to do”
“Get outta Dodge!” I said.
“Yep, get outta Dodge. So my mom told my dad, and you know how he is, the next morning we were on a plane headed to California. We just up and left everything.”
I wagged my head and sighed.
“You just left everything?” I said.
“Yep, store, car, furniture, cloths everything. My parents sold everything.”
“So you moved to Larkspur?”
“Yep, that’s where Mari was from, we moved in with her parents.”
Here he paused and hesitated in his story.
After a moments consideration he said. “We left Chapel Hill like May first I think. Then we moved in with Sandy the end of July I think, who wants to live with their in-laws. Andrea was born on November eighteenth. And you picked me up hitchin’ last week.”
The sound of a long sigh reached my ears.
I opened my mouth so speak, but only, “I’m sorry,” came out.
I waited in silence for a moment, then repeated gravely, “I’m truly sorry.”
“But, at least we’re straight,” he exclaimed, his voice had an upbeat tone.
“We haven’t done any dope since then … I mean heroin.”
Myles drew himself up. There was a new dignity in his face as he assured me:
“We won’t make that mistake again.”
At this point in time I had no reason to suspect that would not be the case … but a vague foreboding had descended upon me.
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© Copyright 2008 Myles (UN: myles at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Content Rating Notice: Recommended for Readers 18 Years and Older Only
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