Autistic -A Novel First 4 Chapters (Anew Draft) Hooshang Danesh

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    Autistic Novel

    Hooshang Danesh

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    Copyrights 2010 by HooshangDanesh

    All rights reserved. No part of this bookmay be reproduced or transmitted in anyform or by any means, electronic, ormechanical, including photocopying,recording, or by any information storageand retrieval system, without permission

    in writing from the copyright owner.Although all stories have are inspired bysome real events-all characters in thisbook are fictitious and any resemblanceto real people is coincidental.

    First Edition

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    I come to you defenses down,with a trust

    of a child.

    PeterGabriel

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    First Chapter: Bye People.

    I drove. She would push her head out of the

    passenger sides' window and shout: "ByePeople.' Then recollect herself inside the car,

    giggle to herself, and say: "shit"

    wearily, slightly as though she had been up to no

    good, and punishment might have

    been fore coming. The people she shouted at

    were mostly the bus riders at bus

    stations. Hispanics who would look at her

    puzzled, and in wonderment, for herflashing head of red hair and her unrehearsed

    language: cause almost no one spoke

    English on these streets. From time to time, she

    would shout: "Hi people," in a different

    tone, this one more friendly, conciliatory, and

    still leave the look of confusion on the foreheads

    of the bus riders who saw the big sweeping

    Cadillac, and the shouting head as just anotherstrange break in their daily ennui. I would drive

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    the big ship-like Cadillac, grayish-colored and

    with good

    -1-

    measures of dust and dirt on it, looking neglected

    as an untamed horse, shooting straight on the

    road, for my apartment, ripping through the air

    like a minor storm, leaving behind a constant

    vacuum, that sucked the dirty, smoggy air in,

    encouraging the car onward. And I would laugh

    uncontrollably, and consider her shouting: bye

    people a funny departure from every days

    routines too: a distinct feature of her Autism. Or

    a sign of enthusiasm for me. Apart from this and

    a few more eccentricities -she had no other signs

    of "developmental disability" or "retardation"-

    schizophrenia-or half other labels she

    could have been called by.

    The group home she lived at was a two-story

    stucco building in the middle of

    practically no where, in an industrial suburb of

    Los Angeles. There were semi-trucks

    parked parallel and neat, around dusty oldhotels with signs that must have been

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    inviting to truck drivers. Signs like: Adult Cable,

    Jacuzzi, privacy.

    -2-

    These tall signs littered the view of the

    mountains in the north of the city. Where you

    could still see some white caps of snow, thumbing

    their dirtied noses at the rag city below.

    There was a large shopping mall hidden from

    the main road, like a bruise, minutes away from

    the group home, where the 100 or so residents of

    the group home could go for walks or window-

    shopping. There was a Payless shoes, a Walmart,

    a Ross and a few more generic stores.

    There wasn't much real shopping done by those

    residents , cause they were all on Social Security

    Disability, and almost all of their benefits were

    directly deposited in the pockets of the group

    home owners. An amount around 900 dollars or

    so, each, for a bed in a two-beds to a room

    hotel-like room, and three meals a day; meals

    which tasted like hospital food, dry, stale, and as

    though produced in some cardboard kitchen

    tastes each and everyone knew. For almost everyone of them had been in a mental hospital at

    some point in their lives.

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    -3-

    They were Bipolars, Schizophrenics, or on rare

    occasions, high-functioning Autistics like my girl,

    Claire. Her housemates were all restless, shrill,

    and by turns languid or hyper-active, and they

    argued over cigarettes and change for soda,

    candy, in colorful dispensing machines which

    occupied shrine-like postures in the dinning

    room area. According to Claire, there were all

    sorts of drama going on all the time, dramas, she

    claimed being far above of, in a diva-like

    posture. Something that wasnt exactly true. But

    at the time she really looked forwards to times

    when I picked her up. She longed to get away

    from the group home, she was the only Autistic

    there, she said, which was true, and no- one

    really understood her, which was true enough

    then as now.

    But there weren't much else she could have had

    in terms of living arrangements. Apartments are

    too expensive, for people on disability, makinggroup-homes the only viable, affordable form of

    shelter. And these are all run by shady

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    characters who make money out of the ill and

    disabled. And out of the general, national

    disregard, over how to best take care of theneedy.

    -4-

    Government seems to pay the disabled no mind,

    but give them a meager check every month,

    which barely paid for shelter and meals, and

    washed its hands off them, like they were lepers,

    or FDR had tricked the entire country into

    taking care of them by some sorcery.

    Perhaps that explains Claires fits of: "Bye

    People" out of the cars' windows. May be I was

    right to think of them as a sort of exuberance for

    a temporary release from some mental prison

    or injury.

    She had been introduced by a friend of mine,

    who liked to fix me up with her friends for no

    good reason, but to arrange or control things.

    She liked to project a sort of normalcy around

    her, as though this portrayal of normalcy could

    save her from this generalized panic everyone

    seemed to feel. And my aloneness was a thorn in

    her world that spelled normalcy

    with a curious must, yearning: for pairing andmatching of all sort of things: silk blouses to the

    color of ones car, and her friends and

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    acquaintances fit together, assorted in a vase. It

    was as though I couldn't convince her of my

    adequacy,-5-

    unless I hooked up with one of her friends.

    And so she bullied me, as though aloneness bred

    sedition and rowdiness. She'd tried to

    introduce some of her suspect young yuppies,

    but I had found flaws from just

    her reports on every one of them. These were

    women Id heard about from stories and films,

    women said to live lives dedicated to greed or

    cruelty, women: who stole love from you, when

    all you had was love. But when she called me

    on her cell phone, I detected a sense of triumph

    in her voice, like shed been to a spa or just

    walked out of spring sales at Macys.

    You can never say no to this one.

    No. I snapped jokingly. It was a good idea to

    never take her seriously. It also encouraged, and

    pleased her to no ends: just the thought of

    having to re-assert herself over and over again!

    "But she is a high functioning Autistic." With

    clear emphasis on the word Autistic. Shed

    probably just looked it up, and was delightedwith her mental notes on it.

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    " Do you even know what Autism is?"

    I wanted to irritate her.

    "Listen: she has finished high school, and somecollege, but has been raised in group

    homes all her life." And then she added,

    remembering her mental notes:

    -6-

    Isnt that like completely unique for Autistics?

    " Since when you're an authority on Autism?" I

    asked a bit annoyingly.

    "Don't get prissy on me, you know what I

    mean." She snapped back.

    "She is a loner like you, doesn't that whet your

    appetite."

    A high-functioning Autistic? I thought to

    myself. That would be a rare bird.

    High-functioning enough to date?

    Yes, she has had long-term relationshipsvery

    attractive. She is really one of the best-dressed

    girls Ive come across.

    Really! I said in disbelief.

    Yes reallyyou dont believe me?

    Its just that I dont know?-look: how do you

    know she wants to go out with me?

    I showed her the pictures we took together- she

    liked them-and that youre a shrink-she thinksperhaps youd be able to understand her!

    You see?

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    So, this all, makes sense to her, on some level?

    It seems to me now that I tirelessly insisted on

    things making sense then.Yes.

    How do you know her?

    -7-

    I work with her brother-their entire family are

    computer nerds, she is very good with

    computers too-in fact she is the one who looked

    you up.

    Vow-thats impressive!

    And in the profile says youre an expert in

    Autism, I didnt even know that-she read that

    herself.

    I only worked with Autistic children as an

    undergraduatethe kids I worked with werent

    even verbal!!

    Well Claire is we just got back from

    shopping-and she wants to meet you.

    When?

    Wait, let me ask her. She cupped the phone

    and almost instantly came back:

    today.

    I looked at my watch it was already 1 in theafternoon and on a Saturday.

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    She doesnt drive, and I can drive her to a

    meeting place today-thats the thing , she doesnt

    drive at all.Thats not unusual-you have to be mad to drive

    in this city.

    -8-

    So, you do understand her?

    By the time we hung up-we had a date to meet at

    a restaurant called Spires, about 20 minutes

    drive from my apartment. I had a few hours to

    waste. This wasnt at all a disagreeable turn of

    events!

    Id been sitting around trying to think of

    something to do, something clever and personal,

    like writing a song or a story. But there hadnt

    been anything deep to be sounded. No wide-

    opened eyelids. No run away train. It seemed

    that always something in between feelings and

    lips went dying.

    The heat had been pressing its wings across the

    city. Its been this way for long. Each year seems

    warmer than the previous, and the suffering

    makes you ineffectual, melancholic. The

    afternoons are worst. The heat rises up from the

    ground as if a furnace has been hidden downthere. Something nefarious and alien.

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    I live on the second floor of a Spanish style

    building. The apartment is surrounded by

    windows. From the east windows I have a viewof downtowns spirals. And the southern

    windows look on the house next door.

    Outside that window, the neighbor was busy

    -9-

    pouring cement, over the back yard. He had dug

    the brownish, starved lawn out, and hauled it out

    in violent bursts of activity. Now standing over

    this scene, and with DIY gadgets in his hands, he

    looked like he was contemplating a crime. He

    was a cable- guy by the look of the large van he

    parked inside the garage. Two ladders of

    different height sat on top of the van, like

    stretched out corpses, and various wires and

    what not were stuffed in the back.

    And he had a flock of kids, all ages, at least seven

    of them. The grassy back yard used to look lush

    and the kids would run all over it, yelling in both

    Spanish and English. Self-confidence in two

    languages, brought something louder out of

    them.But the draught had made water more and more

    expensive- and he was making the best of it- with

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    the swiftness of a big western city dweller, an

    immigrant- hed dug the lawn out within hours,

    and was standing over the scarred ground, witha look of inspired determination. I knew before

    sunsetthe concrete would cover the old

    landscape like a new shell. And nothing will

    matter to anyone. The draught-inflamed grass

    had become like a picture no one notices on the

    wall anymore.

    -10-

    But it made me want to grief-for each day of

    reduced existence. I thought, I could wither, if I

    stood there silent and still. That something

    funereal would take over my dreams that night-

    and he passing of greenery everywhere had a

    secret cost. And that you cant really fill

    emptiness with emptiness. Void with void.

    I thought: it was at least nice, I had somewhere

    to go--an escape was made available like an

    empty carriage-on a deserted railroad track.

    I wore whatever I wore. Clothes have become

    uniforms, indifferent things to me, I have ten

    exact copies of same, same. They are picked by

    this general formula: they ought to fit in any

    neighborhood anywhere, anytime,

    inconspicuous, safe, neither a prey nor apredator.

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    I ran downstairs, locked the door three times

    ritualistically, checked them again, and stepped

    out into the great wide open.The air outside was warmer than in. The rays of

    the sun fell on you like yellow rain. You felt like

    taking your shirt off , and twisting the rays out

    of it with violence-the air like a bandit, criminal.

    The car was parked just across the street. I ran

    to it-the air-condition still worked back then.

    It started like with the first turnand pushed

    itself down the street- more like a ship settingsail. Its ancient velocity passing wired fences, a

    tobacco shop on the left, a taco stand, two police

    cars, the

    -11-

    fast foods. And the Hispanic music blasting out

    of every car before the light, and onto the

    freeway then.

    The instant hum of velocity on the freeway,

    announces itself -and something leaves you, in

    its depth. Something mixed with consciousness

    something like a bleeding net. And you

    wonder off depleted of yourself, taken -out of

    time and space--and find yourself at junctures

    you dont recognize. Its like the phone-ring in

    the middle of a dream. Who and what force

    been driving the car here? Its almost like the

    freeway has a collective consciousness, things

    become autocratic, empty of willfulness.Is this the exit?

    Its me calling back to me.

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    I have to awaken from a dream, I dont recall!

    I find the address right away, its really where

    everything else id bundled, by the exit, Andthe restaurant is really not one. Its a short-

    order-cook round space. Surrounded by a half-

    moon-shaped parking lot. Its large windows are

    tainted dark, ominous and everything about the

    parking space directs you to the entrance walk.

    The parked cars are mostly trucks, and old-

    dinosaurs like mineI know everything inside

    too will murmur of nostalgia: the universallanguage of: awful-things-ahead.

    -12-

    They girls cant possibly be here yet-Im an hour

    early- spinning the day on its head.

    Inside, the place looks like a polished pit.

    Smooth shiny surfaces smile with a menace. And

    the air is packed with scents of saturated fats.

    The atmosphere has a nakedness to it. You have

    to fill it with your own substance.

    There are framed posters of someones art-work

    though. I dont remember his name. But he is the

    chief of nostalgia. Everyone is supple and blue in

    the pictures. Standing erect by barnyards. Ice

    cream parlors that dont exist.

    I drop myself on a booth that looks out on the

    parking lot. The heat outside the window bendsthe light- elongated and oblique, like its been

    hammered. Still, there is a geometric beauty to

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    all this unfolded movement. And there are no

    shades to be seen-- the light gives the impression:

    It moves forever in frozen threads.

    The waitress comes by almost instantlyshe is

    very agile for all her weight.

    Ill just have coffee-Im expecting friends. Im

    fond of saying: Im expecting friends, like I

    -13-

    Can belong, its not really true.

    She squeezes an uncertain smile-I know thats

    probably why I dont appreciate overweight

    people much. Their weight reminds me of

    encroachment, and immense inner sadness.

    She pours the coffee with the steadiest hands.

    They are soft and chubby, like a childs. Full of

    restrained mischief.

    Well, holler at me if you need anything!

    Will do! With same feigned cheerfulness.

    The hour flies-and mainly through: my

    examining everything over and over againIm

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    like an archeologist. Digging in the dirt. The

    Formica walls, the invariable patrons, the

    posters on the walls, the flat-bed trucks in thedistance.

    And then I see them coming.

    -13-

    .

    Chapter Two: Invisible Wealth.

    I see my friend first--the way she struts-waves in

    and out of her own fragmented shadows. She is

    in a floral dress, summery and light--its

    reflection is like a ray of water at a distance. Her

    shoes are strappy white, with three inches heels-

    still she moves in them well. And she must haveseen my car in the parking lot-because her face

    moves in the thin silence of that consciousness.

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    Vow, you hear that Claire, hes been waiting

    for us for an hour, what do you think of

    that?Claire flips the plastic menu, but she clearly

    thinks it a complement. She blushes! Everything

    -15-

    Is transparent on her face, like its been polished

    by a secret gentle wind.

    I look at her hands, they are small, and pale.

    Quick and sharp. They crimp the warm air-

    and stay close to the pack of cigarettes, caressing

    their space.

    She is tanned. A light brown, layered on freckles

    and paleness. The space around her is gold-

    brown. And up close her hair is more auburn

    than red, its really a color I havent seen on

    anyone, I know they sell colors like this in drug-

    stores, but never seen them occur naturally.

    There is something unique about her

    Look: like something from an entirely different

    river.

    Still, she is beautiful-and unaware of it. Down

    to the inward stare of her dark round browneyes. And the far-away look in them--

    detachable, as if she can absent herself at will-

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    and a subtle rebellion in the corners like waving

    flags, warning you.

    What are you thinking about?

    -16-

    Its Claire who asks me that.

    What? Im caught off-guard.

    Youve been looking out the window, like you

    are staring at something!

    Ive been absent, I dont recall the

    past few minutes!

    Yeah, you have that far away look!

    My friend says.

    What do you like to do Claire? I ignore

    their remarks. Im too cautious now. I want to

    record everything, everything, like a suitor, a

    teaser- a new scientist, and student.

    Yes, what do you like to do for a date? My

    friend asks punctual, obedient.

    Claire smiles a heart shape smile.

    I like to go to the beach?Is she asking me to take her out to the waters!

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    You have a nice tan!

    I walk a lot, I walk to Wal-mart, Payless!

    She utters their names like they are holy places,and seems reflected, absent again.

    One day I walked all the way downtown-I just

    -17-

    couldnt stop! She drifts out like an

    echo. And stares at a mysterious point above us.

    I like to say: Why?

    Where do you live? I really mean: how far

    did you have to walk?!

    I live in Pico -in a group home!

    There is nothing sad about the way she utters

    this. Its flat as a desert, affect-less.

    Im only half-an-hour away from Pico!

    What I really mean is:

    I will come far for you, in a boat with no sail.

    I only say:

    I have a car thats like a boat.

    She showed it to me, its nice, can we go to the

    beach tomorrow? She asks me directly.

    She is impressed by a Cadillac?Yes, of course-which beach do you want to go

    to?

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    Manhattan beach, or Newport!

    Im not sure where they are. But my head is

    filled with acquiescence.Pick you up at 11?

    No, at 10! her legs shakes the table with

    excitement.

    I write her address down as she methodically

    -18-

    orders: pancakes, with butter on top, side order

    of sausages, and cheese- omelet. And vaguely

    explains apologetic: Its my food!

    Its my food. I repeat it silently to myself.

    When the food arrives, she pushes the large

    pancake plate in front of our friend-its a gesture

    they both understand, because she

    begins to cut the pancakes for her in tiny little

    slices.

    It doesnt seem unusual. My friend murmurs

    an explanation:

    Its really hard for her to cut these into little

    pieces!

    Yeah-I cant cut them myself. Claire explains,

    and watches our friend as if observing a

    surgeon.

    Why Im not surprised? Id sensed hercoordination was off by seconds and millimeters.

    Im not sure how I know this. Its how her

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    eyes follow every little movementvelocity has a

    certain mystery for her. Singular, maidenly

    events. She follows them, with littlebursts of surprise--they tilt her head to the left-

    like she is

    -19-

    made both curious, and frightened by them.

    I know, I have seen this look of surprise before--

    its the silent language of the kids I worked

    with years ago. Back then, itd felt like being

    made to sit under a tree whose leaves fell like

    flowers around you--carrying secret proportions

    of humanity, from a distance of unexplainable

    beauty.

    She eats only a third of what shes ordered, its

    nearly as if she is quickly bored with them. The

    uneaten food look buried in their dishes. They

    are like broken plastic things, something

    rubbery and flexible about them all: Pink,

    yellow, red colors-food that resembles toys. They

    cant be what we (were) but (are)-seriousconfusions of splendor?

    I think, only children can be amused

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    by these plates, but Im wrong because there are

    adults sitting everywhere, looking not ravenous,

    but content for them.I dont know why I dont lament all the waste

    perhaps its because I wouldnt eat them myself.

    I used to call them: heart-attack-specials-

    suddenly it doesnt seem funny anymore.

    -20-

    Claire begins to stare out the window. She

    grabs her cigarettes, theyre intimate objects

    to her:

    Im going outside fore a smoke!

    But Ill be right back. Though, theres no re-

    assurance in that. You feel as though she might

    disappear into the heat like a drop of water!

    Ok, darling. Says my friend and gets out of

    the booth , Claire slides out.

    Within seconds she is outside, we can both see

    her-she looks like a distracted statue, staring still

    at something mobile.

    Well, what do you think!

    I think she is lovely!Well? What else

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    Her colors! Do the rest of the family come in

    colors like that?

    No- you know, most women would die to havea hair-color like hers!

    And she is bright-not in the conventional ways,

    but very sensitive!

    I know, I get that too!

    What else? She wants to pick brain. Its not

    just curiosity. She wants something more!

    -21-

    Insight, insight. I annoys me.

    Everyone wants instant insightit really ought

    to be the most expensive currency in the world.

    Fine!

    She is lovely though!

    You already said that-whats wrong with you?

    I dont know what to tell you-I feel like Darwin

    on his island!

    What does that mean? Ive exasperated her.

    I mean she is like something rare, and

    undiscovered!

    Oh, shut-up, here she comes back- she isadorable! She really likes her.

    I agree!! We hush our voices.

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    I saw two bikes!

    Claire loves bikes! My friend explains, withfondness. I think she understands there is

    something amazing and, infrequent about

    her, she just cant put her head around it. And

    neither can I.

    What kind of bikes? I am not sure what they

    are talking about.

    Street bikes, not off road. I saw a Honda

    -22-

    1000-it took off down the street, like crazy-

    woosh.

    She makes the sound, and laughs. Its clearly

    made her happy.

    Our waitress comes by, she is shocked by the

    uneaten mess on the table:

    You dont want anymore? You want me to box

    it for you? She is being helpful- but like a

    soldier, she should have stayed and guarded the

    food!

    None of us wants to say anything. We all feel

    guilty, in a distracted way.

    Claire seems annoyed.I cant eat anymore! offers a simple

    explanation. She probably thinks its sufficient.

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    The waitress is nonplussed:

    Oh, dont worry about it honey. She doesnt

    mean it-and begins to clear the table-it probablylooks like a shipwreck to her. She wants it all

    restored to some God-given order.

    Outside the heat is an immobile stature--as if it

    can resist all ruptures and change. Ive paid the

    bill and weve all walked out together.

    -23-

    I put my sunglasses on, they make

    me feel different. Its a lot like putting a curtain

    up. The opposite of opening your arms.

    Claire walks side by my side, she walks

    quick and, self-assured. I think: she means to

    say:

    were together.

    We walk over dead brown grass and onto the

    Concrete.

    The ocean surges in the distance-I can smell its

    scents.We are only half-an-hour away from the

    Pacific. I can clearly hear its wind

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    calling. It reminds me of a landlords knock on

    the door-- something alarming and ominous too.

    Later on I think: there is something keener in

    Claire --something subterranean like a

    root, something that sends my books to their

    shelves and senses

    the world with an invisible wealth.

    She tilts her head up in the air as we walk. It

    reminds me of my long-gone Terrier, some-24-

    Perfume has shaken her. Something unjustly

    forgotten? Because Im unmoved !! I have a deaf

    science of ravines and peaks-and persist as if in a

    ruined tunnel, at another limit!

    I wait for them to get in the car-and watch

    them drive away.

    Claire waves her hand, and smiles while looking

    ahead, I know she is thinking of tomorrow, and

    of waters, waters.

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    -25-

    Chapter Three: In The Box.

    It wasnt easy to fall sleep that night. And once

    sleep the dreams were intractable, impossible to

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    budge. I seem to go in and- out of doors,

    through pure territories that are joined by some

    sovereign intelligence, something unknowable,and unfailing..

    There are events that have existed, forming

    events that must form. I can see the source of my

    destiny I think! But its a feeling more than

    reason.

    -26-

    And its almost as if its too painful to know so

    much, so I dont.

    I wake up not remembering anything concrete,

    just a vague unhappiness, in a faint place inside

    my chest, where nocturnal weights throbs. I

    know its all made of a wellspring, or

    of a fountain: of light like spindles--but they

    must form many streams, the details are

    divided, shaded as grief.

    When I wake up, its nearly 5:00 AM. The

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    edges of dawn, light will swing its sword a nebula

    across the skies in momentous loom. I have to

    stare out patiently through the curtains, untileverything is silver-plated with landing light,

    then I can go out for a run.

    To jog any earlier than 6:30 is to leave

    oneself vulnerable to so many forces, who see

    the light as a breach, as a finger down

    their throats. They range from stray

    dogs, to mad men and women, who think

    knives can be wielded against anyone in theabsence of light, though they naturally cant run

    -27-

    well. To the an occasional crack-head on a

    bicycle, who is too high to distinguish value

    from worthlessness. Who grabs anything that

    fits in his hooded sweat. Keys, crumbled

    napkins, old cell-phones:, even a remote control:

    yeah give me that too.

    With unimaginable thirst.

    I think its the general idea of taking things

    In, anything.

    Even garbage earns something around

    here. The garbage collectors are blacks,

    Hispanics, older Chinese couples, and mostly the

    homeless, they tow their packed shopping carts

    across uneven pavements with such vigor.

    Sometimes I think theyll live to be in theirhundreds. Until I see one or two, sleep under a

    tree, by a wall, an empty malt liquor bottle lying

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    flat like a corpse of a shiny alien rodent.

    The first time I was mugged.. I was leaving fora swim at 5:30. There is a covered pool that

    opens at 4:30 AM. on Crenshaw boulevard.

    The thief was hooded, riding a dirt bike. The

    hand-gun he pulled out was a terrifying looking

    object, it looked to weigh a ton. He asked

    to come up to the apartment. I had just walked

    out, careless, nocturnal, wanted to greet the

    dawn with a bang.-28-

    I naturally nodded my head.

    He was a thinly smallish black fellow.

    Wasting away from living, from its multitudes

    of surprise. But the gun, was no pistol, it was a

    battalion of shears. Someone pale, had designed

    it to stir sharp irreversible fear. It had a

    crocodile face, a shiny man-made reptile . And

    had the boy really polished the thing? In the

    downs darkness, the silver object shone its own

    light.

    Like itd been dipped into candle wax, and now

    was lit on fire.

    And it had its own phosphorescent tail of light

    as the man/boy waved it seamless around the

    air.,Once we were upstairs, he quickly went about

    picking up anything small enough to fit in his

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    bottomless pockets. Pens, wallet, keys, lighter,

    cell-phone, even a small ashtray. In an

    undistracted way, almost like hed forgotten Iexisted.

    On his way out at the bottom of the stairs, I

    quarreled with him over my

    wallet, all my IDs were in it, I really didnt want

    to lose that, but he hit me hard

    with the butt of his gun. And that quickly ended

    the pulling match. They never found him of-

    course. Why would anyone look?The second time I was mugged I was just

    running near the park, the man in the car

    -29-

    stopped ahead, walked out, pulled a

    semi-automatic out of his jacket, ordered me

    against the wall, and went through my pockets,

    not having found a damn thing, he left me

    standing there bewildered. It made me think:

    why would he assume a jogging man carries

    anything but his keys? But the light was

    impending, just on the verges of occurring,

    through the half-lit streets ,inevitable, and sad? It

    occurred to me that the dawn can bring a man to

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    its red knees- dealing out threads of possibilities.

    Which automatically mean tragedies, tragedies.

    The light with its nimble swords, its warriorrestlessness.

    I wanted to curse it too, in my own way.

    It all made me want to mourn for the charging

    wild dogs, the knife-wielding mad men, and the

    disoriented bandits.

    I thought I ought to understand the underbelly

    of light better.

    -30-

    The mad glow of all broken things. The

    yellowing pigeons. The shine of fat on our faces.

    The outworn clothes. The submissive heads. And

    everything wrapped in the pale resistance of

    exhausted shoulders.

    It took me 10 minutes to take a shower that

    sunday. Five minutes to dress. 4 minutes to find

    the address on mapquest. And half-an-hour to

    drive through the deadest-looking LA

    neighborhoods on a Sunday. Industrial little

    town after town, only seconds away from one

    another, but all with different fancy Spanishnames, all looking exactly alike-like someones

    bad joke and mockery of diversity. A million

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    traffic lights along, railroad tracks crossing in

    odd strange spaces. A large bread factory,

    machine shops, more than dozens fast foods,pharmacies, outlet retails clothes, a spice factory,

    diners, and Mexican young girls in skinny jeans

    and bare shoulders, searching out of the corner

    of their blackest eyes for supped up cars, who

    really ought to stop for them on any Sunday,

    anywhere.

    -31-

    The group home was exactly where it was

    suppose to be. On a fast four-lane dusty road.

    Where cars and bikes were made to feel reckless,

    free, if for mere moments. When I parked in

    front of the entrance walk. Three men and two

    women approached the car and eyed me

    suspiciously. Once I was out of the car, all five of

    them asked if I had any smoke. One of them

    wanted to know who was I there to pick up.

    I had no cigarettes, but I would have given them

    a few each. It would have made their Sunday,

    The space in front of the sliding door was littered

    with smoked-to-the-end butts.Someone ought to sweep this mess once in a

    while.

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    I told one of them. Inhabiting authority roles is

    apparently natural for me.

    They do, every once in a while, but you cantsmoke in the lobby, everyone must come out

    here. The tallest of them said.

    And just to confirm himself, he muddled.

    yes sir, they do sweep this spot, yes sir.

    -32-

    Once inside, the lobby looked empty, large. Its a

    a concrete bubble. The usual calendars from the

    art-class on the walls. Weeks Activities.

    panted in large orange cardboard letters.

    There was nothing written underneath it. The

    empty space might have read: who cares.

    There was a pay phone to the left, and doors of

    4 offices, shut on both sides. Only one was half-

    open. I walked to it, there was a Mexican

    woman, short and fat, sitting behind a desk, half

    to hide her weight, half to rest her knees I

    suppose. And she was loud, like she was used to

    yelling at people:

    Can I help you?

    I am here to pick-up Claire West.

    I paused.

    Is she expecting you?False authority.

    Trying to appear suspicious.

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    Yes.

    I decided not to give her anything more to helpher make up her mind about me. She probably

    divided things into good and bad, black or

    brown. Sugar

    -33-

    or no sugar. Carne or not.

    She picked up the phone, dialed the intercom

    and shouted:

    Claire West, you have a visitor in the lobby.

    It sounded more like: you have a problem

    here.

    She lets the loud echo of her voice soothe her like

    a plate. I feel like Im invading her secrets by

    just standing there.

    Shell be right down.

    She said acting bossy.

    I start circling the lobby, and within seconds of

    the call, strange number of women appear, like

    buzzing flies, looking around, sizing me up and

    down, probably to see whos come courting for

    Claire? Like a prudent rooster, I look them up

    and down too.A very young black girl asks for a cigarette. She

    is dressed in the most outrageously sexual way.

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    She has to unloosen two strings and shed be

    entirely naked. She cant be much older than 18.

    And there is this other woman, she is pretty in amid-western way. Dressed in Wal-mart . She

    looks at me to see if I find her attractive. The

    sort of stare that is never evaluating you, but

    wants to read your reaction to herself. And the

    cautiousness in that stare. Half-scared to find

    -34-

    something unlovely reflected back !! But not

    really expecting it. Just the fear exists though.. I

    make sure I smile approvingly. I have learned to

    do this throughout years of experience. The look-

    back must always say: confirm, confirm. Or it

    creates problems.

    Claire takes a good 10 minutes to appear. She is

    out of the elevators door, with what looks like

    an entourage. She nods her head to me, and she

    is talking to these obese older men surrounding

    her. They are carrying her purse, cell-phone, and

    her beach towel. Now I see why the lobby got

    crowded with women after she was summoned.

    She is clearly their queen. Their feminine pointof reference. She calls the fat Mexican woman:

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    Bertha. Introduces me as her friend-and says

    casually, without looking at me:

    Are you ready?I look at the largely obese, older men

    -35-

    standing at attention around her, theyre like

    sleepy old lamps. She notices this, and starts

    introducing them like they are both her best

    friends and subjects.

    The one holding her cell-phone, has his hair

    parted in the middle with the most current hair

    gel. He looks like a scrubbed bear.

    Claire looks at him and says:

    can I have tinker bell?

    Tinker bell? I say trying to be convivial.

    See there is a tinker bell on it.

    Its a black all-purpose purse/bag with colorful

    stitching of tinker bell.

    The bear wants to know where were going.

    We are going to Manhattan beachIll

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    be back soon, we wont be late.

    Right? She asks me.

    Right, I feel like an attendant!

    Internally though, Im loving every glance,

    exchange and gesture. Its like being allowed

    inside a building, youve always looked at from

    the street.

    -36-

    I am inside the box! I unintentionally exclaim.

    What box? Claire asks.-but doesnt wait for

    an answer, we better get going, and starts toward

    the door. The entourage follows her . They have

    circled her like a wagon. One of the girls ask:

    Where youre going Claire?

    Its meant as admired-envy.

    Claire doesnt pause to answer her, She doesnt

    even turn around. I later learn, they always ask

    her the same thing. And she always answers thesame:

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    Just out and about.

    She is very fond of repeating this.

    They are always asking where Im going, and Isay: out and about. She chuckles and looks at

    a point on the road. Absent once were in the car.

    Self-possessed- lights a cigarette.

    -37-

    Chapter Four: The Sounds of a

    Dance.

    The way to the Manhattan beach from her place

    is a spatial conundrum, and I have to figure it

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    all by myself. I am accustomed to women who

    have perfect senses of direction:

    Just turn here.

    Here?

    Yes, right there.

    With authority. I like that.

    Then what?

    Ill tell you when we get there dear.

    -38-

    I wanna say I love you!

    How do you get anywhere without me?

    Its not a question, its a boast, a verbal swagger.

    Where do you get your perfect sense of

    direction from?

    Mind the road honey. Not from my father.

    I prefer sarcasm to getting lost any day.

    Claire, do you know the best way to get there?

    No, I dont.

    Didnt you look it up?

    I did, but I cant understand my own

    directions!

    You should have printed it out, you do have a

    printer?Yes, I do. I just dont go out to the beach that

    often.

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    I sound as though Im nagging already.

    Well be fine. Well ask someone, at a gas

    station.Ok.

    We make it there, by following the largest river

    of cars. And by the scents of ocean. By how

    cloudier it gets as we near. And by a certain

    feeling I either cant recall or explain. She gets

    -39-

    Keener as we follow the cars. I know I really

    should follow how her head tilts, and the way her

    eyes round up, she really seems to know the way,

    but cant explain it. I neither know my senses,

    nor can I explain. I am out of two faculties, while

    I bet she could walk there all by herself following

    scents and the currents in the air. And

    everything else that vibrates out of that mass of

    water.

    The car caravans direction is quite clear. They

    are a self-possessed crowd. The road is thick

    with shiny, sporty new things that all look as

    though they are adored by their occupants, and

    are all being mysteriously pulled by the force ofocean.. Everyone looks confident, wealthy,

    young, tanned--brownish like Claire, and every

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    other one a dyed blondes. I seem to remember

    hearing: Manhattan beach is the most expensive

    beachin in Los Angeles. Or am I imagining thisbecause how poor my dusty old car looks in their

    midst?

    I hate rich people.

    What?

    I said I dont like rich people.

    She looks confused.

    But you are rich, you arent?

    Not really.She looks away, not disappointed. But

    indifferent:

    You are richer than me.

    How is that?

    -40-

    All my money goes to the group home, I barely

    have enough for cigarettes.

    But you wear all these nice things?

    Theyre presents. My mom buys them for me.

    And Joe does.

    Who is Joe?

    He is my best friend.

    pause.

    And he is like my older brother, you know?

    She becomes animated. Her attention is shiftedback inside the car. I close the windows, cut the

    outside noise out, though my senses are about to

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    get accustomed to whatever hold this key. The

    oceans. It really must be all the marine life in

    there. The vibes are clear, with bearing, existing.Amd I beginning to feel a keener sense of things?

    What do you mean he is like your brother, I

    thought you already had a brother?

    I do, Christopher. But we never got along, he

    never understood my condition growing up. He

    was always ashamed of me.

    So, you invented a brother for yourself?-41-

    Kind of.

    Thats clever. I like to invent a whole new

    family for myself.

    Hmm?

    How did you guys meet?

    He was over the group home to visit a

    housemate. Crystal. They had been friends. And

    I walked into her room, Joe and I met, we hit it

    off right away. I picked him to be my friend-

    Just like that, and we were off.

    You were off? What does that mean?

    I left with him, for their house, and spent theweekend with them.

    Who is them?

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    Im not sure if I understand the simplicity of

    everything here.Joe lives with his mom, in their house in studio

    city. They have an extra bedroom, so I stayed as

    a guest there.

    -42-

    How long did you say you knew each other?

    Before all this happened?

    About an hour, why?

    Nothing Im just curious.

    Where is this Joe now?

    At home probably, fixing his car. Mom said,

    thats his mom, I call her mom now. She said I

    can stay over every other weekend. Joe picks me

    up next Friday.

    How old is Joe?

    He is about 54 years-old, I am not sure!Oh, how old is your real brother?

    Christopher is two years older than I, he is 35.

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    Oh.

    I wish I could just keep saying Oh, oh,

    throughout life.

    It has a decent, non-commit ant, non-judgmental

    sound. And it doesnt feign curious. Curiosity

    scares people off.

    But then I have an ailment: I have to know, for

    some odd evolutionary reason, I ought to know,

    which requires a bigger investment than oh, oh,oh.

    -43-

    What does Joe do for a living, and why does he

    live with his mom?

    Hes got MS. He is on disability too. But he

    works under the table for a machine shop, he

    used to own his own garage.

    For same odd reason, nothing becomes clearer.

    We are near the ocean though, the cars divideinto many smaller streets, that by the scent and

    the look of white sand must lead directly to the

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    ocean itself. The shiny automobiles look

    arrogant to me, the way they know all the in and

    outs. All sorts of people in flip-flops walk thatway too, like theres a concert.

    Anyways, Im tired of knowing. Things pretty

    much clear themselves up. So they say. I dont

    quite believe in it myself though.

    They say Hitler went around repeating:

    Isnt it great that men dont think!

    -44-

    He must have stolen that from Nietzsche too.

    I think.

    We follow a bunch of cars that loo touristy, they

    have out-of-state plates, or carry mostly non-

    blondes. Ive done well so far, following the herd.

    Though this isnt one of my features.

    By this herd-miracle, we land at the gates of a

    big parking lot. Smooth dark concrete, withcarefully measured spaces. Theres a sign that

    says: 8 Dollars. Park All Day.

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    Youd think I could park here, for the whole

    week for eight Dollars. I exclaim, still believingIm alone in the car and can say anything I like.

    She looks sideways at me. But is too excited

    about the ocean.

    The ocean is right there to our right. Beyond

    other cars, beyond sand mounds. Beyond armies

    in flip-flops, beyond more blondes. And it roars

    with a familiar, but frightening receding, andoverrun sound. Its the sounds of a dance.

    Something is always given, and always taken

    back.

    THE END OF CHAPTER FOUR.

    A NEW DRAFT.

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