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8/9/2019 Autistic -A Novel First 4 Chapters (Anew Draft) Hooshang Danesh
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Autistic Novel
Hooshang Danesh
8/9/2019 Autistic -A Novel First 4 Chapters (Anew Draft) 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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