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Jasmina
After
a day of regular soakings, I have discovered a small shelter. The walls feature
pictures of good-looking people who smile at me as if I have just handed them a
plate of cookies. I have also inherited
half a peanut butter sandwich and some crackers. It’s hard to believe that
people throw out such things. I feel much better, but I also feel like I should
keep moving. I dig out a plastic bottle, fill it with water and am about to
take off when I hear a far-off crashing. I follow the sound along a short path
and come to a low stone wall. I am standing at the top of a cliff, and looking
at a shoreline that I cannot quite believe. It’s as if someone cut a mountain
in half and sent its sandy innards tumbling toward the ocean. I move to the
left end of the wall and find something even more stunning: a white city, a
million houses built on hills. Some of the houses are enormous, rising toward
the sky in fantastic shapes: a triangle, a stack of cards, a fire hose. I know
that Mama warned me about places like this, but I have already decided: the
road back to Cloudburst begins in the white city.
Paul
I
know that I am a pathetic figure, but I also know what I need. I step on to the
sidewalk and rap on the glass. Javid looks up from his work and comes over to
unlock the door.
“Hi
Paul.”
“I
know you’re closing, but… could I buy some popcorn?”
“No,”
he says. “But you can have some
popcorn. Butter?”
“Lots.”
He
fills a bucket, spends a long time at the butter-pump and grabs a handful of
napkins.
“Thanks,
Javid.”
“No
prob. I… I miss her, too. Well – I better get back to work.”
He
slaps me on the shoulder. It stays there like a Day-Glo handprint. I sit in my
bed and squash handfuls into my mouth, parsing a late-night talk show for words
of wisdom.
Jasmina
The
sky has cleared out, but the light from the city obscures the stars. I descend
the final hundred yards to the orange bridge, feeling like a knight approaching
the dragon’s lair. The first tower rises forever, disappearing into the night
sky. I am relieved to find that a person can, in fact, walk across to the white
city. I pass beneath the tower without being eaten, and the giant cables slowly
sink to my side. I begin to see dark silhouettes, shadows that have escaped
their people. They gather at the railing and take turns leaping into the water
far below. One of them turns and reaches out to me, an invitation. A
black-haired angel appears on the cable and raises her arms, like a queen
addressing her subjects. She speaks in a low, calm voice. “These are the
shadows of people who were silly, and wasteful, and threw away their lives.
Ignore them, and keep walking.” I turn toward the white city.
Paul
We’re
playing a party in Sebastapol, in a funky little house on the edge of a
vineyard. It’s actually two houses: an aging farmhouse and a slapped-together
cottage that serves as the band room. Things with Exit Wonderland have gotten
too serious, so we decide to play a bizarro set. We play the surf punk as a
stoner reggae, the metal anthem as a disco song, the rockabilly as a polka.
Some of the new versions sound better than the old – or perhaps we are just
dazzled by our own ingenuity.
Afterward,
we head outside to attack the remains of a pot-luck. Sitting at a picnic table,
we watch the next band through a picture window. A hip-hop drummer is doing
some amazing tricks on my hi-hat as his word-man conjures an impressive run of
rhyme and invective. The bass player spends most of his time cracking up.
“They
are fucking awesome!”
“And
you’re fucking drunk!”
“Molly!
What the hell are you doing here?”
The
charmed smile. Always the charmed smile. I just want to attack that thing.
“I’m
here as your personal assistant. It was great to hear your band.”
“I
got news for ya. That wasn’t us.”
“You’ve
been doing the Jello shots.”
“And
the hash brownies. I am an equal-opportunity dessert consumer.”
“Good
thing I brought the camper.”
“So
you’re my designated driver?”
“After
a good long sleep. The shrink is going to indulge, because the shrink is
fucking worn out.”
Even
in my altered state I can see the sadness in Molly’s eyes.
“Rough
week?”
“Yeah.
Lost a patient.”
“That’s
too bad.”
“She
just… disappeared.” She holds up a fist and opens it, like a magician vanishing
a coin.
“You
know, Molly? You’re a beautiful woman.”
The
next smile falls more in the category of amused. “And you’re drunk.”
I
raise a declamatory finger, but succeed only in upsetting our bench, sending us
tumbling backward onto the grass. After a lengthy fit of laughter, I open my
eyes to a sky that is absolutely crammed with stars. I feel certain that I am
supposed to be sad about something, but I am grateful that I don’t remember.
Jasmina
The
city is dazzling and terrifying all at once. The buildings scale the hills, and
seem to be leaning on one another. I fear they will tumble down and crush me. I
keep them at arm’s length by staying to the waterfront, and I take a nap on a
park bench. When I awake, I steel myself and I wander onto a street lined with
shops and restaurants. The air smells of seafood and candy, and the people
chatter in a hundred languages. The crush almost feels comforting, but still
I’m relieved when I burst into the broader spaces near the wharves. One of them
features a row of colorful banners at its entrance: Pier 39. I walk the gray
planks amid jewelry stores and ice cream parlors, and I discover a ride with
painted horses circling round and round. Two brown girls are holding onto a
white pony and screaming with glee as their mother snaps photos. But I hear
something else, too – a howling and bellowing, like the sound of Reverend
Matterhorn’s hounds. I take a corridor past a souvenir shop and come to a
railing next to the water. Twenty feet away, a wooden island is teeming with
oily-looking creatures, flopping around and barking their heads off. The scene
is so silly that it sets me into a fit of giggling. “What’s so funny?” someone
says, and I say, “Those goofy dogs!” I turn to find a man with lean features
and skin as black as obsidian. His smile is blinding. “Those are not dogs,
silly girl. They’re sea lions.” “Now what’s more likely to be in the water,” I
say, “a dog or a lion?” He lets out a ringing laugh and says, “You make a good
point.” He lights a cigarette and stands a little away from me so it won’t blow
in my face. “Your skin is incredible,” I say. His face tightens, as if someone
has blown smoke at him, but it
passes. “You actually mean that, don’t you?” “Well of course!” I say. “Why
would I say it if I didn’t mean it?” He chuckles and puts out the cigarette.
“Skin is a touchy subject in this country.” “I also like the way you talk –
it’s musical.” “Well thank you. I am from Kenya. I am told it’s a pleasing accent.
My name is Kumbra.” He extends his hand. “I’m Kelly.” The exchange of names
brings an awkward silence. The sea lions jump in the water, all at once.
“Well!” I say. “What’s that about?”
Kumbra says, “Perhaps they spotted a fish. So pardon me for being blunt, but
you are much better-looking than our usual homeless clientele. What brings you
here?” The question makes me a little sad. “I’m not really sure. I’m trying to
get home to Montana. My mother’s probably worried about me.” Kumbra gives me an
all-over look. “Listen, I just had some people from Oklahoma turn up their
noses at my best prawns. What the hell
does an Oklahoman know about something that comes from the sea? Wait right
here.” A minute later, he returns and hands me a paper bag. “I tell you what. I
get off in three hours. Let me take you out for a drink, and we’ll see what we
can do to get you back to Montana. Please don’t stay here, though. Tell you
what. See that tower up there?” “Oh! The firehose?” “Yes. Exactly. Take a nice,
easy walk up there, eat your prawns, and perhaps by the time you get back I
will be ready for you.” “Okay,” I say. “Thank you, Kumbra.” As I turn to go,
Kumbra says, “You have incredible skin, also.” This makes me laugh.
Photo by MJV
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