Chapter 8: Operation Keep PT Down: Meet Rodger Yamada, Steve’s Landlord

Steve’s hand was barely working, so on my day off, I drove him to class. I stopped over the previous evening after work because we had to leave early in the morning. From Pasadena to North Hollywood was a rough drive when you were not in a motorcycle splitting lanes.

Steve’s landlord, Roger Yamada, came from the front of the house to give Steve his mail. Steve was fourth generation Japanese American, average height, average build, little paunchy, just right for his age, which seemed to around 44. It was hard to tell, him being Asian.

“Hey, Roger, this is Ssal” Steve introduced us.

“Hi,” that was the extent of what Roger said to me. He seemed sociable enough, outgoing, really, but he never made eye contact with me the rest of the conversation. Hey, dude, handing Steve some mail, I think that’s your health insurance by the way. I signed you up as most I could but you gotta do the rest.”

Roger was a health insurance salesman. Steve said that he handled Britney Spears health insurance, that was why his password was so hush, hush. Something about the way Roger would talk to Alan, Steve, and Macy but not me made me think he was shy around women.

We went out for dinner later, a place in the Glendale Galleria, then hung around the bookstore for after dinner coffee. Steve was big on coffee. He always finished the large size at Starbucks. I was looking at some books and Steve came up and saw me with a stack of books in hand.

“Did you want me to buy them for you?” Steve had that habit of offering to buy things for people. It didn’t make sense when he had no money.

“I’m just looking. You don’t have to offer to buy me anything, you know.”

Later evening, as I was writing my depo summaries at Steve’s glass desk, I heard a squeaking noise, like a car tire straining to turn, or some wheel badly needing some grease or WD-40. I turned around. It was coming from…Steve. What has that high-pitched squeaking noise, almost as bad as scratching nails on a blackboard. I got up off the chair and looked around.

It was coming from the bed. Steve was turned away, facing the wall. He always slept in his clothes for some reason, as if he were ready to bolt at the slightest sound. I leaned over. The noise was coming from Steve. I turned his face toward me. some dribble and movement of his jaw. Lord, is this what teeth grinding sounded like? What sort of trauma was Steve nightmaring about? I held his jaw together to stop the grinding. Then let go. Squeak, squeak, the high-pitched noise was unbearable. What must be happening to his teeth?

“Okay, okay, Steve, it’s okay, nothing’s gonna hurt you. It’s all right.” I held his jaw lightly again, the grinding stopped. I held it there for a while, remembered that I had not sent out my report, and went over to the desk. I addressed it to the paralegal at my firm and hit the send button. I always send a copy to myself and checked it.

I noticed that she did not receive it because there was no email address in the “to” line. I did not even know that you could send an email when it was addressed to no one. I sent my summary again, making sure that I addressed it to the paralegal. The grinding noise began and I went over to the bed. I held Steve’s jaw together, not really putting pressure on it, just letting him know I was there. He stopped grinding his teeth and started snoring. Really loud snore. Old man snore. Great. I still wouldn’t be able to sleep.