Chapter 14: Operation Keep PT Down: My Mother has a Talk With Steve and For Some Reason, I Could Not Find an Apartment to Rent

My mother had a talk with Steve before she left. One of those I wish I were a fly on the wall talks that make people sit up and forward in their seat and say “Please, do tell,” with a gleam in their smile.

As my mother succinctly put, “Steve has a good heart, but he’s unstable.” If only his life could be so aptly summarized.

My mother basically told Steve to go get a full time job, i.e., Go away, you need to go away. The “understood” part was “from my daughter.”

Initially, around day three after we met, when Steve told me he had an offer with Locomotors and potentially Honda, that it would take him three years to learn all he needed to know to start his own car company, I told him that it would be best if we met again in three years. I was just starting my own career and had too much to do than get involved. Steve respected that and said that if I had an identical twin, she would be his ideal woman. I admit, that got me.

So a little over a month later, I introduced Steve to my mother and she told Steve to go away somewhere and get a full-time job. It wasn’t a coincidence that almost six months later, Steve’s mentor Taylor Geckle, auto designer extraordinairre told Steve the same thing.  Everyone knew what was good for Steve except Steve. When he finally caught up, it was too late to do what was good for him, because something kept stopping him from doing the things that would finally advance his life and stabilize him.

If there were a way of succinctly summarizing Steve’s life in terms of what was externally wrong with it, one could safely say that there was always something stopping him from achieving his dreams once he set his mind to it. Usually, it was a friend who felt depressed, so down they felt suicidal, a damsel in distress, that usually got Steve’s macho heart. He was a chump for a sob story, and the Universe--I mean the world--was full of them.

So, Steve said yeah, he’d stay away from me, because my mother told him that I had been through too many years of taking care of other people and not myself so that I had not been able to achieve anything in my own life. Things had gotten so bad that my health was wrecked and my mother told Steve that this was my last chance to get somewhere with the education that I had worked so hard for otherwise it would be a loss. Potential lost. Like Paradise Lost.

So Steve understood and with all his mind, but not his heart, intended to get a job with Loco Motors in Arizona. Except that Steve had some intense pains that required medical marijuana. He wouldn’t say what but you could in his face that his life was an opera of pain from act one through intermission until the final curtain call. His blood shot eyes, his laughed tinged with bitterness, the bags that had bags under his eyes. Those were the worst. Not even his gaunt, sunken cheeks could compare to the bags under his eyes. They seemed filled with every trauma that had beset Steve and had nestled into the bags under his eyes until they bulged like obscene trophies of how the Universe--I mean the world--had triumphed over Steve…and his will.

With this caution to Steve, to go away, my mother left town. Actually, she would have stayed longer, for she did not trust Steve to leave. But she had another trip to the East Coast to my sisters soon. What happened after my mother left—well, she often shook her head because my sisters were settled. Indeed, it was one sister on the East Coast that I had spend so much of my time helping that wrecked my health, so my mother really did not need to go there, had she known what was about to happen to me, but who could really know? Except, perhaps, the Universe. I mean, the world.

With an observation that I was “solid,” I drove my mother to LAX, returned to the hotel where she and I had been staying, and followed up on the many apartment leads my mother had found for me.

None of them returned my call.

So I continued searching. Several more said they would be happy to have me. I told the apartment managers about my lack of credit and prior to that my less than stellar history but that I had started work as an attorney. Most of them were touched by my story and said that my credit history would not be a bar from renting. When I had filled out the application for some places, I called to make an appointment to submit the application but never received a return phone call. Odd, the apartment managers were so enthusiastic about me.

I could not stay in the Extended Stay forever so I decided to pursue the informal roommate option. You know, roommates who already were renting and did not have to go through the formal credit application. Again, I had a couple of places who wanted me immediately, for instance, a few who wanted me to replace a roommate who was moving out, all legit of course. One lady was about to rent to me when her brother unexpectedly found a job in the area and wanted to stay with her.

The one case that stuck out was a place in Long Beach in the Alamitos area that had several African American males. I had emailed them and had not received a reply so went directly to the address listed. The ad had expressed a preference for a male roommate, less drama supposedly. However, the three male roommates were open to a female roommate.

When I arrived, two girls were there. None of my potential male roommates were home. The girls admitted that they were always around and contributed to utilities. They told me that one of my potential roommates, Al, had a son. I was cool with that, seven or eight people in a four bedroom apartment. My room would be the smallest. The girlfriends always hanging around and yet the place was so unkempt. That didn’t bother me either. They were all hardworking, honest, decent folk, and I knew I would be safe. They said their neighborhood was safe as well.

Mike came home first. I spoke to him, asked him questions. He didn’t really interview me, seemed to think I was fine for a roommate on sight, and said if I could wait a bit, his two other roommates would be home from work. Al came home next. He was a handsome, no nonsense man, and his three-year old son who said, “Shu be-bu-bul.” What?

“Yes, she’s beautiful,” Al translated for me. I laughed. It had been a long time since I could even think about my looks. We talked, I asked about the safety and parking in the neighborhood, Al said it was safe, no problems since he had been here for four years.

Both Mike and Al were happy to have me as their roommate. Their roommate, Damion, would be home soon. He approved of me as well. I went out to my car, excited, texting Steve: looks like I got a place! Three guys in a Long Beach neighborhood. They’re ready to take me without a credit application and told me the room could be ready for me by the weekend.

My texts often run long.

Steve texted back: Great!

That’s when the first two police cruisers came. They parked down the street from where I was parked. Then two more came. A fire truck, an ambulance, followed by a few more police cars. I snapped some pics and texted Steve.

This sign was in front of one of the hoses on the street where this major incident occurred.

Steve: Wow.

Then I walked towards the emergency. A pale, white Caucasian male with matching washed out hair was carried out on a gurney. No blood, just a distressingly pale face. And body. I recall that was odd because the sheet was not pulled up.

I asked an onlooker what was happening.

“I dunno,” he said, “looks like someone almost got murdered.”

I asked another neighbor. “I have no idea, nothing like this has ever happened here before,” She was evidently amazed at what was happening. I looked around the neighborhood. Every onlooker appeared amazed. It was a strictly middle-middle class neighborhood in Long Beach, not rich but everyone there worked hard and appeared to keep their nose clean.

I approached a Hispanic man in his late forties, curly brunette. “I’m thinking about moving in down the block and was wondering if it’s safe. Has anything like this every happened before?”

He looked at me. “See that house behind me? I was born in that house. I still live in it. Nothing has ever happened on this block since I’ve been alive.” For some reason, I believed him. Before I left, I counted no less than a total of ten police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks.

The next day, I decided to put a deposit down on the apartment. I called Al and left a message. Never heard back. I did think it was weird but at the time never thought anything about it. I was steadily getting more work and was able to stay at my hotel for a while yet. And Steve said I could always stay with him. Little did I suspect that the Universe--I mean the world--was closing in on me, especially my choice of rentals.

If you want to skip ahead, read on. A few months later, I checked the police blotter for that part of town for the day that half the police force was called out to that part of Long Beach. Nothing required two police officers at the scene. So why were a dozen government first responders called to that part of Long Beach without the incident making the police blotter?

More importantly, who on Earth, or rather the Universe, could engineer such a scenario, with no one questioning it?

(Note that I looked this up several times since March. I wonder what you would find if you Googled "Police blotter Long Beach March 19, 20, and 21?")

Tentative Upcoming Chapters to Operation Keep PT Down

Chapter 14     My Mother has a Talk With Steve

                      (What I Wouldn't have Given to have Been a Fly on the Wall)

Chapter 15    

Chapter 16     For Some Reason, I Could Not Find an Apartment to Rent

Chapter 17    

Chapter 18     Lorraine Hernandez’s Place

Chapter 19    

Chapter 20     Meet La Princess (a.k.a. Dominique Jackson)

Chapter 21    

Chapter 22     Spooky Going-Ons at Steve's Place

Chapter 23    

Chapter 24     Why Does Lorraine's Place remind me of Steve's Place?

                      (Why Is My Landlady Acting like Steve's Landlord Lol)

Chapter 25    

Chapter 26     Meet Edgar Motivated

Chapter 27    

Chapter 28     Steve's Laptop with All Hs Patent Ideas is Stolen

Chapter 29    

Chapter 30     Meet the Security Guards of Rancho Dominguez Estates

Chapter 31    

Chapter 32     The Lights in Lorraine's Place have a Life of Their Own,

                      and More Simplistic Mind Games

Chapter 33    

Chapter 34     The Car Parked at the End of the Street

                      (in the No Parking Any Time Zone that Never Got Towed)

Chapter 35    

Chapter 36     Steve's Laptop is Returned with His Patent Ideas Deleted

Chapter 37    

Chapter 38     Steve Asks Me to Help Him Patent An Idea

Chapter 39    

Chapter 40     OnSTar Keeps Giving Me Wrong Directions to Work

Chapter 41    

Chapter 42     The First Bee in Lorraine's Place

Chapter 43    

Chapter 44     The Second Bee Stuck to My Car

Chapter 45    

Chapter 46     Steve's Ex Stalks Him (But Not By Choice)

Chapter 47    

Chapter 48     Steve and My First Separation

Chapter 49    

Chapter 50     Meeting at Top-Secret Security Headquarters

Chapter 51    

Chapter 52     Steve Keeps Sketching His Patent Idea

Chapter 53    

Chapter 54     There is Less Work for Me at the Office

Chapter 55    

Chapter 56     Steve Needs Help With His Patent Idea

Chapter 57    

Chapter 58     My Engine Smells as if it is Burning

Chapter 59    

Chapter 60     Steve and My Second Separation

Chapter 61    

Chapter 62     My Office Did Not Receive My Deposition Report

                      Even Though I Sent It Twice

Chapter 63    

Chapter 64     I have Steve's Patent Idea and People are Following Me

Chapter 65    

Chapter 66     Everything Goes Wrong, And I Mean Everything

Chapter 67    

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Chapter 126   Because I Love Freedom More

                      (Why I Still Help Steve's When No One Dares to Help Us)

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Chapter 153  

Chapter 154   There Will Be Bloodshed (Because the Best Predictor of the Future is the Past, and there Has been Blood Shed)

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Chapter 14: Operation Keep PT Down: Birthday Dinner with My Mother

I got back in the car and started the engine for Ichiban on the 210 northwest.

“What’s taking so long?” my mother asked irritably. I didn’t blame her. Steve was classic late. So was I.

“Sorry, Mom,” I tried to appease her, “Steve’s son’s friend who was living with them is moving out. His father just found an apartment today.” Steve’s son flew home to Kentucky today as well. Steve was finally alone. How did this happen so quickly, on the same day no less, when Macy’s father had said it was near impossible to find a place because he was only working an occasional job here and there?

Steve followed us to the Ichiban, and when my mother and I got out, I was glad that Steve looked neater. It did not impress my mother, who later commented that at least Steve could have worn pants that were not ripped. I don’t think he had any.

I whispered to Steve “no smoking” not even outside and he said “Oh, okay!” as if it had not occurred to him.

“How did you get rid of that Axe perfume that you slathered on?” I started cracking up again. Steve had doused himself with Axe perfume when he never wears cologne. You know, that cologne where gorgeous female angels fall from the sky when a guy walks by who is wearing Axe cologne and the captioning says “Angels will fall,” and then the angels ooh and ah over the stud because he smells so good. Well, those angels must have had stuffed sinuses because I started gagging before Steve got even ten feet away. Thank god he was able to get that stuff off.

“I aired myself off,” he answered. That made no sense.

We both knew not to say anything about his penchant for speed on a bike. Inside, we sat in a booth, my mother ordered the seafood plate and Steve and I probably ordered the usual that we did when we were there.

They talked about a motorized bike that Steve thought would be a hit. Not in America, people were too “fat” as Jay Leno would say. My mom thought it would be a hit in Vietnam. She had a point. My mother and Steve commiserated about the Chinese invasion. They had a lot in common. I concentrated on my food, switching between trying not to laugh at what Steve said and trying not to groan and then laugh at what Steve said. Overall, I knew it could have gone sooo much worse, I said an extra prayer of thanks and thanked my guardian angel.

Outside, I saw Steve reach in his pocket and over my mom’s head, I signaled with my hand cutting my throat and hissed “No smokes, doofus! No smokes!”

“Oh, oh yeah!” Steve remembered just in time, whispering loudly back. I rolled my eyes and scooted my mom into the car before Steve exposed himself. There were so many ways.

I had no idea how to get to the freeway but I didn’t want to stop and ask Steve so I jammed it out of there and ended going north on the 210 when I wanted south back to OC. On the ride home, my mom asked, how long have you known each other? Couldn’t have been for more than a few months when you returned from Texas.

“Yeah, not long, I was vague. What was I supposed to say, one month? What my mom was trying to say was that it seemed as if Steve and I had known each other a long time. And it did seem to us. One month after we met, I asked Steve, does it seem as if we’ve only known each other one month? He said it’s like we’ve known each other years. At least.

That’s the way it was. Two month anniversary, we felt we had known each other more than a couple of years, three months, several years. At four months, it felt like a lifetime. Five months, we felt we had known each other forever. Six months, we were an old couple. It was a sudden and unlikely attachment, according to some people. Not me, because I don’t look at clothing or station in life and definitely not a person’ pocketbook.

“What is he?” my mom asked. She meant, was he…Mexican? Cuz that’s what Steve looked like the most. Mexican. His son, Alan, looked Mexican, and Alan’s mother was Filipino Italian. But my mother did not say so.

“he’s Japanese-German,” I answered.

“Ooh,” my mom said. “That’s not good.”

I cracked up, “He knows that, mom, he knows that.” I mean, two out of the three countries in the Axis? Then he looks Mexican growing up in rural Kentucky?

“What did you think he was?” I asked lightly.

“I don’t know. I couldn’t tell. I know he was mixed,” my Mom said.

She thought he was Mexican.

The next day on my way to my depo at a law firm, I checked the GPS on my phone. I was on the 405 south and had to reorient myself. My phone said I was on the 605 near the 105. That was weird. I exited on Beach Boulevard to check my position, drove a couple of blocks to check the cross streets. I checked my phone’s Google Maps. It said I was on the 605 near the 60 freeway, about 25 miles north. I shook it (I don’t know why). Now it said I was near the El Cajon pass? I noticed my phone was hot in my hand and saw the power running out. Odd, I always charge my phone overnight to ensure that I have a full battery for work. I plugged it into my car charger and pulled out the paper maps. Nothing beat a paper map. The print didn’t change on you. 

Chapter 12: Operation Keep PT Down: My Mother Comes to Town and Someone Plays an Awful Prank on Her (Who Does That to a Mother?)

My mother came to town to help me find a new place of my own. She asked me, “Ssal, you helped your father take care of me when I needed it. You never asked for anything since you left home as a teenager. Please, I’m asking you, won’t you please accept my help?”

So I accepted. One of the biggest mistakes of my life was thinking that I could do it alone. The irony was that soon, I needed a lot of help, and it simply was not forthcoming.

My mother came to town on a weekend a few days before her birthday. Her first priority was finding me a place. I got an Extended Stay and asked her if she was willing to meet Steve on her birthday dinner. She had never met any of my friends for a long time, so she said, yes.

Steve helped me move into the Extended Stay; I hadn’t many possessions, most had been shipped home to Texas several, several months ago. He left, so I could have mother-daughter time with her. Steve also wanted father-son time with Alan, as he was sending Alan home to Kentucky. Steve had gotten a rush of inspiration and wanted to clear his house so that he could get back on track. Alan was getting into trouble at school, wasn’t doing anything at home beyond playing video games. He had wanted to fight his father when he found out that he was being sent home but had got his butt kicked the last time he attacked Steve, which was on the day of Steve’s motorbike accident.

What kind of a family was this, All My Children?

I picked my mother up at LAX, she walked to baggage claim with the resolution of a mother with a mission. I was finally on my way again. My blood pressure was at its best in my entire life: 96/55. I was stable.

I brought my mother back to the hotel, we unpacked her and rested. Immediately, my mother started looking for an apartment for me on the Internet. I asked her if she wanted to visit with any distant family or friends in the area and she said, “No, I’m here to find you a new place to stay.” So we drove around different neighborhoods looking for vacancy signs. We took down almost two dozen phone numbers and addresses.

Next morning was work and my mother helped me get ready. Just like old times. She unpacked a plastic bag that contained my black sandals that I had kept at Steve’s in the bedroom. While I was dressing, my mother called out by the closet.

“What—honey,” her voice rose, “Ssal!”

I rushed over. My mother’s hands were bright red with a light dusting of white powder. She started scratching them, rubbing them together. “It hurts!” she cried.

“Wash them, don’t scratch them, it’ll only make it worse,” I directed my mother to the bathroom sink. I do not know why I told her that. It seemed as if there was some chemical on my mother’s hand. I could not fathom what, as I had worn those shoes just last week. What the heck could make my mother’s skin burn so quickly?

The water washed the irritation away. We looked inside the bag.

“Don’t touch it, Mom,” I knew some allergic substance was in the bag and I wanted to know what. More importantly, why. Steve’s house of characters was building into a game of Clue, and I was not amused that my mother was the victim of some harmful prank.

I Googled “Itching powder” and found that the white powder on my mother’s hands was among the most caustic of itching powder. I was pissed and texted Steve.

Steve’s text: Really?

My text: Really. Who would’ve put itching powder in the shoes I wear to work?

Steve: Not sure.

We met briefly after I finished my depo and before I returned to the hotel to take my mom out to dinner.

“That wasn’t funny. Who would come into your place and put itching powder in my shoes? The bag was tied. It wasn’t an accident.” I demanded.

Steve shook his head, “Maybe it was Macy. He’s kind of funny that way. he’s real intense, you know?”

“You mean he’s got a crush on you?”

“I dunno, yeah, I think so. He has girlfriends you know but I kind of get the idea that he likes me, too.” Steve admitted. I shook my head.

“So he’s jealous of me, you’re saying?” it was time for a talk with Macy.

“I don’t know. Yeah, could be.”

“Could it be your son? You said Alan doesn’t like any of the women in your life.” It had to be asked.

“Yeah, but he likes you. You’re the first one he likes. I know he’s angry at me for so many things but it’s such a childish thing, I mean my son isn’t indirect like that. Macy, maybe.”

And yet, neither of us was certain that it was either of the two. The just didn’t seem to be that sneaky.

I returned to the hotel. My mother had called all the places whose numbers we had collected the previous day. Damn, my mother could move when she wanted to. I followed up on several promising apartment complexes and left messages. I never reached a live person for some reason. We went to dinner afterward.

I never received any replies to any of my messages. My mother continued searching for apartments online. We called many more, maybe received one or two replies from apartments that were in sketchy parts of town. After the third day, my mother asked, “Why is it so hard to find an apartment in LA?”

“I don’t have good credit history or a lengthy employment history, Mom,”

“Yeah, but virtually no one is returning my initial phone call, plus I’m giving them my credit information.” Yeah, I felt sad and pathetic. That’s why my Mom asked my permission to allow her to help me.

My mother did have a point. I don’t remember it being that hard to even get a response. I hadn’t even gotten to the credit check or application phase. However, my mind was on other things, such as talking to Macy. I was my mother’s birthday the next day, and I would be picking Steve up for dinner with my mother. Perfect time to speak with Macy.

I was talking with Steve on the phone, planning where we were going to take my mother for dinner.

“Isn’t it weird that you sent home your son today but Macy is still living with you? I’d be pissed off if I were your son,” I said.

“Yeah, I have no idea when he’s leaving. Trying to figure something to get him out of my place. I need to be alone for peace.”

“Completely alone?” I asked.

“Well, yeah, you’re always welcome,” Steve laughed.

“Remember to shower, please” I reminded.

“Dude, I’ve been so busy running around all day,” he protested.

“Exactly my point.” Is asking someone to shower before they meet my mother for her birthday dinner really asking too much?

When my mother and I arrived at Steve’s for dinner, a car pulled up. We were parked on the northwest corner facing west as usual. The car was driving south, parked right in front of Roger’s place. It was Macy and his father. Steve came out to meet him and I waited by my car. Steve talked to Macy’s father, they hugged, and Macy and his father started taking Macy’s things from Steve’s place in the back out to their car. What a coincidence. Same day that Alan went home to Kentucky.

“What’s going on?” my mother was impatient.

“Steve’s son’s friend who had been temporarily staying with Steve is leaving. It was sudden. Let’s just wait a few more minutes, Mom.”

Steve walked over.  He smelled of something fierce and cheap. I sniffed. And started laughing before I could accuse him of wearing some cheap cologne.

“Wha--” I was choking on my laughs, “Wha-what the--” this was too expected, “What are you wearing, you idiot?” Steve was laughing at me laughing so hard.

“I-I--it’s Axe,” he could barely get through his laughs we were bent over laughing so hard.

“Tha-tha--” I was gasping, “That commercial??” I couldn’t believe it. You know, the one where there’s this hunk who’s walking around and all of a sudden an angel falls from the skies. She a gorgeous model with wings, and lands like the terminator in Terminator Part 1, on one knee, the other bent, and both hands on the ground with a resounding “WHUMP” as if a boulder landed from the heavens.  

And then the angel gets up slowly and oohs and awes over the hunk. And then another angel falls from the skies with a “Whump!” and slowly walks over to the hunk as if on a mission from God, joining the other one in caressing this guy’s hair and sniffing his skin as if he were a marvel--all because he’s wearing Axe for men. Then the voice over booms “Angels will fall…”

“You’re wearing Axe? Are you an idiot? I knew you would do something this stupid but Axe? Really?” I couldn’t stop laughing because I was trying to stifle my laughs and my mother was growing impatient in the car.

“Ssal, it’s getting late. I’m hungry.” my mother called from the car.

“You gotta’ take your own car. You’re going to smother us, how much did you put on?”

“I—I don’t know, I don’t usually wear perfume,” Steve was laughing so loudly that my mother felt ignored.

“Go-go wash it off first. Didn’t you shower?”

“Yeah, but I—you got me concerned--”

“Just go, go!” I shooed him off, “I’ll meet you at Ichiban.” Ugh, leave it to Steve to make things worse than they had to be. At least that’s what people thought. So many bad luck coincidences happened to Steve that people figured that it must be his fault. Just due to proximity.

Chapter 10: Operation Keep PT Down: Steve Teaches at Art School

Steve woke me at 5:00 a.m.

“Hey, let’s go to breakfast before school!” I rolled over, it was my day off and I was getting up even earlier than when I had to be at work.

“Mmph,” I tried to roll over and get more sleep.

“I haven’t had such a good night’s sleep in years!”

“Umm gld..” (I’m glad), I mumbled.

“I must have slept more than five hours. Lucky if I get three.” Steve was amazed, and bright and chirpy thanks to being so well rested.

“And look, my hand feels better.” He lifted his right hand, his wrist hanging limp, then grunted like a motorbike engine, “Rroommm….” From the wrist, his hand rose significantly more than yesterday. I woke up. Why did I feel so tired?

“Anyone in the restroom?” I asked, getting up.

Steve went out to the living room where the bunk bed futon was, then came back in.

 “It’s clear.”

While we were driving to the Art Institute where Steve worked, he said, “You know that Macy was convicted of rape.” Was that a question? “His father told me.”

“Really? He seems a bit intense.” I answered.

“Yeah, his father was supposed to come  and pick him up yesterday, but he didn’t. always flakes out on Macy. He gets real upset. Mopes around.”

“I don’t know, I kinda’ got the feeling that Macy was--”

“Gay?” Steve answered for me.

I laughed, “Yeah, he cooks even if he doesn’t clean up after himself, he uses an apron, not that that’s definitive, his gorgeous hair,

“and that feminine soap he uses.” Steve finished for me.

“the caress body wash? And Dove conditioner? Yeah,”

“Actually, I get the feeling the kid likes me.” Steve said. “Not that I’m interested.” He laughed.

“I wouldn’t be surprised. His mannerisms are so--”

“Flaming?” Steve suggested. We laughed. We had nothing against Macy. Nothing against homosexuals. “You know a lot of people think I’m gay,” Steve admitted.

This did not surprise me.

“Yeah, you know, after both my exes, I became a monk,” he laughed. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the female form. I like sketching and everything. It’s just that I'm so traumatized. My first ex cheated with at least half a dozen men and my second…” broke his leg, broke his nose, tried to choke him to death while he slept, and so on and so forth.

“That’s fine, I just need a place to stay until l have my own place.” I never thought I would be a couch surfer.

“My door’s always open to you.” Steve assured. “You don’t even have to call. Just come anytime.”

At school, Steve really got into teaching. Only half the students showed, and Steve gave them double the attention. Having taught myself, I could see how much he really loved it.

During class, I was writing my depo summary and got an email from the calendar girl at the firm asking me to substitute into a depo because a co-worker couldn’t make it. I immediately accepted. Work was booming. My boss said that as soon as there was a full-time position open, he would hire me.

After class, we stopped by Fred’s 62 in the Los Feliz area of Los Angeles. It was a Asian-inspired café Bistro with sketches of dozens of classic Hollywood stars from the Golden Age. I remember going there a long time ago and identifying each of them.

“You know, my family never gave me any respect until I started teaching,” Steve said, digging into his breakfast (it was lunchtime). “When I was living at home taking care of my mother, my family just took my things.” He passed one of the bacon strips over to me. “And I didn’t even have that much!” he laughed. Steve could laugh even at the sad things in his life. Funny, I remember how my things were shipped to D.C. one weekend without my permission. I dug into Fed 62’s Beret: a strawberry waffle with extra whip cream and a mini pitcher of café dulce de leche (instead of the less fattening maple syrup). There’s something about mixing bacon with dulce de leche.

Steve told me about some of the people that he had helped in Kentucky. Stan was one of them. Stan was part of a gang, joined when he was too young, and couldn’t get out. Steve somehow took on the gang and got Stan out without getting either of them killed. He went on to talk about this other epic fights. He wasn’t really showing off, just liked to talk about how his adrenaline took over, and he would black out and often not  remember what happen, except that he got out alive and everyone walked around him as if on eggshells, full of respect and although Steve did not say so, they walked around him with a sense of awe and fear.

“You know when there’s an emergency and everything goes in slow motion?” Steve asked.

“Yeah,” I remembered how I had to run to get a help a few times and it seemed forever before I could find someone and realized later that it had been only a few moments.

“It’s like that before a fight, especially if I’m outnumbered.” From his stories, Steve was always outnumbered.

“How is it that people always come up and pick on you?”

“I dunno. I remember fishing in Kentucky with my kids and some White Supremacists come up and basically threaten to kill me and my kids. There were like half a dozen of them and I called my sons over to hold on to me and after I had taken a couple of them down, the rest ran away. We were just fishing, dude, no one was around. It was a pretty isolated lake. It’s not a place you go to randomly. They didn’t even have fishing poles.”

Steve had bad luck.

“It’s not only when I’m about to fight for my life, though. I used to be afraid of presentations and once, during a really important project that I had to present at Art Center, I black out. And afterwards, everyone came up and told me what a great presentation I gave and I didn’t even remember it!” Steve laughed, and so did I. Everyone sitting around us looked at Steve because everyone around could hear him. I didn’t mind and was glad Steve didn’t notice.

“I had this idea for a new engine that I did. I was supposed to give a presentation when Bill Gates came to the school. All the top designers in Hollywood, you know, Michael Bay and stuff, graduated from Art Center or have some sort of connection to it. Asra was in the hospital and I missed it. One of the major car companies had it in one of their cars a year later.” Steve was always so close, but never there.

Why did I believe him? The details of his description. Steve could not recall time and date when it came to events that destroyed his life, but he could when it came to the details of his inventions, his art, his fights (the ones where he did not black out). He was definitely full of it. People who have a chip on their shoulder definitely spew a lot of bullshit. The problem was figuring out when Steve was bullshitting because he was guarded against someone hurting him and because he didn’t want to let anyone in and the glib stories he told of his epic fights. I knew that no one could really fight like that except for maybe a few…mutants. Like that Asian guy who had those commercials breaking a concrete cinder block with his head. He would smash it with a sledge hammer and let a stranger randomly pick one out of a stack and then break the cinder block that was randomly chosen with his head. Hey, it could happen. 

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.

Chapter 7: Operation Keep PT Down: Valentine’s Day

Valentine’s Day was a week after Steve and I met. I had training that day. I was going to do depos for my firm as an independent contractor. Training ended early so I texted Steve what was up.

Steve’s text: You can come over and hang. My door is always open to you.

Steve’s door was open to many people. But I did appreciate that he meant me in particular.

Steve’s text: Did you want some roses or anything?

My text: Save your money, please.

Steve taught at an art school and I know how little that paid. He had to support his son Alan and Macy, who wasn’t even his kid. Macy’s dad did what he could to contribute, but he wasn’t able to find much work either.

When I arrived, Macy and Alan were out. It was a Friday. Steve was playing his guitar, that same little melancholy riff he always played. I plugged my phone charger in the uncovered outlet, washed my hands in the kitchen sink where the hot and cold water directions were installed backwards, and tried to ignore the clump of wiring that ran from various places in Steve’s house collectively to the kitchen and down a large five-inch diameter cubby hole into the basement. Only there was no door to the basement. Not outside at least.

I asked Steve how his arm was doing and he said he was pushing it every day. He could lift his wrist about a centimeter. “Arggh!” he grunted while trying to life his wrist. It "was scary for him.

“Don’t you think you should go to the doctor?” I had to ask again even though I knew what the answer would be.

“Doctor can’t do anything. The day after my father checked into the hospital, he died.”

Steve took up the guitar and moved his arm from the shoulder to strum, rather than with his fingers, as would have been the case had he had full movement of his hand.

I relaxed on the futon while Steve played. I came to learn that Steve played to relax, ponder something troublesome, or both. Today’s surprise, which would be just one in a series of surprises much like the daytime soap opera “As the World Turns,” was the return of Steve’s ex. She appeared out of nowhere after disappearing for months—

“Why, that’s wonderful!” I was relieved, for Steve had thought Asra might be dead since he had not heard from her in a while. Now this worry was eliminated. I was happy that things turned out well. I’m that type.

“She signed the divorce papers, and asked me to meet her at LAX. She’s flying to New Jersey where her family lives.” He strummed the guitar. Steve was sad, “She was like a broken animal. Her orbital bone was broken. She’s missing a couple of teeth.”

“Why? What happened?” This was distressing.

“Oh, she always gets into fights. With men. She’s got arms like an ape. She’s a beast.” Steve continued strumming. As if nothing were wrong.

“Doesn’t she get hurt?” I asked.

“No, the men who hit on her do.” Steve answered. Obviously came the delicate questions.

“If she is so mannish, why would men hit on her, besides men who like mannish women, of course.” I asked.

“Oh, she’s beautiful, until she flexes her arms, then she’s ripped. More powerful than a man. I had trouble fending her off.” The matter of fact way Steve talked about some things that were not normal was disconcerting.

“She attacked you?” I didn’t want to hear the answer.

“She tried to kill me several times,” he continued strumming.

“Does she work out?” I asked.

“Not really, she uses the fifteen-pound weight in the room,” He pointed to the bedroom. “I don’t, I’m a lounge lizard.” Steve laughed. I went into the bedroom and found the 15-pound weight by the side of the closet. I brought it out.

“This is heavy,” I said.

“Yeah, I know, she curls it like it’s nothing.”

“Is that how she’s so muscular?”

“No, she’s naturally like that.”

Somehow, the topic of super-strong women with ape-like arms turned me off, especially on Valentine’s Day. Okay.

“So, do you want to go out somewhere?” I asked.

“Yea, sure, where do you want to go?” Steve asked, checking his phone. We were always meeting in the Pasadena area so I suggested Santa Monica. I love the beach.

“Shoot, I thought Alex was out with his friends. Gotta’ pick him up from detention again.”

“What did he do?”

“Skip class.” So we went to pick up Alan and went home. We wanted some privacy so we talked in Steve’s room. Steve grabbed a beer bottle from the refrigerator and brought it into the room with us. There were several empty bottles on the kitchen counter. The more I learned about him, the more I felt for him.

-Being the youngest of ten children, Steve had to fight for meals. That was really sad.

-Once, Steve was kidnapped by some woman while he was walking on the street with his family. He woke up on a table or something, fought her off, wandered around for miles, and somehow found his way home. His family had not called the police. I shook my head.

-When he was eight, his family moved. Somehow, he was left at the old house. His family did not miss him. Not even his mother. He remembers doing his own laundry, looking through the cupboards to find something to eat. Being alone in a family of ten children.

-When he was with his family, his father beat him to a pulp when he was young. When he grew up, his brothers beat up on him, until Steve became the strongest.

“Are you the biggest?” For some reason, I figured Steve for the smallest.

“Nah, I’m 5’10, 5’11”, my brothers range from my height to 6’6”. Reeve is a bear. But last time we got in a fight, he had just finished training in special forces, he came at me and I dodged, swung and landed a lucky punch on the side of his face. He started bawling. Man if he had knocked me down, you don’t want a mass like Reeve’s knocking you over, you ain’t getting back up.

So Steve was faster, which explained his need for speed on the bike. I asked Steve what the fastest he had ever gone on his ZX-10.

“The wind was really pushing against my head. You gotta keep it forward like a bullet you know. Wind drag at those speeds.” Steve started getting into position to show me. he always did that when talking about riding. Also because he no longer had a bike and for Steve, not riding for a week was a lifetime. “When I glanced down, I saw 223 miles per hour,”

“Goddamn,” I said. Somehow I believed him.

“I got a lot of speeding tickets, Daniel Spade is my attorney, he’s a celebrity attorney.”

“Why do you need an attorney for a speeding ticket?”

“Because I was going over 150.”

“Oh,” I was beginning to understand Steve’s need for speed.

“My family’s got half a dozen life insurance policies on me, I’ll make sure you get something,”
“Stop it, Steve!” this was too macabre for me. “I don’t want your money or money from your life insurance policies--”
“You should take one out on me,” Steve laughed, “no one that I would survive this long.” He enjoyed disappointing people.

“Stop talking like that! I know your life has been hard but you’ve got so much going for you now. Your teaching job, you can go back to finish your degree. Your designs are the best I’ve ever seen”

“Really?” he asked like a child.

“Of course, they’re the best I’ve ever seen. Your use of color, and how you sketch so fast,” I answered. Steve had zero percent belief in himself.

I was sitting on the edge of the bed and Steve had slunk to the floor. The bags under his bloodshot eyes accentuated his misery. He wrapped his arms around my knees and rested his head in my lap. I held his head in my hands and lowered myself to hold him more completely.

There were many miserable creatures in this world. But something told me that Steve’s kind of misery was one of a kind. I did not know everything. It was difficult getting a straight answer out of him, but there was a reason why Steve called me “Ms. Spock” and my other friends called me an eerily similar version of a female Sheldon Cooper, and not as a compliment either, lol. Actually, they meant my social graces.

It was morning when I woke. I was disoriented looking at the ceiling, you know like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday where she goes to sleep looking at the two corners of her grand ceiling in her bedroom and then wakes up in Gregory Peck’s place that he “laughingly called home” and notices that the ceiling isn’t the same.

I got up. Steve was already awake. He was sketching at the desk, using his left hand. The desk was against the wall on the other side of the room near the door. I noticed his shoulders were broader than expected given his exceedingly slim build. Steve wasn’t scrawny but I could imagine a lot of people picking on him and expecting to walk over him easily.

“Hey,” Steve turned his head. “Want some coffee?”

“I’m a tea girl, thanks.”

“I’ll get some,” Steve got up and left the room. He came back with a mug. I thought it was coffee because there was milk but didn’t say anything.

“Thanks for the tea,” I smiled.

“Hey, will you be my attorney?” Steve asked. I already did not want to be his patent attorney.

“For what?” I asked.

“MY tickets. Daniel Spade finished taking care of them. just wanted  you to check up that everything was done.”

The Monday after that, I called Daniel Spade. He had closed all of Steve’s traffic cases. Steve needed only to pay $125 fine. I made sure that Steve paid it. I checked his DMV records afterwards that Steve had paid his fines. Six months later, Steve called me. There was a bench warrant out of his arrest for not paying his traffic fines. The late fees accumulated to $600.

It’s not that big things went wrong in Steve’s life. Trivial things in Steve’s existence snowballed to keep him from doing anything. He could have been working as one of the most prominent designers in the auto industry, any industry, for that matter. But because he was not organized, did not keep receipts, the same bills plagued his life to keep him from living a normal life.

It wasn’t until much later when I was neck deep into trying to extricate Steve from the strange quagmire of his life that the same things started happening to me. Even though I did not have a free arm with which to hang onto Steve, I used my mind. For that was the key to everything. I held on to Steve with my mind, and would not let go. 

Chapter 6: Operation Keep PT Down: My New Chevy Sonic with Turbo

The next day, I went to Penske Chevrolet alone. AS soon as I parked, a few salesmen hovered. I decided to wait until the song I was listening on the radio finished. Do it on my time. Don’t know anything about cars so I had to take the lead. Otherwise I would be lost. Finally, when I was good and ready (three songs later), I stepped out. The only salesman still waiting was the one that I wanted.

I had Gilberto show me every Chevy Sonic on the lot, even the ones in the back, marking the two that were manuals, a black sedan and fire engine red hatchback. I went back to the orange-red hatchback, which was on display, and asked to test drive. It had been a while since I had driven a manual. My rental was beginning to get on my nerves. So hard to switch lanes with a full-size automatic.

“It’s a stick,” Gilberto said.

“I know.” A ramp was retrieved to drive the Sonic off its dais. I got in the drivers’ side, Gilberto got in the passenger’s. I looked at the floor. There were three pedals. I was temporarily confused. “What’s the third pedal for?” I think Gilberto no longer wanted to take me for a test drive. “Are you worried?” I asked before pulling out. I decided not to think and just do. My feet did the talking and we were soon driving on the street. On the freeway, I noticed the Sonic made a high-pitched whirring noise. I was worried that the engine was straining. Besides that and the D-pillar, which was so wide it was hard to get a clear view when changing lanes, I was sold. It was just like my old Geo Metro, my very first car.

When we got back to the dealership, I looked at the sticker. It said “turbo $700”. I was trying to save money because my credit could barely carry a car, much less one with turbo. “Can I get the car without the turbo?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” said Gilberto. “I’ll have to ask my manager.” The manager came out.

“Sorry, but the car comes with the turbo.”

“Can you take it off?” I had to ask.

I decided on the Sonic and explained to Gilberto my position. No credit history. Starting a job as an attorney. Gilberto went to talk to the finance manager, Hamad. He came out. A smooth-talking enthusiastic Middle Eastern man. He shook my hand, asked me to fill out a credit form. After checking my credit, Hamad came out, “I’m sorry but given your lack of credit…” he did look sorry.

I had really wanted to drive in for my first day of work in a car of my own. I sighed, deciding to go across to the Nissan across the street when Hamad returned. He asked, “If we finance you, will you take the car home today?” I beamed.

Hours later, because it was so hard to understand all the fine print, I was driving home in my new Chevy Sonic metallic-inferno orange was the official color. I texted Steve a picture of my new Sonic.

Steve’s text: It’s pretty.

 My text: Wanna take it for a drive?
Steve: Sure!

Steve was surprised. “I didn’t know a Sonic was so fun to drive. It’s almost like driving a motorcycle,” he chuckled. “Large gears,” he mumbled. “It’s kind of high, you need some braces so that it doesn’t sway in the wind.” Steve went on like that for a while. Then we returned to his place. Alan and Macy were at after-school detention.

My cell phone was dying, so I looked for an outlet to charge it. The one by the front door was just behind the bunk-bed futon. Funny, the outlet was uncovered. The white moldings were messily painted, the white bled centimeters into the green wall paint. That was the odd thing about Steve’ entire place. Fine quality materials, slipshod workmanship, as if someone were rushing to get it done for renting.

After plugging in my charger and phone, I pulled a flash drive out of my purse. Steve had said he wanted to stop smoking so I brought a stop-smoking for him.

“What’s this?” Steve asked.

“A stop smoking program. You said you wanted to stop.” I smiled.

“Why are you giving me this?” he asked, seemingly suspicious.

“Because you said you wanted to stop smoking. I thought this would help.” I answered. Steve did not seem to believe me. I peered at Steve who was observing me for motivation.

How does someone become so suspicious?

Steven thanked me and put the flash drive in his pocket. Something told me that he would not be using it.

“So how did you like my new car? I’m worried about the high-pitched whirring noise when I go fast. It’s as if the car is straining.” Steve laughed. He explained the noise was the turbo eco jet. Steven explained it to me, talked about his car, and talked about some of his car ideas. He had a lot of ideas.

“Why don’t you patent your ideas?” I asked.

“what’s the use, everything I try to do something,” he shrugged not knowing how to explain. Then he brightened, “That’s why I want you to patent my inventions. I’ve got several dozen sketched. I felt uncomfortable.

“Why don’t you have one of your brothers file your patents for you. Doesn’t one of your brothers do IP?”

“I don’t trust him.” Steve said.

“Your brother?” I asked.

“I don’t trust anyone. But I trust you.” Now I really felt uncomfortable.

“Have you ever tried to patent something?” I asked.

“No, but I should, my ideas have been stolen a few times.” I considered Steve. He did not appear to have a persecution complex. He definitely had several complexes but a persecution complex was not one of them. However, there was something  about him, not emanating from him, but hovering around him somehow.

“Yeah, I’m not sure I want to get involved.” WE had only known each other a few days and Steve trusted me with his ideas that he did not even trust his family with? I was tired, so lounged on the futon. It was open, Alan slept there and did not close it before school. Steve played a tune that he composed. It was only a few bars along and he played it repetitively. We talked about things. Apparently the thing we had most in common was that we both had done some care-giving and were behind in our careers. Sorely behind. Badly behind. But I had just broken out of the motionless pit I had been stuck in for years. It felt good. Steve was taking notes. I didn’t know until a few days later when he told me he was studying me, that he was trying to jumpstart his life as well.

“Exactly how was our life so similar. I mean besides the caregiving. Lots of people are caregivers.” Steve could not directly answer that question himself. But what he did answer did sort of explain why he needed to jumpstart his life, if not how we had similar experiences.

-Steve’s father beat his children. It was as bad as it got. Steve was the youngest so took the brunt of it. His father would pull him up by Steve’s ears so that Steve had to hold his ears. This gave his father easy access to punch his son’s torso. Steve’s father liked to throw bricks at his children’s head, especially Steve’s. Steve had a particularly hard head, in all ways.  

-Despite 14 years training in martial arts, Steve let his exes beat up on him. Especially his last one, who broke his leg, dislocated his knee cap, broke his nose (three times), tried to choke him to death while he was sleeping to the shock of his sons. And Steve didn’t do anything about it.

 -Steve did a short stint homeless. Wasn’t his cup of tea for he was too prissy. His fierce fighting nature was more than balanced by a feminine side, which was why mannish women could take advantage of him.

I noticed that Steve did the dishes, and kept his place tidy, while Macy and Alan didn’t contribute. Steve especially liked to do the laundry, something we did have in common. Steve checked his phone. “Time to pick up the kids, wanna come?”

“Uh, isn’t your son going to mind?”

“Nah, he’s okay. He likes you a lot. He never likes any of the women in my life, especially my recent ex. He hated her. You’re so stable compared.” Isn’t everybody? I thought.

Driving there, Steve must have noticed my extreme discomfort. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I answered.

“We’re almost at my son’s school,” he laughed.

At the school, we found the detention hall. Alan looked slightly surprised when he saw me. This wasn’t exactly the freedom that I had looked forward to now that I had finally jumpstarted my life again. I was single! Or so I thought. Little did I know that I was sinking into a situation like the previous others. Having to take care of someone long term, someone who could not even understand his own situation and thus, would often lash out in anger against the one person who had Job’s patience to help him out of his hopeless situation.

It’s very frustrating helping someone who cannot help themself. Then blames you for hurting him when in fact you are helping them, because sometimes getting better hurts. And the more you have to go to reach clarity, stability and health, the more it hurts. Oy ve, why do I even try sometimes. Why didn’t I just run away like everyone else? Steve wasn’t helpable. Even before I understood the exact nature of Steve’s problems, I knew it was going to be a long haul.

Long haul was an understatement.

Chapter 5: Operation Keep PT Down: Car Shopping and Steve’s Supposed Schizo Ex#2

The next day, I picked up Steve at his place and headed to the nearest Honda Dealer in Old Town Pasadena. I didn’t know anything about cars and figured that I could always use Steve as a shield from the inevitable bullshit that would be thrown my way, being a clueless female about cars.

Steve wanted to drive my rental. “Do you want me to drive?” he asked.

“Do you want me to drive or did you figure that I wanted you to drive?” I laughed.

Steve liked trying all cars. It was a Chrysler 500 and had a continuous transmission. Generally, I hated automatics but this one accelerated well. The wheel was positioned high and close to the seat like a tractor. Steve imitated a farmer driving a tractor.

Wow, you are from Texas.

I swatted him for that, laughing.

AT the car dealership, a salesman starting talking cars, which lost me, so I let Steve take over. If the salesman lost me, Steve lost the Salesman. Evidently, Steve learned at lot at his internship with Honda because the salesman said maybe Steve could sell me the car. I test drove the Honda Fit, liked it, and Steve and I sat down with the salesman regarding financing. There was no way I could afford it. My credit was nonexistent. The Honda salesman sensed that he wasn’t going to make a sale but gave me the time of day anyway. After all, I was a beginning attorney. After feeling that I had taken enough of his time, I thanked him and Steve and I drove off.

I don’t know what started the conversation, but somehow it moved to Steve’s ex number two. He wanted to clarify to me that he had filed for divorce almost six months ago and that it would be annulled if she did not appear to sign the papers. Asra had disappeared on him in their second year of marriage. Simply disappeared. Without a word while he was deep in school at Art Center. Needless to say, this made it difficult for him to finish, and along with some other catastrophic events, Steve dropped out from the best Art School in the nation. That was kind of the story of his life.

After Asra disappeared, Steve started to pick himself up after the initial devastation. Then she appeared for a few days. Then left again, which deveasted Steve again. So that he was not able to pick himself up. But when he mustered his strength to start all over, Asra would appear. Perfect timing. Exactly when Steve was on his way without her, she would appear.

Steve thought that Asra was schizophrenic. She sure seemed crazy enough. Her father had beaten the crap out of her with a hammer to the head. But she wouldn’t die. Coincidentally, Steve’s father had thrown bricks at him growing up. He was lucky enough to dodge most of them. Steve said that Asra was out of control, paranoid about where he went, who he was talking to, especially women. She stalked him at Honda when he was doing his internship, stole his security pass, standing in the smoking area and glaring at him and his coworkers when they took a smoking break. Steve could not do anything about it, even though he told her to stop. Because Steve was not the type of guy who could make people stop when they were walking all over him.

These were the things that Steve could recount about his Ex#2:

-She was too young for him, as he was almost forty and she was 22. Although she was beautiful, he soon found they had little in common on a daily basis.

-She had a violent upbringing, which made her violent herself. She was the type of person who perpetuated the cycle of abuse and violence.

-She was Muslim Pakistani, raise super strictly, and wa supposed to marry a man arranged for her.

-She was torn between being a good Muslim girl and dressed provocatively so that men hit on her, then punched their daylights out when they hit on her. Steve attributed the way men hit on her to her distinctive odor she gave off when she did not bathe for long periods (lots of pheromones, he said).

-She was highly competitive, even with Steve.  

-Her family had a lot of money, which was necessary for most students who went to Art Center.

Asra’s family protested their marriage. Asra had threatened to kill herself if Steve did not marry her. And Steve, who had a kind heart, consented because he was afraid she would hurt herself. Pity, to Steve, often masked itself as love. Asra also had one of the best portfolios he had ever seen and never saw again, as Asra was unable to replicate the skill in her portfolio that got her admitted to Art Center.

“A lot of schizos wind up dead, Steve,” Probably not the gentlest way of informing him.

“Really, Steve slumped in his chair. Damn.

“Well yeah, men are more likely to be schizophrenic. Was she diagnosed?”

Steve shook his head. “I just did some reading.”

“Why do you think she was schizophrenic?”

“She was erratic, couldn’t control her emotions, aggressive.”

“Like a man?” I asked.

“Yeah, a lot like a man. She pursued me.” Steve admitted. Eww, not good. “She just lost control at the end and I didn’t know how to help her. I wasn’t paying attention to her. I focused on my work and found the best way to push her away was ignore her.”
“Why did you want to push her away?” I asked.

“Because she was stalking me at Honda. She wouldn’t do her own thing. I hate a woman who isn’t independent. She seemed like that at first but things soon changed. She followed me everywhere, when I was teaching at Art Center, too. She wouldn’t go to her own class, dropped out of school. Looked in all my things. Accused me of cheating on her.” Steve laughed. “After my exes, I really felt like turning gay.” I half laughed. Things sounded terrible.

“You can’t blame yourself. Schizophrenics need medication and intense professional help. You couldn’t have helped her more than you did.” Steve was lost in guilt. I started to understand the wretched look that wasn’t so much part of his physical but his mental.

Ex#1 who constantly cheated on him, Ex#2 who constantly accused him of cheating, and Steve not knowing where to turn except his work. Given how hard Steve worked, why didn’t he have a great job at a car company?

We were parked at the northwest corner of Steve’s intersection, car facing West. His house was one north of the corner, on the east side. I thanked Steve for helping me car shop and he laughed that it was nothing. I saw him in my rearview, walking with a hunch like that of either very tall men or men who lacked confidence.

I checked Google maps on my phone. It was a tangle of freeways that I had to navigate to get home and it was getting late. 

Chapter 4 Operation Keep PT Down: How Steve Got to L.A.

The next day, I returned, concerned about Steve’s hand. I wondered if he was having a delayed reaction to his accident, and despite the clear MRI, he was now feeling the effects of his motorbike accident. When I came, Steve came out for me. We walked in. his son, Alan, was playing a video game and looked up when I entered. Despite his barely looking up at me as I entered, I could tell that Alan was surprised at seeing me again.

Steve was fatigued. Who wouldn’t be after crashing into a car that cut in front of you on the freeway, flipping over the car and then hackey sacking into the bed of a truck that luckily had some padding in it. Steve’s lack of feeling in his arm probably was from some nerve damage.

“I can get my own water. You should relax,” I urged.

“Yeah, I am kind of tired.” Steve replied. “There really isn’t a place to sit down besides the futon out there. The only other room is the bedroom.” Awkward pause.

“So I notice you can lift your arm. Is it just your hand you can’t move?” I asked.

Steve lifted his hand. His wrist was limp, his hand hanging down. He made a noise like a motorbike, as if he were urging his had to rise of its own. Nothing.

“Maybe you should go see a doctor,” I stated the obvious.

“No, I’ll be all right.” Steve was the typical male.

“You said so yourself, your drawing hand is the most important part of you.” I reminded him.

“Yeah, I’ll be okay,” But it was obvious Steve was not believing himself. It was time to change the subject to something cheerier.

So we talked about Steve, I wanted to hear more and was uncomfortable talking about myself. These are the key points:

-Steve got his girlfriend, Darlena, pregnant when he was 18 years old and she was 20. She told him that she could not get pregnant and he believed her. They were married for ten years during which time Darlena cheated on him no less than half a dozen times, sometimes with Steve’s friends. Steve ignored it and buried his head in his work.

-Steve had wanted to be a designer but Darlena told him what could he ever do as a designer so Steve had jobs doing abatement, construction, etc.

-Steve was the family caregiver. He took care of his ailing mother when he lived in Kentucky. He was the youngest of ten children, Catholic family.

-When he was 30, Steve saw the movie “The Island” and fell in love with the design of the movie. The lighting, setting, cinematography. He also learned that the design and look of cars were sketched and designed on paper, not built by engineers. (That didn’t make sense to me either the first time he told me.)

So, Steve decided to apply to the best art school in the country, in Los Angeles, and without bothering to open his reply letter (or submitting all parts of the required application), set out to California in his Honda Civic. That was the first time he heard the song “Hotel California” by the Eagles because sadly, Steve had had a sheltered life. He rarely saw anything beyond his home town because the big wide world was scary.

Steve had done a short stint in New York but found the real world to be too hard to survive in. Random men approached him picking fights (all of which Steve won, even with the legend Akira).

When Steve arrived in Los Angeles, he went to Art Center and basically said, “I’m here to start school.” And found out that he had not been accepted. The Registrar gave Steve a chance by requiring him to take some satellite courses to prove himself. Rarely happens. Steve did and was subsequently admitted into the Transportation Design department with a full scholarship. When I first saw Steve’s designs, I knew he was a rare talent. Just didn’t make sense why he wasn’t designing and doing better in his field.  

Steve never finished his degree at Art Center. Something happened. For some reason, his younger son, Donny, was not living with him. Why not?

“Oh, it had something to do with my second ex. You want to sit on the couch and watch my son play?” Steve asked.

“Sure,” we walked the two steps down to the living room and to the futon, which was folded up for sitting. It was a comfortable brown velvety fabric. Steve sat on the corner side. The far wall held a closet with folding doors. The doors were partially opened and tools and towels were tucked inside. I sat on the side near the door. Near the corner that turned into the kitchen on the right, were a washer and drawer, also with folding doors (like an accordion). My feet hung over the side so I slipped my shoes off and tucked them under my legs. Steve pulled up a small table for me to rest my feet. “That’s okay,” I laughed. That was too princess for me. “What are you playing?” I asked Alan.

“Uh, Zombies,” he answered.  

Steve looked impressed. He whispered to me, “He likes you. He rarely talks to people so respectfully.”

Macy walked in at that moment. Steve's door was always open. Macy looked at me in surprise while I pretended to be absorbed in Alan’s skill in killing virtual zombies.

“Hey, my dad and I went to the store. He’s bringing in some groceries. Hey,” Macy greeted me.

“Hi, Macy, how are you doing?”

“Fine, thanks, how are you?” Macy asked.

“Great, thank you,” I answered, as Macy’s father entered laden down with two bags.

Macy’s father: “I got some crab and other good stuff. It was on sale--” his eyes fell on me.

Okay, what was so surprising about me being there? I was only sitting on the futon watching a teenager play video games.

The conversation went on about something I don’t recall. I was waiting for when I could make a respectful exit. While I was waiting, I noticed that the outlet beside the table that held the flat screen TV was uncovered. That could be a hazard, I thought. Even from where I sat across the room (approximately 12 feet away, this place was too tiny for the five people in the living room), I could see the red and white wiring in the wall. I noticed that some of the wires that ran into the kitchen floor extended into the living room, against the TV wall. Some wires went into the bedroom, some went elsewhere, I could not tell from my vantage point. The living room wall was painted a lime-ish green. Probably Steve’s favorite color since his ZX-10r no ABS was lime green.

There was a lull in the conversation and I leaned over to Steve. “I should run,” I smiled.

“Oh, yeah, okay, I’ll show you out.” He got up. I made my greetings and exited, passing the wooden frame that was for no purpose, hung left to the side of the house, passing the covered patio. It was dark inside and the furniture, pieces of wood were askew. The mesh windows blocked a clear view, as did the midday sun. Up two concrete blocks to the driveway where Steve’s Honda Civic was parked, south one house to the corner around which my car was parked.

“Does Macy live there?” I asked.

“He’s Alan’s friend. His father sort of dropped him off at my place one day. They lost their place.” Steve explained.

“That was nice of you. He didn’t ask you? Just dumped his son, there?”

“Yeah, poor kid misses his father. Sometimes, he doesn’t come around for a week at a time.”  

“Hmm, odd.” I did not know anyone who took so much presumption with their friends. “I hope your arm gets better. Let me know if you need anything,” I said.

“Oh, right, right, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.” Steve said.

“I gotta’ look for a car tomorrow. Want to have my own when I start work next week. Since you know so much about cars, can you help me find one? There’s a Honda dealership near here that I wanted to hit.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Steve sounded excited talking about cars. I smiled, happy that I was able to cheer him up. Steve opened my car door and I drove away.