Chapter 3: The Weird Place in Which Steve Lived (Operation: Keep PT Down)

The weekend past uneventfully and on Monday, I had another interview. Even though I had accepted an offer last Friday, I had only one interview and one offer. My interview skills could use practice. It was in West Covina, near the foothills. The interview went well, I was on time. The interviewer was late. I had no experience as an attorney, nonetheless did my best. Success in my book.

I remembered that Steve’s place was in the foothills and mapped the directions. Not too far. I texted him that I was near.

Ssal: “Hey, I’m in the area. You around?”

Steve: “Yea.”

Ssal: “Mind if I drop by?” Steve:

Steve: “sure.”

Steve: “Not in to [sic] good shape.”

Ssal: “oh. Are you okay?”

Steve: “Yea. My arm is dead.”

Ssal: “What?”

Steve: “Can’t move it.”
Ssal: “What happened?”

Steve: “Dunno.”
Ssal: “Do you have someone to help you?”

Steve: “I’ll be okay.”

Ssal: “I’ll be right over.”

I went up Lake Ave, to Marengo Drive, headed west some way. Eventually, I reached Steve’s corner. I parked on the northwest corner, south side.

Ssal: I’m here.

Steve: Be right out.

Steve walked out of the house one from the corner. The house on the corner had an arching driveway and windows looking out the south side. Steve walked toward my car where I was waiting. He was smiling, his arm swung normally.

“Did you want to come in?” Steve asked. He seemed cheerful. It was hard to tell. The bags under his eyes were so puffy.

“Um…” I had rarely been in someone’s place.

“My son and his friend, Macy are playing video games.”

“Oh, okay.” He had a son. “How old is he?” I asked.

“Alan is eighteen. My younger, Philip, is sixteen.” He’s in Kentucky with his mother.

He had sons plural. “Oh, okay.” I nodded, not knowing what to say. Steve took that for a yes. Here, I’ll take your bag. He took it from my shoulder.

My bag was a huge tote in which I carried well, everything that I could. It was difficult for me to leave the house without, well, my house. We walked around the corner north to the second house on the left, through the driveway, which was paved for an extra car. The new pavement struck out at an angle into the front lawn. I looked up and saw crappy blinds that did not really cover anything.

Maybe that’s why they have Aluminum foil sealing the windows, I thought.

I followed Steve to the left side of the house, down two makeshift steps made of concrete blocks that had grass growing between them and down a very cluttery side path that was precarious, even in flats. I had on heels for my interview.

But why Aluminum foil? I was about to ask Steve when my heel caught in one of the cracks of the side path. “Oh!”

“Oh hey, I’m sorry,” Steve caught me by the arm. “Been meaning to clear this. Almost there.” To the right of the path was a side patio closed in with rickety boards and mesh windows. Through the other side was a rough view of the inside of Steve’s landlord’s house. It appeared as disshelved as the patio and window treatments.

The side path led to the back of the house. We hung a right past something that did not have a name, sort of a wooden frame that held, nothing. The frame consisted of the bare number of wooden lengths to from a rectangle. Some crates on the ground inside the frame, but not a part of the frame, held up a mattress. Vines grew up along the side of the frame.  

The door to Steve’s private entry was open. Immediately to the left of the door was a bunk bed futon. The bottom bunk bed served as a couch and a bed. Currently, it served as a couch. A young white boy, Macy apparently, with Mr. McDreamy hair in hazel blonde sat beside his father, another pale, curly haired Pillsbury doughy type. In the corner sat a woman I apparently did not notice. In front of the flat screen TV in a chair sat Alan, Steve’s son.

I nodded to them as I passed. His son glanced up from playing his video games, a big homage given how intense the game was. Steve led me up to steps to the right which opened into the mini kitchen. To the right, the refrigerator. The left, a small counter, less than 3’x2’ with two barstools which faced a small black board.

Steve indicated one of the barstools. I sat up on one of them.

Did you want something to drink? Or eat? Macy’s dad just bought some crab. It’s real good.

“Oh, that’s okay, not hungry. I’ll have some tea, though.”

Steve nodded and got a mug from a cupboard, filled it with filtered water from the refrigerator, and heated it in the microwave for two minutes. The microwave hung above the stove.

“I can do it. How’s your arm? What happened to it?”

“Oh, I crashed my bike.”

“You what?” I was stunned. Mostly because Steve was standing in front of me apparently unharmed. “Wh-what are you doing? Sit down?” I jumped up and offered Steve a seat.

“Oh, ha ha, it’s nothing really. I’m okay. Except my arm went dead when I woke this morning.”

“Sit.” I led Steve to a barstool, then sat down on the other. “I can make my own tea. Did you want something?”

“Oh, no, just finishing my beer.”  There were beer bottles stacked on the kitchen counter.

“Did you drink all of those?” my left eyebrow raised in a tone of disapproval.

“Oh no, I had help.” Steve laughed, then stopped. “Macy’s dad, I mean.”

The microwave beeped. Steve began to get up. I put an arm on him to stay. I jumped off the stool and walked the one step it took to get to the microwave, reaching…way up high to open the door. I am 5’9” in heels and could not see the inside of the microwave. I eyeballed it.

“That’s a high microwave you have here,” I mentioned to Steve. He laughed.

“Yeah, even I can’t see inside.” Steve was a few inches taller than me.

“That’s odd, was it built for a basketball player?” I asked, not really thinking that it was.

“No, no. This place is new. My landlord just finished building it when I moved in.”

I walked over to the cupboard to look for the sugar.

“Oh, yeah, corner one over there.” The cupboards, 1-2 steps away, were built for a freakishly tall person. Neither I nor Steve could see the bottom of the lowest shelf on any of the cupboards.

“So what happened to you arm. You mentioned a bike accident?”

“Yea, I was riding on the 134 going west and this guy cuts into my lane, and I had the weirdest feeling he was gonna do that so I was already slowing down when I hit him and flew over his car and hackey sacked into a truck that was carrying tools and shit in the back of the bed.”

“Oh my god, are you okay? You didn’t break anything?”

“No, no, apparently not. The paramedics brought me to the ER, gave me an MRI scan and everything. I checked out clean. They let me go.”

“Was this the night we met?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Steve’s face had that fuzzy look of a person in a dream, or one that had been recently in an accident. I shook my head. How did he survive that and not break anything. How did he not survive that period?

“Was this during rush hour?” I asked.

“Yeah, I was going only 70-75 or so.”
“During rush hour traffic?” I remembered how Steve had accelerated at such an unearthly rate of speed. I did not realize that I was still stirring the sugar in my cup absentmindedly. This was a lot to absorb. “Can you do anything with your arm?” I asked with more concern than I realized. Steve lifted his right arm. He made a grunt as if to move his fingers but they were immobile.

“I might as well die if I lose this. A designer’s drawing hand is his life source.” I could see the worry behind Steve’s smile. Such a sad feeling behind that smile.

“Well, why don’t I help.” I looked around and jumped to do the dishes.

“Oh, no, no, no, I’ll take care of them.” There were only a few dishes in the sink. I started to wash.

“So what are you teaching this semester?” I asked.

“Transportation concepts. I can do that you know.”

“I’m almost done. How do you like it?”

“I love teaching. And I listened as Steve talked about how much he loved teaching. The faucet was installed backwards. Hot was on the right, cold was on the left. I burnt myself the first few times I turned on the water.

When I washed the last glass, I walked the two steps it took to sit down.

It didn’t make sense, I thought, everything is built for a giant, yet a midget could not walk three steps before bumping into anything. A 6’6” person would literally have to turn around if he wanted to go from the stove to the sink or the little counter.

Because I was thinking so hard I tripped getting on the stool. My foot caught on something and I caught the counter same time as Steve caught me. “Oh!” I said.

“Whoah, there! Don’t need both of us crashing.” We laughed. I looked down to see what tripped me. there was a clump of wiring and cords bound together running into a hole in the floor. I leaned over. Red, white, blue, yellow cords like those for a VCR only there were so many they made a clump almost two inches in diameter. What were they for? The cords ran out of the kitchen into the living room. I wanted to follow the trail but thought it would be rude.

“What are all these wires and cords for?” I asked. Steve shrugged.

“I don’t know.” He did not seem curious.

“Is there a basement down there?” trying to peer between the clump of cords and the hold in the ground.

“I don’t know.”

“What does your landlord do down there with all these electronics wires?”

“I don’t know.” Steve was an Enquiring Mind.

“Basements are for the Midwest, where it snows. We don’t have basements here in Southern California. Does your landlord have a workroom or studio down there?”

Steve shrugged. “I’ve never heard anyone down there.” I noticed that the hardwood floor was high quality, the type that had texture and soft on the feet. The kitchen had beautiful fixtures, colors, and overall high-end quality. The crampedness of the place and the circumstances of being an add-on to the main residence, suggested otherwise. It certainly was cozy.

And perhaps because I had been looking down, I now looked up. The lighting was sunk into the ceiling, the new fangled kind. Expensive. Things could be lodged in the recesses of the ceiling lights.

Steve continued talking about how he loved teaching. I asked him about his designed and listened. The dark granite counter tops had deep sparkles in them. all very nice.

“Do you mind if I ask how much your rent is?” I asked?

“I negotiated paying a year up front. Got it all for $8,000 a year. My lease ends in December.”

“Including utilities?”

“Yes, water and everything.”

“Wow.” A one-bedroom, with a private kitchen and bath, tiny size regardless. I had passed by the washer and dryer, new Kenmores. This place was a steel in this part of town. Upscale, quiet, near the mountains.

Steve and I talked into the night. For some reason, the first night we met, he told me all about his family history, mostly about his son’s mom and his other ex. He had been married twice. Two children to his first wife. Where was his second wife, I asked him. Steve shrugged. She disappeared.

It was late when I told Steve I should go. Before that, I used the bathroom adjacent to the kitchen, like an airplane bathroom with kwalitee fixtures. It closed with a sliding door no lock.

“Um, can you hold watch while I--”

“Oh, yea, yeah, no one will come in,” Steve assured me.

“Nonetheless,” I answered. When I was done doing my thing, I tried to slide the door open. No knob. “Unh,” I stepped out, “ready.” Steve led me down the two steps into the living room, hung a left, I waved to his son Alan, his friend Macy and Macy’s father who had left, and a woman who looked Filipino sitting in the corner of the futon couch.

That was rough. Outside, Steve and I kept talking until we reached my car. I dawdled to give Steve a chance to invite me back. My feet hurt waiting.

“So did you want me to come back?”

“Sure, sure, anytime, anytime. I’d love it if you came back.” Steve seemed relieved.

“Okay, I will. Take it easy on your arm. I’ll help you out tomorrow.”

“Right, right, right, see you tomorrow.” At least Steve’s smile seemed genuinely happy when I left.

Chapter 2. Operation Keep PT Down: Meet Steve Patina

I rolled along the ten freeway going west, going as far west as Horace Greeley urged. I was almost at the end when I heard a roar of a bike coming up on my left. A rider sped by with the wind maxing out his jacket like a sail, fullblown and free. I looked at my speedometer. I was only going eighty…five, plus or minus ten…or so. And he was long gone. I hit the accelerator and it the steering wheel. Where was the damn horn? (Rental car.) Was it one of those side horns or button horns? My left hand steered while my right groped for the—there it is. A loud honk.  Someone had told me once that if you honk at a cute guy riding a bike, he would most likely stop if you were a cute girl.

He didn’t stop or even slow down. Maybe he isn’t so cute, I thought. I couldn’t tell if the rider was cute but he was skinny and rode that bike like a demon. The freeway was ending so I exited to hit a starbucks. Starbucks wasn’t one of my favorites, I rarely go there for overpriced coffee didn’t suit my limited budget and lifestyle. Yet, I didn’t have many places to go, and they were always open late with free Wi-Fi. I was still living at my friend’s place, used it as home base until I could find a job and move out, and I had just found a job. I had used Starbucks to search for a job, so don’t know why I was there. Probably because I had no one to celebrate my newfound job with.

So while I was looking for a place for my laptop (I automatically took it with me everywhere), my hot chai tea, not iced but full-leaf was ready and I went to the condiment counter where I loaded up on sugar. I like to take some tea with my sugar. I reached for the straws when I bumped hands with someone.

“Oh, sorry,” that someone said.

“That’s okay,” I replied without looking up. I reached for the half-and-half and bumped into the same hand.

“Oh,” the voice laughed, “sorry again.”

“That’s okay,” I replied again, without looking up. I reached for the straws and nearly bumped hands again when we both stopped and looked up. I saw the face attached to the hand I kept bumping into and gave a short laugh.

The face was worn. And wretched despite the hearty laugh. He plucked a straw for me, a short one and I accepted it, looking at the long straws. He laughed again and reached for a long straw and offered it to me.

“Oh! Thank you.” I was unabashed. I reached for a stirrer, safely this time, tasted my tea and reached for the sugar in the raw. The guy laughed again.

“You like your sugar,” he laughed.

“Sometimes I like it with tea,” I smiled. He laughed again, loudly. I looked more closely at the fellow with the loud laugh. He might have been tall, it was hard to tell he slouched until his back was curled. His eyes were bloodshot with bags that dominated his face. His singularly gaunt cheeks were stretched over an alien skull, long and narrow. Full lips contrasted with his sleek strait nose, probably the only perfect thing about him. It saved his face from sinking into common dreariness, I thought.  He sported a five-o-clock shadow that seemed permanent and a hematite hoop earring in his left ear. His hair was cut short, and his teeth were big and yellow. I didn’t notice as his laugh was so big.

He had on a beige jacket, worn, like the rest of him. His jeans, his shoes whose seams were stretching, his tee, that looked velvety soft from a thousand washes.

“—yeah this place is pretty busy on weekends.” The fellow commented. Weekend? I had not noticed. He was looking around for a nonexistent empty seat.

“I’ve got a place.” I answered, unsure if I should invite him. There was something troublesome about him. I think it was because his laugh was genuine, as if he could have been happy had not so many miserable things happened in his life. I started walking toward my seat, glancing around at the tables. He made as if to follow me and I looked back at him.

“You can sit with me,” I thought I would try something new. It had been so long since I had been social. We reached my laptop bag, which I took off a chair. “You can sit here,” I motioned, as I squeezed into the booth on the opposite side.

“Thanks,” he said. “Come here often? I love Starbucks.” He took a long swig of his coffee.

“Really? I come here for the wi-fi. I think Starbucks is overpriced. And I have better tea at home.”

He laughed. “Right? You think Starbucks groupies are yuppie-wannabe’s?”

It was my turn to laugh. He caught on fast. Whatever his name was, he lounged back like a lizard. So comfortable in his skin and yet so Starbucks avid. Dark skin with a touch of Rhett butler mustachio, café groupie. He had that seventies post-disco sidewalk café look about him. All he needed was a cigarette with a tendril of smoke slowly curling around the table.

“Oh yeah, I’ll be right back,” he held up the cigarette in his hand.

 “Oh, okay,” I laughed.

He held out his hand. “Name’s Steve, by the way. from Kentucky.”

“I’m from Texas.” I don’t know why I said that. Just because he identified his home state. I was losing it.

“Really?” he smiled sidelong at me. this piece of bio evidently stopped him from rising. “Yea, you are. You cared enough to offer me a seat.” Steve laughed.

“that’s basic considerateness.” I shrugged.

“Right, right. You’d be surprised,” Steve laughed. “People out here in California are so…” he shook his head, lost in thought, “not really genuine, you know what I mean?”

“It’s Hollywood. Attracts a certain kind of people. I love California, probably because of the people almost as much as the weather and the varietiy.” I answered.

Steve laughed, “are you going to tell me your name?”

“Oh, S-su-e.” it made my lips pucker funny. Steve laughed.

“Wanna come out with me for a smoke? I mean you don’t have to smoke.”

“I won’t then,” reaching for my laptop bag but Steve already hefted it off the seat beside me and was walking toward the door. Must have rode a lot of horses in Kentucky, I thought.

Outside, Steve lit a cigarette and inhaled it from between his second and middle finger. Not as cool as I thought.

“So, ah, what do you do, Ssal?”

“I –uh-I represent injured people.” I could finally say that I was working as an attorney. It felt weird and almost wonderful, almost because it hadn’t happened yet.

“Awesome, you’re an attorney?” Steve seemed impressed.

“Mm hmm, just starting.” I nodded. Somehow, I didn’t seem so impressive to myself.

“Where do you work?” he asked.

“Inland empire.”

“Ooh, that’s far.”

“Yeah, gotta take what I can take to start.”

Steve nodded, “Right, right.”

 “What do you, do?” I asked.

“Concept designer,” Steve was searching his iPhone and showed me the screen. “That’s my website,” Steve’s website was dreamy. He designed cars, and also had ideas about evolution, renewable energy sources, a new type of engine.

“Wow, that’s really good.” The colors of his design were so vivid. Everything looked so 3-D. “Do you work for a car company?”

“Ah, no. I teach design at Art Institute. I worked at Honda, though. Internship.”

I nodded, clicking on Steve different pages, I was on the entertainment page. “You’re really good,” I looked up and smiled at him.

“Really?” Steve was really asking.

“Really,” I laughed. “You don’t know how good you are?” I tilted my head, my glasses sat low on my nose as I considered him. He really didn’t. A cool wind woke me up to the time. I shivered.

“Here you want my jacket?” Steve started taking off his jacket.

“Oh, that’s okay,” but Steve held his jacket out for me. what the hell, it was odd being receptive to someone other than my love of twenty years. I hugged the jacket around me and smiled up at Steve gratefully. He blew out his last puff of smoke. I looked around, my eyes big and finding nothing to latch on to.

“Well, it’s getting kind of late. Gotta head home.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. I’ll walk you to your car.”

“Thanks,” I looked around, wondering what sort of car Steve drove because he designed them. “Where’s your car?”

Steve laughed, “Oh I ride a bike,” motioning to a lime green bike an aisle over. I hadn’t noticed it. How could I miss it? I laughed as loud as Steve.

“He-ey! Can I have a ride?” I loved the feeling of freedom with the wind whipping against every part of my body and the uncertainty every time I shifted on a bike. What if I fell off trying to adjust a wedgie?

“What’s so funny?” he asked, laughing himself.

“Were you riding on the ten just now?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?” he asked, eyeing me quizzically.

“I followed you,” I joked. Steve laughed. I waited. And then opened my car door. “Well, maybe see you sometime.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, ah, hope you don’t mind my asking, are you Chinese?

I pretended to be offended. “Do I look Chinese to you?” Steve laughed but still hesitant. “No, I’m not Chinese.”

“Oh, cool, cool. If you wanna chill sometime, you can come over to my place.”

“Where is it?”

“Foothills of the valley.”

“Text me your address. My number’s 310-xxx-xxxx” Steve smiled as he texted me. my phone buzzed as I got in my car and started it. As I backed out, I heard the sharp roar of Steve’s bike. He rode by my car and leaned over. Ninja: ZX-10R, no ABS. I could smell the nicotine and tangy pine smell of him, and something else, Asian fried food, I think.

“I’ll race ya’ once we get on the freewa-ay!” I slid out of the parking lot and headed toward I-10, leaving Steve laughing way behind.

I turned a few corners, losing him. I was smiling to myself. He was probably one of those bikers who picked a bike for its color. I chuckled to myself, driving along. Where was the entrance to the 10 heading east? There was a starbucks ahead. How many Starbucks are there? I wondered, driving past. It looked awfully familiar…as I realized that I had gone full circle. I laughed at myself for prematurely thinking that I had won the race, as I tried once again to find the entrance to the freeway. That’s what I get for not  having a car for seven years, I swore I would never be without wheels ever again.

                                                                                                                            

Ah, here it is, as I found the freeway entrance and stopped at the light. Steve was probably long gone. The light turned green. I started up the ramp. A loud buzzing of a small engine came from behind as the entrance lanes merged into the freeway. A blur of lime green sped by with the billowing jacket of its rider ripping in the wind. It was unreal the way he accelerated. As he disappeared from sight, he was still speeding up.

That guy’s on a death wish, I thought. And also about the complications of a daredevil personality. Well, tomorrow is another day, I thought, I can always beg out of meeting later. The whir of his engine still sounded in my mind. Then again, I really wanted that ride.