They moved the tent to a back yard up the block. Agreed to sleep in shifts. The car might have been safer but it was easier to spot. He offered her the sleeping bag but she liked the blankets. It took a long while for him to calm down.
You were great today, she said. Thank you.
We have to get to Angeles Crest, he said. Away from people. Can’t trust anybody.
I know, she said. Are you OK?
One thing is bothering me.
What?
Tabasco branding with golf. Affluent males over 40 don’t– didn’t– drive household condiments.
It boosts casual fine dining use, she said. The guy goes to Applebee’s and asks for Tabasco.
Oh shit, you’re right.
We don’t have to think about that stuff anymore, she said.
Thank God.
What was the story you were going to tell me.
Well it’s not mine, he said. But I read this thing in the New Yorker. About this old Chinese woman in Brooklyn who got scammed out of her life savings. This woman had a son who was sick. These people, other Chinese people, came up saying they knew a witch doctor. They said her son was in grave danger. He was suffering under a curse.
Go on.
To get rid of the curse the witch doctor had to take all the woman’s possessions and bless them. So she gave him all her cash and fine China and you know the rest. These women don’t call the cops because they feel too stupid. But what got me was the curse. It was from a ghost. The ghost wanted the son for a husband.
Holy shit.
Yeah. The son had a ghost attached to him. And this is common. Ghosts who die alone just wander in this netherworld, latching onto people. Chewing at their souls. Because the ghosts are lonely. Back in the old days, when this happened, they’d have a ghost wedding.
Really?
Yeah. You married a girl ghost to a boy ghost and they could be together in the afterlife. They’d be happy. But in modern times, the Cultural Revolution, they tried to wipe the traditions out. People forgot how to help the ghosts. So these angry, lonely, doomed ghosts just wander around lost. Fucking things up forever.
She rolled over a little. Leaned close to him. He could feel her breath on his neck as she got close. You know what, she said.
Yes?
I’m hungry again.
You want a fortune cookie?
Yeah.
He unscrewed the jar and handed her one. Took one for himself. Opened the clear plastic pouch and broke the cookie. Put half in his mouth, warm and crisp and sweet. Squinted at the little white paper. Pink letters. It said the greatest danger could be your stupidity.
Talk to Her for Me
On his 37th birthday he got an email. I love your OKCupid blogs, it said. Would you write my profile. Some messages. $500. Vlad.
He didn’t write for money. Instead he made cold calls for a real estate office in Rancho Cucamonga. I see the lease is almost up on your refrigerated warehouse. There’s a new property with rail spur. Specifically designed for meat storage, or citrus. If you meet your wife I get ten grand, he said. He was kidding, but Vlad said: done.
Vlad already had a profile. He was handsome. Had money. Said it was from software. The new way of saying your dad. Lived near the beach. Had a law degree. There was no reason Vlad had to hire someone to write OKCupid messages. Write OKCupid messages at all. But women like to be chased.
You seem like you must do OK, he said. Not that I don’t want the work. But why are you asking.
I don’t get the real girls, said Vlad. I get the girls who want a free house so they can think about astrology. You seem like you get the real girls.
Are you OK on a date?
I can close, said Vlad.
He got to work. What to say. I’m eight feet tall, he typed. Ten billion dollars. Nineteen inch penis. I’ll choke you if you want. I promise to make you like me. Leave you twisting in the wind. Erased it.
When he had something he sent it to Vlad and Vlad said here’s my password, just post it. Let me know when you line one up.
Her name was Brie. Vietnamese. I want to go out with you, he said. How about it.
Forward of you. Tell me about yourself.
What is there to know. I’m one of God’s creatures. No more significant than an insect, but no less perfect.
Does that yacht belong to you?
We just call them “boats.”
Not to be rude but you seem like an asshole.
I’m a product of our civilization.
I’ve dated “software people” before. You’re either assholes or autistic. And you don’t seem autistic.
Thank you. Anyway I want to go out with you. How about it.
Tell me a story, she said. Then maybe.
When he started the story he was trying to be a dick. What women want. But she told him: don’t be like that. It’s not who you are.
He started again. A little fairy tale. A man hated his life and took a magic drug to forget it. Tell me another, she said. He fell in love with a sex toy who became a real woman. She died. Another. He married a whore but she murdered him. He fell in love again but tried to be nice. In her bones a woman’s purpose is to propagate evil. Another. He turned into an old man and died alone but a unicorn saved him. He got a job and married a nice girl and was eaten by a vampire. There was a magic bird. It died alone too. All ridiculous. But it was about how he was afraid. She was afraid too, she said. The world was a trap. Whatever you try just makes it worse. We’re doomed. All of us alone. She understood.
Finally he told a story about the end of the world. In the story he fell in love. When he got there he almost cried. Because that was the most unlikely part. I love this, she said. I love everything about this. I want to go out with you, he said. How about it. She said yes.
The next morning he got a text from Vlad. A thumbs up emoji. And a new OKCupid message. Hey, she said.
Hey.
Can’t text at work. Long story. I had a wonderful time with you.
I get that a lot.
You’re different than I thought.
How so
More to the point. Your dick is bigger too, lol
He felt something shift in his chest. Like an old box falling from a high closet shelf, full of pictures of the dead. Paused for a minute. I have to tell you something.
Oh my God, I knew it. You’re not really separated–
No– actually I don’t know, maybe. But it wasn’t him, he said.
What do you mean
It was me. I’m a different guy. He hired me to write to you.
Holy shit
I’m sorry to bring this up. I’m sorry I did it. But there’s something about you. I really like you and I’m sorry. Can you forgive me, he said. Can we talk about it.
It was a day before he heard back. Whoever you are, she said, you’re amazing.
Thank you.
Can I ask you something?
Yes?
Can you keep writing for him?
Father of the Sword
Joy had the day off. She came in the morning. Took him to the beach where her canoe was waiting. Do you know how to drive one, she said. It is traditional Philippines boat. PVC pipe bolted to the sides on struts to make a catamaran. Black nylon fishing net heaped in the aluminum hull.
It was high tide. White sand stretched out into swaying weeds under calm water. Out on a pier a Chinese family studied distant ships with binoculars. The only other tourists. Tall storm clouds pulled sluggishly at the horizon. The night before he’d taken the scooter into Puerto Princesa to find sunscreen. A hundred kinds but only one that didn’t bleach your skin, for tourists. In a separate area of the pharmacy. On the boulevard by a harbor full of shipwrecks kids dancing in school uniforms stopped him for pictures, laughing. He woke up early. Spent long minutes smearing sunscreen on. Toweling it off. He didn’t want his nose red but didn’t want to be shiny either. Appraised his gut in the mirror. Sitting down like it would be in the boat.