As I waited for them to subside, someone uttered, “Hey, mister, you left your keys in the car! You want me to get them?”
I slowly raised my head and saw a homeless old white woman wearing an Oakland Raiders knit cap. Her long scraggly hair spilled out from underneath it as she stood by my car’s wide open door with a toothless smile. I managed to push myself up from the ground and stood up on wobbly legs.
Before I could reply she said, “Don’t worry, sir, I got them.”
She leaned into the car and retrieved them from my seat. She cavalierly shut the door and beeped the alarm. Afterwards, she pushed her junk laden baby stroller towards me, happily jingling my keys. I tucked in my shirt and adjusted my sports coat, trying to look decent as the woman whose clothes looked like they had been mud packed to her body approached.
“Bet you’re sure glad I got you those keys before anybody else did. Otherwise you mighta been chasing your car down Pacific Coast Highway.”
“Yes, I am, thank you,” I replied in my graveled voice as a pinkish hand swimming with varicose veins handed the keys to me. I had to work overtime not to clamp my hand over my nose and insult her, but Jesus Christ, the funk coming from her body made me nauseous all over again.
“Had a pretty rough night, huh?” she asked.
“Uh huh, something like that,” I yawned as I self-consciously rubbed my puffy eyes.
“Yes, sir, I’ve had a few of those in my time, yes indeed,” she chuckled.
I had a feeling what was next on her agenda as she continued to stand there, shuffling her feet. I had already reached into my coat pocket before she asked,
“So, uh, do you think you could spare a little change?”
I gave her what I thought was a dollar bill until she held it up in the air and I saw it was a ten spot.
“Wow! Thanks, Mister!”
“Sure, my pleasure.” I prayed she would hurry up and move on so I could stop holding my breath. This was her lucky day. Ordinarily, I never gave vagrants money. As far as I was concerned, if they could say, “Can you spare some money?” then they could also get a job and say, “Welcome to Jack in the Box”.
“God bless you. You have a good day!”
“Uh huh, you too.”
I exhaled as she resumed her trek with a much jauntier step.
Before she got too far away I hoarsely yelled, “Hey, do you know who’s playing that trumpet?”
I figured she knew all the street vendors along the beach Boardwalk.
She turned and eyed me a little too long. “My hearing hasn’t been all that great lately. I don’t hear nothing, mister. Sorry.”
I guess it was her turn to be diplomatic and not insult me, but she still gave me a look like — what fucking music are you talking about?
Maybe she didn’t hear the music, but I sure as hell could. And whoever was playing that trumpet blew some of the freshest shit I’d ever heard.
I watched her stop to ask some other people for change as I tried to regain my bearings. The best thing I could do at this point was take a walk and try to clear my head some. It turned into a beautiful sunny day, about 75 degrees, with a nice ocean breeze. Across the street, people spilled into Palisades Park from every direction, smiling and eager to celebrate this glorious morning. The Park in Santa Monica, California sat on bluffs overlooking the ocean.
I stepped right into the two-way traffic, ignoring the belligerent horns as I jaywalked across Ocean Avenue. The bike path was already strewn with bikers, joggers, roller skaters, and couples walking hand in hand. The sun’s rays sifted through my wrinkled sport coat as I leaned tautly against the white railing. I gazed out over the bluffs at the sprawling beach paralleled by Highway One.
The warm sun attempted to embrace me and make me feel as good as the pretty blonde who jogged past me with her iPod and ear phones. Her huge breasts bounced up and down as she flashed me her award-winning smile, but she picked up speed when I deflected it with a glare.
I know it wasn’t right, but I hadn’t been feeling right for a long time. There wasn’t enough sunlight in the world to illuminate the bleak and cavernous regions of depression wracking my body.
I wanted to go back to Harry’s and resume drinking, but it wasn’t open yet so I forced myself to keep walking in the direction of that seemingly never-ending trumpet music. Whoever was playing had some serious lungpower.
I walked down the incline and after a while ended up on the Boardwalk at Venice Beach. As I strode down the Boardwalk I passed this guy in a Caribbean T-shirt booth. He wore one of those knitted red, yellow, and green Rastafarian hats. He probably had about a thousand braids bundled up under that hat. He greeted me with a nod and then said with a Jamaican lilt, “How ya doin’ this fine morning, my brotha?”
“I’m good. How about you?”
“Blessed.”
I smiled with a nod, ignoring my irritation with the response.
Our heads lifted when we heard a long and continuous screech of car brakes in the distance followed by a thunderous crash.
“Uh-oh, looks like somebody’s about to have a bad day,” he cackled.
“Welcome to my world,” spilled out before I could reign it in.
The vendor smiled sympathetically. “Sorry to hear.” He paused. “How about I sell you one of these great shirts at half price. Will that make things a little better?”
“Nah, it’s going to take a little more than that, but I appreciate it. Tell me this though, who’s playing that great music?”
He frowned as his eyes shot to the CD player sitting on the table behind him. “It’s not my music, but I’ll turn it on. You into reggae?”
“No, I mean, yeah, but I’m talking about the trumpet music. Don’t you hear it? Listen.” I closed my eyes and swayed. “Hmmm, man, isn’t that sweet? Dude can play, can’t he?”
He didn’t answer. I opened my eyes to find him stroking his pigtailed goatee and observing me with a sly grin. “Hey brotha, I don’t hear any music, but I’d like to be in the same place you are. How about a hit on whatever you’ve been smokin’?”
“I haven’t smoked anything, man,” I snapped.
“Okay, okay, chill bro, it’s just your eyes sure look red. Come on now, don’t be stingy, you ain’t got a little something you can share, huh?”
“I’m a lawyer. Do I look like a fucking drug dealer?”
Angrily, I shook my head and marched away. “Later, man.”
“Wait, hold on, brother,” the vendor yelled raising his hands. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I just wanted to hear the music, too! You know… one love, one hit?”
I wanted to say, fuck you, you ganja breath muthafucka, but I’d almost gotten into one fistfight last night with some jerk talking trash at the bar. I’m sure Rasta Man didn’t mean anything, but I just wasn’t in the mood for bullshit! Besides, my head felt like somebody smacked it with a steam iron. I massaged my temples, but it didn’t do any good.
And the trumpeter continued to play.
I just kept walking. Whether I ambled for 4 hours or 4 minutes, I don’t really know, I lost all concept of time because my watch stopped working. It froze at 9:23 a.m. And, of course, my iPhone was still in the car. So much for backup.
For all I knew I had been wandering around in circles despite knowing the area well; mainly because an unusually heavy fog drifted in. The mist was so thick it pressed against my face like a wet and sticky spider web. All of a sudden, I felt very alone, afraid, and very disoriented. I started stumbling backwards, forwards, even sideways, my eyes squinting and darting everywhere. I couldn’t see fuck! I no longer heard the sound of skateboards, rollerblading, bicycle peddles churning, people talking or laughing, nothing. All activity came to a standstill.