Directions From Simi to Long Beach and All the Life In Between

a short story by T.C. Barrera
from the yet-to-find-a-home short story collection, “Counting Birds”

 “You know how it is, Eli. Mickey says you gotta get to this one today. You’ve just gotta. This guy’s paying a big, and I mean, a BIG fuckin’ rush fee; that Mickey, of course, is charging for on top of the doubled fee that he was already going to charge. Mickey says, if he asks, it is due—”

“—due to the nature of repair,” I say, interrupting her. “I got it, Lacey, but I’m all the way in Simi fuckin’ Valley and this guy is in Long Beach!”

It is Friday.

It is Los Angeles.

And it is 5:06 PM.

“Where is fuckin’ Luis’? Why am I getting stuck with this?!” I exclaim.

“It’s his daughter’s quinceañera and he already cut out. You’re the only one left out in the field.” At this point, my blood has shifted into a rolling boil, and I snap, “He’s got SIX fuckin’ daughters, and I’m telling you he’s used the quinceañera excuse SEVEN times, and—”

“Oh! Eli, gotta run, getting another call, I think it’s one of the suppliers calling me back.”

“No! Lace, do not hang up the phone, I’m not going to Long Beach!”

“I’ll text you the address, bye!”

It is 5:07 PM.

Wait.

It—

It is 5:08 PM.

I was on Willowbrook Lane, at some god damned house with a pool. I had just wrapped up with Mr. and Mrs. Bestin’s unit. An electrical issue caused their condenser fan motor to go, and—

It doesn’t matter.

The Bestins were gone on errands and had left their eldest daughter, Anna Bestin, who was visiting LA from Austin, Texas, to guard the house and let me in. She was around my age. She had a tattoo of Franklin from Peanuts, on her side boob. I knew this because she greeted me at the door half wrapped in a towel and already in her bikini top. While I worked, she was in the pool, on a float, tanning her white, upper-middle class skin. I thought Franklin was an interesting choice. Usually, you’d see Snoopy, or Woodstock, or maybe even Linus. Shortly after waving goodbye to Anna, as I walked out the front door towards my truck, I saw another interesting choice she had made, a political science degree framed next to a black studies degree from UT Austin both hung on the wall near the Bestin’s staircase.  

Surely, there was a connection there to Franklin on the boob.

Thoughts about this provided a good distraction as I tucked my phone angrily into my pocket and climbed into the cab of my work van. God, it’s gotta be a hundred-and-ten degrees in here.

Goddamn summer.

Goddamn Simi Valley.

Goddamn Long Beach.

Goddamn 5:11 PM.

Every fiber of my being wishes I could climb into that pool with Anna Bestin and stare at Franklin for the rest of the still-hot evening. I’m daydreaming now of asking her to explain why a white woman living in Texas has a black studies degree and a Franklin tattoo on her boob. Every fiber of my being begged me to turn around and climb into that pool as I got on First St. and eventually got on the eastbound part of CA-118, the Ronald Reagan Freeway, known here as “The 118.”

Goddamn—

Traffic.

It’s 5:58 PM and here I am, still on the 118 in dead stop traffic as far as the eye can see. The eye can’t see too far though because black smoke covers the highway this afternoon. It smells like burning gasoline as I roll towards the car fire that must have started not half an hour ago. Not a siren in sight nor in earshot as noxious smoke rolls up into the air from the burning, silver sedan. The heat mirages emanating from the car seem to be melding into the mirages coming off the blazing hot highway asphalt. The unlucky bastard whose car barbecued in front of the many commuters stood on the shoulder of the 118 with his arms up, hands behind his head, fingers interlocked, dumbfounded, staring at his Friday evening go up in flames and ash, and thinking about how Monday was going to be tossed in the can by phone calls to insurance and whoever else.

I thought for a second how good it would feel if it was my work van on fire instead of his silver sedan; that way, I wouldn’t have to take this Long Beach call. I could just stand there, light a cigarette off the flames engulfing the gray upholstery and let Lacey deal with calling insurance and whoever else. It was their van anyway; I’d just been the one taking care of it and storing all my shit in it.

I thought twice.

I’d probably have to go replace all my tools myself. Who knows how long that could take. It could put me out of work for weeks while insurance and whoever else sorted it out… And God… I need this job. I really, really, need this job and the money it comes with.

Best chug along.

6:10 PM now.

I’ve got to get off on Woodley, get onto Devonshire from there, right near where I grew up, and get onto the I-405 ramp, southbound, known here as “The 405.” Thankfully, traffic cleared up a bit on the side streets after the inferno, which wasn’t even the craziest thing I saw today.

I’m off to the office most days around the same time the rest of the ants are, reaching our respective anthills of commerce near 9:00 AM. Some days, I’ve got to roll out to arrive at the supply house for freon, filters, or some other fuckin’ thing an hour earlier, by 8:00 AM. This morning was one of those mornings. This morning was dead stop traffic too. Just a few streets away from my apartment, before I even hit the highway, cars moved at a snail’s pace already, bumper to bumper. Honking horns served as the backing orchestration to the morning drive. The streets were manic, but no more manic than any other city during rush hour on a Friday. You had to take the good with the bad. I didn’t live any place but here; and shithead drivers, angry ones too, were part of the draw.

Every one of us. Every single one of us, and you too, are just trying to make it, after all.

Morning mania was compounded today due to the presence of a strange, (but not even overtly strange for this city), sight of a woman running naked in the street. She looked to be in her fifties but might have been much younger if not for the consequences of the track marks I could see clearly on her arms and legs even a few car lengths away. She was screaming unintelligibly. A few commuters had exited their cars and begun to half-heartedly and reluctantly chase her around. Half-heartedly and reluctantly they chased her, because notably; she was uncontrollably and seemingly unconsciously shitting herself whilst running around. A few car windshields had the unfortunate gift of her sloppy joe presented directly onto their glass, as if some giant city bird was perched up on the power lines and ridding itself of its lunch.

The sight was surreal, almost funny, but I didn’t crack a smile. I had seen this woman several times on the morning drives to the office or the HVAC supply house. She was always standing on the same corner. She always wore baggy clothes that covered the skin of her arms and legs, no matter how hot it was. She was always drinking out of a brown paper bag. Anytime I stopped at the red light on her corner, she asked me for money; and, every time, if I had some spare change, I tried to give it to her. I never said a word to her, nor did she ever say a word to me more than what was necessary:

“Got any change?”

I didn’t have spare change often.

I wondered this morning what caused her to break. I’m wondering that now, on this drive to Long Beach. Was it just because of the hard stuff in the needles? Was it deeper than that? Was it some mental sickness present before the needles? Was it the money? If she had the kind of scratch that the rich guy I’m driving to fix the air conditioning of has in his checking account, (enough to pay the fuckin’ rush fee), would she be running on the street naked at 7:30 AM shitting on herself and on car windshields? If I had that kind of scratch, what would I be doing? If I had as much as she had, would I be the one shitting on the cars and on the back of my thighs? I felt sorry for her; then, selfishly, I felt sorry for me. I felt sorry for me in my work van on the way to another shithouse HVAC job where I try to make enough to not go crazy and to not go broke; not that I’m not broke already. Really, it’s the crazy I’m fighting; the kind of crazy that would cause me to be littered with track marks, shitting on the Priuses, the Silverados, and the Jettas all around me. I felt sorry for me because I knew how close I was to breaking; and I wondered if before she broke, she knew too.

I looked to my right as the pooping woman ran by and saw that some asshole teenage kid was sitting in his car laughing while recording this woman and the chase on his phone, no doubt to share on the internet. I wanted to get out of my car and punch him on the head.

That was this morning.

Now, on the 405 Freeway for almost 30 miles. God, America’s biggest fuckin’ parking lot moves as slow as ever. What a fuckin’ nightmare. Mickey owes me big time for this one. Lacey texted me the address by the time I got off the 118 Freeway. Exit 32B for Long Beach is my escape. From there, I’m on I-710 until I get off near Downtown Long Beach. The house I’m going to is owned by some guy named Phil Zimmer, a Hollywood guy, apparently; owner and founder of some huge talent agency or something; a big client for the company; and a big pain in my ass. He lives on First Ave. and Orange.

I look down at my speedometer. I’m cruising at a steady 7 miles an hour. If I got into the back of the truck and drank a bottle of refrigerant, which lane would I have to die in to cause the biggest headache? How fast could they clear my body and my truck? How long would it take for traffic to get better?

I looked to my left and saw a couple not much younger than me screaming at each other. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I could tell they were screaming daggers at each other. She was crying through the screams. He had his fist in a ball. Maybe it was the traffic that lit the fuse that caused the bomb to go off in their car. Maybe it was something else, who knows.

They passed.

Another car sidled up next to me. An Asian woman in nursing scrubs, maybe in her fifties or late forties with messy hair, tired from a shift at whatever hospital she was coming from, bobs her head up and down and sings along to music I can’t hear. She must have sensed I was looking at her because she turned and met my eyes for a moment. It was just a moment, a fleeting one before she looked away, and all I took from it were how deep the bags were under her eyes; and, how, despite that, she sang loudly and was still smiling. I wonder if she noticed how deep mine were.

She passed.

There’s a truck now. An old pickup with a cover over the bed. It’s a work truck, a working truck, a truck used for service, like my van. It’s not the truck that’s ever been the interesting part, though. In the front seat of that pickup is an older man, probably and hopefully nearing retirement. I glance over and see a thick moustache under dark sunglasses and wrinkles on every visible part of the skin. Even from the receiving end of his dark sunglasses, I can see the man looks tired. He looks to be a different tired as the nurse with bags under her eyes. While her tiredness was of the present and on the surface, this man’s tiredness seems to sit deeper than the skin. Even from my car, I can see his hands look to be made of dry, cracked leather, working hands, sun beaten hands. He senses me too and looks over, nodding. I nod back.

He passes now.

I drive on.

Finally, I’m off the 405 and am driving down Shoreline. I see boats docked and wish I could sail away, just like so many of you do when you see the boats on the harbor. A left on Orange finally takes me to the demanding Mr. Zimmer’s house.

If you came to the end of this journey, one that began around 5:00 PM and is finally ending near 6:50 PM, expecting some great pot-of-gold at Mr. Zimmer’s house, you’re sure to be disappointed. Mr. Zimmer had nothing for me but a busted capacitor, one I replaced in a little under half-an-hour. It wasn’t even him that answered his front door. His assistant, a skinny kid named Jake, (I think that’s what his name was), opened the door and stiffly explained to me what was going on. I explained to Jake that I’d have to go up on the roof to see the unit.

Zimmer was in his beautiful backyard with the koi pond and the view of his beautiful house that catches the sun just stunningly at this time in the evening. He watched me climb my ladder; and, though I was up above him on the roof, I could feel him looking down on me. While I did my work, checking the unit’s meter and eventually replacing its dead capacitor, I could make out just a bit of what he was saying on the phone:

“I don’t give a fuck what she’s saying. If I tell her to fucking be at a junket, I want her there for the press with a fucking smile for as long as I tell her to be there. I will drop her ass from this agency in two seconds and can make sure no one else casts her for as long as I want. I swear it.”

I didn’t catch the rest and came off the ladder shortly after. Jake promptly told me that he could feel cool air blowing again. I told him that Mr. Zimmer would receive an invoice in a couple days. He nodded and went back inside to continue his list of the capo’s to-dos. Zimmer, who had finished on the phone, walked up.

“Everything good?” He asked, seemingly deepening his voice to project some kind of weird machismo or authority. “All good. I was just telling your assistant you can expect to receive an invoice soon, and—”

“Here, let me give you something for your trouble,” he said, interrupting me and grabbing into his back pocket for his thick wallet.

Just like that, reaching out to me, in all its glory; was the pot-of-gold: a crisp, ten-dollar bill. Ten dollars, I thought, this is Los Angeles, what the fuck does this guy think I’m gonna do with ten bucks?

“Wow, that’s very kind of you, sir, thank you,” I said, taking it from him.

“Don’t mention it,” He smiled.

“You have a good evening, sir.”

And that was that.

Sunset was late, and I was catching the middle of it just as I was packing up the van. That was the day; but, after checking my GPS, traffic was still pretty bad, and I decided to wait out the end of rush hour on the beach with a pack of American Spirit Blues I picked up for $11.14 at the gas station near Zimmer’s house.

Thank God I had an extra dollar and thank God I had some change in the van.

The waves lapping onto the shore of Alamitos Beach matched the sound of the cars driving by on the street behind me. I sat on the sand in my work uniform thinking about Anna Bestin, the man with the burning car, the shitting woman from the morning, the kid recording her, the people I saw while driving, Zimmer’s assistant, Jake; and a whole lot of other people, all while thinking of nothing really at all.

I sat there in silence smoking my overpriced cigarette until a beach bum meandered his way over to me. The beach bum had a bucket hat on, a dirty, gray shirt, and sagging cargo pants, equally dirty and a little bit torn. He wore beat up sneakers, and had a full, gray beard.

“Got a smoke?”

“Sure,” I said.

He plopped down next to me after I handed it to him, and I handed him the lighter. He handed it back and we sat there in silence smoking and watching the waves and the sunset.

He coughed a phlegmy, ragged cough; and grumbled:

 “Nothing ever happens, huh?”

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t feel like I needed to.

T C Barrera

Image: Traffic jam in Longbeach California with cars lining up at a junction and buildings and palm trees in the background. From Clotee Pridgen Alloc…, CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0, via Wikimedia Commons