They call it the City of Angels, L.A., the City of Dreams but whose? For all the light and all the men, I still had nothing to lose. Yeah, I had three friends, sort of: counting one that was dead and one I’d never choose. But ten years were gone, now, since I lost my muse. It was New Year’s Day, today and I was hoping luck came in twos.
Fernando remembered me. We’d had a stranger’s night of Tecate lime punch and moist tamales, New Year’s eve in ’03. Fairy lights in the courtyard, the Solid Senders on the box with that Ferguson bass line, the Damp Vamp himself, making it never sound free. Fernando’s sister owned the joint out on Cesar Chavez east, he was waiting tables and dreaming of playing bass himself; desire can be a beast. He caught that same glimpse in my eye, though I thought it couldn’t be seen. He eased on over with the promise of a memory; not bad for seventeen.
I tracked him down servicing cars down on Lucille. He was twenty-two now, the dream only recently gone, the worst kind of cruel. It was hard remembering how he was that night, wild with hope, its own kind of truth. And how I’d eased so fast into momentary joys like someone else’s un-ravaged youth. All that was gone.
Still, he remembered a smile and asked “What can I do for you?”. “Your brother-in-law still doing time at the DMV?”, I asked above a whisper. He nodded slow, then slammed me with: “Is this about your sister?” How did he know? “You were kind of drunk that night, talked a bit about her light. You’ve got the same need in your eyes.
I slipped a scrap of paper over to him, with the magic number: 2HON4X. He said, “I’ll see what I can do.” Some one-night-stands, it turns out, are forever true.
I left and got some Black Eyed Pea Gumbo to go and went home to finish New Year’s Day, watching reruns of the Rose Parade and thanking the Universe, in advance, for her aid.
Hope she pulls through.
Rhea.
