Dire Means (7 page)

His beloved Camry was special to him. It was the first new car he had purchased on his own after college. The thought of Ty pulling it into a chop shop and stripping and mutilating it for parts made him feel more victimized than the beating he had taken beside the gas pump.

He put his arm around a traffic signal pole and leaned his head against it, and then realized that he must have been mouthing his thoughts because a woman in a car at the curb was staring at him. Her face wore the concern that spreads on the faces of people when they see someone talk aloud to no one—or hug and talk to poles for no apparent reason. A green light released her and she sped away.

Mark entered the alley between Third and Fourth Streets to Wingren Accounting Associates. The alley was narrow, yet the offices’ windows had bold, proud signs as if they once faced out to the busy Promenade. Wingren’s door was locked and the lights were off. A note said, “Back at 2:00 p.m.” Mark checked his watch; it was 10:34 a.m.

He sat down on the top of two concrete steps that led to the front door, with only a minor flinch from the sharp pains in his midsection that he had grown to expect with any major change in his posture. The thought of waiting for over three hours was unbearable. Mark was sore, tired, getting hungry, and simply wanted to get home as soon as possible. His home was only four miles away. But walking that distance would take the physical toll of completing a marathon and probably much more time. If he wanted to get home now, then he knew there was only one way to speed up the process. He walked two blocks and entered the Third Street Promenade.

Chapter Seven

IF A GROUP of civil planners came together to design an ideal beach city in a luxurious, utopian location, they couldn’t improve upon what already exists in Santa Monica, California.

The city boundaries encompass 8.3 square miles of an almost-perfect rectangle, except a notch where Brentwood dents its northeastern corner.

The city is mostly flat, with a gentle, downward slope to its southwestern border. Its famous beach is virtually straight with a tree-lined bluff that elevates to the north, rising high above the Pacific Ocean.

Skinny, sky scraping palm trees, spaced with the care of birthday cake candles throughout the city, shimmer and wave in a constant ocean breeze.

The Third Street Promenade presents a three block showcase of the finest shopping, dining and entertainment found anywhere in the world.

Entering it, Mark saw that the relative warmth of late morning had generated a typical crowd of tourists, street performers, and homeless people—all staples of The Promenade. If sheer number of people was an indicator, then odds were good that Mark could convince someone to let him borrow a cell phone for one short call or lend him two quarters for a pay phone. If he was one of these people and saw himself, he’d certainly lend some change. He had done so many times.

Out in the wide-open, outdoor pedestrian thoroughfare, he stepped into the flow of the crowd.

The day was beautiful—even by Santa Monica’s November standards. Carefree gulls cocked and bobbed their robotic heads, riding their razor-sharp, boomerang wings as they slipped sideways high above the crowd.

Along the center of the outdoor mall, merchants guarded goods stocked in green-roofed kiosks with retractable awnings. Everything is available on the Promenade—from wind chimes to clothing to crystals. A short distance away, a young girl sat in a director’s chair and worked on a newspaper crossword puzzle. She cracked her gum and occasionally looked up to tend to her cart of earrings.

Mark passed restaurants that featured outdoor patios enclosed in shallow perimeter fences and planters. With each breath, Mark’s nostrils pulled in an aroma that contained the samplings of no less than five menus. He was getting hungrier.

He heard the sound of competing music coming from speakers mounted outside shops, combining with the riffs of street performers and the ubiquitous murmur of voices through which laughter or an excited sentence poked from time to time.

All of these sights and sounds were familiar to Mark; he visited the Third Street Promenade often, but never in his current condition. Today this place had an odd, unfamiliar feel to it. He was usually quite comfortable walking the Promenade—grabbing a bite to eat between service calls. Now he still blended in, but played a completely different role in the ambiance—a role that intrigued tourists for whom the sight of a man dressed like Mark was unusual.

An uneasy feeling swept over Mark. It was similar to the feeling he had when the flower-delivery driver had turned away from him. This was stronger, more intense. He noticed people easing away from him—even those walking in the same direction. People who approached him from a distance came no closer than ten feet. Those he overtook, or who noticed him close by, took four or five strides from him as inconspicuously as possible without making eye contact. A glance—that’s all anyone gave him before stretching their proximity. It was uncanny—the smoothness with which people could distance themselves from him without looking at him.

Was he seeing it right? Was it just his imagination? Perhaps his injuries—particularly the blows to his head, had fogged his thinking, making him hypersensitive, he thought. After all, how often had he paid any attention to the distance people kept between him and others as they passed? Maybe they always wanted this space from him.

He stopped and turned to face oncoming pedestrians. Foot traffic continued to flow around him with a wide berth. The space cushion that passers-by kept from the homeless was to be expected. After all, many were dirty or smelly or sometimes made wild hand gestures that only they themselves understood. Mark knew he was disheveled, but in his case, it was temporary and he wished he could announce it with a bullhorn. He would blend into the crowd within the hour if he could just make a call and get home to clean up and become himself again.

Thirty feet away, a well-dressed man stood, reading a newspaper amidst foot traffic. The man stood in front of a newsstand. Foot traffic passed close by him—some people brushed his shoulder. Mark went toward the man and stopped a few strides from him. Again he turned to face oncoming shoppers. Sure enough, the flow of traffic arced around him as though he wore an invisible, giant inner tube. He was both conspicuous and ignored.

He saw a bench and eased down onto it for a rest. His head throbbed and he rubbed his temples a few times. With elbows on his knees, he rested his chin in his hands and watched the people pass by. His eye still felt tight and was halfway shut, but it hadn’t worsened. He licked his lip and felt the bulge of the lima bean unchanged.

He searched faces for an altruistic-looking candidate to approach. He discovered that assessing the potential for sympathy on the faces of people who refuse eye contact was a challenge. Working up the nerve to ask someone for help with nothing but thanks to offer was even more difficult. He rehearsed what he might say.

Excuse me, I’ve been attacked… No, that might scare them.

Pardon me, could I borrow your cell phone for one local call?
If people wouldn’t even look at him or walk closer than a car length, why would they let him press their cell phone to his filthy ear?

Then Mark saw what he decided was his best chance. It was a family—a husband, wife, and a young boy and girl no older than eight. The children may have been twins, close in age and height. The family’s clothing and accessories announced that they were tourists—complete with dangling camera and new Disneyland sweatshirts. The parents laughed, holding hands as they walked. The kids pulled their parents with their energetic pace, excited at all the sights and sounds.

Their happiness and affection for one another boosted Mark’s confidence. Certainly, such a loving family would be willing to improve his obvious tough luck by fifty cents. He took a breath and approached them—careful not to limp. As though alerted by radar, the father’s head turned to Mark from twenty feet and locked onto him. Mark wasn’t deterred and maintained the approach. The father’s arm stiffened and reached out to slow his wife. He then stepped between Mark and his family, herding his kids and wife behind him with his hands out to his sides.

Mark put on his best smile and met the man’s eyes. “Excuse me sir, I’ve been robbed of my car and phone and just need to make one phone call. Is there any way you could spare some change or let me use your cell phone for a local call?”

“You want money?”

“Actually, just enough for a call would be great,” Mark said. Some shame crept onto his face for asking and he looked down at the ground for a moment.

The man turned his head over his shoulder to his wife and young children and said, “Kids, pay attention, here’s a good lesson for you.” He then turned back to Mark. “Suppose I offered to buy you some lunch?”

“That is very kind of you, but actually it’s only change for a phone call that I need…”

“Aha!” the man said. “So money or nothing—is that your deal?”

“No,” Mark said. “I need to make a phone call—I don’t need money…if I can use your cell phone for one quick call I won’t need any money.”

“Sorry, pal,” the dad said smugly. “You’re not gonna be using my cell phone to call your dealer. Now I need you to back away from my family. C’mon kids.”

Mark watched dumbfounded as the man herded his family away. The kids resisted any hurry, twisting their necks to get a good look at Mark.

Mark walked for a few minutes to regroup and salvage some of his pride. He did so by reminding himself that this was all a nightmare from which he would wake up the moment he made a phone call and heard a familiar voice say, “No problem, I’ll be right there to pick you up.”

After watching people pass by for ten more minutes, he noticed a woman that he felt had kindness potential. She was well dressed in a long, beige coat and carried a black designer purse over one arm. He didn’t know why he chose her, but she looked to him like someone who smiled easily and, therefore, might be sympathetic. He began his approach—not directly, but angling in her direction through a thick group of shoppers. Like the tourist father earlier, she seemed to sense him from a distance. Her eyes swept his body from foot to face, gathering the distasteful details. Mark relit his friendliest smile, but it was too late. She changed course, frowned and sped her pace with one hand up saying, “No, no, no, no, no, don’t even think about it…”

“Have a great day,” Mark said, his voice dropping to a whisper as he watched her escape him.

He continued south on the Promenade. He saw two teenage boys standing outside a store typing into their phones. Perhaps kids wouldn’t be as callous as the adults. Maybe he could promise to repay them a buck if either would loan him some change. He went to them and said, “Excuse me, either of you guys have fifty cents for a phone call?”

They stopped their typing and looked at Mark and then at each other and then back to Mark. “Get a job, bum,” one said. His buddy laughed and they knuckle-bumped each other.

On his way back up the Promenade, back toward Milten Wingren’s office, Mark made two more approaches to people he thought had potential for sympathy. On both attempts he was rejected before he could even utter a word.

He found a payphone and checked its coin return for some lucky change—empty. He picked up the receiver and dialed 0.

“Yes, operator, I want to make a collect call please.” He gave the number of one of his Santa Monica clients, a law firm for whom he provided IT support.

The operator rang his client and Melissa, the receptionist, answered. The operator asked permission to bill the collect charge from “Mark” and Melissa said, “I’m sorry, Mark. I cannot accept any collect calls.”

Before Mark could interject, the operator said, “I’m sorry sir, your collect call has been refused,” and the line went dead.

Mark dialed 0 again and tried a collect call to the other client whose phone number he recalled. There was no answer even though the operator honored Mark’s request to let the phone ring over fifteen times.

Mark slammed the phone receiver down and walked to a bench by a planter to regroup. He reconsidered walking home, but the thought of making the trek through his pain was unbearable. Although the easier option would be to wait for Milten to return to his office at 2:00, he couldn’t bear the time needed to wait for him. It was only 11:50 a.m.

Two young girls and a boy, none older than seven, sat on an opposite bench near a fountain a stone’s throw away. They licked ice cream cones and giggled while a woman, probably their mother, stood over them digging through her purse. One at a time, she pulled out coins and handed them to the children.

At last, Mark thought. A mother with her coin purse out and open. If a mother had no sympathy on a young person’s misfortune, who would? He made his way toward her. When he came within thirty feet he saw a homeless woman carrying a plastic cup stand up from a bench behind them. She approached them and requested some change while clanging a few loose coins in a cup.

The mother shook her head and shooed the homeless woman away as the children watched. Mark detoured to a nearby light post and leaned gently on it.

The mom instructed the kids to close their eyes, make a wish, and then toss the money into the fountain without peeking. All three children did so, and afterward looked at one another as if they expected more to happen after the coins splashed into the water.