Our Town (3 page)

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As they left their condominium—515 North Crescent Heights Boulevard, Apartment D, West Hollywood, CA 90048—Dorothy noticed a strange set of tropical trees and shrubbery in the corner of the courtyard. Just two small palms, with a thick, green bush connecting them. She stopped and cocked her head. She stood there a moment, looking into the greenery, while Dale turned and stared at her. Then she pointed.

“Look, baby,” she said.

“What is it?” He walked up and stood beside her and he looked, too.

“There’s something in there.”

Dale didn’t see it at first, but then he locked eyes with a large, green iguana, whose yellow irises around his black pupils were all that stood out in the thatch.

“See, baby,” Dorothy said, as she pulled Dale’s arm over her shoulder and tucked her head into his chest. “He’s green like the trees so you can’t see ’im. That’s his thing. That’s his ticket.”

Within one month they were all moved in, and happy, and within four they were married. Their wedding was beautiful, and white, and took place at a local church nearby. A progressive one. They only invited a few people, and Dale didn’t even wear shoes. The world was changing. People were less inclined to judge. Dorothy had never experienced anything quite like this and, as it turned out, she would never—ever—be happier. For Dale it was harder to tell.

RIGHT AS RAIN

T
wo weeks later, Dorothy and Dale drove up Highway 1. They left their new apartment in Hollywood, which Dorothy was just starting to feel was her own—she’d just put up her pictures—and they drove north, to Big Sur, for their honeymoon. They took Santa Monica to the Pacific Coast Highway until, eventually, they got on Highway 1. Highway 1 runs along most of California’s Pacific coastline and is, supposedly, one of the most beautiful drives in America. They could see mountains for miles, and driving by the water made driving not so bad. But sometimes the road got too twisty and they both became nauseous. But they looked out the windows anyway, and they saw the craggy rocks stick up from the green water. Sun-glowy and wet. Carsick but beautiful. And then it got later, and the water turned blue. They stopped, before the sun went down, at a designated stopping grounds, to take pictures before it got too late.

“How do I look, baby?” Dorothy asked Dale. She held an unlit cigarette in one hand and rested the other against her waist. She wore a yellow sundress with red polka dots. She tipped a little to the side. A teapot. Yellow more right for summer, but Dorothy wore it anyway despite the late December cold. It was her honeymoon, she thought. It’s whatever temperature I want it to be.

“How do I look, baby?” Dorothy asked again. “Do I look pretty?”

Dale was adjusting the Polaroid, still sitting in the driver’s seat. He couldn’t quite figure it out. Wasn’t big on technology. Fucking technology.

“Hold on a second. I’m trying to get this stupid thing to work.”

“Well, would you at least tell me if I look pretty? Am I posing the right way? How’s my pose?”

“Yes, honey. Of course. You’re the most beautiful girl on the whole planet,” Dale said but didn’t look up from the camera.

“Oh, please. You didn’t even see,” Dorothy said to herself. She turned around and looked out on the ocean.

“It’s really amazing here,” she said, louder now. “Forget the camera, baby. Just come look with me?” She waited with her hand out. “Jesus, would you just come look with me, please?”

“Give me another minute,” he said. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” and he tossed the camera to the right side of the bench seat in their peach-colored El Camino.

The sky was pink but lined with green. The ocean was green but lined with pink, reflecting the sky. Dorothy stepped near the cliff ’s edge and looked down. The waves broke anxiously against the shore. The rocks were stacked like sugar cubes beside a saucer. The air smelled like the best sorts of seafood. Fresh seafood. Lobster tail, maybe. With melted butter. Or a perfect oyster. East coast—small, not too briny—with cocktail sauce, mignonette, horseradish, and a forehead kiss of lemon. Dorothy appreciated oysters properly dressed, if that wasn’t clear already.

Dale pulled his cap over his ears and then put his hands in the pockets of his wax cotton jacket. This jacket wasn’t lined.

“It’s getting sort of cold, honey. Should we try and get there before it’s dark? I don’t wanna get lost.”

“You don’t like it here?” Dorothy spun around, and her too-blonde—ghost blonde—now damp hair fell and hung loose and stringy before her eyes.

“I do. I really do. It’s beautiful,” Dale said. “I think I’m just hungry, is all. A little cranky. Yeah, I’ma go wait back in the car.” And then
Dale walked back and closed the door and sat and held the steering wheel too tight. Dorothy looked up. The hills above them rolled down and were green like spearmint. There were telephone poles along both sides of the road—some tilty—and they were all connected by long, black wires that hung down, precarious. There were dark trees and there were light trees. There were full trees and empty trees. But everything was full green. Steep-sided and sharp-crested ridges separated v-shaped green valleys. Streams fell off flat canyons and fell onto hard boulders. At the tops of the hills were houses. Some looked like rich houses, and others looked poor, but all was covered in chaparral. That brought them together. They liked to be together. They liked to be close. Somewhere, between the two, was a cow farm. If you looked hard you could see them—the cows—sucking on grass and chewing, spitting out the parts they didn’t like between round bites. Dorothy thought so, anyway. She imagined. There were endemic firs, rugged slopes, and rocky outcrops. Here and there, one at the top, and another at the bottom—one near, another faraway—there were rare madrones and spire-like sycamores. And everything was lush, green. And everything was bright, perfect.

Dale honked the car horn and Dorothy woke up startled and turned around. She walked back to the passenger side of the car with her head down. She got in and slammed the door behind her. Dale turned the keys and looked at his new wife before he geared to drive. They were young, and they were beautiful. She looked back out on the water. She liked it out by the water. It was cold but she wasn’t cold.

COCKTAILS AND VACANCY

T
hey couldn’t afford to stay in Big Sur—yet, anyway—so they stayed just outside in Carmel. Dale’s cousin was a travel agent, and he’d suggested it. He said it was nice. Or nice enough, at least.

They drove through a long stretch of redwoods and abandoned VW buses and made a few wrong turns before they finally arrived that night. Just before nine, they pulled into their motel, the Carmel Inn/Lodge. They found a parking spot and unloaded their bags and walked toward the reception area. The first room they walked into was dark and empty, but they saw a red sign that read
Lobby
, in bright neon script. Like a bar sign.
DRINKS
. They followed an exit arrow through an empty doorway, and then it was bright. Before them, a family from Spain—six kids, three parents—Europeans, you know? They’re pretty out there—spoke curtly to the clerk behind the desk.

“But we wanted
tres
rooms,” they said, thickly foreign but clearly English capable.

“But you only booked two, sir, and unfortunately we’re otherwise at capacity.” The man behind the counter was small and meek, and maybe even from Carmel. It’s hard to trust people from resort communities. Locals are liars. Xenophobia pervades. But he was tough, seemingly, and he handled being spoken to rudely. Like he was used to it. Maybe even above it. He stood his ground, and he took it, and he smiled.
Fake. Big and toothy. Overly nice, to the point of condescension. Like a waitress at the end of her shift. Or a stewardess on a red-eye.

“Well, just give us a cot then. Put it in his room. I’m tall. I need to stretch my legs out.”

“Sure, sir. Here’re your keys,” he said, coy, forcing his mouth to smile.

They fleeced out the door and went to their two rooms. Dorothy approached the desk, tilted her head, and smiled back.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi, there. What can I do for y’all?” He looked down for a while, filing papers. Then he looked up. He noticed Dorothy’s eyes were pretty—real pretty—and his head fell and matched her tilt. “Yes, ma’am?”

Dale stood in the corner. He read a map and attempted to piece together their trip’s itinerary. Tonight they’d just barely have time for dinner. Tomorrow they were booked full through. He liked to keep moving. The stewardess gave them their keys. And he served them free hot tea. They were cold. And cookies. But they didn’t want the cookies.

Oh, it’s 9:30
P.M.
now. And the year’s 1960.

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They spent the next few days in Carmel. They went out to eat, and they appreciated the dogs, the ice cream flavors—“peach?”—and the elderly. Dale, though, missed LA more than he would’ve preferred. He began to grow restless. One day, they hiked through the woods, all the way up the cliffs, and then soaked in the mineral hot springs, and another they went to the beach. The beach was wider than those in Los Angeles, and whiter. And thinner, and softer. The sand was covered in dogs like ants on an anthill, and as you stepped it felt good through your toes.

“Maybe we should get a dog,” Dorothy said to Dale as they walked along the dunes. Dorothy often thought of where she was in her life—her place in her timeline—to rationalize her decision-making process. Now—here—she feels her role on the show—their show—is being minimized, but she feels this is justified. Because she wants to focus
on her relationship, anyway. She’s happy to be with Dale. She’s happy to be married. She wants to be a wife. That’s her out. And with that out she feels, justifiably, that her career is not just secondary, but more so incidental. A lateral move. And so she’d focus on her future—her future in her happiness—and she’d prioritize as such.

“I don’t know, hun. We’re both pretty busy with the show and the rest of it. And I don’t want some little rat to ruin everything.”

“I know, but I think I’d like it. And I think you’d like it. You’d be a good papa. And I think I’d be good with something little. And I’ve always wanted a dog. Always, you know? Maybe it’d be good practice.” She looked up at him and made herself small and fluttered her lashes, knowing she was already pregnant but prepping him before she broke the news.

“Well then maybe we should have a kid. You’re not getting any younger.”

Dale enjoyed reminding Dorothy that he was younger than she was, even though it was only by one year. Dale’s twenty, so Dorothy’s twenty-one, it seems.

“That, too, I guess. Yeah. But a dog, too, I think. A dog and a baby ain’t really the same thing, ya know? A baby’s prolly a little more precious.”

“All right, well maybe we’ll get a dog then.” Dale pushed a blond curl back from his face and pulled up the collar of his red tennis jacket. It hadn’t gotten any warmer. Clouds covered the sun, and the sky was gessoed gray. Dorothy ran ahead and a few beagles chased her. She was light but heavy-footed. She left deep imprints in the sand.

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Their last day in Carmel they drove the half hour to Big Sur National Park. They would have a hike—Dale was an athlete, at least in terms of build—and then they’d have New Year’s Eve dinner. Dale had found a place that he knew Dorothy would like. Tonight would be for her, he thought to himself. He’d be okay, but she could be hysterical, so tonight he’d take good care.

After they were finished in the woods—they went awhile not talking—they stopped at a gift shop where Dorothy could buy souvenirs to take with them back home. Dale waited in the car. She walked past the canned peas and bags of pretzels of the Post Mercantile Shoppe before she reached the gift section. She found a mug with a picture of Bixby Bridge—lit up bright orange from the headlights from cars—a signature rabbit’s foot—dyed green, like the foliage—an ashtray shaped like a ten-gallon hat, and two T-shirts—one with a print of a chartreuse convertible, graying rotten beneath a cliff, and another that read
Big Sur
, emblazoned in the same design as the Budweiser logo,
King of Parks
.

THEY PULLED INTO
the Three River Ranch and drove past a loud pink
BAR
sign. They’d begun their evening at a hotel restaurant in San Simeon, but Dale didn’t like the waiter or the clam chowder—a cheap prix-fixe menu was all they offered—and neither did Dorothy, so they paid the check early and left to find somewhere better. Before they got in the car, Dale made some calls—he insisted on using the bar’s phone—and discovered that an old friend owned a piano bar nearby. An actor. Another actor. And so a gravel driveway cracked and spat up beneath their tires as they pulled into the parking lot. They saw two girls sitting on a hanging, swinging, brushed-wood bench. They both had short hair. One wore a white blouse and a brooch shaped like a beetle, and the other wore a gray pantsuit. One held books, while the other held the other. They were both smoking and, between pulls, they kissed.

“I like this better than the other place,” Dorothy said as she turned back to Dale while he looked around for parking.

“I like it better, too,” Dale replied, his eyes focused on the lot.

“I’m happy you decided we should go. I don’t think I could’ve.”