The Story of You and Me (8 page)

“Thanks.” I stepped down and out of the passenger door and walked toward the curb. “I’ll be about an hour. What are you going to do?”

He looked up at the signs topping the small shops assembled in the mini-mall. There was a Spot-Out Dry-Cleaner, a Fresh Water Station, Airport Chinese Foot Massage, Sergeant Washington’s Kung Fu Zone, Pete’s Chicago Pizzeria and a door with mysterious markings but no name.

“You’re not going to the Kung Fu place?” he asked.

I shook my head. “You Kung Fu-get about it.”

“Dork.” He laughed. “I like that in a pretty girl. I’m going to check it out.” He hopped out of the Jeep, jogged across the parking lot and up the concrete stairs to the martial arts studio located on the second level.

* * *

I laid back on a long, beat up reclining massage chair in a dark room with soft lights and heavy closed curtains. There were busts of Buddhas and Chinese lucky bamboo plants located on little plastic tables adjacent to ten massage chairs. My treatment area was far from private. Across the room from me an older Caucasian woman with helmet hair wearing large earphones lay with her feet in a tall bucket of water. Her eyes were closed but she smiled as a young Asian woman deftly massaged her forehead.
 

    
An earnest middle-aged Chinese man massaged my feet. He hit sweet spots, scary spots, sexy spots and incredibly tender spots that I had no idea my feet possessed. I moaned. I groaned. He dug his fingernail directly next to the top of my big toenail. Waves of energy, fear and something like ecstasy pulsated from my feet up into the rest of my body.
 

While I’d never experienced an orgasm before that was not self-induced, I think I might have just had my first one—all due to a Chinese man who had been introduced to me by the manager as Lao.

Lao stopped massaging. “Is too strong?”
 

“No it’s great. Thank you.” I gave him a thumbs up.
 

He nodded. “My English not good.”

“My Chinese is not good either.”
 

He hit some exceptionally tender areas on my ankles and legs. I assumed the most painful ones were reflex points that might actually make a difference in my immune system. Or, perhaps boost my co-ordination. At least that’s what I read about Chinese foot reflexology. And Lao at Airport Chinese Foot Massage was supposed to be one of the best healers in L.A.
 

Yes, I knew this was all a crapshoot. But at the very least the relaxation part of today’s therapy would do wonders for me. Soothe out the stresses from the past couple of days. Calm my worried mind.

When thuds and screams, grunts and yells pierced the ceiling and interrupted my Zen. The sounds of someone kicking a wood wall or cement bricks and pounding up and down on the ceiling above my head interrupted my healing experience.
 

The female manager waddled up to me and waved a pair of headphones in the air. “I am sorry,” she said. “We had no idea it would be so loud during the day. We are here for you to feel better. That man upstairs….” She frowned. “That loud man does not care that our clients need healing and relaxation. He leaves at five p.m. The nighttime is quiet. Next time, you come back for Chinese reflexology at night. I am so sorry. Headphones? Yes? All clients say headphones make Chinese Foot Massage during the day much better.”

“It’s okay.” I heard a muffled familiar laugh and a thunderous bang resounded directly over my head. It sounded like Alejandro was bursting through the ceiling and going to land on top of me at any moment. I might have welcomed that in the past but now I flinched and my shoulders tensed. I didn’t know if it was from the bedlam or Lao’s thumb pressed like a nail into the arch of my foot.

Forty minutes later I put my hands together at my heart and bowed to Lao and the manager. I paid for my massage, tipped Lao and wondered if my feet would be able to walk across the parking lot, let alone ever feel the same. I hobbled outside the joint just in time to see Mr. Loud, a middle-aged, tall, muscular African-American martial arts instructor, trot down the cement stairs next to Alex who followed him with adoring puppy eyes.
 

“You’re a natural, kid. I’m happy to train you. You got spare time this summer? Want to learn more moves?”

Alex looked at me and winked. “Thanks, Sergeant Washington. I’m pretty busy this summer. I’ve got a couple of part time jobs. Here’s one of them.” He smiled and gestured to me.

I smiled at the loud man and stuck out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Sergeant Washington. My name’s Sophie Priebe.”
 

He shook my hand. “Pleasure to meet you too, Sophie.”

“Oh, please. Just call me Miss Part Time Job.”

Alex and Sergeant Washington stopped smiling and shot each other a knowing look.
 

“Not to go all fourth grade school teacher on you,” I said, “but the tenants in the space below you are real people, running a legitimate business. Maybe you all should have a conversation on how you can both run successful businesses when you share a common floor and a ceiling.”

“That’s a good idea, Sophie,” Sergeant Washington said.

Alex’s face blanched. “Thanks for the awesome lesson!” He shook the man’s hand and then grabbed my arm. “I’ve got your card, Sergeant Washington.” He practically dragged me to his Jeep “I’ll be in touch!” He opened the passenger door and practically hoisted me inside.

“Calm down,” I said. “Did he mainline you on sugar before you turned into the Karate Kid?”

“You don’t know who that guy is,” Alex said.

“You’re right. I don’t.”

He strode to the driver’s side, hopped in and buckled up. He backed the Jeep up, turned and sped off into traffic on Pershing Boulevard. “He’s a black belt as well as a decorated Purple Heart veteran from the Persian Gulf War. Sergeant Earl Washington was a radio operator who watched his squad blow up just feet in front of him during an IED incident in Iraq. He had a breakdown, ended up at Walter Reed, became homeless, but found his way out of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder through martial arts. He was featured in the L.A. Times. On
Fox News, CNN,
20/20
and there was an article in
Vanity Fair.
The rights to his life story have been optioned for a movie. And you confront him in a parking lot over a Chinese foot massage place?”

“The Chinese foot massage people need to make a living, too.”

“He’s a decorated veteran who nearly lost his mind.”

“And they’re in this country legally trying to find the American dream that we all sell to the world in little sound bites and big action-packed movies. They have as much right to succeed at their business as anyone. They just need to talk to each other.”

“How do you know they’re here legally?”

I frowned and crossed my arms tight across my chest. “I don’t.”

“What have I gotten myself into?” Alex slapped his forehead with his hand.

I stared away from him, stony-faced out the passenger window. “It’s not too late. Drop me off, now,” I said. “I’ll find a way to do this on my own. It’s California, after all. Home to dreamers and wishers and lovers of all things that seem impossible. And you all have the Pacific Ocean with all its beautiful beaches. Maybe I don’t belong here. Maybe I should go back to Wisconsin. After I’ve seen the Pacific Ocean.”

He grabbed one of my hands and squeezed it.
 

“Hey!” I said.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have introduced you that way. I was an asshole. It was stupid of me.”

“Glad we can agree on something.”

Alex smiled, released my hand, and made a sharp right onto a side street.

“This isn’t the way we came. This isn’t the way back to campus?”

“Detours can be interesting.”

* * *

Alejandro and I sat on a large faded Mexican blanket on chewed up grass in a small park in Playa del Rey. It featured some swing sets, a jungle gym and a few picnic tables next to a sloped hill. But the best part was its location: squatted next to a four-lane thoroughfare that lined a wide sandy beach that bordered the Pacific Ocean.

“Wow. All the photos and videos don’t really do it justice,” I said. “This is the first time I’ve seen the Pacific Ocean.”
 

“Technically it’s the Santa Monica Bay.”

“Which the Pacific Ocean feeds into.”

“Just ’cause you saw it doesn’t mean you get to leave. There are too many things you need to experience for that book you’re writing with your grandmother.” He pulled some cardboard containers from a paper bag and placed them on napkins on top of the blanket. “Wisconsin has a lot of lakes, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “But nothing quite like this.”

Alex had stopped at a hole-in-the wall Mexican restaurant on the way here and ordered take-out. He dipped a chip in a plastic vat of guac and held it in front of my lips. “Here’s another thing you never experienced. Homemade chips and the best guac in L.A.”

I graciously accepted and sunk my teeth into his food offering. I crunched down and decided that this must be heaven for taste buds on earth. “More,” I said.
 

“Salsa?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No. My brain can’t handle that amount of deliciousness.”

He fed me another guac-loaded chip.
 

“Holy guacamole, this is good. Why does it taste so different?”

“From what? Taco Swell? Frozen Mexican food?”

I nodded.
 

“Paco’s only makes their food from fresh ingredients. They’ve been doing it for fifty years. They’re the shit.”

“You’ve ruined frozen burritos for me forever.”

He grinned. “Another reason you need to stay here for fall semester.”

The Bay was dotted with small sailboats and behemoth tankers. There were a few surfers in wetsuits trying to catch a wave. A couple of families with their kids hunkered down on the beach: the parents sitting on brightly colored beach blankets squished into the sand while their kids ran screaming with joy in and out of the low surf. The sun arced down above the water on its journey toward the horizon.
 

“I like it here.” I glanced around the park. There weren’t that many people hanging out. “Seems like everyone prefers the beach.”
 

“I love this place.” Alex plopped onto his back and folded his arms under his head like a pillow. He patted the ground next to him with one hand. “Your turn.”

My eyes widened.
 

“Oh, come on. It’s not like I’m planning on making out with you.” He circled his arm toward the other eight people and two dogs in the park. “At least not in front of this crowd. I just want to show you something magical.”

“The guacamole was magical.” I dipped and ate another chip.
 

“It’s not going to kill you to lie down on this blanket during broad daylight. Lighten up, my little Cheesehead.”

“Cheesehead?” I frowned. “I like Bonita better. Besides, it’s not broad daylight. The sun is setting.” I lay down on the blanket next to him. No body parts were touching.
 

I was not going to go there.
 

“In defense of highly strung Cheeseheads everywhere,” I said, “I will share with you that I might have had an orgasm during the Chinese foot massage.”

Alex coughed violently, cleared his throat and harrumphed.

Which made me smile.
Hah-hah, Alpha Boy. Go ahead and mess with the midwestern girl. Sophie: One. Alejandro: Zero.
 

He popped up on one elbow and glowered at me. “Did he… Did you…”

“Oh, please,” I said. “You’re the one who needs to lighten up. Eat some more chips. Besides, logistically, how could that have happened when all I heard during my relaxing treatment were the sounds of you and the Sergeant beating the crap out of each other?”

“We were not beating the crap out of each other—” Alex shut up and dropped to his back on the blanket. He pulled on my arm with one hand and pointed up to the sky with the other. “Look.”

A loud rumbling burst from the skies and made its way toward us. I jumped. “What the—”

“It’s okay.” He took my hand. “Watch.”

The rumbling increased to a shriek as a jumbo jet ascended through the skies directly over us on its way out over the low choppy indigo seas. “Holy crap!” I applauded.

“I know,” he said. “We’re lying at the bottom of an abandoned runway at LAX. Where we can watch the planes fly over us as they take off. It’s freaking awesome.”

“It’s so freaking awesome!” I kicked my heels and clapped my hands as the airplane disappeared into the mist forming over the Pacific Ocean.

“Tell me about your home. Tell me about you, what your life is like—back in Wisconsin?” Alejandro asked.

Right now was unexpectedly perfect. I didn’t want to go there.

“Better idea. Tell me about you?” I asked. “Tell me who Alejandro slash Alex is. Why are you a Driver? How do you know about this park? And when does the next plane fly over?”

“I am boring, Bonita. I’m turning twenty-one in a couple of months. I come from your typical middle class L.A. family. Who, by the way, I love.”

“That’s not boring. That’s refreshing. So many people only bitch about their families. It gets old. Why do you drive?”
 

“Because I’m good at it. Because I’ve learned and can pretty much predict who I can grab the keys from, who I can talk out of driving and who I’ll probably have to throw a punch to capture the keys and keep them from driving drunk.”

“But why did you—”

“Shh.” He pointed to the sky. Another ginormous plane roared over our heads and caught some ocean mist.
 

“Whooh!” I thrust my fist into the air as the plane ascended over the ocean toward the setting sun. “That is so freaking cool! Another guac-chip, please?”

He smiled, pushed himself up on one elbow, dipped a chip in the guac and fed it to me.

“I bet you haven’t been this excited since you were at a football game!”

“I haven’t been this excited since the Chinese foot massage man stuck his thumbnail in my toe.”

“Stop!” Alejandro made a face as I giggled.