Chapter 19 – Expecting to Fly

“I lifted food from the gas station to give to this old, homeless man and his dog walking on Sepulveda. Eric scolded me for doing it. You know, it’s not like the man was begging, he just looked hungry. Think of all the food in the grocery store that stupidly goes to waste and all the hungry people who have nothing. We’re lucky enough we’re not on the street.”

Low on funds, which we usually were, Jenny and I would seek out anything to do that cost little to no money. For cheap amusement, in more ways than one, we wanted to see some of the more affluent, well-to-do homes of Los Angeles. We considered walking through Beverly Hills, given that the living legends of old Hollywood still took residence there. We had skipped this area on our first visit, and even though we psyched about giving it a whirl, the self-made tour would have been too exposing and disorientating: all the long sidewalks running down Beverly, Santa Monica, Foothill, or Elm making pathways for touristy folks to stop and take snapshots.

Our second best option was Palos Verdes and Rolling Hills. The homes are pretty, the neighborhoods quiet, and it provided plenty of shade to cover us on a hot day. Compared to our alternative, it was like walking in a garden. But it was also like a hedge maze. About a mile or so of twisting, snake-like roads, I found a place to park. I did my best to remember the name of the road and the nearest house number in the event we got lost.

As we got out of the car, Jenny placed her orange soda bottle on the door of the open glove box or as she called it her “food tray.” Any time on the go, whatever she was eating eventually wound up on it. I eventually starting keeping it empty so nothing would spill out and knock her stuff over when I accelerated.

I took her by the hand, strolling down the paved edge of carless streets. Though it was hot, and our hands were sweating just a little, it didn’t seem to bother me. Her tiny hand in mine was my security blanket. We were not potential home buyers scanning the estates for a future place to call our own, but Jenny and I talked about such big homes resting high above the L.A. landscape.

“I heard there’s a lot of Richie Rich people in Orange County,” brushing by a low bottle brush tree limb, rubbing its red fuzz in her fingers.

Silently noticing the bristles had fallen on her white, Spanish style blouse, “Malibu is just as pricey.”

“At least they live on or near the beach. Seems like it’s more worth the fortune they’re spending.”

“If we ever had money, would you want to live up here in the hills?”

“No, this just doesn’t seem like us. Don’t get me wrong, this whole area is really nice, but I like the house you told me about.”

“The one in the dream?”

“Yeah and,” her voice perked up, “it was Christmas time.” As her eyes followed her moving feet, “Seems more solemn and cozy…more like us. You know?”

It pleased me to hear her talk about it. Maybe it was enough of an incentive to get beyond self-destruction. Recalling the house in my thoughts, “I really miss the snow.” Jenny just looked at me and smiled. I guess just a wishful thought on the brink of summer.

“The whole point of getting cold is you keeping me warm.”

I smiled back.

By coincidence, our journey wound up circling us back to the car. With windows down, we snuck out the south end of the area and headed north on the boulevard overlooking the Pacific. On the left, a row of houses obstructed the oceanic view. Standing out was a recessed and lonely-looking mansion.

Jenny pointed to it, “I think that’s the Neighborhood Church.”

Not noticing the cross at the top of the tower, “That’s a church?”

She nodded yes, “And down below, off the cliff is Haggerty’s Point.” Didn’t I hear that in a Beach Boys song?

The church’s Spanish/Italian exterior probably had not changed much since it was a residency with people living in it. Comparing the obvious California exterior, this place looked nothing like the churches either of us was used to.

After I parked, Jenny pointed around the back, “Haggerty’s is a surf spot. Rick told me.” I DID hear that in a Beach Boys song. Grabbing my hand, “Wanna go see?” I’m uncertain why I didn’t feel like going inside and instead remained lingering in the drive (despite prodding from her).

Five or ten minutes later she emerged from the innards of California’s house of the Lord.

“What were you doing in there?”

“Oh, listening.”

“To what?”

“I lit a candle for you.”

“Thanks,” smiling, “and listening to what?”

It wasn’t Sunday. There was no service. We seemed the only people present.

“I swore I heard someone speak my name but I was all alone.”

“A person’s voice?”

“Yeah, and when I left, as I was opening the front doors, the same voice said, “Goodbye, Jenny.””

“A man or a woman?”

“Couldn’t really tell.”

I ran in, took a quick look in all directions and as she said: she was all alone.

“Who or what do you suppose was talking to you then? The Holiday People?” I had never made that joke before. The subject always put me on edge with worry.

Ignoring my humor, “They say this place is haunted.”

“Is it old?”

“Probably was built in the 1920’s.”

Sort of laughing, “But isn’t most of L.A. supposed to be haunted?”

“Any girl I knew who worked the Comedy Store always said they heard voices and saw wispy people who just disappeared into the darkness.”

“So, do you think this was a ghost?”

“Any ghost here wouldn’t know my name.”

But the Holiday People did.

I’ll never know who or what the Holiday People really were. Jenny never called them ghosts or spirits nor were they mentioned in any negative connotation. They just always seemed an invisible band of happy people she could casually bring up. Inserted in random conversation, the Holiday People would be discussed like any other person she knew. And though there was always a hint of humor in her tone, I couldn't tell how serious she may have been. Plus, Jenny seemed to mention them almost solely to me like it was a secret only I could know. So being what it was, we kept it private.

If within me was any skepticism, I had a hard time dismissing the incident with our invisible friends finking on me reading Jenny’s notebooks. I was so certain I’d placed her notebooks exactly how I left them. Probably six months after that, she moved her record player from the stand under the window sometime in the middle of the night. When I asked her why, she gave me the famous line that the Holiday People told her to. The next day it rained pretty hard, water leaking from the corner of our sill and all over the stand, right where the player would have sat. I know for certain that our window had never leaked before, at least not while we lived there. I also know that it wasn’t forecasted to rain that day either. Trying to rationalize it, I cannot think of any logical reason for her doing what she did and however she knew, it saved the player and us having to save for a new one.

Maybe there was a spiritual connection between Jenny and this 50 year old ocean church? For whatever calling she heard, or whatever intuitive whim led her to do so, Jenny visited another church about a week after the Neighborhood Church in Palos Verdes.

“I snuck out early out this morning, adorned in my best blouse and dress, hopped the bus, and rode to the nearest Catholic Church. Such a strange compulsion.

Candles

Incense

Hot lingering air

Aged wooden benches

Women’s perfumes and pretty clothing

Bibles with their own olfactory acknowledgement

I was a stranger amongst strange people. I wonder if they came for salvation like me? Were they there for weekly doses of goodness? I asked for forgiveness. I prayed for Eric, for Mom, and myself. That giant cross reminded me of the one on the back of Gram’s jacket. Fuck. How many are dead? Dear God, why did they all have to go? Maybe me singing to their songs is like reciting a musical bible. What am I supposed to believe in: science, astrology, Buddha, Jesus, Seth?

Eric’s always concerned over me, so on my way back, I picked us up cheese Danishes. It would be my excuse for leaving. I tried to match his smile and be upbeat and explain my fancy getup on a what-the-fuck, just felt like dressing up mentality. He was cool and oblivious and most important to our day, he was happy. Then I could be, too. He worries over me a lot. So why explain it to him? It might send him over the edge. Too far this time.”

Monday, June 21, 1976. The air conditioner broke at work and everyone was miserable. We propped the front doors open but we still felt like workers in a sweatshop. The heat accentuated the odor of the album covers, the cassettes, and wooden speakers. I dimmed half the lights for a little relief and in between customers, paced the store in a mess of sweat. About 4 PM, my boss let me leave, for which I was ever so grateful. I picked up some beers and some to-go from Barney’s, and was just looking forward to spending the rest of the day with Jenny.

Diane had not got home yet, which was good because I forgot to get chili for her, too. With everything laid out on the counter, I listened for Jenny to welcome me back, but heard nothing. I called out her name, not knowing if she was actually home. Keeping my ears open, I heard sobbing from the bathroom. Opening the door, a limp version of my love sat leaned against the toilet. I rushed to her body which looked worse than any hurt player on the field I’d seen in school. Her face was a mixture of pale and pink, sweat poured from anyplace with skin, and a needle was inserted in her left arm at the inside of the elbow. In it was a trace amount of a dark residue.

“God, please help me,” cried her soulful request. Before then, I had no knowledge of her directly praying to a god and until recently, she rarely acknowledged a higher power. Her idols of worship were the dead rock stars who layered the bedroom walls. Her prayers were the lyrics she sang to herself, out loud or inside. They kept her faith strong in a belief, one that worked for her. And in this moment where life is precious, it wasn’t a Dionysian figure she sought solace from. She tried standing on the edge of a feather.

Her skin was clammy and vibrated from trembling under my grasp. Green eyes once so full of life look vacated. They seemed to stare randomly at nothing, but if they stopped, appeared franticly transfixed into space. Is she seeing death come for her? Is her life playing out like a cinema? When I tried to ask what she saw, she only repeated her plea for help.

I suppose the best solution was to take her to the hospital, but we didn’t have any means to take care of the bill. If I took her there, I was also afraid they’d arrest her for drugs. It was a serious crime with serious consequences. Instead, I gathered up the food and Tecates and drove her to Sissy and Jerry’s. They saved her once, they could do it again, right? And I had to keep that frozen in my mind during the drive to the Canyon. If I took my eyes off the road and stopped thinking positive, I’d be tempted to see Jenny’s limp body swaying back and forth as I took every turn with screeching tires.

Without struggle, Sissy took Jenny in and immediately got her into the tub, running cold water all over her clothed body. She ran into the kitchen and mixed some stuff together into a glass and forced it down Jenny’s throat. Whatever it was, it was a clear liquid made from whatever was in her cabinets. After draining the tub, Sissy said, “Let’s get her into the back bedroom.” Down the narrow hall, we half-dragged, half-carried her to the spare room. Sissy got one of her robes and asked me to change Jenny into it. Thinking back on it now, it was a cute, full-length flowered fabric that fit her well, but that certainly wasn’t on my mind at the time.

Sissy and I stayed in the room, keeping an eye on Jenny’s status, and carried on many long conversations into the morning.

“So, where’s Jerry and the gang?”

“At a show. God knows, probably crashed at Danielle’s.”

“Who’s that?”

“His girlfriend.”

I didn’t know whether I should feel relieved because it meant he wasn’t interested in Jenny, or feel sorry for some chick who actually found him attractive. “I didn’t know he was seeing anyone.”

“Yeah.” She seemed to dodge the subject of Danielle and looked over at Jenny who seemed asleep. “She’ll be alright, I think. You probably don’t know what she took, do you?”

“No,” but I thought of Keno, then the spear stuck in her. “She had a needle in her arm.”

“Damn it, Jenny! She finally did smack. I told her…” Sissy went to the kitchen and made us some coffee.  I didn’t know what smack was and wasn’t sure if I should even ask. When she came back, she sat back in the corner chair, “Jack was right for leaving. You and Jenny…why not do the same?”

Surprised, I asked why.

She looks back at Jenny who’s lying beside me, “That’s why.”

“I…I don’t know that we can go back.” Tugging at my hair, “I don’t think I wanna go back. We burned some bridges to get here.”

“She can’t keep doing this to herself. Jerry’s tried to get her to quit, but she’s obviously resourceful.”

I tried to speak but my wording got lost in my deep exhale.

“Eric, she’s too naïve to know what she’s doing to herself. She’s too sweet, just too good of a person to ruin herself like this.”

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to remedy something like this. This isn’t what we wanted. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. We came here with so much positive energy…”

Sissy interrupted, “So have so many young people like you. I’ve heard Jenny talk that story over and over. Let me tell you, it only worked for a short moment then the flame went out. Then the grim realities hit everyone harder than they had before. If it was peace, music, and fun you came here for, then you’re both a little late for that. Go walk the derelict streets of downtown and see all of the success stories.”

Hunter S. Thompson would later write similar words in Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas stating they were a generation of failed seekers. And Bill Graham, producer of the Fillmore West, spoke in an interview that once Flower Power ended, the flowers had wilted, and a disempowered youth reverted back to how things once were. Dreams that were just too good to be true or last longer than those who dared to stay in bed and catch an extra wink.

I took a long sip from my cup while Sissy continued, “You both should consider going back home, to whatever quiet town it is you came from. Take her home, get her better, and start anew. It’s for the best.”

In that moment, hearing another person vocalize my inner sentiments, I tried not to cry or show my self-pity, but I have a terrible poker face…one which stared down into an empty coffee mug.

Always a good host, Sissy got me more.

“If Diane sees her like this, she’ll kick us out.”

“Why don’t you both stay here then?”

“Can we?”

“Sure. Maybe tomorrow or Wednesday you can take her on a trip to the market or hit the beach.”

As Tuesday came and went, ‘til the sun shown its final moments into the back room’s window, I lay close to a motionless Jenny. Perhaps she fidgeted once or twice, but otherwise, she was comatose. My hands ran up and down her side, through her long brown hair, tucking it behind her ears, around forward to her breasts, and finally resting on her abdomen. I would pull her close to me and kiss her cheek before downing another few beers and passing out from booze and fatigue. It wasn’t good but it passed the time.

Around Wednesday morning, she came to, realizing where she was. A good hour was spent making sure she was okay and explaining what had happened. When we smelled food being made, we raced out of bed to get some of Sissy’s cooking. The crackle of bacon in her cast iron drowned her voice, “There you both are. I was hoping I wasn’t eating alone.”

The three of us sat and talked over breakfast. It was just so delicious, like everything she made. Sissy gave Jenny the same speech she gave me and tried to convince her that going back home was the best alternative. Through sad and tired eyes, a fainter green than I ever remembered them, Jenny murmured, “Over my dead body.”

Whether or not the actuality of what happened Monday night sunk in, there was silence at the table until Jenny asked to excuse herself. We grabbed our stuff, I thanked Sissy for her hospitality, and we split.

I fired up the Camaro and went south to Redondo. Our favorite destination was the one place in California I always felt happy and enjoyed taking Jenny. Many Sunday mornings we began to adopt a routine of driving down there. I thought when my car broke down for a month in ’75 that we’d miss out, but we had even more fun hitchhiking down there and back. Jenny and I would walk along the freshly dampened sand and talk about our lives, the future, and death. She’d also share with me whatever she was reading from the library.

Standing at the edge of the world, out to the giant void of sea, there are the cliffs to the left and if you squint hard through the haze is Santa Monica to the right. When you breathe in the cool, dry air and lose all your thoughts, there is a certain Zen moment which overtakes you until…

“Eric! Didn’t you bring the beer?” It was a valid question. It was also how reality always managed to remind me how human she and I both were. Then my concentration was removed from the gifts of Mother Nature to the gifts of Jenny’s body. I somehow managed to build enough confidence in her to wear a two piece. Her breasts had grown since school and were a full C, filling out the bikini top and growing goose bumps from the cool Pacific. As she surfaced from each wave, the water ran down between her bikini top like fingers. Her brown hair, which had lightened some from sun exposure, kicked back behind her head as a model’s would in a shoot. Like kids, we took every opportunity to play in the water, darting and jumping between waves. With us growing up in the Midwest, lakes were the closest things to a beach and there’s a hell of a difference between the two.

Getting the chance to dry off and lounge on the sand, we discreetly chugged a few beers between us and worked on a long sandwich. I think we even fed some sea gulls with the tomato Jenny didn’t want. As the ocean’s lion-like roar filled the silence, Jenny took her eyes off the Pacific, “I’m sorry.”

Part of me was fed up and angry, and it was that part which came out, “You should be, damn it.”

There was once a time when the rarity of my harsh tongue would make her cry, but it didn’t this instance. Her hollow eyes continued her story, “I have no excuses and I have nothing else to say other than thank you.”

“For?”

“Laying there with me for all that time, making sure I got better.”

“So?”

“So! It was nice.”

“You should thank Sissy, too. She’s the one that saved you.”

“I will. I promise.”

When my nerves settled, I asked, “What do you think of Sissy’s suggestion? You know, us getting out of here.”

“You heard what I thought of that.”

“Jenny, you almost fucking died!”

She pulled at her hair and quietly whispered, “Part of me wishes I had.”

Ashamed, Jenny cried most of the way back to Diane’s. When we got in, luckily there was no one to answer to except a note that my boss had called. Ignoring it, we went back to our room and held each other for the longest time, then made love for the first time in days. All the while, Jenny played her favorite records of all the dead idols she had almost met in the afterlife. The exception was a still-living John Lennon and his recent version of “Stand by Me,” which Jenny said I had done for her countless times. This repetition of songs and booze and intimacy cycled several times ‘til I realized it was Friday morning.

After missing several days of work, I called my boss to tell him I’d be in Saturday. He verbally belted me over the phone, said I was lucky to not be fired, and told me to get my ass to the store for next week’s huge Bicentennial sale. Part of me felt bad for my boss. Despite the circumstance, I wasn’t going to tell him why I had been gone from the store. I told Jenny about being needed at work, which she understood.

“It’s only going to be a few hours, then I’ll come back and we can grab dinner. How about that?”

A little sparkle filled her dimly lit eyes, “That sounds really nice.”

“I always light incense when we make love. Not sure what started my ritual, but I do. It makes our room so heavenly. When Diane smells it burning and the door’s closed, she doesn’t go down our hallway, even if she needs something from the linen closet.

            There’s pleasure and comfort each time we do it and it’s as special as the first time at the Holiday Inn. We waited so long to be that close together. It is good we weren’t virgins because it gave us a little experience to eliminate any awkwardness. Before we started dating, I remember seeing Eric in the halls with some cheerleader. He told me he lost it to her. Around the same time, I had Anthony in bed at Cheryl’s party. I didn’t stay with him long and Eric dumped the cheerleader. Both were flings, I guess, and had little importance in our lives except to be stepping stones.

            With Eric, I liked fooling around, parked by the creek after school. Having the freedom now to enjoy each other whenever we want is wonderful. For quite a while we spent so long talking about sex without having it. There just weren’t opportunities available. Either his mom or dad would be at his home and doing it my house never felt like a good idea. It’s sort of creepy just to think about it.

Sissy asked me one time if I thought Eric was the “one,” and I quickly responded he is. I never want another man in my life, just him. And as happy as Eric makes me, I feel bad for sharing it with Sissy and Diane. They envy me and Eric. They’re both single. I don’t even know what Sissy plans on doing with a relationship after Jerry and Marion exploded on her about dating that architect guy. After all that happened, poor Sissy just told him goodbye and never picked up the pieces. Long before that, she stopped sleeping with Jerry’s friends. My bet is they weren’t right for her and she’s looking for something deeper in a man. And I feel so bad for Diane. She’s divorced and every guy she dates is already in a relationship.

…Last month we took a drive up the freeway for no reason. Once we found a place to stop, we hung out, saw an old mission church, and got some food. We enjoyed being together, even when no words were shared. There is instant magic. He can take me on a ride, spontaneously, and we make an adventure out of it. It’s cool and I love it, just like I love him. Day after day.”

She had the luxury of speaking of me in the present tense. I am limited by what I know is in the past.