Autistic

A Novel

Hooshang Danesh
Copyrights 2010 by Hooshang
Danesh

All rights reserved. No part of this book

may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic, or
mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage
and retrieval system, without permission
in writing from the copyright owner.
Although all stories have are inspired by
some real events-all characters in this
book are fictitious and any resemblance
to real people is coincidental.

First Edition
Table Of Contents
First Chapter: Bye People.

I drove. She would push her head out of the

passenger sides' window and shout: "Bye
People.' Then recollect herself inside the car,
giggle to herself, and say: "shit"
wearily, slightly as though she had been up to no
good, and punishment might have
been fore coming. The people she shouted at
were mostly the bus riders at bus
stations. Hispanics who would look at her
puzzled, and in wonderment, for her
flashing head of red hair and her unrehearsed
language- cause almost no one spoke
English on these streets. From time to time, she
would shout: "Hi people," in a different
tone, this one more friendly, conciliatory, and
still leave the look of confusion on the foreheads
of the bus riders who saw the big sweeping
Cadillac, and the shouting head as just another
strange break in their daily ennui. I would drive
the big ship-like Cadillac, grayish-colored and
with good
-1-
measures of dust and dirt on it, looking neglected
as an untamed horse, shooting straight on the
road, for my apartment, ripping through the air
like a minor storm, leaving behind a constant
vacuum, that sucked the dirty, smoggy air in,
encouraging the car onward. And I would laugh
uncontrollably, and consider her shouting: bye
people a funny departure from every days
routines: A distinct feature of her Autism. Or a
sign of enthusiasm for me. Apart from this and a
few more eccentricities -she had no other signs of
"developmental disability" or "retardation"-
—“schizophrenia”-or half other labels she
could have been called by.
The group home she lived at was a two-story
stucco building in the middle of
practically no where, in an industrial suburb of
Los Angeles. There were semi-trucks
parked parallel and neat, around dusty old
hotels with signs that must have been
inviting to truck drivers. Signs like: Adult Cable,
Jacuzzi, privacy.
-2-
These tall signs littered the view of the
mountains in the north of the city. Where you
could still see some white caps of snow, thumbing
their dirtied noses at the rag city spread below.
There was a large shopping mall hidden from
the main road, like a bruise, minutes away from
the group home, where the 100 or so residents of
the group home could go for walks or window-
shopping. There was a Payless shoes, a Walmart,
a Ross and a few more generic stores.
There wasn't much real shopping done by those
residents , cause they were all on Social Security
Disability, and almost all of their benefits were
directly deposited in the pockets of the group
home owners. An amount around 900 dollars or
so, each, for a bed in a two-beds to a room
hotel-like room, and three meals a day; meals
which tasted like hospital food, dry, stale, and as
though produced in some cardboard kitchen –
tastes each and everyone knew. For almost every
one of them had been in a mental hospital at
some point in their lives.
-3-
They were Bipolars, Schizophrenics, or on rare
occasions, high-functioning Autistics like my girl,
Claudine. Her housemates were all restless,
shrill, and by turns languid or hyper-ractive, and
they argued over cigarettes and change for soda,
candy, in colorful dispensing machines which
occupied shrine-like postures in the dinning
room area. According to Claudine, there were all
sorts of drama going on all the time, dramas, she
claimed being far above of, in a diva-like
posture. Something that wasn’t exactly true. But
at the time she really looked forwards to times
when I picked her up. She longed to get away
from the group home, she was the only Autistic
there, she said, which was true, and no- one
really understood her, which was true enough
then as now.
But there weren't much else she could have had
in terms of living arrangements. Apartments are
too expensive, for people on disability, making
group-homes the only viable, affordable form of
shelter. And these are all run by shady
characters who make money out of the ill and
disabled. And out of the general, national
disregard, over how to best take care of the
needy.
-4-

Government seems to pay the disabled no mind,

but give them a meager check every month,
which barely paid for shelter and meals, and
washed its hands off them, like they were lepers,
or FDR had tricked the entire country into
taking care of them by some sorcery.
Perhaps that explains Claudine’s fits of: "Bye
People" out of the cars' windows. May be I was
right to think of them as a sort of exuberance for
a temporary release from some mental prison
or injury.
She had been introduced by a friend of mine,
who liked to fix me up with her friends for no
good reason, but to arrange or control things.
She liked to project a sort of normalcy around
her, as though this portrayal of normalcy could
save her from this generalized panic everyone
seemed to feel. And my aloneness was a thorn in
her world that spelled normalcy
with a curious must, yearning: for pairing and
matching of all sort of things: silk blouses to the
color of one’s car, and her friends and
acquaintances fit together, assorted in a vase. It
was as though I couldn't convince her of my
adequacy,
-5-
unless I hooked up with one of her friends.
And so she bullied me, as though aloneness bred
sedition and rowdiness. She'd tried to
introduce some of her suspect young yuppies,
but I had found flaws from just
her reports on every one of them. These were
women I’d heard about from stories and films,
women said to live lives dedicated to greed or
cruelty, women: “who stole love from you, when
all you had was love.” This line was actually
from a movie I’d seen. But when she called me
on her cell phone, I detected a sense of triumph
in her voice, like she’d been to a spa or just
walked out of spring sales at Macy’s.
“You can never say no to this one.”
“No.” I snapped jokingly. It was a good idea to
never take her seriously. It also encouraged, and
pleased her to no ends. Just the idea of having to
re-assert herself over and over again!
"But she is a high functioning Autistic." With
clear emphasis on the word Autistic. She’d
probably just looked it up, and was delighted
with her mental notes on it.
" Do you even know what Autism is?"
I wanted to irritate her.
"Listen: she has finished high school, and some
college, but has been raised in group
homes all her life." And then she added,
remembering her mental notes:
-6-

“Isn’t that like completely unique for Autistics?”

" Since when you're an authority on Autism?" I
asked a bit annoyingly.
"Don't get prissy on me, you know what I
mean." She snapped back.
"She is a loner like you, doesn't that whet your
appetite."
“A high-functioning Autistic?” I thought to
myself. That would be a rare bird.
“High-functioning enough to date?”
“Yes, she has had long-term relationships—very
attractive. She is really one of the best-dressed
girls I’ve come across.”
“Really!” I said in disbelief.
“Yes really—you don’t believe me?”
“Its just that I don’t know?-look: how do you
know she wants to go out with me?”
I showed her the pictures we took together- she
liked them-and that you’re a shrink-she thinks
perhaps you’d be able to understand her!”
“You see?”
“So, this all, makes sense to her, on some level?
“Yes.”
“How do you know her?”
-7-
“I work with her brother-their entire family are
computer nerds, she is very good with
computers too-in fact she is the one who looked
you up.”
“Vow-that’s impressive!”
“And in the profile says you’re an expert in
Autism, I didn’t even know that-she read that
herself.”
“I only worked with Autistic children as an
undergraduate—the kids I worked with weren’t
even verbal!!”
“Well Claudine is –we just got back from
shopping-and she wants to meet you.”
“When?”
“Wait, let me ask her.” She cupped the phone
and almost instantly came back and said:
“today.”
I looked at my watch –it was already 1 in the
afternoon and on a Saturday.
“She doesn’t drive, and I can drive her to a
meeting place today-that’s the thing , she doesn’t
drive at all.”
“That’s not unusual-you have to be mad to drive
in this city.”
-8-
By the time we hung up-we had a date to meet at
a restaurant called Spires, about 20 minutes
drive from my apartment. I had a few hours to
waste. This wasn’t at all a disagreeable turn of
events!
I’d been sitting around trying to think of
something to do, something clever and personal,
like writing a song or a story. But there hadn’t
been anything deep to be sounded. No wide-
opened eyelids. No run away train. It seemed
that always something in between feelings and
lips went dying.
The heat had been pressing its wings across the
city. It’s been this way for long. Each year seems
warmer than the previous, and the suffering
makes you ineffectual. Melancholic. The
afternoons are worst. The heat rises up from the
ground as if a furnace has been hidden down
there. Something nefarious and alien.
I live on the second floor of a Spanish style
building. The apartment is surrounded by
windows. From the east windows I have a view
of downtowns’ spirals. And the southern
windows look on the house next door.
Outside that window, the neighbor was busy
-9-
pouring cement, over the back yard. He had dug
the brownish, starved lawn out, and hauled it out
in violent bursts of activity. Now standing over
this scene, and with DIY gadgets in his hands, he
looked like he was contemplating a crime. He
was a cable- guy by the look of the large van he
parked inside the garage. Two ladders of
different height sat on top of the van, like
stretched out corpses, and various wires and
what not were stuffed in the back.

And he had a flock of kids, all ages, at least seven

of them. The grassy back yard used to look lush
and the kids would run all over it, yelling in both
Spanish and English. Self-confidence in two
languages, brought something louder out of
them.
But the draught had made water more and more
expensive- and he was making the best of it- with
the swiftness of a big western city dweller, an
immigrant- he’d dug the lawn out within hours,
and was standing over the scarred ground, with
a look of inspired determination. I knew before
sunset—the concrete would cover the old
landscape like a new shell. And nothing will
matter to anyone. The draught-inflamed grass
had become like a picture no one notices on the
wall anymore.
-10-

But it made me want to grief-for each day of

reduced existence. I thought, I could wither, if I
stood there silent and still. That something
funereal would take over my dreams that night-
and he passing of greenery everywhere had a
secret cost. And that you can’t really fill
emptiness with emptiness. Void with void.
I thought: it was great I had somewhere to go--
an escape was made available like empty
carriages-on deserted railroad tracks inside the
city.

I wore whatever I wore. Clothes have become

uniforms, indifferent things to me, I have ten
exact copies of same, same.
I ran downstairs, out into the open.
The air outside was warmer than in. The rays of
the sun fell on you like yellow rain. You felt like
taking your t-shirt off , and twisting the rays out
of it with force. But this heat will be endless for
some time.
The car was parked just across the street. I ran
to it-the air-condition still worked back then. I
felt lucky.
It started like a charm-- It pushed itself down
the street- more like a ship setting sail. Its
ancient velocity passing wired fences, a tobacco
shop on the left, a taco stand, two police cars, the
-11-

fast foods. And the Hispanic music blasting out

of almost every car before the light, and onto the
freeway then.
The instant hum of velocity on the freeway-
amuses you-and something leaves you, in its
depth. Something mixed with consciousness-its
like a bleeding net. And you wonder off depleted
of yourself, taken over-out of time and space--
and suddenly find yourself at a juncture you
don’t recognize. Its like the phone-ring in the
middle of a dream. Who and what force been
driving the car here? Its almost like the freeway
has a collective consciousness, things become
autocratic, empty of your willfulness.
“Is this the exit?”
Its me calling back to me.
“I have to awaken!”
I find the conspicuous address right away. And
the restaurant is really not one. It’s a short-
order-cook round space. Surrounded by a half-
moon-shaped parking lot. Its windows are large
are tainted dark and everything about the
parking space directs you to the entrance walk.
The parked cars are mostly trucks, and old-
dinosaurs like mine—I know everything inside
too will murmur of nostalgia: the universal
language of: ”awful-things-ahead.”
-12-

They girls can’t possibly be here yet-I’m an hour

early- spinning the day.
Inside, the place looks like a polished pit.
Smooth shiny surfaces smile with a menace. And
the air is packed with scents of saturated fats.
The atmosphere has a nakedness to it. You have
to fill it with your own substance.
There are framed posters of someone’s art-work
though. I don’t remember his name. But he is the
chief of nostalgia. Everyone is supple and blue in
the pictures. Standing erect by barnyards. Ice
cream parlors that don’t exist.
I drop myself on a booth that looks out on the
parking lot. The heat outside the window bends
the light- elongated and oblique, like its been
hammered. Still, there is a geometric beauty to
all this unfolded movement. There are no shades
anywhere--and the light gives the impression: It
can move forever in frozen threads.
The waitress comes by almost instantly—she is
very agile for all her weight.
“I’ll just have coffee-I’m expecting friends.” I’m
fond of saying: I’m expecting friends, like I
-13-

belong to someone or something.

She smiles agreeably-I know that’s probably
why I don’t appreciate overweight people. Their
cheerfulness reminds me of encroachment, and
immense inner sadness.
She pours the coffee with the steadiest hands.
They are soft and chubby, like a child’s. Full of
restrained mischief.
“Well, holler at me if you need anything!”
“Will do!” With the same cheerfulness.

The hour flies-and mainly through: my

examining everything over and over again—I’m
like an archeologist. Digging in the dirt. The
Formica walls, the invariable patrons, the
posters on the walls, the flat-bed trucks in the
distance.
And then I see them coming.
-13-
.

Chapter Two: Invisible Wealth.

I see my friend first--the way she struts-waves in

and out of her own fragmented shadows. She is
in a floral dress, summery and light-its reflection
is like a ray of water at a distance. Her shoes are
strappy white, with three inches heels-still she
moves in them well. And she must have seen my
car in the parking lot-because her face moves in
the thin silence of that consciousness. She knows
she is being watched. She draws the attention to
her left, its like she’s sensed approval of her own
appearance, and wants the same for her friend.
Claudine: is in a pair of black flat shoes, and
skinny jeans. And a simple pretty top that
matches everything at once. Her head is bowed
in abstracted attention, a short mop of reddish
hair. Beautiful. And she looks
-14-

older, as her face is mature, womanly. When

they enter, I turn around so they can see me, and
instantly Claudine’s eyes fall on me, and mine
search for something definitive in hers. And we
smile unhesitant, and I’m content! They walk to
the booth and sit down.
“I knew we find you, I saw your dinosaur parked
outside!” Our friend is excited.
“Now, I can tell from both your smiles that you
are happy, right!”
Claudine takes something out of her skinny
jeans’ pockets and lays them on the table. It’s a
pack of Marlboro cigarettes, Menthol, and a red
lighter. She is bashful about them, and
protective-like sharing a deep secret right away.
“How long you’ve been here.”
“About an hour!”
“Vow, you hear that Claudine, he’s been waiting
for us for an hour, what do you think of
that?”
Claudine flips the menu, but she clearly thinks it
A complement. She blushes! Everything is
-15-
transparent on her face, like its been polished
by a secret wind.
I look at her hands, they are small, and pale.
Quick and sharp. They crimp the warm air-
and stay close to the pack of cigarettes, caressing
their space.
She is tanned. A light brown, layered on freckles
and paleness. The space around her is gold-
brown. And up close her hair is more auburn
than red, it’s really a color I haven’t seen on
anyone, I know they sell colors like this in drug-
stores, but never seen them occur naturally.
There is something unique about her
Look: like something from an entirely different
river.

Still, she is beautiful-and unaware of it. Down

to the inward stare of her dark round brown
eyes. And the far-away look in them--
detachable, as if she can absent herself at will-
and a subtle rebellion in the corners.

“What are you thinking about?”

-16-
Its Claudine who asks me that.
“What?” I’m caught off-guard.
“You’ve been looking out the window, like you
are staring at something!”
Absent, I don’t recall the
past few moments!
“Yeah, you have that far away look!”
My friend says.
“What do you like to do Claudine?” I ignore
their remarks. I’m too cautious now. I want to
record everything, everything, like a suitor, a
teaser- a new student.
“Yes, what do you like to do for a date?” My
friend asks punctual, obedient.
Claudine smiles her heart shape smile.
“I like to go to the beach?”
Is she asking me to take her out to the waters!

“You have a nice tan!”

“I walk a lot, I walk to Walmart, Payless!”
She utters their names like they are holy places,
and seems reflected, absent again.
“One day I walked all the way downtown-I just
-17-
couldn’t stop walking!” She drifts out like an
echo. And stares at a mysterious point above us.
I like to say: “Why?”
“Where do you live?” I really mean: “how far
did you have to walk?!”
“I live in Pico -in a group home!”
There is nothing sad about the way she utters
this. Its flat as a desert, no affect.
“I’m only half-an-hour away from Pico!”
What I really mean is:
“ I will come far for you, in a boat with no sail.”
I only say:
“ I have a car that’s like a boat.”
“She showed it to me, its nice, can we go to the
beach tomorrow?” She asks me amazingly
directly.
She is impressed by a Cadillac?
“Yes, of course-which beach do you want to go?”
“Manhattan beach, or Newport!”
I’m not sure where they are. But my head is
filled with acquiescence.
“Pick you up at 11?”
“No, at 10!” her legs shakes the table with
excitement.
I write her address down as she methodically
-18-

orders: pancakes, with butter on top, side order

of sausages, and cheese- omelet. And vaguely
explains: ”Its my ‘food’!”
It’s meaningful for her. She means to say she’ll
share its meaning later.

When the food arrives, she pushes the large

pancake plate in front of our friend-it’s a gesture
they both understand, because she
begins to cut the pancakes for her in tiny little
slices.
It doesn’t seem unusual. My friend murmurs
an explanation:
“Its really hard for her to cut these into little
pieces!”
“Yeah-I can’t cut them myself.” Claudine
explains, and watches our friend as though
observing a surgeon.
Why I’m not surprised? I’d sensed her
coordination was off by seconds and millimeters.
I’m not sure how I know this. Its how her
eyes follow every little movement—velocity has a
certain mystery for her. Singular, maidenly
events. She follows them, with little
bursts of surprise--they tilt her head to the left-
like she is
-19-

made both curious, and frightened by them.

I know, I have seen this look of surprise before--
its the silent language of the kids I worked
with years ago. Back then, it’d felt like being
made to sit under a tree whose leaves fell like
flowers around you like gestures-
carrying secret proportions of humanity, from a
distance of unexplainable beauty.

She eats only a third of what she’s ordered, its

nearly as if she is quickly bored with them. The
uneaten food look buried in their dishes. They
are like broken plastic things, something
rubbery and flexible about them all: Pink,
yellow, red colors-food that resembles toys. They
can’t be what we (were) but (are)-serious
confusions of splendor?
I think, only children can be amused
by these plates, but I’m wrong because there are
adults sitting everywhere, looking ravenous for
them.
I don’t know why I don’t lament all the waste—
perhaps its because I wouldn’t eat them myself?
I used to call them:”heart-attack-specials”-
suddenly it doesn’t seem funny anymore.
-20-
Claudine begins to stare out the window. She
grabs her cigarettes, they’re intimate objects
to her:
“I’m going outside fore a smoke!”
“But I’ll be right back.” Though, there’s no re-
assurance in that. You feel as though she might
disappear into the traffic!
“Ok, darling.” Says my friend and gets out of
the booth so Claudine can slide out.”
Within seconds she is outside, we can both see
her-she looks like a distracted statue, staring still
at something mobile.
“Well, what do you think!”
“I think she is lovely!”
“Well? What else”

“Her colors! Do the rest of the family come in

colors like that?”
“No- you know, most women would die to have
a hair-color like hers!”
“And she is bright-not in the conventional ways,
but very sensitive!”
“I know, I get that too!”
“What else?” She wants to pick brain. Its not
just curiosity. She wants something more!
-21-

Insight, insight. I annoys me.

“Everyone wants instant insight—it really ought
to be the most expensive currency in the world.”
“Fine!”
“She is lovely though!”
“You already said that-what’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t know what to tell you-I feel like Darwin
on his island!”

“What does that mean?” I’ve exasperated her.

“I mean she is like something rare, and
undiscovered!”
“Oh, shut-up, here she comes back- she is
adorable!” She really likes her.
“I agree!!” And hush my voice.

“I saw two bikes!”

“Claudine loves bikes!” My friend explains, with
fondness. I think she understands there is
something interesting and, infrequent about
her, she just can’t put her head around it. And
neither can I.
“What kind of bikes?” I am not sure what they
are talking about.
“Street bikes, not off road. I saw a Honda
-22-

1000-it took off down the street, like crazy-

woosh.”
She makes the sound, and laughs. It’s clearly
made her happy.

Our waitress comes by, she is shocked by the

uneaten mess on the table:
“You don’t want anymore? You want me to box
it for you?” She is helpful- but like a soldier, she
should have stayed and guarded the food!
None of us wants to say anything. We all feel
guilty, in a distracted way.
Claudine seems a bit annoyed.
“I can’t eat anymore!” offers as an explanation.
The waitress is nonplussed:
“Oh, don’t worry about it honey.” She doesn’t
mean it-and begins to clear the table-it probably
looks like a shipwreck to her. She wants it all
restored to some God-given order.

Outside the heat is an immobile stature--as if it

can resist all ruptures and change.
“But there are always one more ice-age
ahead.” I think to myself. There’s really no
reason to alarm anyone!
-23-

I put my sunglasses on, they make me

feel different. It’s a lot like putting a curtain
up. The opposite of opening your arms.

Claudine walks side by my side, she walks

quick and, self-assured. I think: she means to
say:
“we’re together.”
We walk over dead brown grass onto the
pavement.
The ocean surges in the distance-I can smell its
scents.
We are only half-an-hour away from the
Pacific. I can clearly hear its wind
calling. It reminds me of a landlord’s knock on
the door-- something alarming and ominous.

Later on I think: there is something keener in

Claudine though-something subterranean like a
root, something that sends my books to their
shelves—and senses the world with an invisible
wealth.
She tilts her head up in the air. It reminds me of
my long-gone Terrier, some perfume in the air
-24-

has shaken her. Something unjustly forgotten?

Because I’m unmoved !! I have a deaf science of
ravines and peaks-and persist as if in a ruined
tunnel, at another limit!

I wait for them to get in the car-and watch

them drive away. Claudine waves her hand, and
smiles while looking ahead, I know she is
thinking of tomorrow, and of waters, waters.
-25-

Chapter Three: In The Box.

It wasn’t easy to fall sleep that night. And once

sleep the dreams were intractable, impossible to
budge. I seem to go in –and- out of doors,
through pure territories that are joined by some
sovereign intelligence, something unknowable,
and unfailing..
There are events that have existed, forming
events that must form. I can see the source of my
destiny I think! But it’s a feeling more than
thoughts.
-26-
And its almost as if it’s too painful to know so
much, so I don’t.
I wake up not remembering anything, just a
vague unhappiness, in a faint place inside me,
where nocturnal weights throbs. I know it can
all be made of a wellspring: of light like bright
spindles--but the details are worn,
divided like tears. Onward.

Its almost 5:00 AM, when I wake up- at the

Edges of dawn-I have to stare out patiently
through the curtains, until everything is silver-
plated with landing light, then I can go on to
run.
To start running any earlier than 6:30 is to leave
oneself vulnerable to so many who see the light
as a breach, as a finger down
their throats. They range from stray
dogs, to mad men and women, who think
knives can be wielded against anyone in the
absence of light, though they naturally can’t run
-27-

well.
To the an occasional crack-head on a bicycle,
who is too high to distinguish value from
worthlessness. Who grabs anything that fits in
his hooded sweat shirt. Keys, crumbled napkins,
old cell-phones:
“ yeah give me that too.”
I think its just the general idea of taking things
in, t must be a malfunction of
consumption or corpulence. Even garbage
earns something around
here. The garbage collectors are Hispanics, older
Chinese couples, and the homeless, they
tow their super market carts across
pavements with such vigor. Sometimes I
thin they’ll live to be in their hundreds.

The first time I was mugged.. I was leaving for

a swim at 5:30. There is a covered pool that
opens at 4:30 AM.
The thief was hooded, riding a dirt bike. The
hand-gun he pulled out was a terrifying looking
object, it looked to weigh a ton. He asked
to come up to the apartment. I had just walked
out toward my car.
-28-

I naturally nodded, my head.

He was a thinly smallish fellow. Obviously
Wasting slowly away from crack. But they must
have designed the semi-automatic to stir sharp
irreversible fear. It had a crocodile face, a
twisted shiny serpent. And had he really polished
the thing? In the down’s darkness, the silver
object shone its own light. Like it’d been dipped
into candle wax, and now was lit on fire. And it
had its own phosphorescent tail of light as the
man/boy waved it around,
Once we were upstairs my apartment, he
Quickly went about picking up anything small
enough to fit in his bottomless pockets. Pens,
wallet, keys, lighter, cell-phone, etc. In an
undistracted way, almost like he’d forgotten I
existed.
On his way out at the bottom of the stairs, I
quarreled with him over my
wallet, all my ID’s were in it, but he hit me
with the butt of his gun. And that quickly ended
the pulling match. They never found him.
The second time I was mugged I was just
running near the park, the man in the car
-29-

stopped ahead, walked over, pulled another

semi-automatic (what’s with these semi’s?)out of
his jacket, ordered me against the wall, and went
through my pockets, not having found a damn
thing, he left me standing there bewildered. It
made me think: why would he
assume a jogging man carries anything but
his keys? But the light was barely out, the light
on the verges of occurring, inevitable,
impending, obligatory, sad? It occurred to me
that the dawn can bring a man to its red knees-
dealing out its threads of possibilities. Which
automatically means tragedies as well!
The light with its nimble swords, its warrior
Restlessness.

It all made me want to mourn for the near-

attacking wild dogs, the
knife-wielding mad men, and the bandits.

I thought I ought to understand the dark side of

quantum moves, the unmoving frozenness better.
-30-

The mad glow of all broken things. The

yellowing pigeons. The shine of fat on our faces.
The outworn clothes. The submissive heads. And
everything wrapped in the pale resistance of
exhausted shoulders.

It took me 10 minutes to take a shower. Five

minutes to dress. 4 minutes to find the address
on mapquest. And half-an-hour to drive through
the deadest-looking LA neighborhoods on a
Sunday. Industrial little town after town, only
seconds away from one another, but all with
different fancy Spanish names, all looking
exactly alike-like someone’s bad joke and
mockery of diversity. A million traffic lights
along, railroad tracks crossing in odd strange
spaces. A large bread factory, machine shops,
more than dozens fast foods, pharmacies, outlet
retails clothes, a spice factory, diners, and
Mexican young girls in skinny jeans and bare
shoulders, searching out of the corner of their
keenest eyes for supped up cars, who really
ought to stop for them on any Sunday.
-31-

The group home was exactly where it was

suppose to be. On a fast four-lane dusty road.
Where cars and bikes were made to feel reckless,
free, if for mere moments. When I parked in
front of the entrance walk. Three men and two
women approached the car and eyed me
suspiciously. Once I was out of the car, all five of
them asked if I had any smoke. One of them
wanted to know who was I there to pick up.

I had no cigarettes, but I would have given them

a few each. It would have made their Sunday,
The space in front of the sliding door was littered
with smoked-to-the-end butts.
“Someone ought to sweep this mess once in a
while.”
I told one of them. Inhabiting authority roles is
apparently natural for me.
“They do, every once in a while, but you can’t
smoke in the lobby, everyone must come out
here.” The tallest of them said.
And just to confirm himself, he muddled.
“yes sir, they do sweep this spot, yes sir.”
-32-

Once inside, the lobby looked empty, large.

There were the usual calendars from the art-
class. “Week’s Activities.” Were panted on one
in large orange cardboard letters. There was
nothing written under it. The empty space
under might have said: “ What activities?”
There was a pay phone to the left, and doors of
3, 4 offices, shut on both sides. Only one was
open. And I walked to it, there was a Mexican
woman, short and fat, sitting behind a desk, half
to hide her weight, half to rest her knees. And
she was loud, like she was used to yelling at
people:
“Can I help you?”
“I am here to pick-up Claudine West.”
I paused.
“Is she expecting you?”
Trying to appear suspicious.

“Yes.’
I decided not to give her anything more to help
her make up her mind about me. She probably
divided things into good and bad, black or
brown. Sugar
-33-

or no sugar. Carne or not.

She picked up the phone, dialed the intercom
and shouted:
“Claudine West, you have a visitor in the lobby.”
It sounded more like: “you have a problem
here.”
She let the loud echo of her voice soothe her like
a sip of milkshake.
“She’ll be right down.”
She said acting bossy.
I start circling the lobby, and within seconds of
the call, strange looking women appear, like
buzzing flies, looking around, sizing me up and
down, probably to see who’s come courting for
Claudine? The usual pecking orders.
A very young black girl asks for a cigarette. She
is dressed in the most outrageously sexual way.
She has to unloosen two strings and she’d be
entirely nude. She can’t be much older than 18.
And there is this other woman, she is pretty in a
mid-western way. Dressed in Walmart . She
looks at me to see if I find her attractive. The
sort of stare that is never evaluating you, but
wants to read your reaction to herself. And the
cautiousness in that stare. Half-scared to find
-34-

something unlovely reflected back !! But not

really expecting it. Just the fear exists though.. I
make sure I smile approvingly. I have learned
how to do this throughout years of experience.
The look-back must always say: confirm,
confirm. Or it creates problems. Never mind that
now.
Claudine takes a good 10 minutes to appear. She
is out of the elevator, with what looks like an
entourage. She nods her head to me, and she is
talking to these obese older men. They are
carrying her purse, cell-phone, and her beach
towel. Now I see why the lobby got crowded
with women after it was announced she has a
visitor. She is clearly their queen. Their feminine
point of reference. She calls the fat Mexican
woman: Bertha. Introduces me as her “friend”-
and says matter of factly: “ Are you ready?”
I look at the largely obese and older men
-35-
standing at attention around her, she notices
them, and start introducing them like they are
both her best friends and attendants.
The one holding her cell-phone, has his hair
parted in the middle with the most current hair
gel. He looks like a scrubbed bear.

Claire looks at him and says: “can I have tinker

bell?”
“ Tinker bell?” I say trying to be convivial.
“See there is a tinker bell on it.”
It’s a black all-purpose purse/bag with colorful
stitching of tinker bell.

The bear wants to know where we’re going.

“We are going to Manhattan beach—I’ll
be back soon, we won’t be late.”
“Right?” She asks me.
“Right. Evening.”

I’m internally loving every glance, exchange and

gesture. Its like being allowed inside a building,
you’ve always looked at from the street.
-36-
“I am inside the box!” I unintentionally exclaim.
“What box?” Claudine asks.
But doesn’t wait for an answer, we better get
going, and starts toward the door. The entourage
follows her . They have circled her like a wagon.
One of the girls ask:
“Where you’re going Claudine?”
She doesn’t pause to answer her, In fact I later
learn that they always ask her the same question,
and she always answers the same:
“Just out and about.”
She is very fond of repeating this.
“They are always asking me where I’m going,
and I say: “out and about’.” She chuckles and
looks at a point on the road. Absent. Self-
assured- lights a cigarette.
-37-
Chapter Four: Ocean unnoticed.

(More chapters will be drafted, re-drafted,

approved, released, these are teasers.)