Mark Stonebreaker, Nick’s boss, was a Dilbert-esque character if there ever were one: a meek, inept middle manager who’d stumbled up the promotion ladder that no MBA yearned to climb. Built like an upright buffalo, he acted more like a swarthy, sugar-craving Cowardly Lion. Nobody at Wham-O’s backwater annex respected him.
Today, Nick sat in the chair facing his desk, watching him hoover up the last of his Winchell’s apple fritter. You’d need an oracle to predict what Mark was going to say, because he smiled just as awkwardly disciplining someone for insulting a distribution rep as he did when informing them of a dental-plan change.
Nick, whom he’d asked to see this morning, expected to hear retailer feedback about his latest prototype, and it wasn’t the Di-Crapper.
“I’ll be candid,” Mark said, struggling to complete the sentence as he sucked glaze from his fingertips. “And that’s not easy for me. I dislike confrontation.”
And vegetables. “Confrontation? What are you talking about?”
“Nobody is looking for the next Frisbee or gag gift anymore. The next time somebody swaps their Game Boy for one of those will be the day, um—the day the Earth’s axis reverses polarity.”
Mark leaned forward in a desk chair whose hinges squealed for WD-40. He started at Wham-O seven years ago as a product engineer hawking an inflatable isolation tank. Promising as it sounded, it either leaked or trapped stressed-out customers in their homes. The gremlin: “faulty” zippers. What did management do? They promoted him.
Before the Nintendo Corporation cherry-picked him, Nick’s closest workmate, Otis Norwood, once described Mark as “the Peter Principle incarnate in the worst of J. C. Penney’s spring lineup.” Nick missed Otis, a man as talented as he was incisive.
“That’s not exactly news,” Nick said, cringing about where this was leading. “Everybody knows kids don’t play outside like they once did. In fact, if we were smart, we’d partner with a vitamin D company to pitch a Bart Simpson chewable.”
“I should that write that down,” Mark said.
“But funny never goes out of style in the adult demo. Now spill. What did QVC say? It pre-ordering ten-thousand units?”
Mark smiled toothily. “The executives there thought your idea was witty and would do well. Let me check my notes,” he said, flipping pages on a food-stained yellow pad. “Here it is, do well in flyover states hospitable to trailer parks and bowling alleys, places where folks are more plainspoken.”
Oh, no. Here it comes.
“But they were anxious your product could backfire on the coasts, where consumers are more quickly offended, and in evangelical districts. Holy Rollers aren’t known to be the jokesters that rednecks are.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying headquarters has decided against going into production.”
“So the HoJack is dead?” Nick asked, mouth a rictus. “We’re not even focus-grouping it?”
“No. The bosses are concerned if word got out, we could have the National Organization for Women picketing us.”
Nick wasn’t proud he invented The HoJack, a mash-up of the popular LoJack car alarm and the antediluvian chastity belt. He simply thought it was his Wham-O winner. He envisioned people fighting over it, not against it, at Secret Santa parties or bachelorette nights out. To boost its crass pizzazz, he created a fake “transmitter” that simulated a locking noise. The settings ranged from “Hands Off” to “Horizontal Hootenanny.”
“Then they’re being myopic. I’ve been reading up on this World Wide Web thing coming. We’ll have access to all types of fresh audiences.”
Mark’s three chins jiggled agreement. “I’ll mention that webbing at the next meeting. But you won’t be attending because I’ve been ordered to fire you.”
“Fire me?” Nick said, bolting up out of his chair. “What the fuck, Mark? I know my last performance review concluded I wasn’t living up to my potential, but, to quote a friend, ‘I’ve been going through some stuff.’”
“Then let me quote what my supervisor said. ‘We’re bleeding money. Wham-O needs slam-dunks, not a national shaming on Maury Povich.’”
—
Reverse polarity? He needed a reverse in fortunes as a guy with three thousand dollars in savings, legal bills, a mortgage, never mind a ravenous dog prone to staring at him. At least his mother didn’t charge for her unsolicited psychological evaluation.
“You’ve always been an enigma, darling: fast learner, late bloomer,” she said after he broke the news over the phone. She was speaking from a small house in Indianapolis, where she relocated four years ago from Pasadena. She still missed its mountains and culture, just not its pricey, gentrifying-fueled cost of living. “Can I give you some guidance?”
“Please, no,” he said, puckering at the idea he might have to move into her guest room should his options dry up. “I’m reminding myself it’s not as hard as it seems.”
“Is that from a sermon? It wouldn’t kill you to go to church, incidentally.”
“No, it’s from the gospel of Robert and Jimmy. It’s okay. I have some things cooking. I’m viewing this as a blessing in disguise.”
“Listen to you,” she said. “Thinking like an optimist.”
A week after his firing, Nick decided to walk in a circle: a therapeutic circle around the Rose Bowl. Without Wham-O’s three-month severance, he’d be in deep yogurt, and not the trendy kind they sold at Colorado Boulevard’s 21 Choices. So, he leashed Royo and snagged his Walkman. Pulling into a lot near Brookside Golf Club, however, he realized he forgot to load a CD. His distracted head strikes again. He’d have to listen to AM talk-radio; FM reception was spotty in the canyon.
A screechy host was doing a segment about how Pasadena was “finally getting its comeuppance.” Topical subject. If Nick figured he was having a year to forget, a city whose glossy history was its own self-perpetuating PR agent couldn’t wait for the calendar to flip. In October, a brush fire tore through the eastern foothills, devouring homes like a five-hundred-degree Pac-Man. Days later, three teenagers leaving a Halloween party in the city’s violent northwest, a once-proud African American stronghold across the Arroyo from billion-dollar JPL, were gunned down in cold blood. They’d done nothing wrong.
Nineteen ninety-three, the liberal host clucked, was “Pasadena’s year of blood and color.” The WASPy Tournament of Roses Association, headquartered in the colonial-white Wrigley Mansion, was in the crosshairs of activists demanding minority inclusion. They threatened to block the unimaginable: the parade that was the town’s stock-and-trade and never-ending cash cow. At city hall, the usual patrician civility was on sabbatical, too. Mercurial Councilman Isaac Richard, who saw bias and Uncle Tom sellouts everywhere, battled misconduct charges; colleagues were aghast at what his outbursts were doing to Pasadena’s good name.
The commentator wouldn’t let it go either, squawking about the Foothill Freeway’s “carcinogenic-smog footprint,” and the sale of the elegant Huntington Hotel just outside city borders. “Where’s that little old lady from the Beach Boys song?” he said. “Dead! She was a speed demon. Ladies and gentlemen: always peek behind the curtain. This town of a hundred twenty thousand plus has the same issues as any place. Drive Orange Grove Boulevard, not just Millionaire’s Row. All of it. You’ll appreciate that not all Pasadenas are created equally.”
Not that he much bought into his hometown’s myth as a citadel of virtue, but the loudmouth’s shtick revolved around hyperbole. Nick stripped off his headphones to enjoy the people watching, instead. It didn’t get any better than the three-mile loop on the area’s community treadmill. Out on the pathway today were serious-minded, amateur bicyclists, who pedaled in intimidating swarms; fanny-packed speed walkers; arthritic grandmothers; and chatty domestics pushing other people’s children (in high-end strollers). A robed Buddhist monk passed Nick with an excellent stride, prayer beads bobbing. Nick loved it here.
Walking in to see his answering machine blinking, he hoped it wasn’t his divorce lawyer. Wish granted.
Mr. Chance, David Loomer here from Silicon Valley. We met at the Hollywood inventors conference about three months ago. You may remember that my investors were hunting for something in the alternative energy field. Boy, did we pick the wrong horse. We analyzed the urine battery showcased at the event and it flat didn’t work. It also stunk like a fraternity bathroom. But your idea, based on the specs, could be a difference-changer. That’s what my experts report. Nobody ever thought to engineer a removable solar panel on a car roof as a backup generator. Not until you. Genius. Call me as soon as you can.
Nick replayed the message eight times and followed up with an encouraging phone call to Loomer. His investors, he learned, were willing to pay him a six-figure advance if his device tested out. Hearing the best news of his career, Nick bubble-wrapped one of his prototypes for Loomer and messengered it to him via UPS that day. His ship may have just come in, HoJack free.
That evening, on his fourth date with Julie at the soon-to-be-closing Moonlight Roller Rink, he divulged his “big break” while they skated the Hokey Pokey. She was excited for him, even as they both silently contemplated what that meant for their future.
Julie insisted on arranging their next date by taking Nick into the past. She’d read up about the centennial anniversary of the Mount Lowe Railway and thought a trek into the San Gabriel Mountains to observe it sounded intriguing. “I don’t know if you learned about this at school,” she said on the drive there, “but it was literally a high-class train into the clouds. I can’t get enough of the Parasol Era, except for that whole inequality thing.”
They joined a crowd of about two hundred history buffs singing “Nearer My God to Thee,” the same ditty sung when Thaddeus Lowe baptized his endeavor. There were nostalgic speeches, including about the former “White City in the Sky,” refreshments, and, after twenty minutes, Nick’s boredom. They left the pack to stroll over to the crumbling remains of the Alpine Tavern at the end of the railway’s terminus. Someone there had sprayed purple graffiti over a rampart with a message they both endorsed: “Dogs are the best fucking humans.”
“Finally,” Nick said, “some lasting wisdom.”
Royo, registering his displeasure about being excluded, also left Nick a message: cooping him up came with consequences. As evidence, there was shredded lettuce on the kitchen floor, from the leftover sub Royo stole from the fridge by negotiating his snout into the door, and tin foil wrappers from the Wrigley’s gum he poached from the counter. Nick sniffed the dog’s breath for confirmation: definitely minty fresh. In his bedroom were wood shavings he’d apparently spit out after taking Nick’s laminated college diploma from a cinderblock shelf to chomp like a Tootsie Pop. For his coup de grace, Royo’s paws switched on the TV. Heaven Can Wait, the Saturday afternoon movie of the week, was airing when he strode in.
Nick, falling for Julie and about to get rich in the San Francisco Bay Area, refrained from any discipline. Soon the two of them were watching the movie, on the couch Royo previously thrashed, and sharing pretzels. “Yeah,” Nick commented to him. “Like a second-string quarterback could waltz in like that.”
—
Julie flew home to Chicago for Thanksgiving weekend while Nick and Fleet stayed in town, promising relatives a Christmastime visit. Nick spent the morning analyzing schematics for his solar generator, trying to hike the energy output. At two in the afternoon, Fleet knocked on Nick’s door carrying a Vons grocery bag and a Manila envelope.
Padding in first was Fleet’s dog, Sarge, a sweetheart German shepherd who’d flunked out of the US Drug Enforcement Administration for erratic professionalism. At airports, Sarge spent as much time wagging his fluffy tail at little kids and folks in wheelchairs as he did double barking at professional cocaine smugglers. Fleet adopted him because of their connection, and Sarge rewarded Fleet by using his taxpayer-trained snout to alert him to friendly neighborhood Indica dealers. The one who’d sold Fleet his current ganja lived on a leafy, Linda Vista block not far from Mac’s old place. Across the street from dealer Roy was an immense, walled-in estate named “Pegfair,” where horror-movie director John Carpenter and actress/Playmate Barbi Benton once resided. Scientologists, reportedly, were flirting with buying it.
In the entryway, Fleet showed Nick a forearm bristling with fourteen upright needles. “Go easy on the comedy,” he said. “I’m making myself a guinea pig to test if my needles’ locations alleviate my sciatica. I’m removing them in ten minutes. They hurt.”
“Just goes to prove,” Nick said deadpan, “one prick deserves another.”
“I’ll allow that, only because you’re looking and sounding better than you did a month ago. By the way, this was on your doormat. And no, it’s not from me. Neither was that other funny gizmo.”
Fleet handed the Manila envelope and the food to Nick, who took them into the kitchen. On their “Bro-Giving” menu were Cornish game hens, instant stuffing, canned string beans, and a Pie ’N Burger pumpkin-cream confection. Fleet sat down in the living room, where the Thanksgiving football game was on. The Dolphins and Cowboys were tied in an unusual Dallas snowstorm. Sarge and Royo, good buddies themselves, played tug-of-war at his feet.
“Grab me a Bud and we’ll spark this twister after I pluck these needles,” Fleet called out.
“Perfect,” Nick said from the kitchen. “Give me a few minutes while I get dinner started.”
Into the oven he slipped the game hens, which he’d rather eat frozen than Hattie’s horrifying Tofurkey. Before he got the stuffing and green beans going, he slit the unmarked envelope with a key and fanned the contents across his counter.
Holy time warp. Black-and-white postcards from Pasadena 1913—Clune’s Theater, Cawston Ostrich Farm, the bridge, and others—stared back at him in grainy relief. Somebody abolsutely was toying with him, and his leading suspect remained his ex. In thinking about that, Nick neglected to see the jarring photograph tucked under the postcards.
But why sleuth when you’re rediscovering yourself?