Buzzworm climbed up the back ladder of the NewsNow van and peered over the top at Emi in a bikini and Ray-Bans stretched out on a beach towel. “Someone said this was the last stop before the sun goes down, but they forgot about Hawaii,” she muttered to her intruder.
“It’s not Hawaii neither,” Buzzworm noted.
“Same person said you could rot here without feeling it. So-called paradise, see. Smoking, drugging, and sex are absolutely necessary to make you feel anything in paradise.”
“If this is paradise, we’re in trouble.” He looked out from his perch, currently a tanning pad, and surveyed day five of the Harbor Freeway crisis in which every homeless person had for the moment found shelter. Funny how it looked like home. He looked over at a book squashed open on its belly. “What’s to read?”
“Book I grabbed off Gabe.”
“Easy Rawlins?”
“He likes this private dick stuff. Dark and dirty. Goes with wearing shades whilst taking in the rays.” Emi rolled over on her stomach and propped her chin up on the triangle made between her forearms and the van’s roof. “It’s moving toward midsummer, and I do have a California look to maintain. You know, glowing health, tight muscles, New Age tan.”
“I wouldn’t know about no New Age tan. Got me an Old Age one myself.”
“A New Age tan’s like this: You arrive from some midwestern armpit, see. You’ve been raised on steak and potatoes. To you, veggie is like canned beans. Vegan is, well, it’s a Trekkie term for aliens from Star Vega. Somebody on Venice Beach reads your astrological forecast. Someone else reads your aura. You find out you’re a star-crossed Aquarian with a future as a bisexual. You get a tattoo on your right ankle and pierce your navel. You join a gym, start up on the Nautilus, and get regular bodywork. You take up yoga, do a thorough detox, and go macrobiotic: miso, tofu, and brown rice. You become religiously organic. You join an animal rights support group to heal your inner animal. You try to write a screenplay and get an agent. You go to bed under a pyramid with your therapist/healer. Your folks come out to see you, Disneyland, Universal Studios, and Marilyn Monroe’s grave. They say, ‘California seems to be doing you some good. Got some color in your face for a change.’ Voilà! A New Age tan!”
Buzzworm looked blankly at Emi and shook his dreads. “Well, I’ll be. And I thought having skin color was just so as to define what’s white.”
“It’s total bullshit. I just needed to get away.”
“I read you.”
The hum of propellers was a constant, but the sound suddenly lunged in with the copter’s shadow. “Damn. I told them to stay away!” She propped herself up and made a rude gesture at the flying machine.
“How did Balboa ever get involved with you?”
“Go figure. Behind that noir pose, Gabe’s basically a romantic sort of guy. I’m the opposite. You want cuddly romance, you’re better off with a Siamese cat. So maybe that’s what it is. I keep the romance at bay.”
Emi rolled over on her back again, pillowing her head on her arms. She looked over her toes at Manzanar on the overpass. She still had not had the courage to march up there to meet the man.
“That’s why you won’t go up there, isn’t it?” Buzzworm nodded at the conductor. “That man’s the ultimate romantic. You can hear his music can’t you? Admit it, baby sister. Everyone can. It’s painful stuff. Gets you right here. Times there’s people down there rocking in the cars, weeping.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“He’s calling you, baby sister. He’s got your melody.”
“I’m thirsty. I could use a drink.” She leaned over the side of van and yelled, “Kerry, what’s left in the cooler? Got a Coke? Or better yet, got Passion?” She took the dark glasses off and looked at Buzzworm. “Wanna hear a secret?”
Buzzworm’s lips curled up in a wry smile.
“This is for real,” she looked hurt and turned away.
“Baby sister,” he nudged her with a soft voice. “Secrets are my business.”
Emi nodded. “He was my grandfather.”
“He is your grandfather,” Buzzworm corrected.
She drew a sigh. “I can’t believe it’s him. I remember we were always singing songs together. It’s the only thing that makes sense. I mean about that conducting or whatever it is. He liked to sing. I remember that. And then, he just disappeared. I knew he didn’t die . . . no one said anything as if he did. I was nine or ten. I don’t know why I should have even recognized him.”
“But you did.”
“And if I go up there, he couldn’t possibly recognize me.”
“No problem. I’ll introduce you.”
“What is he to me anyway?”
“Yeah, baby sister, the connection begs to be understood. I can’t say I knew my grandma too well either, but when she died, she left me everything she had. It was just her house, but it was everything. You’d be surprised what comes with a house. Old letters, memories, ghosts, the meaning of ever having it in the first place. Maybe you,” he pointed at her, “get lucky. Get the baton and the overpass to boot.”
Buzzworm looked at his watches. “I give you an hour to get ready.”
“What’s the point?”
“Between these TV microwaves and the ultraviolet, you gonna catch you some cancer out here. Time to put some clothes on and meet another human being. I’m gonna save your life yet.”
“Is that so?”
Buzzworm stepped down the ladder and met Kerry at the bottom with a cold can of Coke. “Her Majesty will see you now,” he smirked. As he turned away, the dull crack of a small but sharp thunder rumbled above his head. This sound was all too familiar, and it was not the pop of a flip-top jerked off an aluminum soda can. The rumble came again. Buzzworm jerked Kerry off the ladder and to the ground. “Get down!” he commanded and scrambled to the top of the van. He reached over, clawing at the beach towel, and dragged Emi toward him.
As he pulled her closer, she gasped, “I actually saw them out there aiming for the dish. It’s such a dick in the air, you . . . wouldn’t . . . think . . . they’d . . . miss.”