4.

I traced California’s winding roads the next day, visiting Griffith Observatory and ending up in Malibu, unsure if the drive was for leisure or merely postponement. The sun began to sink as I parked outside a bar near my hotel. I’d gone no closer to Venice than Lincoln – the coast looming, felt but not seen. I stared at nothing through the Miata’s windshield, fidgeting with the letters inside my jacket pocket.

‘The fight is worth it,’ I said to myself as I pulled them out. Skimming through their top left-hand corners, the final date appeared. I took a deep breath and began.

Shuffling towards a stool at the empty bar, I dropped into it, ordered a drink and sipped slowly. I stared at the wall, the neighbourhood and entire continent behind it, around the globe and back at myself. The bartender asked if I was alright. I tilted the bottle and swished around what remained.

‘Yeah, sure, another. Why not?’

‘I meant … are you feeling alright, sir?’

He couldn’t have been much younger than I, but seemed like a child as we looked at each other over the bar. His eyes were bright and they waited on my reply with an abundance of hope. Mine hadn’t looked like that in a long time. I hesitated to give an answer because I didn’t know if I had one. He reached down, retrieved a bottle and fumbled with a bottle opener.

‘On the house,’ he grinned, as if he’d wanted to say that for a long time.

‘What do you do?’

‘I, uh, I go to school.’

‘Which school?’

‘UCLA, sir.’

‘And what do you do there?’

‘Economics, but I think I want to do something creative.’

‘Then why not do it?’

‘I don’t know. Most people want numbers and dollar signs, not bars and notes.’

I let out a laugh and he smiled. He may have been a kid but was already the wiser of us.

‘How do you get to this school?’

‘The bus, mostly. Sometimes I ride my bike.’

‘You like that car out there?’ I asked, gesturing to the Miata with my head.

‘Oh yeah. The Miatas are cool!’

I got up and walked out. ‘Sir! I just meant the one beer on the house …’

His voice trailed off as the door closed behind me. I reached into the Miata, came back to my stool and sat.

‘Oh, I thought you were a walkout,’ he said, his cheeks pink.

‘Got a pen?’

‘Yeah, sure.’

Rummaging around the till, he retrieved one and handed it to me. I bit off and spat its lid onto the bar, and hunched over behind my bunched-up jacket.

‘What’s your name?

‘My name? Why?’

‘Your name. Your full name.’ I dead-eyed him.

‘It’s Mike Burns.’

‘Mike or Michael?’

‘Michael.’

The pen whispered against the paper as I scribbled. Mike tried to peer over but I looked up and he leant back like he was looking at something else.

‘How much do I owe you?’

‘It’s, ah, three-fifty.’

I threw down notes then the folded sheet of paper.

‘What’s this?’ he asked, nervous.

‘Your tip. The title to that Miata out there.’

‘Sorry?’

‘It’s yours now. She’s been good to me. She’ll be good to you too.’

I dropped the key onto the pile and threw my jacket on. Mike unfolded the sheet, his eyes widening when he realised it was no ruse. He grasped the key and studied its cut with a slack jaw.

‘Have a good life, Michael.’

‘You too …’ he paused, studying the title, ‘Mark Ward.’

I stepped outside. The footprint I’d left on the Miata’s bumper in the desert came off with a rub of my sleeve. I ran my hand across its hood, feeling the coarseness of the paint. We’d both come a long way from a driveway in Staten Island.

‘Goodbye, old friend,’ I said. ‘Thank you for everything. Be well.’

The sunlight descended through yellows. I strolled up Lincoln and headed west.