He’s
back to the Starbucks in Cupertino, and back to the numbers: the
spring-training stats of the San Francisco Giants and Oakland Athletics. Barely
enough to whet the appetite of his deprived left hemisphere (he’s been reading
a book on brain function), but he’s afraid to look at the stocks. It’s too
close to the pathos of his pre-Aptos life, and it’s already scary enough just
being here at this same table, gazing across the street at that same Calderian
fountain. He does find some satisfying sense of mathematical process in
earned-run average and on-base percentage. Perhaps he could get a job with the
Bill James Baseball Abstract.
He
is not drinking an Americano. After
the coffee bar at Aptos, he would not be caught dead with one. He’s drinking a
chai. This serves as a spicy little reminder that he is fundamentally a
different person. This and the occasional spicy text message from Audrey. He
will never, ever see the world in the same way. He thinks of the burning house,
in the falls at Multnomah. He thinks of the Imp of the Perverse. He thinks of
Ben saying, “Don’t you dare.”
Still.
He finds himself at war with several real-life enemies. The door that Thompson
opened with his exquisite quarterly analysis has not been slammed shut, thanks
to the artistic endeavors of the Monkey Girls. He envisions his immaculate
report circulating the halls at C-Valve, its creation credited to some phony
accounting consultant dreamed up by Thompson.
His
severance package runs dry in two months, which will severely curtail his
ability to throw money into the black pit that used to be his house. Thanks to
the global plunge in housing prices, his suburban ranch-style abode – smack in
the center of what was once the most costly real estate in the world – is now
worth less than the money he still owes on it. He is not alone. Foreclosures
pepper the Valley like rapidly breeding feral cats. After severance comes
unemployment insurance. Whether this will be enough to fund an
already-questionable enterprise, is… questionable.
Meanwhile,
what will he do with his life? He wants to be worthy, he wants his talents to
be exploited. He wants to contribute.
Even the lofty endeavor of making love to Audrey LaBrea is not quite enough.
Jack
returns the sports section to the newspaper holder and deposits his cup in the
wastebasket. Then he heads for De Anza Boulevard – named for a Spanish pioneer
– and the dreary walk home. He’s just passing the library when his cell phone
goes off. He finds a bench near the fountain and answers.
“Hey! Ben!”
“How’s the
Silicon Valley outcast?”
“Ha! Yeah.
Just thinkin’ about that.”
“Good!
We’re on the same wavelength. Hey, any chance you could run by the house
tonight? Seven o’clock? Gina gets these urges to prove her heritage, and tonight
it’s cioppino. I think we’re gonna need some help.”
Even as he
speaks, Jack is forming the kind of agenda fully rationalized by this offer. To
drive the hill early (to beat the traffic), to walk the beach, to grab a
Peruvian at the coffeehouse.
“I’m there!
Only… where’s there?”
“That’s
right! You’ve never seen the place, have you? The address is seven ninety eight
Lusterleaf Drive. You take State Park off the highway, and…”
“Stop right
there. I’m at the library. I’ll look it up.”
“Oh, you
crazy kids and your Internet. But give me a call if you get lost. It’s a little
tricky.”
“Will do.”
A dinner
invitation might seem pretty pedestrian, but for Jack it offers the opportunity
to answer a mystery. So open about every other aspect of his life, Ben has never
had his A-one pupil over to his place of residence. Jack takes the familiar
route toward Big Brown, heads left at the turnoff instead of right, zips
through the intersection at the Safeway, finds Lusterleaf three blocks uphill
and takes a right. The street follows a serpentine path into the Aptos hills,
offering stunning vistas of the beachside neighborhoods across the freeway.
Just before the surface turns to gravel, Jack spots a dirt driveway to his left
marked 798. He follows it down, around and up to a three-level structure of
steeply angled roofs and cedar-shake siding.
When he
arrives at the top of the front steps, he finds a large deck running in a
backward el along the length of the house. The surface is cut out every 15 feet
to make way for five different trees: a live oak, a madrone, a big-leaf maple,
a bay and a redwood. The live oak is massive, spreading its branches over the
corner of the el in a protective umbrella. As he nears the porch, Jack notices
the condition of the surface, coated with a golden tan stain that makes the
wood look like new.
The wide
front door is hewn from redwood burl, treated with a dark varnish that gives it
the look of unsweetened chocolate blushing in embarrassment. The door is
bracketed by tall, narrow windows emanating a blue light. Looking closer, he
finds that the light comes in circles. Ben opens the door and catches him in
his study.
“Yes!
Bottles. Cobalt. Can’t tell you how much pretentious French water I had to buy
to fill up these cabinets. Then I sealed up the back with Plexiglas. You should
see them in the morning when the sun cuts through. Yowza!”
“Hi Ben,”
says Jack.
Ben laughs.
“Forgive me. I turn into a freakin’ tour guide around here.”
Jack finds
his nostrils filling with tomato, garlic, oregano and ocean.
“Wow! That…
Wow!”
“We’re just
about to eat. Come on in and greet the girls.”
Jack notes
the plural, which is quickly explained by the sight of Suzanne Brewer at the
counter, filling a wine glass. Out of her usual retro gear – into a pair of
jeans and a white sweater – she looks like a drab cousin of herself.
“Suzanne!”
Jack storms over to give her a hug. Gina Scarletti, shadowing the stovetop,
feigns annoyance.
“Not even
married yet, and already being
ignored.”
Jack’s not
biting. He needs to hear of musical adventures. “Going north or south?”
“North,”
says Suzanne. “Ben came to Mr. Toots last night and insisted I stay in town for
this dinner.”
“I’m so
sorry I missed you! I haven’t checked your website for a while.”
“No sweat.”
She lifts her fingers in a spell-casting wave. “We will get you eventually.”
Jack
U-turns to give Gina a kiss on the cheek. “Sorry, Gina. How are you?”
“Well now I’m fine. Hmm. I think it’s about
ready.”
Jack takes
note of the stove area, which is surrounded by walls of brick the color of
sunshine. “Wow. Pretty cool.”
“Salvaged
from an apartment building in Tacoma, Washington,” says Ben. “Circa 1913. They
had a fire five years ago – too much water damage to salvage the joint. Got
those bricks for a song.”
“Wow,” says
Jack. “So you did this all yourself?”
Gina
chuckles. “You ain’t seen nothin’
yet. Tell you what. Why don’t we do this buffet-style? Everybody grab a bowl.”
Jack
fetches a bowl from the table and Gina fills it up, ladling from the bottom of
the pot where all the sea-creatures lurk. His first few bites draw calamari,
mussels, clam and some kind of whitefish. The broth is a thick, creamy red with
an irresistible tang.
“Mamma
mia!” he says. “This is heaven.”
“Grazie,”
says Gina. “Once in a while, a gal’s gotta prove she’s Roman Catholic.”
“So where
are you headed next, Suzanne?”
Suzanne has
to wait until she finishes with a chunk of eel. “San Rafael. This groovy hippie
bookstore where they host regular concerts.”
“God bless
Marin County. Geez, I might just drive up. I been trapped in Silicon Valley,
and I’m starved for culture.”
“I’d love that!”
“Besides, I
don’t know too many musical geniuses. I’m just trying to tap into your power.”
“Power’s
feeling pretty weak lately.”
“Suzanne
has had some auto misadventures,” says Ben.
Jack offers
an empathizing wince.
“I am so going to pay you back for that
alternator,” says Suzanne.
“You are not going to pay me back,” says Ben.
“And that’s an order.”
“Jerk,”
says Suzanne. “Always forcing his generosity on people.”
The talk
continues as the bellies expand, further assisted by Caesar salad, tiramisu and
a quartet of cappuccinos that Ben proudly concocts with his home espresso
machine. At the peak of group satiation, Ben makes a small theatrical
production out of folding his hands, and returns to his tour-guide patter.
“Well! Now
that we’ve got you too stuffed to make a run for it, I have a little
show-and-tell. Please – follow me.”
He walks
them around the corner and flips on the light, revealing a room with some
astounding features. The back wall, ten feet high and thirty long, is covered
in two-foot squares of slate, gray and black with hints of russet, sienna,
occasional veins of green. The colors change as you walk past, like oil spilled
on asphalt. Running along a horizontal line at the midpoint of floor and
ceiling is a series of checkerboarding squares – one under, one over –
displaying surfaces of vibrant, otherworldly color.
“Welcome to
the batcave,” says Gina.
“Forgive
her,” says Ben. “I spent many more years with this wall than with Gina, so she
is painfully jealous. In fact, I spent most of the ‘80s on this. Each of the
squares holds a particular mineral found in the United States. As part of my
post-traumatic therapy, I ventured to various dig-your-own sites across the
country, then brought my treasures back here for slicing, polishing and
fitting. Did all the work right in this room. I have since moved the equipment
to the garage, for which Gina is very grateful.”
He
approaches the first square, a cloudy pink resembling frozen grapefruit juice.
“Rose quartz. The Grafton Mine, New Hampshire.”
The next
square offers lava-lamp rings of black and green, a deep hue the color of
shamrocks. “Malachite. Bill’s Gems and Minerals, Magdalena, New Mexico.”
Square
number three is a sky blue, ranging to the kind of purple that same sky would
offer up an hour after sunset. “Labradorite. The Woodward Ranch, Alpine,
Texas.”
Number four
serves up rings of blood red, cream white and several shades between.
“Carnelian, a variation of chalcedony. Place called the Rockhound – a bed and
breakfast, believe it or not, in Gila, New Mexico.”
The fifth
square is a bright yellow, with shadings of pumpkin. “Limonite. Tempe, Arizona,
the Fat Jack Mine. The place was, quite literally, a dump: piles of crystals
that gold miners tossed aside on their way to the good stuff.”
He leads
them through ten more squares, then sits them around a long glass coffee table
spotted with white, green and brown. Gina serves them a dessert wine in tiny
glasses.
“I hate to
pack any more information into my small, small brain,” says Jack. “But what’s
the deal with this table?”
“Ah yes!”
says Ben. “Got this from a shop on the Oregon Coast. A young lady there took
bits of sea glass and encased them in clear casting resin. From what I understand,
you pour the stuff into a mold, let a layer of it dry solid, then scatter bits
of glass and pour another layer, et cetera. It is, however, extremely toxic.
You have to be awfully careful.”
“Awesome,”
says Jack.
The
cioppino and mineral-talk have left everyone a little sluggish, and the
conversation comes to a halt. Ben lets the pause have its way for a while, then
sets down his glass and places a hand on either knee.
“All this
rock stuff has little to do with the reason for this gathering. But for anyone
who sees the house for the first time, it’s a bit of a necessary evil.”
“Nonsense,”
says Gina. “He cherishes any opportunity to show off his rocks.”
“There are
so many places to go with that
comment,” says Jack. “But I am just going to pass.”
Ben breaks out
his trademark laugh, a husky growl. “I thank you for your discretion. And now,
it’s time for me to spill my guts, and tell you a story that may have
considerable bearing on your respective futures.”
There is,
actually, one connection between this story and the story of the wall. Rocks.
Soon after the fire, I rented a cottage near San Gregorio, and I made it my
assignment to walk the beach every day. I think you know, beaches are tonics,
and I sorely needed to keep moving or die. I began to tire of the beach at San
Gregorio, though, and I began to wander south, eventually to discover the beach
where we do the house-burnings. For a man desperately seeking respite, that
beach was a godsend. The sandstone cliffs were high and grand, and blocked out
the treacherously evil world, leaving me alone with my thoughts. And I began to
find some fascination with the rocks that washed up at the ocean’s edge. I
began to take interesting specimens home, and found a guidebook so I could put
names to their faces. Rocks were something I had never really considered
before. I began to notice that a lot of my fellow rockhounds were older men,
and came to the conclusion that this interest was related to an increasing
awareness of mortality. Rocks are the oldest things that we come into contact
with, and they are everywhere around us.
You’ve seen
how it is on that beach. The surf can be savage, especially in a storm. I found
additional diversion in the objects that washed up. Pieces of sea glass, the
occasional Japanese net float, life jackets, surf boards, a paddle, a buoy –
one time an entire rowboat. Having no desire to drag a boat up a trail, I left
it there, and the next day it was gone. I indulged in the happy vision of some
local teenager finding it on Pescadero Beach and rowing it all around the
lagoon.
On a day in
late autumn, I was walking along the shore, returning to the trail, when I
spotted a yellow rope sticking out of the sand. Well! Naturally I had to
inspect, and when I gave it a tug, up came one corner of a fishing net. Well of
course then I had to find out what
was in the net. Problem was, the net was buried in a layer of rocks just
beneath the sand. I set to work digging it free, but I kept jamming my
fingertips against the rocks. It was pretty brutal. And it was getting dark.
And cold. A jogger cruised by, giving me a look like I was crazy. Then I caught
a sharp edge with my index finger and began to bleed.
None of
this mattered. Certain treacherous thoughts kept me from leaving that beach. If
I came back the next day, the net, like the rowboat, would be gone. If I read
in the papers about some surfer digging up Jimmy Hoffa’s mummified corpse. Or a
Japanese sub from WWII. Or a monstrous fish long thought to be extinct.
So I dug.
And I pulled on the net. And dug some more. And shook my aching fingers, tossed
aside a thousand pebbles, and cursed. And dug some more. I was almost set to
call it a night when I gave a powerful, pissed-off yank and it all came up:
sand, rocks, fishing net, and one blue-and-white, mid-sized plastic cooler.
Well
whoop-di-freakin’-do. Right? Local Man Unearths Pastrami Sandwiches. But of
course by then I had to know the
exact depth of my defeat, what species of moldering, chitter-infested former
picnic lay inside. So I held my breath and gave the latch a tug. A quick check
with my keychain flashlight revealed beer. To be exact, a twelve-pack of
Budweiser. My relief at the absence of spoiled foodstuffs introduced a very bad
idea into my head. I was going to get
something for my labor.
I rescued a
can from the soggy, disintegrating carton, reached for the tab and found
nothing but smooth surface. So I turned it over and found the same thing. It
was like finding a baby with no belly button. Then I noticed how light it was –
not at all like something holding a liquid. I tried the flashlight again, and
found a seam across its midsection. I gave a nudge here, a tug there, then
grabbed the bottom half as I unscrewed the top. I pulled the two halves apart
and discovered that each contained a tightly packed roll of paper. Prying the
top roll from its container, I saw the face of Benjamin Franklin and nearly
passed out.
I lugged
the cooler to the top of the trail, set it on my passenger seat and drove home.
When I arrived, I had to remind myself that a man carrying a cooler is not an unusual or suspicious sight. Once
inside, I locked myself in the bathroom, shut the window and counted my booty.
Two hundred and twelve thousand dollars.
The next
day, I worked up the nerve to abandon my cooler – deep in the corner of my
bedroom closet – while I went to the library at Half Moon Bay to search the
newspapers for any crime that might match up with my treasure. I found nothing.
Then I checked out every book I could find on crime in general and bank
robberies in specific. When I got home, I allowed myself one quick peek at the
green, just for reassurance. I immediately made it a rule: one peek only, once
a day, and only when no one else was around.
About one
thing, I had already made up my mind: I was keeping it. Screw this bullshit Boy
Scout ideal of turning it in to the authorities. This came nine months after
the fire, and it provided more than just a little karmic payback. It convinced
me that the world was not composed entirely of treachery and disaster, that to
every great tragedy there might be an unexpected windfall, a sunny day that
takes away your breath. Maybe a beautiful woman who makes your heart do
gymnastics. And that these – or even
the possibility of these – were the reasons you went on living.
So I took my robbery books
to the general store, ordered a huge cup of java and dove in. The patterns were
immediately clear. Those who gave themselves away did so in the classic ways:
rivalry with cohorts, too many witnesses (too many mouths) and, primarily, ostentation.
Blessed with a situation in which I was absolutely alone in the world, and had
no witnesses to my find, I had only one problem to prevent: no showing off. And
I had one quite famous example to follow: The Great Train Robbery, in which the
British perpetrators kept their secret for decades simply by giving away no
sign of financial gain.
I kept my
job. I kept my little cottage. For the big layouts, I continued using my
checking account. But for everyday expenses, I dipped into the cooler. Groceries.
New tires. Dinner on a Saturday night. Only a psychic could have detected a
difference in my spending patterns – and even that could be explained by a
larger-then-expected insurance settlement.
Meanwhile,
my checking account grew, and eventually I was able to move to Aptos, to take
on the mortgage payments for this house, to pay for tuition and textbooks, and
eventually to earn my psych degree at UC Santa Cruz. After that, I became a
life coach.
Suzanne and
Jack are both feeling a little astonished and disoriented – and halfway
expecting Ben to confess that he made it all up. This is not the kind of thing
that happens in the life of a real person. It’s apparent from Gina’s bemused
expression that she has already heard the story. Ben is taking in their reactions
with an excited attention; he has obviously had few opportunities to relate
this particular series of events. He takes a sip from his wine and plants it on
the table, signalling the second phase of his presentation.
“So here’s
where I get all Wizard of Oz on your ass. I have had occasion to give out
portions of my cooler fund to noble causes. One of these was Barbie, when she
first moved to New York to further her career. The money comes with the
understanding that it will be used in the same manner that I used it. Just for
the everyday stuff. You want a new car, you save up your own money, and write a
check from your account. No spending large amounts of cash. No ostentation.
Jack
realizes that Ben is giving them instructions.
He feels a flush of heat rising to his face, and takes a sip of wine just to
have something to do. Ben shifts so he’s facing Suzanne across the table.
“Suzanne, I
don’t need to explain my decision to include you. You are extraordinarily
talented. Your pursuit of your dream is both inspiring and courageous. It was
the news of your recent travails, in fact, that inspired me to fast-forward
this meeting. I was originally going to wait until after the wedding. But when
I saw how dire your situation was…”
“I…” That’s
all she can get out, because she’s crying.
“I’m giving
you twenty thousand dollars. I’m giving the same amount to Jack.”
Despite
proverbial mandates regarding gift horses, Jack is unable to keep the word from
his lips. “Why? I mean, why me?”
“Well may
you ask. Your cause is not so clear-cut as Suzanne’s. But I do believe there’s
something equally of value at stake. I realize that our New Year’s escapades
cost you any future you might have had with numbers. But I think that you don’t
appreciate your own talents. I am a pretty keen observer of human intuition and
empathy, and am generally able to recognize those who have exceptional skills
in these areas. That’s you, Jack. I believe you were a savant just waiting for
the right opportunity to blossom – for the right disaster to thrust you out of
your comfortable existence. The way you took in all of these different lives –
the monkey, the burner, the opera patron – mulled them over, adapted to them,
understood them. In an earlier time, you would have been drafted into a life as
a shaman.
“So that’s
what I’m doing. I’m drafting you. And I know all about your house, your
mortgage, your severance deadline. That’s why I want you to move here, to this
house. I’ll be moving to Gina’s ranch, but we’d prefer to hang onto this place
till the market improves. So we’d like you to be our caretaker, to keep my
mineral squares polished – and to keep a room open for Suzanne, whenever she’s
in town. Meanwhile, I would ask that you take some classes in psychology,
occupational therapy, sociology. Find your niche. You have talents, Jack, and
I’m betting the remainder of my treasure on your devoting those talents to the
betterment of your fellow Californians. Is this all acceptable to you?”
This should
be a difficult and complicated decision. This should take days. But the
barometer in Jack’s head has lined up to perfection, and the gathered light
from 15 mineral squares is brewing inside his brain.
“Yes.”
Ben raises
his glass and stands. Suzanne and Jack follow.
“To your
futures. Your brilliant futures. Gina – the containers?”
Gina goes
to the pantry and returns with two ordinary-looking red aluminum toolboxes.
“So not
that I don’t appreciate it, honey, but any reason for this fancy-ass lunch?”
Jack gazes
past Audrey’s shoulder at the pier outside. A squad of sea lions are waddling
along a series of rafts, begging scraps from the Cannery Row tourists.
“What?
Can’t spend a Benjamin or two on my honey?”
Audrey
smiles in her most appealing fashion. “I’m just concerned about your near
future.”
“Came into
a windfall,” says Jack. “I’ll be staying at Ben’s place for the next couple of
years. Rent-free. And I’m going back to school.”
“Psychology?”
Jack halts
a forkful of salmon. “Someone told you?”
“We’ve all
known it, Jack. For a long time.”
Jack
laughs. “Well I wish someone woulda told me.”
Audrey
chuckles. “We didn’t want your girlfriend to get jealous.”
“Numbers?”
“Long may
she weep.”
Photo by MJV
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