The Quotable Evans Page 11

  Dr. Fordham’s office was quiet and mostly dark. We were the only ones there. She was dressed comfortably in jeans and baby-blue canvas tennis shoes. It was the first time I’d seen her dressed down.

  “It’s casual Saturday,” I said.

  “I hope that’s okay. I’m meeting a friend after our session.”

  “Of course. I’m grateful that you’d meet with me on a Saturday.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” she said. “Come in.”

  I walked into the office ahead of her and sat in my usual place on the right end of her couch. Dr. Fordham sat in her chair.

  “Oh, I brought you a coffee.” She grabbed a paper coffee cup from her desk then rolled her chair over to me. “Here you are.”

  I took it. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, as she rolled back to her desk. “So how are you?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Are you ready for your tour?”

  I took a deep breath. “Physically I am, but emotionally . . .” I shook my head. “I’m a little worried.”

  “About what?”

  “I’m having trouble getting the fire in my belly, you know?”

  “You don’t feel passionate about it,” she said, restating my problem.

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Lack of passion sometimes occurs when our stated goals are incongruent with our inner desires. So the question is, do you believe in what you’re doing?” As usual, she had zeroed right in on the heart of my problem.

  “I believe in making money,” I said. “And I believe in my ability to succeed.”

  “Then what do you think is the problem?”

  I looked down for a moment, then back up into her eyes. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  “That’s not a bad thing.”

  “It is in my business.”

  “Then maybe you’re in the wrong kind of business.”

  I looked down again. “This is probably something we shouldn’t tackle this close to my tour. The missiles are already launched.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “So I had this experience I wanted to tell you about. Last Sunday I had dinner with an old colleague of mine. Actually, he was my mentor. He was the one who got me into the business. He told me to get out of it.”

  “How did you feel about that?”

  “I was defensive. But part of me wondered if he was right. But then I felt like a quitter.”

  “It’s not always wrong to quit. We should never hang on to a mistake just because we spent a lot of time making it.”

  “You’re pretty wise,” I said.

  “Now and then,” she replied. “So when we left off last time, you had just met your wife, Monica, on a bus. We were going to talk more about that.”

  I took a deep breath. “Let’s see. After we arrived in Los Angeles, she invited me to stay with her for a few days.”

  “And did you?”

  “It turned out to be a lot longer than that.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Monica has everything I want in a girl except the absence of a rich boyfriend.

  —CHARLES JAMES’S DIARY

  SEVENTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  Los Angeles, California

  The evening I arrived in Los Angeles, Monica and I went for a walk around her neighborhood. Even though I’d never heard of Culver City before, the place was famous. The original MGM Studios, now Sony Pictures, was located in Culver City. Also Howard Hughes’s aircraft company was here. A lot of movies were filmed there. They still are. I definitely wasn’t in Ogden anymore.

  Before we went home we stopped for dinner at a place called Signature Burger. Monica ordered for me their specialty, the Aloha—a large two-patty hamburger with a slice of pineapple. I’d never even heard of such a thing. It seemed like fine dining to me. On our way back to the house I asked her who Josh was.

  “He’s my boyfriend,” she said.

  It bothered me that she had a boyfriend. Deeply.

  “How long have you been with him?”

  “A couple of years.”

  “Where’d you meet?”

  “At a party. After my parents divorced I went a little crazy and started partying a lot. I’ve read that sometimes happens when kids’ parents separate. I’m not saying it’s an excuse; it’s a reason.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “One night Carly and I went to this party at a friend of a friend’s place. As the night went on, someone brought out acid. I had gotten drunk a few times and smoked weed, but I’d never used hard drugs. I had promised myself that was a line I wouldn’t cross. But there was a lot of peer pressure. I was really scared but still about to do it when this older guy I’d never seen before came up and took my arm and said, ‘Let’s go.’ He said he could tell that I didn’t want to do it. Neither did he. He said that his work drug-tested and he made way too much money to go down that way. He was kind of my savior that night. He drove me to a pancake house and we talked to like three in the morning.

  “It turned out that he’s a military brat like me, except his dad has a high rank. He’s, like, almost a general. He lived in Germany for his high school years, so he didn’t have a lot of friends in L.A. We started hanging out. He’s really smart. He speaks fluent German and has a really good job with a big German company. He makes a lot of money.”

  I turned to her. “Is that important to you?”

  “That he makes a lot of money? No. But it’s a lot better than being poor.”

  “Like me.”

  “Like us,” she said.

  When we got back to her street there was a brown Ford Ranger truck parked in her driveway. Its bed was crowded with lawn mowers and other landscaping implements.

  “Looks like your yard guy is here,” I said.

  Monica laughed. “I’m the yard guy. You think I can afford to have someone mow my lawn? That’s Ryan. Carly must have told him about you. He really is desperate.”

  As we walked up to the house, a tall, twentysomething man with light-brown hair and a receding hairline got out of the truck. I could see his resemblance to Carly.

  “Hey, Ryan,” Monica said.

  “Money,” he said. “You know how long I’ve been here waiting for you?”

  Money?

  “Then maybe you should have made an appointment,” Monica threw back.

  He walked toward us and we met at the center of the front lawn. “This the guy?” he asked, looking me over.

  “I’m Charles,” I said.

  “Charles or Chuck?” Before I could answer he said, “Doesn’t matter, I’ll come up with a nickname for you anyway. How old are you?”

  I fudged my age a bit. “Eighteen.”

  “Let me see your hands.”

  “Do you always say that when you first meet someone?” Monica asked.

  “I’m a palm reader,” he said.

  “It’s cool,” I said. “I get it.” I raised my hands. “You know, Jesse James used to ask the people he was robbing to show him their hands. If they had workingman’s hands, he wouldn’t rob them.”

  “I always knew I had outlaw blood in me.”

  “Charles really does,” Monica said. “Jesse James was his great-great-great-grandfather.”

  “Really,” Ryan said. “So judging from your hands, you work for a living.”

  “Yes, sir. My father does yard work. So do I.”

  He turned to Monica. “Did you hear that? He called me sir. I like that. No one in California has manners. You don’t know any Spanish, do you?”

  “Some,” I said. “Hablo español lo suficiente para sobrevivir. Comprendo más de lo que hablo.”

  “That’s pretty good. High school Spanish?”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “So Monica told you that I’m hiring.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can you start tomorrow?”

  “I could start tonight.”

  “We’re not working to
night. We start at five forty-five a.m. That a problem for you?”

  “No. I always got up early to work.”

  “Good. It gets hot here. We start early so we can siesta during the heat of the day. Be waiting outside. Nothing makes the crew madder than waiting around for someone, and you don’t want to start your first day on the wrong foot.”

  “I’ll be ready. What’s the pay?”

  “Eleven dollars an hour.”

  I glanced at Monica then back at him. “Monica said you paid twelve.”

  “Monica’s not signing the checks.”

  Monica crossed her arms at her chest and looked at him indignantly. He glanced at her and then breathed out. “All right. Let’s see how you do.”

  “You won’t be disappointed,” I said.

  “Good. I hate being disappointed. See you mañana.”

  He got back in his truck and drove away.

  After he left, Monica said, “Sorry. Carly told me twelve.”

  “I’ll get twelve,” I said. “He calls you Money?”

  “He has a nickname for everyone. He calls Carly Carl’s Jr. It’s just his thing. He’ll have one for you.” Her brow fell. “How do you speak such good Spanish?”

  “My father’s Mexican.”

  “Now I feel stupid about asking you if you mind working with Mexicans.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I don’t look Mexican.”

  “Your last name isn’t Mexican.”

  “It was,” I said. “It was Gonzales. I changed it to James. But I’m one-quarter Mexican.”

  “That’s good.”

  “That I changed my name or that I’m Mexican?”

  “The Mexican part,” she said, turning back to the house. “We’re having tacos for dinner tomorrow night.”

  I soon understood why Monica had said what she did about her mother. I didn’t see her for the first week. In fact, I had pretty much forgotten that Monica’s mother existed until one night when I woke at three in the morning to incoherent shouting and screaming.

  I jumped out of bed thinking someone was attacking Monica. When I opened my door I could hear Monica’s calm voice. “C’mon, Mom. Let’s just go to bed.”

  I met her mother the next day after work. As I walked into the house, sweaty and grimy from the day, there was an older, attractive but worn-looking woman sitting at the kitchen table with a beer in front of her and smoking a cigarette. She screamed when she saw me. “Get out! Monica, call 911, there’s an intruder!”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, backing out the door with my hands up. “Don’t call the police.”

  “Mom, no,” Monica said, running into the room. “That’s Charles.”

  Her mother’s eyes darted back and forth between Monica and me. “Who’s Charles?”

  “He’s my friend. He’s been staying here.”

  She examined me for a moment, took a drag on her cigarette, then said, “Is he paying rent?”

  That’s all she said about me living there. Ever. I discovered that the woman lived in her own world—one that barely included her own daughter.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It seems to me that there was a time when hard work was more prized than the clever avoidance of it.

  —CHARLES JAMES’S DIARY

  I liked working for Ryan, which is why I stayed with him for more than three years. After my first day at work he agreed to start me at twelve dollars an hour. After that, I really didn’t see much of him. He managed things from his home, only appearing on the job now and then to inspect our work or to meet with one of our clients. After seven months, he made me the crew manager and I got a raise to eighteen dollars an hour and a truck to drive.

  As promised, Ryan came up with a nickname for me. Desperado. Monica rolled her eyes when I told her, but I liked it. It fit my Jesse James persona. The rest of the crew liked it as well. It was all they called me. El Desperado.

  Ryan had three crews. The seven-man crew I started with, then eventually ran, were all Mexican immigrants. They lived together in a Compton studio apartment with a hot plate, a refrigerator they had salvaged from the home of a client, and a small black-and-white television. I didn’t know you could still find black-and-white televisions. I never saw the inside of their place, Ryan just told me about it.

  My coworkers’ names were José Luis, Alejandro, Miguel, and Jorge. Two of the crew were undocumented immigrants: a second Miguel (who we called Miguel Jr. or “Miguel Dos”) and Jesús.

  They were all hardworking guys, but especially Miguel Jr. and Jesus, who sent almost all their income back to family in Mexico. I respected their familial loyalty but I would as soon burn my money as send it to my dad, though I did occasionally send money to my mom and Mike.

  My first three months in California, I sent a postcard or letter home every week. Sometimes with money. For Mike’s birthday, I sent him some expensive sneakers I’d never seen in Utah. I never heard back from him about whether they fit or not. In fact, they never once wrote me at all. Not even my mother. At first I made excuses for them, but, as time went on, the excuses didn’t hold up. Eventually I assumed that they didn’t care about me anymore and stopped writing. It hurt, but I had left them first. I guess I had it coming.

  The yards we cared for were in obscenely wealthy areas: Beverly Hills and Pacific Palisades. The homes were spectacularly landscaped with large palm trees, fountains, koi ponds, water features, roaming peacocks, hot tubs, and swimming pools. Technically, they weren’t really homes, they were mansions. Or palaces. Many of them had more than one swimming pool. One even had a pool for their dog, a German shepherd named Goering.

  One of the yards belonged to the TV star Adam West—the guy who played Batman in the sixties television series I watched reruns of as a kid. In my three years of working there, I saw Mr. West only once. I was edging the backyard when he walked out on the terraced brick patio in a white robe, drink in hand. I couldn’t help but stare, a little surprised at how old he was but starstruck nonetheless. He looked at me, saluted, and then walked back into his house. He could have been Medusa, as I was as frozen as the statuary around me. That was the extent of my brush with greatness. I still tell people that I mowed Batman’s lawn.

  The next day I asked Ryan if I could ring the doorbell and ask Mr. West for an autograph and he said, “Only if you want to get fired.” I never asked again. However, in my next paycheck envelope there was a scrawled note on Adam West’s stationery that read,

  Charles, keep up the good work. Adam West.

  I suppose that it was during this time that my eyes were fully opened. I realized that there were different castes in America. People were divided not just by race but by money and fame. And while a person couldn’t change their race, they could become rich and famous. This was a powerfully liberating concept—one could change his stars just by becoming one.

  I became obsessed with the idea. Not just the wealth, but the fame and prestige. These people were more than rich, they were demigods—worshipped, feared, and obeyed. They were above the law. They acted badly because people expected it of them and responded to it. They were American royalty. I had finally found what I was looking for. I wanted what they had.

  On the home front, things were going well with Monica and me until Josh got back. Considering my growing feelings for Monica, it wasn’t surprising that I took an instant dislike to him. But I doubt I would have liked him anyway. He was as arrogant as a peacock and I’d had enough of arrogant pretty boys in Utah to last my whole life.

  The first time I met Josh I had just gotten home from working overtime on a grueling, dirty job. My whole body, head included, was coated in sweat and dirt, and my arms were covered in scratches and dried blood. We had worked extra hours ripping out a thorny rose garden. Still, I was in a good mood because it was the weekend. I planned to clean up and then, with my overtime money, take Monica to dinner and a show. I never got the chance.

  “You’re home late,” she said as I walked in. She looked me ove
r. “What happened to you?”

  “We had to tear out twenty yards of rosebushes. You should see Jorge. He looks like a mountain lion got him. He’s ripped to shreds. Want to go out for dinner?”

  “I’d love to, but I’m going out. I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you.”

  “Oh,” I said. “With Carly?”

  “No. With Josh. He’s back in town.” I didn’t say anything, and she looked at me quizzically. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I’m just tired. And hungry.”

  “Put a frozen burrito in the microwave. We’ve still got some of those bean and green chili ones you like.”

  Just then someone honked three times. Monica groaned. “Oh no, he’s here. I’m not ready. Will you tell him to come in?”

  Before I could answer, she turned and ran back to the bathroom. Then as I walked to the door, someone pounded on it. Not knocked, pounded. I opened it. Josh’s hand was raised and about to hit the door again. He froze when he saw me.

  I looked him over. He looked much older than me, even though Monica had told me he was only a few years older. He was slight of build and dressed in a stiff button-down shirt and tight, feminine slacks. Parked on the street behind him was a baby-blue Mercedes convertible with its top down.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I’m the landscaper,” I said. “Monica’s not ready yet. She wanted me to tell you to come in and wait.”

  He shook his head, looking put out. “Women,” he said beneath his breath.

  I stepped away from the door as he stepped inside.

  “So you’re the yard guy?” he said.

  “Not really.” I put out my hand to shake. “I’m Charles.”

  He looked at my hand but didn’t take it. “You’re covered with dirt.”

  “Yeah. I work for a living.”

  He smirked. “I guess someone has to.”