Dignity - a novel - 5. Chapter 5: Carousel Horses

Chapter 5: Carousel Horses

The bus population thinned out at Flagstaff.

After we rolled up, I was the one who jumped off the bus first, and ran to get some stuff – bag of Doritos, couple cans of Rockstar, some Oreos – and waited until I saw the creep pass by, and into the diner.

So, while 'fatso' is stuffing himself, I get back on the bus, grab my book from the front seat, and snatch my duffel bag from above where I had been sitting most of the way from Cincy.

I head back, all the way back, and stretch out. Hell, I should've done this earlier. It's like a sofa back here, and the moms and little kids are all the way up front.

Slowly the creep's comments on being a good son nag at me. What does he know, anyway? Is his son good to him? To him, a creepy A-hole who would probably proposition the kid's buddies for sex? Gross – and f-in hypocritical! It makes me sick in my gut to consider it. 'Be a good son.' Fuk him, what does he know of anything anyway? Does he know what it's like to be the odd one out? To be the youngest in a family that already has a 'perfect son' and a 'perfect daughter?' My brother, the first-born, has always been my mom's favorite, and she can't deny that, and my older sister is like a little mini Hummel-figurine clone of our mom. Perfect, perfect, perfect.

My mom will call out their names when she wants something, or wants them to present themselves, and she will tag on things like "dear," or "sweetie." But, with me, it's always "Jack, do this," or "Jack, why'd you do that?" She never sticks a kind, little sweet nothing at the end of my name. Never.

It makes me pause and be sick that I've never been good enough – never cut the grade, so fuk fat-ass 'Roger,' solar panel salesman, for telling me to be a 'good son.'

He knows nothing about it. And yet, I guess he knows I am a runaway. Funny though, I did not consider myself to be that; but for one, I guess he's right – I am a runaway – and two, I need to work on making myself look less like one.

'Phew! – Be a good son!' That sticks in my craw. Who does he think he is? My stomach knots; I better eat something. He knows nothing about my situation.

I fish out the Oreos – LOL, dessert first! – but then I kinda stop. Maybe I'm not even sure, I mean, I don’t even know if my mom loves me, and if she does, how much does she anyway?

˚˚˚˚˚

The bus is back on the highway now – clack, clack, clack – slapping the seams of pavement sections in a soothing rhythm.

It's dark, and a lot of people have rolled over and gone to sleep. A few more hours, and the final stop before L.A. will be done with. Come on, Barstow, then San Bernardino, you are the last two hurtles to be free and clear of. After that, it's on to the big lights and warm surf of Los Angeles!

I'm back into Catcher in the Rye. Holden Caulfield has just been to a nightclub – snuck in, like a good 'bad boy' teenager should – but, it seems weird that he likes Big Band music. I guess it's weird, cuz reading it, I keep forgetting that the book is set in the 1950's, the early 50's too, until something jars me out of thinking that Holden is going through this stuff today.

I have relented a little on thinking that he's a snively little twerp. Now, the tireder and tireder I get, I can sympathize with him. He too is having a hard time finding a place to rest. The kid is tired, and so am I. He can't relax, cuz the world is a phony, fake-ass place, and every grown-up in it seems to be on the make. Like everyone wants a piece of this kid, and all he wants, and can't get, is some peace and quiet. Well, it just hits me, he wants rest and some fuking love from somebody.

I'm so into my book, I don’t see the asshole salesman coming up the aisle. I've kicked off my sneakers, and pulled my socked-feet up onto the seat. I lounge with knees up, and only a part of my back and shoulders is pressed against the seat. My fingers are up by my mouth, when l glance over, and see 'Roger' hovering in front of me.

I stiffen up right away, and glare at him – no pun intended on the 'stiffen,' LOL, ewww – as if!

"Why don’t you come back to our seat?" he asks me slyly.

"Leave me alone. I mean it."

"I just think we got off on the wrong foot, that’s all."

"Well, that's where we'll have to leave it."

"Don’t act all coy. I know what you want."

I try to keep my voice low and steady, so he knows that I am serious. "Fuk the hell off, right now."

He tries to touch my knee. I slap away his hand and stand up.

"Look, old man, just because I'm young, and maybe in a bind, you can't expect me to be willing to service a creep like you, just because you have money."

His face slowly draws up from the sort of lecherous leer that had been locked on it, to a growing wrinkle around his eyes. This set of intensifying lines fall into his mouth to become a full-blown frown of hate.

He pulls back, adjusts his suit pants, and goes over to the restroom door. Click, he is in the crapper, and I can sit back down.

I feel something odd, and reach under my butt. I yank out Catcher, and pat it in my hand a few times.

'Yeah,' I think. 'A phony fuking world, and I hate it.'

˚˚˚˚˚

I don’t sleep. Four AM comes and goes, and leaves me on edge, but at last, we pull into Barstow. I watch 'Roger,' salesman and creep, fade off into the terminal with his briefcase and suit bag.

Two hours to go, and by the time the sun is coming up, I will be there, at my journey's end.

Let's see. If it's four here, it's 7 AM in Cincinnati.

I pull out my phone and charger. Better get a full battery, cuz who knows when I'll be next to an outlet again. The bus has power jacks at every row of seats, something I saw earlier, but didn't think to use till now.

I plug it in and the screen lights up bright.

I text Dawn:

2 hrs awy from Emerald City, LOL. 2day I will c the ocean. Take it easy. Luv, Sean **//

[I'm two hours away from the Emerald City, laugh out loud. Today I will see the ocean. Take it easy. Love, Sean – wink, wink, nudge, nudge.]

I hit 'send,' then I feel sleepy. I lay back and close my eyes. By the time the bus is rolling again, I see impressions of yellow bricks; of poppies; and of a glasswork set of spires in the near distance, and funny enough, with each clack, clack, clack of the roadway rumbling up through the floor of the bus, and – up through the seat springs – into my body trying but unable to get some rest, those green-tinted and bejeweled spires of crystal come closer and closer to me on my path.

˚˚˚˚˚

I sit up when the light on the horizon turns from a sooty gray to a smoggy orange.

The bus is slowing, and turns off the Interstate. Now city streets and stoplights slow us down further, and my anticipation grows to a state of antsy nervousness.

We enter downtown, where glass giants compete for the most attention against the terracotta queens of a bygone age. More and more people seem to be on the sidewalks.

And then, there it is. We slow and pull into a warehouse-looking building with the bus company's logo on it. Behind it are row upon row of curbs that have the vague appearance of ship docks. Our bus swings around and glides against one of these.

Gee Whoop! The brakes go on. All is still. The door opens and the driver's voice calls out: "Los Angeles; City of Angels. All off please!"

I get my phone, my charger, my bag, and my book, then stand in the aisle as others gather belongings and kids, and funnel out the door. I'll be the last one out, but guess what? – I'm in no hurry, LOL!

Outta that bus at last, and now I pass through open aluminum doors into a waiting area. Hundreds of people are scattered around here, all on blue metal mesh seats like they have at the airport. To the right is a sign that says "Visitor Information."

I scan the stuff sealed under Plexiglas, and see a big map of the subway system. I look around, and sure enough, there are little folded-up maps and schedules for the various candy-colored lines. I grab one of each and check the big map to see where I want to go – the place I want to go first.

Out of the station, the air is fresh and cool, but not too cool for six in the morning. I know which way to head for the subway station, so I start to hike it. There are quite a few people out and about, although no one really seems to be in much of a hurry to get anyplace – I guess that makes them all 'cool,' LOL – and I hear a lot of Spanish.

Too bad I hated Spanish class last year when I was a freshman. IDK, maybe now I could use some of the stuff I never bothered to learn!

Down in the subway, the crowd changes, for now I see suits on both the men and women, and newspapers are held up as shields before their own faces.

My train comes. I get on, and stand by the door.

A few stops later, the car empties, and I think tiredly about reverse commuters, or some such bullshit. I wonder how Holden Caulfield would rip them a new one for being so conformist. Anyway, I can sit down now.

Maybe I take a quick nap, cuz the announcer comes on and says "End of the line." Cool. I sling my bag, and stand expectantly on the escalator taking me up and out of the station.

As soon as I am delivered to the top step, I feel it. The sea breeze is like my cup of coffee in the morning, and it slaps me mildly. On the other side of the road – and its noise of traffic – I can make out the sound of surf, and of seagulls too.

Santa Monica! Fuk yeah; I'm here at last.

I cross the street, which is labeled "Highway 1," and head down a big flight of steps. Now I am standing in the sand, and I have to do it.

I plop down, Indian-style, and rip off my Converse. My socks follow and I stuff them into my shoes. I roll up the bottom of my jean cuffs, and tie my shoelaces together. Standing, I toss the linked sneakers over my shoulder, and walk straight towards the water.

To my left, as I go along it, are the supports to a long wooden pier, and funny thing is, there must be some carnival ride, or rides, on top of it, cuz I hear circus music – you know, a calliope playing somewhere – although it is not very loud.

The sound of surf grows stronger and stronger, and the sand becomes moist between my toes. It squishes higher and higher along the inside of my little piggies the closer and closer I get to the waves, LOL.

Not only is the crash of the water more obvious, but so too is the feel of moisture on my face. It is as if the heavy weight of salt dissolved in the fingers of ocean lapping the coast not only corrode the rocks into silky sand, but grinds the particles of air into a dewy softness.

The air is wet, and that briny atmosphere feels so good to my stale-air choked lungs, and also on my face and lips, as it finagles its way into my mouth when I lick it off.

I keep going, and the first finger of a wave comes up to my feet and washes over them. The foamy water is like a tiny jolt to the system: cool and enlivening. The ocean pulls back instantly, and my pace hurries to catch up with it.

Now the water crashes back to me up to the ankles, and the arches of my tootsies are soaked, as they melt into the sand around them.

I lift my line of sight, and before me is a towering wall of grayness that is only broken by the glinting ruffles of waves. These moving currents of the ocean's power crest and fall under their own weight, while they are still coming in to wash the shore. The sky is like a dull-colored muffler laying over the shoulders of a woman about to go out of doors on a winter's day, only here, this lady is the Pacific Ocean, and she is laying under a blanket of insulating fog. It stays out to sea, about a mile or two from the beach, but still seems to be the source of the coolness on my lips and cheeks. It’s like an air-conditioning unit in suspended animation; one that chills even by being switched off.

I keep going. The water goes up to my knees, and the sand burying my toes feels very, very squishy.

For the first time in a long time, I can pause, and think to myself, 'This is it. Now, now – I feel alive.'

˚˚˚˚˚

I find a spot on the beach and lay out with my hands behind my head. I close my eyes, and the morning sun, just coming to bear over my shoulder, feels fantastic. I prop my hands under my back, at the place where my kidneys are, and lift myself to a half-sitting position, but even so, I continue to let my head loll back. I just let the light, and the gentle sea breeze, which is tender with moisture and warmed by the sun, dry me from my initial ocean dip.

The childlike music from the mysterious Santa Monica Pier drifts back into my ears. The sound begins to move a visual aura around my sight: a close-up of carousel horses bobbing and circling round and round. I let it flow, and I calmly let myself acknowledge where I have seen this dreamlike trance before.

I sit up fully and cross my legs under me. I open my bag and fish out my phone. I begin to text Dawn:

I made it. On the beach now. Its perfect. TUL

I lay back down, and close my eyes again. The carousel horses continue their graceful dance, as my mind animates them off of the cover of J. D. Salinger's Catcher in the Rye.

Truth be told, here and now, removed from all realities and from all sense of responsibility and connectedness with my fellow humans, I can honestly say that for the first time in my life, I feel happy.

Really, truly, fuking happy.

A small point, but currently the Red Line extension of the Los Angeles subway system – that will go all the way to Santa Monica Pier – is under construction. That means Dignity is set in the future by some small amount of time