HOPE FOR CHANGE... But Settle for a Bailout (5 page)

“Shit,” said Lori, restarting with her left
foot all the way down on the clutch and her right foot on the gas
pedal. Lori slowly eased her left foot upwards and the car jerked
forward. She made the right turn onto PCH.

“Didn’t they have stick shifts in the army?”
asked Larry.

“Just because I fixed ‘em doesn’t mean I
like driving ‘em.” Lori shifted. “You know I’ve always been a bike
person.”

Larry and Lori passed quietly through the
working-class town of Wilmington, before cutting across the narrow
strip of Los Angeles known as Harbor City which, with Harbor
Gateway, connects the port and harbor area to the rest of the city.
Beyond, in Torrance, the working-class made way for the
middle-class until, as P.C.H. wound into the Beach Cities, retail
and beachfront high-rises suggested wealth and leisure.

“You don’t seem too excited about this
‘being rich’ thing,” said Lori.

“Oh, no, I totally am,” said Larry, watching
suburbia pass by. “I wanna send an email to someone,” he said.
“Find out if she can meet us up there, or maybe go with us.”

“What do you mean, ‘go up with us?’” asked
Lori, as she slowed and began actively checking individual street
signs. “You aren’t just cashing this thing down here?”

“I gotta do this right,” said Larry, pulling
a bag of chips from his still-teeming bag of snack food. “I wanna
cash this up in Sacramento.”

Lori broke hard approaching a red light,
sending them both forward into the unyielding seatbelts.
“Sacramento!” Lori yelled. “We can’t take this car to Sacramento.
It’s not even my car, Larry, if you remember. I don’t have a car.
You don’t, either. Remember?”

Larry ate chips. “Maybe we can just do a
Bucksters or McDonalds for a signal.”

.

Lori slowly snaked her way down Esplanade,
until finding the high-rise matching the number she had written
down. They could hear the pounding of the ocean. She used the
plastic card the District Manager had given her to open the garage
and parked in space 128, as instructed. The card allowed them into
the elevator that carried them to the 7th floor. When Lori unlocked
the door, the sound of the ocean and smell of salt hit them both,
as the unit overlooked the beach directly below. Lori repeatedly
uttered “wow” and “amazing” as she walked through the apartment.
Larry slid the balcony door closed and closed the windows, muting
but not entirely masking the sound of the sea.

“I need the keys and that card thing,” said
Larry. “I left my tablet and our survival supplies in the car,” he
said, clutching the bag of chips he had been munching on his way up
from the garage. When he exited the elevator in the garage, a tall
redhead entered silently. Larry got to 128, gathered up the snack
bags that had spilled from the paper sack and grabbed his tablet.
He booted up the unit and stopped first at the elevator and, a
moment later, on the first floor, trying to get a signal.
Successful in the lobby, he opened Yahoo mail and typed:

To: [email protected]

Subject: Can you do Sacramento?

December, Hey, got a bunch of money coming to me. Am
gonna drive to Sac in a convertible tomorrow to get it. Do dinner
and hotel at Harris Ranch. RU available? My treat. Sky’s the limit.
— Lottery Larry

Larry put the tablet to sleep and slipped it
into the snack sack, to an audible crunch from the bags below it.
He slid the card to call the elevator. On the 7th floor, standing
outside the door, he heard yelling from inside the unit. He
unlocked the door as quietly as he could and entered silently.
Directly front of him, Larry saw the backside of the tall redhead
he passed exiting the elevator. He and Lori were struggling and
yelling.

“Stop it,” screamed Lori. “No!”

“What the...,” said the redhead, as
something smacked into the back of his head.

“You heard the lady,” said Larry, a bag of
raw, unsalted trail mix in his left hand. He chucked the bag and
hit the redhead just below the eye, causing him to grunt. Lori
broke away. Her tee-shirt was torn and she had scratches on her
face. Larry threw an oversized bag of peanut M&Ms.

“Who the fuck are you?” yelled the redhead,
as he took a bag of Doritos square in the cheek. He turned away
from Lori to face Larry.

“I’m her bodyguard, asshole,” said Larry, as
he drew close enough to push the redhead backwards. Lori went to
her knees and the redhead fell backward, lost his balance against
Lori and wound up on the floor, with Larry quickly scrambling to
get on top of him. As Lori held the redhead’s hands, Larry smooshed
and then tore open a bag of Cheetos and poured them into the
redhead’s face, concentrating the orange chip dust onto his eyes.
Larry used his other hand to smoosh the orange puffs into the
redhead’s face as Lori pulled both of the District Manager’s hands
above his head. Larry grabbed the largest intact cheese puff and
stuffed it into the redhead’s nostril and repeated it for the
other. He grabbed for the top item in Lori’s folded laundry,
pulling out a white fuzzy sock with what looked like some sort of
face on it.

“Not Lambchop,” yelled Lori, putting her
knee onto one of the redhead’s wrists as she grabbed a balled-up
pair of pantyhose from the bag and rolled them to Larry, who
stuffed them into the redhead’s mouth.

His mouth gagged, his nostrils stuffed, the
pair holding his hands and sitting on him, there was little the
District Manager could do. He shook his head and blinked rapidly,
but the orange dust was as stuck to his face as if to pre-licked
fingers. “Able to breathe?” The redhead shook his head and Larry
pulled out one of the puffs.

Larry turned the redhead onto his belly and
told Lori to switch places. Lori tightly gripped each of the
District Manager’s wrists and pushed his hands high up into his
back. Larry scrambled about, found a pen and paper and got on his
knees, leaning low so as to get face-to-face with the redhead.
Larry grabbed the kid’s hair and used it like a mop handle,
dragging his face back and forth into the orange chip debris,
smooshing it deeper into the plush cream-colored carpet. Larry
pulled the red hair and whispered into the kid’s ear.

“You’re gonna sign two notes, your
Assholiness,” said Larry. “You’re allowing Lori to borrow your car
during her vacation and you’re fine with that or we release note
two, in which you confess to having tried to rape her.” When the
redhead appeared to object, Larry reached for another cheese puff
and restuffed the empty nostril. Larry pulled out his cell phone.
“Let’s take some pictures.” Larry shot several images of the
redhead, his face caked in orange paste, chips in his nose, gagged.
Larry looked at each one and showed them, in turn, to the kid. “Now
some video,” said Larry, pointing the camera. He let go of the
kid’s hair, pulled out the pantyhose, and leaned in. “Out loud,
now: ‘It’s okay that Lori’s using my car. I tried to rape her.’
”

The redhead said nothing. Larry pushed his
face deep into the carpet, matted with food and sweat. He used a
knee to keep the redhead’s face deep in the carpet as he tore open
the pork rinds he had thrown earlier. He ground them into the
redhead’s face and repeated the instructions.

“Lori..., she is using my car... it’s okay,”
said the redhead.

Larry scooped up a mixture of orange and
light brown mush and pushed it into the redhead’s cheek. Nothing.
Larry held his hand just below the kid’s nose and put his middle
finger on his thumb, before releasing it, thwacking the cheese puff
deeper into the nostril. Nothing. Larry thwacked the second puff.
Nothing. Larry stuck his finger into the stub of the puff and
jammed it deep into the nose itself, then pulled it out and wiped
it on the redhead’s lips.

“I... I tried to... rape Lori,” said the
District Manager.

“And one last photo,” said Larry, snapping
and showing before he pocketed his phone and went to the counter to
write out the two notes, while Lori held the District Manager’s
wrists high in his back. Circling through the apartment, Larry
found two cell phones and a wallet. He opened the sliding glass
door and hurled each of the phones out towards the ocean below,

“Was the iPhone the company line?” Larry
asked the redhead, who didn’t answer. Sifting through the wallet,
Larry found the driver’s license, which he flicked out the window,
and proof of auto liability insurance, which he pocketed.

.

“You and that carnival arm!” yelled Lori, as
she drove up Hawthorne Boulevard.

“It’s hard to knock over metal milk
bottles,” said Larry.

“You’re gonna have to win me some more
stuffed animals one day,” said Lori. “We’re headed for the 405, but
this thing’s almost out’ta gas.”

“We’re fine,” said Larry. “My Grandma
deposited three months of rent and pocket money, so I got us
covered. But I’m hungry.”

.

“Oh!” screeched Larry, looking at his
tablet, while Lori ate from his fries, dipping them into his side
of tartar sauce. “Oh my God! She wants to come! Is Harbor City
close?”

Lori mixed her salad with her fork, and
looked up at Larry. “Who wants to come?”

“December Carrera,” said Larry. “Miss
Milkshakes, from the internet.”

“Classy, Larry,” said Lori, sipping her iced
tea. “It’s not a big car.”

“She’s not a big girl,” answered Larry.
“Well, except for her milkshakes.”

.

Lori exited the 110 Fwy at Anaheim Street
and motored past the Phillips 66 refinery. “Right back where we
started from,” she said.

As they passed the refinery’s old corporate
logo – an orange globe – Larry pointed. “Looks like your District
Manager’s face.”

“You think he’ll call the cops?” asked
Lori.

“Probably not right away,” said Larry.

“Maybe not at all, since you have that
video,” said Lori, “though I can kiss the job goodbye.”

“My phone doesn’t have video,” said
Larry.

“What?

“He just has to think it does,” said Larry.
“I uploaded the photos, though.”

Lori pulled in to a Mobil station and snaked
through the cars at the gas islands, parking in front of the Food
Store.

“I though this kind of food is against your
religion,” said Larry.

“Clean bathrooms are my religion,” said
Lori. “Any supplies you’ll need? Cheetos, trail mix...
condoms?”

“Lori?”

“Who’s this woman,” said Lori. “This
Milkshake girl? Should I be worried?”

“She’s nice,” said Larry. “You’ll like
her.”

.

The convertible pulled up to a multiplex
notable for being the sole building on either side of the street
with a uniform coat of paint –walls, trim, and doors were all one
color. Larry pushed the door buzzer for #9 CARRERA.

A breathy voice answered.

“Hi, December. It’s Larry.”

The breathy voice got out the three words,
“Be right down,” and Larry stood next to the door. He made a mostly
unsuccessful effort to straighten his hair, using his fingers as a
comb. The door opened, and a woman with dark hair, black like a
crow, stepped out, pulling a full-sized suitcase and carrying a
SpongeBob day bag.

“Hi,” said Miss Milkshakes, holding her hand
out in the way one would if the other person were to kiss it. “I
wouldn’t go with you, except you’re so nice on the site, and I know
you’re a gentleman. Oooooo, nice car.” Upon seeing Lori behind the
wheel, December quickly asked, “Who’s dat?”

“My friend,” said Larry. “She’s
driving.”

“Do you need her?” asked December. “I can
drive.”

“No, I need her.”

“Girlfriend?”

“No,” said Larry. “No.”

“She won’t be after this, hunny,” said
December, climbing in to the front seat, leaving Larry to lift the
heavily-packed suitcase into the back seat. “Careful. There’s a
video camera in there.” Larry climbed into the back and wedged
himself into what remained of the narrow back seat.

Miss Milkshakes extended her hand to Lori,
who ignored the gesture, only uttering, “Hey.”

“She definitely won’t be after this,” said
December, over her shoulder to Larry. Lori pulled out from Belle
Porte onto Anaheim, and back towards the 110 Harbor Fwy.

CHAPTER Five

Heard it on the Grapevine

“How come Miss Got-the-Keys don’t know where
the secret button is,” yelled December, standing alongside the
passenger’s door of the convertible, which was idling on the
emergency shoulder of the 405 Fwy north. Cars whooshed past as
Larry felt under the folded top. “Did you guys steal dis car or
what?”

“No,” said Larry, his face suddenly
brightening. He pulled at a latch under the top and one side sprang
up. “It’s manual.” Larry circled to the other side and reached
under for the second latch.

Miss Milkshakes drew close and used her
elbows to push together her breasts, giving Larry a glimpse into
the deep, long, straight line of her cleavage. “No one is taking me
to jail, if that’s the way it is,” she said, relaxing her
elbows.

Larry wiggled the top into place, grabbing a
glance toward December, smiling, and latching the passenger’s side,
as she smiled slyly. Lori latched the driver’s side as Larry opened
the passenger’s door, flipped the seat forward and wedged himself
into the rear seat

“She’s trash, you know,” said Lori to Larry,
before December slipped into the passenger’s seat.

“And we’re not?” said Larry.

Lori started the engine, signaled and pulled
into traffic, driving silently as December searched the radio dial.
She cycled quickly through the buttons – pop, oldies, classical,
KROQ – and, grumbling about “white girl music,” rolled through the
dial, pausing at and then passing several hip-hop numbers before
stopping at a Spanish-language station.

December reached to the right side of her
seat and adjusted it so she was back far enough that she could see
Larry, wedged against the driver’s side of the narrow back seat.
The angle gave Larry a clear view to her entire upper body, and she
smiled in the same sly way as from outside, as he lingered on her
face and then his eyes would periodically roam.