The Saturday Morning Post #50: The Rêves Part 28

Reunions

Brenda actually had no doubts at all that Ausmann had found them and killed Simon, but Joshua was covering that up for some reason. Maybe he was still under threat. She realized then how badly she and her family might have screwed things up if they actually had called the cops to report the intruder.

But what was the point? Ausmann was an old white man, probably well-off and with Federal connections. And Jonah had had his regular share of run-ins with cops, despite being a well-dressed professional in a clearly expensive yet family-oriented car, and in only the “good” neighborhoods.

But, of course, that was because a certain class of cop didn’t see the “well-dressed professional” part. They only saw a Black man. Well, in their minds, they didn’t use the “B” word, she was sure.

Then there was her father, gone for almost thirty years now, same reason, only one time turned violent, maybe because he’d finally had enough and tried to say “No.”

So they didn’t call the cops because they couldn’t trust them, even though they were upper-middle class, owned their own home, sent their kids to private school, and had the stability of three generations under one roof.

Because a certain class of cop wouldn’t see any of that. Hell, a certain class of people — but at least those people didn’t make it a habit to hang out in Brenda’s neighborhood. And their neighborhood was at least Black enough — and historically so — that the one indignity Jonah had avoided was being harassed on his own street, or in his own front yard.

She and Jonah had given Samuel The Speech multiple times, and still gave it to Malia, just in case. The Speech had nothing to do with sex; that was the white people version: “Here’s how to not knock her up/get knocked up.” No, their speech was all about not if some cop pulled them over for no apparent reason, but what to do when it inevitably happened, aka “Here’s how to not get shot.”

So she’d be keeping what was no doubt Joshua’s secret, because the timing of Simon’s death was way too coincidental, but she’d be doing it to protect her family, and was sure that Joshua was doing it to protect his.

Meanwhile, she flipped through her contacts until she found one, a family court and probate judge based out of the Superior Courthouse in Van Nuys, and she realized that this was the one who had handled Rita’s divorce case, and she knew she had her woman.

Rita’s divorce had been contentious, and Brenda had got to listen to her complaining about “That unfair bitch in the black robes” after nearly every single hearing. Of course, Rita didn’t know that Brenda had gone to college with Judge Bonita Valdez-Levi, nor that Brenda was regularly hearing things frrm Bonita of the, “I’m really not supposed to tell you this, but this crazy bitch in this divorce case is out of her mind.”

Bonita had no idea that Rita was Brenda’s boss, either.

Ultimately, Bonita found heavily in Rita’s ex’s favor, fined her for contempt twice, and even sanctioned her lawyer when he gave what he knew was a legally specious motion for mistrial.

“You don’t get to do that after I’ve rendered my verdict, sonny,” she reminded him. “What? Did you go to an online law school or something?”

“Yale,” he muttered.

“Ah. Harvard. Sorry.”

Although that was really just icing on the cake, and she’d only bring up the little detail about Joshua and Simon telling Rita to go fuck herself if Bonita were reluctant to help. But why would she be? They were old friends, she heard cases in family court, this was a family matter, and, most importantly, her wife happened to be a deputy coroner assigned to the North Valley, i.e. exactly where Simon’s corpse was currently pretending to be a 6’4” naked popsicle in a drawer.

If anyone is wondering — no, Brenda did not go to Harvard. Bonita only went there for her law degree. Undergrad, they both spent at Cal State University Northridge, aka CSUN, or was they loved to call it “Berkeley for Valley Kids.” They’d even been roommates for junior and senior years, and Bonita had bitched more loudly about it when Brenda was not cast as Mama Morton in Chicago.

So Brenda dialed the number and when Bonita answered, launched into it. “Hey, girl!” she gushed. “Long time no hear. What’s up?”

“Girl, we are all over each other’s shit on the social medias all the damn time, so what’s so important that it’s voice?”

“Perceptive as ever Okay. I need a really big favor.”

“Figured,” Bonita replied. “As long as it’s legal, I can probably do it. So… shoot.”

Brenda launched into her explanation and, about ten minutes later, after Bonita did some hmming and thinking out loud, she finally replied, “You know, I think that Miriam can manage that ASAP. I mean, as long as it wasn’t a homicide, but you already said — ”

“Tragic accident,” Brenda reminded her.

“Hm. I wonder if housing needs to take a look at the safety of the balconies in that — ”

“No, my friend told me that his husband had this stupid habit of sitting on the railing that he’d warned him about a hundred times,” she improvised on the spot, “Even though he was very tall and sometimes clumsy.”

“Got it. Operator error. Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you so much, Bonita.”

“Don’t mention it. But you owe me one now.”

“Well, duh, of course,” Brenda replied. “Hey — are you going to the class reunion?”

“Me?” Bonita said. “Oh, hell no. You?”

“Of course not!” Brenda told her, then they both laughed, said “Bye” and disconnected.

“Um… oh, hey…” Pearl was startled to see a regular Rêve up here, but he was looking at them like he knew them. They assumed, since he was a Rêve up here, that he was the one that Preston and Danny had told her about.

“Hello,” they said. “Do I know you?”

“No,” he replied. “But oh my god, I was at your last concert. Harvard Stadium. 1970. Six months after my 16th birthday, so I was able to drive up from Baltimore with some friends. Hell, the ticket was two bucks — what I made in my gas station job in about an hour and twenty minutes, but it was worth every second… what are you doing out here?”

“Living the life, baby,” They said. “And I guess that you’re kind of new to this whole being a Rêve thing?”

“Is that what I am?” he asked. “I thought I was just a ghost — ”

“We don’t like the ‘G’ word,” they warned him. “That’s a different thing, mostly because it doesn’t exist.”

“Wait. They don’t, and we do?”

“Bingo.”

“Oh… did I mention, I’m Jerry,” he announced, extending his hand, “And I am a huge fan, Ms. Joplin. ‘Lord won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz, my friends all drive Porsches — ’”

“Stop!” Pearl shouted at him. “God, I hate the song.”

“But it was — ”

“I know,” they admonished him. “But that was so very long ago and very far away.”

“But I’ve remembered that concert since forever. Ms. Joplin. Janis?”

“Yeah, we did it and then died,” they snapped back. “I’ve kind of expanded things since then. Personas, genders, whatever. It turns out that we’re very flexible once we’re dead. But… you saw what you call my last show?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jerry said. “I mean, is it rude to mention that you died just under two months after that amazing concert?”

“What did I just tell you? And what was the last concert you saw?”

“Um… god, I have no idea,” Jerry replied, then took a couple more moments and said, “Ah… it was a Bee Gees tribute band thing out in NoHo, and we liked it.”

Pearl just laughed. “I think I heard of them. I don’t really remember, but they were crap.”

“Were they?” Jerry asked.

“Are you in any position to argue?”

“You know, I really don’t know…”

Of course, what Jerry really didn’t know was that Pearl — no, actually the Janis part of Peart who had actually met young Jerry — was not engaging his adult self. Rather, she’d and/or they had been talking to the 16-year-old Jerry who had attended that last concert at Harvard Stadium.

And had not taken his young ass at all seriously.

So a vital clue about Ausmann was not passed on to the Hadas.

Meanwhile, another vital clue was passed on almost by accident, when an oral surgeon and his realtor wife went for their early morning power walk through their Simi Valley neighborhood, only to run into an old neighbor, except that she looked… different.

“Um… Coraline?” the wife, Becca, asked.

“Oh, hi!” Coraline replied. “Do you know where my husband is?”

“Do you know where you are?” Ralph, Becca’s husband, replied.

“Well, at what’s left of our home, duh,” she said. “But is he alive?”

Becca and Ralph just stared at her. They’d been watching the news, and Coraline looked just like what they’d seen, except that she wasn’t an old Hollywood actor.

“Dear,” Becca asked gently, “Are you possibly aware of the fact that you might be… well… dead?”

“What?” Coraline snapped.

“Oh, you haven’t been watching the news, have you?” Ralph inquired.

“No, I’ve been rather busy dealing with the ruins of my house and wondering where my husband is, thank you. And have you seen him?”

Becca and Ralph shook their heads. “No, dear,” Becca replied, “But we’ve seen the news, and even if you’re not famous, well… hang on.”

Becca tapped around on her phone, then showed Coraline news footage from earlier, with all the celebrity hosts popping up all over Hollywood.

“What makes you think I’m one of them?” Coraline demands.

“Well, two things, actually,” Ralph offers, demurely, looking to Becca.

What?” Coraline hisses.

“Um…. sorry to tell you this, dear, but we watched the county coroner take your body out of the basement of your house after the storm.”

“Apparently quite dead,” Ralph added. “Right into the body bag. Boom, zip.”

“You are liars!” Coraline insisted.

“Well, there’s that one other bit,” Becca explained.

“What?”

“Um… you know that footage about the ghosts in Hollywood?” Ralph offered.

“Yeah, and I’m not one of them there,” Coraline insisted.

“No, but you might as well be,” Becca said, turning her phone to Coraline again. Apparently, she’d been recording her during the conversation, and when Coraline saw the footage, her blood ran cold. Well, actually, it was the moment that she realized that she had no blood to run cold.

“I have to find Ausmann,” she said. “I do remember he studied these ghosts. I wonder if he’s in Hollywood. I have to go there!”

As soon as she said it, she found herself flying, heading southeast out of Simi Valley and into the San Fernando Valley. She didn’t get out this way often, but she was always amazed at how much bigger it was than her own valley, and how straight all of the streets were that ran between the two freeways — the 118 in the north and the 101 in the south.

That all changed at about the 5, a state highway that ran into the city diagonally from the mountains below Santa Clarita, aimed south by southwest splitting into the short 170 on its right fork and maintaining its identity as the 5 on the right fork, the 170 soon merging and vanishing into the 101 as it turned south for Hollywood.

When all of those east-west Valley streets passed the 5, more or less, they suddenly veered, mostly to the left, to run diagonally southwest to northeast, and it was particularly noticeable in Burbank, which itself had been laid out on a diagonal instead of a grid aligned to the cardinal directions.

The rest was paving anarchy, but that was because the city developed in different sections aligned to local landmarks or landscapes, the roads having to hook up eventually. The longest straight streets were the ones that had originally been lone country highways in the middle of nothing that connected distant developments, like Downtown and West Hollywood.

The Valley, meanwhile, had started out as immense, flat farmland, covered by huge rancheros originally owned by a handful of Mexican families, back when the southern third of California was still part of Mexico. Coraline would never have believed that of course, and it was a very unpopular subject to bring up in Simi Valley, but it was true.

While what Valley people called “the other side of the hill” developed in fits and starts beginning well before the 19th century and exploded from around WW I and after, only parts of the East Valley, like North Hollywood and Burbank, started to develop, as early as the late 1800s. Up until WW II, the eastern boundary was pretty much Van Nuys, with few and far between from there west.

Well, no houses, but quite a few companies engaged in the war effort. This was where they built the bombs and planes.

Once the war ended, there was a land boom, and the land was flat and wide, so turning it into a grid was the easiest thing in the world to do — a roughly 8 by 10 mile grid with very few breaks in its regularity.

But then she found herself over the Cahuenga pass, following the freeway that ran through a gap between two sets of mountains, and finally to Hollywood, landing at Hollywood and Highland, where she found the ghosts of the famous to be quite active.

She asked some of them if they’d ever heard of Ausmann. None of them had.

“Then I guess it’s time to go free-range,” she announced, and wandered off down the street. She could tell that people were looking at her and asking, “What’s she famous for?” but she ignored them.

She was a bit star-struck by all the celebrities she did see, even if they were all dead — Bette Davis, always the center of attention; the Three Stooges (Curly, Moe, and Larry era) hamming it up for the crowd; Peter Lorre, looking very sketchy; Alfred Hitchcock, leering inappropriately at every young blonde woman he saw — he was a Class III because there were still a lot of people alive who had known him, but he still liked to use his celebrity; Valentino, posing for selfies and proving very popular with gay men; and Gloria Grahame, appearing in glorious color as Ado Annie from the movie Oklahoma!.

But there was one Rêve who had been watching her, because Pearl had sensed something and sent a Hada to give him the word. Ausmann’s wife was apparently now one of them, and she was out here — the Hadas had sensed it and reported it to Pearl.

The message was to try to bring her to Anabel so that they would have a bargaining chip to use against Ausmann, and the message was sent to Ritchie.

As Coraline got close to the Hollywood and Vine station, he approached her. “Excuse me,” he said.

She stopped and looked. He seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place the name. “Oh. I’m Ritchie Valens,” he said. She was clearly still drawing a blank, so he sang a quick phrase: “Para bailar la bamba…”

“Oh,” it dawned on her. “I love that song. But… do you know me?”

“Was your husband named Ausmann?” he asked.

“Yes. Have you seen him?”

“No,” he told her, “But I may know where he is,” adding a lie to his truthful statement.

“I really do need to find him,” she said.

“Great. If you come with me, we can go look.” He nodded and lead her down into the Metro station, then to the platforms and the eastbound tunnel.

“Let me show you how our kind prefers to travel,” he announced, and then took her with him.

* * *

Friday Free for all #43: Pineapple, fear, and ethics

The next in an ongoing series in which I answer random questions generated by a website, although it’s been on hiatus since the Christmas Countdown began. Here, I resume with this week’s questions. Feel free to give your own answers in the comments.

How do you feel about putting pineapple on pizza?

This one is easy, and all of my friends already know my answer. Pineapple on pizza is a goddamn abomination. The two do not belong together, period. Want to ruin a perfectly good pizza? Throw some of that squishy, pulpy, bitter tropical shit on it.

Of course, it is also my firm belief that California Pizza Kitchen in fact does not serve anything resembling a pizza in any way, shape or form. And as for that Chicago deep-dish shit? Yeah, no. That’s not a pizza. That’s a casserole.

Thin crust, slathered with tomato-based sauce, then pile on the mozzarella, and top it with any combination of pepperoni, sausage, garlic, bell peppers, onions, ground beef, extra cheese (but only mozzarella, provolone, parmesan, or Romano) or olives.

Besides pineapple, all y’all can keep away your damn pineapple, Canadian bacon, and anchovies. Those do not belong on proper pizza either.

My god. The violence done to Za in this country is astounding. Just because you pile a bunch of shit on a flat, round piece of dough doesn’t make it pizza. Learn it. Love it.

What weird childhood fear do you still kind of hold on to?

I don’t hold onto it that strongly anymore, but there are still times when I can have an unintended physical reaction to the stimulus. But… for as long as I could remember until I was about nine years old, skeletons in general and skulls in particular just freaked me out.

Just looking at a picture of one, whether it was a photo of an actual skull, a fairly accurate drawing of one, or even a cartoon, would send chills all up and down my body, and I had to just look away.

The way I got over it at nine was actually rather inspired of me, although I have no idea where that inspiration came from. All I remember was that I was falling asleep and those hypnagogic hallucinations were kicking in.

You know those. It’s when you’re just starting to fall asleep but you aren’t quiet, and the movie theatre on the back of your eyelids starts dishing up random patterns of light and color.

Well, this one particular night, a couple of those blobs suddenly turned into a pair of skulls that started heading for me, and for some reason instead of freaking out about it, in my mind, I stuck my tongue out at them.

They both screamed and fled, and that killed the fear.

By the way, as a grown-ass adult years later, writing about that memory did make my entire head tingle, which is why I say I’m not totally over it, but I can still have a goose-bump reaction to the image. I just don’t experience visceral fear about it anymore.

The really interesting part is the basis of the fear, and I did not learn how it probably came about until many, many years later, when I was definitely a grown-ass adult.

Apparently when I was about three years old, my dad still had partial custody of one of my half-brothers from his first marriage. This would be the one who was still under 18 when I was that age. (The other two were already adults.)

So, as I eventually learned, one day, this half-brother, who was a tween at the time, thought that it would be funny to shove my infant ass into a bedroom closet, toss in a glow-in-the dark skull-shaped Halloween basket, then shut the door and sit in front of it.

I have absolutely no memory of this incident. But, obviously, it imprinted on my subconscious, and so this weird fear was born.

For the record, as adults, I love my half-bro very much, and I have zero resentment over the incident. So there’s always that.

If you can save another’s life and don’t because doing so would break the law, are you ethically justified in your decision?

And so we get to this installment’s really heavy question, mainly because I have to figure out a context in which it would break the law to save someone’s life with some possible ethical justification, because if I can justify doing it, it makes it hard to justify not doing it, right?

Obvious non-starters are things like busting into the death chamber and using violence to prevent a legally sanctioned execution. That would clearly be wrong and have no ethical justification. So yeah, in this case, you are ethically justified in not saving another’s life.

Now let’s get a little muddier. You’re just hanging out, minding your own business, when an altercation breaks out. And it becomes immediately obvious to you that some white guy is trying to pull some uber-Zimmerman “stand your ground” bullshit over a young black kid.

White dude has a gun pointed at the kid’s head and is both agitated and clearly ready to shoot. Meanwhile, there happens to be a very convenient and heavy stanchion right next to you that could shut up gun-boy forever and instantly.

Murder him with that and you save a life, although it’s technically homicide. Your choice?

Personally, in that situation, my choice would always be “break the fucking law if possible if it will save an innocent life.” So, yeah, I’m a pacifist, but I’d also have no problem splattering a racist’s “brains” all over the place.

Now here’s the next-level version. Same situation of innocent kid and armed racist asshole, except… that armed racist asshole is a cop.

And why does it get messy? Because, in this case, if you break the law to save a life you may also wind up losing your own. I mean, how many other cops are there watching, all with their guns drawn and with a hard-on for shooting someone?

So, in this case, I think I’d be ethically justified in not killing the cop but, instead, getting video of the whole damn thing, telling my version of the story to the media, and being a witness for the defense for the murder victim, e.g. the innocent kid who got shot in the street.

Momentous Monday: Us and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Year

It’s no exaggeration to say that 2020 has been rough on everyone. It started with Australia on fire and the death of Kobe Bryant, and then just went pear-shaped from there.

We hadn’t even made it to the start of spring when everything went on hold. For me, “normal” started to leave my world in early March, when my improv company shut down — cutting me off from one job as well as a weekly chance to perform that I truly enjoyed.

It came to a full stop on March 20, when Los Angeles shut down a day after San Francisco did. In a lot of ways, I was fortunate because I’d had an unemployment claim from earlier in 2019 that was still active, so didn’t have the problems signing up for it that other people apparently did.

Although I didn’t get the full amount of unemployment because I hadn’t worked enough in the target periods they looked at, that extra $600 per week from the Federal government helped (thanks, Congressional Democrats!)

So, I stayed at home mostly, with weekly masked trips to the grocery store, and it was amazing to see how quickly the two places I regularly went to — RiteAid and Ralphs — adapted. At the same time, though, a lot of Americans acted like selfish little children.

Some states were slow to react if at all, the Federal government totally dropped the ball, and while places like New Zealand got a handle on it (it helps to be an island nation), the U.S., not so much, so that as of now over 200,000 people have died.

Every month seemed to bring something new. In April, we had rumors of “Murder Hornets,” which didn’t really pan out, but then May brought us the death of George Floyd. This on top of so many other murders of Black Americans at the hands of the police set off a wave of fury and protests, which had the side-effect of finally making White American racists reveal themselves.

The end of May brought us people who just couldn’t resist celebrating Memorial Day without masks or social distancing, boosting the plague numbers even more.

It wasn’t pretty. And natural disasters didn’t help. Puerto Rico was pounded by multiple earthquakes of greater than magnitude 5 at the beginning of the year when they still haven’t recovered from hurricane Maria in 2017.

June brought us a couple of gun-toting lawyers threatening protestors marching past their house, and July had more protests, violent counter-protests, and the like.

In August, wildfires started in the west and the Administration started fucking with the USPS. By September, the entire west coast was on fire, while the gulf coast and other points in the south were being slammed by one hurricane or tropical storm after another.

And, of course, 2020 also brought personal disasters to a lot of us. Back on May 1, I lost my beloved dog Sheeba, who was almost 16. She didn’t even start to show symptoms until Monday night, and was gone by Friday afternoon.

A lot of people I know have suffered similar losses. Maybe it’s just a matter of selective attention because I went through it, maybe not, but a lot of my friends seemed to lose dogs or cats this year. And many other lost people, friends and family, to diseases not necessarily COVID-related. There were a notable number of cancer deaths, too.

And then there are those friends of mine who suddenly have to deal with parents of a certain age and declining mental condition who are going to require either placement in a senior care center or some other professional care, and the need for the young to stay away from the elderly in the wake of this pandemic just complicates issues enormously — especially when the kids live in an entirely different city than their parent or parents.

But all of these things, every single damn one of them, pales in comparison to the biggest disaster that has befallen the U.S. yet this year, and has put us into unknown territory that we are going to have to navigate through very carefully.

I’m talking, of course, about the death last Friday of Ruth Bader Ginsberg. She was the last bulwark protecting the Supreme Court from falling into fascist, reactionary hands for a generation, and the greatest hope of progressives was that she’d live until the inauguration, then announce her retirement as soon as Joe Biden was sworn in.

I won’t even get into the utter hypocrisy of Mitch McConnell saying he’ll ram through whomever Trump nominates when he refused the same courtesy to Barack Obama because “it was too close to the election” (eight months beforehand)  when this one comes up less than seven weeks before.

So… call your senators, especially if yours has an R after their name. Remind them of the 2016 “McConnell Doctrine,” and demand that they follow it. Let the Voters Decide!

And then damn well vote in November, and vote like the future of this country depends on it, because it does. Do we fully become Nazi Germany circa 1939, or pull back from the brink and return to sanity?

That choice is in your hands… for now. But if we fuck it up in November, we may lose that power forever, and this experiment in Democracy ends.