Dire Means Read online

  Mark let go of the doorknob, leaving the key, chain, and stick dangling from it. He hurried around to the rear of the gas station and hobbled through an alley that led past a dumpster and the back door of a restaurant. He zigzagged as fast as he could through several city blocks, stumbling through pain he anticipated would only worsen. After six blocks he entered through the hedged arch of an upscale apartment building courtyard. It provided good concealment from street traffic. He felt that he was a safe enough distance from the gas station to buy some time for rest.

  §

  Mark sat on a bench, panting to catch his breath. He was relieved when some passing pedestrians ignored him as they entered and exited the apartment complex.

  He noticed his torn shirt. Three buttons were missing and his jeans were smudged and grimy. The back of his hands looked like he had been punching a brick wall; chards of skin hung from his knuckles. He felt a lump the size of a lima bean on his bottom lip and his right eye felt swollen. He wiped his mouth on his arm, and more blood and dirt came off onto his sleeve. His head throbbed, both from the pounding that it took on the concrete and the strong fumes of gasoline that he had soaked up and that now exuded from his body.

  Perhaps the sudden series of unfortunate events in Mark’s life was payback for his thousands of unpunished good deeds. Anyone who knew him would call Mark a good guy. Each evening before he went to bed, he emptied his pockets of whatever coin and bill change the day had yielded, placing them onto his bedside stand. In the morning, before leaving, he put this change into his left front pocket. When he saw someone in need, out from his pocket came a gift of whatever bill or coin his hand found.

  Mark’s altruism didn’t discriminate—whether male or female, young or old, clean or dirty he gave without hesitation and without any requirement that the recipient promise to avoid booze or drugs. He offered cash or food to panhandlers, beggars, the “societally-challenged”—or whatever you care to call them—because that’s simply how he was. He sincerely hoped that each person he helped would get back on his or her feet, but wasn’t delusional enough to believe that his small, token gifts were life-changing so much as tangible sympathy given with no loss of dignity to the recipient. His gifts were a human-to-human contribution to Abraham Mazlow’s first layer of basic human need.

  Today, Mark’s tardy punishment had caught up with him.

  After his brief rest in the courtyard, Mark decided that a phone call to a local friend or client for a ride home was his next best move. He could then begin the miserable recovery process that included conversations with credit card and insurance companies.

  “Sir, you’re going to have to leave. No loitering. You’re on private property.” A doorman stood behind him, his arm extended with a finger directing Mark to the archway.

  “No problem,” Mark said. He stood and made his way slowly to the street while his evictor watched to ensure complete obedience.

  Mark had at least eight clients in Santa Monica. The nearest, Milt Wingren, had an office just off the Third Street Promenade—an outdoor pedestrian mall. He figured he could endure the walk, but finding a closer place to make a phone call seemed to be the better option.

  He checked the street signs and discovered that he was on the corner of 9th and Broadway, only six blocks from the Promenade.

  As he began his foot journey, his aches were waking. His impulsive decision to take on the cons had demanded a steep physical price.

  He saw a well-maintained business park. A row of single-story suites with tinted glass windows stretched north from the street. He entered through a red-brick walkway lined with planters, manicured to perfection. The walkway opened to a small park and symmetrical Spanish-tiled benches, reserved, named parking spaces at the far end and modest signage adorning the entrance to each suite.

  He approached the closest door to make his phone call. He would ask to use the receptionist’s phone for a quick call and be back outside to wait for his ride in less than three minutes. He pulled the locked door twice, causing a clanking loud enough to turn the heads of several gardeners working nearby. Beside the door, three black signs embossed with white lettering read, “All Deliveries to Back Entrance,” “No Soliciting,” and “Absolutely NO Loitering or Sleeping in this Entryway.” Under these signs was a worn intercom button.

  Before Mark pressed the button, he leaned to the tinted glass of the front door and froze when he saw his reflection. His right eye had swollen nearly shut. Grease and dirt smeared his face, and his lip had swollen as if it had been stung by a bee. His torn and filthy shirt hung untucked with a shred of it hanging almost to his knee. His jeans had larger swaths of the grime that his face had collected.

  He cupped both hands over his eyes to peer inside the tinted window. A woman in a gray business suit and wearing a wire mouthpiece sat behind a half-circle glass desk in a spacious lobby. She swatted at something high above her head. Mark waved to get her attention. The woman’s lips moved, but Mark could not hear her because the thick, glass door muted her.

  She swatted the air again in Mark’s direction. He realized that her hand swats were for him—to shoo him from the front door. She curled her fingers around the tip of her mouthpiece and glared at Mark with an intensity that startled him. She jabbed her finger hard in his direction—gesturing for him to go back in the direction he had come.

  Mark mouthed, “Me?” to her and she rolled her eyes and nodded, flicking him away with a backhand.

  Mark mimed dialing a number and placing a phone receiver to his ear. She shook her head. As Mark stepped back from the glass, she approached it from inside.

  “Go away!” she mouthed. Mark turned to leave, but not before he saw her give him the OK sign and a sarcastic smile to punctuate her victory.

  Dejected, he returned to the street and began walking toward the Third Street Promenade.

  As he waited for the next pedestrian crossing signal, a flower-delivery driver in a green van with a giant floral logo on the side stopped at a red light beside Mark. He made eye contact with Mark and then frowned. He did what many people do after making accidental eye contact with a homeless person: he pressed his lips together and shook his head in small shakes of repulsion as he turned away. Mark almost laughed in disbelief. He was thankful that the world still had plenty of good people. Good people like his clients. One of them would certainly help him out.

  §

  Milten Wingren was Mark’s accountant and client. He was also a practical jokester. Last year when he finished doing Mark’s taxes he arranged for his receptionist to call Mark. She posed as an IRS agent, launching into an uncomfortable interrogation citing fictitious tax laws about which Mark knew nothing. Milten listened on the other line, biting his lip to keep from laughing out loud. After a final question to which a flustered Mark didn’t know the answer, Milten broke in with uproarious laughter. Mark was not amused and fired Milten as his accountant and quit as his tech support person. Milten apologized profusely, calling several times, over several days to apologize and to continue the business relationship. Mark eventually agreed, putting Milten on probation.

  In the following months, Milten refrained from his practical jokes. If Milten could help him now, Mark would certainly consider him fully redeemed.

  He turned on Fifth Street and headed north. He would probably think Mark’s appearance was part of a gag for payback of the practical joke. Mark imagined having to repeat the words, “I’m serious,” at least five times before Milten believed the story of the gas station scuffle.

  A block from the Third Street Promenade, Mark watched shiny sports car after luxury car pass by him. His thoughts returned to his own stolen car. Where was it now? Chance of recovery was slim—especially without a police report—and he understood that. He needed a car to conduct his client visits. How much would a rental cost? And how long would he need it?

  His beloved Camry was special to him. It was the first new car he had purchased on his own after college. The thought of Ty pull
ing it into a chop shop and stripping and mutilating it for parts made him feel more victimized than the beating he had taken beside the gas pump.

  He put his arm around a traffic signal pole and leaned his head against it, and then realized that he must have been mouthing his thoughts because a woman in a car at the curb was staring at him. Her face wore the concern that spreads on the faces of people when they see someone talk aloud to no one—or hug and talk to poles for no apparent reason. A green light released her and she sped away.

  Mark entered the alley between Third and Fourth Streets to Wingren Accounting Associates. The alley was narrow, yet the offices’ windows had bold, proud signs as if they once faced out to the busy Promenade. Wingren’s door was locked and the lights were off. A note said, “Back at 2:00 p.m.” Mark checked his watch; it was 10:34 a.m.

  He sat down on the top of two concrete steps that led to the front door, with only a minor flinch from the sharp pains in his midsection that he had grown to expect with any major change in his posture. The thought of waiting for over three hours was unbearable. Mark was sore, tired, getting hungry, and simply wanted to get home as soon as possible. His home was only four miles away. But walking that distance would take the physical toll of completing a marathon and probably much more time. If he wanted to get home now, then he knew there was only one way to speed up the process. He walked two blocks and entered the Third Street Promenade.

  Chapter Seven

  IF A GROUP of civil planners came together to design an ideal beach city in a luxurious, utopian location, they couldn’t improve upon what already exists in Santa Monica, California.

  The city boundaries encompass 8.3 square miles of an almost-perfect rectangle, except a notch where Brentwood dents its northeastern corner.

  The city is mostly flat, with a gentle, downward slope to its southwestern border. Its famous beach is virtually straight with a tree-lined bluff that elevates to the north, rising high above the Pacific Ocean.

  Skinny, sky scraping palm trees, spaced with the care of birthday cake candles throughout the city, shimmer and wave in a constant ocean breeze.

  The Third Street Promenade presents a three block showcase of the finest shopping, dining and entertainment found anywhere in the world.

  Entering it, Mark saw that the relative warmth of late morning had generated a typical crowd of tourists, street performers, and homeless people—all staples of The Promenade. If sheer number of people was an indicator, then odds were good that Mark could convince someone to let him borrow a cell phone for one short call or lend him two quarters for a pay phone. If he was one of these people and saw himself, he’d certainly lend some change. He had done so many times.

  Out in the wide-open, outdoor pedestrian thoroughfare, he stepped into the flow of the crowd.

  The day was beautiful—even by Santa Monica’s November standards. Carefree gulls cocked and bobbed their robotic heads, riding their razor-sharp, boomerang wings as they slipped sideways high above the crowd.

  Along the center of the outdoor mall, merchants guarded goods stocked in green-roofed kiosks with retractable awnings. Everything is available on the Promenade—from wind chimes to clothing to crystals. A short distance away, a young girl sat in a director’s chair and worked on a newspaper crossword puzzle. She cracked her gum and occasionally looked up to tend to her cart of earrings.

  Mark passed restaurants that featured outdoor patios enclosed in shallow perimeter fences and planters. With each breath, Mark’s nostrils pulled in an aroma that contained the samplings of no less than five menus. He was getting hungrier.

  He heard the sound of competing music coming from speakers mounted outside shops, combining with the riffs of street performers and the ubiquitous murmur of voices through which laughter or an excited sentence poked from time to time.

  All of these sights and sounds were familiar to Mark; he visited the Third Street Promenade often, but never in his current condition. Today this place had an odd, unfamiliar feel to it. He was usually quite comfortable walking the Promenade—grabbing a bite to eat between service calls. Now he still blended in, but played a completely different role in the ambiance—a role that intrigued tourists for whom the sight of a man dressed like Mark was unusual.

  An uneasy feeling swept over Mark. It was similar to the feeling he had when the flower-delivery driver had turned away from him. This was stronger, more intense. He noticed people easing away from him—even those walking in the same direction. People who approached him from a distance came no closer than ten feet. Those he overtook, or who noticed him close by, took four or five strides from him as inconspicuously as possible without making eye contact. A glance—that’s all anyone gave him before stretching their proximity. It was uncanny—the smoothness with which people could distance themselves from him without looking at him.

  Was he seeing it right? Was it just his imagination? Perhaps his injuries—particularly the blows to his head, had fogged his thinking, making him hypersensitive, he thought. After all, how often had he paid any attention to the distance people kept between him and others as they passed? Maybe they always wanted this space from him.

  He stopped and turned to face oncoming pedestrians. Foot traffic continued to flow around him with a wide berth. The space cushion that passers-by kept from the homeless was to be expected. After all, many were dirty or smelly or sometimes made wild hand gestures that only they themselves understood. Mark knew he was disheveled, but in his case, it was temporary and he wished he could announce it with a bullhorn. He would blend into the crowd within the hour if he could just make a call and get home to clean up and become himself again.

  Thirty feet away, a well-dressed man stood, reading a newspaper amidst foot traffic. The man stood in front of a newsstand. Foot traffic passed close by him—some people brushed his shoulder. Mark went toward the man and stopped a few strides from him. Again he turned to face oncoming shoppers. Sure enough, the flow of traffic arced around him as though he wore an invisible, giant inner tube. He was both conspicuous and ignored.

  He saw a bench and eased down onto it for a rest. His head throbbed and he rubbed his temples a few times. With elbows on his knees, he rested his chin in his hands and watched the people pass by. His eye still felt tight and was halfway shut, but it hadn’t worsened. He licked his lip and felt the bulge of the lima bean unchanged.

  He searched faces for an altruistic-looking candidate to approach. He discovered that assessing the potential for sympathy on the faces of people who refuse eye contact was a challenge. Working up the nerve to ask someone for help with nothing but thanks to offer was even more difficult. He rehearsed what he might say.

  Excuse me, I’ve been attacked… No, that might scare them.

  Pardon me, could I borrow your cell phone for one local call? If people wouldn’t even look at him or walk closer than a car length, why would they let him press their cell phone to his filthy ear?

  Then Mark saw what he decided was his best chance. It was a family—a husband, wife, and a young boy and girl no older than eight. The children may have been twins, close in age and height. The family’s clothing and accessories announced that they were tourists—complete with dangling camera and new Disneyland sweatshirts. The parents laughed, holding hands as they walked. The kids pulled their parents with their energetic pace, excited at all the sights and sounds.

  Their happiness and affection for one another boosted Mark’s confidence. Certainly, such a loving family would be willing to improve his obvious tough luck by fifty cents. He took a breath and approached them—careful not to limp. As though alerted by radar, the father’s head turned to Mark from twenty feet and locked onto him. Mark wasn’t deterred and maintained the approach. The father’s arm stiffened and reached out to slow his wife. He then stepped between Mark and his family, herding his kids and wife behind him with his hands out to his sides.

  Mark put on his best smile and met the man’s eyes. “Excuse me sir, I’ve been robbed of m
y car and phone and just need to make one phone call. Is there any way you could spare some change or let me use your cell phone for a local call?”

  “You want money?”

  “Actually, just enough for a call would be great,” Mark said. Some shame crept onto his face for asking and he looked down at the ground for a moment.

  The man turned his head over his shoulder to his wife and young children and said, “Kids, pay attention, here’s a good lesson for you.” He then turned back to Mark. “Suppose I offered to buy you some lunch?”

  “That is very kind of you, but actually it’s only change for a phone call that I need…”

  “Aha!” the man said. “So money or nothing—is that your deal?”

  “No,” Mark said. “I need to make a phone call—I don’t need money…if I can use your cell phone for one quick call I won’t need any money.”

  “Sorry, pal,” the dad said smugly. “You’re not gonna be using my cell phone to call your dealer. Now I need you to back away from my family. C’mon kids.”

  Mark watched dumbfounded as the man herded his family away. The kids resisted any hurry, twisting their necks to get a good look at Mark.

  Mark walked for a few minutes to regroup and salvage some of his pride. He did so by reminding himself that this was all a nightmare from which he would wake up the moment he made a phone call and heard a familiar voice say, “No problem, I’ll be right there to pick you up.”

  After watching people pass by for ten more minutes, he noticed a woman that he felt had kindness potential. She was well dressed in a long, beige coat and carried a black designer purse over one arm. He didn’t know why he chose her, but she looked to him like someone who smiled easily and, therefore, might be sympathetic. He began his approach—not directly, but angling in her direction through a thick group of shoppers. Like the tourist father earlier, she seemed to sense him from a distance. Her eyes swept his body from foot to face, gathering the distasteful details. Mark relit his friendliest smile, but it was too late. She changed course, frowned and sped her pace with one hand up saying, “No, no, no, no, no, don’t even think about it…”