Episode 4: The Holiday
“This is it buddy,” standing in the driveway, I leaned against the side of Johnson’s car, gazing up at the stars. There were tears in my eyes and I felt a profound sense of joy and awe.
“After all the crazy, fucked up shit that we’ve been through,” I continued beaming, more than just a little bit buzzed, “this is the moment, that we’ve been waiting for!”
Johnson was openly weeping as well, as we embraced.
Johnson grasped my shoulder in the strong, meaty grip of his right palm, “we’re in this together, brother.”
Johnson was wearing an old leather bomber jacket, and kind of looked like Indiana Jones without the hat. He held an IPA and a cigarette in his left hand, as we silently shared a rare and special minute of mutual hope and happiness.
It was a brisk evening on November 4th, in Santa Rosa California, and we had stopped at Hana’s house for the night on our way down to Los Angeles. We were standing out front of the small, cottage like house, in the driveway so as to not disturb Hana and her infant child, Sequoia, as we had our little party and listened to the returns on the radio, through the rolled down windows of Johnson’s car.
Hana had moved out to Mendocino County, shortly after Ben’s funeral, over the summer. Being that Hana was Ben’s widow, you can bet that she was a badass, and since she had been up there, Hana had already found work as a pot-trimmer. I had of course, asked her about trim, and Hana told me that she could probably get us some in the future, but unfortunately; she didn’t know of anyone that had anything right now and also didn’t think, that anyone would be willing to front us anything on consignment, our friendship with her notwithstanding.
If only, I could just get my hands on two or three hundred pounds of trim, I plotted, I can come up, and build an empire from there!
It was only a matter of time now. It had just become overwhelmingly clear that Barack Obama was going to be the next President of the United States, and Johnson and I were going nuts. It wasn’t a partisan democrat or republican thing, and the moment seemed to somehow transcend politics.
Obama had succeeding in breaking down a critical barrier for entry, and in doing so, had provided an important proof of concept to offer the possibility of aspiring to the same, for people of all colors, genders, and sexual orientations.
Moreover, Obama had campaigned on a platform that included an about-face on federal cannabis policy. Johnson and I were prospecting for gold at just the right time and place in history. The winds of change were blowing in our direction, and we would be some of the first guys out on the water with our sails hoisted up.
Light on resources, but high on resolve; Johnson and I, had finally packed up his old Honda Civic with our meager belongings, and left the farm on the morning of the election, to begin our green-rush journey!
While we had been up north, we had gotten great value, and gained helpful insights about the industry, and additionally firmed up some of Johnson’s connections. Of course… I had petitioned all of Johnson’s friends to send us some trim, once we got ourselves established.
We had also gotten a 101 on selling to cannabis stores from the farmers. They filled us in on some of the important nuances of the marketplace, making sure that we understood what the buyers were expecting. For example, we had to be prepared to supply samples, and products on consignment. Flowers were a competitive market and we had to have high quality cannabis to be in the game… especially in Northern California.
Most of the domestically produced pot in the US at the time, came from the ‘Emerald Triangle’ of Humboldt, Mendocino, and Trinity Counties. Growers had established the epicenter of the industry in the region, going back for decades, but it wasn’t because it was the best place to grow cannabis in California; in truth, it was quite the opposite. Because of the cold, wet weather, and high humidity in the Emerald Triangle, it was actually one of the worst areas, in all of California to grow pot, maybe even worse than Death Valley, where at least it was dry!
The reason that NorCal became the cannabis capitol and the mecca of marijuana, is that the forests provided the hippies with the perfect havens to hide out in, and conduct their clandestine cultivations, under the cover of the canopy of the redwood trees. It was too risky back then, to farm flowers out in the open. Grows were underground, indoor operations, ideally off the power-grid, or guerilla gardens, way out in the hinterlands.
While Northern California dispensaries were inundated, with affordable, connoisseur products, LA was like the ‘El Dorado’, or the fabled lost city of gold, for selling flowers. Growers would tell ‘LA stories’ with glee and wonder, speaking of how a friend of a friend, had gotten paid $6000 for a pound of ‘the fire’. These mythical prices were unheard of, and would never happen in San Francisco.
There was less saturation in SoCal because first of all, it was the most populous part of the nation, with a never-ending appetite for pot. Perhaps, more importantly though, was the risk for the growers of driving drugs that far south vs. selling them locally to a broker. Most of the cultivators that Johnson knew, hadn’t tried to venture there themselves yet, for that very reason. Soon Johnson and I, could be those so-called, friends of friends, in the city of angels, that were allegedly, regularly getting showered, with ridiculous sums of cash.
“I can’t believe it’s pot butter, Johnson!” I opened up the car and grabbed out a black hoodie. I zipped up my sweatshirt, and then closed the door. “We need to get started on this right away, how soon, do you think you can get some trim?”
“We will man,” Johnson was glowing with hope in a way that was totally out of character for him, “in a couple of weeks, once we get a place, I’ll lean on Andy to get us going.”
“That’s great Johnson,” I was getting emotional, “I just wanted to say before we get started, that no matter what happens, I appreciate you believing in me, and being my partner on this adventure, and I thank you for that.”
The sky was crystal clear, and I could make out the details and contours of the constellations, shining brightly, from an infinitely high ceiling above our heads.
“Hey man,” Johnson’s eyes were welling, “I also wanted to clear the air and tell you, that I’m sorry about everything… you know, for what happened in college, at the poker game.”
“If everything didn’t happen exactly the way it did,” I pointed out, “then we wouldn’t’ be here right now, with a chance to make history and change the world!”
We hugged it out again, and then had a few more beers and joints, before heading to bed. We quietly crawled into blankets on the floor of the living room to get some sleep. We were up super early, and tried not to make noise, but Sequoia woke up and Hana was up soon thereafter, anyway. Johnson and I, as was customary, drank many cups of coffee, before we got back on the road, and that much closer to our destiny…
* * *
This is a jail cell, I was stressing myself out, there’s no way this will work.
Johnson and I stood mystified, envisioning how the two of us could possibly live together in these tiny quarters in Koreatown.
“It’s a little bit small,” Kelly stated the obvious, as we nodded.
“A wee-bit small,” Johnson agreed, pinching a thin space between his thumb and the index finger of his right hand.
Kelly’s apartment was basically just a miniscule, teensy little box. Just one, pathetically diminutive square of space, which served multiple purposes, like a swiss-army knife; functioning simultaneously as the bedroom, kitchen, living and dining rooms.
We had found Kelly through an add on Craigslist. She was subletting her apartment while traveling back to Korea for the holidays and through March. In the meantime, she was staying elsewhere with her boyfriend. The price was right, but the floor plan was untenable for us.
“Listen Kelly,” I appealed to her, “we’ve been on the road for days, and we’re quite weary. I don’t know if I can honestly say that this apartment is going to work for us, but would you mind, if we just paid you a prorated rate, and then stayed here for one night to test drive the room?”
Kelly thought that sounded reasonable enough and allowed us to squeeze into her sardine can and crash for a daily cash rate.
Since I’m more compact, I had had to sleep on the floor while Johnson got the bed, which was also pretty petite. The space was so cramped that Johnson couldn’t even get out of bed to use the bathroom without stepping on me. I was taking up the whole floor basically, and I still couldn’t extend my legs out all the way.
Johnson almost fell on top of me, as he was attempting to tip-toe over me to climb back onto the bed.
“This isn’t a good start.” Johnson’s short fuse had already been lit, “we need to find somewhere to live ASAP.”
The situation with Johnson, is a ticking time bomb. I thought.
“Did you try to call Hanson?” I bugged him.
“I sent him another text and he still hasn’t gotten back to me.”
“Can you please try, calling him?” Desperate for a respite to regroup, I continued to pester Johnson, “we just need somewhere to stay for a few nights while we get settled in.”
“I will,” Johnson looked down at me from the paltry bed that was built into the top of a dresser, and only accessible via a narrow ladder, “I’ll call him tomorrow.”
Neither Johnson nor I, had been particularly close with Hanson in college. In reality, and in most respects, Hanson and I, had been adversaries. For one thing, Hanson had a super grating, and intentionally obnoxious personality.
Furthermore, the last semester that I had lived on campus, Hanson had been my RA, and the f**ker had written me up for something. I didn’t even remember what it was about anymore, but I was still harboring a grudge, nevertheless.
Hanson though, had been childhood friends in Dallas with Alan, who in turn, was Johnson’s buddy from college that had lived with him, the semester after I left. Alan had suggested that we hit up Hanson to see if we could crash at his place for a few nights.
“Speaking of small spaces,” My mind wandered after a few minutes, as I decided to disturb the silence that had settled on the room, “I have a trivia question for you, Johnson… what, is the shortest distance, between two points?”
“It’s a straight line,” he shot back quickly.
“Wrong.”
“What is the right answer then, hot shot?” Johnson begrudgingly played along.
“The shortest distance between two points, is actually… six-point-three-six-three-one, times ten to the negative, thirty-fourth inches.”
“What are you blathering about?” Johnson groaned.
“It’s called the planck length, and in physics, it’s the shortest possible distance, between two quantum particles.”
“That was terrible,” Johnson offered his constructive criticism, “not funny.” He rolled over onto his side facing the wall, with his back towards me, “I’m going to sleep.”
You don’t have to be a hero and take on the world on your own. Reach out for help with your project.
The next day we met up with Kelly at a McDonald’s around the corner and dropped off the apartment keys. It was no surprise to her that we decided to pass on this opportunity.
In search of our dream home, all morning and afternoon, we wound up in some of the worst neighborhoods in LA, but had still come up short on anything we could afford, that was actually habitable for us.
That evening, Johnson and I got a bite to eat at a sports bar in East Hollywood, while we waited to hear from Hanson.
“This is bullshit,” Johnson angrily looked down at his phone as he drank a beer, “I hate that guy! He’s never going to get back to us.”
The bar had a huge open floor plan with separate bar and seating areas. There were dozens of TV’s, pointing games at us from every direction. There was also a section of the room featuring pool tables and other activities.
This was heaven for a sport’s junkie like Johnson, and he drank beers and watched a basketball game, while I pulled out my laptop and looked for more apartments on Craigslist.
“He probably just got off of work,” I offered optimistically, as I emailed a link to myself, “maybe he’ll call back, after he eats and relaxes, and such.”
“Yeah right,” Johnson was getting irritable, “I don’t want to have to sleep in the fucking car tonight.”
“I don’t either,” I rebutted, “but I’ll do whatever I have to, to make our dream work.”
“Will you stop with that fucking dream shit already,” Johnson upbraided me, “I’m so sick of hearing, all this star-dust, shit from you. We need to find an apartment or nothing else is going to matter.”
“I get it.”
“Ok,” Johnson sighed and finished his beer, “I guess we’ll split a hotel room for tonight, but neither of us can keep doing this for long. Especially not you…”
We checked into a super crumby, double queen room. There was one full sized bed, and then there was one more bed which was just absurdly, ridiculously small. Shrunken, and outrageously truncated, it was hard to believe that this was anything other than a practical joke or a prank that was being played on us.
Naturally being the short one, I was stuck with it, and I was incredulous as I contorted my body to lie down on the pint sized, shrimp-bed which was even more pathetic than the itty-bitty-bunk in Kelly’s apartment.
This microscopic-mattress is tinier than a twin, I stewed as my feet dangled uncomfortably over the edge, possibly shorter even, than a baby’s bed!
“When we walked into the office, did the manager stop and think, this short guy looks like he wouldn’t mind, sleeping on a midget bed,” I ranted to Johnson, “Let’s give them room 42…”
“Please stop talking about the bed,” Johnson begged me.
“Easy for you to say,” I called him out, “you’re not the one that has to sleep on doll-house furniture!”
The next day was Friday and in the morning, we went to take a look at another loser, in another terrible neighborhood. Things were starting to look bleak.
“I’m hungry,” I complained to Johnson, “can we stop somewhere to get lunch?”
“I need to get gas,” he offered, “why don’t you just, get a hot dog?”
“Yuk Johnson,” I protested, “you know that a gas station hot dog is a lot like Noah’s Arc?”
“How so?” Johnson was skeptical of this comparison.
“Because,” I explained, “it contains a small mix, of every single animal.”
After some more back and forth, Johnson and I compromised and agreed to eat at a taqueria. As we were having lunch, Hanson finally got back to Johnson and told him that we could come over later that evening.
After striking out again on our search we gave up for the day and went back to the sports bar, where we had been the night before. It was right near where Hanson lived, so Johnson found a parking spot in between the two locations, and started drinking early. After about an hour, we decided to throw some darts to kill time as we continued to wait for Hanson to get off work.
“It’s kind of weird,” I threw a dart, wildly off target, “how someone could be your enemy somewhere, let’s just use Hanson for example, and then you go to a new place where that person is the only person that you know, and you kind of make friends, by default.”
I collected my darts, mostly from the floor, and I handed them to Johnson in a bunch.
“Nah,” Johnson disagreed with me, “I bet you that Hanson’s still, just as big of a douche-bag.”
Johnson threw his first dart and hit a bullseye.
* * *
“So, if you can’t find an apartment, are you boys planning to set up a tent in shanty town?” Hanson had a sinister smirk on his face as he seemed to be savoring our stories of suffering, struggles, and sorrows. He was a few inches taller than me, with broad, stocky shoulders. Hanson was dressed like a server, in a black t-shirt, and was wearing clean, black slacks.
“Which shanty town?” Johnson asked, “they’re all over the place now.”
“Can I suggest, downtown LA?” Hanson taunted us, “so that way, I can drive by and honk my horn and throw stuff at you.”
“I was thinking that we’d just live here, with you,” I parried his attack, “Johnson can take the couch, and I can sleep in bed, with you and Leia.”
“That would be just fine.” Hanson wiggled and flailed his fingers in the air, grasping in my direction “you know though, that means that I’m going to touch you, right?”
“I take it back, I take it back!” I fought Hanson off as he tried to grab my crotch, “I’ll sleep in the shower.”
“You know that’s ok, you can do that,” Hanson sneered, “but you should know that I like to take random showers at odd hours, all throughout the night.”
“As long as you don’t try to write me up again, it will be alright,” I knocked the ball back onto his side of the court, “that was very uncool of you, to do that.”
“Can you believe this guy’s still mad about that?” Hanson laughed as he tapped his girlfriend Leia on the shoulder.
Leia had long brown hair and a sweet, warm face. She wore glasses and kind of looked like a friendly librarian as she sat next to Hanson on the couch. Leia was talking to a friend on the other side of her who had also recently moved out here from Dallas.
“Shut the fuck up idiot,” Leia punched Hanson in the shoulder, “I’m trying to talk to Barb.”
“So how is AFI?” Johnson made small talk with Hanson as he drank a beer on the love seat on the left side of the living room. On the wall behind his head hung an eclectic mix of art prints and posters.
“It’s great,” Hanson bragged, “I got to meet Martin Scorsese the other day.”
“Hey, speaking of screenplays,” I interjected, “I just finished my first spec script, I was wondering if you would take a look at it? It’s an election themed episode of 30-Rock, it’s called, ‘30-Rock Obama’.”
“No sorry,” Hanson bathed in his own self-importance, “I hate to be that guy, but I don’t have time to read other people’s work.”
Hanson had an elitist attitude, and was attending the American Film Institute, which is a prestigious graduate school for screen writers. He assumed that I was below his pay grade, even though he had never read any of my writing before.
“Is it ok if I smoke weed in here?” I pulled a hand rolled joint out of a pack in my pocket.
“It’s fine over by the window I guess,” Hanson acted like it was a big imposition, “Leia smokes all the time, but then again, I like, her.”
“You don’t smoke?” I was surprised.
“I don’t like it, it makes me feel weird.” He started rubbing his nipples through his shirt, “it makes me do bad things.”
“That’s probably just because you’re evil,” I retorted, “like how vampires, burst into flames when they step into a church.”
“That happens to me too!” Hanson got animated, “hey fuck church, anyway.”
“Do you ladies want to try some medical cannabis?” Johnson offered the girls, “my buddy Andy, in Arcada grew it.”
“Sure,” Leia smiled cheerfully.
“I’m in,” Barb agreed.
Barb had shoulder length blond hair, and also wore glasses. She was short and a little pudgy.
“By the way,” I announced to everyone and no-one, “Johnson and I are starting a medical marijuana, edibles company.”
“That sounds stupid,” Hanson scoffed.
“You sound stupid,” Leia called him out.
“I’m going to turn you guys into the cops,” Hanson fucked with us, “just like, when I wrote you up in college.”
“Whatever you feel like doing is fine, Hanson.” I shrugged indifferently, “On a totally unrelated note… I heard through the grapevine, that you are deathly afraid… of spiders.”
“What? Who told you that?” Hanson demanded, incensed.
“I forget.”
“Was it Alan?”
“Sorry,” I kept my cards close to my vest, “I can’t reveal my sources.”
“It was Alan!” Hanson probed my poker-face for signs of weakness.
“It’s irrelevant,” I pointed at him, “either way, your secret is out, and I can get live tarantulas delivered here, in twenty four hours, from Amazon. I can send you the link, if you’d like to see it?”
“That’s not fair!” Hanson whined, “you can’t do that! Two wrongs, don’t make a right!”
“Yes, while it’s technically true, that a negative plus a negative, does equal another negative,” I conceded to Hanson, “as does, a negative, plus a positive equal a negative. However, if you multiply your wrongdoings instead of adding them together, then the math does work out; ergo- a negative, times a negative… equals a positive.”
“Why did I agree to let you stay here, again?” Hanson scratched his head.
“I, said they could stay here.” Leia scolded him.
Hanson turned back to her, “Why do you continue to punish me woman?”
“You know perfectly well, what you did.” Leia wagged her finger disapprovingly at him.
“What are you, my mother?”
“Are we really going to have that conversation now,” Leia put her hands on her hips with her elbows sticking out, “in front of the guests?”
We kept smoking joints and then settled back onto the couches and chairs in the living room to watch TV. I sat alone in a single-seater in the center of the room, while Hanson and Leia snuggled up on the white sofa to my right.
On the other side of the television in the love chair, where Johnson had been sitting before, he was now joined by Barb, who was cuddled up against him.
I was irritated with Johnson, not only because he was always getting the girls and I never did, but moreover, I was concerned that he was going to have sex with Leia’s best friend, and then blow up this spot for us.
Meanwhile, I continued to play defense, as Hanson flipped through channels on the television and made endless efforts to antagonize me.
Because I had mentioned that I don’t watch television, Hanson was making a point of subjecting me to various shows, and annoying me as much as he possibly could in the process.
“You like Pawn-Stars, Gabe, Real Housewives, Survivor?” He jammed on the buttons of the controller, quickly scrolling through channels.
“What about Ancient Aliens? Do you like the History Channel Gabe?”
“From what I’ve seen of the History Channel,” I commented, “the shows are all about the hypothetical past, like Ancient Aliens, or reality shows about the present, like Ice Road Truckers. The only other shows I’ve seen are about doomsday scenarios in the future. They seem to cover just about everything on the History Channel. Everything that is… except for history.”
“This is why nobody wants to be your friend.” Hanson mocked me.
“Hanson, for Christ’s sake,” Leia pinched him as he squirmed, and giggled, “can you please just pick a channel?”
“Ok,” Hanson deflected, “anyway, it’s Gabe’s fault. He hates everything I put on. Gabe, stop being so picky.”
“It’s fine,” I tapped on the floor with my foot, “you can put on anything you’d like.”
Johnson and Barb ignored us as they started to openly make out in their own little, erogenous, oblivious, beer-bubble world.
“What about Heroes Gabe, do you like Heroes?”
“Whatever you want, pal.” I responded.
“It’s a show about people that wake up one day and they have special powers,” Hanson over-shared with me, “has anything like that, ever happened to you?”
“Absolutely.” I nodded.
“Like what?”
“Well, a few weeks ago,” I humored Hanson, “I discovered… that I could, defecate… the future.”
“Fuck you.” Hanson laughed in spite of himself, “you’re a liar.”
“It’s true, “I insisted, “I had Greek takeout one night, and the next morning I evaucated, the fecal-five-minute, weather forecast.”
“You’re a potty prophet,” Hanson offered.
“Yes sir,” I confirmed, “I’m a poo-sayer; or a number-two-Nostradamus, if you will. Anything that I see in the bowl now, comes true.”
“Hey Barb,” Hanson relished interrupting her tongue twisting session with Johnson, “Gabe can shit the future. Don’t you want to get your fortune told?”
Johnson looked over at me, like he wanted to kill me.
I took my time, twisting my heel, as I stepped on his chemistry, “well, funny you should ask, because I do feel like I should warn everyone…”
“Warn us about what?” Hanson obliged.
“I need to tell you all some grave news about the future,” I soberly prophesized, “The future… is a terrible, terrible place. Just awful. Really bad, in the future.”
“Why?” Hanson snickered, “what happens?”
“Well for one thing,” I paused, “in the future… it smells terrible, and everything’s covered, in shit!”
“Why, wait until the future,” Hanson continued to harangue me, “I can give you all the shit you could ever need, today!”
After another half hour or so, Hanson and Leia went off into their bedroom. Johnson and Barb kept hooking up on the love seat, even as I turned off the light and uncomfortably went to sleep on the floor.
They kept me up for hours; fooling around at first, which culminated in disgusting sex noises. The disturbing, inebriated sound of kissing, slurping, and pounding flesh, disturbed my mind and echoed in my head, terrorizing me, throughout the night.
The next morning Johnson and I left Hanson’s place and walked towards his car so we could return to our home hunt. It was hot out and Johnson was hung over and looked rough as we walked down the sidewalk.
“Why can’t we find a place like that?” I pointed to a quant looking apartment building on our left, across the street from where Hanson lived, “that’s perfect.”
“Keep looking,” Johnson stared down at his phone while we were walking, “I’m counting on you to work your magic.”
Counting on me? I wondered. And, what are you planning to do to help?
“Oh shit,” Johnson frowned, “she’s texting me… already.”
“Who?” We walked by the hotel with the midget bed where we had stayed the night before.
“Fucking Barb!” Johnson looked sick and dehydrated, like he might start throwing up.
“I made a big mistake,” Johnson confessed.
“You’re a fucking idiot, Johnson,” I admonished him, “our first night, with the only people that we know in LA that will let us stay with them, and you went and fucked their best friend. And now what, you’re just going to ignore her?”
“I’m not looking for a wife,” Johnson complained, “she’s already blowing up my phone and talking about commitment.”
“Well, you’ve really gone and fucked yourself into a pickle this time Johnson,” I lectured him.
“What have I done?” he stared down at his phone as we made a right on Hollywood Blvd and continued to walk through Thai town.
“You’ve fucked both of us into your pickle really,” I piled on, “because on day one, you polluted the waters in our only social circle, with your disgusting, dick!”
“She wanted it just as bad as I did,” Johnson rationalized his actions.
“Jesus, Johnson,” I shamed him, “you’re a wild, fucking animal.”
“Yeah, maybe that was a bad idea.” He admitted, “I was pretty drunk, though.”
“Haven’t you ever heard the expression, ‘you don’t fuck, where you eat’?” I continued to prosecute my case. “Well Johnson… don’t fuck where we eat!”
That weekend went by without any success to speak of, and we were back to square one again on Monday morning.
Our first star-crossed apartment showing that day was in south central and the unit we were looking at was in a building that was condemned. The cash-only rent was cheap, but the house was literally falling apart.
The locks on the doors didn’t work, the windows were all broken, and there were several walls inside that were caving in. The ground was covered with a thick layer of black soot. The floor-tar locked in the scum, fossilizing dust, cigarette butts, crackpipes, needles and animal excrement inside of layers of sticky, filth encrusted strata. The house was currently occupied, and the landlord told us that it would become available as soon as the current tenants were evicted, by the end of the month or sooner. There was trash, and disgusting soiled garments, covering every surface, of every room.
Is this the best we can do? I lamented, a needle-infested, crack hovel, in the epicenter of a dangerous, gangland, warzone?
I felt sick from a heavy dose of reality. Maybe Nathan had been right? Maybe coming out here, was a bad idea, after all?
After another failure, I called my friend Dave, who I had gone to high school with, in NJ. He had already been established in Tinseltown for few years, and lived in West Hollywood. He told me that he could shelter us for the night but unfortunately, he could only put us up while his roommate was out for the evening, and then we’d have to leave again the next day.
“Hey man…” Johnson exited off the highway and made a left, going west onto Hollywood Blvd. He was taking us on the slow traffic-tour, through town, on the way to Dave’s domicile, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”
“Ok.” I stared out the windows as we started to pass the freakshow on the walk of fame. It was dark, but there were still tons of people out, illuminated by radiation, emanating from the beating, pulsating heart of Hollywood.
“I don’t know what we’re going to do man,” Johnson shook his head, “but this doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.”
I stared at the palm trees and a giant red ‘W’ that was backlit by the bright lights from a hotel.
“It will work out,” I promised, “we just have to stay positive.”
“That’s all well and good,” Johnson countered, “but optimistic thoughts and happy feelings, aren’t going to pay the bills or get us a place to stay.”
“We’ll catch a break eventually.” Saying the words out loud, I was looking to convince myself as much as Johnson, that it was true.
“We’re out of time,” Johnson’s tone was serious, “I’m at my wits end. It’s up to you now. if you can’t figure something out in the next day, or two, then…”
I nodded. “Understood.”
Looking over at me as he was driving, Johnson’s eyes softened up a bit.
“You’ll be alright,” Johnson reassured me uneasily, “I mean… if this, doesn’t work out.”
In the past, I had been able to incrementally borrow small amounts of money from my parents when I was broke or in a jam, but they couldn’t help me this time, not anymore.
Not only had they lost money like everyone else, when the market crashed, but my father had just been diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease and was preparing himself for the inevitability, that he would be forced to retire early over the next few years.
I was now at the end of my rope…
The next morning, I went to an internet café for coffee and randomly started talking to a super-friendly, middle aged, Asian woman, who had a relaxed hippie-surfer, vibe to her. Her name was Sandie, and it turned out she was renting out a one-bedroom apartment in Thai Town. I looked up the address and incredibly, the intersecting threads of fate, that seemed to be yanking on the strings behind the scenes in my life, had pulled another twist, and the apartment that Sandie was renting, was right across the street from Hanson’s place. I looked on Google maps, and confirmed that it was in fact, that same exact building that I had pointed out to Johnson, just two days prior! I told Sandie our story, and about the amazing coincidence, and she agreed to meet later that day to show the apartment.
After lunch we marched back over to Hanson’s block on Loma Linda Ave., and approached a red metal gate that encaged a staircase going up into the complex. The outer door was unlocked when we tried it, and we headed up towards the balcony on the second floor. I tried not to slam the heavy iron gate behind me, as I walked up the stairs behind Johnson.
* * *
A few minutes later, Sandie interviewed Johnson and I on the porch of the common area. We sat under a white plastic umbrella, at a round, blue, metal picnic table that was bolted down to the patio floor. It was a nice day and I looked down at the cars and people on the street over the balcony as we spoke with Sandie and answered her questions.
Sandie thought we were funny, and she got a kick out of the fact that I was going to sleep on the couch while I tried to find work as a writer.
Sandie looked to be in her 50’s or 60’s but had a youthful face, and featured a perpetual smile. She was wearing a casual white blouse, and loose tan pants that screamed, ‘beach professional’.
“You young guys crack me up,” Sandie laughed, “Times are tough, I get it. If you guys want, you can even rent out space on the floor, to more of your friends. Heck, you can even sublet out the bathtub, for all I care.” Sandie started cracking up, “Just so long as you pay your rent on time, I don’t care what you do.”
Not only did Sandie give us a chance, and a place to live in a ‘safe-ish’ neighborhood, but she had also given us, at least in my mind, an implicit greenlight, for mischievous behavior in the apartment.
Once we got some trim, I figured, we could make our first batches of butter on the stovetop in the kitchen, and there was probably a reasonable chance, that we wouldn’t even have to worry about Sandie calling the cops on us!
I was greatly relieved to finally have somewhere to live. Getting an apartment had bought me some time, and provided me with a temporary stay of execution; from Johnson and from the rest of the problems looming at my doorstep.
After we landed on Loma Linda, I was hoping that Johnson would be able to get trim fronted to us from his friends up north, right away. It hadn’t materialized yet though, and without any resources to get started, I was just spinning my wheels.
Johnson began to grow increasingly concerned about his dwindling bank account, and a few weeks before the holiday he had lobbied me to lower my job-seeking standards.
“You need to find some kind of employment stat.” Johnson lorded over me, standing to the side of the table in the dining room. “You can’t wait for the perfect thing to come along, neither of us can.”
“I’ve been looking.” I argued with him, as I sat in my chair with my laptop opened in front of me. “I haven’t found anything yet!”
“You need to greatly, greatly, lower your expectations, bro.” Johnson drank a glass of cheap whisky mixed with water and lemon juice.
“If the bar gets any lower,” I leveled with him, “they’re going to become a tripping hazard.”
“I’ll look with you,” Johnson tried to motivate me, “we’ll get a shitty job together.”
I wasn’t really in any position to argue with him.
“Ok,” I pledged, “I’m going to make my vision work, and I’ll do whatever it takes to get there, even if it means swimming through a river of human feces to escape prison, like Andy Dufresne, in the Shawshank Redemption.”
This moment of clarity about the importance of settling, brought Johnson and I to a week of paid training at the telemarketing center, before Thanksgiving morning, when Johnson had his second moment of clarity.
Johnson must have either sobered up or gotten more drunk that morning (I couldn’t tell which one it was) leading to his change of heart about him personally settling for a shitty job. He seemed to still be ok, with me, settling though…
“You’re not the boss of me, Johnson!” I pushed back at him, standing up for myself finally, after weeks of putting up with his bullshit, and bullying behaviors, “I’m not your puppet, so get your fucking arm out of my ass!”
“Woah, woah man… just calm down,” Johnson put his hands up in front of him in a plea for peace, “I wasn’t saying you had to go… I was just trying to say, you can go, if you want to.”
Johnson stirred his eggs on the stove with a spatula.
“Of course, I don’t want to go, you selfish bastard! It’s Thanksgiving!”
“Great,” Johnson smiled, “I don’t think either of us should go. This isn’t what we came out here for man.”
“No it isn’t.” I started to calm down, and I began to step back down off of the ledge.
“Listen,” Johnson suddenly looked cheerful and filled with mirth, as he reached into the fridge and pulled out two beers, “I know I give you a lot of shit, but one of the things that I love and admire about you, is your relentless optimism.”
“Thank you.” I didn’t think he had been paying attention to my constant struggle to keep my head up above the water, and I was kind of touched by his words.
“I believe.” Johnson looked firm in his faith, “Fuck this telemarketing job. I think we just need to trust in ourselves, and in each other, and then things will work themselves, out.”
Johnson cracked open a beer, and attempted to offer me the other one.
I shook my head.
“It’s 7am,” I objected.
“Thanksgiving, dude.” Johnson cheered, holding up his beer enthusiastically.
“No judgement here,” I raised my eyebrows in judgement.
“Dude, seriously,” Johnson peer-pressured me, “you look like you could really use a beer, man. Want a beer?”
I was trying to keep my patented positivity up, but looming over my psyche, was the thought of abject and total failure, of giving up, and heading back east. It was ironic that Johnson was the one who was being sunny and sanguine for a change, while I couldn’t shake my existential anxiety. In the back of my mind, I could hear the box factory; it was calling my name and taunting me, in a throaty, corrugated, cardboard voice.
“Dude, Thanksgiving.” Johnson had a goofy look on his face, as he tried to shove a beer into my chest.
“No,” I couldn’t help but laugh at him, as I swatted his hand away.
No matter what happens, I told myself, I’m going to make it, I’m going to be ok…
For a moment, I was somehow able to stop worrying and just let go. I didn’t remember when the last time was, that I had allowed my life to slow down, and I had been able to just accept whatever happened. It was time to let fate kick in, and take over from here.
Johnson finished making breakfast and then we sat in the living room on our dreadfully dirty and uncomfortable, dumpster-futon. Johnson put a movie on in the background which eventually gave way to football games, while I worked on my next spec-script, a hypothetical episode of, It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, featuring two main intersecting story lines which were, ‘The Extreme Special Olympics’ (The Special X Games), and ‘The Fantasy-Sports Mafia’.
At a reasonable hour, I even started drinking a few beers with Johnson, and I just, kind of… relaxed. This was a strange sensation for me. We were just chilling and having a nice afternoon, which was actually a bit of a shock to my system. At this point, I had become accustomed to operating in a constant state of terror, stress and panic, as a result of continually drawing heavy fire from an infinite deluge of high stakes, and high-octane dramatic challenges. Being comfortable, was outside of my comfort zone, and my normal gear of nervousness, and neurosis.
I thought back to my Thanksgiving miracle in Santa Fe.
Something good will happen, I affirmed, I just need to be patient…
“Hello,” Johnson stood up and moved away from the TV, “hey man, how are you doing? What is it? Really? Oh ok. Yeah absolutely…”
Snapped out of my thoughts, I gazed mindlessly at the TV, as I couldn’t help but eavesdrop on his conversation.
“…no just me and Gabe… ok just let me know.”
Johnson hung up, and turning to to me, he grinned from ear to ear. “So do you remember earlier, when we talking about that Thanksgiving Miracle…”
Johnson told me that the call was from J2, an associate he had met over the summer in Humboldt. J2 was supposed to connect with a black-market grower in Pasadena, to pick up 30 pounds of cannabis flowers, but an emergency came up and J2 couldn’t meet up with him to procure the package.
“Look, I’m in a real jam,” J2 had told Johnson. “If you guys can meet up with
Duane and hold onto a 30 pack for a week… I’ll give you, four thousand dollars.”
As if written in a screenplay, this plot twist, was the picture-perfect, cinematic, Thanksgiving Miracle, that we’d been waiting for.
This $4000, was like manna from heaven. Finally, we’d caught a break! We would have the runway we needed now, to start our business!
This was a gift from the Gods! The stars had aligned, to prove out our faith, and to help us make our dreams, come true!
This is fate, I thought. This a sign! This is kismet, this is…
* * *
“This is the Los Angeles Police Department! Put your hands up in the air and get down on the ground!”
As I lay there with my hands clasped above my head, my life flashed before my eyes.
In my head, I relived the chain of events of the whole crazy day, and how I had gotten myself into this situation. I reflected on my strange past as a traveler, and the hoops that I had to jump through to make it back out to California and set up a base camp in LA.
Fucking idiot! I savaged myself. What was I thinking?
The irony of the situation continued eating at me, as I resigned myself to what was coming. I looked over at Johnson who scared, still, and breathless.
Wait… how come, I can see Johnson?
While the helicopter continued to roar in the background, the searchlight was gone, and the activity outside the door had started to quiet down.
I slowly climbed to my feet and carefully crept to the window. I waved Johnson and Duane over to take a look.
The SWAT team was now lined up on the street right out front of our apartment complex. They appeared to have a suspect in custody.
Spotting an officer still standing on the apartment balcony, I cautiously walked out of our doorway and approached her.
“What’s going on?” I inquired curiously.
“There was a standoff with an armed suspect on the street,” she advised, as Johnson and Duane walked over to join me.
“We’ve got it under control now.”
The officer continued filling out some paperwork and then went back down to join the rest of the cops on the street below.
This is it, I told myself, this is the last black-market deal, I’ll ever do!
We stood outside on the porch along with other residents, as the cops started to wrap up the circus outside. Duane’s car was parked on the curb right across the street from our apartment and was still surrounded by cop cars and flashing lights.
We won’t squander this opportunity, I told myself, this miracle, this gift from the universe. We’ve got to make something happen, now. There are no more excuses, for not getting started…
Finally, the cops cleared out, and Duane was able to make it over to his car.
He came back up the stairs onto the porch with two large duffel bags, hanging on canvas straps that crisscrossed his shoulders.
“Hey,” Duane looked over at me as he stepped into the doorway of our apartment, “I guess you were right…”
He held the door open for me, “about the helicopter.”
“Welcome to Los Angeles.” I walked back into the apartment behind him, closing, and then locking the door.