"You could not give me toys in those bleak days; So when my playmates proudly boasted theirs, You caught me to the shelter of your arms, And taught me how to laugh away my tears."
DuBose Heyward, American Author
I arrive at the beach house in the middle of the evening. Exhausted, I grab one of my three bags and head to the door, leaving everything else until the morning. It's been four years since I was last here for Gabe's high school graduation, but the key is still in the same pot it has always been hidden in on the back terrace. I climb the stairs to my room in the dark hoping to just crawl into bed. When I get to my room, after turning on the light, I realize that not visiting in several years means the bedding had been stripped so I head to linen closet. I also realize there is quite a bit of furniture in my room (and other rooms in the mansion, if not much has changed since I was a more frequent visitor) that won't be missed. I smile at the thought of furnishing my new place with better-than-knock-off crap that I had been planning on as I grab some sheets and a big comforter with a funky chartreuse design that I hope will brighten my mood. I make the bed and then throw myself on it, hugging a pillow to my chest as I finally let the events of the past couple of days wash over me.
Letting myself think and feel and face the end of my relationship made for a restless night. I wake up with all the pillows and blankets on the floor, like I had been fighting them in my sleep. I probably had been, and subconsciously getting out that aggression in my dreams, while not allowing me to wake as rested as I had hoped, does bring back my normal, peaceful energy that had been missing since walking out on Rich. The rage is gone, replaced with a sense of relief that something I'd been dreading for a while has finally happened and I can now move forward. I know that I will still occasionally battle with the issues anyone who's been cheated on has: Why was it so easy to cheat on me? and Am I not worth it? et cetera, but stronger than that is my sense of narrowly avoiding a crap-load of issues being with Rich for the long haul would have brought. It's funny how you can see that looking back. I didn't think I would begin healing so quickly, which is perfect—I can continue writing sooner than I had anticipated, and every antagonist will have Rich's face. I will exact my revenge that way; instead of passing petty gossip to our mutual friends, I'll find success in my scripts and upcoming book that he indirectly helps, once I figured out what this book is going to be about.
I spend the day working on plot points for an action script I'm working on. It involves a man who had been a part of an elite crew of mercenaries who are skilled in martial arts. My knowledge of the Far East and its self-defense styles is limited to being a fan of the original Karate Kid (the star was a hottie!) and helping Gabe's best friend, Zach with a rather large report he had to do on Asian customs and legends probably 12 years ago.
Zach and Gabe met when we were still living in San Pedro when they were about eight. I was 16 at the time and totally into surfing and skateboarding and avoiding the fact that I was more excited by Ralph Macchio than Elizabeth Shue and what that entailed. Zach and his family had moved to a place down the street from ours and he and Gabe met running around the neighborhood. From what I could tell, Gabe was shooting off his mouth about how he'd seen Zach's sister, Jeanne, who is two years younger than I am, "dirty kissing" Jerrod from two streets over. Jerrod was the neighborhood "bad boy" and that kind of story wouldn't exactly paint this new girl in the best light. Gabe, who didn't realize at the time what kind of implications telling others about Jeanne would cause, was very surprised when Jeanne's younger brother defended her honor with a stiff upper hook. When Gabe came whining to me about it, my reply shocked him.
"That kid Zach was right to shut you up. You shouldn't talk shit about someone's family, EVER." Even if I agreed the daughter of the new family on the block should tone it down before getting a bad reputation, I had to respect an eight year old who tried to protect a sister six years his senior.
Gabe's next interaction with Zach happened a few weeks later. Several boys a year ahead of Gabe were making fun of his name calling him "Baby-Gabey" (nine year olds' maturity levels were clearly borderline-stupid if that's the best they could come up with) and telling him he still wore diapers. Zach stumbled upon the group and picked a fight with the two biggest boys taunting Gabe. They eventually left before the younger boy could prove himself yet again (word had gotten around among the neighborhood kids about Zach's powerful fists), and Gabe was left alone. That one incident cemented a loyal life-long friendship that would end up withstanding distance, economic status, and the kind of shit I couldn't even come up with my writer's imagination. My big-brother-of-a-fatherless-little-brother self was grateful li'l Gabe made such a loyal friend with a protective streak. That self also decided to redirect these eight year olds' energy from fighting to other physical activities in an effort to keep them out of the trouble they would inevitably stumble upon.
The first time I met Zach was a few days after the "Baby-Gabey" incident. I had encouraged Gabe to bring his new friend over and I would take them to the beach. Gabe was so proud when he introduced big-brother Shaun to his new-best-friend-in-the-whole-world Zach. The boy, with his big observant eyes wearing an ill-fitting jacket was in no way the prize-fighter I was expecting. This quiet, earnest, polite boy protected loud-mouthed Gabe? I remember kneeling down to introduce myself and he finally looked me in the eye. I could see an intelligence there I wasn't expecting from someone who used his fists to solve his problems. I loaded the boys into my pride and joy: a gray '88 Ford Bronco II, along with my second-biggest investment, a Dewey Weber surfboard. I had borrowed a couple rarely-used boards from some of the guys I surfed with to begin lessons. Zach picked up the basics quickly, and Gabe's competitive nature helped him to keep up.
Their excitement for learning this new skill together only strengthened their bond of friendship. Soon Gabe told me that that he and Zach were blood-brothers. At this point Larry was courting Mom, and her attention was on him, so I was glad my brother's focus was elsewhere and decided to overlook the potential teaching moment on communicable diseases that his admission prompted. I would take them to the beach two or three times a week for surf lessons, and then sessions, picking them up after school from Zach's house. His dad was usually at work, and Jeanne was awkwardly attentive to me (and any male within a mile radius), so I was always happy to see his mother, Sylvia, when I picked them up.
Sylvia was quiet and observant like her son, and anyone could tell she adored her family by the way she would caress Zach's cheek as he rushed out the door, or insisted we take home-made snacks with us to the beach. Her love for her son Zach, extended to his "blood-brother" and beyond to me. She would work with the boys ensuring they finished their homework before I would take them out. She'd often ask me how my schooling was going and was more encouraging than my own mother when I expressed interest in becoming a writer. Sylvia passed away about three years ago while I was in Europe and one of my biggest regrets is that I couldn't make it back to say goodbye to such a gentle, caring woman. The flowers I sent could in no way express how sad I was that this mother, who could put love in something as simple as Rice Krispie Treats for her children, had passed away.
Thoughts of Sylvia's cooking make my stomach growl and bring me out of my memories. I save my work and close the laptop, unable to decide if my writing is decent or crap. Grabbing my keys and slipping into some flip-flops, I head to the garage and my car. The kitchen was empty (thanks Gabe), so I need to stock up on necessities. I head to the nearby grocery store and get half a cart's worth of food, throwing yogurt and steaks, hummus and croissants, beer and bananas haphazardly into the basket. I make sure to grab Rice Krispies and milk. Heading home, I decide to eat a sandwich, have a beer, and head to bed.
Waking before sunrise, I debate between working on the script or my book. I open both on my computer and add a couple notes that had come to me in sleep. This often happens for me—characters will reveal something about themselves or a plot twist will begin to unfold when I'm between being totally asleep and having my first cup of coffee. Something for the main character of the martial arts mercenary script came to me in this place and I type some general notes that I will elaborate on later. I'll definitely need to do some internet research on fighting styles before getting started plotting out fight scenes. I start another list of the knowledge I do have on Asian fighting and culture, which is woefully pitiful.
I was about 18 when I helped Zach on his Asian legends assignment. At that point, Larry and my mother had married and we had moved from the 'hood to the beach house mansion. Along with this upgrade in zip codes came an upgrade in schooling for Gabe. I had just graduated from high school with a scholarship to CalArts for writing and in an effort to take as little of Larry's money as possible, stayed with them during the summer and on most weekends so my spending was within the financial aid I received. Gabe was excited about his new junior high, but I could tell he would miss Zach. Since they were no longer within a close vicinity of each other to hang out several hours each day, they spent most evenings and whenever they couldn't be together on the walkie-talkies Larry got him the Christmas before. Zach must have missed his best friend too. When I went to pick him up for a trip to the beach that summer, Sylvia mentioned that Zach was determined to stay with his best friend. If I were to show, rather than tell a reader about Zach's character, it would easily be a scene of him, at his kitchen table most of that summer, studying for a test that would eventually qualify him for a scholarship to Gabe's new school. How this ten year old kid was doing everything in his limited power to keep his relationship with his blood-brother not only intact, but was also working to better his own life, was humbling, and it was something I understood, having just applied myself and my studies toward my own scholarship.
Zach got in and took the "short bus" every day to his new uptown school, waking up earlier than the other kids to get to the bus stop in time. I have no doubt the richy-rich kids at the school picked on him, but he never complained. One of the first big class assignments for them that year was to study a foreign land and report about interesting customs and legends there. Gabe lucked out and got Greece as a subject. It was simple for him to find info on legendary Greek mythology which easily explained many of their customs. Zach's assignment was China. He didn't bring it up when I picked them both up from school as a surprise the Friday before the assignments were due, but when we stopped by his house to get his surf gear, I could tell Sylvia was worried. Her health was slowly declining-had been declining for a while-and she didn't have the strength to take Zach to the library for research. When she explained this to me, I told her not to worry. Zach would have his presentation ready by Monday. I called my buddies I had made plans to see that afternoon and rescheduled for later that evening, taking both boys to the library. Gabe bitched about spending a perfectly good Friday afternoon at the library and promptly took himself to the magazine area, throwing himself in a chair with some surf magazines. I helped Zach pick out a few books and brushed through some of the pages, looking for inspiration. We stayed there for a couple hours, Zach meticulously jotting down notes and Gabe harrumphing about missed waves. When I felt satisfied that he had some headway on the project, I helped gather books to check out and we hit the beach for a quick surf session.
The next day, I took Gabe over to the old neighborhood and checked in with Sylvia and Zach. He had finished pouring through the books and found a few legends he liked. I offered to help him pick the final one he'd focus on to create a board about to present to the class. Immediately I found the story that fit Zach: the Red String of Destiny or Red Thread of Fate. Essentially, it means that there is a magical red thread that connects us to our loved ones. The string can't get tangled and won't break. It will lead us to or bring us back to those we love no matter what happens in our lives. If someone is meant to be a part of our future, the red string will connect us and lead us to each other. Primarily it focuses on soul mates, but other versions mention all of the significant people that make up our lives are attached to red strings connecting to our pinky. If anyone at the age of ten could appreciate, or even grasp this concept of unbreakable bonds with others, it would be Zach. When I pointed out that this was my favorite, he quickly agreed that it was his as well. Gabe, returning from visiting some old friends down the way, was disappointed that Zach wasn't doing his on kung-fu or dragons—this, coming from the boy who drew a bunch of big-breasted goddesses as illustrations on his presentation board!
My Monday class was cancelled, so I stayed in Long Beach an extra night. Mom asked if I could help take Gabe to class because fitting that huge board on the bus would be a hassle. I agreed and loaded up my brother, his poster, and my surfboard into the Bronco. He had his walkie-talkie and used it to tell Zach not to get on his bus because his "presentation board wouldn't even fit on that short bus and might knock a couple 'tards out, dude." I shook my head at my brother's politically incorrect statement as we headed over the Vincent Thomas Bridge to collect Zach. I rang the doorbell of his house and Jeanne slinked out in a tube top and Daisy Dukes. I narrowly avoided her advances and scooted past her to the kitchen. Sylvia looked exhausted and Zach was making her tea. His board was sitting on the table. Where Gabe used his to display buxom babes and hybrid mythological creatures that were featured in his current-favorite video game, Zach's board was a piece of art.
Primarily in black and white, the top held an explanation on the red thread legend. The bottom featured a pretty accurate likeness of Zach, surrounded by the easily-recognizable people in his life. His mother was prominently featured, her sweet face smiling down at her son. Jeanne was there, next to Zach's father. Gabe was there, holding a skateboard next to a girl I recognized from the neighborhood in a t-shirt with a monkey on it, and…me, I was there with a surfboard. I was awed I made it on this boy's important family and friends list, and amazed at the detail-work that had clearly been involved. Tethered to Zach's hands in the image, and highlighted as the only color among the blacks and whites and grays, were thin red strings connecting to each person's hand. It was far beyond most kids his age's capabilities. I'd always known he was a smart boy, but until that point, had no clue about his artistic talent. Zach looked nervously at it as his mother, and she, though ill, beamed at him. I was grateful he had a mom who I had no doubt would encourage him to pursue his artistic talents in the same way she had encouraged me. She looked at me over her mug of tea and smiled, nodding her head at me with a knowing smile when she could see I was flabbergasted. I took the boys to school and hit the beach. Going to my special surfing spot, I spent the solitude grateful for my life and my talent and all the people who had an unbreakable invisible red thread to me.
I finish my note-taking and shut the laptop, stretching. Standing up, I can hear the waves breaking. Today would be perfect to take out my longboard. I change from the underwear and tank I'd slept into some board shorts and head to the kitchen for a quick bite. The Rice Krispies seem like a good idea and I slice a banana into the cereal. I stand at the sink, eating, when a flash of blue in the side yard catches my eye. Someone is waxing one of the several boards there. From this distance I can see he's tan with lean muscles as he rhythmically rubs the wax into the board. What the hell? Wait, is that…Zach?!
Having not seen him in four years, I can't be positive without closer inspection. I quietly step outside and approach. Yep, it's Zach—a grown up Zach that has filled out since he was 18. What a trip! Like any character I write, I need the perfect opening line:
"I thought your ghetto ass would be done breaking and entering by now."
