"Summer in Chino" – chapter 3
I loved everyone's ideas about 'what happens next.' It shows the incredible creativity out there and illustrates how hard the show writers have to work to appease a large fan base in which everyone has their own agenda.
Some of the ideas I read mirrored stuff already percolating in my brain. Some introduced fresh fodder. I finally decided to incorporate a number of elements and several viewpoints, then the thing sort of took on a life of its own and I let it unfold.
*********
"I'm going to kill him," Summer muttered, checking her watch for the fourth time in the last fifteen minutes. "If he gets back here and there's nothing wrong with him, I'm going to smack the snot out of him."
She tried the cell again with the same result and left another seething message. It was obvious Ryan had turned his phone to vibrate and was ignoring it or had turned it off completely. "You are so grounded," she said to the phone. "Denied access to every part of my body until you've groveled ... a lot."
She paced the room another moment then flung herself across the bed and turned up the volume on the TV. "CSI" was on and the last thing she wanted to picture was people cutting into other peoples' flesh so she quickly turned the channel. A "Gilligan's Island" episode was on TV Land and the familiar, pointless antics of the castaways were like comfort food, serving to lull her into a sense of well-being – for a few minutes anyway.
Summer rolled over onto her stomach and checked her watch again. It was five minutes later than the last time she'd looked. "God, Ryan, please be safe," she whimpered as anxious tears welled up in her eyes.
**********
Ryan tried to make himself as unobtrusive as a shadow. The trick was to look strong but non-threatening, to act as if you belonged here but not to infringe on anyone's space, to minimize eye contact yet still give off an aura of confidence so that no one would mess with you. It was all in the presentation.
Unfortunately he didn't need to simply walk through this neighborhood and make it safely back out the other side. He needed to search buildings and ask questions of people who didn't take well to questioning. In this short block there were hundreds of places a person could be; crashed out, hidden from view, blending into the rest of the garbage. Finding his mom without making contact with the natives was going to be impossible.
"Hey hijo, you lookin' for a friend?" A thin brown hand touched his arm and Ryan looked up to find that a boy a bit younger than himself with hard, knowing eyes had joined him on the sidewalk. "I can be your friend. Twenty bucks, I'll show you where to go for the best stuff – clean, no cutting. I'll hook you up."
Ryan shrugged off the hand and continued walking. "No thanks."
"Come on. I know you here for something. Whaddya want? I can get it. Or do it." He clarified, "Do you if you want. Thirty bucks."
Ryan stopped, eyeing the kid's oversized clothes and cocky demeanor. The boy obviously knew his way around and that was priceless right about now. He pulled out his creased and dog-eared photo of Dawn. "I'm looking for her."
"How much," the boy persisted. "I never seen the puta but you pay me and I help you find her."
Ryan considered. "You find her then I'll pay you," he negotiated.
"Aw, man. You don't trust me? I'm hurt," the boy laughed and clasped a hand to his heart.
"Her dealer's name is Jose." Ryan had called Lucy from the motel and pumped her for every scrap of information she could give that might help him in his search but all she could recall was the pusher's first name.
"Jose? We're in Chino, esse. Do you know how many fuckin' Joses there are?"
"You want the money?" Ryan gave him a quizzical look and the kid shrugged.
"See what I can do. Where you gonna be?"
Ryan gestured to a house nearby which looked like it had survived a bomb blast. Most of the windows were broken or boarded, the roof sagged and half the shingles were missing, the front porch floor was riddled with holes. Trash littered the strip of brown grass in front of it. A skinny girl was picking her way across the minefield of the porch and entering the front door.
"There?" The boy was incredulous. "Man, you ignorant. You don't just go in 'less someone say you cool. There's like rules and shit. You're gonna get your ass beat from hell to Sunday poking around in there."
Ryan hesitated. It was true he didn't know how things worked here. The homeless and drug addicts, the whores, pimps and dealers all had a place in the hierarchy of their own society. He was as much an outsider here as he'd ever been in Newport.
Ryan's self-appointed guide sighed and rolled his eyes dramatically. "You just pitiful!" He grabbed Ryan's arm again and pulled him along toward the house. "Come on. You stick with me I'll fix you up, then we can talk about what it's worth to you."
Ryan allowed himself to be led along. He didn't know if he was walking into a trap. No doubt the kid had friends waiting who would roll him for his wallet, which was safely back in the jeep at a MacDonald's a few blocks away, but he had to take a chance. It was pretty obvious he was going to get nowhere on his own.
They crossed the rotting boards and entered the house. Ryan felt as trapped as when he had walked into jail that first time. He could feel the phone in his pocket vibrate against his leg. He probably should've called Summer one last time before he cut off communication. She was definitely gonna kill him.
*************
The phone rang and Summer jerked from her TV induced trance then fumbled and dropped it in her haste to answer. She didn't bother identifying the caller before answering, "Hello?"
"Hey. Remember me?" A stranger's husky voice snapped her wide awake.
"Um, no," she answered. "Refresh me."
"Talked to you earlier today. You were wearing those tight little shorts, showing off them fine legs."
"Yeah. That's me," Summer's voice hardened. "What do you want?"
"Oh come on. Don't be like that. Here I call to do you a favor and all you can be is mean."
"Sorry," Summer weighed the idea that the caller might actually have useful information and found it doubtful but just listening couldn't hurt. "I'm a little tired. Do you know something about the woman in the picture? Dawn?"
"Well now, I might." The voice paused. "Is your friend around?"
"Uh, he's in the other room. Why?"
"I don't know. I thought maybe we could meet somewhere ... just you and me. And then I could tell you what I know."
"Oh for god's sake," Summer exploded. "Don't waste my time, dickhead. And don't call back again." She furiously punched the Stop button and tossed the cell onto the bed. All right, maybe giving her number out to Chino at large had not been such a wise move after all. The last thing she needed was some idiot tying up her phone while Ryan was trying to call.
She picked it up again and stared at it. For that matter he might have tried to call just now and found it busy. Fully realizing that she was bordering on obsessive, Summer dialed Ryan's cell number again.
*************
Charles Murchison had lived on Mariposa Street all his life. He had grown up in number 4523, where he lived with his parents, his brother, Tom and sisters, Edna and Louise. Of course mama and daddy were long since passed on, little Louise too. She had died of polio back in 1953. Tom had left home in a rage at daddy when the brothers were just teenagers and no one had heard from him since. Edna lived with her family down in Florida and Charles hadn't seen her in years. He did get a nice Christmas card from her every year, which showed how her family had bloomed and grown.
Charles had never left his childhood home. It was the only thing he owned. Times had gotten rough after the plant closed in the mid '80s and he lost his job. But by then he was close enough to retirement to live off his savings until social security kicked in and, not being a self-starter, had been content to live modestly rather than find another job. For a shy and quiet man, who had worked the line for thirty years, the idea of facing a job interview was terrifying.
Charles had watched the pleasant, family oriented neighborhood of his youth begin the slow decline to poverty during the recession of the 1970's. Houses grew shabbier. Families moved away and landlords bought up the homes and rented them out to tenants who couldn't care less about upkeep. When the plant closed and jobs disappeared, the only successful occupation around became the drug trade.
The first time Charles had been walking home from the store and come across an exchange of money for coke right on the sidewalk by his house, he had been shocked and outraged. He crossed the street, pretending not to see, and then re-crossed to scurry into his front door and head straight for the phone. He called the police and informed them of what he had seen. A nice lady officer took down everything he said and promised to send a squad car around. Charles sat by the window, peering through his blinds and waiting all afternoon. The police did finally arrive ... two days later.
That was five years ago. Now Charles could walk past whores and their customers screwing up against a wall in broad daylight or addicts passed out in an alley with the needle still in their vein without batting an eye. This was his neighborhood. His street. He would never leave 'til they took him away in a coroner's van.
But strangely enough he was in no danger in this hostile environment. Charles was part of the scenery, as useless and harmless as a tree or a rock. His clothes were so threadbare it was obvious he wasn't worth mugging. His house had been broken into a couple of times but there was nothing valuable to take and soon his home was as ignored as Charles himself.
Every day the old man went through the same routine; morning cup of coffee with the news, a nap, housecleaning while he listened to his favorite Dean Martin or Perry Como album, a nap, sandwich and soup for lunch, a nap, then Charles would put Pouncer on his leash and take a long walk to downtown and back. His mama had taught Charles that exercise and clean living were the path to God and he still practiced what she had preached.
Charles' best friend and companion was the striped tabby cat. Through her he talked to many more people than he ever would have walking alone. People stopped to pet the animal and consequently chat with the elderly man.
Late afternoon found Charles in his armchair napping. He cooked himself a well-balanced meal at 6:00, napped during the news, watched an old movie or a ball game on television then retired for the night. But once in bed, he often found it impossible to sleep. Tonight was one of those nights.
Charles rose, dressed, and went downstairs. He went out on the front porch to try to catch whatever passed for a cool breeze on this hot, muggy night. Invisible, he sat in his circa 1960's aluminum frame, plastic weave lawn chair and watched his street.
Across the street he saw that little bastard who had thrown a brick through his living room window just for the hell of it. He was sure that kid was the culprit because the next time Charles was out walking Pouncer the kid came up to him and asked all big-eyed and innocent what had happened to his window. Little bastard.
Tonight the delinquent was walking with a kid Charles had never seen around here before. That wasn't unusual. A lot of strangers came to Mariposa to buy what they couldn't get in their own neighborhoods. But something about the pair caught Charles' attention. He sat quietly holding the cat on his lap, and watched them make their way across the street heading toward him.
"Listen, bro," the thin, dark boy was saying. "You gonna pay me or what?"
"For what?" the light-haired one responded. "We haven't found her yet."
"Maybe not, but I saved your ass back there. Without your amigo Miguel vouching for you, you woulda been beat up or stabbed or shot or...."
"Right." The taller boy shook his head but fished in his jeans pocket, pulled out a crumpled bill and tossed it at his companion. "Here's five bucks for having my back."
"Oh! Cheap, man! You are sooo cheap," Miguel complained, stuffing the money in his pocket. "That all your life's worth to you, pindejo?"
"More later if you can point me to Jose."
"I don't know." The latino boy posed with one hand to his chin as if lost in thought. "I'm tryin' hard to remember whether I ever heard of this guy before but," he clicked his tongue, "you know, five bucks don't really stir my memory."
His companion turned and started to walk away then suddenly stopped dead practically right in front of Charles' front porch. The old man looked down the street to see what had caught his attention. A little farther down the sidewalk a blond woman had just emerged from what used to be the Brewster's house when Charles was growing up. His best friend Tony had lived there until he joined the Army and got killed in Korea at age nineteen.
The woman was arguing with a man, whom Charles recognized as one of the regular drug-pushing, pimping predators in the neighborhood. Over the years Charles had come to a sort of sad understanding of the addicts and a weary resignation about the pushers, but every once in a while the old, white-hot anger at their presence on his street kicked in.
The argument escalated to violence. The man grabbed the woman by the arm and shook her as he yelled in her face. Below Charles on the sidewalk the boy remained frozen. Miguel came up alongside him to see what he was looking at. "Hey, isn't that the putana in the picture? We found her, man."
At that moment the pusher slapped the woman across the face, knocking her to the ground and the boy broke from his trance and charged toward the fighting couple.
"Oh no, esse, you don't want to do that," the skinny, little troublemaker called out, and Charles had to agree with him.
The other boy barreled into the pusher at full speed, knocking him back with a shoulder to the gut. Taken by surprise, the man grunted and bent double as the wind was knocked out of him. The boy didn't give him time to recover but regained his balance and drove a knee up into his face. The man's hands flew to his nose as blood gushed to the pavement.
Meanwhile, the woman on the ground was climbing to her feet. "Ryan?" she called out. Her voice captured the boy's attention. He turned to her for the split second it took the pusher to collect himself and enter the fray. The man straightened up, shaking his head and spattering blood everywhere. He emitted a cry of rage and clocked the boy on the side of his head with one hard fist.
Both Charles and the little street rat, Miguel, winced.
The sandy-haired boy was knocked sideways by the blow. He staggered but caught himself then returned a punch to his opponent's face.
"And just who the hell are you?" the man bellowed. He pummeled the kid repeatedly in the head, forcing him into defensive mode. Arms raised to block, the boy had no opportunity to hit back.
"Stop it! Jose, don't!!" the woman screamed, launching herself at the attacker. She grabbed at his arm and he shook her off with a curse and almost casually drove his elbow into her breast. The blond cried out in pain.
Jose frowned at her. "Stupid, bitch." He turned his attention back to the boy, who was swaying unsteadily on his feet, and with one well-placed kick, swept his legs out from under him sending him crashing to the ground. He delivered a kick to the boy's ribs for good measure.
"Shi-it!" the skinny boy hissed in sympathy. He began to sidle away down the sidewalk.
Charles had unconsciously risen to his feet. He hesitated trying to figure out what to do. Calling the police was futile. The damage would be done before they arrived – if they ever arrived. He could go back in the house and lock the doors and pretend he'd never gotten out of bed. That sounded very good, very smart, very safe and he started for the front door.
But just then the injured boy started to get up. He was clumsily rising to his hands and knees like Paul Newman in "Cool Hand Luke," as the woman yelled at him, "Stay down, Ryan" and at the angry man, "Leave him alone!"
"Who the fuck is this kid, Dawn?" the pusher asked, dabbing at his nose and watching the boy's slow movements like he was an interesting exhibit.
"He's my son," she gasped. "Please, I'm begging you, don't hurt him."
"Your son? Well, maybe HE has my money?" He leaned over the boy and shouted. "You want to help your mom out, hijo? You got a eight hundred bucks on you?"
When the boy had first started to climb to his feet, Charles had continued to move soundlessly toward the front door, Pouncer squirming in his hands to be let down. He saw Miguel, below him on the sidewalk, glance up at the movement. They exchanged a wordless look as Charles entered his house and closed the door behind him.
His heart hammered in his chest. Charles suddenly realized it wasn't only a reaction to the fight taking place outside. It was because he was going to do something about the fight and the injured boy who might just end up dead if he didn't get involved.
Charles put the cat down, went to the front hall closet and took out a shoebox that had been buried in the back corner. He opened it and took out his daddy's service revolver. His father had only taken him to a shooting range once when he was twelve then dismissed Charles as a hopeless pansy and never let him touch the firearm again. But Charles knew how to load and how to pull a trigger – any fool could do that. The aiming part he wasn't too worried about since he didn't really intend to shoot anybody.
When he re-emerged from the house, the fight was still in progress. Or more precisely, the boy was prone on the ground and the mother was screaming and trying to pull Jose away from him. The other boy had disappeared from sight.
Charles stood on his front porch and hesitated once more. He was inviting a world of trouble onto himself by crossing this criminal, but when he saw the hoodlum kick his victim again, the elderly man broke his silence.
"Hey!" he yelled. Jose stopped what he was doing and looked up in surprise, frowning as he peered through the shadows trying to make out the figure on the porch. "Leave him be!"
Charles had the odd sensation that it wasn't him speaking. The authoritative tone, which emerged from his mouth, sounded like his father. Charles had rarely raised his voice to anyone in his entire life.
The drug dealer took a few steps toward Charles' house. Behind him the boy's mother was down on her knees, checking on the damage to her son. "What?" Jose asked, continuing to advance when he saw that it was only a scrawny old man yelling at him.
Charles raised his pistol. The ambient light shone off the gleaming metal. Jose stopped walking. "Move along now," Charles demanded, as if he expected to be obeyed. A thrill of power rushed through him as he saw the man hesitate.
"You're threatening me?" Jose let out a sharp bark of laughter at the effrontery of the old man. "I don't think so." He stepped forward again. "I'm willing to bet it's not even loaded."
Without pausing or thinking, Charles squeezed the trigger. A shot rang out and Jose dove to the ground. "Jesus Christ!" The dealer rolled to his feet and backed away quickly. "You're crazy!"
Charles chambered another bullet. This was so much easier than he had expected.
Jose turned without another word and began to run. Charles watched him disappear down the street and between two houses then he lowered the gun. "Is everything all right?" he called out to the lady, who was still stooping over her son. The boy appeared to be moving, trying to get up. "Shall I call an ambulance?"
"Holy shit, viejo! That was fuckin' amazing!" Miguel had emerged from shadows and was standing on Charles' piece of sidewalk again. He shook his head. "You in a world of trouble. Jose's gonna wipe the street with your ass."
Charles had to concur. Now that the adrenalin rush and righteous anger were draining away, he felt shaky and fearful. Tonight was probably the stupidest act he had ever committed in his whole life. Repercussions were inevitable. Charles was no longer an invisible man on Mariposa Street.
Miguel trotted toward the injured boy, who had risen to his feet supported by his mother.
"I'll call an ambulance," Charles repeated.
"No. I'm okay," the young man choked out. "I'll be fine."
"You don't look fine, man." Miguel skittered along in front of them as Dawn helped Ryan slowly along the sidewalk. She looked up at Charles who still stood, gun dropped to his side, watching them.
"Please. My son's hurt. Can we come in for a minute."
Charles sighed. He was exhausted now and terrified and wanted nothing more than to retreat into his home and curl up under the covers and pretend it had all been a nightmare. The pistol in his hand dragged his arm down with the weight of a canonball.
"All right," he answered. Opening his front door, the old man stood aside to let them pass; the weeping woman, the beaten boy, and the Latino delinquent. For the first time in over a dozen years someone was invited into Charles' Murchison's house.
************
Summer toyed with the cell phone in her hand turning it end over end. At one point her finger hovered over the button that would dial the Cohen's house. She tried to imagine what she would say to Sandy, how she could enlist his aid without breaking Ryan's trust. It was after 1:00 now and she was beyond nervous. Her stomach hurt and her head was pounding from going over every possible scenario involving Ryan and wondering if she should be calling the police or Sandy or just chasing after him herself.
She jumped up from the bed and started to walk around the tiny room again. Ryan had taken the jeep but it was possible for her to call a cab. She went to the nightstand, picked up the beige plastic receiver and pressed 0 for the front desk. "Yes, could you please give me the number of a local cab company?"
Summer's cell phone burbled out its electronic melody. "Never mind," she said to the desk clerk. She simultaneously hung up the motel phone and pressed talk on her own.
"Yes?"
"Hey, it's me."
"No kidding. What the hell happened to you?" Summer tried to calm her wildly beating heart. No doubt Ryan had been through hell and the last thing he needed was for her to go all shrewish.
"Long story. I'll be back in a while," his voice was emotionless. Summer couldn't read anything from it. She needed to see his face.
"But you found her?"
"Yeah."
"And...?"
"You were right," he said heavily. "Nothing changes."
To be continued....
This story grew on its own and took a direction I wasn't expecting. I did intend to use Charles Murchison as a tool to illustrate how urban decay directly affects an individual, but I thought he was going to be strictly an observer not a participant – until he suddenly took a stand and pulled a gun. I was shocked. Shocked I tell you. I thought he would just sit on his porch and watch things unfold. But then I didn't know Ryan was going to get beaten up. I had planned a simple, verbal confrontation between Ryan and Dawn, but when the drug dealer showed up, kablooey – instant violence.
I loved everyone's ideas about 'what happens next.' It shows the incredible creativity out there and illustrates how hard the show writers have to work to appease a large fan base in which everyone has their own agenda.
Some of the ideas I read mirrored stuff already percolating in my brain. Some introduced fresh fodder. I finally decided to incorporate a number of elements and several viewpoints, then the thing sort of took on a life of its own and I let it unfold.
*********
"I'm going to kill him," Summer muttered, checking her watch for the fourth time in the last fifteen minutes. "If he gets back here and there's nothing wrong with him, I'm going to smack the snot out of him."
She tried the cell again with the same result and left another seething message. It was obvious Ryan had turned his phone to vibrate and was ignoring it or had turned it off completely. "You are so grounded," she said to the phone. "Denied access to every part of my body until you've groveled ... a lot."
She paced the room another moment then flung herself across the bed and turned up the volume on the TV. "CSI" was on and the last thing she wanted to picture was people cutting into other peoples' flesh so she quickly turned the channel. A "Gilligan's Island" episode was on TV Land and the familiar, pointless antics of the castaways were like comfort food, serving to lull her into a sense of well-being – for a few minutes anyway.
Summer rolled over onto her stomach and checked her watch again. It was five minutes later than the last time she'd looked. "God, Ryan, please be safe," she whimpered as anxious tears welled up in her eyes.
**********
Ryan tried to make himself as unobtrusive as a shadow. The trick was to look strong but non-threatening, to act as if you belonged here but not to infringe on anyone's space, to minimize eye contact yet still give off an aura of confidence so that no one would mess with you. It was all in the presentation.
Unfortunately he didn't need to simply walk through this neighborhood and make it safely back out the other side. He needed to search buildings and ask questions of people who didn't take well to questioning. In this short block there were hundreds of places a person could be; crashed out, hidden from view, blending into the rest of the garbage. Finding his mom without making contact with the natives was going to be impossible.
"Hey hijo, you lookin' for a friend?" A thin brown hand touched his arm and Ryan looked up to find that a boy a bit younger than himself with hard, knowing eyes had joined him on the sidewalk. "I can be your friend. Twenty bucks, I'll show you where to go for the best stuff – clean, no cutting. I'll hook you up."
Ryan shrugged off the hand and continued walking. "No thanks."
"Come on. I know you here for something. Whaddya want? I can get it. Or do it." He clarified, "Do you if you want. Thirty bucks."
Ryan stopped, eyeing the kid's oversized clothes and cocky demeanor. The boy obviously knew his way around and that was priceless right about now. He pulled out his creased and dog-eared photo of Dawn. "I'm looking for her."
"How much," the boy persisted. "I never seen the puta but you pay me and I help you find her."
Ryan considered. "You find her then I'll pay you," he negotiated.
"Aw, man. You don't trust me? I'm hurt," the boy laughed and clasped a hand to his heart.
"Her dealer's name is Jose." Ryan had called Lucy from the motel and pumped her for every scrap of information she could give that might help him in his search but all she could recall was the pusher's first name.
"Jose? We're in Chino, esse. Do you know how many fuckin' Joses there are?"
"You want the money?" Ryan gave him a quizzical look and the kid shrugged.
"See what I can do. Where you gonna be?"
Ryan gestured to a house nearby which looked like it had survived a bomb blast. Most of the windows were broken or boarded, the roof sagged and half the shingles were missing, the front porch floor was riddled with holes. Trash littered the strip of brown grass in front of it. A skinny girl was picking her way across the minefield of the porch and entering the front door.
"There?" The boy was incredulous. "Man, you ignorant. You don't just go in 'less someone say you cool. There's like rules and shit. You're gonna get your ass beat from hell to Sunday poking around in there."
Ryan hesitated. It was true he didn't know how things worked here. The homeless and drug addicts, the whores, pimps and dealers all had a place in the hierarchy of their own society. He was as much an outsider here as he'd ever been in Newport.
Ryan's self-appointed guide sighed and rolled his eyes dramatically. "You just pitiful!" He grabbed Ryan's arm again and pulled him along toward the house. "Come on. You stick with me I'll fix you up, then we can talk about what it's worth to you."
Ryan allowed himself to be led along. He didn't know if he was walking into a trap. No doubt the kid had friends waiting who would roll him for his wallet, which was safely back in the jeep at a MacDonald's a few blocks away, but he had to take a chance. It was pretty obvious he was going to get nowhere on his own.
They crossed the rotting boards and entered the house. Ryan felt as trapped as when he had walked into jail that first time. He could feel the phone in his pocket vibrate against his leg. He probably should've called Summer one last time before he cut off communication. She was definitely gonna kill him.
*************
The phone rang and Summer jerked from her TV induced trance then fumbled and dropped it in her haste to answer. She didn't bother identifying the caller before answering, "Hello?"
"Hey. Remember me?" A stranger's husky voice snapped her wide awake.
"Um, no," she answered. "Refresh me."
"Talked to you earlier today. You were wearing those tight little shorts, showing off them fine legs."
"Yeah. That's me," Summer's voice hardened. "What do you want?"
"Oh come on. Don't be like that. Here I call to do you a favor and all you can be is mean."
"Sorry," Summer weighed the idea that the caller might actually have useful information and found it doubtful but just listening couldn't hurt. "I'm a little tired. Do you know something about the woman in the picture? Dawn?"
"Well now, I might." The voice paused. "Is your friend around?"
"Uh, he's in the other room. Why?"
"I don't know. I thought maybe we could meet somewhere ... just you and me. And then I could tell you what I know."
"Oh for god's sake," Summer exploded. "Don't waste my time, dickhead. And don't call back again." She furiously punched the Stop button and tossed the cell onto the bed. All right, maybe giving her number out to Chino at large had not been such a wise move after all. The last thing she needed was some idiot tying up her phone while Ryan was trying to call.
She picked it up again and stared at it. For that matter he might have tried to call just now and found it busy. Fully realizing that she was bordering on obsessive, Summer dialed Ryan's cell number again.
*************
Charles Murchison had lived on Mariposa Street all his life. He had grown up in number 4523, where he lived with his parents, his brother, Tom and sisters, Edna and Louise. Of course mama and daddy were long since passed on, little Louise too. She had died of polio back in 1953. Tom had left home in a rage at daddy when the brothers were just teenagers and no one had heard from him since. Edna lived with her family down in Florida and Charles hadn't seen her in years. He did get a nice Christmas card from her every year, which showed how her family had bloomed and grown.
Charles had never left his childhood home. It was the only thing he owned. Times had gotten rough after the plant closed in the mid '80s and he lost his job. But by then he was close enough to retirement to live off his savings until social security kicked in and, not being a self-starter, had been content to live modestly rather than find another job. For a shy and quiet man, who had worked the line for thirty years, the idea of facing a job interview was terrifying.
Charles had watched the pleasant, family oriented neighborhood of his youth begin the slow decline to poverty during the recession of the 1970's. Houses grew shabbier. Families moved away and landlords bought up the homes and rented them out to tenants who couldn't care less about upkeep. When the plant closed and jobs disappeared, the only successful occupation around became the drug trade.
The first time Charles had been walking home from the store and come across an exchange of money for coke right on the sidewalk by his house, he had been shocked and outraged. He crossed the street, pretending not to see, and then re-crossed to scurry into his front door and head straight for the phone. He called the police and informed them of what he had seen. A nice lady officer took down everything he said and promised to send a squad car around. Charles sat by the window, peering through his blinds and waiting all afternoon. The police did finally arrive ... two days later.
That was five years ago. Now Charles could walk past whores and their customers screwing up against a wall in broad daylight or addicts passed out in an alley with the needle still in their vein without batting an eye. This was his neighborhood. His street. He would never leave 'til they took him away in a coroner's van.
But strangely enough he was in no danger in this hostile environment. Charles was part of the scenery, as useless and harmless as a tree or a rock. His clothes were so threadbare it was obvious he wasn't worth mugging. His house had been broken into a couple of times but there was nothing valuable to take and soon his home was as ignored as Charles himself.
Every day the old man went through the same routine; morning cup of coffee with the news, a nap, housecleaning while he listened to his favorite Dean Martin or Perry Como album, a nap, sandwich and soup for lunch, a nap, then Charles would put Pouncer on his leash and take a long walk to downtown and back. His mama had taught Charles that exercise and clean living were the path to God and he still practiced what she had preached.
Charles' best friend and companion was the striped tabby cat. Through her he talked to many more people than he ever would have walking alone. People stopped to pet the animal and consequently chat with the elderly man.
Late afternoon found Charles in his armchair napping. He cooked himself a well-balanced meal at 6:00, napped during the news, watched an old movie or a ball game on television then retired for the night. But once in bed, he often found it impossible to sleep. Tonight was one of those nights.
Charles rose, dressed, and went downstairs. He went out on the front porch to try to catch whatever passed for a cool breeze on this hot, muggy night. Invisible, he sat in his circa 1960's aluminum frame, plastic weave lawn chair and watched his street.
Across the street he saw that little bastard who had thrown a brick through his living room window just for the hell of it. He was sure that kid was the culprit because the next time Charles was out walking Pouncer the kid came up to him and asked all big-eyed and innocent what had happened to his window. Little bastard.
Tonight the delinquent was walking with a kid Charles had never seen around here before. That wasn't unusual. A lot of strangers came to Mariposa to buy what they couldn't get in their own neighborhoods. But something about the pair caught Charles' attention. He sat quietly holding the cat on his lap, and watched them make their way across the street heading toward him.
"Listen, bro," the thin, dark boy was saying. "You gonna pay me or what?"
"For what?" the light-haired one responded. "We haven't found her yet."
"Maybe not, but I saved your ass back there. Without your amigo Miguel vouching for you, you woulda been beat up or stabbed or shot or...."
"Right." The taller boy shook his head but fished in his jeans pocket, pulled out a crumpled bill and tossed it at his companion. "Here's five bucks for having my back."
"Oh! Cheap, man! You are sooo cheap," Miguel complained, stuffing the money in his pocket. "That all your life's worth to you, pindejo?"
"More later if you can point me to Jose."
"I don't know." The latino boy posed with one hand to his chin as if lost in thought. "I'm tryin' hard to remember whether I ever heard of this guy before but," he clicked his tongue, "you know, five bucks don't really stir my memory."
His companion turned and started to walk away then suddenly stopped dead practically right in front of Charles' front porch. The old man looked down the street to see what had caught his attention. A little farther down the sidewalk a blond woman had just emerged from what used to be the Brewster's house when Charles was growing up. His best friend Tony had lived there until he joined the Army and got killed in Korea at age nineteen.
The woman was arguing with a man, whom Charles recognized as one of the regular drug-pushing, pimping predators in the neighborhood. Over the years Charles had come to a sort of sad understanding of the addicts and a weary resignation about the pushers, but every once in a while the old, white-hot anger at their presence on his street kicked in.
The argument escalated to violence. The man grabbed the woman by the arm and shook her as he yelled in her face. Below Charles on the sidewalk the boy remained frozen. Miguel came up alongside him to see what he was looking at. "Hey, isn't that the putana in the picture? We found her, man."
At that moment the pusher slapped the woman across the face, knocking her to the ground and the boy broke from his trance and charged toward the fighting couple.
"Oh no, esse, you don't want to do that," the skinny, little troublemaker called out, and Charles had to agree with him.
The other boy barreled into the pusher at full speed, knocking him back with a shoulder to the gut. Taken by surprise, the man grunted and bent double as the wind was knocked out of him. The boy didn't give him time to recover but regained his balance and drove a knee up into his face. The man's hands flew to his nose as blood gushed to the pavement.
Meanwhile, the woman on the ground was climbing to her feet. "Ryan?" she called out. Her voice captured the boy's attention. He turned to her for the split second it took the pusher to collect himself and enter the fray. The man straightened up, shaking his head and spattering blood everywhere. He emitted a cry of rage and clocked the boy on the side of his head with one hard fist.
Both Charles and the little street rat, Miguel, winced.
The sandy-haired boy was knocked sideways by the blow. He staggered but caught himself then returned a punch to his opponent's face.
"And just who the hell are you?" the man bellowed. He pummeled the kid repeatedly in the head, forcing him into defensive mode. Arms raised to block, the boy had no opportunity to hit back.
"Stop it! Jose, don't!!" the woman screamed, launching herself at the attacker. She grabbed at his arm and he shook her off with a curse and almost casually drove his elbow into her breast. The blond cried out in pain.
Jose frowned at her. "Stupid, bitch." He turned his attention back to the boy, who was swaying unsteadily on his feet, and with one well-placed kick, swept his legs out from under him sending him crashing to the ground. He delivered a kick to the boy's ribs for good measure.
"Shi-it!" the skinny boy hissed in sympathy. He began to sidle away down the sidewalk.
Charles had unconsciously risen to his feet. He hesitated trying to figure out what to do. Calling the police was futile. The damage would be done before they arrived – if they ever arrived. He could go back in the house and lock the doors and pretend he'd never gotten out of bed. That sounded very good, very smart, very safe and he started for the front door.
But just then the injured boy started to get up. He was clumsily rising to his hands and knees like Paul Newman in "Cool Hand Luke," as the woman yelled at him, "Stay down, Ryan" and at the angry man, "Leave him alone!"
"Who the fuck is this kid, Dawn?" the pusher asked, dabbing at his nose and watching the boy's slow movements like he was an interesting exhibit.
"He's my son," she gasped. "Please, I'm begging you, don't hurt him."
"Your son? Well, maybe HE has my money?" He leaned over the boy and shouted. "You want to help your mom out, hijo? You got a eight hundred bucks on you?"
When the boy had first started to climb to his feet, Charles had continued to move soundlessly toward the front door, Pouncer squirming in his hands to be let down. He saw Miguel, below him on the sidewalk, glance up at the movement. They exchanged a wordless look as Charles entered his house and closed the door behind him.
His heart hammered in his chest. Charles suddenly realized it wasn't only a reaction to the fight taking place outside. It was because he was going to do something about the fight and the injured boy who might just end up dead if he didn't get involved.
Charles put the cat down, went to the front hall closet and took out a shoebox that had been buried in the back corner. He opened it and took out his daddy's service revolver. His father had only taken him to a shooting range once when he was twelve then dismissed Charles as a hopeless pansy and never let him touch the firearm again. But Charles knew how to load and how to pull a trigger – any fool could do that. The aiming part he wasn't too worried about since he didn't really intend to shoot anybody.
When he re-emerged from the house, the fight was still in progress. Or more precisely, the boy was prone on the ground and the mother was screaming and trying to pull Jose away from him. The other boy had disappeared from sight.
Charles stood on his front porch and hesitated once more. He was inviting a world of trouble onto himself by crossing this criminal, but when he saw the hoodlum kick his victim again, the elderly man broke his silence.
"Hey!" he yelled. Jose stopped what he was doing and looked up in surprise, frowning as he peered through the shadows trying to make out the figure on the porch. "Leave him be!"
Charles had the odd sensation that it wasn't him speaking. The authoritative tone, which emerged from his mouth, sounded like his father. Charles had rarely raised his voice to anyone in his entire life.
The drug dealer took a few steps toward Charles' house. Behind him the boy's mother was down on her knees, checking on the damage to her son. "What?" Jose asked, continuing to advance when he saw that it was only a scrawny old man yelling at him.
Charles raised his pistol. The ambient light shone off the gleaming metal. Jose stopped walking. "Move along now," Charles demanded, as if he expected to be obeyed. A thrill of power rushed through him as he saw the man hesitate.
"You're threatening me?" Jose let out a sharp bark of laughter at the effrontery of the old man. "I don't think so." He stepped forward again. "I'm willing to bet it's not even loaded."
Without pausing or thinking, Charles squeezed the trigger. A shot rang out and Jose dove to the ground. "Jesus Christ!" The dealer rolled to his feet and backed away quickly. "You're crazy!"
Charles chambered another bullet. This was so much easier than he had expected.
Jose turned without another word and began to run. Charles watched him disappear down the street and between two houses then he lowered the gun. "Is everything all right?" he called out to the lady, who was still stooping over her son. The boy appeared to be moving, trying to get up. "Shall I call an ambulance?"
"Holy shit, viejo! That was fuckin' amazing!" Miguel had emerged from shadows and was standing on Charles' piece of sidewalk again. He shook his head. "You in a world of trouble. Jose's gonna wipe the street with your ass."
Charles had to concur. Now that the adrenalin rush and righteous anger were draining away, he felt shaky and fearful. Tonight was probably the stupidest act he had ever committed in his whole life. Repercussions were inevitable. Charles was no longer an invisible man on Mariposa Street.
Miguel trotted toward the injured boy, who had risen to his feet supported by his mother.
"I'll call an ambulance," Charles repeated.
"No. I'm okay," the young man choked out. "I'll be fine."
"You don't look fine, man." Miguel skittered along in front of them as Dawn helped Ryan slowly along the sidewalk. She looked up at Charles who still stood, gun dropped to his side, watching them.
"Please. My son's hurt. Can we come in for a minute."
Charles sighed. He was exhausted now and terrified and wanted nothing more than to retreat into his home and curl up under the covers and pretend it had all been a nightmare. The pistol in his hand dragged his arm down with the weight of a canonball.
"All right," he answered. Opening his front door, the old man stood aside to let them pass; the weeping woman, the beaten boy, and the Latino delinquent. For the first time in over a dozen years someone was invited into Charles' Murchison's house.
************
Summer toyed with the cell phone in her hand turning it end over end. At one point her finger hovered over the button that would dial the Cohen's house. She tried to imagine what she would say to Sandy, how she could enlist his aid without breaking Ryan's trust. It was after 1:00 now and she was beyond nervous. Her stomach hurt and her head was pounding from going over every possible scenario involving Ryan and wondering if she should be calling the police or Sandy or just chasing after him herself.
She jumped up from the bed and started to walk around the tiny room again. Ryan had taken the jeep but it was possible for her to call a cab. She went to the nightstand, picked up the beige plastic receiver and pressed 0 for the front desk. "Yes, could you please give me the number of a local cab company?"
Summer's cell phone burbled out its electronic melody. "Never mind," she said to the desk clerk. She simultaneously hung up the motel phone and pressed talk on her own.
"Yes?"
"Hey, it's me."
"No kidding. What the hell happened to you?" Summer tried to calm her wildly beating heart. No doubt Ryan had been through hell and the last thing he needed was for her to go all shrewish.
"Long story. I'll be back in a while," his voice was emotionless. Summer couldn't read anything from it. She needed to see his face.
"But you found her?"
"Yeah."
"And...?"
"You were right," he said heavily. "Nothing changes."
To be continued....
This story grew on its own and took a direction I wasn't expecting. I did intend to use Charles Murchison as a tool to illustrate how urban decay directly affects an individual, but I thought he was going to be strictly an observer not a participant – until he suddenly took a stand and pulled a gun. I was shocked. Shocked I tell you. I thought he would just sit on his porch and watch things unfold. But then I didn't know Ryan was going to get beaten up. I had planned a simple, verbal confrontation between Ryan and Dawn, but when the drug dealer showed up, kablooey – instant violence.