May 24th 1963, Dallas, USA, 01:42 pm
How many people has Dallas grown in just two years? Even if - in this suburban area - it's perhaps less noticeable, the business districts are taking on the colors of the major economic center this city will become. 'Growth', 'progress', 'household consumption', 'GDP' and 'international influence' are concepts that are hurting our proto-hippie souls. Just like segregation and inequality of all kinds, almost assumed by our 1963 America.
Our return was particularly violent, three months ago.
I've seen the 'Destiny's Children' take more than a week to dare cross the estate gates for provisions, start to fear the outside world, turn even more inward on their community. I've seen dozens of them get hand tattoos, and cling to pop or R&B Vedas. I've seen them start to dye all their clothes 'Tiffany-blue' - a brand that Beyoncé will one day be the face of - simply because Klaus referred to it as 'iconic' over lunch. Their devotion is joyful, but blind. Just before leaving for San Francisco, he didn't even need to quote them a single spiritual verse: to be left in peace, he made them 'commune with the music' by whistling a random note. No matter which one. I don't think he's aware that he's become a guru, but I think he's realized that I'd rather live another apocalypse than contemplate this any longer.
The atmosphere is that of Fridays, in the humble lanes linking the lower neighborhoods to the sidewalks of Avon Street. A couple of guys passing by have already commented that they don't like half my lineage, and I've ventured to tell them that their own ancestors would be ashamed of them for being such assholes. I'm aware that - unlike many of the people they pick on - I can make myself intangible, invisible, and teleport away if needed. I'm not afraid of answering them, unlike many. It's easy to take risks when there's nothing to fear. But since I can do it: then my little insult will also be in the name of all those who are forced to remain silent.
I cross the street in front of Rosati and Sons: Wayne Wilson's house is nearby, behind the Avon movie theatre. The old nurseryman has never really left my memory, even during our wanderings. In April, Jill and I were able to sow most of the seeds in his satchel, alongside rows of Indian marigolds brought back from Varanasi. On the Mansion's flowerbeds, which will soon be decked out in gold for several months. Kitty, who is staying to take care of her health, will make sure that her gardeners take good care of them. Her health is clearly declining. I don't think she can be sure of seeing them bloom beyond late spring.
I was with her when Priscilla's colorful body - crowded to the roof - drove through the gate surrounded by a procession of other honking vehicles, heading for San Francisco. It was just goodbye for me; for her, I don't know. Klaus reluctantly left, sitting looking back, on Priscilla's roof. It had been a long time since I'd seen him so bleak. Telephone service is definitely available in 'The City by the Bay': I think he'll agree to use that technology, but I'm under no illusions. I gave Jill the number of my first motel, because I know it will take him less than a week to lose it.
My eyes dart to the spot where he'd parked the Dodge Polara the day he picked me up here. I confess that walking like this near the alley where I literally crashed in 1961 feels strange, as if this memory is lost in another life. Before the Ganges waters, the northern lights and the menudo. Before I chose to reinject myself into society after all, at the crossroads of those who preferred to leave it behind. And I wonder once again if we're still 'alone', or if 'the others' have arrived too. I know that Klaus was also dropped into that very alley by the time vortex. Perhaps we all have.
The air is almost warm on this spring day, and I have no pockets this time to stuff my hands into as I pass the various storefronts. Tipman's, Cecilio's and Stadler's, which I won't even look at. On the other hand, there's one familiar silhouette I haven't forgotten. A spindly, gray silhouette, sitting on a cardboard box. In front of Dallas Southern Bank, even after more than two years, Mark almost looks as if he hasn't changed his pants. My smile stretches, I approach... and without a word, I drop down beside him, just as I did the day we met.
"It's my spot," he mumbles without even opening his eyes from the drowsiness his bad whiskey has plunged him into again, and I almost laugh.
"I know, I won't steal it from you this time either."
He sits up straight and opens his eyes round, as wide as Jim Beam bottle butts.
"Howdy, Zeppelin girl. Where'd you disappear to all this time?"
I see that his memory is working, and I stretch out a grin, implying that the answer is even less simple than when he asked me where I'd come from.
"I've been traveling."
He nods.
"You look like a back-in-the-wild-mustang. Did you find a place to crash, or are you still squatting at old man Wilson's?"
I shake my head.
"I've got a room at the Lone Star Motel. A... friend lent me enough to pay for a month, but I'm here to look for work. I don't want to rely on anyone."
He hisses.
"D'ya know, kiddo, that you'd find it easier to get a job up north around Richardson? North Greenville, East Spring Valley..."
I sigh, because I know why he's saying that. The location he's giving me is 'Chinatown', and I decide I won't hold it against him, because he's certainly doing it with no real thought of harm. And I'll be honest.
"I don't fit in any better there than I do here. I'm always either too much or not enough."
The truth is, Vietnamese ancestry is neither common nor welcome in this era, and that I was scorned again for my facial features. If there's one thing I've come to understand, it's that being of mixed race is possibly even more challenging in 1963 than belonging to one ethnic community or another. I don't even have that kind of support, and it's not for lack of trying. Dallas quickly reminded me of the security provided by the 'Children'. But now I'm ready to face reality. I look at him with all the confidence I can muster, while he takes a nice swig of his hooch.
"I've come to apply for jobs on Glen Oaks Street."
"Glen Oaks?"
He turns his head toward me.
"There are only screw and bolt stores, on Glen Oaks. Plumbing and windows. All that stuff... food processors, wallpaper and paint."
My expression turns to one of great mystery.
"Believe it or not, I worked in a hardware store for six years. It's actually what I know to do best."
It was an illusion to think that I would find a position as a technician in small concert halls, whose equipment is still very rudimentary anyway. It's a dream, but for the moment I have to go for the obvious. After all, I owe Rodrigo more than just having given me a job: thanks to him, I know the classification of screw fittings by heart, and I how to recalibrate a spirit level. Not to mention repairing devices, now that I know how to channel energy. And Mark whistles.
"Geez, hooda thunk it. But you're right, kiddo. Don't call him a cowboy till you've seen him ride".
I laugh, because I've come to love this Texan wisdom. But I look up at the bank clock, because it won't be long before the stores open for the afternoon. I stand up.
"Got anything to eat for lunch?", I ask him, then add, without any judgment, "Or something to drink, when you've finished this?"
He looks at me like I'm an alien, caring about this. And I won't give him a coin directly, because I've never seen Mark explicitly ask for charity.
"Eliott's going to leave me something on his doorstep," he says, pointing to the back of the alley. "I've got my connections, don't worry."
I don't know who the guy is, but now I understand why Mark always hangs around. I smile at him, waving slightly my fingers goodbye, and - no doubt to wish me luck - he says:
"Come hell or high water, be fierce".
03:37 pm
"Honestly, you won't be hired anywhere, except maybe for cleaning".
Standing on the doorstep of the hardware store at 765-767 Glen Oaks, my posture is a little downcast. Because this is the eighth rejection I've had, all along the street, and because the enthusiasm Mark had given me is clearly eroding. Next to a bundle of mops and brooms, I look at the little man in a spotless apron who is dismissing me with a perfectly simulated courtesy.
"Customers won't like the look of you, and you don't have the physical build to work in materials handling".
My lips purse. I heard a lot of excuse-making, from my pants (I'd certainly be dead before I wore anything else) to my long hair. Just like at the big general DIY store, I wasn't told what the underlying problem really was, but I wasn't completely fooled either. The swab retailer didn't even open the door, the window-frame conservator pretended to be on the phone. And when I wanted to prove my skills at Mason's - a leading name in plumbing equipment since 1932 - I was told that customers would be intimidated that ~a woman~ could know more about pipework than they did. I feel like I'm running into all kinds of obstacles in the working world of that era. But at least my last interlocutor - before I am tempted to give up - has the merit of being brutally honest.
Too bad. His store was a bit like Rodrigo's. Polyvalent, selling a bit of everything, including paint and termite pesticide. But anyway, they're already two people on staff, and there's hardly any need for more, for a local business like this. It's not even worth insisting on proving what I can do, so I should just give up without being unnecessarily pushy.
"Thanks for having opened the door," I say, and I blame myself directly for having given in to that word. Shit, I don't have to say that: I don't have to thank for what's normal. And before I get angry with this guy who hadn't sollicitated anything, I turn around and take a few steps back onto the sidewalk, while he closes his glass door without saying a proper goodbye.
Along the curb, cars line up under the increasingly biting sun. I look across the street, and the stores that go up from here further east are no longer matching my skills. A retoucherie, a law firm. I sigh. It seems it is time to come to my senses, and go back to the motel to spend the money Klaus earned by selling miracles. I take off in the direction of Avon street, where Mark might still be, but just as I'm about to speed up, I hear behind me :
"Hey, Rin".
I stop dead in my tracks and turn around. At 769 Glen Oaks Street, behind a smoky storefront I hadn't even noticed, a hodgepodge of electronic components and appliances to be repaired is piled up in a perfectly artisanal mess. And there, leaning against the door in a soberly colored 'Metroplex Radio & Electronics' shirt, stands a familiar face, its hair now cut in the most presentable fashion.
"Lloyd? Holy crap!"
I'd be bursting with joy, if the owner of number 765 wasn't still gazing through his window. Lloyd leans over, gives him a little wave to which he only responds with a pursing of the lips, then turns back to me.
"Don't regret anything, it wouldn't have worked out between you and Brian Katz".
I shift out of sight, and my expression says it all.
"He was frank."
"It wasn't for your own benefit."
I suppose he's right, that this guy is 'a man of his time', as Klaus had also qualified Jerry Stadler before calling him a twat. Putting up with a guy like that on a daily basis would certainly have made me go nuts, Lloyd's not wrong. In the end, it's a good thing I wasn't hired anywhere today, at any number down the street.
"Have you dumped Klaus?" he asks me with a sidelong glance, and I scrutinize him to see what he's implying there.
"The 'Children' got somewhat out of control, after Iceland. They're... in San Francisco, now."
He nods. Lloyd had already felt the wind of change, when he left what still felt like a community back then. Klaus is really the only one who cannot spell the word 'cult', when it comes to all this.
"Are you going to stay here, then?"
I nod. I won't be able to tell him, though, that I'm waiting - perhaps delusionally - for the unfolding of events I've been seeing in dreams for almost three years.
"I was hoping to find a job. And a more stable place to live than dingy motels."
His expression speaks volumes about his understanding of the shock of my move from the "Destiny's Children" to this life. Even though he didn't continue in India, I'm sure he can guess from my slightest posture how much those months changed me. Lloyd knows me better than any of the other 'Children', and he also knows that the decision not to follow Klaus was one of the most difficult of my life. Just as telling him was. However, I can see that he's somewhat satisfied with this new reality of mine. He tilts his head, looks at me, and whispers as he looks inside the store that is now his own.
"You might not like the idea of getting a job through co-option, but..."
I crack a smile, because I know what he's about to say, and because I'd missed his polished vocabulary.
"Do you think you'd do as well with stereos as with Priscilla's engine?"
Notes:
It's a difficult return to reality for Rin. She had expected it to some extent, but to be confronted with it directly hits hard. Lloyd is probably right: she would have preferred to find a job some other way, without owing anything to anyone. But this opportunity is unhoped-for, in many ways.
I don't think Katz's name has sparked anything in Rin's mind yet. At what point will this happen?
I'm glad we got to see Mark and his delicious Texan expressions again! Did you miss him too?
Any comments will make my day!