Chapter

     9

I felt different. And, it wasn’t just because I was on my way to pick up Sara for a day of total and complete play. I wasn’t sure what had caused it. Maybe it was because some answers had started peeking through. Maybe it was because I had reconsidered and felt Mathews was the lesser of the two evils. I definitely didn’t want to start over with another doctor. I felt so good that I wasn’t going to even check my messages. I wasn’t going to ponder my declining saddle bag riches or think about checking up on the Swiss bank accounts… just in case. No, today it was going to be cotton candy, carousel rides, and a barefoot-on-the-beach day.

She looked beautiful. As she climbed on the back of the Harley in her French cut culottes, I could only think how tasteful she chose to be. No ripped jeans or faded short- shorts for this lady. She was quality; a classic woman made to ride on a classic motoring machine. Whatever it was that made her special, I felt I deserved to find out, even though I wasn’t sure whether it was Charles Randall or Charlie Stevens reacting.

As I moved away from the curb, her arms around my waist, I wanted to stop and tell her my whole story. No, I told myself. It wasn’t a good idea. Today, I was going to run free. Let the wind move the problems behind me… way behind me.

By mid-afternoon, we were both worn out. Playing like children with sticky handfuls of cotton candy reminded us that fatigue was really not all that bad when you were having fun. We had played every arcade game on the Santa Monica pier, taken old-fashioned portraits in turn of the century attire, and after a short ride up the coast, indulged in two miles of Malibu Beach walking with the sandpipers.

Even further up the coast, we watched the sunset from a picture-perfect window table at a surfside restaurant. Being in a quiet space with Sara was very special. For the first time since my nightmare had started, I felt like I could speak openly to someone besides Mathews.

“Are you as good a listener as I think you are?” I asked.

She looked at me as if I had just asked a naive question. She was rapidly finding out Charles, Charlie of late, was groping his way through many things, including his social skills.

She smiled but didn’t turn. The orange light gave her eyes something special I hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t the warmth I’d seen that many times before. This time there was something much deeper, more thoughtful. I wasn’t sure what it was. “Can I tell you a secret?”

She turned now. “The one you’ve been trying to tell me since we met?”

I could still run, stay quiet, or say anything. “I haven’t been all together honest.”

“I know,” she quietly said, “but it’s okay.”

Was it my imagination, or was the sun setting, taking with it that special coloring from her eyes? I didn’t want to lose it. I spoke quickly, like a kid out of school. “I’m really not Charles. I mean, I’m…People call me Charlie.” I didn’t know where to go from there, but she seemed to understand I was counting on her, and she smiled and laid her head on mine.

“Is Charlie so different from Charles?”

I gripped her hand and hesitantly nodded.

“I’m listening, Charlie.”

By the time I’d related everything I’d told Mathews many times, the restaurant was ready to roll up the ocean view and call it a night.

The waiter poured the last drop of coffee and politely reminded us we were the only ones there. “Cleaning people come in about 15 minutes, so you might want... “

“Oh, sure,” I said. “Sorry.”

As he walked away, I took a deep breath, something I realized I hadn’t done for a long time. “I did go on, didn’t I?”

“C’mon,” she replied. “We can ‘go on’ some more at my place.”

The ride home gave me time to reflect. She had said very little during the four or five hours, so either I’d frightened her, or...I kept thinking over what I’d said. I wanted to believe I hadn’t alienated her.

Her cat was the first to give me the feeling I’d blown it as we walked in. With a no- nonsense turn of his body, his tail went up as he shot off into the bathroom, leaving an angry phhhhhhhtt trailing behind him.

“Jackson’s just annoyed because it’s five hours past his dinner time. Jesse had to go out of town and I goofed and forgot.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“He’ll be alright. I’ll just give him some extra.” She gently picked him up, making him purr all the way to the kitchen.

She prepared a can of Puss and Boots and poured water into the percolator. “I could use some more coffee. You?”

“Sure.” Of course.

She could listen. She could whisper encouragement in that way of hers. She could ride on my bike like a lady, and now, she had fed the cat and made us coffee at the same time. I smiled to myself.

That’s how it was at one o’clock in the morning on that special day when I went from finding a friend to proving a friendship. This woman I had only just met continued to listen to my story, showing patience, understanding—and what I hoped would materialize—a relationship. I didn’t really understand why I felt this way. I didn’t have anything to compare it to. My past was still out there somewhere. All I had were my emotions and they were in front of me. I didn’t know why, but taking a chance felt right. I felt comfortably vulnerable. I didn’t know where that came from, but taking risks seemed second nature to me.

We slept in each other’s arms that night. We both laughed the next morning when we looked at each other in her single bed and realized we still had our clothes on. We must have appeared strange to Jackson as well as he sat on his haunches, starring at us from the doorway, tilting his head left to right.

I was charged when I sped away that morning. A few blocks away, my oil spattered shoes reminded me that a classic machine doesn’t get treated carelessly… especially today. I had to be more careful. With another popped oil connector, I needed a visit to the dealer… and a possible running into Mr. Finch again. Hell, I wanted to run into Mr. Finch again. I was ready for it all. I wasn’t afraid anymore. That’s what I kept telling myself.

“Mr. Finch is out back with a customer right now,” said the fashionably dressed model-like receptionist. I’ll let him know you’re waiting Mr. Stevens.”

“Just tell him the oil connector again, okay?”

“Absolutely, Mr. Stevens.” Rising from her show room desk, the girl left me alone among probably two or three hundred thousand dollars’ worth of gleaming chrome and radiant color. The show room was a rainbow of motoring extravagance. As I wandered around the glittering prizes, I thought about the value system that supported such a toy store.

There in the corner was a woman, dressed in a Levi-cut bright red jacket and pants, obviously well off, shopping. She was probably looking for a way to spend a few thousand. As I watched her, I wondered what kind of people we were to place so much importance on these kinds of possessions? Did I have the same values? I looked at a bike similar to mine. Unbelievable. The price tag read $35,000.; the numbers embossed on leather-like material. Feeling the raised numerals, I wondered how I had bought my bike. Had I just walked in off the street and laid down twenty grand and driven it off?

The woman in red was checking the machine out like she really knew what to look for. Was she buying it for her boyfriend or herself? Watching her make a decision made good entertainment as I waited. I’d read about the Mulholland Drive clique that lived the conservative life during the week in their law offices and accounting firms, then on weekends were out in their leathers and fancy bikes, touring the fashionable streets and highways like kings and queens on parade in their chariots.

I continued watching her. Was my perception of her right? Was Charlie Stevens from a background that had nurtured a keen understanding of people? Was I really capable of good judgment, or like a “druggy,” only capable of thinking I was good because of the opiate effect of money and the accompanying power?

Before I could figure out the answer, Finch’s assistant interrupted my thoughts. “He says to come out back, Mr. Stevens. They’ll take a look at your bike now.”

I took my time walking back. How was I going to pull this off without seeming like a nut case? I’m stronger now, I kept telling myself as I walked past even more of the opulent symbols of leisure.

As I stepped out into the sunlight, Finch was immediately at my side. “Now, Mr. Stevens, what seems to be the problem with your oil connectors that my staff is incapable of fixing?”

“I didn’t mean to suggest anyone was ‘incapable’,” I quickly offered. “I’m probably driving it too hard. I’m perfectly willing to pay for it. It’s not a matter of the warranty or... “

“Mr. Stevens, either we are dealing with defective parts or defective workmanship. In either case—he snapped his fingers and pointed to my bike for Larry-- “Classic Harley stands behind its sales and service. We - and especially Larry our service manager - are very apologetic for the inconvenience, aren’t we Larry?”

Larry was uncomfortable. No, he was petrified. He was pushing the bike very carefully, expecting to be fired on the spot.

I was beginning to feel uncomfortable as well. Within the past 30 seconds, the real purpose of my visit had been interrupted. I was caught in the middle of an employee squabble. Finch was angry. That’s not how I wanted him, not how I needed him.

He turned around and faced off nose to nose with Larry. “Oil seals again. I think you told Mr. Stevens all was corrected, yes? Larry?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Finch smiled and calmly said, as if nothing was out of the ordinary, “You know what to do, right?”

“Yes, Sir,”

“Good. Now, when you’ve finished a thorough review and complete correction of Mr. Stevens’ problem, please make the necessary notations on his warranty. We stand behind our commitment to service, don’t we, Larry?”

“Of course, Mr. Finch.”

With his perfunctory speech finished, he handed Larry a Xeroxed contract. “Make sure Mr. Stevens gets his copy.” He turned back to me, “I’m sure this will resolve itself to your satisfaction, Mr. Stevens, although it may take a while. Do you want to take a walk or have some coffee?”

My eyes were still fixed on the Xeroxed contract. I knew my name was on it, but what of the address? The signature? Maybe some references? Bank references?

“Mr. Stevens?”

“Oh...yes. I’m sorry. I was just thinking. Actually, I’ll just take a walk and wait.” “Very good,” he said. “I’ll be up front if you need me.”

My mind was on fire as I wandered down the street. Finch had sold me the bike. He had my address on the contract. He had my signature on the contract. He was the one other person beside Ms. Sobel that knew me before all this started. I had to get him to tell me more.

I returned to the show room as nervous as I’d ever been. Sitting before Mathews had never created such a fear of the truth as now. Why was I so afraid? I felt like my senses were in a tug-of-war with each other; as if two people were wrestling to govern my thoughts.

He came out of his office and approached me with the usual aplomb. “Ah, Mr. Stevens. We should have you on your way in about fifteen minutes. Could I get you a glass of wine? We just happen to have a bottle of your favorite, I believe.”

My favorite? What’s my favorite wine? “Yes...wine will be fine.”

He disappeared for a few moments and returned with two glasses and a bottle of very old looking French Bordeaux. “Mind if I join you?” he asked.

Anxiously, I jumped. “Please.”

So here we were, two supposedly mature, rational men, drinking vintage wine, except we were waiting for the repair of a machine built in 1959 for a thousand dollars, that was now worth maybe thirty thousand. A machine that in modern times had become a rich man’s idea of antique collecting—a rich man’s idea of image. How mature and rational was that? What was this toy to Charles Stevens? Words rushed up and out, “I must have been something, the day I bought it, huh, Mr. Finch?”

He looked at me quizzically. “What do you mean?”

I took a chance and laughed at myself. “Oh, I was a bit of a flake in those days.”

He smiled, reached across to top up my glass. “Not at all, Mr. Stevens. You were, in fact, a bit conservative, compared to some.”

“Meaning?” I replied rather off the cuff.

“Well, we get all kinds, and I do mean all kinds in here. There’s the ‘Road Junkies’ as we call them, the displaced hippie bikers who somehow have survived their commitment to ‘free love’ and saved up enough to buy their dream machine. Then, there’re the ‘Hollywood’ types, the ‘wanna-be’ drivers of a flashy bike, but whose bank references leave much to be desired, if you know what I mean. Then there are the sophisticated investors with backgrounds like yourself.”

What background? Obviously, he knew a lot about me. “Well, I don’t know if it’s a case of sophistication.”

He was right back. “Nonsense. That was first class the way you took care of your transaction. There’re few in this town who would bring cash and be done with it like you.” He laughed. “There’s nothing, I’m sure you can appreciate this, nothing like going to the bank with a deposit of the day’s receipts with a bag full of hard currency.” He laughed again.

Maybe the wine was getting to him or maybe he was just pleased with the memory of the purchase. At any rate, he seemed poised for a run of information. It was my turn now to pour for him.

His hand came across the top of the glass, in a polite gesture of “no thanks.” He smiled. “Incidentally, speaking of cash, I haven’t had a chance to thank you for that investment newsletter you arranged to have sent to me. Actually, made a profit on one of the tips. Think you could get her to send another?”

Her? “Hey...” I fumbled and felt cornered again. “I’ll see what I can do next time I talk to her.”

I don’t know if I was relieved or frustrated when the next moment Larry jauntily entered the room, carrying his Xeroxed copy of my contract. Obviously relaxed and more of what one would expect for a service manager, he confidently handed me the copy. “I personally checked it out, Mr. Stevens. You’re not going to have any more trouble, I’m sure.” He looked to Mr. Finch for approval. He got it.

I took the paper and the bike and left, promising Mr. Finch I’d drop in from time to time and let him know how the bike was running. I knew I needed to find out who she was, but I didn’t know how. Mr. Finch was going to help me, rather soon, in fact. I just didn’t know it at the time.