Chapter

    37

I arrived home around eight o’clock that night. My first call was to Sara. Her roommate said she’d called earlier and that there’d been complications. It would be tomorrow when she returned. I took two more of the drug store pills and went to bed. There weren’t going to be any attacks tonight.

Next morning, I arranged to see Mathews at 1P.M. I was ready to give myself to one of his regression sessions as deeply as I knew how.

I had laid in bed for about an hour thinking about the day ahead, when I suddenly felt compelled to wash my T-shirt—the Mickey Mouse one I’d been wearing in New York—and the socks and even the shorts. Same ones I’d worn the day of the tour, the cathedral, and the rooftop. So concerned with doing my own laundry.  What is that all about?

It was 88 degrees outside, so it didn’t take long for my wash to dry on the miniature palm tree in front of my window. When the maid arrived, I simply told her she wouldn’t be needed any longer. “I’ll leave the sheets outside the door whenever I need a change. You can just leave clean ones there for me.”  Within minutes—thanks to some guest who must have thought me rude, inconsiderate and maybe even crazy—the manager called to ask if the laundry service was satisfactory lately. “Perfectly fine. Just feel like cleaning up for myself, thank you.”

“Of course, Mr. Randall. I understand. Have a nice day.”

He didn’t understand, obviously. I couldn’t expect him to. I wouldn’t even have understood my action four days ago.

A couple hours later, I donned my now dry shorts, socks and unpressed T-shirt, pulled on some cut-offs, laced up some sneakers and stepped out into the mid-day 90-degree heat of Beverly Hills.

As I walked to the Harley with my Bonwit bag, I must have looked the part, “Rich eccentric out for a leisure day on the road.” It was going to be anything but a leisure day.

I arrived early at Mathews’ building, so I walked across the street and sat down on one of the ocean view benches. To the left, the pier was crowded with the usual assortment of tourists and lunch hour walkers. Down below, the beach was alive with volleyball players, sun worshipers, and an occasional homeless make shift lean-to attached to the standard shopping cart transport. From the blue sky, to the green ocean, to the white sands, and across the highway and up the hill to the landscaped walking path surrounded by moss green lawn leading to my bench, my eyes perceived a mood that was peaceful and serene. I closed them and allowed my other senses to fill in the pictures for my mind. As I thought of Julian, my ears told me there were many things to be grateful for...things that money couldn’t buy. Circling seagulls, the mixed sounds of children playing, dogs, the cough of an elderly person, the cry of a baby, the distant surf breaking onto the beach, even the occasional vulgarity being exchanged between the skate boarders...all were expressions of life that I hadn’t listened to before. Oh, I had heard them, I’m sure, but I hadn’t focused on really listening and integrating them into a sound landscape of colors and textures. Julian had said that every day was a new experience for the senses. He had spoken that night of the rich experiences received everyday through sound.

I took off my shoes and socks, placed them in the Bonwit bag and with my eyes tightly closed, walked through the grass, feeling my way among the trees and bushes, occasionally bumping into people, excusing myself, and continuing. The same sounds, some new ones of course, and the smell of the ocean, the fragrance of the wild gardenias, even the boiled hot dog aroma smell from the vendor on the street flooded my senses and I felt a new energy like never before.

Then, without warning, I stumbled over the sleeping body of a homeless woman, sending me head on into her cart. She had secured herself to it with a rusty pair of handcuffs, so she freaked when her arm was yanked with the fall. “What the hell you doing, trying to steal my home, you son of a bitch. Police! Police!”

“Lady, lady.” I said, “take it easy. I just...” I stood and tried to calm her as I picked up her spilled possessions.

“Don’t you get near me you fuckin’ pervert.  And keep your paws off my shit. Police! Police!”

“Lady! Stop yelling. I’m...”I knew it was no use trying to reason with her. She was hysterical and breathing like she might die any second of emphysema. She frantically checked her belongings as she tried to unlock the handcuffs.

“Let me help you, lady,” I pleaded.

She turned toward me with the crimson eye of the bull, ready to do real damage. “Touch me again, and I’ll fuckin’ kill ya.”

With her free arm cocked, ready to defend her meager possessions, she was convincing.

As I cautiously backed away, I noticed her eyes darted back and forth from my face to the brightly colored Bonwit bag. “You like that bag? Here, I’ll trade you. This for that.” I pointed to the soiled and worn brown grocery bag. “Just calm down, okay?”

She stopped wheezing as she continued looking at the bag, not making any commitment one way or the other. “What’s in there?”

“Just some...” I caught myself and changed my tone. “Some very beautiful underwear and socks. You can have them.” I reached inside and brought them out. “See...nice... “

I hadn’t really looked at them before—wanting to save the package opening for when I saw Mathews—but they were beautiful. silk shorts, and socks by Yves Saint Laurent.

She had a different reaction. “What the hell am I going to do with men’s silk shorts,” and she lunged for the bag.

A police car suddenly arrived, running up over the curb, across the lawn, and stopped. With its red lights still flashing, the doors were flung open and I was staring at drawn weapons.

I couldn’t believe what had just happened to me.

Neither could Mathews as the police escorted me into his office. “This guy your patient?” they asked.

“Yes, officers,” he said with a straight face.

“Bag lady down the street says he tried to steal her cart. Probably an exaggeration, but this guy doesn’t look exactly normal either. So...we’ll leave him with you.”

“Thank you, officers, I do appreciate your understanding. We’ll take care of things now.”

They left shaking their head, one mumbling, “Mitzi’s got to get her ass and that cart to another town. Drivin’ me nuts.”

Mathews held his gaze a few moments. “Mickey Mouse, Bonwit Teller...cut offs?” You don’t exactly look like a well to do man of the world. Should we have a good laugh first or do you want to start the session off crying. Your choice.”

I dropped onto his frumpy couch, laid back and had the longest, hardest laugh I could ever remember having. Naturally, it was catchy and it was only seconds before he joined in. Even his temp, after giving us both a look of disbelief, caught the contagious eruption of suppressed anxieties and joined in.

Five minutes later, Mathews and I were in a very different frame of mind. We were both looking through the greeting cards and love letters from one Charlie Stevens, a man who apparently loved as recklessly as he gambled...with perhaps higher stakes than he thought.

Neither one of us believed it was a table Charlie could walk away from very easily. “Charles,” he said, “If I were her, I wouldn’t be very happy either. These letters are written with a lot of commitment”

“Yeah.  Whoever wrote them,” I said.

Mathews gave me a long look. It was one of those looks.

“That’s right,” I said. “Whoever wrote them. Those aren’t my letters. Don’t even know the meaning of half the words. Pre-nuptial? Living Trust?  All that reference to making arrangements for her retirement plans...I don’t know what any of that is about.”

“Of course you don’t. I understand,” he said. He got up from his chair and went to the curtains, pulling them shut.

I laid myself down and stared up at the ceiling like I had so many times before. “Close your eyes, Charles.” His voice was less the father and more the prosecutor today.

“Bear with me, okay Mathews? I don’t know how I’m going to weather this trip. Things have changed.”