Another Beautiful Southern California Day
by Catheryn J. Brockett


It’s another beautiful Southern California day.  I’m sitting in the Third Street Promenade Barnes and Nobles.  Perched in the huge second story picture window I have a view of the promenade that is so expansive and safe in its anonymity that I feel like I am watching TV.  I am stupidly transfixed.  The real life human channel.  I pass judgment on everyone.  Why shouldn’t I?  They’ll never know and I’ve just been to the bank.  My bad morning turned terrible by pressing “Yes, I would like a printed statement.”  I knew the little slip of paper was abysmally correct but that did not stop me from going to the ATM to the other side of the Bank of America and checking again.

The anemic balance has forced me to march straight upstairs past the Starbucks, past the bargain books and past the neat-o reading accessories to claim a free table.  Not that I need a five-dollar bookmark that looks like a famous author head or a punctuation mark.  I sulk and read the celebrity magazine someone has left to avoid actually doing anything constructive.  I spend 45 minutes learning that stars are just like you and me. Why – Meg Ryan waits for her own car at the car wash – Kristen Dunst buys her own lattes and Jennifer Aniston pays to have the peach fuzz waxed off her face. This fine morning I have also learned that when pulling into a perfectly good-looking illegal parking space one must first check for jutting pieces of rebar.  Because if you don’t, you might find yourself judgmental and sitting in a Barnes and Nobles picture window shitty and judgemental waiting for your car  - a whopping $293 poorer because it’s never just one tire – it’s just like when you go in for a “free makeover” except you get three tires, an oil change, new windshield wipers and no new look for evening.  I still have another one hour and thirty-five minutes until my car is ready.

I stare out my window.  Everyone looks perfect and I hate them.  I think of the sign on the door of the bank I passed on Fifth Street that says, “Unless he is a special assistance handicap animal, please ask your pet to wait outside.”  I imagine theses pet owners are indignant and share a special moment with their dog at the absurdity of the sign as they step over a homeless person they would never imagine speaking to.  I’m sure it’s a rescue dog as sure as I am they buy all their food at the organic farmer’s market, work out and have clean cars.

I spot Japanese tourists.  Ha.  For no reason what so ever, I’m smug.  The husband half of a ridiculously good-looking couple is carrying a toddler who is wearing a fez.  A perfect little maroon fez hat with a shiny black tassel.  Who puts a fez on a toddler?  The father I’m sure.  Maybe I’m not one of the strolling elite – but ha – I would never put a stupid hat on my child that looks like it was stolen off an organ grinder’s monkey.  Was there a discussion in their Restoration Hardware-furnished Santa Monica home that morning after consuming an organic babyfood oaty Whole Foods breakfast that surely involved some use of flax?  What is flax anyway?  And if it so good for you, why hasn’t somebody besides health food stores latched on to it?  You would imagine there would be like flax shakes at Starbucks or Flaxy Pebbles.
I glance up to see a tall, good-looking brunette approach the table on the other side of the book display; I already know I don’t like her – she’s looks too confident in her ability to wear sweats and no make up.  I bet she’s good at sports too.  She doesn’t look that good.  I pass judgment.  She speaks to someone I can’t see at a table on the other side of the display.

“I’m doing a coffee table book right now,” she says, “and I was just looking for someone to illustrate it.”

A coffee table book.  I could do a coffee table book I think.  I like her even less now.

She continues, “I really like your drawings – that your figures are all demented like that – all demented and stick-figure-y – to show the simplicity of it,” she says.

She must be selling something, I think.

“Do you have a card?  If we exchanged numbers would you be willing to work on a book?”  Holy shit.  She sounds like she’s for real.  I don’t want her to be.

“It’s so hard to find talent,” she continues.  I still hope she’s selling something.

The unseen cartoonist finally speaks.  He sounds like an older black man.  His voice is gentle and wary.  “I’m trying to do a female superhero type.”

“I like how you did her hair all straight like that.”  She encourages.

There’s a pause.  Good.  I wait for the hook.

“I’m Lori Innes (310) 443-8691.  For a coffee table book.”

I am now stunned I’m assuming she is handing him a card.

“What’s the subject?” he asks.

“Oh – Bitter Bernadette’s Guide to Breaking Up.  Can you draw bitter?” she quips.

“My problem is getting to first base,” he answers.

Good, they both sound uncomfortable.  Maybe she is trying to pick him up.  I’m so relieved.

But she beams, “Now you can do a book – it’s sort of mirroring how silly the differences between men and women can be.  It’s so funny.”

“I’m so there,” he admits.

“I think a lot of people are,” she laughs.

“I’m John.”

“I’d like your number – I’ll show you some of the stuff we’ve written so far.  When’s good for you – like during the week – before noon?”  They can’t actually be setting up a time!  Offer him a deal – tell him it’s only $19.95 to submit – ask him if he’s an actor – say something that will end this little fairy tale so I can comfortably go back to my bitter little task of judging the perfect Santa Monica people.

“Wednesdays – before – noon?” he replies.

“Why don’t we just make a tentative for here?”

He’ll probably never show up.  He’s probably a recovering addict.

“You got me – just walking by, I said to my husband…”

“It’s always appreciated.”

“Wednesday, 11:00.”

“God does work in mysterious ways,” Lori says as she walks away.

“Yes he does.”  He agrees.

I am disgusted with myself.  A little slip of paper, a punctured tire and a tiny fez and I don’t want anyone else’s dreams to come true.  At least not in front of me.

A really unattractive woman has taken the seat across from me.  She has terrible skin.  She has been listening too – she smiles at me with a knowing look.  “Poor them,” she seems to say.  I smile back – hating myself for agreeing with her – her dark and acne-scarred, scared view of the world – she’s probably never even heard of flax – the depressing morays of the moral herd but still feeling a little superior because at least I know I should know better.

I want to be genuinely happy for them.

I want to look at the black man’s drawings.

I want to trust that my own little miracle isn’t trumped by their little miracle – there is no one-miracle-per-day limit in the Barnes and Nobles – though somehow I’m sure they’ve used up today’s.

Dammit.  I want to be spiritually shiny and effusive.  I want to smile at all cashiers – buy everything from farmer’s markets – I want to make Oprah proud – touching people with my joy, my spirit.  “Gosh – she just glows!” they would say.  “Inspiration – in human form!  She might as well just be a beam of light!”

A pregnant Renée Zellweger look-alike strolls by beneath me.  I’m sure she has no varicose veins behind her knees.

I feel creepy.  I think my gums are receding.  I wonder how much it costs to have the peach fuzz waxed off my chin.  My car is probably ready.  I want to get out find a place to hide until tomorrow and find another place where miracles can hatch.

Lori passes by with her iced coffee a smile and takes a second, “Bye John, I’ll see you Wednesday.”

“Thank you.”

“No, thank you.”

I figure that is the end of the story.  I put away my notebook and leave.  Until I walk out into the sunlight and pass the couple with the toddler.  The tiny Fez nowhere in sight.

© 2005-08 Catheryn J. Brockett.  All rights reserved.