Point of Entry (6) - a Catalina Island Serial by Deb Jensen

Trey Scheinheilig snapped his manicured fingers as if to get the attention of a pet retriever. Robert noticed that he didn’t wear a wedding band and that Toni wasn’t nearby.

 “What do you say we have a drink, catch up on old times?”

Robert considered the “old times” and wondered what Scheinheilig had in mind. Their thirty year-long relationship began badly in the early ‘70s. In the ‘80s, he was able to hook the brash young attorney up with some drams of cocaine and they shared a few chummy drug enhanced experiences. For the past ten years, the Congressman had periodically tossed him dog biscuits of financial opportunity in the form of wait-jobs for exclusive campaign parties. The gigs were frequent enough, and over-paid enough, to quell any storytelling urges Robert might feel. 

“Maybe you didn’t notice, Trey. I am bar-tending not a-ttending the party tonight.”

“Ha! I’d like to talk to you before it gets too crowded.” The Congressman turned and nodded to his personal assistant standing few feet away, then hollered toward the other bartender,  “Hey! I’m sneaking Robert away for a couple of minutes.” He strode off, motioning Robert to follow.

“My government calls,” Robert muttered, furrowing his brow. He trailed after Scheinheilig, who waited in the shadow of a jacaranda tree down the beach. People at the party hardly noticed.

“Listen Robert, let me get right to the point. I have a business proposition for you. It’ll take very little of your time, but could have a big payoff.”

“Are you lobbying me? I don’t have any money to contribute to your campaign and I sure as hell don’t have anything to gain from your re-election.”

“Funny! But, this isn’t about my campaign. It is a private business opportunity. I need a partner who knows this island like the back of his hand, who has access to the interior and a vehicle.”

“You want a tour? Call the Jeep EcoTour Company.”

“I don’t want a tour. I want you-to-help-me-to-help-you make some decent money.”

Robert took in the Congressman’s words and gave him a steady look. “So, tell me, Scheinheilig, why do you suddenly care about low income workers?”

The Congressman bristled. “Do you want this chance or not? There are a lot of my constituents here tonight who would appreciate a few minutes of my time,” the Congressman moved as if to return to the party.

Robert shifted his weight; smoothed his pewter hair; gazed at the sea and the yachts in the harbor and the strand of light glowing from the mainland. He slid his hands into his pockets; jingled the few coins; turned to take in the music, laughter, and dancing. At the bar, a deeply tanned woman in a sarong reached for a frothy drink. The gentle scent of night blooming jasmine rose to his nostrils. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly then returned his attention to Scheinheilig.

“What can I do for you Congressman?” he asked.

Point of Entry (5) - a Catalina Island Serial by Deb Jensen

Robert and the future Congressman first encountered one another decades ago. It was a summertime bash at Two Harbors, the tiny, remote village at the other end of the Island where beer flowed and pre-fame groups from L.A. pumped the sounds of the ‘sixties into the starry night. To get there, Robert had hitched a ride on the shore boat out of Avalon. The twelve-mile trip took over an hour on the water but it would have taken at least three hours driving the dirt roads, not that he’d owned a car. Only a few privileged Islanders were allowed their own vehicles.  He scrounged rides on whatever mode was available, at whatever time he could beg.

He arrived at the party unfashionably early, before the music started. Most of the tourists sipped cocktails and barbequed steaks on their boat decks; others had claimed picnic tables on the beach.  Everyone looked healthy and blonde and sunburned, in shorts or swim trunks. Robert, on the other hand, wore wide bellbottoms, a leather vest, and a beaded headband around his forehead. He leaned against the beach wall, far enough away from the water’s edge to protect his moccasins. From his vantage point, he could watch the boaters as they finished their suppers and hopped into their dinghies to shuttle ashore for the party.

The sound of raucous laughter and fragments of profanity drew his attention to the outer bank of the cove. A gaggle of kayaks skimmed into the harbor with a dozen shirtless, bronzed young men brandishing paddles in a race to the shore. They rocketed onto the sand as picnic-ers jumped out of the way with shouts and cheers. The Boy Scout camp staff from Cherry Cove had arrived. They jostled and chided each other in apparent good humor. Robert watched with veiled disdain and remembered a D.H. Lawrence quote, How beastly the bourgeois is, especially the male of the species. One of the kayakers caught him staring.

“What are you looking at freak?” shouted the apparent winner of the race.

Robert averted his eyes but didn’t move.

“What are you fuckin’ doing here, freak?” The angry young man moved toward Robert.

One of the others blocked him, “Hey! Trey, be cool man!”

“On Monday I leave for Basic at Fort Georgia while long-haired freaks like him burn flags,” declared Trey Scheinheilig.

Robert remained at the beach wall, eyes focused on a distant point, the name ‘Trey’ stuck in his mind like a burr, reminding him of his caste.

Point of Entry (4) - a Catalina Island Serial by Deb Jensen

The night before, Robert sat taking in the evening cacophony, alone on the front step of his rundown Pebbly Beach quonset. Music too playful to be contained by walls swelled from the open doors of Mexican neighbors on either side. Across the street, bluegrass riffs hung above the Buffalo Nickel Bar. Children on bikes yelped as they flew up and over a makeshift ramp. He thought about his own grown children, four of them from three different mothers, the women he had loved and cast away. In a couple of months his daughter, Bonita, would make him a grandfather and a new generation would begin. Padre pulpero, hijo caballero, nieto limosnero. Three generations from shirt sleeve to shirt sleeve.

He stepped onto the street and headed toward Lover’s Cove, walking with a distinctive springy hitch that looked exuberant even though he wasn’t.  The thought of the beach party bartending gig depressed him, but there was always the chance that he’d meet an interesting lady. Maybe fulfill the Island’s promise of romance; maybe meet Circe of the lovely hair, the temptress. Yes, a temptress would be nice.

The party was a fundraiser for Trey Scheinheilig, U.S. Congressman, and an outspoken conservative who’d gained popularity by promoting the Strengthening Our Borders Act. To Robert, Scheinheilig represented both a claim to fame and a reminder of everything that he was not. They’d known each other for years, as people do on the island, and Robert seemed to be the Congressman’s favorite example of the “common man.”  Scheinheilig actually named him in a campaign speech about “improving and protecting the quality of life for the common man.” Robert’s stomach knotted at the memory. Even worse, the glamorous Mrs. Scheinheilig, nee Toni Larsen, had been Robert’s first true love. A smart and sassy twenty year old, she still twinkled with wit as an elegant, mature woman. She had chosen Trey Scheinheilig and Robert still felt dejected every time he thought about it.

At the beach across the harbor, Hot Licks, a Rolling Stones cover band, ripped out a reasonable rendition of “Under My Thumb.” Gentle waves rolled onto the rocky shore and a few colorful knots of people in Hawaiian prints stood around drinking and smoking at the outdoor bar. Laughter drifted in from yachts garishly decorated with club burgees. Robert guessed these loyal supporters would soon come ashore to venerate the Congressman. He slipped behind the bar claiming a position at the blender. Women love blended drinks and he was a self-proclaimed master of the mango margarita and the frothy, potent Buffalo Milk.

Robert acted busy as he watched Scheinheilig approach the bar.

“Robert, my man! You’re still working two-bit jobs in Paradise? How long has it been?”

Robert winced at the voice and the heavy hand that slapped his back.

“Trey. Good to see you,” he said flatly.

Point of Entry (3) - a Catalina Island Serial by Deb Jensen

The people getting off the plane were anything but romantic. Exhausted, frightened and grubby, they crowded into the van, gripping each other, eyes cast down, silent. A tiny girl tripped and fell to the asphalt with a whimper. A graceful young woman, her mother? knelt to pick her up and brushed gravelly stones from her scraped palms.

“Hurry, cabras mugrientas, filthy goats. Do you think we can wait for your brats?” Chava growled. He thrust the mother and bleeding child into the mass of bodies and slid the door closed. He hopped into the passenger seat and turned to Robert. “Go,” he said. “Go. The smell in here is making me sick.”

Chava Garcia’s father, Guillermo, came to California at a time when Mexican laborers were tolerated, if not exactly welcomed. Guillermo found work with a landscaping crew going to Catalina where, after a time, he met and married Lynette Landers, a local girl with a wild reputation. After giving birth to four husky sons, she grew tired of mothering and moved to Las Vegas, leaving Guillermo to raise the boys. As he skidded into alcoholism, his sons roamed town with other Island kids and hung out on the green pier, claiming it as their birthright.  Three of the Garcia boys became restaurant help but Chava proved more entrepreneurial.

He sat sullenly grinding his teeth and glaring into the deepening darkness. Twenty-eight people packed the 12-passenger van that rolled away from the airport just as crepuscular twilight turned to dark. Robert steadied himself for the drive. The first mile on the poorly paved road held the greatest possibility that they would be noticed. After that, he would navigate miles of dirt road with his headlights off; the Rangers never patrolled at night but no need to risk drawing attention. He accelerated to Island cruising speed, 17 miles per hour. Cool evening air, scented with sage, puffed in through the open window. The first mile took 3.5 minutes.

Point of Entry (2) - a Catalina Island Serial by Deb Jensen

In 1971, a draft board doctor stamped 4-F on the induction physical form and Robert became a free man because of too short Achilles’ tendons. He escaped the draft but packed his duffle anyway, and split to California. After six months in the San Fernando Valley, he decided it wasn’t the scene he’d expected. He had dreams. Four hours and seven rides later, he arrived at the Port of San Pedro. 

At berth 8, a short queue waited to board Catalina Cruises. As he approached the line, all heads turned. Tourists in slacks and sports jackets and Hawaiian print dresses watched him from behind Ray-bans as they shuffled Samsonite suitcases along the pier. He tossed his head to flip long wavy hair from his face. The action set the fringe of his vest swinging and released a whiff of patchouli. He smiled to himself and boarded buoyantly, short Achilles’ no impediment to ascending the boat ramp; bound for Catalina, Island of Romance. When Robert first set foot on the island 20 miles offshore from Los Angeles and 2,653 miles from his family home in Ithaca, Illinois, it embraced him and he never went back to Ithaca.

He felt accepted from his first day on the island when he was hired to wash dishes at the golf course restaurant. From the kitchen he could position himself to catch the eye of a starlette or USC co-ed vacationing with her parents. His Grecian features and stunning hair caught their attention, and from time to time a note with a room number was delivered to him. A succession of women and jobs marked Island time like tides, sometimes shallow and meek, sometimes a stormy surge, but on the whole an undistinguished fluid assemblage.

Point of Entry - a Catalina Island Serial by Deb Jensen (1)

 

“Man, I don’t know why you bother to wash that van. Them people smell like shit,” said Chava. He leaned against the hangar tending his teeth with his trademark silver toothpick. Tonight’s cargo transfer job would be his second and he enjoyed giving Robert details about what to expect. Robert scrubbed red Island mud off a borrowed van, the circular rhythm calmed his clanging nerves, helped put him in a groove. He would need every fiber of focus he could muster for the task ahead.

A distant DC3 rumbled toward the island. If anyone noticed the plane, he might have thought it conveyed a late mail delivery. By day Catalina’s busy Airport-in-the-Sky receives freight planes and private jets, weather permitting, but it closes at dusk and ten minutes later it is deserted, lax security its hallmark. Situated due East-West and 1608’ above the surrounding sea, the breathtaking approach belies a treacherously short runway; there’s no time to marvel at the view. Gruesome accidents have pocked the steep surrounding slopes despite radio communication from the cigarette smoke filled tower. Night landings are prohibited.

The big plane touched down lightly as a dragonfly. Chava trotted over to help lower the cargo ramp. The engines rumbled in idle and created an unnatural ground-level wind current that threw the grime and pebbles of the deteriorating airstrip into a blinding dust devil. Fuel exhaust fouled the air.  Robert rolled the gleaming van toward the plane. He counted twenty-six people stumbling out. The men carried bulging paper sacks wrapped with leather belts, and three women, each clutching two children and one with a tiny bundled baby, tried vainly to manage skirts and wraps whipping in the wind current. Chava shoved them in the direction of the van.

These folks don’t carry luggage and they don’t tip but they are pure gold, Robert thought to himself. He placed his hand over the envelope in his breast pocket, it held a down payment for the work he had promised the Congressman. With any luck, he’d soon cash in. He’d paid his dues on Catalina, the Island of Romance.           

The Final Days of the Cozmic Café

 And in the house,
she destroys and she cleans; says at times:
"The asylum is nice. Where? Here!"
Other times, she breaks down and cries.
- Cesar Vallejo

She tried to ignore the portent of turkey vultures circling overhead while she watched him place the final object into his truck: the metal Starbuck’s coffee mug with fully engineered screw on top. The truck reflected the August heat. He’d spent an hour of their last full day together washing and buffing it to garish lipstick red splendor. Funny that he kept that truck so clean.

The dog tensed beside her, waiting for the invitation to load up. Many river days had begun with a ride in the truck.

“Not this time, buddy. We’re staying here.”

Dog and woman whimpered and sighed together as the engine whirred to action. Releasing the brake and rolling down the window in a single motion, the man extended a waving hand and eased down the driveway, headed west. Like aging levees of the Delta straining during a spring storm, she barely held back the persistent force of tears swirling behind her eyelids. She pinched the bridge of her nose. When had she learned this trick for staving off tears?  When she opened her eyes, a lingering haze of dust marked the line between a previous life and now.

A strident arrow of Canada Geese skimmed the oaks, a cliché in flight. Neither the dog nor the woman had a clue about direction or about working in a gaggle.  “It’s a simplistic notion,” she thought. “We have to pay the bills, he’s gone to the city, and now I am going to live alone with this damn dog.”

The dim coolness of the house soothed her heat-bedraggled nerves as she stared out the kitchen window. Dishes from their last meal together filled the sink. She squirted a circle of dish soap over the pile and turned on the warm water.  A satisfying mound of suds developed. Two bowls, two glasses, two forks. She dried one set and put it away, leaving the other to dry on the dish rack. Just hers. She shook a layer of Bon Ami into the sink and rubbed it a little. She wiped all the counter surfaces, moving fruit bowl, pasta jar, coffee maker, and bread box to be thorough. She noticed a drool of beer down the side of the cupboard where the bottle opener was attached, wiped it. Acknowledging a pile of floor detritus, she thought,  “I’ll have to sweep. Then vacuum.” There’s order to everything. 

Hours later, windows gleaming, carpet fluffed, remote control collection sequestered in the proper corner, she ventured into the cooling twilight to walk the dog. He dragged at her side but wouldn’t look her in the eyes. She wondered how they would make it, just the two of them. She thought too much and became neurotically tidy when left alone. The dog was shedding. She stopped to brush him.

City Hall Business

I was standing outside City Hall, a four-story building weirdly stacked between a three level parking garage and Hwy 50. The best section of sidewalk in town gussies up the entrance to the oddly located structure. The concrete is pink.  Concrete planter boxes host blooming flowers all year around and a pad of bright yellow foot-Braille drapes a thoughtfully accessible curb. It’s probably the safest corner in town despite the entrance to the parking garage being so near.

Across the street, on unimproved sidewalk, an old man in a grubby padded jacket grasped a sturdy walking stick with one gloved hand and with the other, the leash of an ancient German shepherd who dragged behind as they shuffled in my direction. The dog’s rear haunches sloped down, as German shepherds’ sometimes do. They moved arthritically, his knitted beanie pulled low against the cold, the dog’s upright ears incongruously leading emaciated hindquarters. I heard the dog’s toenails drag and scrape in miserable time with the hobbling man’s walking stick.

When they reached the crosswalk, the pair unsteadily lowered themselves down the curb and onto Center St., heading toward the corner where I stood. I wanted to make eye contact with one or the both of them, but their heads hung low, eyes on the crudely patched asphalt street, which was marbled with icy fissures. Their progress was slow, but I was glad they didn’t have to climb up a curb on my side of the street. They passed me without a glance as I continued to emanate empathy –for their effort, for the cold, for their age. They were now on the smooth new sidewalk and so their journey surely was easier.

Indeed, the man did seem to step a little more lively as he tugged the crippled dog along. And then, without warning, a great brown turd dropped to the pink concrete. Another and on the next step, another, until finally the dog stopped walking and with dignity befitting his breed, lowered ancient haunches over the seasonal cyclamen to finish.

“That’s a fine boy,” said the man in a surprisingly strong clear voice.  He patted his dog’s head between the proud ears and slowly leveraged the walking stick to lower himself to his knees. He pulled a plastic Safeway bag from his ratty jacket’s pocket and carefully crawled into the planter box, then backtracked along the sidewalk on hands and knees to gather up his friend's City Hall business.