Outside the complex, the sun shined, and not a cloud marred the winter sky. And that right there, ladies and gentlemen—that blue sky in late November—is why people flock to California. Yes, I hear you. Earning a hundred thousand dollars per year still puts most households around the poverty level in this great state. And for those of you right-winged, red-blooded republicans out there, good luck having your voice heard beneath the blue ocean. Also, if you enjoy wetter, greener climates—well, maybe don’t cross that Oregon border. But in Cali, baby, at least you’re in a drought-stricken, too-expensive, vanity-obsessed state that’s always sunny. It makes even the darkest moments seem a little brighter. The sun, that is… not the people. They’re the worst.
The complex spilled onto a side street that led directly to J Street after a twenty-yard walk. Once on J Street, I saw the 7-11 that I’d purchased my beer and popcorn from earlier. I definitely had zero need to go back there. The butter and carbonation combination had resulted in a series of terrible events that I didn’t plan to replicate. So, I meandered in the opposite direction, heading east. I walked past a spa, a Chinese restaurant, and… a sushi restaurant.
Hot damn!
Xander lived next to a sushi restaurant? Good luck getting me to find a new place to live now. I freaking loved sushi.
Before me, I could just make the roof of the State Capitol standing against the late morning, early afternoon horizon. I squinted into the bright sky. The November sun sat smack-dab in the middle of a baby-blue ocean. Curious about the actual time of day, I patted my robe pockets and realized I’d forgotten my loaner phone, along with any money, identification, and shoes—which sucked, because a litany of bars and breweries appeared around me, and I doubted they’d allow a bathrobe-wearing, barefoot bum into their establishments.
I sighed, vibrating my lips with the exhaled breath. Life really sucks, do you know that? Here I was—a widower, a father who lost his child, an Acolyte who lost his magic, a homeowner who lost his home, a man without his own clothes or guns or money or cell phone. If there was a rock bottom, I think my carcass lay scattered in a bloody pulp across it.
I had to return to the cursed apartment to grab my belongings—and, of course, to steal more of Xander’s money from his not-so-secret secret stash.
Or, I thought, I could beg for money.
I could find some cardboard and a black marker and write something like need money for booze not food. Maybe some good-hearted realist would spare enough change for me to buy another six-pack and waste the rest of the morning and afternoon without having to go back into the apartment. I chuckled. When had I ever been so lucky in the past seven years?
On the positive side, I looked the part of your standard bum. My hair stood in thick tufts, my eyes were bloodshot, and the skin beneath them had swollen and darkened like a hungover frat boy. My reddish beard grew down my neck and up my cheeks in an unruly, pubic manner. I wore a bathrobe and nothing else—not even shoes. Come on. If anyone had the right look for begging, I qualified for that fashion show.
As I ambled further away from the apartment and past a BevMo!, a sheriff’s vehicle cruised passed me. The deputy’s head turned toward me as he passed, and I stopped to wave at him with both my middle fingers. I’d had a pretty terrible morning, and the six-pack had maybe clouded my judgment. Also, I had this thing with authority where I couldn’t help but question and test it. A second later, those dreaded red and blue lights flashed on, and he screeched his tires to flip around in the middle of the downtown street. Super illegal, by the way. You can’t just make a U-turn willy-nilly. Did he really think he was above the law just because he may have spotted a suspect wanted for multiple counts of murder?
Ridiculous.
My stomach tightened to the size of a walnut, and bats fluttered around its emptiness. Before I made the decision as to whether I wanted to evade capture or talk my way out of an inevitable arrest, his cruiser bounced over the curb and onto the sidewalk. He parked halfway on the street, halfway on the cement. With his car still running, he jumped out, leaving his door wide open—which reminded me, I left Xander’s apartment door wide open. Probably should have closed it. Oops.
“Officer,” I said, out of breath, “you’re just in time. An old lady stole all my clothes and took off that way.”
The police officer reminded me of a serial killer—all gangly limbs and no torso and a face that sunk into itself. He halted his advance about five feet away, with one hand on his electrocution zapper and the other extended forward to keep me at an acceptable distance—you know, in case I was rabid or something. He licked his lips and blinked quite a lot, not helping his serial killer vibe.
I leaned in, thinking he was either trying to communicate with me telepathically or seduce me. Neither was working out too well. He was too young for me, anyway—about twenty. I liked my men old and wrinkly in the important areas and green in the bank account.
After I watched the sun set and then rise again, he finally barked orders at me. “Sit down. Hands on your head.”
I glanced at the cement. Shadows from the buildings and the small trees graced the heels of my feet. “But it looks cold and dirty,” I said, holding
