disappointing news.
Once in Brea, he drove through his old neighborhood on an impulse. The street and sidewalks were carpeted with purple jacaranda flowers, the arching tree branches above having lost their blooms and given themselves over to summer leaves. Sunset had turned the smog a bright orange color, and he felt a slight twinge of nostalgia for California life.
And for a neighborhood without a homeowners' association.
Jeremy, Chuck, and Dylan were already waiting for him in the parking lot outside Minderbinder's , a hangout from their college days at UC Brea. Minderbinder's was still a college hangout, and the three of them were greeted with suspicion if not hostility as they commandeered a table near the entrance.
'Guess we look older than we are,' Dylan said.
'No,' Chuck told him. 'You feel younger than you are.'
'I know that's supposed to be a dig, but doesn't a youthful attitude help promote longer life?'
'The benefits of immaturity have yet to be proven.'
A bored-looking waitress showed up, and they ordered beers all around.
'It's on him,' Dylan said, pointing at Barry. 'He's a rich and famous writer. Just sold one of his books to Hollywood.'
The waitress suddenly seemed a little less bored. She smiled at Barry.
'Celebrating?'
'No.'
'Congratulations anyway.' She walked away with an exaggerated swing of her hips, and Dylan burst out laughing He waited until she'd passed out of earshot. 'She's yours for the taking, bud.'
'I told you, the movie deal fell through.'
'She doesn't know that. Besides, what good's fame and fortune if you can't use it to get a little strange?'
'I'll tell Mo you said that.'
'So how's life in the wilds?' Jeremy asked.
'It's not so wild after all.'
'Yeah?'
'Yeah.' He started describing the imposed restrictions and regimented rules of the homeowners' association. Halfway through, the waitress returned with their drinks, bending far enough over to show him her breasts as she placed his beer on the table, and he pointedly ignored her.
'Now they've put up a guard shack and a new gate to keep out the riffraff. I have to check in and out with this uniformed guard if I
want to leave or enter my own neighborhood.'
Chuck laughed. 'No shit?'
'No shit.'
'Are you supposed to tip him?' Dylan asked. 'I mean at Christmastime and stuff. I've heard that about doormen and things in New York. Maybe this is the same situation.'
'I don't know,' Barry admitted. 'But that's the least of my worries.'
He hadn't intended to say anything more, hadn't planned to talk about the weirdness, the scary things, the things he was really worried about, aware of how ridiculous they would sound to outsiders. But Jeremy's quizzical expression prompted him to keep going, to open up.
These were his friends--and if he couldn't tell them, who could he tell?
He took a deep breath. 'There's more,' Barry said. He told them everything, from Barney's death to Ray's, from Stumpy to Maureen's stalker. He then explained that the new gate had gone up in one night, had appeared fully formed as if by magic.
The three of them were silent for a moment, obviously unsure of what to say.
It was Chuck who spoke first. 'You're not trying out some new plot idea on us, are you?'
'I wish I was. But I'm totally serious. This is what went down.'
Barry took a long drink of his beer.
'/ believe you,' Dylan announced. 'There are more things, Horatio--'
Chuck bumped him. 'Stop trying to impress the coeds with your misquoted Shakespeare. It's not becoming in a man of your age.'
'A man of my age?'
'Told you you shouldn't've moved,' Jeremy said.
Barry downed the last of his beer. 'Yeah. Thanks.'
'And I knew that dead cat was a bad sign.'
Dylan shook his head. 'There's really some freak with no arms or legs or tongue flopping around in the forest between the houses?'
'There really is,' Barry said.
They had a thousand questions, but they were questions of incredulity, not questions of suspicion, and he realized gratefully that his friends were not trying to rationalize or explain away his interpretation of events but believed him fully.
Jeremy put a hand on his shoulder. 'We're there if you need us, dude.
The situation gets too hairy and you need some help? Give us a call.
We're there.'
'I may take you up on that.'
'Hell,' Dylan said. 'I could use a vacation.'
It was nearly midnight when they parted, and though Jeremy offered to let him stay at his apartment, Barry had already passed the cancellation cutoff time for his hotel. 'I'm paying for it anyway,' he said. 'I might as well use it.'
Jeremy shook his hand, a strangely adult gesture for his friend and one that felt unfamiliar but at the same time re assuring. 'I'm serious,'
he said. 'If shit starts to go down, give out a shout. We're there.'
Barry grasped the hand and squeezed it gratefully. 'I will,' he said.
'You can count on it.'
He'd opted to book a hotel in Orange County rather than near the airport, and he was glad of that. His plane wasn't scheduled to leave until eleven, and while he would have a long drive tomorrow morning during the tail end of rush hour, at least he didn't have to drive tonight. Fifteen minutes later, he was checked in and sacked out, and he did not stir until the phone next to his bed rang with the seven o'clock wake-up call.
He grabbed a quick Egg McMuffin for breakfast and headed back to L.A.
Between the unexpected traffic and having to turn in the rental car, he barely made it onto the plane in time, but once in the air he relaxed and looked out the window at the receding megalopolis below. He realized to his surprise that he was happy to be returning to Utah, that, despite everything, it felt like home. California was a fun place to visit but he was no longer a part of it. He was glad he'd come, though. He felt better for talking to his friends, for unburdening himself, and he felt stronger on the return flight, as though he now had the strength to stand up to anyone or anything.
Even the homeowners' association.
They landed in Salt Lake City shortly after one. A small crappy lunch had been served on the flight, and he was still hungry. It would be after three by the time he finally reached Corban , so Barry stopped at a Subway and bought a sandwich and an extra large Coke before starting off.
Keeping one hand on the wheel, he sorted through the box of tapes on the seat next to him, finally popping in Jethro Tull's A Passion Play.
He smiled to himself as the familiar strains of the music filled the car, and he cranked up the volume, feeling good.
If he had a hero it was lan Anderson. Not only had the Tull leader created consistently good music over the past several decades, he had done so uncompromisingly. Barry admired the undiluted artistic ambition mat had led Anderson to write and record an album such as A
