Away for the Weekend

humans may have invented guns and nuclear weapons and drone bombers, but they also came up with the black bean burrito – and the black bean burrito’s really good.”

“You could have stopped Beth,” repeats Otto, “but you didn’t. You sat there and watched her go off on that bus like a lamb to the slaughter.”

“She didn’t go off to the slaughter, Otto. She went downtown. It’s not the same thing at all.”

“That’s what you think. That bus was almost literally Hell on wheels. What is it with this city? It’s usually only religious wars that bring out so much insanity.”

“She wasn’t hurt, Otto. Everything turned out just dandy.” Remedios reaches for the salsa verde. “And just for the record, since you seem to think everything’s my fault, I’m not the one who caused a major international incident.” She smiles at him as she scoops up a spoonful of sauce. “That would be you.”

And that would be why he’s changed his clothes again. Just in case the police are looking for him.

“I wouldn’t call it major, Remedios.” He forks another piece of burrito. “It was just one bus.”

“It’s all over the news already.” An angel would never gloat, of course, but she can’t resist a slightly smug smile. “By tomorrow it’ll be in every paper on the continent.”

“I think that’s very unlikely.” He certainly hopes that it is. Even though Otto holds her completely responsible for everything that’s happened, he can see that it might not appear that way to everyone. “Things like that must happen here all the time. And, in any event, it’s a national – not an international – incident.”

“That woman from Tokyo had to be sedated.”

“That wasn’t because of me.” He wipes hot sauce from his mouth with a yellow napkin that says The Whole Enchilada in red lettering. “That was because of the snake. And the dogs.”

“It wasn’t the snake or the dogs that made the bus go the wrong way. For miles.” She points the salsa spoon at him. Accusingly. “I heard that the driver may never recover. He keeps repeating, over and over, ‘How did it happen? How did it happen?’”

“Oh, he’ll be fine.” Because human emotions are so undependable (they cry at weddings, but bomb whole cities without blinking back a single tear), they are also irksome and exhausting. You never know what insignificant incident is going to set them off. “There was a lot of screaming towards the end. It probably jangled his nerves.”

“The screaming, of course. How silly of me. Driving like a zombie and finally being stopped by the cops had nothing to do with it.”

Otto slips another slice of burrito into his mouth. “I only did what I had to do.”

“And that’s what I did.” She picks up her burrito and takes a bite, a noticeable amount of the stuffing falling back onto the table and her paper plate. “What I had to do.”

“Putting Beth on that bus? That was what you had to do?”

It’s not easy to sound indignant with a mouth full of rice and beans, but Remedios manages heroically. “Excuse me, Mr Wasserbach, but I thought we’d been through that. I didn’t put her on that bus.” Though she did, of course, make the bus available. “She got on all by herself.”

He picks up a pepper. “And you expect me to believe that?”

“It happens to be true.” If only technically.

Otto watches her closely for the slightest shimmer, but much to his chagrin, there is none. And yet he’d be willing to wager that she isn’t telling the truth. Not Remedios Cienfuegos y Mendoza, the DIY angel.

“And in any case, you’re the one who’s looking after Beth,” says Remedios. “Not I.”

“But that doesn’t change the fact that you were meant to switch them on Sunset. Beth was standing right there at the kerb. Gabriela crossed the road. Everything was perfect. I was all set to pick you up, check out of the hotel and go home. But, no. Next thing I know, Beth’s going west and Gabriela’s disappeared. How could you have botched that? What went wrong?”

“Beth got on the bus; that’s what went wrong.”

“And Gabriela? What happened to Gabriela?”

“Gabriela’s on the tour bus with old Dragon Breath.” Still not even the shadow of a shimmer. “Where do you think she is?”

“Well, how would I know?” One minute he’s as good as shaking the sand of Los Angeles out of his shoes and the next there’s a snake hissing at him and a dog bouncing off his knees. “I just hope you don’t lose track of her again.”

Remedios licks sauce from her fingertips. “Otto, what difference would it make? We can switch them back in Jeremiah.”

“What? After you’ve ruined their lives?” He pushes his empty plate away. “Because that’s what you’re doing, you know. I, for one, certainly don’t imagine that Gabriela’s doing a better job of being Beth than Beth is of being Gabriela. Or are you going to tell me that she is? That she’s going to emerge from this weekend triumphant and covered in laurels?”

Remedios, too, pushes her empty plate away. “She’s doing a great job.”

Unfortunately, because of the sunlight reflecting off the ocean and the hazy quality of the air, he still isn’t sure whether or not he caught a shimmer.

Despite appearances, things continue to go downhill faster than a car without brakes

Crying usually helps. At least in Beth’s experience it does. It helps you get through the worst day or the bluest mood or the longest, darkest night. Indeed, Beth spends a lot of time by herself; and a lot of the time that she spends by herself is taken up with tears. How many days has she sat in the corner stall of one of the school’s girls’ rooms, weeping because of a poor grade or a spotlight of laughter following her down a hall? How many nights has she lain awake with her cat, Charley, curled against her humming like a small motor, worrying about all the things that might go wrong tomorrow, or the next day, or ten years from now? How many weekends has she sat in her room, poor-me drops splashing onto her homework because everybody else is at a party or out on a date? Almost too many to count. But a good cry is like a spring cleaning of the soul; afterwards she feels, if not better exactly, at least refreshed.

And that’s how she plans to spend the rest of the afternoon once she gets back to the hotel and is finally alone: sobbing her heart out. God knows she has enough cause; she could cry a river the size of the Rio Grande and no one would blame her. Besides, what else does she have to do? She can’t even call her old room – call herself – because there won’t be anyone there. They won’t be returning to the hotel till after the play. Just the thought of what she’s missing nearly gets her started; she’d been looking forward to seeing a play that wasn’t performed on the stage of the high school auditorium by kids she’s gone to school with most of her life.

The cab driver, however, has other plans. He is a gangling, beaming man with an unpronounceable name and the personality of a Labrador pup. As soon as she shuts the door he starts talking.

“Are you a model?” He grins at her over his shoulder. “I get a lot of models. There’s almost as many models in this city as actors. I get a lot of them, too. Always in a hurry. Rushrushrushrushrush. But you can’t go faster than you can go, you know? That’s just a fact. And I say to them, God didn’t make all the beautiful things in the world so you could keep looking at your watch, you know?” He more or less throws the cab into traffic. “So are you?” he goes on. “Are you doing a show at the college?”

Able to tell the truth for the first time all day, Beth says no. “No, I was just— I was just visiting the school with a friend. Actually, I’m a writer.” And she explains that she’s in LA for the weekend because she’s a finalist in a national competition.

“A writer? Now that is something.” He glances into the mirror, a colourful collection of talismans and chotskies swaying gently below it. “I’d never guess that. You don’t look like a writer.” He laughs. “But a book doesn’t look like its cover, you know? What do you write?”

“Short stories. But some day I want to write a novel.” Barefoot and no longer bashful. “That’s what I really want to do.”