ch 2

novel: Roses from Rain

2

 

It was a Wednesday when I threw in the towel.  I’d been floating around the Pemex building, Mexico City, taking snapshots of corporate thugs linked to the deal, when the question of why I had carried on with such a moneyless paying job�" despite the fact that this insatiable drive within me had been screaming to leave it �" arose so loudly in my head that it could no longer be ignored.  When the decision to leave Eco-Assassin finally won out, it came with stinging bite of guilt, although I presumed that over time this guilt would lessen with my deliverance. 

First thing to do was to leave a message on my voicemail informing callers that I’d be out of signal range indefinitely, but that I was sure to contact them the minute I returned.  That would buy me a few weeks, maybe even a month before even having to consider talking to Max.  He understood how the job could take you deep into savage territory, places where a mobile phone was a better compass than receiver.  Next was to get my butt on a bus back to Guadalajara.  Before hitting the bus station, though, I ordered up three tacos and a cold bottle of arroz from a nearby taco stand, then dipped into a small market and grabbed a diary and pen. From birth to present day, the life I was eager to conceive needed to be outlined in detail. The ride home would take roughly seven hours, but the longer the better. Momentous days were on the brink.

Shortly after noon, the liner rolled up to the departure platform at the Mexico City del Norte terminal, and with a hiss escaping from the bus’s belly, its doors sashayed open and left a cool wave of stale air to rush over me. The driver was a round, fleshy man with thick hands and a kind looking face. He smiled as he ambled down the stairs and directed the passengers toward the buss’s cargo hold.  I handed him my ticket, he tagged my bags, and after tossing my luggage under head, I made my way onto the bus and grabbed a seat in the far back, eager to begin my construction. 

As noted in my diary, the first thing to change was my hair, for although my ponytail was mi amor (sixteen long years lazing down the back of my neck) it didn’t jibe with the corporate world’s need for conformity.  A style more conducive was key, something shorter and appreciated, like a low-banged mop or semi-crew.  Following that came my name, Samuel Lester.  Samuel Lester is a name that spells doom.  Sam’s too short, if not ordinary.  Samuel’s too biblical.  And Lester, forget about it.  After an extended deliberation focused on prominent war heroes, movie stars and rock virtuosos, I concluded that a one-name name was best: Rain.  That was it.  Full stop.  Short and sweet, easy to remember.  Rain can be settling; it can be violent; it marks the beginning and end of seasons; it washes away debris.  Once in San Diego, I would visit a barber, then off to the courthouse to have my name changed officially.

Next on the chopping block came my parents' disheartening marriage, put out of its misery via my mother, when I was eight.  We were living in New Hampshire, a few miles from the coast, just outside Portsmouth.  My old man was a fisherman.  He loved his job; he also loved the bottle.  The summer after my third grade, mother packed up our things, signed the necessary papers, and off we headed; me, my brother, our scraggly terrier Pete, and a hearty family of philodendron all sharing the backseat of a hooptie, black Buick LeSabre.  Not a single tear was shed, not by mother at least.  She just drove on and on, pushing to get as far away from my father as she could.  San Diego fit the bill.  We bounced around the area for a while, making home in a few low-rate motels, and then in a double wide, and finally in Fleetridge CA, near the naval training center, where I spent the following nine years under the grey-tile roof of a white suburban ranch house �" chicken on Tuesdays, spaghetti and meatballs on Fridays, fried eggs and bacon Sunday mornings.  Dull, run of the mill, and about as converse as one could get to the story I was looking for.  To remedy this, I decided to kill my parents.  Not there in Fleetridge, mind you, nor back on the coast, but while on the bus traveling back to Guadalajara.

As marked in my diary: Rain was seventeen and living in New York, on the verge of graduating high school, when his parents, en route to Yellowstone and celebrating their 25^th wedding anniversary, crashed head on with a semi transporting a load of pigs. Everyone involved died, including a few hogs.  The couple’s death came instantly, simultaneously, and most noteworthy, while they were madly in love.  At first, the idea of killing my father seemed upsetting, but he was part of the problem, which couldn’t be ignored.  In all earnestness, can the discomforting failure of one's parents to love each other be fully escaped without being altogether annihilated?  Too much sorrow and negativity comes with divorce, and certainly no heroics.  Besides, nothing tops the self-made man when you are talking romance.

            Now the general idea here was a clear-cut improvement on the truth, but a few holes needed mending.  The reality of things was that I had attended high school at Point Loma, San Diego.  In the tragic hog-truck story, Rain was a student in New York City, and since high school frequently is a topic for small talk, having an answer to this discrepancy was imperative.  As the bus crossed over into Jalisco, I laid into the thought. 

My first inclination was to change the story’s beginning and say that I had graduated high school while living with my grandparents in Montana. But after some deliberation, this seemed risky. If indeed I had attended some podunk high school in no-man’s land Montana, with a graduating class of roughly 150, there would always be the odd chance of bumping into someone whom I should know.  I wouldn’t know them, they wouldn’t know me, and if our hometown cropped up in conversation, well, I knew beans about Montana.  On the other hand, if I had been raised in a foster home and attended a large high school with a graduating class of one thousand, knowing every student would be unlikely.  And if worse came to worse, I could always fiddle with the year.  I opted for Forest Hills HS, NY, with an annual student body exceeding 4,000.

As for university, the switch was nothing more than a numbers game.  Instead of getting up early every morning and attending class, as I should have, I spent most of my days either working at the University of Michigan Hospital, or loitering around the local Greenpeace office, helping with fundraisers, writing pamphlets, making coffee, or just about any other task that someone found for me to do.  I graduated double majored �" Philosophy and Geological Sciences �" but with a dubious 2.53 GPA stamped on my record.  I blackened a new entry into the diary: new resume from scratch, and flip the two with the three.  Sure this meant lying, but plenty of people do it.  Some years back a good friend of mine went from a 2.1 to a 3.1 upon the tap of a key.  He did his research, interviewed, and within two months had secured himself a marketing position with a topnotch sportswear company.  The numbers were just a foot in the door.  His familiarity with the industry and outstanding ability to bullshit were what landed him the job.  He started at 45 grand.  Today, some thirteen years later, he makes over 120; the same 401K, a better insurance plan, and a company car as icing on the cake.

            My apartment took on a somewhat nostalgic beauty this last time before leaving Guadalajara, with the glowing light of the sun illuminating the building’s soft blue face.  I took one last look around the neighborhood, then stopped by my landlord’s and settled rent.  She was sad to see me go.  On the way back I swung by the post and mailed a priority package addressed to my flat in San Diego. Snug inside, a memory stick containing all the info I had compiled on the deal for Max.  Down to its knickers this deal was dirty: illegal funding, oil pools and seepage, slave labor.  The funding group had really outdone themselves, bending and twisting whatever policies necessary to cover their asses while getting the job done.  Actually, the stick I sent priority was a duplicate.  The original lay buried in my knapsack, and accompanied a hard copy and me early the following morning to the Guadalajara Airport, where upon I purchased a one-way ticket to San Diego and anxiously climbed aboard.     

            Personal space, I dig it, especially when on a plane, so unless some grave violation occurs regarding that space, I tend to ignore the people sitting next to me.  Buckle up, zone out, preoccupy myself with a movie, or reading, writing, whatever conveys the message of not to be disturbed.  Naturally, at times, someone fails to observe these signs, finding it necessary to pass the time with a little banter, and with this fastidious crowd, I issue brief, polite responses to any early on questions they may have, then bury myself in a pair of headphones and pretend that I’m sleeping.  It’s not long before they keep to themselves, and I can go about my business.  On this particular flight, I was blessed.  To my left sat a stout young lad who had had a rough night, or possibly an even rougher morning.  Either way he reeked of booze, and was out within minutes of take off.  To my right at window side, a fragile and stunning woman who remained deeply engrossed in a stack of fashion mags she had labored aboard.  Couldn’t have asked for better companions, although the kid occasionally burped in his sleep, producing this foul stench of soured tequila that lingered about the rows.      

Within moments of settling in, a crackle came over the onboard radio, followed by the captain's refined, confident voice.  The flight, including the Phoenix layover, would take just under seven hours, which meant ample time to consider vital points of my life: those to construct and those which needed altering, then penning it all down, arranging it, and tidying up any prickly situations I was certain to face upon my return, like the issue of Max and my resignation. 

From a tactical standpoint, evading Max was crucial, which meant not resigning.  But how could I not resign?  Eventually the bells would toll and Max would demand an explanation.  He’d be bemused, maybe even shocked, but sooner or later the effect would wear off, and sure as death, my decision to leave would take a backseat to the file.  Without it, there was no ammo for the lawyers or press, and the dig would most certainly prevail.  My mind could only fathom the exact dollar sign attached, but undeniably someone had paid a pretty penny to retrieve this info; Max wasn't about to get snubbed.  Before boarding the plane I had intended to relinquish the file the minute I set foot in San Diego; however, after some thought, that file in Max's hands spelled absolute doom for Rain.  Max would promise me everything, including a world of protection, but a promise like that was empty.  Once the file leaked, media hounds would sniff their way to the roots of the story, and my name was bound to be uncovered.  And if that happened, so ended Rain.

       From up at the head of the aisle, a pair of fair-haired, leggy, flight attendants appeared under the methodical clinking of a service cart.  They wore crisp, navy suits that were striped at the sleeves and trimmed with gold buttons.  Glossy lips, heels, white creamy stockings.  The one at the lead had a sort of pear-shaped body, which forced her to c**k her hips in an alluring fashion as she passed down the aisle, greeting guests.  She turned my way and smiled.  “Beverage,” she asked.  “Something to eat?”  Although a few racy images entered my mind, I requested only coffee and a sweet bun, then shifted my attention back to the fate of the file.   

             It seemed at first that the lone way to keep my name from being front-page fodder was by discarding the file altogether, with the repercussions of this listless action being the wrath of Max, his demise, or both.  None of which seemed agreeable.  Max could be maniacal, unpredictable, even deadly.  The only thing feared more than his heated rage was the shower of guilt certain to pour over me once I informed him of the file's misfortune.  To ash my career was one thing, but to set Max's ablaze, this was ruthless and vile.  The man deserved something a little less callus; after all, up to that point, what had he done to me?  Deliberation and conclusion: maybe a way to accomplish my goals without dismantling Max’s life would present itself in the future, and if so, I would hand the sticks over without hesitation. Until then, they would stay stashed away for safekeeping. 

            An hour or more had passed when the pear-shaped attendant suddenly appeared once again, this time collecting trash.  She leaned in to take my wrapper and cup, rousing me from the deep thought I’d been in.  I had guessed her to be in her early thirties when she first passed by, maybe a little older, but this time the look about her eyes said something different, something that had gone unnoticed before, how deeply set and ringed with dark swollen pockets they were.  She looked tired.  But tired is such a tough call because you never know if someone looks tired due to sleep deprivation, or if it’s the kind of tired we all dread, the tired of your job, tired of being single, or maybe married, or just all the s**t we struggle monotonously through each day to survive.  I wondered if I looked that way to her, a man beyond his prime, tired of everything he stood for, tired of his stagnancy, his impotent nature.  She furthered on to the rows behind me, as I fought to jettison the thought from my mind. 

            Changing one’s name is easy, but faking an employment record is magician’s work.  The first thing one must do is to define a field of expertise �" whatever it is that one knows best �" then find out the sort of jobs available within that field, and lastly, concoct prior, bogus jobs that help to build the illusion of experience, thereby justifying the applicant’s future employment. Staying within the realms of ethics and geology would be most beneficial for Rain.  Between the two I had nearly twelve years’ experience and saw no point in dismissing it.  As I stared out the airliner window, an absurd fate pressed heavy on my shoulders, a fate so absurd that I feared to ignore it.  After jotting down a concrete list of priorities, then weighing my strengths against weaknesses, the answer came clear.  There were plenty of jobs out there with the requirements of geology, and some dealing with ethics, but only one type of job within these fields was going to pay me the kind of money that was looking for: employment with an oil company.   The idea panged my gut at first, such a kick in the head considering all my previous work; but I had already devoted such a vast amount of time to the nonprofits and received spit in the bucket for it, certainly nothing as far as security was concerned.  Only a large firm like an oil corporation could fulfill my lust for consumption.  Moreover, the research I had done on these devouring giants was downright extensive.  CEOs, Presidents, VPs, I knew them all: base salaries, what they pocketed after taxes, home addresses, how many kids they had, involvement in payment mechanisms, funds depleted on hookers, what they ate for brunch, what they drank for brunch, which city they kept that hidden high-rise apartment in.  I had fiscal years documented for the last fifteen straight.  I knew various company’s assets, liabilities, future goals, how many employees they had, what regions supplied their highest gains.  I knew the problems they were facing and, most importantly, the problems yet to come.  If my résumé were bulletproof, an interview would be assured.  To get a foot in the door was all I needed; at which point, there would be no stopping me. 

Things of this nature are easier said than done, for in reconstructing one’s history, keen attention to detail rules above all.  Being cautious not to overlap the narration or contradict an earlier lie can be harder than is often expected.  Fast talk and quick wit seldom saves you from an obvious discrepancy, like claiming to have been at two different places at the same time.  The past must go in a tight, linear fashion, with no loose joints, which meant that Rain’s jobs and personal history fit together securely, or I could call it quits.

At the top of the employment list came his involvement with the government, undoubtedly Rain’s most impressive job.  I have a friend living in Fleetridge, Rear Admiral Richard Riscotti.  Actually, he’s not so much a friend as he is my stepdad.  Richard married my mother when I was thirteen, which was inconsequential given that my mother was supposed to be dead.  The essential thing was that Richard works for the Navy, in the Naval Pacific Meteorology and Oceanography department.  He draws oceanographic topos, tracks water currents, charts sea temperature variations, organizes soil digs, that sort of stuff.  On occasion his department finds itself treading new ground, and Richard, being the department head, must outsource assistance from various experts in relative fields.  At times, and this was the beauty of the thing, Richard also provides information to the Department of Defense, which means that every so often a job winds up classified.  For me this meant using Richard as a former employer on my résumé was as good as gold.  During an interview, if asked about the nature of my duties concerning Richard and the Navy, I could simply reply that I had been contracted to carry out a detailed investigation, overlooking the USGS in its orders to locate, map, and process certain sensitive geological information.  Beyond that, I would be fully restricted from disclosing any further details, leaving my interviewees to assume all else.  Moreover, the chances of anyone knowing Richard personally were slim to none, so his having to lie to a colleague or friend during a reference check was a remote concern.  The people behind the interview desk would be office dwellers.  Sure, they’d know a great deal about the industry, but probably had never seen the field, never been coated with the grease and grime of an offshore drilling rig, never tested an area for nuclear waste, never mapped the ocean floor.  They’d be HR and pencil pushers, with silver money clips, snow-white teeth, cardboard-stiff clothing, baby-soft hands.  Richard’s approval and I’d be in like Flynn. 

 Next on the list came ‘old man Dillington’ �" a heavy-set gentleman in his fifties, potbellied, brass-buckled, with a ten-gallon hat and s**t-kickers fashioned from the arse of an ostrich.  He ran the ‘Double D’ cattle company out of New Raymer, Colorado, one of the largest free-range, steroid-free cattle companies in the state.  “My daddy’s daddy,” as Dillington liked to say, “started the ranch some years after the silver mines went down.”  Back then, the ranch was simply known as ‘Dillington’s.’  The second ‘D’ in ‘Double D’ was added years later, after WWII, when a certain Charles Dickson merged his ranch with the Dillington’s to create the conglomerate that it is today.  “But on account of Charles being so homely,” as Dillington had informed me many times, “he never had kids, and after his death, weren’t no one left to give it to, so my daddy acquired the full ranch and outta respect added a D.”    

Dillington and I met due to a quandary with a particular oil company, Lexon.  A true patriot Dillington wished Lexon all the best; however, the oil company had encroached on his land without permission, which made the old man somewhat nervous.  Since the late ‘70’s, oil conglomerates desperately have pushed on-going searches for new reserves.  In the spring of ’93, some Lexon geographers concluded the possible existence of an oil field under Dillington’s ranch, but they needed a closer look; the answer was a flat-out No.  D wasn’t interested in oil, or the money that came with it.  He was a simple man, and his life was comfy enough already under the revenue he earned through his beloved cattle operation; he saw no reason in chancing it.  Dillington was somewhat misinformed when it came to modern testing and seemed to think there would be a lot of damage and disturbance done to his land.  Without taking the time to explain and possibly work out the misunderstanding, Lexon immediately grew anxious and, disregarding old man’s wishes, sent surveyors illegally onto the property, which then forced Old Man to obtain a restraining order against the firm.  Deep down he wanted to do what was best for the country, which meant helping the oil companies find reserves, but the nerve escaped him.  Over time he started to lose sleep as the guilt felt for holding Lexon back ate away at him.  In the end Dillington called Max, and Max sent me. 

I was the go-between, taking into account Old Man’s concerns, sacrifices and future prospects, and then dealing with Lexon on personal level.  In some cases crude testing can cause a tad of damage, and at times even worse, so I ran through the different techniques with Dillington, like sensitive gravity meters and these things called sniffers, which smell for hydrocarbons using electronic noses, and we discussed the possibility of digging, covered lease agreements, titles, and right-of way access laws, until Dillington felt better assured.  Due to the sluggish speed of bureaucracy, it took over a year for all parties to reach an agreement.  Lexon got its test, Old Man got a nice chunk of change, and most importantly, as far as I was concerned, the cattle got their grass. 

This Dillington job posed a problem, however, for it was Max who had sent me to Dillington’s, which linked me to EcoAssassin, and therefore, from the perspective of companies I would soon be targeting, I had worked for the enemy.  As the plane touched down in San Diego, I knew one thing for certain: if my past with Max wasn’t severed completely, it would come back to bite Rain in the a*s.  After picking up my luggage, I quickly slipped into an airport coffeehouse and ordered up a double espresso.  Before I called to get Old Man’s approval, it was imperative to have my ducks in a row.  It was a safe bet that Dillington would go along with whatever I asked, so long as no harm was brought to the oil companies and nothing ill willed toward Max.  I sugared my espresso, slammed it, jotted down a few notes, and called.

Our conversation was brief and to the point.  Dillington had been out all day inspecting his fence along the Nebraskan border, and returned home exhausted.  I made my request quick and clear.  “I understand the delicate nature of this egg,” he told me.  “But, sure as a pig’s belly is pink, it’s a shame you two’s partin’ ways.”  I concurred, but ultimately, it had to be done.  He promised not to mention Max if anyone called on the reference, and I returned to the coffeehouse, feeling better that we had talked.  I could trust old D, even if he found my name change silly.  “A rose is a rose,” he had said just before hanging up.  He failed to understand I intended something more like a Venus flytrap.

After an espresso for the road, I made my way out from the airport and into a taxi line.  High above the airport’s boulevard and its double row of palms, the sun shone with a tempered brilliance so typical of So Cal.  I stood mindlessly gazing out into this almost dreamlike plot for an uncountable time, and it was then that the reality of it all hit me: after nearly two years, I was back in San Diego.  My cab pulled up and I slipped into the backseat, with a gooey sense of content warming over.  The feeling, however, was short lived, for as the cab scurried toward downtown, weaving its way from lane to lane while high-rises seep into my vision, one plaguing thought came to mind: to erase the work I had accomplished under Max would prove nearly impossible.  Worse yet, Killing Max as I had killed my parents wasn’t an option.  Had the hand of almighty God come down and swept Max from the face of the Earth, his giant web of cohorts would still exist, and regrettably for Rain, Samuel Lester was trapped in that web’s center.

The taxi revved up to my flat building, and I flipped the cabby his dough, then grabbed my things and trudged upstairs.  On the way home I had asked the driver to make a quick stop so I could pick up a bag of brew.  Usually I get my beans from a classy java joint called the Main, but making that pit just wasn’t in the stars, so I directed him to the nearest 7/11.  On my way out from the store I ran into a man known by many as the ‘Squealer.’  His name was Mark Dawson, but I have to admit, ‘Squealer’ was rightly fitting.  Catching his eye on my exit amounted to about zero grams in my box of worries, that is until a few days later when I began to consider what a mistake it could have been.  The Squealer was a distant associate of Max, and although we had never really become close acquaintances, there was the off chance that he had recognized me, and if that was the case, it could spell trouble.  For the time being I was glad to be home, back in San Diego, back in my apartment, with my movies, my futon, my Technivorm Clubline coffee maker.  I strode straight back to my bedroom, heaped my things at the foot of my bed, then marched off to the kitchen and fired up a delicious pot of Dark Guatemalan.  While it brewed, I took a scorching shower, and afterwards, buried myself on the couch with my knapsack, a fresh cup of Joe and Rain’s diary.  A few pages of the Mexico report were sticking out from the top of the knapsack’s pouch, and for as much as the configuring of Rain’s résumé drew at me, the report drew more; I couldn’t help but take a glance. 

Soon my mind drifted back to the early days with Max and all the unlawful jobs I had racked up since that time: the nights spent trespassing across oilrigs or creeping around logging camps, inside nuclear reactors, rummaging through government files, stealing information from various levels of security.  Someone out there was bound to have my fingerprints, maybe even a photo or two.  I threw the report to the floor, then walked over to the window where six floors down the street lay silent.  I stood before the glass, sipping my coffee, trying to convince myself that this was a win-win situation. 

At first the idea was a difficult pill to swallow, mainly due to the position of potential loss and vulnerability.  But after gazing around the apartment, eying my coffee stained sofa, my four-seat, plastic kitchen table, the $20 lamp with its $5 lampshade, and then taking note of the emptiness and the loneliness that breathed within these walls, my thoughts immediately boomeranged.  Risk, I laughed.  As if I had anything to lose. 

Job number three needed a touch of epic quality �" not necessarily the full story, but all the cornerstones to a ‘coming of age’, something that described Rain’s rite of passage and painted him as a man of guts and integrity.  

I took a bullet once, when I was eighteen.  Tore right through the flesh below my shoulder and left a scar a little bigger than the size of a dime.  There’s really no place for this information on a résumé, but keeping in mind that the wound is still visible, once you get to talking about such things, people’s eyes have a way of lighting up.  First they insist on seeing the scar, and occasionally then they want to touch it, at which point they’ll pretty much believe any story you feed them.  The trick is to get the scar uncovered before you divulge too much information.  It heightens the suspense, and once they actually see the pink twisted mass, they are unable to doubt you.  Over the years I have found that undoing my shirt without hesitation works best.  I unbutton the collar down to the n****e and, pointing directly to the wound, say something like, “Got it in the war,” or, “Was out hunting when my cousin did the stupidest thing….”  After that I can pretty much say whatever I want and people will generally just accept it.  There was this guy once, though.  I told him that I’d been nailed by crossfire, between some guerrilla fighters and Colombian national soldiers.  Whatever his name was, he didn’t buy it, which is odd because, in reality, that is how it happened. 

I was northwest of Ibagué, in the Andes, solo, taking some soil samples for a research project concerning the threatened existence of mountain goats in that area.  A sudden flurry of shots whizzed overhead and sent me belly walking along the base of a red cinchona.  Within seconds, return fire resounded with bullets thumping against tree trunks and tearing through the flora, and I knew it was high time to get the f**k out of there, so I grabbed my water bottle, kissed the ground and made a mad dash for safety.  I was just about clear of the skirmish when a round pegged me below the collarbone, on my right side.  Threw me a few feet across the forest floor, knocking the wind out of me.  Took some time to get my head straight, to calm down and figure out where I was exactly, and then I dragged myself into thicker brush for cover.  A icy numbness came over my arm, stinging down to the fingers and weighing heavy at my side.  I was losing blood.  The quickest route to the city outskirts was a little over 10 kilometers, mostly downhill.  Get there, I thought, and a ride to the hospital was almost certain.  The doctor who fixed me up said that half an inch in any direction and it would have been a whole other ballgame.  Blown-out rotary, ripped artery, punctured lung.  It was lucky to have only my shoulder blade cracked.  Naturally this had seemed far from a blessing, but when writing Rain’s résumé it was a godsend.  No one could argue with a man who in his teens had ventured off to South America, risking both life and limb to save the habitat of a blasted goat.  It may sound dim-witted, almost losing one’s life for the sake of a nearly endangered herbivore, but this is the beauty of being young, isn’t it?  Those near-fatal incidents during a boy’s adolescence, especially those that stem from his innocence, become the stitching of a sweater that boy proudly wares as a man in his golden years.  And on top of that, this boy had the physical trophy to go with it. 

With that the résumé was complete, or at least its skeleton.  I’d stretch the skin on it later.  A few more jobs were required to fill the gaps, but I was worn-out and had to be up early the next morning to meet Richard.  Getting his reference would take some explaining, which had to be done in person, not over the phone and not with a cloudy head.