ch 3

novel: Roses from Rain

3

 

A fine day during my drive out to Naval Base San Diego, kicked back in my blue convertible, ’63 Deville: ritzy fins, white-leather interior, 365 humming under the sun like a homebound battleship on wheels.  Driving the Caddy was a once in a blue moon thing.  Albeit an American classic, she was a whale of a gas-guzzler, and this weighed heavy on my conscience.  Public transportation was the usual M.O., with joyrides kept down to a minimum.  She was cleaned, lubed, and wrapped in a vapor barrier, kept in my building’s garage with a canvas tarp on top.  I fired her up for scheduled tune-ups and to go for a wash, and on exceptionally nice days I would run her out to the beach; other than that, she mostly stayed put.       

            Before nearing the base, I swung by a car wash and rid the Caddy of the thin layer of dust and grime that had accumulated during my time in Mexico.  I was back on the road in no time, with water streaking across the glinting hood and windshield, and my eyes sweeping from cobalt sky, to drifting gulls, to palm trees and city buildings, quick to steal glimpses of the narrow patches of foamy, blue surf that cradled in between.  Something vibrant and unstoppable stoked up within me, something absent since the days of Jill.  My breast filled with a light airy happiness, full of optimism and positivity, as though even the wildest of dreams had their chances to be fulfilled.  Then the streets grew dense with military Jeeps and forest green ‘government issues,’ and the beach gave way to bleak, restricted area.  And as the night before, while I had been sitting on the couch, certain wrongdoings surfaced in my mind: tapping the phones at the Maggey Energy and Coal Company in Virginia; the two week covert filming of the Blackburn biochem warehouse in Boston; the numerous documents I had snatched from foggy-headed government clerks and taken to Max, who then used that info to expose illicit activities via national papers like the Times, the Chronicle, the Tribune.  Not to mention all the run-ins I had had with Johnny Law.  My face flushed hot as I approached the dragon's fiery lair. 

            A brassy M.P leaned from the entry-gate booth and greeted me sternly.  I handed him my license.  “I’m here to see Richard Riscotti,” I said. 

            He reached for the phone and made a call.  I expected some questioning, but Richard was quick to confirm my visit.  Within minutes I was escorted into the building and down to his office.

            The door was open when I arrived.  Richard was tidying up his desk, making sure that nothing important was available for the naked eye to see.  My old line of work was nothing new to Richard, and although he trusted me, he was still a military man.  He was neat, laconic, orderly, reluctant to let things slide.  He was also dedicated to his obligations.  I was a snooper and loved those lonely statistics at the top of a shoddy administration pile.  Not that I would steal from my stepfather, but Richard reviled unnecessary risks.   

            We greeted each other with a firm handshake, nothing too sentimental, then I took a seat, while Richard gathered up a few remaining binders he had lying about.  He carried them over to a tall, metal bookshelf that stood near the window, it shelves decorated with green, black, and red binders, chock full of geological information that the military had documented over the years.  He slipped each binder into its proper place, then poured two cups of coffee and informed me that my mother was on his mind.  She missed me.  The last time we had spoken was before my time in Mexico, and, according to Richard, this needed a remedy.  He inquired as to when I would visit.

 “ASAP,” I told him.  “I’m a bit pressed for time at the moment, but I hope to do it soon.”  Avoiding her altogether was the real hope, or at least until things were settled regarding the new job, but that wouldn’t sit well with Richard.

            “ASAP is crap!  I know your ASAP.  Give me a goddamn time!”

            “Fine,” I said, knowing it was imperative that I buck up to Richard’s challenge.  “Tomorrow then.  Good enough?”

“Tomorrow’s great.  Did you sell that beast of yours?”

“Beast?”

“The Caddy!”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”  

“Why should I?”

“Can’t afford it, for one thing.”  He leaned back with his feet rested on his desk.  “Besides, gas is becoming too damn expensive; that’s another.  Car’s just not practical, and plain unprofessional.”

Richard’s manner of speaking resembled his haircut: tight-cropped and stiff.  Come to think of it, that was pretty much his personality through and through.  The glasses he wore were the epitome of the stereotyped mathematician, those thick, matte black, rectangular frames with a plastic pearl-diamond embedded into each wing corner; and best of all, for as long as I can remember, my stepdad wore the same heavy scented aftershave, which, albeit the antiseptic smell, was perhaps his greatest attempt at respectable fashion.  Without question, he could be temperamental, and I could never pin down what sort of aberration might set him off, causing me to be forever hesitant when answering any unforeseen inquiries.  With my stepdad, there was no thinking aloud, no working the problem out in front of him.  If you didn’t have an answer the moment he asked, it was better just to remain silent.  A wrong answer meant no turning back, no altering your idea without being dogmatically berated.  On this particular day, my situation was further aggravated by the uncertainty I felt concerning Rain.  I had thought about it for some time, but couldn’t decide on the right angle.   Were Rain and Richard to be buddies, business partners, or just acquaintances?  Should Rain treat Richard as a father, or just like anyone else to be used for personal gain?   

“So what’s this about?” he asked.  Richard stared me down while mindlessly stirring his coffee.  “You sounded keyed up over the phone.”   

“I need a favor.”

“We’re settled on your mother?”

“Yeah, we’re settled. I’ll visit tomorrow.”

“Then what is it?”

“I need your help finding a job.”

Richard’s brow lowered just slightly.  He paused.  “Not with the military,” he said, almost smiling.

“No Richard, not with the military.  Not exactly.  Look, if someone calls about a reference, I need you to confirm some dates, that’s all.”  I handed him a sheet of paper.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a timeline of sorts, of work that I didn't actually do.  It’ll help to eliminate any possible confusion that may arise over the phone.”

I paused to gauge Richard’s reaction.  He sat silent, which seemed to be positive, so I carried on.   

“I’m seeking new employment, employment with a number of corporations which wouldn’t be pleased with my past.  This timeline will help mask it.  I’ve noted you as a reference, to confirm my loyal, conservative side.  If someone calls, I’d be grateful if you told them that our work together is classified, but that I was a diligent, trustworthy consultant... that sort of s**t.  And that, in the future, if an opportunity arose, you wouldn’t hesitate to use me again.  It would mean a lot, Richard.”

“So you want me to lie.”

“In so few words, yes, I want you to lie.”

His coffee rested at about chest level, and for a moment I suspected he might just heave it at me.       

“What kind of company?” he asked.

“Something big.  No more NPO’s.”

A grin crept over his face, although I’m certain he found nothing comical about our conversation. 

 “So you’ve finally come to your senses,” he said.  “Didn’t think I’d ever see the day.”

“Well, there’s more,” I told him.

 “More?  Don’t ruin the moment, Sam.”

“It’s nothing to get worked up about, really.”

“So what is it?”

I leaned in before him, with my arms spread wide upon his desk.  “If and when these people call about the reference,” I said, “they won’t be inquiring about Samuel Lester.”

“Oh no?”  Richard leered from the brim of his cup.  “And whom will they be inquiring about?”

 “About a man named Rain,” I said.  “I’m changing my name.”

 Richard dropped his feet to the floor, nearly spilling his coffee. 

“Jesussssschrist!  Of all the jackass ideas!  What kind of monkey s**t are you pulling here, son?  Of all the first-rate names you could’ve taken from the Bible, and you pick this.”

            He drew a stogie from his shirt pocket and with a long deep breath ran the full length of its barrel under his nose, blindly inhaling the bouquet to savor.  With a silver double-bladed guillotine cutter, he snipped off the closed head.  The stogie's end bounced about a bulky, stainless steel ashtray, as Richard plugged the cigar into his mouth and cracked back his Zippo.  He puffed vigorously on its head, its foot rolling in the jetting torch, his shoulders cocked, his eyes peering sternly over the frame of his glasses.  A luminous cloud of smoke billowed before him.   

“Are you some sort of fairy?” he asked.  Under tiny, pulsing explosions, the cigar's foot lit up red-hot.  “Your mother will have a goddamn heart attack when she hears this s**t.  I think you’re trying to kill her.” 

“Look, Richard�"”

“Don't look me, boy!  And here I’d thought you’d finally come to your senses.”

He rose from his chair with his hands planted firmly on his desk, the weight of his body resting in his strong, broad shoulders.  As if involuntarily, the cigar mysteriously moved to the corner of his mouth, and he clamped down hard on its dampening head.     

“I figured you were done with all that environmental bullshit,” he said.  “I thought that’s what you were trying to tell me, that all those pansy a*s, tree hugging days were finally over.”  He plucked the cigar from his lips and jabbed its fiery foot at my face.  “You look here, environmentalists don’t do jackshit for this country.  The world ain't so simple.  There’s lots of give and take out there.  Sure, things need to change, but we have systems right now, long established systems which we can’t just throw out the window.  Change takes time, son.  People’s jobs and lives depend on it!” 

“I realize that,” I told him, “which is exactly why I’m here.  That’s what I'm trying to tell you.  I agree, wholeheartedly.  Environmentalists have done nothing… not for you, not for anyone else… mainly not for me, which is why I need your help.  I’m changing my game plan, and you’re the start.  I need this reference bad.  Forget the name thing; it's just a device.  The bottom line is that I’m going for something which you and mom can respect.”

Richard sat back in his chair and eyed me in silence.  His face was hard, cut with deep lines that fanned from the corners of his nose and around his mouth.  His eyes never swayed, remaining locked on me the entire time.

“What kind of game are you playing, son?”  

“No game, Richard.  Just a game plan.  I’m looking for a break, that's all.  I need some cash.  I need a future.  I'm afraid of growing old and having nothing.  No one wants to work till they’re dead.  I want a house, children, a car; I want to settle down, have what everyone else has, ya know.” 

A peculiar power suddenly swelled up inside me, an unknown confidence built on invisible will, as if Rain were speaking through me and forming my every word upon his dogged and ruthless guts. 

“So if you’re the soldier, scientist you claim to be, Richard, then muscle up and show some integrity, show some faith, would ya?  Back me up for Chrissake.  I’d like to use ya, but if you’re unwilling to play the game, then f**k it, we'll call it quits.” 

I rose to my feet, pressing for an answer.  Richard's eyes shrank to slits as he puffed hard on his smoke, churning things over in his mind.  “You’re serious about this?” he asked.

“Dead.”

 “Well then…”  He rose from his chair and crossed the room to snatch a bottle of whiskey from a shelf.  “I’d like to know more,” he said, “but for now I’ll help.  Anything I can do to set things straight.  Otherwise, your mom would have my balls in a sling.”  He poured two snorts and slid one my way.  “Promise me this, though.  Promise me it ain’t no hippie s**t.”    

I nodded, and Richard lifted his glass.

“A toast to a new beginning,” he said.  “And hoping that it don’t kill your mother.” 

I brought the glass to my mouth and let the whiskey fly.  It jabbed the back of my throat with a sharp sting, then burned its way down to my belly.  Richard waited until I had caught my breath.  “One more thing,” he said. 

A sugary, pungent stench wafted from his lips.

“What about that hair?”