iconoclast's ball. I'm bursting now with the news of my own return, prodigal and improbable. The restlessness of old Foo seems like the perfect omen. "Look, you don't have any plans tonight, do you?"
"Me? No." He looks at me, puzzled but game.
"Will you drive me down to Venice?"
A startled pause. I can see his mind running ahead, but not daring to hope. By way of answer, one last throb of caution, he says, "You're not too tired?"
"Let's go."
We leave the dishes where they are and head out through the kitchen. I grab my ratty parka, which Mona says makes me look homeless. Night has already fallen fast, the March sky pulsing with stars, even despite the pouring moon. The Big Dipper stands on the tip of its handle, just above the Trancas hills. Gray apologizes that he's brought the pickup instead of his car, a Volvo pushing ninety thou. We climb inside, laconic as a couple of cowboys, and Gray pulls out, the gravel spitting beneath us as we head to the end of the drive.
The stream of Sunday traffic is pretty steady. They're shooting by at fifty, fifty-five. Gray has to choose his point of entry on pure adrenaline. Suddenly there's a space of five or six car lengths, so he guns and peels out. And now we're in the flow, the great California beach migration. I flip the radio on, right to country: Reba McEntire, who's lost her man to a lady bartender. I put my feet up on the beat-up dash and roll the window down. The night air's sweet and briny. To the left the hills are remarkably bare, with only the random lights of a few chateaux. The seething boom of construction hasn't reached this far, not quite. Even on the bluff side there's empty fields between some of the houses.
I look over at Gray, who hunkers at the steering wheel, squinting into the oncoming lights. "You know, you spoil me rotten." He smiles softly. "I don't think I tell you enough what a wonderful man you are."
He can't stand compliments. His shoulders lift in a slow shrug, like an animal shying. Who knows what deep Presbyterian springs prohibit him from being stroked? "I'm just glad you're around," he says, ignoring the encomium. "Gives the place some life."
"Wait, I think you've got it backwards. I'm a dying man." But I say so with perfect jauntiness, and we both laugh. I don't feel dying at all right now.
Still, Gray isn't sure what's happening here and hesitates to ask. He knows we're going to AGORA, but why is up in the air. We could just be dropping by for the Sunday potluck showcase, when the marginal types come in to try out work-in-progress, usually deadly. But since I am half the proprietor, it's not so odd that I'd want to sniff around. I haven't given the slightest hint that I might want to perform myself, except my level of nervous energy. I'm double-juiced, and Gray knows it.
Traffic slows to a crawl as we pass the Colony, Malibu proper. Straddling the hills on the left is Pepperdine University, right-wing nuts in caps and gowns, white rich straight kids being drilled in the politics of oppression. We pass through the town center, a Hughes Market and a lone movie house and fourteen realtors, but as for the Colony itself you can only see the gatehouse on the right, Checkpoint Charlie. Beyond is the land of the hit series, minitalent vulgarians who are pulling down eighty grand an episode, and thus own a parcel of Eden. Graffiti swoops and zigzags along the walls on either side of the gatehouse, proving the grave assertions of reams of Sunday supplement pieces, that the problems of the city have reached the beach.
"You can tell there's something gnawing at him," I say, as we pass a gaggle of surf bunnies milling in front of Domino's Pizza. I'm back to my brother, and there's no reason Gray should have followed the segue, except he nods. "Maybe his life was so happy growing up, it all tastes flat now, like dead ginger ale. Maybe that's a good argument for having a tortured youth."
It's only half a question. We're silent as we ride on, the
"Me? No." He looks at me, puzzled but game.
"Will you drive me down to Venice?"
A startled pause. I can see his mind running ahead, but not daring to hope. By way of answer, one last throb of caution, he says, "You're not too tired?"
"Let's go."
We leave the dishes where they are and head out through the kitchen. I grab my ratty parka, which Mona says makes me look homeless. Night has already fallen fast, the March sky pulsing with stars, even despite the pouring moon. The Big Dipper stands on the tip of its handle, just above the Trancas hills. Gray apologizes that he's brought the pickup instead of his car, a Volvo pushing ninety thou. We climb inside, laconic as a couple of cowboys, and Gray pulls out, the gravel spitting beneath us as we head to the end of the drive.
The stream of Sunday traffic is pretty steady. They're shooting by at fifty, fifty-five. Gray has to choose his point of entry on pure adrenaline. Suddenly there's a space of five or six car lengths, so he guns and peels out. And now we're in the flow, the great California beach migration. I flip the radio on, right to country: Reba McEntire, who's lost her man to a lady bartender. I put my feet up on the beat-up dash and roll the window down. The night air's sweet and briny. To the left the hills are remarkably bare, with only the random lights of a few chateaux. The seething boom of construction hasn't reached this far, not quite. Even on the bluff side there's empty fields between some of the houses.
I look over at Gray, who hunkers at the steering wheel, squinting into the oncoming lights. "You know, you spoil me rotten." He smiles softly. "I don't think I tell you enough what a wonderful man you are."
He can't stand compliments. His shoulders lift in a slow shrug, like an animal shying. Who knows what deep Presbyterian springs prohibit him from being stroked? "I'm just glad you're around," he says, ignoring the encomium. "Gives the place some life."
"Wait, I think you've got it backwards. I'm a dying man." But I say so with perfect jauntiness, and we both laugh. I don't feel dying at all right now.
Still, Gray isn't sure what's happening here and hesitates to ask. He knows we're going to AGORA, but why is up in the air. We could just be dropping by for the Sunday potluck showcase, when the marginal types come in to try out work-in-progress, usually deadly. But since I am half the proprietor, it's not so odd that I'd want to sniff around. I haven't given the slightest hint that I might want to perform myself, except my level of nervous energy. I'm double-juiced, and Gray knows it.
Traffic slows to a crawl as we pass the Colony, Malibu proper. Straddling the hills on the left is Pepperdine University, right-wing nuts in caps and gowns, white rich straight kids being drilled in the politics of oppression. We pass through the town center, a Hughes Market and a lone movie house and fourteen realtors, but as for the Colony itself you can only see the gatehouse on the right, Checkpoint Charlie. Beyond is the land of the hit series, minitalent vulgarians who are pulling down eighty grand an episode, and thus own a parcel of Eden. Graffiti swoops and zigzags along the walls on either side of the gatehouse, proving the grave assertions of reams of Sunday supplement pieces, that the problems of the city have reached the beach.
"You can tell there's something gnawing at him," I say, as we pass a gaggle of surf bunnies milling in front of Domino's Pizza. I'm back to my brother, and there's no reason Gray should have followed the segue, except he nods. "Maybe his life was so happy growing up, it all tastes flat now, like dead ginger ale. Maybe that's a good argument for having a tortured youth."
It's only half a question. We're silent as we ride on, the
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