Read Online Wide Blue Yonder by Jean Thompson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jean Thompson
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Although the air had cooled, the pavement still smelled hot. There were other smells too, something balmy or fruity, with a faint underlay of stink. The things they put in the air nowadays, the sweet was probably just as bad for you as the stink. He walked to the end of the block, nodding to people sitting out on lawn chairs, people walking dogs, and although none of them individually was anyone he expected to miss, he would miss the whole of them.
On the avenue the night would just now be getting underway, the cars cruising slow and soft through the wash of lights and music, the sidewalk busy with sellers of CDs and silver and T-shirts, doorways propped open for a glimpse of the ruby-lit darkness inside, and everywhere the beautiful, beautiful girls … But he steered clear of all this and hiked on as far as the small, nearly grassless park. Two younger boys were playing basketball in a circle of streetlight that lit them like a stage. He had never been much of a player, but he loved the tart sound of the ball on cement and the boys’ excited, swaggering voices. And the view from the park’s little rise, the pink smear of freeway lights and beyond them the distant mountains, black except for the small trails and constellations of brightness, like an upside-down universe. He would miss all this too. It disconcerted him to discover such feelings in himself, soft places that sent out eddies of confusion just when he needed to be straightforward and clear.
He caught a bus on Whittier, transferred downtown, and disembarked in a neighborhood that had often suited his purposes.Quiet, but not so much that a pedestrian would attract undue attention. In Los Angeles it was often a very suspicious thing to be a pedestrian. Nice houses, these. Little bungalows with red-tile roofs, brass gadgets on the front doors, fishponds, somebody’s idea of a statue. A place he wouldn’t mind living himself, if not for his prejudice against any wealth that could not be carried by hand. He strolled past the car he had already picked out, a sky blue Ford product with enough of the new worn off it so that people might have grown relaxed about things like alarms. His heartbeat was so sweet and steady, you could have used it to keep time to a waltz.
These things were not difficult, given the proper equipment, experience, and opportunity. A final look around. Pop the lock, strip the wires, fire it up, and go. They never knew what hit them. Out on the boulevard and merging with the traffic, a model citizen obeying all vehicular laws. Oh, he was slick. He sang himself a little slick song as he fooled with the radio. Half a tank of gas in it. These folks were absolute princes. He could tell they were the kind to have excellent insurance. He wished them well. Thirty-eight thousand miles on it, practically new. He took further inventory. Box of Kleenex. Change caddy with a handy roll of quarters. If he’d called Avis and told them what he needed, he couldn’t have done better.
There was a nice tape player, with auto-reverse and a lot of settings that would be fun to fool with. Already he had begun to think of it as his car. Groping around, he found a single cassette in the console, homemade by the look of it.
He popped it in and weird shit started coming out of the speakers. Chimes and flutes and bird noise. And here he thought these people had taste. He was disappointed in them, he was personally saddened. He reached to eject the tape. That was when the angel choir started up.
Layers of sound so beautiful it made him see colors, white and candy-cane pink and sunburst gold. The angels climbed stairways of luminous chords. His heart climbed with them. Crazy! They were just singing Ohhh, but like nobody’s business.
Then the voice started. A man’s voice, welcoming and easy, the voice of your best friend. “Life,” it said, “can seem complicated. We all know the feeling. Worries about work, health, relationships, money. Worry on top of worry.
On the avenue the night would just now be getting underway, the cars cruising slow and soft through the wash of lights and music, the sidewalk busy with sellers of CDs and silver and T-shirts, doorways propped open for a glimpse of the ruby-lit darkness inside, and everywhere the beautiful, beautiful girls … But he steered clear of all this and hiked on as far as the small, nearly grassless park. Two younger boys were playing basketball in a circle of streetlight that lit them like a stage. He had never been much of a player, but he loved the tart sound of the ball on cement and the boys’ excited, swaggering voices. And the view from the park’s little rise, the pink smear of freeway lights and beyond them the distant mountains, black except for the small trails and constellations of brightness, like an upside-down universe. He would miss all this too. It disconcerted him to discover such feelings in himself, soft places that sent out eddies of confusion just when he needed to be straightforward and clear.
He caught a bus on Whittier, transferred downtown, and disembarked in a neighborhood that had often suited his purposes.Quiet, but not so much that a pedestrian would attract undue attention. In Los Angeles it was often a very suspicious thing to be a pedestrian. Nice houses, these. Little bungalows with red-tile roofs, brass gadgets on the front doors, fishponds, somebody’s idea of a statue. A place he wouldn’t mind living himself, if not for his prejudice against any wealth that could not be carried by hand. He strolled past the car he had already picked out, a sky blue Ford product with enough of the new worn off it so that people might have grown relaxed about things like alarms. His heartbeat was so sweet and steady, you could have used it to keep time to a waltz.
These things were not difficult, given the proper equipment, experience, and opportunity. A final look around. Pop the lock, strip the wires, fire it up, and go. They never knew what hit them. Out on the boulevard and merging with the traffic, a model citizen obeying all vehicular laws. Oh, he was slick. He sang himself a little slick song as he fooled with the radio. Half a tank of gas in it. These folks were absolute princes. He could tell they were the kind to have excellent insurance. He wished them well. Thirty-eight thousand miles on it, practically new. He took further inventory. Box of Kleenex. Change caddy with a handy roll of quarters. If he’d called Avis and told them what he needed, he couldn’t have done better.
There was a nice tape player, with auto-reverse and a lot of settings that would be fun to fool with. Already he had begun to think of it as his car. Groping around, he found a single cassette in the console, homemade by the look of it.
He popped it in and weird shit started coming out of the speakers. Chimes and flutes and bird noise. And here he thought these people had taste. He was disappointed in them, he was personally saddened. He reached to eject the tape. That was when the angel choir started up.
Layers of sound so beautiful it made him see colors, white and candy-cane pink and sunburst gold. The angels climbed stairways of luminous chords. His heart climbed with them. Crazy! They were just singing Ohhh, but like nobody’s business.
Then the voice started. A man’s voice, welcoming and easy, the voice of your best friend. “Life,” it said, “can seem complicated. We all know the feeling. Worries about work, health, relationships, money. Worry on top of worry.
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