Chapter Text
Michael got lost twice on the way to Santa Carla. It wasn’t a bad showing, considering he’d never read a map and never been out of Phoenix.
He pulled over when he saw the Welcome to Santa Carla sign. He had never ridden on his bike for so long, and his legs were a little shaky. He walked up to the sign and touched the bottom edge with two fingers. Scrawled in sharpie underneath the main text he read, “The Murder Capitol of the World.” He laughed, and walked back to where he’d parked.
Michael pulled the notebook out of the side pocket of his duffel bag. His mother’s handwriting had always been so careful, but these pages were nearly illegible. Page after page on how to write checks, how to call the power company, how to hard boil eggs. He flipped back to the first page and read.
Turn right at the welcome sign. Follow the road to the general store. If you see the ocean, you’ve gone too far. Take a left at the windmill. When you see the lawn with a garden gnome, keep left. Go up the hill. When you see the wooden fence and the rusty tractor, you’ve arrived.
He leaned against his bike and ate the last granola bar she’d packed him. He stretched. He read the directions again. When he was sure he’d memorized them, he climbed back on and revved his engine, pulling into the traffic.
The general store was shuttered. He didn’t see the ocean, but he smelled it. The garden gnome had multiplied, he imagined, as the house he found had about thirty strewn about the lawn. The hill was more of an incline. But he eventually saw the wooden fence and the rusty tractor and pulled into the driveway. The sun was just beginning to set.
Michael realized the key was at the very bottom of his bag, so he felt around the edges of the door frame for the spare. It worked, with a little cajoling, and he stepped through the door and flicked the lights on.
The house looked frozen in time, as if his grandpa had simply blinked out of his life. There was a book half open on the couch, mail on the table. Taxidermied animals stared down at him like he was an intruder. He didn’t even want to know what he would see if he opened the fridge. I’d stay out of the garage, his mother had said. I don’t think anyone cleaned out the taxidermy chemicals. He planned to follow that advice.
He put his duffel bag down on the couch, watching a mushroom cloud of dust lift up around it. He opened it and pulled a bundle out of the top, unwrapping it. He put his grandpa’s urn on the mantle, like he’d promised he would.
Next he went to the phone, relieved when he heard the static. His mother had called ahead and set up a month of utilities, like she’d promised she would. He punched in the number to the Phoenix house and held his breath until he heard his mother’s voice.
“Hello?” she said, softly.
“Hi, mom. I made it.” She sighed in relief.
“Good. Good, thank god. Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, looking at his feet. “Power’s on and everything.” He didn’t know what else to say, after that. “Could I talk to Sammy, maybe?”
His mom paused on the other end. “I don’t think-” That’s a good idea, he finished for her, in his mind. He didn’t disagree. “He’s up in his room, Michael. He’s tired.”
“Yeah, of course. Tell him I said hi.”
“Just lie low, okay, baby? I’ll call you soon. This will blow over before you know it.”
They exchanged I love yous and Michael hung up first.
He went and scoped out the rest of the rooms. His grandpa’s old bedroom was dark and claustrophobic. Every inch of the wall was covered in a watercolor or a newspaper clipping or an animal head. He went upstairs and looked into his mom’s old bedroom. There were two single beds, both covered in quilts. The evidence of her life was everywhere. There was still a lava lamp, a blacklight Grateful Dead poster. A bong, poorly hidden under an old stuffed cat. She’d painted peace signs and song lyrics all over the windowsill in nail polish. He closed the door behind him as he left.
He fell asleep curled up on the couch.
——
Michael woke up unmoored. He’d never had a day with no agenda besides existing. He plodded around the house. He sat on every chair. He unpacked a little. He finally opened the fridge, and it was mercifully empty.
He found the page in the notebook where his mother had written directions to the boardwalk, both walking and driving. He chose to walk.
The boardwalk was bright and loud and crowded. He felt a little like a ghost, moving through the laughing families and groups of friends. Then he looked a little closer and saw the people huddled around the edges, in the shadows. They weren’t having a very good time. At least he wasn’t the only ghost.
He paid for a hot dog and a soda and ate them facing away from the ocean, then checked out a few storefronts. He thought about going into the comic book shop, but decided to wait for Sam to get to town. Then he paused in front of a video rental store, and remembered that he hadn’t seen a TV yet in his grandpa’s house, let alone a VHS player. There was a piece of paper taped to the door that said ‘Now hiring! Inquire inside!”
Michael had five hundred dollars - half of everything his mother had ever saved. He’d stuffed it in a cookie jar shaped like a goose that morning. If he got a job, maybe he’d be able to give it all back to her, when she came to get him. And he’d have somewhere to go, every morning.
He pushed in through the door. A bell rang overhead and a kid about his age looked up from the counter, smiling. He had coke bottle glasses and red hair, and was wearing a neon yellow vest. Michael almost walked right back out, but he’d resolved to ignore his instincts for the time being.
“Hey,” he said, walking up to the counter. “You’re hiring?”
“Yeah! Yeah, here, let me get the form out.” He reached under the counter and produced a piece of paper and a pen. “I’m Pete,” he said, holding his hand out.
Michael took it. It wasn’t a very firm handshake. “Michael,” he said. He took the pen and started to fill out the form, briefly wondering if he should use his real name. He couldn’t come up with another one.
“I’m leaving for college at the end of the summer,” Pete said. Michael didn’t glance up. He was trying to write very neatly.
“Congrats,” he said blandly, as he made up a phone number for his old job. “My favorite movie?” Michael read aloud as he got to the bottom of the form.
“Oh, yeah. That one’s just for fun,” Pete said.
Michael didn’t know if he had a favorite movie. “What’s yours?”
Pete put his fist under his chin like it was the most important question he’d ever been asked. “Depends on the day, really. The Godfather’s always a safe choice. 8 ½, maybe. Right now, it’s probably Ivan’s Childhood. I’ve been on a real Soviet kick. Max - he’s the owner - he’s got a whole shelf in the back with the real stuff.”
“Uh huh,” Michael said, nodding. He wrote down Back to the Future. He’d watched it with Sam, a few weeks ago.
“Good choice,” Pete said, reading upside down. “Very populist.”
“Thanks,” Michael said. Pete took the paper from him and stashed it under the counter.
“So the owner will be back around 8,” he said. “He does the night shift. Why don’t you come back then and I’ll introduce you?”
___
His mother’s voice was in his ears, as he killed an afternoon on the boardwalk. Don’t get into any trouble, Michael, please. No fighting. As he strolled the crowds and saw further past the lacquer of family fun, he thought it would kind of make him stand out more if he got into no trouble at all. People were antsy, here. He’d already seen one fist fight, and the security guards seemed to love collaring guys that looked like him and shoving them off the boardwalk.
He glanced down at his watch. Sam had pressed it into his hands, as they’d said goodbye. It was a bulky Casio, calculator and all. He’d given his brother a lot of shit for it, but would have to eat some crow when he saw him next. He’d used it a lot that day, subtracting dollars as he kept buying sodas and packs of gum.
When the time finally read 7:58 he stood from his post a block down and headed back to the store. Pete looked up with that same goofy grin from earlier. Michael imagined a future where this was his best friend. “Mike!”
“Hey, Pete.” Better than nothing, he supposed.
“Come on, Max is in his office.” Pete led him through a beaded curtain and knocked on a half open door. It swung open and Michael saw a cramped little office. The walls were papered in posters, and a small army of cardboard cutouts sat in the corner. They were all facing the wall.
“Hey, sir,” Pete said. “This is the guy I was telling you about.”
Michael looked and saw a slim man, late 40s, maybe. He had pretty thick glasses too, and they were perched on his nose. He was wearing a tan suit and a thick tie. He looked a little like a substitute teacher. “Ah! Michael, right? Come on in.” Michael felt an immediate and intense dislike of the guy, and choked it down. “Thanks, Pete.” Pete headed back to the store, leaving the door open.
“I’m Max. I own this little gin joint,” the man said as Michael sat across from him. His handshake was nice and firm. “So, you’re looking to work?”
“Yeah,” he said. Something about the way Max looked at him made him straighten his posture. He hadn’t even realised he was slouching. “Uh. Yes, sir.”
“And you worked at a golf course, back in Phoenix?”
“Yeah, washing dishes, mostly.” And getting fired for decking a customer who put his hands on Michael’s favorite cart girl. He didn’t think Max would like to hear that, though.
“It’s good to see work ethic in a boy your age,” Max continued. Michael nodded, trying to smile. “The problem is, Michael, I don’t hire summer workers. I like my staff to be here a good, long time.”
“I’m not here for the summer. I’m gonna be in town a while.” It was mostly true, Michael just didn’t have a solid definition of ‘a while.’
“Oh. Well, in that case.” Max looked back down at the application. “Emerson,” he read to himself. Michael wondered if he knew his mom or grandpa, but didn’t really want to ask. “Tell you what, let’s give it a shot. Pete seems to like you.” Michael felt a little guilty about some of the things he’d thought about Pete. “How does $3.50 an hour sound?”
“Could you pay me in cash?” Michael said, a little too quickly.
Max frowned, and Michael thought he had really screwed up. “Under the table? That’s illegal,” Max said, looking at Michael a little too closely. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
Michael looked down at his lap and took a deep breath. He looked back up and opened his mouth to lie, but Max had a very intense look on his face, and he couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Well, let’s try it out for a month or so,” Max said, and Michael exhaled deeply. “But if you do stick around, I’m going to have to get you on the payroll.”
“Thank you,” Michael said, meaning it. “I really appreciate it.”
“You can start tomorrow at five. Shadow Pete. Now let’s fit you for a vest-”
There was a rap on the door, and Michael turned to see Pete, hovering, a nervous look on his face. “Sorry to bother you, sir,” he said, wringing his hands. “Those guys are back.”
Max shot to his feet and charged out of his office. Michael followed him out, even though he wasn’t sure he was supposed to. He stood half behind Max and shoved his hands in his pockets.
“I thought I told you boys to stay out,” Max said. Michael looked around him and saw the boys in question. They looked like they’d climbed right out of MTV, all black leather and silver jewelry. The overhead fluorescent bulbs seemed like a spotlight, suddenly.
“What, we can’t rent a movie?” the shortest one called out. He was a little jittery, in constant motion, but the others were still as statues, staring down Max.
“Not from my store,” Max said. Michael was a little impressed at how firm the guy held. They all had really intense stares. They were exactly the kind of trouble his mom wanted him to say out of, he realized.
“Hear that?” the tallest of the bunch said. “No St. Elmo’s Fire for us, tonight.”
Michael laughed, and it felt like every eye on the room turned his way.
The one with the bleached mullet took a small step forward. He crossed his arms behind his back and leaned to the side, looking around Max. Straight at Michael. “Got a new boy, Max?” he asked, and Michael looked at the floor.
“I said, get out,” Max said. Michael’s heart was racing a little, he didn’t really know why.
After a few tense breaths he heard the thud of a heavy boot. The one with the mullet was stepping back. Michael finally looked up and saw him raise a hand and turn to the door, leather coat swinging out around him. “Let’s go, boys,” he said. “I’m hungry.”
They followed immediately. One of them stopped briefly to knock over a display and flip a quick bird, but then they disappeared into the crowd on the boardwalk.
Pete rushed over to the fallen display and got on his knees to gather up the tapes. Michael joined him, though it was really a one-man job. “Who are those guys?” he asked, hoping only Pete heard it.
Pete had no such qualms about volume. He answered very loudly. “Some punks who hang around and bother people. Think they’re the next Motley Crue.”
“They’re in a band?” Michael said, unable to hide the fact that he thought that was actually pretty cool. He had decided a few moments ago he never wanted to see them again, and was wavering a bit now.
“You should stay away from them, son,” Max called out. He was standing by the door looking out, nose almost touching the glass. He walked over and helped Pete to his feet, and then Michael. “I’ll see you tomorrow, all right?” he said, holding onto Michael’s hand a little too long. Michael nodded and headed for the door. Max stopped him with a light touch to the shoulder and he froze. “Make sure you iron your shirt.”
As he made the quick walk home, Michael really hoped his mom had included a page in the notebook about ironing.