My server refills my water. "Would you like something else while you wait sir?"
I want to ask him about "62," but he's looking over at the next booth where two young women with exposed, tattooed arms are discussing a screenplay. The place is crawling with millennials. Why does getting old mean feeling out of place? I decide to leave a generous tip as compensation. He can take his girlfriend to a movie.
This neighborhood makes me nostalgic. I used to come here when my future was a fog. My memories are semi-conscious, surreal and bittersweet. And not just from smoking weed. Everyone seemed so smart, talented and confident. I remember the guy who sold a script to Corman and the pretty waitress who had a few dates with Cameron before he dumped her like some mildewed leftover. What happened to them? Or that brilliant coked-up Englishman with the beautiful girl friend who ran around on him? Or that groping-pervert of a screenwriter who claimed he once worked with Orson Wells and opened his house on Friday nights for free screenings of 16mm prints? What became of them? Who made it? Who went home? Who ended up on the street?
Can't be different now. LA is dispassionate, cruel and indifferent. No one here at Fred 62 seems concerned. The place is buzzing with life.
Kimberlina picked this place. At least that's what I call her. When she was little, our families vacationed together. I used to carry her to the river on my shoulders, let her win at checkers and show her the constellations. One summer we picked vacation names from road signs. She picked Kimberlina. Ever since then I call her that. She calls me 'Mr. Downtown.' It's our secret.
She's only in town for a couple days. I wanted to take her to dinner. Tomorrow she leaves for Bridgeport. She's joining her friend, Jennifer, to section hike the PCT to Ashland. She'll be on the trail for six weeks. Jennifer will hike on to Boundary Monument. I can't wait hear about it.
A few months back, Kimberlina said I should join them. I thought the trail from Sonora Pass to Tahoe would be great. As these thing go, the idea faded. It is a good thing. I would not be able to keep up; I'd be a drogue on their hike. Besides, her friend Jennifer probably despises me. (Mark up another regret.) Most of all, my JMT trip is just around the corner. I must get to higher elevations and shake off this the altitude bug-a-boo once and for all.
My server keeps looking over. She's 20 minutes late. She always runs late. He probably needs the table. I wish he'd get off my case. I know she's busy. She mailed her resupply boxes today. I check my phone. No message. Maybe I better order. I'll give it five more minutes.
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| InReach two-way messanger |
I figure Kimberlina will ask me about what happened at Desolation Lake. I'd rather not get into it. I'll just tell her the dog story. The one we found lying on the trail not far from Loch Leven. It was lost, scared, hungry and exhausted. There was a tag and a phone number, but we were miles from a signal. We figured it wandered from the campgrounds. We had to walk it back down. We gave it some jerky. Duane tied a rip cord to it's collar. It didn't want to go. We coaxed as best we could. It was a struggle. Took us three hours.
No one at the campground knew the dog. We put it in the car and drove it down to Bishop. If nothing else, we'd find an animal shelter. When we got low enough for a signal, Duane called the number on the tag. A voicemail answered for Mike-the-Handyman. Duane left a message and looked for an address. There was a Mike in Mesa, 10 miles to the north. We decided to try our luck. When we arrived, a neighbor recognized the dog. The dog recognized the neighbor. It was a happy reunion. The neighbor said, "That dog is Mike's life." We headed for LA with a feeling of accomplishment.
An hour later Mike called. He said we were idiots, shitheads. He was climbing Mt Humphrey's. We should have just left the dog where it was. The irony begs for interpretation. I wonder what moral Kimberlina will find in the story. I always try to annoy her in this way.
The server is back to fill my glass. He cocks his head as if to say, "want to order now?" I turn over my phone and answer with a pained smirk at the display.
If it wasn't our goddaughter, I'd probably split. My time gets more valuable by the minute. How much to I have left anyway? But, I remember those unwanted visits from parent's friends. The ones where you needed to appear just fine because of what could filter back. It seems so innocent now considering what followed when they grew frail and it was our time to step up and take charge and never giving a second thought to the destiny that implied. Well now I've got a front row seat as my generation internalizes the words "while we can." Of course she doesn't understand any more than I did. So I don't mind waiting. I want to see her. It's worth the wait.
My phone rings.
"Mr. DT?"
"Kimberlina?"
"Will you forgive me? I can't make it. There's just too much to do."
"Of course I forgive you. No problemo!" I say cheerily disguising a fresh hollow of disappointment. "I understand perfectly."
"You're the best Mr. DT! You're awesome! I promise I'll message you from the trail."
"No need really. Just have a great hike."
"Love you Mr. DT."
"Love you too."
Lilalee is reading on the sofa when I return. "How was your dinner? Is she excited?"
"Is she ever. She must have said 'awesome' a hundred times."
She closes her book. "I'm so happy for her."
"Me too. Have we got anything to eat?"