Jackson Ford - Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air

It all seemed so smart when it was written down on paper. But she could never quite work out how to apply it to her life, how to break out of the endless cycle of tiny, piss-bucket cons.

And then she got pregnant.

She’d always dreamed about having a baby. But it had been something for later, not when she was running around in Albuquerque trying to make a buck. She’d forgotten her pills, or run out, she can’t remember, and that had been that. The guy she was seeing at the time, Wade, had taken the news like a hammer blow. He was gone the next day, and she wasn’t the least bit surprised. She didn’t even bother looking for him.

Well, fuck Wade, and fuck everyone else. She could find an angle in a con, and she can find an angle now, no matter how bad her hands are shaking. All she has to do is think.

It isn’t Matthew’s fault, what happened with the quake. It isn’t . You can’t blame a little kid for wanting to explore the world. And even if he really did mean to hurt people – she acknowledges this grudgingly, as if it’s an unwelcome visitor asking for food and a spot to crash – so what? Just because he’s super smart or whatever doesn’t mean he understands what he’s doing. He’s four , for God’s sake. She can’t just yell at him, or turn him into the cops – like they’d even believe her! Anyway this is on her as much as it’s on him.

She may not have given Matthew his powers – the people at the School did that, even if they didn’t know exactly what those powers were going to be. She wasn’t the one who killed the highway patrolman, or the ones before him, and she didn’t set off the San Andreas fault line. And yet, she’s done nothing to stop it. She’s responsible. If she’d been a better mother… if she’d just gotten food for the car, or… Well, she couldn’t have done anything about the patrolman and Matthew sitting in the front seat, but…

And that’s the angle. Right there. That’s how she controls the situation. She doesn’t give up on her boy. She’ll never abandon him, no matter what he’s done. He won’t stay four for ever. The tantrums, and the times when he hurts her… they’ll stop. Whatever he is now, he can change. She can do what a mom is supposed to do: steer him, teach him. Protect him. Be better .

Her hands have finally stopped shaking. She takes a drag, turns – and Matthew is standing right behind her.

Amber yelps, taking a step backward. “Sweetie, you scared me.”

“What are you doing?” he says. He’s barefoot, wearing pyjama pants and the same balloon T-shirt from earlier. His eyes are as blank as deep space. “You weren’t there when I woke up.”

The old terror grows in her chest, familiar as breathing. She reminds herself that he’s her son, and she’s his mom, and she shouldn’t be scared of him. Even in her head, the words sound very small.

Suddenly he yawns. A huge, python stretch. He actually shivers after it ends. His shoulders relax, and he gazes out into the rain.

“You need to drive me somewhere tomorrow,” he says.

“OK?”

“The Meitzen Museum. 803 Exposition Park Drive, Los Angeles, California 90037. 10 a.m. to 5 p.m.”

“What’s…?” She clears her throat. “What’s there, sweetie?”

He rubs his nose. “The burger’s cold. I want another one.”

“…It’s late. I don’t know if they’re open, so—”

“They are. I looked.” He pads past her, still barefoot, then looks back at her quizzically. “Come on.”

As I reach our office in Venice Beach, the morning after the quake, I take the time to ponder a potent metaphysical question: how bad would it be if I just turned around and went home and pulled the blankets over my head and kept them there until the heat death of the universe?

But of course, I know what would happen. Paul and Reggie would send Annie to get me, which would make Annie even more pissed than usual.

I take a sip of my coffee – a takeaway one, my third today. At least LA looked OK this morning. Mostly. Reggie was right: biz as usual. Freeways still upright, most buildings still standing, fires mostly contained. It’s not what you’d call a regular day, and I definitely saw plenty of damage on the way over here – cracked roads, fallen signs and billboards, the odd downed power line. But people were still going to work. Most of the buildings in LA, it seems, have been brought up to code. It’s a relief, I guess. Knowing we can take a hit, and keep on trucking.

Can’t say the same for San Bernardino.

I’m still trying to process it. It should be a gut punch. It’s part of Greater Los Angeles, and having it fall should be… awful. But I’ve only been to the place a few times. I don’t know anyone there. I feel the same way about it as I would about a disaster in Djibouti, or the Ukraine. Which makes me feel like kind of a class-A douche-nozzle, because this is my city. But it’s not as if there’s someone to blame. Earthquakes aren’t anybody’s fault. You can’t swear revenge on a tectonic plate.

I must have sent Nic a dozen texts. I’m still mad at him for what he said, but I also want to make sure he’s OK, after he headed out to SB. In some way, I was hoping he’d call me, and we could talk. I’ve gotten exactly one text from him: We’re fine. Helping at emergency shelter . That made me feel even worse. I told myself I should go out there, fuck what Tanner said. But of course, I didn’t.

It’s not raining any more, but it was when I woke up, and the air is sharp and chilly. I take another slug of coffee, promise to exact bloody revenge on the people who decided 9 a.m. was an acceptable time to start work and push open the door to Paul’s Boutique.

It’s a small wood-frame house in Venice Beach, a few blocks from the ocean. On a clear day, you can sit on the roof and drink a beer and watch the sun sink into the Pacific, the scent of surf wax and weed on the breeze. We work out of the ground floor. I named the office Paul’s Boutique after I went on a month-long Beastie Boys jag. Of course, our own Paul accused me of being immature and not taking the operation seriously, but then, he can be a genuine class-A douche-nozzle.

“Look at this mess,” he’s saying when I walk inside. The ground floor of the Boutique is a big open-plan living area, and Paul is on his knees in the middle of the floor, sorting through a pile of paper and stationery and thumbtacks and overturned coffee mugs.

Paul is in his forties, balding, with a paunch and horn-rimmed glasses. His desk is still upright, but it’s been knocked out of position, and the whiteboard he uses to plan our jobs lies flat on the floor. The L-shaped leather couch has been jolted away from the wall.

“Teagan,” he says, waving me over. “Great. You can help me clean this up.”

Before I can answer him, a thought whacks me upside the head – one I should have had a long time ago. “Reggie! Is she—?”

“She’s fine,” Paul says. “Monitors and towers were bolted to the wall.” He nods towards Reggie’s door. “She’s in there.”

“Hoo boy. OK. Cool.”

“Now come on.” He gestures to the mess. “Time’s a-wasting.”

He is way too chipper for this early in the a.m. Then again, he’s a former Navy quartermaster. They’re used to getting up at sparrow’s fart.

My foot crunches down on glass. “Back up,” says Annie Cruz, leading with a broom, hustling me backwards. Jesus, I didn’t even see her there.

The kitchen is trashed, cabinet doors yawning, plates scattered across the floor. The ridiculous ornamental mirror that hangs above the couch lies in pieces. The fridge has danced away from the wall, and Annie has to squeeze past it to get at the glass I stepped on. Fortunately, she’s thin enough. Annie is tall and willowy, built like a gymnast, if a gymnast could kill a person at ten paces with a single raised eyebrow.