Jackson Ford - Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air

There was terrible movie about an earthquake I saw once – San Andreas , maybe. The movie, whatever it was, had this one shot of a huge, miles-wide section of Los Angeles tilting up and sliding into the Pacific.

It was an amazing shot. I mean, it was a very stupid one – the kind of thing best experienced with popcorn and several beers and a bunch of friends who don’t mind yelling drunken comments at the screen – but still amazing.

That shot has nothing – nothing – on the view from the Getty Center right now. Beyond the fact that it makes me wish I really was black-out drunk.

From here, we can see the whole of Los Angeles, from the Westside to Downtown. I saw a tiny bit out of the window of Schmidt’s plane, but that was like watching a movie on a phone. This is IMAX, with Dolby Surround and 3-D picture.

The city hasn’t slid into the Pacific. Instead, it looks as if a giant ripped the whole of LA up from the bedrock, then let it crash back down. Fires everywhere, smoke growing like tumours. Torn buildings, toppled trees. A freeway – the 10, I think – wrenched from its supports, which stick up from the ground like broken teeth. Several of the skyscrapers in downtown are gone, and the usual rumble of the city has been replaced by a thousand distant sirens. Helicopters hover everywhere, like flies buzzing around a corpse.

How could they build a city here? How can a million people live right over a fault line and act like that’s normal?

Annie’s voice is steady. “Let’s go.”

We descend, the road winding alongside the freeway, and rejoin it just where it crosses Wilshire Boulevard. This time, it’s different. People are moving, not standing in small groups, all of them marching south. Ahead of us, there’s an Army truck, soldiers with assault rifles waving people past, yelling instructions at each other. They look exhausted, overwhelmed.

News choppers buzz overhead. It’s kind of unbelievable they haven’t collided. Then again, maybe that’s already happened, and I just haven’t noticed.

You know what gets me? Nobody’s really talking. Everybody’s quiet. I didn’t notice it before, but the further we go, the more it bothers me. I guess with something this big, there’s nothing to talk about. There’s no story to tell – not when everyone around you is living through it too. Telling stories can come later. Right now, it’s just about getting out.

“Where you headed?” I ask a woman, as I peddle alongside. She’s young, carrying a little girl in her arms, leading another by the hand. The walking girl looks stoned. She’s got a black eye, a healthy purple shiner. Like someone socked her.

“Dodger,” the woman says, distracted.

“What?”

“Dodger Stadium. There’s a camp there, I think.”

She’s barely paying attention to me. I accelerate, ignoring the flare of pain in my thighs, pulling in alongside Annie and Africa. When I tell them where the crowds are going, Annie frowns. “We should get back off the freeway. Last thing we need is to get caught up in all that.”

“What’s happening at the stadium?” Africa asks.

“That’s where FEMA’ll be. My guess is they probably don’t want it to be another Katrina situation, so they’ll be on this quick.”

“Will it make a difference?” I say.

“Fuck if I know, man. But LA makes a whole lot more money for America than New Orleans ever did.”

Cold. Also true.

There’s got to be something I can do to help. Find Reggie, sure, maybe even find Nic, but after? Am I just going to sit around an emergency camp somewhere? See if my house is still standing? Nic was right. I can help, and I should be out there doing it.

Except: how much help could I be, really? I’m strong. I can lift concrete and cars. But how long will it be before word gets out about what I’m doing? What happens then? It’s the same worry I had back in Leimert Park, on the night of the first quake – only worse. Way worse.

And even if I did do all those things, what happens after? When the quake starts to become ancient history, when the people of LA return to their lives – either here, or somewhere else? What will Tanner and the nameless agency she works for do about me?

Of course, I already know the answer to that one.

We slip away from the freeway, peddling further south into Sawtelle. It used to be a pretty nice area: decent bungalows, small apartment blocks, trees and Priuses. It’s a wasteland now. It’s even worse because this is where Nic lives – his apartment is on Westholme, to the north-east. He probably won’t be there, but it doesn’t stop an urge to turn tail and peddle like hell. I’m not even sure I’d make it: my feet are completely numb. Fingers, too. I have to grind my teeth together to stop them from clacking.

Annie takes us down Cloverfield Boulevard. At the point where it crosses Olympic, she pulls up. We’ve been pedalling for a couple of hours now, and my legs are more than happy to let me know it.

“Everything OK?” I say, trying to stop my voice from shaking with cold.

“Just thinking.” She points. “We should head for the pier. We can take the boardwalk down to Venice – there won’t be as many cars.”

Strange. She didn’t need to stop and tell us that. Africa and I have been blindly following her for a while now. Then I look closer – she’s exhausted, too, bent over the handlebars. She wanted an excuse to rest, and is trying not to show it.

“Good call,” I tell her. “I could really use some beach time.”

“Say what?”

“…Some beach time? I’ve been under a lot of stress lately. Just, with the quake and the whole… You know what? Never mind.”

“I don’t understand,” Africa says.

“Just trying to lighten the mood.”

“We can’t go to the beach now, yaaw .”

“It’s a dumb-ass joke, man.” Annie shakes her head. “T makes them when she’s nervous. Thought you’d have that figured out by now – you guys known each other long enough.”

Africa looks away, and I flip Annie a middle finger. She doesn’t even notice.

“What about the big waves?” Africa asks, squinting into the rain.

I look over at him. “The… what, the tsunamis?”

“Ya ya. I thought earthquakes made them happen.”

“San Andreas fault is inland,” Annie tells him. “Tsunamis only pop up when a fault is underwater. Paul said—”

She stops abruptly, her mouth snapping closed.

“He’ll be OK,” I tell her. “I’m pretty sure he’s not gonna die. He’s way too smart for that shit.”

Annie is about to ask me to stop being an insensitive dumb-dumb – I can tell just from the look on her face – when a very scary man walks around the corner of Olympic.

He’s tall, six-five or six-six, with the broad shoulders and chest of a bodybuilder. He wears a blue and yellow Warriors starter jacket, zipped all the way up, over jeans that have been absolutely torn to shreds. The skin underneath is dotted with grazes and scabs, the denim bloody. Despite the wounds, he’s walking – well, limping would be more accurate. He’s got a facial tat, a dark scribble on pale skin that I can’t make out at a distance. His mouth is twisted in what he probably thinks is a friendly smile.

“Where y’all headed?” he says. His voice is higher than his body would suggest.

Annie says nothing, eyes locked on his. A line of water trickles down my back, making me shudder.

Beside us, Africa is silent. The man notices him, looks him up and down, but doesn’t back off.

“I said, where y’all—”

“Heard you.” Annie’s voice is calm, non-threatening.

“Y’all ain’t answer, though.” His chin twitches, like a rat’s. “What’s in the backpacks?”