Kim Robinson: The Gold Coast

Jim isn’t so sure. And after they sit in silence for a while, thinking about it, he leaves.

On the freeway, feeling low. How could he have guessed that sabotaging the sabotage would get Sandy in such trouble? Not to mention Arthur! And what, in the end, did he and Arthur accomplish? Were they resisting the system, or only part of it?

He wonders if anything can ever be done purely or simply. Apparently not. Every action takes place in such a network of circumstances.… How to decide what to do? How to know how to act?

He drives by Arthur’s ap in Fountain Valley. Into the complex, up black wood stairs with their beige stucco sidewalls, along the narrow corridor past ap after ap. Number 344 is Arthur’s. No one answers his knock: it’s empty. Jim stands before the window and looks at the sun-bleached drapes. That visionary tension in Arthur, the excitement of action… he had believed in what he was doing. No matter what the connection with Raymond was. Jim is certain of it. And he finds he is still in agreement with Arthur; something has to be done, there are forces in the country that have to be resisted. It’s only a question of method. “I’m sorry, Arthur,” he says aloud. “I hope you’re okay. I hope you keep working at it. And I’ll do the same.”

Walking back to his car he adds, “Somehow.” And realizes that keeping this promise will be one of the most difficult projects he will ever give himself. Since both Arthur and his father are “right”—and at one and the same time!—he is going to have to find his own way, somewhere between or outside them—find some way that cannot be co-opted into the great war machine, some way that will actually help to change the thinking of America.

It’s late, but he decides to drive down to Tashi’s place, to discuss things. He needs to talk.

He takes the elevator up the tower, steps out onto the roof.

It’s empty. The tent is gone.

“What the hell?”

What is happening? he thinks. Where is everyone going? He walks around the rooftop as if its empty concrete can give a clue to Tashi’s whereabouts. Even the vegetable tubs are gone.

Below him sparkle the lights of Newport Beach and Corona del Mar. Somewhere someone’s playing a sax, or maybe it’s just a recording. Sad hoarse sax notes, bending down through minor thirds. Jim stands on the edge of the roof, looking out over the freeways and condos to the black sea. Catalina looks like an overlit sea liner, cruising off on the black horizon. Tashi.…

After an insomniac night on the living room couch, Jim calls Abe. “Hey, Abe, what happened to Tashi?”

“He left for Alaska yesterday.” Long puase. “Didn’t he say good-bye to you?”

“No!” Jim remembers their parting after the drive back. “I suppose he thinks so. Damn.”

“Maybe you were out when he called.”

“Maybe.”

“So how did you like the mountains?”

“They were great. I want to tell you about it—you going to be home today?”

“No, I’m going to work soon.”

“Ah.”

Long silence. Jim says, “How’s Xavier?”

“Hanging in there.” Another silence.

But maybe Abe hears something in it. “Tell you what, Jim, I’ll call you tomorrow, see if you’re still up for getting together. We’ve got to plan a celebration for when Sandy comes back, anyway. As long as nothing happens to his dad.”

“Yeah, okay. Good. You do that. And good luck today.”

“Thanks.”

Jim tracks by First American Title Insurance and Real Estate Company, just because he can’t think of anything to do and old habits are leading him around.

Humphrey is out front, looking morosely at the construction crew that is cleaning up the inside of the building. It’s a mess in there—it resembles fire damage, although it isn’t black. They’ve got most of it cleaned.

“They blew it away,” Humphrey tells him. “Someone blasted it with a bomb filled with a solvent that dissolved everything in there. They got a whole bunch of real estate companies, the same night.”

“Oh,” Jim says awkwardly. “I hadn’t heard. I was up in the mountains with Tashi.”

“Yeah. They got all my files and everything else.” He shakes his head bleakly. “Ambank has already pulled out of the Pourva Tower project because of the delays, they said. I just think they’re scared, but whatever. It doesn’t matter. The project is a goner.”

“I’m sorry, Humph,” Jim says. “Real sorry.” And the part of him that would have been pleased at this unexpected turn—something good coming out of his madness, after all—has gone away. Seeing the expression on Humphrey’s face it has vanished, at least for the moment, from existence. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right,” Humphrey says, looking puzzled. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Uh-huh. Still, you know. I’m sorry.”

All these apologies. And he’s going to have to give Sheila Mayer a call sometime, and apologize to her too. He groans at the thought. But he’s going to have to do it.

So Jim spends the afternoon pacing his little living room. He stares at his books. He’s much too restless to read. To be on his own, by himself—not today, though! Not today. He calls Hana again. No answer, no answering machine. “Come on, Hana, answer your phone!” But he can’t even tell her that.

Okay. Here he is. He’s alone, on his own, in his own home. What should he do? He thinks aloud: “When you change your life, when you’re a carbrain suddenly free of the car, off the track, what do you do? You don’t have the slightest idea. What do you do if you don’t have a plan? You make a plan. You make the best plan you can.”

Okay. He’s wandering the living room, making a plan. He walks around aimlessly. He’s lonely. He wants to be with his friends—the shields between him and his self, perhaps. But they’re all gone now, scattered by some force that Jim feels, obscurely, that he initiated; his bad faith started it all.… But no, no. That’s magical thinking. In reality he has had hardly any effect on anything. Or so it seems. But which is right? Did he really do it, did he really somehow scatter everyone away?

He doesn’t know.

Okay. Enough agonizing over the past. Here he is. He’s free, he and he only chooses what he will do. What will he do?

He will pace. And mourn Tashi’s departure. And rail bitterly against… himself. He can’t escape the magical thinking, he knows that it has somehow been all his fault. He’s lonely. Will he be able to adapt to this kind of solitude, does he have the self-reliance necessary?

But think of Tom’s solitude. My God! Uncle Tom!

He should go see Tom.

He runs out to the car and tracks down to Seizure World.

On the way he feels foolish, he is sure it’s obvious to everyone else on the freeway that he is doing something utterly bizarre in order to prove to himself that he is changing his life, when in reality it’s all the same as before. But what else can he do? How else do it?

Then as he drives through the gates he becomes worried; Tom was awfully sick when he last dropped by, anything can happen when you’re that old, and sick like he was. He runs from the parking lot to the front desk.

But Tom is still alive, and in fact he is doing much better, thanks. He’s sitting up in his bed, looking out the window and reading a big book.

“How are you, boy?” He sounds much better, too.

“Fine, Tom. And you?”

“Much better, thanks. Healthier than in a long time.”

“Good, good. Hey Tom, I went to the mountains!”