A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

"Well, it's dark now; why don't we wait until morning and see if it's still there."

"Aren't you supposed to be helpful? What's your name?"

"What are you going to do, tell on me? Grow up, Richard. Don't abuse the system."

There is silence. "If you know who I am, then you must know where the hole is."

"Look, Dick, our fellas stick to the Joe Friday stuff — holdups, missing children, domestic disputes, the body with a bashed-in head. Give the Highway Department a call, and don't mention the bit about the UFO and 'if you believe in things like that.' "

"Have you got a number for them?"

"That would be a 411, not a 911."

He hangs up, gets the number, and dials.

"Highway," the man says.

He tells him about the hole — leaving out the UFO. "It just keeps getting bigger."

"Is it on private property, in the middle of a road, or on a public right-of-way?"

"It's on a hill."

"Have you seen any water, heard any gushing sounds? Is there anything bubbling or seeping out of the hole? Have you felt any land movement or earthquakelike activity? Was there a previous incident, or lack of stability in your neighborhood?"

"Not that I know of."

"Let me check and see if we have any activity in your area."

On hold, he hears a calming woman's voice, discussing what to do in case of an earthquake. "… have your earthquake kit readily accessible. Don't forget to include water, dried foods, snacks, medications, and emergency supplies for your pets. In the event of an earthquake…"

The guy comes back on the line. "I don't see any notes in the computer, but I can send a man out. Will you be there?"

"You're sending someone now?"

"Yes, sir. He should be there fairly soon; it's an otherwise quiet night in Tinseltown."

Richard waits. He paces the house, looking out the window, the city beyond, glittering like a million ships at sea. An hour and change later, the pizza delivery boy calls from his car, panicked. "I keep thinking I'm close and then I lose it," he says. "I've been circling for thirty minutes."

"Where are you now?"

"I'm driving, I just keep driving. At one point I ended up on Mulholland, I went for, like, ten miles, I almost fell off the edge. I couldn't even call anyone, I lost signal."

"Where now? What are you looking at?"

"Trees, houses, street signs; here's the one that says Shadow Hill Way. I've been here before, I just keep going around and around."

"You're right here — stay to the left and come up the hill."

"Don't hang up on me, man, not now; bring me in, can you bring me in?"

He takes the phone with him out the front door. "Blow your horn."

The horn echoes up the hill in the phone. "Can you hear yourself? That's you in stereo, you're here."

The pizza car climbs the hill; the lighted box comes into view. Richard stands waving both arms, bringing him in the way airport guys with orange wands bring a pilot to the gate.

"I feel terrible," the pizza guy says, rolling down his window. "Your pie is cold."

"Don't worry." He gives the guy forty dollars and the pizza guy hands the box through the window.

At the same time, a small white car with yellow flashing lights pulls up; yellow light splashes over everything, washing it the color of urine.

"I hear you've got a hole," the man in the white car says.

Richard points to the edge of the hill.

"Pizza One to base, pie has landed," the pizza guy speaks into his radiophone.

"Pizza One, give the man some free garlic knots, a bottle of soda, and our sincere apologies."

"Hey, mister," the pizza guy calls out of the car, "these are for you." He throws a white bag through the air; it sails, landing on top of the pizza box.

"And take this too." He hurls a liter of Coke out of the car. It lands on the grass like a missile; the top pops off, spraying caramel-colored sugar water.

"Sorry, want another?"

"That's OK. Drive carefully."

The man from the Highway Department has cranked up a rack of roof-mounted lights and is aiming them down the hill. He flicks the switch, the engine shudders, and the hillside is awash in a flood of crisp white halogen.

"Light of my life; I built this rig, I was going half blind — all they gave us were miner's hats."

"You got here faster than I expected. I ordered the pizza before I called you."

"When things are falling apart, the call goes out. What kind of pie?"

Richard opens the box and peers in. "Mushroom, sausage, broccoli."

"I hate broccoli. The only reason I voted for George Bush was because he hated his vegetables as much as I do."

"Have a garlic knot." He hands the man the bag.

"Thanks," the government man says. "Nice up here," he says. "Not like down there — nothing to be afraid of up here."

Together the men look over the edge.

"They've been doing some work up the hill, built a bulkhead, put in a putting green and a sprinkler system. I was wondering if that might have done it," Richard says.

The man shakes his head. "Doubt they're taking water out — more likely they're putting water in, which would give you the opposite effect. Los Angeles is still all about water — we're either flooded or all dried up." He looks down into the hole. "Things like this happen when you pull something out — a water main breaks, or they're pumping oil too close by. Sometimes it's structural — there are caves underground that just collapse. Do you have many coyotes around here?"

"No."

"Any animals or street people who could be living in a cave?"

"You mean cavemen?"

"Cave people, they come in, set up house. We've got people living everywhere — you wouldn't believe it."

"I haven't seen anyone."

"That's what they all say. I don't want to keep you from your dinner." He nods towards the pizza. "But could you give me a hand?" He opens his hatchback and starts unloading — high boots, like Parliament-Funkadelic platform shoes. "I hate this part. Snakes, lots of snakes everywhere. I hate snakes. They live out here because they like the weather." Boots on, he steps into an old leather harness, clips on some ropes, a long metal measuring tape, something that looks like a microphone, plastic containers. He prepares to descend.

"All you have to do is hold the rope. Just don't let go."

Together they go to the edge; the hill is drenched in the hot white of a movie set. It reminds Richard of Capricorn One, the movie about the moonwalk that never was.

The government man takes strange steps, tentative. "At least it's not liquidy; that always makes me nervous. I once saw a man swallowed by a hole, never got over it."

Richard holds the rope. His stomach growls. He watches the man measure the diameter, log the information into a pocket calculator, and then insert some sort of instrument into the earth.

"Is that an air pump? Are you going to pump it back up?"

"It's a coring instrument; I'm drilling to get a sample. This thing only goes in about six feet, which is nothing when you think about the earth's surface, but it's what we can do. And this" — he holds up a small white probe — "is a monitor, sends info back to the office. The Tampax, my wife calls it, 'Did you get the Tampax in OK?' "

"How far will it go, how big will it get?"

"Best-case scenario, it stops tomorrow. I'm going to put flags around the edges as markers, just so we'll have a visual. I don't think you're in danger, but you might want to make sure your homeowner's policy is in good shape…"

Coming out of the hole, the government man hands Richard a card. "I'm the night man; there are four of us and six day men. If you think she's really starting to move, call this number."

Richard takes the cold pizza into the house and eats two slices while reading his homeowner's policy. The cheese is gelatinous, the sausage rubbery, the mushrooms are limp, but all of it, lying on a cold wet crust, comes to life in a delicious room-temperature combination.