A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

"No, I'm the tenant."

"Do you know the asshole?"

"No."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"My house fell into a hole and broke; I'm renting. That's my jacket. I left it for you last night; I thought you were homeless."

"Nope, I live here," he says, gesturing to the house next door. "Fits good — thanks." He adjusts the jacket.

"I saw you going through the trash."

"You almost ran me over."

Richard nods.

"I had it," the guy says, "the perfect line. I wrote it on something and now it's in there — somewhere." He bends over the trash can. "Oh, my back. Do me a favor, I can't reach that one bag at the bottom, can you pull it out for me?"

The trash can stinks, the horrible, fetid smell of decay. Richard tries to pull the bag out without sticking his head in.

"You have to bend into it," the guy says.

And so Richard bends, dipping his whole upper body in, pulling out the bag, and getting some stinky mystery juice on his shirt.

The guy rips the bag open. "Arrggghh," he tilts his head back and bellows like a wild man.

"OK, then," Richard says, getting into the car, "have a good one."

THE CONTRACTOR walks in circles around the house, throwing his weight against the pilings, attempting to shake the foundation.

"Electric and water still on?"

Richard nods.

"You should turn them off: not worth the risk." He bends, scooping up pieces of broken glass; they are like beach rubble, glistening, sharp. "I've never seen glass give out like this — I'm impressed."

"OK, so now what?" Richard asks.

"Well, you can either go the restoration route or, you know…" He pauses. "A lot of people are doing it these days — just knock it down and start over. That way you can have whatever you want — take care of all the little things that always bothered you — where the bathroom sink was, the way the doors in the bedroom opened, wishing your view was better from your bed."

"Seems like a large proposition, knocking down my house. I was thinking of something more like just getting it back to where it was last week, when it had windows and everything worked and I liked it just fine."

"Up to you," the guy says, handing him his card.

Richard drives back to Malibu, stops at the grocery store, goes up and down the aisles, surprised at what he's choosing — organic vegetables, soy protein, tofu cheese — piling the cart high. He wants to stay clean, to maintain whatever it is he got while he was busy transforming suffering. They sell bundles of wood in the store. He puts four in the cart and thinks it's funny, buying a bundle of wood for five dollars. Why not sell sticks for a dollar each?

In the store, he sees the guy from the trash cans, wandering, sampling greens, talking to people who seem perfectly happy to talk to him, who seem to know him. He's got flip-flops, shaggy gnarled long hair, and a peculiar, deeply masculine, but ever-so-slightly feminine physical presence, a godly stature which gives off a lot of self-confidence for someone who looks like he hasn't had a bath in weeks.

"I'm still not sure that you're not the asshole," the guy says to him.

"What can I say to convince you?"

"Very little. Do I look bad?"

"You look… rough," Richard says.

"I go in phases; right now I'm in a fight with my body. Do I smell?"

"Not from here."

"I'm on deadline." He dips his fingers into a bag of lettuce and puts some in his mouth. "Greens, very good for you." He eats them as though he craves them, as though greens are the new candy, the new Swedish Fish. "Where have you been?" he asks.

"I met a contractor at my house, to see how bad the damage is."

"And?"

"Bad."

"And before that where were you?"

"On a silent retreat."

"You a meditator?"

"Just starting."

"I don't believe in it. Used to do it myself, but you know what I think — people have to stop just sitting there and start doing something. It's a very self-involved activity."

Richard doesn't say anything.

"Can you give me a ride home? I walked over here; my car's in the shop."

"Sure, yeah. Where do you live?"

"I told you — asshole — right next to you."

"I didn't realize you lived there."

"Where did you think I lived? What would I be doing going through the trash in the dark if I didn't live there? Looking for crumbs?"

They drive back to the house.

CYNTHIA is there, waiting for him. "They said I was the ideal candidate. I start tomorrow."

"Should I go with you? Are you sure it's for real?"

"There was an article on him in Self magazine."

"And that makes it real?"

"I'm excited; can't you be excited for me?"

"I am excited for you, I just don't want you to be abducted by a psycho surgeon who puts you in a trance and performs plastic surgery on you or anything. Do you want some lunch?"

"Starving," she says, digging into the groceries.

After lunch, he gets back into the car and drives into town to see Lusardi.

"So?" Lusardi asks.

"I liked it. It was valuable, challenging in a way that nothing has been challenging in a very long time — except that everything feels strange now, nothing fits. I'm not who I thought I was."

"None of us are."

"I'm not really any different, and yet nothing is the same."

"How's the pain?"

"You know, I feel pretty good. I think I'm still in pain; I mean, I must be, right? We're all in pain, but it's not bothering me at the moment."

Lusardi presses the stethoscope to his chest. "You don't become a different person — you just learn to live with yourself — that's the hardest part." And they are quiet; Lusardi listens. "You sound fine," he says.

RICHARD DRIVES to the house and meets yet another of Billy's friends, a guy named Giovanni.

"Doesn't look like much to me," Giovanni says. "We get all kinds of ground movement. Glass pops, that's what we call them, glass pops. Anyway, we just need to give the roots of the house a little tug, maybe put in some anchors, and straighten her out — doesn't have to be a big thing."

"Around how much does not a big thing go for?"

"Hard to know for sure until you do it, but I'd figure one fifty, one seventy-five."

"So — somewhere between a hundred and fifty thousand and a hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars."

"Sounds about right," Giovanni says.

"Sounds like a big thing."

"We do it all the time," Giovanni says. "Do you have the plans, the name of the person who built it, the original specs?"

"I think the electrician's name is on the circuit box downstairs, and maybe there's a plumber's name down there too, written on one of the pipes."

"I'm looking for blueprints, drawings, specific information."

As they're talking, the doorbell rings; it's the color lady, with the painter trailing behind her — ladder and drop cloths in hand. "We're here, right on time."

"I forgot you were coming," he says. "We're having some trouble with the house."

"We won't be in the way." She pushes past him and starts towards the guest room.

"I don't think it's a good day for painting," he says. "The house is falling down."

"Well, what do you want him to do?" she says, gesturing towards the painter. "It's not easy to get him to come — he's very busy."

"We may have to knock it down; no point painting right now."

"I don't understand."

"No paint."

"Are you just leaving the Sheetrock bare for another ten years?

"I'm going to figure it out," he says — trying to avoid a fight.

"Why don't I have someone come and take a look around and we'll get back to you with some hard numbers," Giovanni says.

"Hard numbers, that would be great," Richard says, sending him off.

"Well, if you can figure it out now," the color lady says, "the painter can just do his job; it won't take him long."