A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

"Old-age home," Nic says, "two more blocks."

"Are you visiting someone special?"

"Fred." They park in front; Nic loads quarters into the meter. "You coming in?" Nic asks, implying that he is.

"Guess so," Richard says.

Inside, the smell is stunning: stale urine, shit and disinfectant, bad air, bad digestion, boiled vegetables. Even though it's a nice day outside, you'd never know it. The curtains are half drawn; the windows, small and never washed, look out onto a pawnshop, a car wash, a long line of low-end commercial businesses. He can't imagine who would put a relative in here.

"Where is he?" Nic asks the woman at the front desk.

"Lunchroom," the woman says.

They go down the hall into what must be Fred's room, or Fred's half of a room. Nic unpacks the bag he brought, pulling out packs of cheap white sweat socks and boxer shorts — ripping the packages open and writing the old man's name onto the items with black waterproof ink. "If you're wondering why I buy the cheap ones," Nic says as he's writing, "it's because they lose his clothes, or steal them. I had someone make him a nice hand-knit sweater. He wore it once and we never saw it again. So I buy him crap, and every month or so I replace everything — at least he has clean clothes." He opens Fred's drawer, dumping the old socks and stained underwear into the trash.

They go down the hall into the lunchroom, waving to everyone along the way.

Fred is a pretzelized man, bent, twisted, stuffed into a wheelchair. "How ya doing, Fred? This is my friend Richard; I borrowed his car so we can go joyriding."

Fred smiles, a gnarled, gap-toothed grin. "Yie," he says, waving as best he can. Nic pushes Fred's wheelchair past the front desk, signs Fred out, lifts him into the front seat, and puts the seat belt around him.

"Do you want to drive?" Richard hands Nic the keys. He can't imagine sitting up front with Fred.

"What are we going to get today, Fred? Some pie? Some of that really good cherry pie, or should we get meringue? Remember when we got the sweet-potato pie for Darlene, that nurse, and you and I ended up eating the whole thing before we got home? Let's go to DuPar's — they make good pie."

"Yie," Fred says.

"The trick," Nic says in the parking lot at the Farmers Market, and he's lifting Fred out of the car, "is to not be afraid. What's going to happen, I'm going to drop him, or break him? Fred doesn't care — do you? — you're just glad to be out."

"Yie."

Nic pushes the chair, popping wheelies, encouraging Fred to use his bent, twisted hands to shoplift: "Go ahead, take it. What are they going to do, arrest you?"

And Fred seems thrilled; he smiles. "Yie," he says.

"Two cafe con leche's," Nic says to a vendor.

"Is he allowed that?"

"Fred, are you allowed to drink coffee?" Nic says loudly, like maybe Fred is a little deaf.

"Yie," Fred says, and then the coffee comes, and Nic slowly feeds the man his cup of coffee. "Good, right?" Nic uses a napkin to wipe drool off Fred's face. "How are you going to get the girls if you're drooling?"

Fred smiles.

"See you next week," Nic says when they return Fred to his room. "And if you need me sooner, make them call me."

Fred points to the sign that says "Phone Nic" that's taped to the wall by his bed.

"I really liked your dad," Richard says when they're back outside.

"He's not my dad. I visit Fred because I can't visit my dad."

"Dead?"

There's a pause. "Sometimes you can't do things for the people you should do things for, including yourself, but you can do them for someone else, a stranger. Fred is a stranger. He is my stranger."

"That's nice."

"It is what it is. You could say I'm using him to make myself feel better and that would be true."

"How'd you find him?"

"It's a program — Adopt a Golden Oldie — they interview you and you get someone. You want an old man? I'll give you the number. I picked Fred because he's trapped, because there's still someone in there, because no one else was going to pick him — he drools, and all he can say is 'Yie.' "

"You're good. Are you like one of those flower guys from the airport?"

"We're all good when we want to be, otherwise we're fucking animals. There is no VIP room in reality, and there is no reality in this city. You can't Google the answers. People talk about being on the ride of your life — THIS IS YOUR LIFE." He takes a breath. "Whatever it is you need to know, you already know. Imagine what it is to be in another country, another landscape — heat, insects, fear. Imagine watching someone right in front of you trip a wire, step on a mine, blow their body to shreds, in mid-sentence, mid-cigarette. Imagine yourself splattered with human flesh. Imagine talking to that boy for the five minutes when he is profoundly conscious of the fact that he is not going to make it home. Imagine the difference between that and being in upstate New York, drinking beer, trying to get laid, and spending the summer as lifeguard at Lake George. Imagine zipping your friends into body bags. Tell me why anyone ever thought this was a good idea. How could anyone not be angry? You'd have to be insane."

He stops. There is silence.

"Do you mind," Nic says, "while we're out, could we stop and see my producer? I keep cashing the checks, but I should say hello. Nice to have a face to put with it. Just down here, onto Melrose, a little further, and then in that gate."

"Morning," Nic says to the guard at the gate.

"Morning, sir," the man says, going around the outside of the car with a mirror that lets him look underneath for bombs. A dog sniffs the car.

"Could you pop the trunk for me, please?" the man asks, and Richard does.

"Who are you seeing today?" the man asks Nic.

"Evan Roberts."

"One moment," the guard says, going into the booth.

"I don't think I've ever been inside a movie studio before," Richard says.

"There's nothing to see, it's just buildings; make a left," Nic says, directing him to the bungalows at the back of the lot. He gets out, leaving Richard in the car. "It'll just take a couple of minutes."

A woman drives by in a golf cart. She waves. He waves back. She looks at the car. "Hey, you're that guy from yesterday; are you taking some meetings, selling your story?"

"Just waiting for a friend."

When she's gone, Richard gets out and runs his hand over the car; the scratches are deep, like scars, a whole new topography. He closes his eyes and reads the car as if he were a blind person. He reads the car while reviewing the "incident" in his mind's eye. The story — what is the story? What is he doing, and would he do it again?

Nic comes bounding out, gets into the car, slamming the door. "Thank you very much," he says. "I'm so glad I took care of that; they'll never hire me again."

"Why?"

"As soon as they meet you, the shine is off."

"Then why'd you do it?"

"Because the guy is a little shit and I don't want to work for him — there's some strange pleasure in it for me letting him think it was his decision."

RICHARD GLANCES at the clock on the dash. "I'm late, I have to meet my nutritionist. What's the fastest way to Santa Monica? I hope you don't mind."

"I don't mind. In fact, I'm hungry."

Richard can't bring himself to say she doesn't make extra, she only makes enough for however many people you order for.

They pull into the parking lot, four minutes late. "Sorry, I got stuck. Sylvia, this is Nic, my neighbor."

"So you're a nutritionist?" Nic says, smiling. "Can you tell me what to eat so I'll live forever?"

"I can tell you what to eat so that you'll feel good."

"Could you feed me those things? That's what you do, right — you feed people?"

"I could feed you," she says, "like you're a baby bird, but I'd have to get a medicine dropper. For the moment, I could give you a warm cookie; I have some fresh cookies in the car.