A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

"I could eat a fresh cookie," Nic says, and Sylvia goes into the car and pulls out a bag of her special energy cookies. "My number is on the label," she says. "Call me when you're really hungry."

"I don't get it," Richard says when they're back in the car.

"Oh, please, we were just chatting. Don't worry, I'm not going to steal her. You know what Santa Monica needs?"

"What?"

"A Donut Depot. Your friend Anhil should open a donut-and-juice bar."

"I'll keep that in mind."

They drive without talking. "Come on, it's not my fault that she liked me."

"I just don't get it. You're thoroughly cranky and kind of mangy-looking, and yet she threw herself at you."

"They like that, the scruffy thing — it makes them think they can polish you up. And, not to change the subject, but you'd better get your car fixed soon: it drives like shit, and the temperature light just went on. You can use the Bentley if you want — it drives like a yacht."

"You're miserable, and yet you're not a bad guy."

"Is that a compliment?"

BACK AT THE HOUSE, as he's putting the food in the refrigerator, the dog appears at the sliding glass door. He gives the dog more of the chicken and rice from last night. "Did you miss me?"

On an impulse, he picks up the phone and calls his parents. Maybe it's something about the dog, or the visit to the nursing home.

"Hi, Mom."

"We were wondering if you'd ever call again. I don't know what you've got yourself into, some crazy life-style…"

"I just wanted you to know I'm fine."

"Of course you're fine, I know you're fine, there's no reason you shouldn't be fine. You're a young man; everything is not about you — your father had a little episode."

"What happened?"

"He forgot who he was. We were in the grocery store, he was talking to some woman, she asked him his name, and he couldn't remember, and she asked if he had a wife and he said no, and all the time I'm standing ten feet away, looking right at him. I started waving. And he still didn't see me. I took him from the grocery store right to the doctor, who said it was one of those transient attacks. I don't want you to worry — even if he doesn't know who I am, I'll take care of him. After all these years, it's not like I can walk out on him."

"Maybe he was just picking up girls."

"He told the woman he was never married and that he had no children."

"Does he know who you are now?"

"Yes, he claims the incident never happened, that I made the whole thing up."

"Well, it's good he's feeling better." Richard smells smoke. "I have to go," he says.

"Of course you do — you always have to go."

Something smells. He goes from room to room, sniffing. There is nothing, no smoke. He opens the front door — all the trash cans up and down the street, trash cans put out this morning for collection, are on fire. Some are smoldering, some have flames shooting up. How did that happen, did a pyro drive by, squirt a little butane in each can, and toss in a match? He turns on the garden hose and puts out the four cans within reach. People driving by beep their horns. Unable to tell how far in either direction the cans are burning, he goes in and dials 911.

"Police, fire, emergency."

"Fire," he says.

"Los Angeles Fire Department."

"I'm calling about trash cans on the Pacific Coast Highway. I smelled smoke and opened the door, and all the trash cans are on fire. I put out the ones I could reach, but there are more."

"Checking. Yes, I have a report of a trash-can fire in our system."

"It's not a trash-can fire, it's fires. Is someone coming?"

"Sir, what is your name?"

In the distance he hears sirens. He hangs up and goes outside again. A fire engine is coming down the highway. Not wanting to be late for his first Gyrotonics class, he jumps in the car and takes off. A piece of metal falls to the ground.

WALKING INTO Malibu Gyrotonics is like entering another world: the air is without temperature, neither warm nor cool, but entirely even, equal, and smells like salt.

"I'm Sydney," a woman says, extending her hand. Sydney is curvy in a way few women are curvy — she is not a small woman, not a large woman, but a curvaceous woman in a one-piece leotard.

"Have you previously experimented with Gyrotonics?" she asks.

"I used to have a trainer; we did weights, yoga, stretching," he says. "And I used to get on the treadmill every morning for an hour."

"Used to — when did you stop?"

"Very recently. My house is… under construction, and the treadmill isn't accessible right now."

"Do you have any health issues, medical problems you're being treated for, back, knees, hips, any artificial parts?"

"All original hardware," he says.

She leads him into the room and begins by having him perform a series of simple movements.

"Taken from swimming, dance, yoga, and gymnastics. The Gyrotonic method is a series of undulating circular movements. There are breathing patterns that work with the movements to release blockages and stimulate the nervous system."

She is testing him, bending and flexing. "The exercises begin in the sacral area of the spine and are done with rhythm and flow, moving uninterrupted through flexion and extension, contraction and expansion. Our goal is increased muscular strength, endurance, range of motion, coordination, and balance." She pauses and repositions him. He tries not to resist. She presses against him.

"Your pelvis is very closed," she says. "Take a breath. It's not unusual for men to have tight hips."

Richard is aware of her hands on his hips, aware of something giving way, a kind of crunch or crack. Later, near the end of the session, she has him facedown and works her elbows in the cheeks of his ass. The whole thing feels more personal and intimate than what he is used to. Unlike his regular shapeless trainer, this one cannot lean over him without touching him. And there is something about the tightness of her leotard, the shape of her, soft but firm, that makes him want to squeeze her. She wears her long hair back in some sort of ponytail; he wants to play horse, to ride her. And he is shocked by what he is thinking. He finishes the workout feeling energized, released, embarrassed.

DRIVING BACK, he passes a "Falling Rock" sign and then a pile of rubble by the side of the road. He drives around it, swinging wide into the next lane.

Up ahead are the trash cans: melted molten blobs, strange sculptures, like burned aliens by the side of the road. There are smoke streaks up the telephone poles, as though they've been hit by lightning. He parks. The houses are at the edge of the highway and so close together that they actually touch. Up and down the highway someone has staple-gunned sheets of paper to the phone poles: "Have you seen this?" Below there is a drawing of "this," an ovoid shape with light beaming out from the bottom, and a phone number to call.

"What smells?" Nic asks, sticking his head out a window. "Like lightning."

"Someone lit the trash cans on fire — how'd you miss it?"

"I was working," Nic said.

The window frames Nic's head exactly. Richard can see that he's got the headphones around his neck, in standby position.

"Are you all right?" Richard asks.

"Oh yeah, I'm fine. I'd come out but I'm hooked up right now, and, besides, there's someone across the street again, taking pictures, and I'm not feeling photogenic."

"Have the signs always been there?" Richard points to the signs.

"Sometimes you see a lot of them and sometimes none for months." Does Nic mean a lot of the Xeroxed notices or the thing itself, whatever it is? "Maybe I'll see you later," Nic says, retreating.

ACCORDING TO their e-mail log, the boys are getting closer to Los Angeles. Richard is nervous. He calls his ex-wife. "I don't know if I'm ready. I'm in this new place, it's all very unfamiliar."