A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

WHEN HE COMES OUT of the doctor's office, the receptionist asks, "Do you need to be validated?"

"I didn't get a ticket; the gate was up."

"Oh," she says sadly, shaking her head. "That's gonna cost you, they'll charge you for a full day."

"How can they charge me for a full day? It's not even ten-thirty."

She shakes her head. "They don't speak the language."

"Is Dr. Anderson ever here anymore?"

"He comes in late, his wife has Alzheimer's."

"I didn't know."

"Neither did he; she's only fifty-three."

"How did they figure it out?"

"She didn't know who she was anymore."

AS HE'S LEAVING, he helps an old woman in the waiting room put on her sweater. Her legs are wrapped in bandages; when she speaks every muscle in her neck pops out.

"Are you going to be able get home OK?"

"Of course," she says, "I got here, didn't I?"

"I'll give you a ride."

She shakes her head, "I didn't live this long doing things like that."

As soon as Richard helps her, other people in the office help her: one woman unfolds her walker and another holds the door.

"That's the point, isn't it," Richard says to no one in particular.

He leaves, thinking about the woman, her legs, her walker, her independence.

HE PASSES A VW dealer, a lot full of Beetles. If there ever was a car he wanted when he was Ben's age, it was the Beetle.

He pulls in. The Bug is a happy car, entirely pleasant, anti-depresssed, not a family car, not a carpool car, a fun car. A salesman holding a flower makes a beeline for him. He hands Richard the flower — a gerbera daisy.

"We do a special thing here at Hollywood VW: whenever you come in, we'll give you a fresh flower for the car — forever. The car has a flower holder — but you already knew that, right? What are you driving now?" the guy asks.

"Something borrowed."

"Well, let's take a look at it, for comparison's sake."

"No," Richard says, "let's not."

"It's nothing to be embarrassed about. You should have seen what I was driving before I got this job. My father's Datsun; he kept it in great shape, but the car was older than me."

"You know what," Richard says, "I want to buy the car, so let's go from there; in fact, I think I want two. Can you do something on the price if I take two?"

"There's wiggle room."

"Two convertibles — one in black for my son, Ben, and one in pink — do you have pink?"

"We have a really pretty bright blue."

"OK, one in black and one in pretty blue."

He takes out his credit card.

"You can't charge a car."

He takes out a check.

"No personal checks."

"Give me a clue, then," Richard says.

"Bank check. Do you want the car in your son's name?"

"Yes, it's a gift."

"How old is he?"

"Seventeen."

"Then it has to be in your name unless it's farm equipment."

"Why?"

"Do you really care why?"

He calls his ex-wife. "Quick question: what's Ben's Social Security Number?" He doesn't tell her about the car, doesn't want to be talked out of it, doesn't want her approval or not.

He calls Cynthia, gets her license number and Social, and then he calls Paul, the stoner at the insurance agency, and asks him to add them both to his policy.

"Are you starting a business?" the stoner asks.

"I'm liberating people."

He asks the dealer, "Can you deliver the cars tonight?"

"We don't usually do things that quickly."

"Make an exception," Richard says.

"Is it a deal breaker?" the guy asks.

"Yes," Richard says.

"Fine," the guy says, "we'll do it."

Richard feels a sense of satisfaction, like he's done something — something unexpected, something nice, one for Ben and one for Cynthia.

"Deliver the cars to The Ivy in Santa Monica," he says. "Leave them with the valet-parking guy — it's a surprise. Here's my cell number if you need it. I'd like them there by seven. And ask your guys to drive carefully."

It takes longer than you think. By the time the paperwork is done, there's not time for Richard to go back to Malibu before he has to pick up Ben. He drives up the hill, to his house. The broken windows have been boarded up, but other than that nothing has been done.

He goes inside, changes into exercise gear, and gets on the treadmill — nervous about having spent so much on the cars, about what the house is going to cost him. He goes online; his assets have taken a dip, the lack of constant monitoring, tweaking, is a problem. He's fine, he will always be fine, but he needs to keep an eye on it. A new regime — meditate, calculate.

While he's walking, he reads the government man's script, "Ground Motion." It's a disaster film combining fire, flood, earthquake, pestilence, mud slide. The film opens with a voice-over. "What you are about to see is a work of fiction, it has not yet happened, and yet each of the elements represented are real. It was written using everything I know about the state of the world we live in — which means, it's coming soon." He's in the middle of reading when he hears footsteps behind him. Pain spreads across his chest.

"Sorry," the movie star says, coming into the room. "I didn't mean to startle you. I rang the bell, you didn't answer, so I squeezed in through a hole where a window used to be. I saw the car. I used to know a screenwriter with a car like that — it used to belong to Elton John."

"John Lennon," Richard says, and the movie star doesn't say anything.

His chest is still crushing. He wonders if this is in fact IT. A major movie star breaks into his house and gives him the heart attack that kills him. He slows the treadmill, but keeps talking — no sudden changes.

"Where have you been?" the movie star asks.

"In Malibu. My son is visiting with my nephew; we went to a pow-wow on the beach last night — a bunch of guys talking to a stick."

"Oh yeah, I went to one of those."

Richard is starting to notice that, no matter what you tell the movie star you've done, he's done it too.

"And I think maybe my son has some sort of fungal infection on his foot," Richard throws in — it's not even true.

"Very hard to get rid of — I had to take medicine for a year," the movie star says. Either he's disease-ridden, a big liar, a nine-lived cat, or deeply sympathetic.

"What are you reading?" the movie star asks.

"A script by one of the government men who was helping me with the hole."

"Any good?"

At least he doesn't claim to have already read it. Richard hands him the script. The movie star stands next to the treadmill, reading.

AT FIVE, Richard starts back down the hill, driving in circles around The Agency. He watches. Every car coming out of the garage is a BMW–745Li, 5 Series SUV, 3 Series convertible.

His cell phone rings.

"Are you out here?" Ben asks.

"Yes, where are you?"

"Across the street, at Johnny Rocket's."

Ben gets into the car holding a large shake — he sucks on the straw, chocolate rises up through the clear plastic straw, the cup beads with sweat. Richard starts to say something about the shake and then stops himself. Why can't a perfectly healthy kid have a shake at the end of his first day of work? He's proud of his silence.

"I didn't have lunch," Ben says.

"Neither did I."

Ben offers him a sip.

"It's good," Richard says. "Really good. I haven't had a milkshake in a million years."

"There's a reason people like ice cream. Where's Barth?"

"No idea, I haven't been home. How was it?"

"OK."

"Better or worse than you expected?"

"More intense." He sucks; the straw starts gurgling, pulling air.

"I thought we'd all go out for dinner and celebrate — you, me, Barth, my friend Cynthia."

"The girlfriend."

BARTH is asleep on the deck, his back sunburned to the point of looking like a steamed lobster.