Karolina Waclawiak - How to Get into the Twin Palms

When asked what he was, he would probably answer something like that, American. And what was that really? A place. A thing. He took off his shirt and jumped in before I could ask him what he was. So quickly that I wasn’t even sure he took off his shoes until I saw his pink feet fluttering in the light. He swam underwater for a long time, long enough for the ash to slide closed over his entry point. He kicked his legs out like frog legs and I wasn’t sure he’d ever come up for air. The desk clerk stood by the window and watched him. And I considered jumping in too, swimming after him and pulling him above the water line.

He finally surfaced and I tried not to watch. The desk clerk didn’t bother to hide his curiosity — this was a new alien element in our equation. The man took a big gulp of air and went back under, back and forth, back and forth. It was hypnotic and exciting to watch him disrupt the ash. He finally came out of the pool and walked to his chaise lounge, pulled the graying towel over his face and breathed deeply into it. He was so close that I could see the goosebumps raise on his skin. The air was cool and I was sure he was feeling it, wet.

“It’s nice.” He finally looked at me and I still thought, handsome. It made me nervous and I looked away.

“The ash is weird, huh?” He looked at me and waited for an answer.

I stared at the flakes falling down around us.

“I’ve never seen it like this before,” I said.

“It’s because it’s so close.”

“It is close, isn’t it?”

He leaned back on the chaise lounge and sighed. “Yeah, and getting closer.”

We sat there quietly and thought about it. He closed his eyes, looking impossibly exhausted.

“Your room as bad as mine?” he asked.

I faltered. “Oh, I’m not staying here.”

He looked at me for a moment and then nodded, like it made sense and everything.

“I wouldn’t stay here either, but I have to stay close to the fires.” He sat up quickly at the word and looked around. I wanted to ask him what he meant, where he came from. How he liked the fires.

“I guess I should get some shut eye,” he said.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

He said Oklahoma, a place I had never been, not even driven through.

I had gone nearly everywhere in America, but at some point had lost my resolve to see it all, and just stopped here.

He did some kind of hat tip (without a hat) and walked up to room 214 and closed the door behind him. I looked over to the desk clerk and saw he was still watching. Now just me.

I sat there for a while, legs up. Toeing at the plastic of the chair.

Later, I got up and started walking around the pool. I slid my hand up the metal banister and started walking up the steps to the row of doors. I tried one, the one the old couple had come out of. It was locked. Then, I walked to room 214 and listened quietly. Even put my ear up to the door and stood there, trying to hear moving-around sounds. Shuffling, anything. There was nothing. The door was still warm from the daytime and I pressed both palms against it. They stung, but the warmth cut through and I wanted it for myself.

I drove the other way down Hollywood Boulevard and later onto Benton Way. I rolled down Benton surrounded by multifamily, soot-covered and bar-windowed stucco houses. I turned on Beverly Boulevard and passed Rampart and Tommy’s Original World Famous Hamburgers. I thought about it for a moment. A chili cheese dog. I pulled into the cramped parking lot and got in line behind everyone else and stood next to the white slant-roof building. I watched them sprinkle onions on top of the chili, on top of the dog, inside the bun. They moved like clockwork and I was in awe of them. Their white uniforms and hats. It was so easy, their movement, their task. It made me want to be good at something. Have a task.

It was my turn.

I thought about it for a moment. “Chili cheese dog. No onions. Maybe some sauerkraut.” I stopped and really weighed my options.

“Yes. Sauerkraut. Two. The same.”

They made them. Swiftly. They were cheap. I could have stood next to everyone else at the outside counter but I didn’t. Instead, I ran to my car, spread out the napkins, and stared at them both. Suddenly they were unappetizing and all I wanted was that man. That man. Well, I wanted to know about him. Where he came from and why the fires. It was useless, I’d never see him again. I wasn’t going back right now, I didn’t want to hover. I would maybe do a drive-by later, but not so soon.

I ate the hot dogs and didn’t enjoy them. I thought about the heat of the door on my tender palms.

When I turned the car on and drove away from Tommy’s I headed in the wrong direction and pulled down a side street to correct myself. It was an alley and it led to a small street with apartments and houses and more bars and more soot and some palm trees and a maze of stucco.

I pulled up near a taxi stand. I didn’t know how I got there or how to get away. But there he was. He was standing with other men in leather dusters and silver chains, smoking and looking at the orange smoke-filled sky. He looked at me. He looked at me and then they all looked at me and he nodded his head and I kept driving and tried to find my way out of the low-slung buildings and warehouses and barred-up side of Los Angeles. It wasn’t safe here. Everything was in cages here. Kept in and kept out.

I stopped in an alley. I could finally find out more about Lev. Did I want to leave or should I turn around?

He was still standing outside when I pulled up and parked a few cars away. He didn’t see me and I sat watching him, air on full blast. He was on the phone, fumbling with a cigarette in his mouth and lighter in his hand. He stopped what he was doing for a moment and started yelling. I couldn’t hear because of the whoosh of air but I suspected that I wouldn’t be able to understand anyway. A few cabs pulled in. A young man walked up to Lev, waiting for him to get off the phone. He did, finally and slowly. I watched as the man tried to compose himself, looked around, and began talking. He looked nervous. Lev listened patiently. He was quiet for a while after the man stopped speaking. He looked like a new immigrant wearing a silk shirt with patches of sweat, tucked into his pants. Lev raised his hand and slapped him open-handed, then again and again.

My face burned hot. This act of violence made Lev look taller, bigger, and more substantial. The man walked into the cab stand and Lev followed him in. I held back for a moment and then put the car in reverse. Had he seen me watching? Did he perform for me? I hoped so.

MY APARTMENT WAS SAFE AND HAD NO CAGEsurrounding it. I ran inside and locked the doors and windows. I crawled onto my mattress and buried my face and inhaled the mattress smells. The weave was rough against my face and my hands. I needed another coat of Vaseline or maybe I needed to move on to Neosporin. A tube cost more than a jar of Vaseline. The choice was clear. I waited to asphyxiate or fall asleep.

I woke up inhaling the smell of smoke but was alive. There was a banging at the door. I ran to answer the door and it was Lev.

“Were you following me?”

“I just woke up.”

“Not now, before, when I saw you.”

“When?”

He knew I was lying and I wanted to be sure which encounter he meant. Did he think I saw him as he disgraced the young man?

“Open up.”

I didn’t like him ordering me around anymore. I did what I was told and he pushed in. He looked upset. I thought about being scared of him. If I was or wasn’t. I wasn’t sure.

“It smells like burning in here.”

“It smells like that everywhere.”