Bruce Wagner - Still Holding

She shook her head.

“Were you a bed wetter, Lisanne?”

Again, a modest shake of the head.

“You know, all kinds of things happen — to our bodies — when we fear for our lives. When that fear is genuine. Right now, there’s a disconnect. Have you heard of a ‘false positive’? When a test comes back positive but it’s actually negative? Well, right now I think you’re dealing with lots of false positives. You’ve got to replace the faulty wiring, so to speak. I can certainly help you with that.”

“How?” She hadn’t understood a word of what the woman had said.

“There are a number of ways,” said Calliope, assuredly.

“Drugs?”

“Medication is one avenue. In that regard, I’d like you to see a friend of mine, a very talented psychopharmacologist.”

“Can’t you give me something?”

“I don’t prescribe.” She paused. “We can also try hypnosis. I’ve had phenomenal results. I like a multidirectional approach. We can do things on a practical plane, no pun intended! There’s a wonderful class — I think they have one right here at LAX, we’ll check the Internet — to overcome flying phobias. I’ve known many, many people who’ve taken that course and now fly like banshees. ”

“I know one way to get over my fear.”

“What’s that?”

“Not fly,” said Lisanne, smiling.

“That is a solution,” said Calliope, pleased that her patient had lightened up. “I won’t even say it’s not valid. We all make choices; that is our prerogative. We do what is best for us. To survive. But I think, Lisanne, that with you there are some other issues. What we call a constellation. Your crisis on the plane might be an indicator that it’s time you faced some of those issues, head-on. I want you to visit my friend — and think about what we spoke of today. If you decide you’d like to come back, then we can do some exploring.”

Cadillac Escapade

TULA PULLED THE Escalade out of the drive. To the casual observer, he was alone.

“OK, keep hide now!” he said.

“This is too goddamn weird!” said Kit excitedly from the back.

They were under a Mexican blanket; he smelled Cela’s warm, giggly exhalations. It brought him all the way back to their preteen make-out sessions.

“Kit, it was your idea! ” she said.

“Yeah,” he said, cockily. “ You’re fuckin right. Time to go to the fuckin mall! Get E! channel more shit for their documental!”

“You are such a wack job,” she said, tweaking his rib cage. “You are such a wacky goofball. ”

He squirmed and spasmed at the tickle, then put a thumb in her side, sending her into contortions. Tula gravely shushed as they approached the guard at the barricade. Then Cela shushed Kit, clenching his fingers to neutralize him. It was all so sexy. As the car slowed they grew seriously still and hot-breathed, like children during the critical part of a game.

The rent-a-cop waved Tula through. They rolled past the crowd of fans, photogs, and media trucks.

Once they were in the clear, Kit started singing, “Tommy, can you hear me?” He replaced Tommy with Tula, and Cela had a fresh conniption.

A rogue paparazzo grew suspicious. He ducked under the everpresent WE LOVE YOU GET WELL SOON banner and broke away, discreetly slipping into a Corolla. He accelerated and drew closer. When Kit lifted his head to take a peek at the world, the freelancer saw him and gave spirited chase. Tula muttered Fijian expletives then upshifted into Bad Boys movie maneuvers. The bodyguard, extracautious because his charges were unsecured, reveled in finally being able to do what he was paid for.

Rubber was peeled; corners sharply taken; horns honked; accidents barely averted. Kit and Cela went gleefully bonkers, cheering Tula on. The driver was proficient, hyperconcentrated and adrenalized, his sweaty, scarily resolute, block-headed, thick-necked countenance thrilling them to no end. Then it was over as unexpectedly as it had begun — the paparazzo’s car flipping onto its back like a bug.

“Oh my God,” said Cela, aghast, looking back. “Do you think he’s hurt?”

Tula slowed, and peered in the rearview. The Corolla had toppled again in slo-mo, absurdly righting itself. Its owner stared ahead in a daze.

“No,” he assessed. “Just shook up.”

“Good job!” said Kit. “Good job, Odd Job!”

“Should we go back?” asked Cela.

“No!” said Tula. “No go back! Not our fault!”

“Girl,” said Kit, jokily somber. “You can’t go home again.”

“He just shook up,” said Tula, with a parting glance before motoring on. A pedestrian helped the pursuer from his car; he was already walking under his own power.

Kit put on an Elvis-sneer, singing, “All shook up! Ooh hoo hoo. Ooh hoo. Ay yeah!”

Everyone — even Tula — cracked up.

• • •

THROUGH THE COLD bright Riverside Galleria, wide-eyed.

Holding hands — delirious fugitives.

Kit, unchained. Mall, uncrowded.

The occasional look of stunned recognition from passersby cum well-wishers.

“Wow wow wow!” yelps Kit.

The freedom of it. The old feelings of it.

The spatial newness. Nowness. Wowness.

“Oh my God, that chase, ” says Cela. “That was so amazing. ”

“Like Steve McQueen!” says Kit. “What that movie? Bullitt. ”

“Burke is gonna have a flying shit fit,” she says, slightly paranoid. “He’s gonna kick our ass. ”

“I will motherfucking kick his fucking ass!” shouts Kit.

Cela shushes his too public swagger. “Can you please, like, lower the volume?”

“Oh shit, man! I am fucking hungry. ”

“OK, Bullitt, what do you want to eat?”

Pause. Then: “Everybody!”

They laugh. A gawking schoolgirl approaches.

“Excuse me, but are you Kit Lightfoot?”

“Steve McQueen!” says Kit.

She turns to Cela while her friends hover nearby.

Awkwardly: “Is he Kit Lightfoot?”

“Yeah,” offers Kit as Cela nods. “The one and only.”

“Oh my God!” says the girl, taking a few steps back. “It is him, it’s him …”

The clique rushes over in pleated parochial school uniforms, waists turned faddishly down to show hipbone. Tula puffs up, bodyguardlike. Needless but endearing — still in hero mode.

“Can we get an autograph?”

“Do you have a pen?” asks Cela.

They dip into North Face — Powerpuff backpacks.

“He can sign my arm,” says the girl, proffering a Sharpie.

“He can sign my leg!” says another.

“Is he retarded?” asks one of Cela.

“Girls,” Cela cautions. “Be nice. ”

Kit signs an arm while saying, “Not retarded. Just a little… fucked up.”

“He sounds retarded,” says a girl, not quite sotto.

Her friend examines the signature like it’s a rash and says, “Oh my God, what does it say ?”

The other takes a look and says: “It’s like a scrawl —”

“I said, Be fuckin nice, ” says Cela. “You’re being rude. ”

The girls say reprimanded thank-yous, then dash off. When they’re far enough away, they break into laughter.

“Little cunts,” says Cela.

“It’s OK,” says Kit thoughtfully. Then, with a nasty-assed grin: “They make me horny.”

• • •

INSIDE BLOCKBUSTER NOW.

Rushing down aisles, exhilarated, nature boy in the video forest. (A very strange enchanted boy.) Touching the hard, hollow, garish boxes, wide-eyed, tactile, inhaling collective memory of film. The store is huge and empty, except for clerks, discursively restocking.