J.t. toWnley

DoWn so long

By the time Phil’s lackey came knocking, things were already getting out of hand. We’d hocked our harps, for one thing, and now we kept hearing phantom arpeggios. We sold our robes, too, replacing them with skinny jeans and oversized flannel shirts and hoodies. We all wore hats: beanies and ballcaps, Kangols and cycling caps, fedoras and berets. We had a lot to hide. It was no surprise that Phil found us. Not after what we’d been up to. We were sprawled out in the living room, sipping Beaujolais from Mason jars and watching a Celeste movie marathon on Celeste’s huge TV. She was currently shooting on location in Tuscany. None of us had ever met her, though we loved her films. We passed around a spliff. It was just for effect: we couldn’t feel a thing.

Then came hammering at the enormous front door. We froze, eyes darting toward the exits: sliding glass doors, automated windows, a series of skylights thirty feet up. We put out the smoke, lowered the volume. An angry fist thumped the door into submission. Something told us the jig was up.

Silence for a bloated moment, followed by the rattle of key and latch. The huge door swung open, but it wasn’t Celeste. Instead, Phil’s flunky, Donovan, appeared in the hall, white wings aflutter.

“Come on in, Donny.”

He minced toward us. His pinched expression looked incongruous with his golden headgear. “I can’t believe you made me come all the way down here,” he said.

We patted the couch cushions. “Take a load off.”

Donovan gazed down over his aquiline nose. “This whole thing has put Phil in a very bad mood.”

We laughed too loudly.

“I’m not kidding,” he said, hands on his hips. Beyond the huge panes of glass, breakers crashed onto the sand.

Donovan dug in his satchel for papers attached to a clipboard. “You’re in big trouble. You know that, right?”

“Someone pour Donny a drink,” we said, then passed him a jar of red.

“That is not the blood of Christ,” said Donovan, waving us away, knocking it from our hands. The Beaujolais splattered all over Celeste’s white shag rug.

We exaggerated our appraisal of the multi-million dollar mansion, its polished concrete floors, exposed beams, and walls of glass. “How will she ever replace it?” we said.

Donovan gave us his best paternal stare. “You shouldn’t be here in the first place.”

We grimaced, waving away his words like smoke wisps.

“Phil knows what you’ve been up to,” he said, examining the papers attached to his clipboard. “We have an itemized list of infractions. Phil’s had to invent a gold star system just so he can give you demerits.”

One of us relit the spliff with a platinum Zippo. The room soon filled with aromatic smoke.

“Item one,” said Donovan. “Hustling tourists. That includes shell games, pickpocketing, and—he chewed his lip—confidence scams involving promises of corporeal pleasures.”

We scratched our beards, fiddled with our hoodie tassels, and gazed out the windows at the stretch of virgin sand.

“Item two: selling happy smoke.”

That made us chuckle. We passed the joint around. It was an annoying affectation, but it helped prop up the personae we’d created.

Donovan wagged a finger in our faces. “Need I continue? You went AWOL. You’re acting like complete ingrates. You’re supposed to be protecting them.”

One of us turned up the TV volume.

“Phil wants you home posthaste,” said Donovan.

“What was that?” we said, cranking up the volume even more.

“I said, Phil wants you—"

“Good to see you, Donny.” We stared at him. He stared back at us, his face a clerkish question mark. Then we said: “Have a safe trip home.”

We were only chasing a dream. That was the whole reason we went to Los Angeles in the first place, same as everybody else. We’d heard all the stories. Not all of our kind stayed up there in that opalescent prison, whiling away the time plucking harps and singing. Not all of us did what we were told. Take, for example, George Aster and Katherine Ether, international superstars of the silver screen. Or Tom Stellar, Astral Andrews, and, most famous of all, the great Jimmy Devine. Their origins may not have been common knowledge, but they’d been just like us, white-robed drudges at the bottom of the celestial hierarchy—until they wised up and went out on their own.

Trouble was, auditions were tough to come by, no matter how many palms we greased. It was all we could manage to snag screen tests for TV commercials: Glistermint toothpaste, Fire & Ice unguent. Maybe we needed more grease? Offers weren’t exactly coming thick and fast, so when we weren’t hustling tourists, we staged scenes from Banishèd and Adiós, Saint Peter on Abbot Kinney or the Strand. (It’s possible that, on occasion, we might’ve used such performances as a pretext for hustling.) Somehow, nobody seemed to recognize our greatness.

One afternoon down on the Strand, as we performed another dramatic scene, a pair of confederates worked the crowd, liberating wallets from pockets. Spectators’ laughter made it all seem okay. When the show was over, the tourists wandered up the boardwalk or out to the beach. That’s when we noticed the old blind man in dark sunglasses. His nappy hair bore streaks of gray. His strange scent of sandalwood and sweat wafted toward us. Something about him seemed familiar. He sat on a folding chair, cradling a beat-up old guitar. The open case at his feet was sprinkled with the spare change of passers-by.

“Some show,” he said.

We exaggerated bows and curtsies by way of thanks.

He chuckled into his fist. “That wasn’t no compliment.”

“It wasn’t?”

“Really?”

“Why?”

Fat seagulls shrieked, swooping at trash barrels.

“Oh, y’all got it down pat. No doubt about that.”

We exchanged glances amongst ourselves.

“Only thing is,” he said, “y’all ain’t actors.”

We gritted our teeth. Was he an undercover cop, wise to our wily ways?

“I can hear it in the way y’all deliver them lines. Got what you call a mellifluous quality.” The blind man’s gaze bore through us. “Don’t tell me: y’all singers, right?”

We shook our heads, crossed our arms, toed at knots in the two-by-sixes underfoot.

“Singers?”

“Us?”

“Who are you kidding?”

We wanted to make more forceful denials, but we’ve always been lousy liars. It’s the cloth from which we’re cut.

“Come on now,” he said from behind his dark glasses, strumming an open E. (The D-string was a quarter-step flat.) Y’all can’t fool me. He played a quick progression—E-A7B 7 -A 7 -E7—then fiddled with the tuning. Let’s sing us a ditty together.

We shuffled in place, surging with panic. Now he picked a walking intro and sang:

Been down so long, look like up to me. Said I been down so long, look like up to me. Need a miracle to save me, O Lawd, where can He be?

We admit it: we were enraptured. Not that he was the first street musician we’d run into. They were a dime a dozen around here, screeching and banging on banjos, ukuleles, and pawn-shop harps. But this guy was different. His music put a spell on us. We were tapping our feet and clapping in time. We might’ve even launched into four-part harmony if another shrieking seagull hadn’t splatted right next to us. That snapped us out it. We hadn’t sung a note since arriving in the City of Angels, and we didn’t plan to start now. We shoved each other, staggering and stumbling away. Our minds had never felt so muddy. Before we were out of earshot, the blind man said: “Okay, y’all run along now. Just remember what they say: One who follows his nature keeps his original nature in the end.”

We needed to work more quickly. We could see it in each other’s eyes, though nobody wanted to say it aloud. The idea came to us later that day, as we passed around a spliff and tried not to think about the near-miss. One of us procured a Map to the Stars, which detailed the residential locations of

Hollywood’s most famous actors. The next day, as the sun rose in a burst of radioactive pinks and greens, we signed up for an open-air bus celebrity home tour. Think: Brad Bitte and Chris Fir, Jennifer Lee and Amanda Adams—all the hottest A-listers. We saw where they lived and how. We learned how long they’d been there. We listened to ballpark estimates of their net worth. It was a valuable research endeavor.

Back home (Celeste’s home), we sat around a huge, hand-crafted table, drumming our fingers against the lacquered cherry, listening to the wall clock tick-tock. Then, at last, someone spoke:

“It’s too risky.”

“It’s too far.”

“We could buy a van.”

“With what money?”

“That’s the whole point, right?”

“Part of the point.”

“Let’s not quibble.”

“But the traffic.”

“It’s awful.”

Getting to anywhere from the beach took hours, not to mention all the honking and screaming, vulgar gestures and macho head-games.

“Still, we can’t foul our own nest.”

“You mean Celeste’s?”

“Let’s not split hairs.”

“We’ll make it too easy for them.”

“Who’s them?”

“You know, the cops.”

“LAPD?”

“With the badges and guns.”

“It’s not like they can kill us.”

“That won’t stop them from trying.”

We chewed our lips. We stared at the carefully ripped holes in our secondhand designer denim. Someone lit a joint, and as we puffed and shared, we wished in silence that it would make our heads spin.

Then someone said: “What if we went north?”

“As in, San Francisco?”

“How would we get there?”

“Bus?”

“Train?”

“Plane?”

“All I meant was Santa Monica.”

Eyes widened. Grins glistered. A thin plume of cannabis smoke slithered toward the thirty-foot ceiling.

“There’s an idea.”

We nodded, chuckling. And just like that, we had a plan.

It wasn’t the swag we were after. Not exactly. Of course, none of us minded laying our hands on precious luxury goods selected by rich and famous movie stars—Bucci sunglasses and Strada boots, silk Marponi ties and diamondencrusted Tök-Jaar watches. And there was the thrill of it. Our small troupe of misfits slinking through the shadows, snipping security wires, jimmying locks. We didn’t have to go to all the trouble, since we could’ve easily breezed in through an open window or wafted through a wall, but how much fun would that have been? We marveled at exposed bricks and fifty-foot ceilings, floor-to-ceiling glass and concrete so polished we could see our reflections in it. We enjoyed those stars’ mid-century modern furnishings, their abstract paintings and sculptures, their trinkets from on-location shoots in Tibet, Japan, and India. Hollywood memorabilia, too, especially autographed photos in exotic locales. We commandeered what we couldn’t live without. Mostly, though, we stuck to what was easy to transport and easier to hock: clothing, footwear, and jewelry.

Eyes on the prize.

Night after night, we made our raids. Problems were rare. The few Rottweilers and Dobermans we encountered were easily subdued with heavenly manna. Everything was going to plan. We’d slip inside, run our fingers over the rare pink granite countertops, slide down endless hardwood hallways, then locate the master bedroom and pillage the closets. We layered dresses, blouses, and jackets or pants, shirts, and blazers. We strapped on necklaces and bracelets, watches and rings. We pocketed gold cufflinks and thousanddollar ties. Shoes posed a different challenge, but they were worth their weight in gold (Vouvoutins and Jonny Woos and Valentinis), so we loaded up gym bags, leather satchels, and André Buisson luggage with as many pairs as would fit. Then, exuding nonchalance, we strolled back home.

One night we were lingering in Tomás de la Cruz’s steel-and-glass beach palace after a gourmet meal delivered from Giorgio’s. Not that we suffered from hunger or thirst. That was beside the point. One of us opened another bottle of Burgundy and topped up our glasses.

Then, without warning, there was Phil, lounging next to us on the leather sectional. One minute, empty space, the next, Phil. None of us could do that. Rank had its privileges.

“Howdy, friends,” he said.

We nodded, faux-smiled, shifted uncomfortably in our seats. We poured him a glass of wine and set it on the coffee table in front of him.

“Much obliged,” said Phil, “but I won’t be partaking of your little shindig.”

We gave each other subtle looks. We found Phil’s manner irksome.

“See, that elixir don’t belong to you. Same as that couch, this room, this whole house—not to mention them clothes y’all got on and the bags of shoes piled up over yonder by the door.”

“It’s not like Tomás is gonna miss any of it.”

“He’s a millionaire movie star.”

“I’m sure he’s got insurance.”

Phil laced and unlaced his fingers. His wings fluttered with irritation. He studied the intricate stitching on his gold Tommy Vacuña boots.

We shielded our eyes from the glow of Phil’s huge belt buckle and waited.

“I sent Donovan down here to deliver a message,” he said, gazing at us one-by-one. His cowboy hat pulsed.

“From what I can tell, y’all ain’t paid a lick of attention. Mind helping me understand why that is?”

Nobody wanted to be the first to speak. Instead, we followed the dance of light from a beach bonfire.

“Well?” said Phil.

We swallowed our wine, then cleared our throats. “It’s just that Donovan’s a—”

“Stand-up guy?” Phil said.

“No, more of a—”

“Loyal sidekick?”

“What I mean is, he’s a—”

“Hyper-efficient professional?”

Phil studied our expressions. His face darkened, even as his buckle glowed and hat pulsed.

“Donny’s more of an annoying—how shall I put this?”

“Toady.”

“Bootlicker.”

“Brown-noser.”

“Lickspittle.”

“Flunky.”

Phil sat there, fuming. He cracked his knuckles, one by one. He rubbed a non-existent smudge off the toe of his golden left boot.

“Now listen up and listen good. The Big Boss himself is mighty disappointed in y’all.”

He let that sink in. We fidgeted where we sat. Our wings ached.

“So cease and desist pronto,” said Phil. We opened a window, and cool salt air wafted in.

“That’s PDQ, if not sooner.”

Muted voices drifted in from the beach. Otherwise, silence.

Phil glared our direction, wings fidgeting. “10-4?”

We didn’t want to kowtow, but what else could we do?

“10-4,” we said.

Our commitment was half-hearted at best. We really just wanted to get rid of Phil. So after a couple of days, we were right back at it. All the cash the resale of those designer clothes generated helped get us spots on even more commercials: Shine soap, Halo shampoo, Divine deodorant. We hadn’t exactly hit the big time—so far, none of us could get an audition for prime time TV, much less a reputable movie of any sort—but we were doing alright. Not that we were proud of ourselves: looking in the dozens of mirrors that hung Celeste’s walls was no picnic. But if we’d learned anything, it was that stardom didn’t come cheap, even for the likes of us.

Then one night, rifling through Mario Estrella’s closets, our situation changed. We were trying on suit jackets, savoring slices of chocolate pie and washing them down with Elysée champagne when we heard a car pull up out front. Just how we noticed anything was a mystery, given we had Band of Angels, Estrella’s breakthrough heist movie, playing at high volume on the 65-inch TV. We lowered the volume and started switching off lights, hissing Shhh, Shhh, Shhh. We stood there in the semi-dark, tongues thick, whipped cream on our faces. Our headgear radiated rich golden light. We clamped our hats back on and waited.

“What is it?” we asked.

“A car.”

“Make that cars.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

“In the street.”

“In the driveway.”

We tiptoed toward the kitchen. Now we noticed the swirl of red-and-blue lights. Doors slammed. Footsteps padded through the xeriscaping. Some officers flanked the house, while others scurried around back. We held our breath, wondering if we should simply float out through the roof and disappear.

“But what if they see us?”

“Won’t that only create bigger problems?”

“The Big Boss would not be happy.”

Then came a rapid thump on the door. “Police! Open up!”

We just stood there in the semi-dark, gaping at each other. No one had a clue what to do. We did nothing, hoping they’d get frustrated and go away. We were simple like that.

Not two minutes later, they kicked in the door and crashed into the room, pistols drawn. Their Mag lights blinded us. They spoke only in exclamations: “Hands up! On the floor! Now!”

It wasn’t easy to comply with their commands, since our hands were full: pie plate and whipped cream canister, champagne flutes and wine bottle. Those brutes knocked them all to the concrete floor in a cacophony of clanking metal and shattering glass. Some of us had already begun layering on the pants and shirts, so we couldn’t raise our arms above our shoulders, and bending at the knees was all but impossible. L.A.’s finest assisted with jackboot kicks and billyclub swats. They had us in handcuffs in nothing flat.

They placed us in separate holding cells, then asked us all the wrong questions. They only wanted facts: who did what with whom and when. They were missing the bigger picture. We tried to explain it to them, to help them understand the rationale for our choices, but they weren’t having any of it. When we said, But you’ve got it all wrong, they hauled back and slapped us in the mouth. We stopped trying to explain.

Once the police had what they needed, they locked us up together in a group cell. The walls and floors were stained, and the air was heavy with a sour, vinegary stench. We hugged—one by one, then as a group. We tried to ignore the gawking and gaping of other delinquents in the adjacent cages. We sat there in silence for a long time, pondering our fate.

Later, a cop came in, smirking and rattling his billy club against the bars. He spat on the stained concrete floor. “Lo and behold,” he said. “You got a visitor.”

“Hurrah,” we cheered. Though who even knew we were here?

We’d seen all the crime melodramas, so we expected the officer to lead us to another room with a plexiglass wall and a little phone we’d use to talk to our visitor. Instead, he sneered at us, then stepped back through the doorway. We clutched the bars of the cage, butterflies flitting around inside us.

That’s when Phil sidled into the room. He sported starched Hombres and a long-sleeved plaid Western shirt with his golden boots and cowboy hat, his impressively large wings in plain view. His belt buckle seemed to radiate even more light than usual. The cop paid no attention. Phil’s flunky Donovan skittered in behind him, hunched over, eyes glued to his clipboard.

“You got five minutes,” said the cop.

“Much obliged, officer.”

Phil loped over and took in the whole scene, shifting a golden toothpick around in his mouth. He clucked his tongue, shook his head, and shifted his hat back, exposing a broad, leathery forehead. “Well, I’ll be,” he said.

We said nothing.

“Caught red-handed, huh? What’s that highfalutin way of putting it?”

Donovan leaned in: “In flagrante, Archangel sir.”

“Yessir, that’s the one.” Phil studied us. “Now what’d I tell y’all about carrying on with your crimes and misdemeanors?”

We didn’t respond for a long time. Someone in another cage belched. Then came donkey laughter. A minor scuffle broke out but quickly fizzled into half-hearted insults. Nobody was shivved.

After a time we said, “It doesn’t make any sense.”

Phil sucked his mustache. “What don’t?”

“We disabled the security system, right?”

We nodded.

“Coulda been there was a backup,” said Phil. We all knew there wasn’t. We’d checked.

“How did anyone even know we were there?”

Phil smiled, picking his teeth. “Y’all were reckless and sloppy. Neighbors probably heard you.”

“Uh-uh.”

“The houses next door were dark.”

“And there was a birthday party across the street.”

Phil shifted his weight. Donovan looked even more skittish than usual. A cold, wet feeling seeped into us.

“Don’t matter a lick,” said Phil, clapping his meaty paws together. “Y’all got yourselves busted, no two ways about it. As you might imagine, the Big Boss is none too pleased. Said y’all are besmirching our reputation. How’d he put it, Donny?”

Donovan leafed through his pages. “Making us look ugly, he said.”

“Maybe somebody tipped them off?” we said.

“The Big Boss?” said Phil.

Donovan snickered. “The operative word is omniscient.”

“Them,” we said. “The cops.”

“Now y’all are just getting paranoid.”

“Maybe someone trying to make his point known sold us out?”

“You hearing what I’m hearing, Donny?”

“Yes, Archangel sir.”

“Somebody,” we said, “trying to shepherd home the flock before the Big Boss notices anything.”

“Because it sounds like these jailbirds are pointing the finger at Yours Truly.”

“Indeed it does, sir.”

We white-knuckled the cell bars, glaring at him. “A certain someone,” we said, “who was hoping to frighten us into submission.”

Now he pulled his hat down tight, gazing at us from under the brim. “Donny and me come down here outta the goodness of our hearts, and here y’all are making unfounded accusations.”

We studied our high-end Italian loafers and fashion boots.

“Okey-doke,” Phil said. “Guess y’all don’t need no help from the likes of us.”

He gave us a hard stare, then turned on his heel and clomped out. Donny followed.

Not forty-five minutes later—miracle of miracles!— they cut us loose.

After the arrest, we strongly considered the straight and narrow. We even tried to go back to our duties, though the effort was half-hearted. The citizens we scouted already had protection anyway, and we didn’t want to step on anyone else’s turf. Anyway, who were we kidding? We weren’t guardians and never would be.

We lounged on the beach for hours, moping in the hot sun.

Time passed. Our mood grew despondent. A couple of us donned hair shirts and dabbled in self-flagellation, while others toyed with the idea of going back. Neither lasted long. For one thing, how could we ever work under Phil again, after what he’d done? And while none of us would admit it, we weren’t sure we could face the Big Boss. Not that we’d ever even met him. All the same, we were sure he’d call us into his office, one by one, as soon as we stepped through the gates. We’d be forced to grovel. That prospect alone was enough to keep us in L.A. for the rest of eternity.

Nobody planned on the singing. We were idling on the boardwalk one morning, humming and whistling without even realizing it. Then one of us broke into song: Gloria in excelsis Deo. Without missing a beat, the rest of us fell right in, tight harmonies and all. It was just this reflex we had. Our voices still blended well. When we resolved the chord progression, the final notes rang out, pitch-perfect and golden, in the warm, salty air.

A cyclist rang her bell. A skateboarder clattered by, yelling, Dig it, bro! A gaggle of tourists in matching khaki shorts reached for their wallets. When the hubbub died down, we smelled sandalwood and sweat mingling with the salt air.

One minute, empty boardwalk, the next, that old blind guy in the dark glasses. He sat on his folding chair, cradling his guitar in his lap, his face a huge grin.

“Now that’s what I call mellifluous,” he said. We weren’t sure if we should thank him, so we just nodded and smiled.

“Like I said: y’all ain’t no actors. Never was.” We didn’t disagree.

Waves crashed. Surfers whooped and hollered. Seagulls didn’t come anywhere near us.

The old blind man played a bluesy lick, then arpeggiated an E7. “Well,” he said, “y’all ready?”

“Ready?”

“What do you mean?”

“For what?”

“Don’t act a fool. Y’all ain’t got no talent for it. But we already been through all that, right?” He grinned and exaggerated a wink. “We gonna blend your tune with my ditty,” he said. “Just follow my lead.”

When he launched into Down So Long blues, we didn’t fret or hand-wring. We didn’t worry about a thing. We just belted it out, right on cue. Nothing could’ve been simpler. What we sang together was a strange mix of gritty and ethereal. When we’d finished the first song, we sang another, and another after that. The crowd thickened, mounding filthy lucre at our feet. We sang and sang some more. We were finally feeling like ourselves again: light, golden, transcendent. Our brows lost their furrows. Our minds went empty and clear. Our smiles were radiant.

When it was over, the old blind guy put his guitar away and folded up his chair, then stood there in the dusky light, grinning. “Forget all that acting nonsense,” he said. “Y’all got pipes. Use ’em.”

We nodded, beaming.

He adjusted his dark glasses, patted his pockets, then picked up his guitar case and folding chair. “Be good, now,” he said.

“Will do.”

“Always.”

“You, too.”

“See y’all again real soon,” he said.

“Sounds good.”

“See ya.”

“Thanks!”

Then, all at once, his glasses were gone, and he gazed at us with clear, ice blue eyes. “One more thing,” he said. “Take it easy on the Big Boss, okay?”

Our chins dropped. Our tongues lolled. We studied each other in silent disbelief, our mouths full of unformed questions. Waves crashed. Seagulls shrieked. A gust of wind sprayed us with sand. We wiped our faces and blinked. We blinked again and gazed toward the old blind guy, but he was already gone.

aFter the storm

It hasn’t rained since and the crow comes every day, its crooked wing, a cardboard reminder, scrawled on which, black-on-black, a message kept from the sky about how its weight only increases every day. My sister came back from her driver’s test and I found her passport photographs lying by the gate, two down, one up like a game of cups and balls. She’d failed a second time and I returned the pictures exactly as I had found them, still not knowing if it was her in the other two. My brother, who is in another city becomes a person for ten minutes in a day. The rest of the time he is a very lazily growing hole in the earth into which things fall without a sound, as if the whole bottom of him is carpeted with felt. My mother gives the crow rice and dry bread beside a bowl of water and sitting in her chair tells me there should be a spray that can heal a broken wing so that you don’t have to see these poor things move less and less when you approach them, not out of trust, but acceptance of something equally wrong with you as with them. Her imagination is cruel that way. The crow watches the sunset from our balcony, letting go of memories of flying, and accepting what in return?

When it’s dark, it is lost and we prepare ourselves equally for seeing it there the next day and finding it gone. We prepare ourselves for that among many, many other things.

abhisheK mehta

lay DoWn the Day

In that first clear minute after the day-long rain had stopped, the clouds were thoroughly wrung-out lumps curling slowly back to their natural shapes. The water that stuck to the trees all along the street was somehow one quantity, each drop traceable to the other and redeemable for none.

A bird crossed overhead while people opened their windows and emerged sluggishly from the stuffy day indoors, their carefully wrinkled faces like old laundry out from its two-hundredth wash.

Smiling at everything as if they finally trusted the cycle of being soiled and washed and soiled again.