Sayonara, Malibu! and Why It Was Worth It

So OK, thanks to logistical impossibilities, what I thought was going to be My New Career turned out to be My Summer Job, and now I'm back home in the desert I know and love FAR more than I could ever love the beach (sand being the common denominator). All is well; no hard feelings; my friends the bookstore owners are still my friends--so much so that I have never felt so loved--and dammit anyhow, Martin Sheen's just going to have to bumble along without me to rant at about radical Catholic politics once a week or so. I hope all my co-workers in the store are as cool as I was with Daphne from Frasier; the fact that I didn't go into convulsions every time she came in meant something to her; I could tell. But--alas--Jeff Bridges never did show up.

In any case, my Malibu Era was as glamourous as anyone--as any People magazine reader--could wish. It was fascinating. I saw John Cusack and a whole bunch of my other household gods in person. (Close up, he appeared to be kind of a jerk, actually.) But my work in the bookstore was also back-breaking physical labor for almost no money, 130 miles away from my family and the love of my life. With all the middle-of-the-night-on-the-freeway-in-a-jalopy back-and-forth poor-cell-reception hassle PLUS no money to speak of and nowhere to sleep for free, it was time to go.

Glamour and fascination aside, along with the sheer ecstasy of being in the presence of 10,000 titles all at the same time every day, the whole wacky scenario was worth it, if only for this one conversation:

9/11/04--I'm ashamed to admit how old the workday was before I realized what day it actually was. Eventually, though, I did, and became pensive.

At which point, a father (Bruce Dern/tennisplayer type) and son (late teens) came up to the register, sporting Jarhead. They tossed it on the counter, and I immediately went into my Gorilla/Officer Toody Imitation: "Oooooh--ooooh--ooooh! You have my favorite war memoir there!"

The father tells me, "This is what my son wants to DO."

Though his son doesn't hear the panic and despair in his father's voice, I do. I look the boy in the eye.

And I see a wide-open, clear-eyed, curious, vigorous intelligence. I've seen that look--the look of a clean soul--only a few times (like twice) before, but I recognize it instantly and lock my tractor beam onto it. I say, "Really?"

He says, "Yes, I want to fly! I want to dive!"

"What would you do if there weren't the miliary?"

"Oh, I don't know--marine biologist or something."

"OK then, I have another book I want you to take a look at, OK? You don't have to buy it; I just want you to see it." And I trot over to the War shelf, retrieve Chris Hedges' What Every Person Should Know About War, chattering the whole time about how Swofford's book does as much for the Gulf War as Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried did for Vietnam, and yadda yadda blahblahblah. I put the slim paperback--that answers questions like "What does it feel like to get shot? How will I feel when I see someone die? What if I panic? What if I'm tortured?"--into the boy's hands, but he doesn't bother to look at it, just hands it to his father to pay for.

Then he asks me, with all due (though he doesn't know why) respect, "How come you know so much about this stuff, Miss?"

I lock the tractor beam on him again--I have these brown eyes--and I say, "Because my husband died in Vietnam." (A slight exaggeration: he was my fiance, he died on the way home--but I don't have much time, here, with this boy.)

Quietly: "Oh, Miss, that's awful."

Forthrightly: "Yes, it was. But then I went on to get a doctorate in English with a specialization in war literature, and to study the men I knew who went to that war. So I've known a lot of real killers, Michael, and you're not one."

Surprised: "How can you tell?"

Frankly: "By the look in your eyes. There are ways to dive and fly without hurting anyone. That's the kind of man you are. I can tell. Here," I say, scribbling on a card, "is my name and phone number. You read these books--you want to talk--you call me. Put this in your wallet." He instantly does so, as if hypnotized. "Because this [gesturing at the books] is not good enough for you. You're better than this."

Then, turning my gaze, I say,"OK, Dad, that's $58.62, please."

But Dad doesn't actually hear me at first because he is looking at the floor, concentrating VERY hard on some point low down and off to his right in order not to cry; his eyes full and red. His gaze doesn't shift as he hands me his American Express card. I ring up the sale, my tractor beam back where it belongs. "Thank you," I say to the boy.

"Oh no, Miss," he says, "thank YOU."

His dad shoots me a quick, moist look of gratitude.

And the summer is over.

Comments

[Pica]

Great to have you back, Doc, and with the BEST story. Thank you for what you did for Michael and his father. And thanks for letting us know about it.

[beth]

Writing through wet eyes myself, Doc. Thank you for being you, and for writing this. I'm going to try to send some more readers your way.

[Coup de Vent]

Oh, yes. Good story indeed. Brought tears to my eyes too.

[Chris Clarke]

I'm afraid I'm going to have to forward this to everyone I know, and I hate when I have to do that.

You done good, Doc. You done good.

[Tom Montag]

If there are angels, they are you and me. You, certainly; me, maybe, at my best moments. May your karma surely follow. And thanks for this post.

[Da Goddess]

Just...wow.

[Rob]

Hey Doc, great story - I try to do the same with my students, but rarely with such success. Next time you're in Malibu, you can definitely crash on my couch.

[Marja-Leena]

Thanks to Tom for leading me here to read this wonderful true-life story! I, too, have moist eyes writing this note of admiration and a thank you for guardian angels.

[Trey]

Man.

This is what it's all about, huh? Recognizing these little opportunities that present themselves every day. And, as you did, knocking the ball out of the park.

This one will stay with me for a while.