By J Brown (copyrighted 1999)

It was a lazy summer day. People swept out their second story balconies and others requested breakfast menus at one-thirty in the afternoon. The breeze was barely noticeable but soothing in the July heat. Across the street, down an alley, a hungry homeless man opened boxes of food behind the restaurant.

Bret had just woken up. He checked the time out of curiousity and got out of bed. Sliding open the glass door, he walked out onto his own second story patio and there he remembered what had happened. She’s gone, he thought, she’s gone. A grumbling ache settled over him and he went inside to get a drink.

The whiskey was harsh and he poured a little water into it. Bret took it out on the patio with the day’s paper. A hundred and fifty people had been found massacred in some far off village across the world. Twenty-three DUI’s had been recorded for last night in Los Angeles. One man sat along on his patio on a warm blue day thinking about a woman who was gone. He had pleaded with her at the restaurant but apparetnly she had had enough. He took another sip. It stung his throat, but he finished the drink and made another one before he finally brushed his teeth and went out, looking for food and more alcohol.

It was even hotter outside. Everythig was bright and windshields blared the sun in all directions. The day was already in full swing but Bret wasn’t trying to catch up. The people he saw all looked like actors in a bad play he was forced to watch. When’s the intermission, he thought, walking along Santa Monica Boulevard.

Bret walked into a fruit smoothie store. It was bright and blaring in its own way. He ordered a drink with strawberries and bananas.

"Do you think whiskey will taste good in that?" he asked.

"Excuse me?" The man was concentrating on the blender, holding the lid down.

"Nothing." Bret looked around and saw posters of animals on the papaya colored walls. He saw a woman sitting in the corner. She was reading a woman’s magazine and sipping intently on her drink. Bret didn’t even have the energy. He paid for his drink and went back out into the lonely afternoon. He walked west.

He went past the community college, past the music shop, the seamstrees and a countless number of cars parked at meters all blinking red. It was Sunday and even the meter maids in Los Angeles got a day off from angering every person in the city. The trees were palms, tall and leaveless until the top where their afro’d heads wore yellow, green, and jutted out into the open blue sky.

A horn honked and a red convertible drove past him. There were four heads, all different colors and the hair flew wildly behind them. They would be on the beach in twenty minutes even though it was six blocks away because they were greedy trying to find parking. Poor schmuck, Brett thought, he probably had a high maintenance girlfriend who didn’t want to walk more than a hundred yards at any time. He missed his own high maintenance girlfriend and the way she made him frustrated so easily and intentionally.

He stopped in a liquor store and bought a flask of rum. Down an alley he poured it into his fruit smoothie and tasted it. It was tropical he thought and almost smiled. Behind him a faint moon was pasty against the light blue afternoon. It would set over the ocean late tonight though Bret would be passed out by then.

The sand was warm and difficult to maneuver in. Bret plopped down and drank his melting smoothie. There were families, and teenage girls, and homeless drunks in too much clothing all occupying the beach. He was far away from the water and ahead of him was a white, red-roofed lifeguard stand. He took off his shirt and used it as a pillow. He was asleep before he could finish his drink.

When he awoke for the second time that day, his mouth was dry and his eyes hurt. It was bright and he wasn’t sure where he was. Bret sat up. There were still people at the beach but they were older, more mellow people. There were no frisbees, or smashball, or kids running madly from the rushing waves. It was mostly couples but the homeless were still there. They were always there except when they were hungry. That’s what the Promenade is for, he thought.

He was stiff when he got to his feet. His drink had been tipped over and was a frosty brown spill. Bret kicked the cup and turned away from the wide quiet ocean and began the long walk away from the beach.

There was a message on his voice mail when he got home. It was her and he listened to her crystal clear, forever saved by a computer somewhere. She had called a little after noon.

"Brett, it’s me," the message said. "You said you would call after you got up, where are you? Please give me a call when you get in, okay? Talk to you soon, bye."

That was her all right. His hangover redoubled its efforts after he hung up the phone. Bret needed a shower before he could deal with her and so with much effort, he bent over and opened the pipes, and let gushing warming water into the graying tub. A bath. Bret hadn’t taken a bath since he was a young boy growing up outside Phoenix, Arizona. He went into the medicine cabinet and found purple-colored bath balls that she had given him when things were good. Bret wasn’t sure how to use them and so he did what guys do. He poked them with a stainless steel knife and dropped them into the filling tub. All he could hear was the running water.

The water was too hot and Bret sat on the toilet and waited. It was quiet and calm in the bathroom but everything to Bret was loud and shaking.

Finally it was cool enough and he sank into the tub. He could hear someone rustling in the dumpster outside the window and a kid was bouncing a ball off the apartment across the alley. Bret didn’t care, he was relaxing.

When his fingers began pruning up, he pulled the drain and water slowly formed a tornado that sucked the water, and suds, and beach sand down and spiraling. He dried off and then shaved. It felt as if he was getting ready for something. His head still hurt so he took some aspirin. The thought of calling her made the rum in his bloodstream quicken and spread.

Bret made a drink and sat by the phone. As it rang, he clinked two ice cubes in the brownish liquid. She answered.

"Why Bret, how are you?" She always spoke formally on the phone. She always attributed it to her schooling in England when she was twenty but Bret thought she did it to annoy him.

"I’m fine Angie," he said.

"Angelina," she reminded him and it was the old days all over again.

"I’m fine Anglelina."

"Where were you earlier?" You said you would call when you woke up."

"I went to the beach." Bret was tired and relaxed; too tired and too relaxed to let her get to him.

"What did you go there for?" Angelina always needed details. Bret thought she was probably twirling her brown curly hair waiting for him to talk.

"Bret?"

"Yes?"

"What did you do there?"

"I slept and relaxed. You know what people do at the beach, Angie."

"It’s Angelina, Bret, you know that," she reminded him again. She never listened to anything anyone said except for her name. It was an endearing trait when you were chasing her.

"Are we still going to meet tonight for dinner?" she asked.

"Do you think that’s a good idea?"

"Yes Bret, I do."

"Why did we break up again?" he asked, letting warm brown liquid slide down his throat.

"Bret, let’s not get into that. You and I are to begin a friendship tonight, remember?"

"But we weren’t ever friends—"

"That’s not the point."

"Oh?" he asked into the receiver. "And what is the point?"

"Bret, don’t be like this."

"Like what?" he asked stoically.

Pick me up at eight, all right?"

"Where are we going?"

"Bret," she said, "we’re going to our restaurant, remember?"

"We still have a restaurant?"

"Pick me up at eight," she reminded him.

"All right, see you then, Angie."

"It’s –" but he hung up before he could her the correction.

Bret turned on the television and watched ESPN for an hour. He sat on the couch into the early evening wondering what she had in mind for the night. He mixed himself another drink and flipped around the channels.

An hour later he walked out to his car. Pulling out of his spot, he noticed an old homeless man behind him. He got out of his car with it still running.

"You okay, old timer?"

"Yes, I am, thank you," he replied. The man was hunchbacked, and his clothes were drab and dirty, the beard brown and gray.

"Here, let me help you." Bret didn’t want to be too late and have to deal with her lecture on tardiness. He grabbed the old man’s shopping cart and pushed it out of the way.

Bret was walking back to his car when the old man said something.

"What was that?"

"Were you helping me or were you helping you?" The old man turned and hobbled up the alley.

Bret got back into his car. Backing out again, he saw the old man in his rearview mirror. He drove down the alley and went towards the beach.

Angelina had been married before once before. In the settlement she had gotten some money, one of the cars but most importantly, she had gotten the house. It was in Brentwood, along San Vincente Boulevard. It was a quaint area of Los Angeles, communal and friendly. People waved to each other in because they knew how great it was to live there. Almost everyone drove a German car; it was the only way.

She was sitting at a couch near the front door when he arrived. Angelina looked up scornfully, and slowly got up to answer the door. She was wearing a lime green top and a black dress that was pleated. She was wearing black pumps and the toenails were green. Even with the lamppost behind, he could seethe cool detached blue eyes, and the high, what she called ‘upper class’ cheeks.

"You’re late."

"Sorry Angie, I had to help this homeless guy."

Her eyes were closed. "It’s Angelina, Bret. You know that. Why do you insist on calling me that vile name?"

"It was okay with you until last night."

"That was last night," Angelina replied, "and this is tonight."

They were still standing at her doorway.

"Well, are you ready?"

"I have to get a few things. Please wait in the car."

Bret turned and walked down the small, terra cotta steps and sat in the car. It was dusk but this was a safe part of town. He listened to the radio.

Angelina came out ten minutes later. She was wearing a completely different outfit. Now she had on a white shirt, plaid skirt and knee-high socks. The curly hair was restrained in the back as a ponytail. She was a new woman.

"How come you changed?" he asked once she had gotten into the car.

"You were so woefully underdressed I didn’t want to embarrass you."

They ate at a Greek restaurant on the Promenade. They had met there while he was a waiter and she was coming out of marriage number one. As he searched for parking, he reminded himself he was glad he wouldn’t be husband number two.

Bret and Angelina ordered the same things they ordered when they had been together. A waitress came over and said hi and this is when Angelina informed her they were no longer together.

"Oh, I’m sorry," she said, glancing Bret’s arm.

"It’s all right," Angelina told the waitress. "It’s better for both of us, isn’t it Bret?"

"Yeah, I’ll have a scotch and water," Bret said.

Angelina laughed.

"Men," she said, "they always seem to listen at the wrong times.

The waitress smiled. She walked away and couldn’t believe Bret had ever gone out with that woman. And those socks she was wearing. Who did she think she was, an Oxford school girl?

"Isn’t it nice to be here, Bret?"

"Sure." He shifted in his seat, refusing to make eye contact with her.

Angelina didn’t mind, she would go right on talking. "You know, I was talking to a girlfriend of mine today, and she thinks it’s best too if we’re not together." She kept on talking but he was watching the people strolling the Promenade. There were so many, he thought. There were couple who drove an hour to get here, to ‘go out’ for the night, and young punks who didn’t shower enough and talked too much, and teenage girls trying to act nineteen for the night. They were all there, mixed with older, mature people who were actually going to buy things from the over priced stores. These groups probably couldn’t exist anywhere else, he thought.

"…and so that’s what I told her. Isn’t that funny, Bret?" Angelina was laughing at her own wit.

"Yeah, sure," he said.

"Bret, you’re not even listening to me."

Their drinks came. Bret ordered another before the waitress could leave. Bret stared out into the crowd, wondering why Angelina would want to come here the day after they broke up. Should they even be around each other? She probably wanted him to pay too, as if they were still together. Bret had another idea.

"I’ll have a glass of whatever wine she’s drinking too," he told the waitress.

She felt for bad for Bret. They had worked together for almost a year and then he started going out with that wanna be Minie Driver, and soon after he quit and got a job somewhere else. She had liked him, too, but could see he was not the same man he was six months ago. She decided to bring him another drink on her.

"This one’s on me," the waitress told him.

Angelina was speechless as the waitress was walking away. "Was that woman just hitting on you?"

"What?" He was watching Shannon’s legs. God, he missed seeing those things every night. That was nice of her to buy me a drink, he thought. I’ll have to pay back the favor sometime.

"Bret!"

A few heads turned but quickly went back to their own lives. People are used to seeing couple fight anywhere at any time in Los Angeles.

"What, Angelina, what?" He sipped from his third drink, looking innocently at her.

"Please don’t be rude to me in public," she said. "It’s not nice."

"Oh, lay off it," he said, leaning back in his chair.

"You’re drunk."

"Not yet," he said and then tasted the wine. At least she’s got good taste in red wines, he was thinking. Or should I say expensive tastes.

Angelina excused herself to the ladies room. Bret wanted to be concerned but he wasn’t. He had another drink. Look at those teeny-boppers, he thought. I’m over ten years older than them but they look so ready.

Angelina returned.

"Here," she said. She handed him a shot of whiskey. "If you’re going to make an ass of yourself in front of me, please do it with class."

"Thanks," he said, completely missing the irony. He took the small glass from her and drank it down. He coughed.

She was smiling. "There now, is that better?"

"Yes, thank you."

When their food came, it was like they ahd never been apart. Bret ate his greek salad with grilled chicken and Angelina complained about her falafel. Bret thought she did it merely to exert control over a situation.

"Can you believe that?" she asked.

"What?"

"I asked for no olives and the thing was practically dressed in them."

Bret savored a piece of feta cheese. He smiled.

"And what’s so funny?" she asked. She used her fork to have a bite of his food.

"It seems like the old days, thass all," he said. He was drunk now, though the food was having a calming effect over the whiskey.

The food came back, though this time the olives were in a little ramekin on the side. Bret stopped her from complaining and took the olives, dropping the little black rings into his salad.

He had another drink before they left. She wanted to walk off her meal which meant she wanted walk up and down the Promenade, acting like she was going to buy expensive items. Besides, she thought, it’s always important to be seen at the nicest stores.

Bret sat at benches while Angelina went in and shopped. The people were blurs and the orange lamppost light tinted everything. He wanted another and motioned to her that he would be in Yankee Doodle’s.

After showing his ID, he went in to the bar. It was crowded and he found a seat towards the far end, away from most of the action. Bret reveled in the fact that it would be hard for her to find him but she did.

"Where did you go, Bret?" she asked, when she caught up with him.

He didn’t answer. He just stared ahead to the large screen television showing English Soccer. He could see the fans going nuts and there were papers strewn amidst the game.

"Bret."

"What?"

"Will you buy me a drink?" she asked.

"Didn’t you bring any money?" Bret was taking pleasure in tormenting her for once.

"Bret."

"All right, all right," he said.

After a minute she started a new conversation.

"Our waitress at the restaurant was kind of a bitch, wasn’t she?" Angelina was competitive, even with who weren’t competing. It was unattractive if you weren’t together with her.

Bret kept watching soccer. His eyes were, at least. The rest of him was drawn inward, away from her, and the people around them.

Angelina made sure the conversation continued. "Do you like her, Bret?"

"I think she did her job fine," he said diplomatically.

"And what about her hair? It was all poofed out, it didn’t look good at all."

Bret ordered another drink.

"Bret," she demanded without foundation.

He ordered another drink. The team from Manchester United scored and he watched a young blood man running like mad around the field; the stadium was being brought to its knees.

"And did it seem like she flirting with you?" She was looking in the tall thin mirror next to the soccer game fixing her hair. "Don’t you think, Bret?" she said to the mirror.

Bret didn’t. He threw a twenty onto the bar and mumbled that he would be back soon.

He walked through clusters of people in the dark yellow bar, past spotlighted pool tables, the jukebox, an ATM and foosball tables, before he found the restrooms. Inside the red-tiled room was in a disarray. Toilet paper and paper towels lay about like the papers in the soccer field except it was quiet in the room. Finally, a moment to myself, he thought.

What in the hell was he doing with her, he asked himself. Who in their right mind goes out with a woman the night after she breaks up with him?

A man entered the red bathroom. He was short and chubby, balding and wore glasses. But he was friendly.

"How’s it going?" he asked Bret.

"Good, I guess." Both men were staring straight ahead.

"Well that’s good," the man said. "What could make it better?"

"A different woman, more money."

"Hey, hey," the man said, using his free hand to push up his glasses. "One thing at a time."

Bret laughed. "All right, a different woman then." Bret wished this man was a solver of problems.

"Are you with her now?"

"Yes."

"You are?" The chubby looked around the small bathroom.

"Well, she not here, but she’s here at the bar."

"Do you need her?"

"No."

"Do you want her?"

"No." Bret was done but still standing at the stall.

"Do you owe her anything?" the man asked.

Bret laughed at that one. "No."

"Well?" The man turned and began washing his hands. So did Bret.

They dried their hands in silence.

"Thanks," Bret said as the short man was leaving.

"My pleasure. Even if you don’t know what you want, at least you know what you don’t want." And he was gone.

Bret opened the bathroom door. He noticed a set of stairs downstairs. He went down them.

He walked through more pool tables and different people having the same kind of fun as upstairs but there was a unique air to it. It was as if they were forgotten fans, under the basement. They were having fun but the people upstairs were unaware of them. It was secretive and Bret liked it. Besides, Angelina was somewhere up there and she had no idea where he was going.

He got past the downstairs pool tables and walked up the metallic stairs to the main floor. It was getting louder. He walked out the front door and onto the bright and buzzing Promenade, turning left. Bret was heading to ‘our restaurant’, as Angelina had called it but this time he was alone.