The next morning the disruption of my life began in full force; at five
A.M. the phone started ringing and continued to ring incessantly from then on.
Reporters trying to get a sensational scoop; cranks calling me a lunatic; self-righteous citizens accusing me of being a sex-murderer; even a Bible-beater
denouncing me as Satan. Besides all that, an ex-girlfriend phoned to say that she
had just seen this morning's paper, and that she had always known I was weird.
Finally, I did the smart thing--- I took the phone of the hook.
Reporters came to the door twice; neither time did I open it. I shouted
through the wood, "Go away!" But they kept pounding. At last, I guess they
decided to give up.
I had to find out what was going on; I determined to walk to a drug
stoor a few blocks away and purchase a newspaper. I threw on some old clothes
and went down the stairs, then out the back way. On my way down, I met a guy
who lived on the floor below me; he was coming home from work. I think that he
was the supervisor on the night shift at one of the factories near the airport. "Hi,
ya," he snickered, "you're the hot item on the radio this morning. Give ya ten bucks,
if you'll tell my fortune." I walked past him at a deliberate pace without
condiscending to glance at him. Despoint knowing him only slightly, I couldn't
stand him; he always tried to put on a front of country folksiness--- the good ol' boy
type, but after having spoiken to him a couple of times, I could thell he was oozint
with conceit, especially over his appearance and his women.
Once outside, I skirted round a couple of other apartment houses and
emerged onto the street on the opposite side of the block from my building. That
was when I first noticed the man following me. He was trying not to be seen, but I
had caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of myeye. "Probably another
reporter," I thought. "But if he is, why doesn't he come right out and try to get his
story. He might be a cop, but the one who has had this duty was middle-aged, tall,
and thin; this guy is young and of medium build. Maybe they've changed shifts. Oh,
well, I'm going to enjoy the walk anyway."
It was the usual kind of morning in Santa Monica--- cloudy, cool, and
damp. I walked briskly, with my hands stuffed into the pockets of my leather jacket,
past the apartment buildings and houses, some tan, some white, some yellow. Most
of the houses had nicely manicured lawns and shrubbery, while the apartment
complexes usually sat closer to the street, allowing only room enough for an
occasional flowerbed. Many of the homes were the Spanish style stucco
architecture with tile roofs, which was so popular in the thirties and forties, the rest
were modern stucco houses with shingles or white rock on the roof or wood frame
houses, which I would prefer in case of an earthquake. One had no difficulty in
telling that this was an upper middle-class neighborhood.
Every now and then, I would glance over my shoulder; my shy
companion was still there. Finally, I reached the business district--- the stores had
not opened for the day and the traffic was still light. It was not yet nine o'clock. I
knew, though, that the drug store was open twenty-four hours a day, because I had
once gone to the pharmacy very late at night to have a presecription for the flu
filled. I decided to browse around the place for a while to make certain that the man
was indeed following me, and to get a good look at him. I was standing amongst the
stationary when he entered and began thumbing through the movie magazines on
the rack. He was wearing a dark plaid sports cap, a buttoned up gray, worn
cardigan sweater with a shawl collar that he had pushed up high on his neck, dark
grousers and shoes, and sunglasses. "Strange someone would wear sunglasses on
such a dreary day while reading a magazine. Although, I have seen people do it
before. Under those bulky clothes he most surely has very muscular limbs. I don't
like him. I'm going to dump him and everybody else."
Having paid for my paper, I stepped into a phone booth located in the
corner of the store near the door. I could feel his eyes fastened on me the entire
time' I stood so that he could not see what I was doing, while I scanned the phone
book for the number of a taxi service. Then I cautiously closed the book so that
after I left the booth, he could not observe the number I had called and would not
deduce what I might be going to do.
Following the call, I stepped outside to the bus stop where the cab
would picke me up. "It's too bad--- the games these people make you play." During
my wait, I read the article concerning myself. It was no wonder that I was being
harassed by freaks and reporters. I was furious; it was nothing more than
unadulterated sensationalism, all the facts were completely twisted about, there
were bald-faced lies, and there were even attempts at causing embarassment to
certain of my relations, some of whom were quite highly placed, diplomatically.
I could still feel that man's stare.
When the taxi arrived, I jumped in and told the driver my address. It
took us only a couple of miutes to reach our destination. I figured that even if my
shadow ran, it would take him around ten minutes. I leaped out, having already
given the driver ten dollars, with which he was enormously pleased, since he ad
earned in those few moments an almost eight dollar tip, and ran through the lobby
to the elevator. There were still one or two reporters hovering about. I heard one of
them say, "That's him! How'd he get out?" as I dashed by. Certainly they weren't
very smart. Once inside my door, I vaulted up the stairs, threw a few things into a
bag, whatever else I might need, I could buy later. That done, out the door I rushed
again and down the steps to the garage. For the first time I could remember, the car
started immediately. As I pulled out of the driveway, I observed the man with the
plaid cap job breathlessly around the corner. I would be on the San Diego Freeway
before he could get to his car.
Later, while I stopped for gas in the San Fernando Valley, it dawned
on me that I'd better call Carter to tell him I was leaving and to have the pleasure of
giving him a piece of my mind. Fortunately, this station, just off the freeway, had a
pay phone. I dialed the number that he'd given me.
"Yes, Carter speaking," was the monotonal reply succeeding the first
ring.
"This is Lucian Randolph," I said sharply. "You wanted me to stay
where I could be reached. This is to notify you that I'm going to Santa Barbara, and
I don't know when I'll be back. And by the way, if that guy who was tailing me this
morning was one of yours, tell him I'm sorry he had to run so far, but he's out of
shape. I got tired of him staring at the back of my neck."
I think Carter must have been taken by surprise by my sudden flurry of
vocal activity, because for a second or two all he did was grunt. Then, after clearing
his throat, he said, "He wasn't one of ours. I called everyone off last night."
"Must have been one of the other clowns you've sicced on me. Why
did you let what I told you out to the papers. I thought stuff like that was supposed
to be confidential."
"What in the hell are you talking about?"
"I suggest you take a look at this morning's paper." I banged the
receiver down hard enough to make his ear ring. I'd make him sweat it out for a few
days.
The drive was a pleasant one, after leaving the heat of the Valley and
turning west toward Ventura. It was nearly noon when I spotted a motel to my
liking. It was just outside Carpenteria and was made up of a group of while cottages
that stretched along the shore beneath a grove of pine trees. A fine place to relax,
and perhaps to go riding or take a swim. I thought I'd best not register under my real
name, so I wrote John Ryan on the card and gave the address of Grandmother's
house in San Francisco. Fortunately, no one asked for ID other than the license
plate, which I "confessed" was not mine, but a friends.
The next two days and nights were like heaven. Ever since I got over
my childhood fear of the sound of the waves, the sea has had a calming effect on
me. I have always loved this part of the coast because there is always that crisp
autumn touch to the air, no matter the season. Day and night I could hear the
breathing of the surf, and its beating against the nearby rocks, while the wind
moaned through the pines above my roof.
