An Evening at the Carnival with Mister Christian

"Well then, how about dinner?"

"What? Tonight?"

"Yeah. You booked already?"

"Kind of. I have an appointment with my bed starting as soon as I get home, and I was hoping for about twenty hours straight."

"Too much. Not healthy for you."

"Well, I'm on call at midnight, so I take what I can get."

"Cops are on call? Wow...and I thought I was the only one to be blessed with that curse."

"I work traffic, I think I mentioned. I'm the on-call accident reconstructionist tomorrow. Well, starting at midnight, that is."

"That sounds like fun."

"Only the biggest, best fatalities, Ma'am."

"Sheesh. Now I know that sounds like fun. How long have you been doing that?"

"Ten years?"

"How many fatalities does that work out to?"

"About a hundred a year, plus the other assorted major accidents, and accidents involving city personnel."

"And you hold all that shit inside? For ten years now?"

He looked at her and smiled. "You get used to it."

"No, you don't. You might think you do, but Ted, you're burning the candle at both ends."

"I eat lots of Indian and Thai. The spices keep all those evil spirits away."

"Do they, now? Well, I know a great place over by the Farmer's Market..."

"Electric Karma?"

"How'd you know?"

He smiled. "I live a block away. Walk there for dinner at least eight days a week."

"I live on Harper. You?"

"La Jolla," he said, grinning. "Hey, neighbor!"

"Well, that settles it."

"What?"

"Dinner, and I'm buyin'!"

"Yeah, okay, but I've forgotten your name..."

She scrunched up her face. "Class act, Tom."

"Ted."

They laughed. "And I'm Carol. Pleased to meet you -- again," she said, holding out her hand.

He took it. "So, I'm going out on a date with a shrink. Don't that beat all?"

She held out her iPhone and swung it around. "No signal out here, huh?"

"About another hour, then you'll get two bars."

"Hope we can get a reservation?" she said.

"Unnecessary. I have one at eight."

"No kidding...you ARE a regular!"

"Listen, if I don't catch some shut-eye, I'm not going to make it."

"There are a few bunks down below. Why don't you go hit the rack?" she said.

"I might just do that," he said, standing. He walked aft and ducked down below, then hopped on one of the pipe-berths and closed his eyes...

...and a few moments later he heard the boat's engines backing down. He looked at his watch: he'd been down almost three hours -- and now his head hurt.

"Too much carbon monoxide down here," he grumbled as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. He swayed as the boat bumped into the dock, then he crawled topsides.

The air was hot and dry, sure sign that an intense Santa Ana was howling, and someone had rinsed and packed all his dive gear. He saw Carol and she smiled at him, a big, bright warm smile. 'Cute, too,' he said to himself again as he walked over to his pile of gear.

"Sleep well?" she asked when he walked to the rail, looking on as dockhands secured the boat.

"Diesel fumes and sleep are natural partners," he groaned. "Another hour down there and I doubt I'd ever see daylight again."

"Not much better up here," she said. "Headaches and seasickness for the last hour."

He nodded, turned to face the group. "Okay people!" Ted said. "Gather round." He waited until everyone was attentive, then continued. "Dive masters should have signed off on your dive this morning, but we have to get one more dive in before we can send your paperwork for certification. As I mentioned earlier, we usually do these over at PV, at Malaga Cove, up on the north side. Check the website tomorrow morning for the exact time, and this same crew of folks will be on hand, so memorize faces. Any questions or comments about the dive, direct them to my email. Any complaints about the day, same thing. Let 'em rip. I know we had an unexpected incident, but truth be told it's not all that unusual to have something like this crop up on these trips. Even so, this is the first shark attack I've ever seen out at Catalina, but we all know why that happened. Diving accidents happen because people make mistakes, and I hope you all learned something from this."

He looked around, made eye-contact with all of his students, then nodded his head. "I'm glad y'all got to meet Waldo and his buddies, and I'll see you at PV next weekend. Grab your gear now, and be careful making the jump to the dock. If you end up in the water, stay away from the piers and come to the swim platform back here and we'll haul you up."

He went forward and signed off on the trip, then walked aft to grab his gear. She was still there, waiting, when he got to his bag.

"What time was the reservation?" she asked.

"Eight, every Saturday night."

"Wow. You're not, like, in a rut or anything, are you?"

"I like predictability."

"Safer that way?"

He shrugged. "My life is anything but predictable, or safe, but I like to anchor key days of the week in routines. Keeps me stable, I guess."

She nodded her head, looked at his legs as he leapt across, and as he turned to look at her he held out his hand. There was a three foot gap between the hull and dock, and her bag weighed at least forty pounds. 'Well, here goes...' she said to herself as she leapt, but she came down awkwardly and began to tumble backwards...

...then she felt his hands on her shoulders as he pulled her back onto the dock, and she looked at him for a moment as he did. She felt something in his hands, a strength she was simply unfamiliar with, the kind of strength that comes from carrying impossible burdens all day, every day.

"Thanks," she said.

"I know...you did that on purpose..."

"Nope. That was good ole Carol the Klutz. When I was a kid, my father threatened to trademark the name in my honor." And I haven't felt like that klutz in thirty years, she told herself. Why now?

He took her bag and carried it out to the parking lot. "Which one's yours?"

"The silver Subaru," she said, pointing to a newish Crosstrek. She used the remote to unlock the doors and start the engine, and he put her gear in the back and closed the hatch, then turned to her.

"So, you're all set?"

"Yeah, thanks. I guess I'll see you there?"

"Sure. I'm going to shower and rinse the gear..."

"You don't need to. I did it, and put some silicone on your mask. It looked like it needed some."

"Well, thanks. You sure you're okay? You look a little light-headed?"

"No, I'm fine. I'll see you there. Bye..."

She rushed behind the wheel and turned the air conditioner to Max Cold and aimed all the vents at her torso. She knew her face was flushed without even looking in the mirror, and she felt the heat in her groin, too. She'd wanted to rape him right there in the parking lot, and the feeling had hit her hard, like a fast moving freight train coming out of nowhere in the night. His eyes were driving her mad, but so was feeling thirteen all over again!

She watched as he walked over to a huge white pickup truck and opened the back door. He tossed his gear inside and turned on the engine, then all the lights started flashing and he walked around the truck, checking each light for operation. He poked at a tire and got out a pressure gauge and checked them all, then he got behind the wheel and she followed him out of the lot.

'What kind of person does that...' she asked herself as she fell in behind him, and she soon figured out that following him was like following a Driver's Ed car -- speed nailed, and right on the limit -- and not one turn signal missed. Following him was like an abject lesson on 'How To Drive A Car Safely In Heavy Urban Traffic,' and by the time he got on the 405 she was too amused to not follow him. Middle lane, speed pegged on the posted limit; he was rigidly following ALL the rules. "Well, he did say he was an accident investigator..." He turned east on the 10 then north on La Cienega, and finally a right on 3rd -- and she was tempted to follow and see if he used his turn signal to turn into his driveway -- but in the she end resisted the impulse.

Still, she didn't know if he'd driven like that simply for her benefit -- she assumed he knew she was following him, taking the same way home -- or if he compulsively driving like a control freak. It had come as a surprise to learn he lived just a few blocks away, and she had been tempted to follow him just to see where he lived, yet she was half-ashamed of herself for even thinking that. She wasn't some hormone addled thirteen year old, or so she told herself, yet when she thought about it, the last time she'd felt such an intense rush of lust had been in middle school.

So...she pulled into her apartment building's little lot and parked in her assigned space, then went to the rear of the car and hauled the dive bag upstairs to her little flat and unpacked everything, rinsing her mask and snorkel again in her kitchen sink, then she showered, trying not to touch herself down there.

But that was becoming almost impossible, she thought as she dried herself off. She couldn't get him out of her mind as she looked at the time on her iPhone again and again. More than an hour to go! She went to the closet, looked at her clothes. "Not too casual? Should I try for sexy?"

No, that's not who I am, she told herself one more time. Stay true to who you are. Jeans, a white polo shirt and some white Adidas tennis shoes. Her ritual Saturday afternoon running around town attire...that's it...stay true and have fun, but be yourself. She opened up her laptop and checked email, replied to a few from work about adjusting patient medications, then she turned on the TV and flipped through a few channels, settling on Real Time With Bill Maher. She laughed and shook her head at all the jokes about Trump and Sanders and the craziness of this never-ending campaign season, then looked at the time again and turned off the TV. She grabbed her wallet and a windbreaker and went downstairs, then walked the block and a half to the restaurant.

And of course, he was already there.

In jeans, a white polo shirt and white Adidas tennis shoes.

They laughed as he stood and pulled out her chair, and she cringed when she tried to remember the last time a guy had tried to do that for her. Still, she bit her tongue and held off commenting, smiled as she sat down. "What are you drinking?" she asked as she looked at his drink.

"Mineral water, slice of lime. Remember? I go on call at midnight."

"Ah, well, I'll have the same," she said to the waiter. "Have you already ordered?"

"No, but I usually have the same thing. What about you?"

"Chicken Tikka Masala and Saag Paneer. Garlic Naan and then hot tea with dessert"

"Yup, it's official," he said. "This is weird."

"You too?"

"Yup." He laughed, watched her smile, then looked at her eyes again.

"So, let's get this out of the way," she sighed. "I'm a flaming liberal, a partisan feminist. I got a BA from Brown in Philosophy, then went to med school in Philadelphia. I work at an HMO because I get to see a lot of working people close to the edge, and I do time at a free clinic downtown every Thursday evening, working with the homeless. I haven't been on a date in over, well, a few years, and have never been married. Now, you. You drive a pickup truck, like a little old lady I might add, so you're a Republican, you graduated from high school and you have peculiar taste in clothes."

He looked at her, his head cocked to one side a little, then he took a sip of water.

"I met my wife at Stanford. She was still an undergrad, I was finishing my Master's, in History. I'm a democrat and plan on voting for Sanders. I like my pickup truck, I can't help it. I've been cross-trained as a paramedic and work when I can at a couple of Catholic churches in South Central, mainly refugees from Latin America. I teach SCUBA diving and MSF courses on weekends, and I've slept with one woman over the last twenty years, and none since."

"Fuck."

"You make your living pasting labels on stereotypical behavior? Or is this just a hobby of yours?"

"I'm sorry...but what's MSF?"

"Motorcycle Safety Foundation. I teach 'newbs' how to ride bikes."

"That figures. You and your red cape."

"Actually, we were having tons of motorcycle fatalities, and read that in a lot of cities like LA, when their city's motorjocks got involved teaching these classes, the number of fatalities, even injuries, drops by over fifty percent. We've had a seventy percent drop in West LA. That's hundreds of people a year not killed or injured. It adds to the workload in one way, but most of our motorcycle officers are teaching the classes now. It's made a difference, and I'd rather teach than scrape kids off the pavement."

"Do you want that cape to hang below the knee, or just above?"

He laughed. "You decide."

"I already tried, and look where that got me."

"In my business, stereotypes and labels get you in deep shit -- in a hurry. Everyone's a threat until proven otherwise."

"What about me?" she said, looking him in the eye. "Am I a threat?"

He looked at her for a long minute. "Your eyes are honest. So are your hands. You don't trust men easily, and haven't figured out yet if you can trust me or not. You're lonely, and wondering if you'll always be alone, but you don't take people for granted, either."

"Okay, you can read me like a book. So, why can't I read you?"

"Because you're trying to read me the same way you read your patients. You're trying to, well, stick labels on me. It's not working because you work day in and day out with broken people, and you've forgotten what it's like to be around people who've got life dialed-in, people who are happy with themselves and not looking for other answers -- 'out there.'"

She nodded her head, looked down at her hands. "Okay," she said softly. "I give."

"None of which means a thing to me, Carol. You're cute, you're sweet, and I enjoyed talking with you last night. A lot, as a matter of fact."

She looked up at him, nodded her head. "I did too. More than you know."

"Okay, so where do you want to go from here?"

"Do you want to 'go' somewhere, Ted? With me?"

"I wouldn't mind getting to know you, Carol, but maybe take it one step at a time. Who knows where? Okay?"

"I think I'd like that."

Dinner came and they ate in silence, yet she kept trying to come to terms with him, and what she'd just learned about herself. She'd stuck her foot in her mouth but he'd let her off the hook, gently, then helped her recover and given her a way -- not a way out -- but a path forward. He was the real deal, she thought, the kind of guy she'd been looking for, and for a long time, too. She wondered how old he was...

He asked for tea, asked if she wanted some and when she said "sure" -- he smiled then they sat and talked for another hour. About school, about life with his wife, about her death -- the small stuff and the big things that had led them to the here and now, to dinner at this table, then he paid for the meal and stood, helped her up. Once out on the sidewalk he looked at his wristwatch, then up at the moon. He shook his head as he looked up at the milky, light polluted sky.

"What's up?"

"Full moon. It's going to be a busy night."

"Could we walk for a while?" she asked.

"Sure. Where to?"

"Your place, maybe?"

He took her hand and they walked up to the light and crossed 3rd, then up La Jolla to his house. She looked at it and almost gasped; you didn't buy a house like this in West LA without some real money, and cops didn't make real money. Now she was beyond curious, yet she held her tongue again, until she got inside, anyway.

"Holy Fuck!" she cried. "This is nuts!" She walked around the living room, looking at the art on the walls, the furniture. All Mission style, not cheap knock-offs, either, just like this bungalow. It was the real deal; not simply well preserved, it was immaculate, a work of art.

"What?"

"This place, it's just gorgeous."

"When Sandy and I bought it...well, you should have seen it then. It was falling apart at the seams. I had this old pickup with a camper on it, and we slept out in the driveway for two years while we rebuilt it. Restored the garage first, turned that into a workshop, then I started in on the house." He pointed to a stack of magazines. "Those became my bible. American Bungalow magazine, my idea storehouse; I built what I liked straight out of those."

"God...the wood...what is it? Cherry?"

"Most of it, yeah. Some oak around the fireplace, and here," he paused and led her in deeper into the house, "in the kitchen."

"You built all this?" she said as she stifled another gasp.

"Yup. Follow me." He led her from the kitchen down a long hall, but the hallway was a library, both side lined with cabinets under and continuous bookshelves above, and from there he led her into his bedroom.

She did gasp this time. The room was pure Japanese, austere, almost monastic in it's purity, and it looked out on a small Japanese garden. "This is too much, Ted. It's not simply perfect, it's...I don't know...it's like you took the idea of "home" and crafted it into a reality few people can understand, let alone appreciate."

"We could never find anything we liked. The only way forward was to dream it to life, then get to work and make it happen."

"Now I understand the pickup truck..."

"Just another tool, Carol. Not some macho bullshit."

She nodded her head, walked around the house while he pointed out things he'd made, pieces of furniture they found here and vases they'd found there, every thing told a story, a story about his life with Sandy. Yet even that story was odd, too. She'd abandoned him, this house, all these memories -- and for what? Did his story add up, or what had she missed? And what was he leaving out...

"It's almost midnight," he said. "Just so you know, that phone is going to ring a minute before, and I'm going to have to leave."

"I hate to ask, but is that what came between you and Sandy?"

"Maybe ten years ago that would have been true," he sighed. "But the real truth is a whole lot more complicated. And she was as attached to her work as I am to mine. It was always that way, but more so the last, well, for several years."

"What did she do?"

"She was a producer over a CBS, in the news bureau. It was 24/7/365, always working on stories, getting them on air, fighting budget cuts and managing egos. She loved it, by the way." He went to his closet and pulled out his uniform, then his boots...tall riding boots that went up to the knee. He slapped some black polish on them and buffed them out, then pulled a pistol out a locked drawer and slid the thing into it's holster.

"Geez, it's hard to reconcile all the facets of your life," she said, looking at this house, thinking about him out on the boat earlier that morning, and now this...the blue uniform, the boots and the gun.

"All those labels get in the way, don't they?"

"They sure do, with you, anyway."

His land-line phone rang and he picked it up, started writing on a notepad. "Okay, I'll check into service here and head on out in about five minutes," he said, hanging up the phone. "Well, that's that."

"The story of your life, huh?"

He grinned as he pulled on his boots, then he put on what he called his Sam Brown belt and secured it to another belt under. "Come on," he said as he walked out the house to his garage. He opened the door and she saw the truck, and a police motorcycle beside it. He started the motor and pulled the bike into the driveway, turned on the radio and checked into service.

"I'd prefer you don't walk home just now," he said, looking down at his watch. "Just crash here. I ought to be back around seven or so. We can grab some breakfast then, if you like."