Once Is Never Enough Page 3

  He heard Goolardo’s voice from below. “Come on! Let’s go!”

  “It’s a tight fit.”

  “Maybe your clothes are catching!” Goolardo said. “Take them off!”

  “No, no, I can do it. I just need to push!” Mendoza struggled but didn’t make any progress.

  “Quickly! Clothes off or I leave without you!”

  “What?”

  “Take your clothes off!”

  Mendoza clumsily pulled himself out of the drainage pipe and quickly stripped down. He caught a glimpse of himself in the steel mirror. Naked, he looked even larger. From the bottom of his ass to the top of his chest, he was one formless, hairless, slab of refrigerator-sized flesh. As such, he still couldn’t fit through the hole.

  “Soap yourself up,” Goolardo shouted from below. “Quickly. Lather up!”

  Mendoza grumbled and turned on the shower and soaped up his massive torso. When he was lathered up from his thighs to his neck, he gingerly eased himself down into the plastic pipe, wiggling and struggling to get himself deeper. He kicked and shimmied and started to slide. He slid gradually at first, like a rat slowly moving through a snake, and then picked up speed, faster and faster, until he popped out the other end and landed with a sound like a canoe paddle slapping a side of beef. Embarrassed, he quickly scrambled to his feet and immediately slipped and fell back down on the soapy cement.

  A small motorcycle waited and Goolardo sat astride it. It took three tries to kick start it, but finally the engine roared to life. Mendoza lifted a large soapy leg to climb on the back of the banana seat and Goolardo held out a hand to stop him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Climbing on.”

  “No, no, no, I don’t think so.”

  “You want me to walk? It’s over a kilometer.”

  “And your naked and wet.”

  “I have no shoes!”

  Goolardo closed his eyes and sighed a sigh of annoyance. “Fine. Climb on. Just make sure nothing bumps into me from behind.”

  Mendoza climbed on and put his arms around Goolardo, who grimaced at the damp embrace. Goolardo twisted the throttle and the motorcycle roared. Mendoza’s added weight caused the bike to pop a wheelie and Mendoza, wet and slick as he was, lost his grip and slipped right off. His wide sudsy ass hit the ground hard as the motorcycle sped away, disappearing down the tunnel.

  “Chinga tu madre!” The naked enforcer scrambled to his bare feet and ran after the departing bike, the engine’s whine growing more distant as he gingerly made his way forward over the rocks, dirt clods and rubble.

  Chapter Four

  The first residents of Eagle Rock were the Tongva. They lived in the shadow of the massive rock that sat atop the San Rafael Hills, and then the Spanish arrived and constructed the Mission San Gabriel Arcangel. The Tongva were decimated by old world diseases and forced relocation. In 1785, the Tongva’s female chief, Toypurina, rallied the last of her tribe and led a violent rebellion, but the Tongva were outnumbered and outgunned and the insurrection was crushed. When Mexico gained its independence from Spain in 1821, the new government sold mission lands to ranchers and the Tongva were forced to assimilate or die.

  Thirty years later, California was ceded to the United States following the Mexican-American war. The Tongva were nearly gone and largely forgotten by those who had supplanted them. In their place were citrus farms and, later, housing developments that advertised the wonders of the California climate to cold and miserable easterners looking for a little warmth. They were told that unlike San Francisco, Southern California was an earthquake-free twentieth century Garden of Eden.

  From the window of Flynn’s room in the Bella Vista Residential Treatment Facility, Eagle Rock’s shadow fell upon the fast-food restaurants, strip malls, and gas stations that now crowded the valley floor. He shared his room with another former patient from City of Roses who also worked at the Glendale Galleria. Rodney Shoop was twenty years older than Flynn and fifty pounds heavier. He had white hair that fell to his shoulders and a large, bushy beard. As Flynn struggled to button his Hot-Dog-on-a-Stick uniform, the new one hadn’t arrived yet, Rodney had a similar problem with his bright red Santa pants.

  His roomie sucked in his gut and worked to push the stubborn brass buttons into the holes. He put on his big, shiny, black vinyl belt and zipped up his zipper. Next came the high black boots. Then the bright red Santa jacket with the fake fur. He watched Flynn put on his Hot-Dog-on-a-Stick hat.

  “You put on any more weight and you could be a damn Santa yourself,” Rodney said.

  “Do you like being Santa?” Flynn asked.

  “I’m not really Santa.”

  “I know.”

  “I just pretend to be Santa.”

  “I know, Rodney.”

  “My problem was opioids. Substance abuse. Got hooked after back surgery. Unlike you, I was never delusional.”

  “Do you like pretending to be Santa?” Flynn asked.

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On the kids. Some are cute and polite and when I ask them what they want, they don’t have some long-ass list. They tell me the one thing they want and then they’re done. But a lot of kids are assholes. They complain that I didn’t bring them what they wanted last year and then reel off a list that never frickin’ ends. Ungrateful little jerks. But they aren’t even the worst.”

  “What are the worst?”

  “One-year-olds. Two-year-olds. Mom hands them over and they scream like frickin’ banshees. Shrieking and wriggling and grabbing my beard with those icky, sticky fingers. Meanwhile, I’m supposed to smile because we’re getting our picture taken. What are those parents thinking?” After finally buttoning the last button on his jacket, Rodney carefully positioned the Santa hat on his head. “What time is it?”

  Flynn glanced at the alarm clock on the rickety side table between the twin beds. “Late.”

  “Shit,” Rodney said. “No time for breakfast. Let’s go.”

  They hurried from the group home and down the block to where they picked up the bus to the mall. It was drizzling and chilly as they huddled in the bus shelter.

  Flynn eyeballed Rodney’s Santa suit. “That suit looks pretty warm.”

  “It’s not. It’s fake fur and velour. No lining. Nothing.”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “Santa School.”

  “Santa School?”

  “You gotta be certified if you want to work professionally and I went to one of the best in the country. CWH, Midland, Michigan. It’s not the North Pole, but about as frickin’ cold.”

  “What do they teach you there?”

  “Everything from the history of Santa and St. Nick to how to dress and trim your beard. You’d be surprised by how many Santas wear fake beards. Personally, I think that’s second rate. A professional Santa needs a real beard and forget those fat suits. If you want to have a good ‘ho, ho, ho’ you gotta have meat on your bones. Lung capacity. Resonance. They even teach you accounting and business tips. Marketing advice. It’s not cheap and I had to get a student loan, but a good Santa can make up to twenty grand a season.”

  “Twenty grand? That’s not bad.”

  “Better than what you make at Hot-Dog-on-a-damn-stick.”

  The bus arrived and Rodney and Flynn boarded. An elderly Armenian couple, two middle-aged Hispanic women, and a young Asian woman with a four-year-old boy sat on board. The kids’ eyes grew wide at the sight of Santa Claus. Two tough-looking teenagers sat two rows behind the young mom, sniggering and grinning at Flynn and Rodney.

  “Hi Santa,” said the little boy.

  “Merry Christmas,” Rodney replied.

  “How come you’re not riding your sleigh?”

  “Umm, I only take that out on Christmas Eve,” Rodney said.

  “How come?”

  “’Cause, um, I don’t like to tire out the reindeer.”

  “How come?”

  “’Cause if they’r
e tired they can’t, you know, help me out on Christmas Eve.”

  “How come?”

  Rodney’s voice was a little sharp. “I don’t know.” The boy’s mother reacted to Rodney’s tone and shot him an angry look. Catching himself, Rodney sighed and put on a phony smile. “What’s your name, kid?”

  “Daniel.”

  “Have you been a good boy?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “Very good,” his mom said as she patted him on the head. “Danny, tell Santa what you want for Christmas.”

  “A Wonder Chopper RC Mini Stunt Drone.”

  “Okay. Great. Good to know,” Rodney said.

  “Hey Santa,” the bigger of the teens sniggered. “Can I tell you what I want?”

  “How about you don’t,” Rodney replied.

  “I’ve been a good boy.”

  “I doubt that,” Rodney said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means it’s time to shut your mouth.”

  The teenager stopped smiling and stood. The mother pulled her little son closer. The older people on the bus looked out the window as the teenager moved up the aisle towards Rodney. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, old man?”

  “Boy, you better watch your mouth.”

  “Hey, it’s okay. He didn’t mean anything by it,” Flynn said.

  “Who the hell asked you?” The teen raised his chin.

  “I’m just saying—“

  “And I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to Santa!”

  Rodney’s face turned pink as he lurched to his feet. The big teen stood his ground and Flynn tugged on Rodney’s sleeve. “Rodney, come on, sit down.”

  Rodney stood toe to toe with the teen. He was twice as wide, but a foot shorter and the teen towered over him. The teen looked down at four-year-old Danny and said, “Hey, kid, you know this asshole really isn’t Santa, right? He ain’t real.”

  “Shut your mouth,” Rodney growled.

  “He’s just some fat old dude wearing a stupid red suit.”

  Flynn stood up and edged his way between them. “He is real. He’s real if you believe in him.”

  “I used to believe in Santa too.” The teen poked Flynn in the chest. “But now I know Santa’s a lie. To shut kids up. To keep ‘em quiet. Play nice and believe in Santa and you’ll get everything you want. But that’s bullshit.”

  “Watch your mouth,” Rodney said.

  “Is this beard even real?” The teen reached past Flynn and tugged hard on Rodney’s beard.

  “Ow! What the hell!” Rodney jerked his head back, but the teen held on tight and laughed.

  A tiny hand grabbed the teen’s arms. “Let him go! Let Santa go!” Little Danny was furious. Tears filled his eyes.

  Seeing how upset Danny was, the teen let Rodney go, smirked at this friend and returned to his seat. Rodney wanted payback, but Flynn gently prodded him back and sat down next to him.

  Danny’s mom hugged her boy close as he continued to cry.

  One of the middle-aged Hispanic ladies, a woman in her fifties, offered them all a little advice.“Todo el mundo necesita algo en que creer.

  Her friend translated for Rodney and Flynn. “Everyone needs something to believe in.”

  The lemon juice burned. Flynn blinked and rubbed his right eye. It was already noon and the line at Hot Dog on a Stick was ten deep.

  “Is that lemonade ready?” Becky asked.

  “We’re almost out.” Emma clapped her hands. “Come on, Jimmy! You need to pick up the pace.”

  Flynn looked up at her with one watery eye. “Okay.” Flynn hand-stomped faster, mashing the masher, mumbling, “Faster, faster, faster…”

  Juice splashed in both his eyes and up his nose and he blinked and squinted and held a sneeze in. He scrunched up his face and tried to stifle it and stopped mashing to concentrate on not sneezing, but it was too late. It was loud and wet and right in the bucket and the people waiting in line watched it happen.

  The line of customers uttered a collective, “Ewwwwww.”

  “Throw it out! Start again! Start cutting!” Becky shouted.

  Three days before Christmas, the crowds at the Glendale Galleria were insane. As the holiday grew closer, the lines at Hot Dog on a Stick extended farther and farther into the food court. Each day Flynn didn’t think the mall could hold any more frenzied shoppers, and each day he was wrong. Patience grew thin. Tempers flared. Pressure mounted. Flynn worked right through lunch. His back ached from being on his feet for so long as he cut and squished and squinted through stinging, watery eyes. He didn’t get a break until 3:00 p.m. when his manager, Mrs. McKinney, told him to take a late lunch.

  Flynn held a tray piled high with fries, a Cinnabon, and two Hot Dogs on a Stick as he searched for an open table in the food court. Every single red plastic table was occupied. Kids screamed and parents yelled and Flynn just wanted to get off his feet and eat.

  “Jimmy!” It was Mr. Papazian, the elderly Armenian security guard. He and Mr. Rodriguez shared a table. “Join us!” Flynn gratefully walked over, putting his tray on the table and his ass in the seat.

  “You look beat. When was the last time you ate?” Papazian said.

  Flynn shrugged. “I was late for work today and missed breakfast.”

  “That’s not good.” Rodriguez lifted a forkful of broccoli beef. “This time of year, with all the craziness, you gotta take care of yourself.”

  Flynn nodded and bit off the top of a corn dog, closing his eyes as he chewed.

  “How’s your Christmas shopping going?” asked Papazian.

  “I don’t have anybody to buy for,” Flynn said.

  “You don’t have any family?”

  Flynn shook his head.

  “So where are you spending Christmas?” Rodriguez asked.

  Flynn shrugged. “At the group home, I guess.”

  “No, you’re not.” Papazian pointed his spork at him. “You’ll be with me and my family. Though we celebrate Christmas on January sixth.”

  “The sixth?” Rodriguez wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Who celebrates Christmas on January sixth?”

  “Armenians. We’re Eastern Orthodox.”

  “That’s messed up.”

  “That’s the date Jesus was born and baptized. That’s the real Christmas. The twenty-fifth was a pagan festival dedicated to the Sun God. The Catholics took it over like they take everything over.”

  “So, what do Armenians do for Christmas?” Rodriguez asked, intrigued.

  “Same as you. We do a whole thing. My wife makes a fish dish called ishkanatsoog and for dessert, anoushabour, which is like a pudding made with berries and apricots.”

  “Christmas pudding?”

  “Yeah, sweets to make the next year sweet.”

  Rodriguez raised a curious eyebrow. “So, what do you do on the twenty-fifth?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “It’s not Christmas,” Papazian replied.

  “Then Jimmy can spend the twenty-fifth with my family.” Rodriguez beamed. “My wife, Rosa, makes Christmas tamales and a roast pork leg that’s so tender it falls right off the bone.”

  “Can I come?” Papazian asked.

  “For Christmas?”

  “For the tamales.”

  Rodriguez smirked as he stood up and picked up his tray. “Why not?”

  “I better get back to it too. I can’t wait for this stupid holiday season to be over.” Papazian rose and grabbed his tray. “Happiest time of the year my ass. People turn into animals. There’s more theft. More fights. It’s fucking crazy.”

  Papazian and Rodriguez disappeared into the crowd and Flynn tucked into his fries.

  The next time he looked up, a slightly chubby twenty-something Hispanic man stood over his table. “Hey, Jimmy.”

  “Sancho...”

  “Sorry I haven’t been by for a bit.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not, but
I’ve been busy.” Sancho sat across from Flynn. “You’ve been busy too, by the looks of it.” Flynn nodded and took a huge bite of his Cinnabon. “Q says hi. So, does Dr. Nickelson. Says he’s going to stop by and see you soon.”

  Flynn nodded again and took another big bite.

  “You doing okay? How’s work?”

  “Okay,” Flynn replied with a mouthful. Flynn could tell Sancho was uncomfortable, but so was he. Sancho knew him as James, not Jimmy. He had an emotional connection to his delusional alter ego, but now that James was gone, a distance settled between them. A sadness hovered behind Sancho’s eyes. A sense of loss. Pity even. Sancho kept trying to remind Flynn of who he used to be, but Flynn didn’t want or need to be reminded.

  “Looks like you’ve put on a few,” Sancho pointed out.

  “A few what?”

  “Pounds.” Sancho seemed almost embarrassed to mention it.

  “I guess.”

  “It’s because of the anti-psychotic medication you’re on. One of the side effects is rapid weight gain.”

  Flynn nodded as he took another giant bite of Cinnabon.

  “It also could be why your hair is thinning and your eye keeps twitching like that.”

  “My eye’s twitching?”

  “It’s another side effect. Facial tics and spasms.”

  “It makes me sleepy too. I don’t like it.”

  “I know, but at least you’re not …” Sancho hesitated.

  “Delusional.”

  “Yeah.”

  Flynn stuffed the last of the Cinnabon into his mouth, his lips slick with icing, eyes involuntarily blinking. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know what Sancho wanted to hear. They sat there silently, awkwardly. Sancho abruptly blabbered to fill the silence.

  “I’m still studying psychology at PCC and next Fall I’m planning to transfer to Northridge. I had a class on pharmacology last semester. That’s how I know about those side effects. Anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to come by mom’s place for Christmas dinner?”