by Tracy Lyall
Songs of 70s rock stars are fading, with old albums—vinyl records in colorful covers stacked on top of each other, thirty, forty at a time—lying dormant in a thrift-store window display. The roller rink is closed down, wooden floors scratched by skate wheels, molding and mildewing. The ceiling leaks; water drips down into a puddle. A family of rats scrambles over in the early morning hours to drink from it, to gather around like churchgoers singing“Kumbaya.”
Reminiscent homemade fire on the beach, a circle of friends from all walks of life. One via Greyhound and one who drove a car he sold when he arrived—for a hundred dollars and a pack of American Spirits so he could room in a Co-Abode with a single hippie mom who’s curly headed two-year-old runs naked through the halls drawing stupid pictures. And she trails him, scrubbing with bleach, crying to the other roommate, a Russian girl with gray skin and dark eyes, saying “You don’t exist if no one loves you,” ”You don’t
exist . . . if . . . no . . .
one . . . loves
you.”
The rats drink and scamper off as thunder of the lightning storm rumbles the plywood nailed over windows.
This is Ventura.
A soggy Flashdance of tomboys with cigarette packs rolled up in their sleeves on yellow buses, skipping school, leaving school for punk-rock boys and sugar daddies, an upper-class freshman. And those art boys pushed into bathrooms with soap thrown at them by paranoid jocks. A snap of the towel. Into the showers. A snap of the towel. The rain pours down along the street, and the gutter falls from decrepit wood. A tin building next door, like pebbles thrown by school kids. They ball them up in their hands with a sly grin.
This is Ventura.
Until that motel fling.
Ashtrays, to relive youth, the soft flesh. Before his son’s beautiful red head crowned her vagina. That hot twenty-two-year-old with demure bangs in a motel room. He forgot he hated his old-ass midlife for four or five hours—andit cost him the house, the car, half the savings account, the kids, and his respect. Four or five goddamn hours. So he half-asses his job, and the negative Yelp reviews pile up along with sloppy restocking, and it’s gradually replaced with a strip mall catering to preteen girls, surfers, and espresso lovers.
This is Ventura.
Aging, wiser, hanging on to threads like old poets. The elder hippie couples sit side by side, touch knees, and hold hands while downing espresso drinks. They remember a time, as we all remember times, when we were hopeful. Second chances. Surfboards stacked side by side near picnic tables for MacBooks. The coffeehouse on 101, like a dream I heard once years ago, “follow the 101.” Azure skies pour into the background like flash mob, like critical mass, thousands of bikes whirring and clicking through streets.
Those who run off to Hollywood or New York, exploit themselves and cry during drunk sex. As that’s the underground of theatre, afterparties, and the elite in limousines sizing you up. Like a specimen, hidden scorecards in their pockets, pinky-out champagne toast—a cock of the head, whisper, then wave of the hand. The car pulls over to remove you. They drive on, up the Boulevard.
And he stands alone again, walk the night street to a twenty-four-hour diner, order coffee, crumble sugar packets in his palm as young couples sit shoulder to shoulder eating scrambled eggs. Two a.m. Neon signs. Two a.m. He should’ve settled by now. Why could he never get it right—the soul mate, the perfect job, raising a family, buying a Winnebago? And now look what’s left—divorcees, single parents, forty-five-year-old punk rockers, deadbeats, and . . .
Ventura.
In rural regions and suburbs, his Jewish grannie lives to ninety and ninety-five, so figure only halfway there—live a little. So he should hit on the waitress, whistle a tune, and pick up the old doll perched on the swivel stool at the coffee bar.
Close your eyes.
This is Ventura.