AS IT HAPPENS

A story by Maisa Lampinen

It was the second day of August in 1973.
Southern California was dripping with sweat and no one looked each other in the eye.
The heat wave had started months ago; some say in early May, some go as far as March.
Either way, it had gone on endlessly.

By this time I had buried myself in work,
isolated in my Laurel Canyon one-bedroom bungalow
with an overflowing garden planted by the previous tenant.

”You have a key, Murphy. Use it,”

I searched for the coffee pot and found it under days of dishes.
I broke a glass in the sink and didn’t stop the bleeding. 

“Where did you disappear to?
I never heard back from you and
reckoned you ran off with my movie,”

“Your movie?”

“You’ll see, Alice.
When it comes down to it, who do you think Hollywood will choose: me or the doped up pinkos?”

“Says the ‘me’, who’s high right now,”

I was unhappy.

The summer before, I’d been content. I was in good health and dollars away from having paid off all my debt. Friends visited frequently even though I lived far away. I expected loneliness after leaving them behind. Turns out all I felt was relief.

My new home was a sweet little house hidden behind banana trees and an overwhelming scent of eucalyptus. The kitchen was modest, equipped with only a hotplate and a cracked porcelain sink. There was no room for a refrigerator, so I had to place one in the corner of the bedroom. Its hum disturbed my sleep.

I brought out three rattan chairs and a mismatched table from the collapsed shed at the back of the yard. They’d look fine on the decked terrace as soon as it had been cleared of the extensive collection of inflatable toys my landlord had gifted me. The pool itself was two feet deep. I loved it nonetheless.

Weeds had taken over the whole garden but I didn’t mind. Spiderwebs were everywhere and all colors had faded in the sun. Only the high wooden fence was newly built. Through the uneven spacing of the boards, I then saw her.

“Hello?”

I was met with eyes so green I had to look away.

“Thank you,”

“You are my neighbor.”

“And you are mine.”

Her name was Lara and I was in love with her. After the encounter on my doorstep, we spent every waking moment together. I told her lies and some secrets. She took me to places I’d never seen. I was introduced to people who weren’t interested in me but worshiped Lara. She was the sun and I a mere moon reflecting her shine.

It didn’t bother me that I was inferior.
Others were aware of it, too, and didn’t hesitate to share their thoughts with me.

“So, what’s your story?”

The inquirer was Lara’s cousin; a man in his late fifties who threw discreet parties for indiscreet people. Opposite him was Lara sitting on a blue velvet chaise longue, people at her feet listening. Her popularity perplexed me. She was demanding, detached, unattainable to most. She spoke in monologues and sometimes only to herself. Before her, I was at a loss for words yet feeling like something else was required of me. She was magic and I was dying to learn the tricks. 

I laid my body flat on the floor and observed Lara as she went about her nightly routine. There were blood stains on the carpet from the day of our first fight. The knot on her shirt had made marks on her stomach, I noticed, as she loosened the ties. She hid under a kimono that revealed only the ankles and scowled at her reflection in the mirror.

“I’m gross,”

Secretly, I liked the scent of her unwashed hair.
She was always so worried about it being unbecoming and I was too shy to say don’t be.
I was too shy to say ‘don’t’ in the first place.

Lara’s gardener, Jim, disliked me. His antipathy was not of the subtle kind. He asked Lara about me, found out details of my schedule and past, only to use them against me.

I fought back as well as I could. Lara did nothing to help. Not until one evening in late July, when I discovered my apartment had been broken into. All year I’d been working on a collection of essays on the topics of youth and rebellion. The manuscript was now smeared with wet soil.

The next morning, Jim consoled Lara with muddy hands. She fired him on the spot and avoided me for the rest of the month. I gathered the dirt that was aimed to bury me, watered it with care, watched it bloom.

August was in full swing and I had started to make a name for myself. I’d learned to speak with an intention to lure. I talked about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness in a sophisticated yet seductive manner. Whereas Lara was possessed by boundless soliloquies, I was immersed in dialogue. I had an aptitude for compliance but remained unyielding in my deepest convictions.

Lara invited a friend for late supper. The familiar clunking in the dimly lit driveway let me know it was B in her yellow Volkswagen, which used to bring Lara home.

 I served spaghetti alle vongole and wine that I’m still paying for.

Alice does not worry about penitence,
and regards herself better for it,”

“As for me, it’s all I do. I am certainly bad, and uncertain of ways to make up for it. I can’t trust anything that is simply good.” 

There was a haste in her tone that I wasn’t used to hearing.
I wondered if she’d speed-raced through words so as not to reveal the betrayal. 

“I know you trust me,”

“I know nothing,”

By summer’s end, I’d known Lara through one depressive episode and seven panic attacks. The vines were taller and the sign that welcomed in had been taken down. She had ceased to speak to me, and I took the blame.

On a distinctly quiet morning, I went to the beach and watched the seasons change. I let the salt of the sea replace the salt in my tears. Gushing whitecaps washed over every emotion with a force much like Lara’s. The waves kept me afloat until they didn’t. 

When I returned home, Lara was gone. I searched for explanations but found none. Her clothes were still in my drawers as were our memories. But the pool toys she’d taken with her. The dolphin, the swan, and the one with polka dots – I wanted them back. Only the heart she once slept on was broken and left behind.

18 months and thrice as many unsent letters since I last saw Lara. Time was not linear but trembled between before and after. She’d made me forget everything I ever had. When did I still remember her?

I spent eternal days in slumber, the rest someplace else. Writing extended reality and I was everywhere all at once. Charming and serious on Sunset, liberated in the shadows of war and the Hollywood Sign.

The L.A. woman was in me, a lucky little lady.