It doesn't get dark in Westlake Village until 9 PM in July. It is, of course, a figment of our imagination, as synthetic a vision as Westlake Village itself. The earth ignores the clock on my wall and is at odds with the embedded metronome of my daily life. My time may not be your time; it is a personal time, and neither of us may realize other people are having breakfast in Honolulu.
I sit out here in a plastic lawn chair in the cool of the evening with my Budweiser close at hand and stare dumbly at the parade of stars across the darkening sky. I even have a portable television set in my lap transporting me to a baseball field in Denver, Colorado, where the sun still shines. It is a time of miracles.
This is Amerika, Mr. Kafka . . . or should I say "Cafca." You would have loved living in Westlake Village. It is your kind of town, near enough to the throbbing hub of noise and light we call the "city," and far enough from it to be an impartial witness to it. We are proud of it. When it's good, it is our kind of town, but when it's bad, we will have nothing to do with it.
A cosmic instant ago, white men in their plastic chairs, their flickering TV's and sweat-beaded Budweisers fade from my sight, and I can see red men bedding down in deerhide tents, listening with masculine gratification to the moans of their women and the chattering of their children. Some of us may see further still, back to an earlier tick in time's clock, when the glacier, grinding its gritty path from what is now Quebec, paused for breath in Westlake Village and left a terminal moraine where I now sit. Before that who knows? Did giant lizard-like predators with golden eyes prowl a steamy swamp I now call my town? A tick in time but aeons before the man in the plastic chair who stares in open-mouthed wonder at the austere sky.
Corky, the neighbor's Bassett, greets me with a soft, "woof." We are great friends, Corky and I, and we trust each other in the dead of night. I think he has gotten a whiff of the Budweiser. He would die for beer, and as a tribute to his sense of values, he would not be so quick to die for his master or me. I upend the can and let him have the dregs and he catches each golden drop before it touches the ground. Then he wants the can. I give it to him and he lumbers off into the night carrying it gently in his slobbering jaws.
My Budweiser is gone, my bladder is full, and my beloved but incompetent Mets have come up short again. It occurs to me, as I sit here in my plastic chair, that Corky and I represent the total sum — the cream of universal achievement, the feeders at the top of the food chain, the commingling of dust to blazing stars, and the organization of matter and space. I honor the numberless dead that have died so that he and I might sit in comfort under the black velvety sky and enjoy a beer together. We are in their debt. It is a great responsibility to accept such energy and sacrifice — I shall have to give it my careful consideration. But for now I must pee.
I do so. A long and magnificent Budweiser-induced pee. One that sets me thinking again. I might have done that outside my tent a tick in time ago, but I am civilized now. Technologically hip.
The night is young, and I decide to walk a block or two before calling it a day. The windows of the neighborhood are open to the midsummer air and, if my ears were sharper, I would be privileged to share their intimate secrets. I already share the rubbish man with them as well as their tastes in music and television, their family disagreements, and the savageness of their dogs. Some houses are dark. Are they away? Are they making love? Are they looking out from their interior darkness and wondering who this strange, elderly figure walking the night might be?
"Hey Pop! Which way's Magnolia Street?" Two kids in a Camaro with a tuned muffler.
The driver looks at me with the fish-like stare of someone who really can't see well without glasses. I am about to show him where Magnolia Street is when the passive female by his side states loudly enough for all the street to hear . . . "Y'aint gettin nuttin outta him, Ritchie, he's lost too." She reveals more of herself than she conceals. It is not a body she should be proud of, but ten to one, Ritchie will possess it before the morning has come.
Well, screw both of you. I know where Magnolia Street is very well. After all, I'm the total sum of universal achievement. The curve topped out when I arrived, and you two are perfect examples of what the world can expect on the downhill side. How could I not know where Magnolia Street is! Nancy Grenoble lived there, Tony Cannon, Frannie and Alex . . . and you think I'm lost? The exhaust burbles aggressively, and fish-eyes guns the Camaro further on down the slope. What will the future bring for fish-eyes and his lady of the evening? Do I see only their tragic side? Am I blind to the substance within them that may carry them to greater heights than I might ever imagine? I hear the click of dog claws behind me. Corky has decided to take a turn with me on the outside chance I have an unopened beer on my person.
"That's the problem with you, Corky. Perhaps in the next few clicks of time you'll see the problem yourself. You can't depend on us. We're on the downhill side. Just because we have electronic fingers that can put ones and zeros together . . . it's not a big thing, Corky old boy, believe me. It won't buy you a beer when you need one; and by the way, Corky, you're how old? Ten — twelve? You're as old as me in dog years. Don't you think you're old enough to bring your own beer?"
"Look at you sitting with your bare ass in the gutter, looking at me like I was God. I'm not your Master, Corky. You're not my slave. I'm flesh and blood like you. I will not reach down to take your paw and give to you what my Master gave me." I point to the Camaro heading in the wrong direction to get to Magnolia Street, "Look what it came to!"
"Look at the stars, Corky. See how close they are." I pause to consider what minor miracle of coincidence has brought us all together. I look into Corky's brown beggar's eyes, scratch behind his silken ears and pat his rump. "It could have been a different man, Corky. A different dog and a different configuration of stars, but one thing would not have changed. Love, Corky! That's the same everywhere."
In this soft summer night, I think that might be the root of our problem as well. We thought we were special just because Someone reached down to take our paw. "Enough of this thinking, let's go home Corky — away to bed, I shall pull this blanket of stars up to my chin and sleep all night in Elysium. Good night, Westlake Village.
This is the thirtieth and final chapter of Westlake Village.
Two and a half years ago, Denise Ruiz gave me the opportunity to begin this series in Seeker, and Cherie Staples let me continue with it when she took over. I think it's time to stop.
As you might know, the people in the village were real but the town was not. The people were loved ones, my family and friends, people I did not want to forget — people I thought you might like to know. It was a way of thanking them for having a profound effect on my life.
But now, after thirty chapters, I find I'm beginning to use these people as characters, turning them into caricatures of themselves. Out of my love and respect for them, it is best to say good night to them and let the sun set on Westlake Village.