I had promised Sirius a walk when we got home, and as soon as we pulled into the driveway, it was clear he was more than ready to collect on that promise. As we set out I said, “Let’s make this short. It’s not a night fit for man or beast.”
My partner didn’t seem to be of the same mind. His credo is pretty much the same as that of a postal carrier when it comes to his walks. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night deters him, and although it wasn’t rainy or even particularly cold, the winds were kicking up and pushing dust and microscopic debris everywhere. Those same desert winds had also sucked the air dry, and the lack of humidity was making my skin feel like sandpaper.
We were headed for our usual destination, a park three blocks away. As we walked, a headwind pushed at us, but it was a wind that kept starting up and then stopping, and it seemed like whenever I lowered my head and pressed my shoulder into it, the air currents died down. This rising and falling of the wind kept me off balance and made me feel like I was taking Frankenstein steps. The uneven walk made the park seem farther away than usual, and I tried to negotiate an early out.
“Are the smells really that much better in the park?” I asked. “I mean, look at this pine tree. Doesn’t it make you want to stop and sniff?”
Sirius wagged his tail but continued forward. The pine tree didn’t interest him, and I remembered how John Steinbeck had brought his dog Charley to the giant redwoods with the expectation of the poodle’s being beside himself at the prospect of watering at the altar of one of the biggest trees on the planet. Charley didn’t respond as expected, and it was all Steinbeck could do to make his dog lift his leg.
As we passed by the tree I said, “I’m not sure if you’re telling me to piss off, or that I just don’t know shit.”
Because the LA Basin is near sea level, it’s particularly vulnerable to weather conditions happening hundreds and even thousands of miles away. When high pressure builds over the Great Basin, the clockwise flow of air pushes toward the sea, and as those winds come into LA from the northeast and the east, they are compressed and warmed. There is also a funneling effect from the winds being pushed through the county’s canyons and passes that increases their speed. I had apparently heard Ellis Haines lecture on Santa Ana conditions too many times. He liked to call the Santa Ana winds the “devil’s breath.”
At that moment, the devil’s breath was blowing down my neck. Haines was probably the only person in California that liked that feeling. When he was on trial, he had volunteered the fact that he’d worn a trench coat on most of the occasions when he’d strangled his victims, saying that he’d gone out “looking like a flasher.” He’d talked about the exhilaration of the winds whipping his coat open and closed, and I remembered how he’d emphasized this while on the stand by raising his hands and saying, “Look, Ma, no hands.” And then he’d laughed.
I could use an exorcism, I thought, to rid myself of my demon. I suspected that Haines would continue to plague my thoughts until the Santa Ana condition departed, and according to weather reports that was at least a day off. Maybe then he’d stop playing on my mind.
We made it to the park without seeing a soul. When the winds blow hard, LA likes to hibernate. I let Sirius off his leash and he was immediately onto the scent of something he liked. I thought about Charley again and the big redwoods. Even though Sequoia National Park is only about a hundred fifty miles away from Sherman Oaks, I had never taken Sirius to see the giant trees. It would be a good trip for us, I thought, although I suspected Sirius would react like Charley had. I doubted his taking aim at one of nature’s skyscrapers would make Sirius any happier than his daily sprinkling at his little patch of park with its weeds, mulch, and spindly shrubs.
As Sirius deliberated over his exact “Kilroy was here” spot, I said, “I can’t see the attraction of this place over the pine tree we passed.”
Sirius didn’t explain his choice but merely kept sniffing. Finally, he made up his mind. As he finished with his business I asked him, “Plastic or paper?” Since he didn’t express a preference, I bagged with plastic and made the deposit into one of the park’s anchored trash containers.
With our mission accomplished, we hurried back toward home. The streets were deserted except for a passing car or two. There was a light in the windstorm, though. Seth Mann’s Jaguar was parked in the driveway, and his porch light was on. The shaman was in.
When Seth has company he usually parks in the garage and leaves the driveway for his date’s car. Tonight it looked as if he wasn’t entertaining. Normally I don’t barge in on him without warning, but tonight I found myself walking up his drive.
The door opened just as we stepped onto the porch. “I felt my radar going off,” Seth said.
“Is that a nice term for shit detector?”
“As it so happens, five minutes ago I called your house to see if you and Sirius wanted to come over for a visit.”
Sirius was already inside the doorway looking back at me and wagging his tail. He looked like a happy child saying, “Can we, Dad, can we please?”
“I’m surprised you don’t have a date tonight.”
“I’m surprised you don’t,” he said, giving me a knowing smile.
“I am afraid that’s yesterday’s news. We hit a stumbling block today. She came to her senses.”
“Stumbling blocks can be surmounted.”
“So can Mount Everest, but not by me.”
As I followed Sirius into his home, Seth asked, “What’s your poison?”
“I need a comfort drink, preferably some sour mash from either the great state of Kentucky or Tennessee.”
“Tall glass?”
“Make it as high as an elephant’s eye.”
A minute later Seth brought out the drinks. We clicked glasses and I said, “Cheers.”
We tilted glasses in each other’s direction, and in the upward movement of Seth’s glass I saw a dark shadow floating in the midst of his amber-colored drink.
I craned my head for a closer look and said, “Don’t tell me that’s a worm in your glass.”
“You have your comfort drink and I have mine. I prefer my mescal con gusano.”
Seth is one of those Anglos that insist upon pronouncing Spanish words as if he was born to the language. “No one really prefers a drink with a worm in it, except for drunken college students on spring break.”
“In Mexico the maguey worm is considered a delicacy.”
“In France they love snails, but I don’t see the French floating escargots in their cognac.”
“That might be so, but mescal aficionados believe the maguey worm enhances the taste. Besides, it’s nostalgic for me.”
“You’re nostalgic for worms?”
He responded to my sarcasm with a shrug. “As you know, I have spent some time living with native peoples. Because they don’t have access to the kind of proteins we do, they happily eat certain ants, grasshoppers, grubs, and termites, as well as the larvae of bees, wasps, and beetles.”
“And let’s not forget worms.”
“Mostly the worms are used as bait for fishing, but there are some that are served as snacks.”
“Worms and alcohol,” I said. “What a wonderful combination.”
“Perhaps you’d prefer manioc beer?”
“Is that another one of your native specials?”
Seth nodded. “What’s unique about it is the brewing process.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask how it’s done.”
“It’s basic science. In all brewing you need a fermenting agent. In the tribes I’ve spent time with, the maniocs-or other starchy roots-are cut up and boiled, and afterward the roots are chewed up by the young women of the tribe and then spat into a barrel. Add a little water, boil it all up, bottle it and let it ferment for several days, and you have beer.”
“You drank spit beer?”
“The chewing and the saliva are what split up the starches and start the fermentation process.”