Nash headed straight on Second Avenue. Why not? It was a lonely, dark night. He could find some way to trash that vinyl billboard. He wasn’t going to climb the face of the building, but he should be able to spill paint down from the roof. He’d kept the five gallons of latex paint in his trunk for weeks. He would do it. He owed it to Henry.
His mouth started to get dry. He could easily be caught and arrested, but he had nothing to lose at this point, nothing.
The building with the board came into view. But instead of the luminous pink letters and sculpted pills, a black face loomed. A huge skull and crossbones obscured the ad. When Nash got closer, he could see it was a vinyl overlay designed specifically for the board. The names Blythin and Nepenthex were visible, and Pherotek, as well as one luminous pill. But the skull and crossbones loomed above them. And above the skull was the legend in cutout letters: WHO IS RESPONSIBLE?
Nash stopped his car in front of the billboard. It was fantastic. Perfectly done. And so quickly. Better than the feeble gesture he had considered. He got out of the car and stood in the middle of the deserted street in the rain. The board defacement was signed. He could see a small tag on the vinyl face. SAFE, it said. He couldn’t believe it at first. Then he laughed. Someone had finally jacked his acronym. Someone smart.
Nash drove home, all the while trying to guess what SAFE now stood for. Maybe Some Angel Future Ecclesia. Or Safe Appropriations for Ever.
Nash woke up early, made his bed, his toast and his coffee. He ate as he sat near the window, wearing his bathrobe. He watched the first sunlight streaming in, catching the shine on the wood floors, warming him as he finished eating. It was a lovely morning.
He heard a vehement knock at his front door. He quickly got up and started to dress. He put on a sweater. He bent over and tied his hiking boots. He put on his peacoat and his watch cap. More knocking and talking.
He stuck a pen in the spiral of his notebook and tucked it in his large welt coat pocket. He opened the front door. Two men stood in the doorway in suits and overcoats. The Cascades loomed in the distance behind the men. The mountain peaks were clearly visible and, he finally had to admit, gorgeous. One of the men reached into his coat.
“What took you so long?” Nash said.
She pressed the buzzer. The wooden fence was over six feet tall. A woman’s voice answered.
“It’s Jeanie Morris for Mrs. Benton.”
“She’s not at home.”
“She’s expecting me. I have an envelope to drop off for her.” Mary clutched the small envelope in one hand, and in the other she held a purse. Tiny drops of sweat collected on her upper lip despite the chilly wind blowing off the ocean. The door buzzed, and she walked into the heavily landscaped courtyard. The house was new but built to resemble a Victorian shingle-style beach bungalow. But it was huge — a mansion bungalow. Mary heard her heels click on the stone path. She wore a linen mididress that hit just above the knee, a matching jacket, and low-heeled shoes with squared toes and daisy-shaped buckles. The shoes matched the leather of the snap-closed purse. She had put on a full face of base, lipstick, eyeliner and powder. Her hair was up and high, a hairdo. As she got ready, each detail of makeup and clothing had made her feel braver. She was putting on armor. It girded her, using the innocuous mascara wand and smelling the crisp linen. She felt hidden and quite capable. Clean and ladylike and dangerous.
Go ahead, underestimate me, she thought. When she arrived at the front step, she had a confident but blank smile.
A middle-aged woman opened the door. She also had a blank, unreadable smile.
“I’m Mrs. Malcolm, the housekeeper. I’ll see that Mrs. Benton gets your letter.” She barely looked at Mary as she took the envelope.
“I’m so sorry to have missed Mrs. Benton.”
“I’ll tell her you were here.” Mrs. Malcolm began to close the door.
“May I use your washroom to freshen up?” Mary said. The housekeeper didn’t hesitate.
“It’s right over here,” she said, and Mary followed her to a small bathroom under the main stairwell. Mary closed the door and gently placed her purse on the closed toilet lid. She looked in the mirror and took a deep breath. A wave of tightness moved through her stomach and chest. She grasped the sink and thought for a second she might faint. She ran the water and took several deep breaths. She put her face down to the faucet and drank directly from the running water. She thought of all the terrible, ugly things that had built this opulent, ugly house.
Under the sink was an oak cabinet with two hinged doors in the front. She opened it. In addition to the plumbing she could see a round toilet brush and a bottle of Mr. Clean. She lifted the purse from the toilet and kneeled in front of the cabinet. She placed the purse carefully inside, under the curve of plumbing. Holding the handle in her left hand, she opened the clasp with her right. A clock face, some wires and a mound of molded plastic no bigger than two fists.
She looked at her watch.
She put her hand in the purse and held the clock face steady.
She pulled the pin up until it clicked.
She listened for the faint ticking.
She inhaled.
She let go.
Jason’s Journal
IT DIDN’T HAPPEN the way I imagined it would. No drama, no epiphanies. No breakpoint. Just a gradual and increasing distance. I feel so disloyal copping to this, kind of sad really. What I mean is, I never listen to the Beach Boys anymore. Not a note, not ever. The plastic-sleeve-encased vinyl sits untouched in a box in my room (in chronological order of release, of course). I still admire them, appreciate them, but it is almost purely intellectual now. I don’t have the deep-felt desire to listen over and over. I honestly never thought the day would really come. And although it is sad, it is also kind of a relief, a liberation. As more time goes by, I discover other things to fill that now vacated space. Or perhaps I found the other things first and that’s what pushed the Beach Boys slowly to the perimeter. All I know is I now have time to listen to my Kinks records, a band I have come to really admire. Although I somehow don’t anticipate a connection quite as deep as the Beach Boys. That was, perhaps, a one-off. And other interests and thoughts, some even unrelated to vintage music, have settled in, even flourished.
As I said, it wasn’t dramatic or at all deliberate. I just started to turn to those records less and less. And when I did listen to them, my mind wandered more and more. I skipped songs. Or maybe it is as simple as I wore out the old material and I ran out of new material to listen to (it is — after all and despite all the bootlegs — ultimately a finite set of work).
Don’t get me wrong. It is not as though I am about to put my half-speed-mastered 180-gram-vinyl Summer Days (and Summer Nights!!) up for auction on eBay anytime soon. Not the rare 1965 British-issue 45, mint and in original sleeve, of “God Only Knows” backed with “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” (worth a considerable amount in the collectors’ market). Not even my used, cheaply issued compact disc version of The Beach Boys Love You (featuring odd, synthetic-sounding keyboards and arguably the strangest album the Beach Boys ever made). No, I will keep all the LPs, all the CDs, all the singles and all the EPs for two important reasons: