Beth was always doing this to him, framing an argument in just the right way so he got trapped every time. Either that, or he was a genuine asshole, and he didn’t like that possibility.
Okay, so he did care what people thought about his zip code. What’s so bad about that? After all, part of being a husband and father was being a good provider, and the wrong address, the wrong car, the wrong clothes, or the wrong table at a restaurant could have a severe impact on his industry credibility and, eventually, his advancement prospects and salary. And, by extension, the lifestyle he could provide his loved ones.
Image was the only thing that mattered in his business and yes, damn it, what other people thought about where he lived was important. But he couldn’t admit that now, not when she had fiscal and parental responsibility on her side.
So he gave up.
It was just a house, and he was at the network most of the time anyway, which was why they could afford to buy a place. He’d just have to stay late on Fridays, that’s all, and refuse to allow anything to be messengered to his home. He’d say his home was sacrosanct. The idea suddenly appealed to him. A rule like that would make him look even more powerful.
Yeah, he thought, I’m an asshole and pretty successful at it, too.
Marty sighed heavily and smiled in that lovable way he knew she liked. “Does this mean I have to trade my Lexus in for a Volvo wagon?”
She smiled back. “Not yet.”
He put his arms around her and pulled her close. “Have you ever seen Chinatown?”
“All I remember is that Jack Nicholson gets his nose cut and slaps Faye Dunaway around until she admits she’s his mother and his sister or something like that.”
“Then we better go rent it,” he turned her around and led her to the front door. “If we’re going to live in the valley, you’d better know its secrets.”
5:13 p.m. Wednesday
There was water in the Los Angeles River after all, and it was warm.
That was the first sensation Marty became aware of, the next was the intense pain radiating from his right side. Every breath brought a new stab of agony. He guessed broken ribs, because he’d suffered that before, falling off a dirt bike when he was eighteen, and it didn’t hurt this bad. That was two only two broken ribs, maybe all his ribs were broken this time. He was barely aware of his scorched back. He’d traded up to this new torture, which was so strong, it demanded all his attention, blotting out the discomfort of his other injuries.
The instinctive part of his brain was doing a quick systems check, his synapses firing back responses from all over his body, reports filtering up through his consciousness. He tried to wiggle his toes and flex his fingers and was relieved that he could and without feeling any new pain. At least he wasn’t paralyzed. A visual inspection was required now and he was afraid of what he would see.
Marty opened his eyes and saw blue sky and half of the Wilbur overpass sloping down towards him, tiny pebbles of asphalt rolling down its cracked surface and spilling onto him.
He slowly lifted his head so he could see his body, knowing it was probably a mistake, that he’d widen the hairline fracture in his neck and paralyze himself for life, but he couldn’t resist. Marty had to know what was causing his pain.
His neck didn’t break, but what he saw made him gasp in shock. There were three inches of bloody rebar poking through his side. The warm wetness he was feeling wasn’t water, it was blood. He was stuck on a piece of exposed iron from the snapped support pillar.
If that was true, then why wasn’t he feeling the hard, jagged surface of the mortar under his back? Whatever he was lying on was soft and squishy.
Marty looked over his right shoulder. The blood he was soaked with was only partly his own. He was on the end of a human shish-ka-bob, the rebar impaling Marty and the several people beneath him who had cushioned his fall. He was sorry they were dead, but at the same time, knew if they hadn’t died, every bone in his body would be broken. The thing to do was not to think about them or that it was their guts sticking to his back.
He looked to his left, and saw a crumpled Buick Regal only inches from him and realized things could be much, much worse. He could’ve been under that.
“Help!” he yelled, and immediately felt a blinding, teeth-grinding wave of pain that almost made him faint.
No one’s going to come for you. There are families trapped under houses. Neighborhoods in flame. Who gives a shit about some guy stuck on a spike in the LA river?
He looked to either side again, and then he listened. The only moans he heard were his own. He was alone. His walk was over and probably his life, too.
Marty closed his eyes. It was almost laughable. He’d survived so much, only to be taken out just a few, short miles from home. All because he’d strayed from his path to find a little girl he didn’t even know.
And Beth would never know why he died. She’d always wonder how he ended up speared in that river bed, so close to home, with a snapshot of two strangers in his pocket. If only he had a pen, he could write it all down, tell Beth so the story would be resolved. But this story would remain unfinished, just like every other one he ever tried to tell. There was a certain ironic justice to that.
A rock pinged into the car, right above his head, startling him into opening his eyes. Was this more loose rubble, or was the rest of the bridge about to fall on him now? He stared at the cracked asphalt, willing it not to move.
Another rock hit the car, near his head again, but he was certain it didn’t come from above, because he was watching. This rock came from an angle. Someone threw it.
“Hey Marty,” a voice yelled, “wake the fuck up.”
He turned his head, looked up to his right and saw a figure standing on the edge of the high, vertical riverbank.
It couldn’t be.
Marty blinked hard and squinted at the trick of the light.
“I knew you were alive,” Buck yelled happily. “You’re the luckiest damn guy I’ve ever met. Now, are you going to lie there all day feeling sorry for yourself or are you going to get up?”
It was one of those utterly improbable and convenient coincidences that he railed against every time he came across them in a script, an undeniable hallmark of weak plotting and hack writing. And yet there Buck Weaver was, like a western hero, the sun behind his back, casting his long shadow across the concrete river.
Marty smiled. “Buck, what are you doing here?”
“Saving your skinny ass.”
“What are you waiting for?” Marty replied, “Get down here and do it.”
“That’s not exactly the plan I had in mind.”
“Then what’s your plan?”
“My plan is that you get up off your ass, like I said.”
For a moment, Marty’s anger actually eclipsed his crippling pain. “I’m impaled on a fucking piece of rebar. Why don’t you come down here and help me?”
“Because I’m not fucking Spiderman. These banks are totally vertical, so that’s out, and if I try climbing down that bridge, I could bring it all down on top of you, not to mention me. I suppose I could go all the way back to Balboa Park and walk up the canal from there, but you’ll probably bleed to death before I get back. So you might as well get off your ass. You’re fucked no matter what.”
Marty closed his eyes and groaned. He felt the blood pulsing out of his wound. “And then what am I supposed to do?”
“Walk to the park and climb out of the river.”
Marty had to laugh, even though the slightest motion of his stomach caused a new wave of pain. “I got a better idea. You go find help. I’ll wait here.”
“There isn’t any help. I’m it. And I’m telling you to get up. Be a fucking man.”
Be a fucking man.
Of course, Marty thought, why didn’t I think of that. “How did you find me?”