"Yie."
Nic pushes the chair, popping wheelies, encouraging Fred to use his bent, twisted hands to shoplift: "Go ahead, take it. What are they going to do, arrest you?"
And Fred seems thrilled; he smiles. "Yie," he says.
"Two cafe con leche's," Nic says to a vendor.
"Is he allowed that?"
"Fred, are you allowed to drink coffee?" Nic says loudly, like maybe Fred is a little deaf.
"Yie," Fred says, and then the coffee comes, and Nic slowly feeds the man his cup of coffee. "Good, right?" Nic uses a napkin to wipe drool off Fred's face. "How are you going to get the girls if you're drooling?"
Fred smiles.
"See you next week," Nic says when they return Fred to his room. "And if you need me sooner, make them call me."
Fred points to the sign that says "Phone Nic" that's taped to the wall by his bed.
"I really liked your dad," Richard says when they're back outside.
"He's not my dad. I visit Fred because I can't visit my dad."
"Dead?"
There's a pause. "Sometimes you can't do things for the people you should do things for, including yourself, but you can do them for someone else, a stranger. Fred is a stranger. He is my stranger."
"That's nice."
"It is what it is. You could say I'm using him to make myself feel better and that would be true."
"How'd you find him?"
"It's a program — Adopt a Golden Oldie — they interview you and you get someone. You want an old man? I'll give you the number. I picked Fred because he's trapped, because there's still someone in there, because no one else was going to pick him — he drools, and all he can say is 'Yie.' "
"You're good. Are you like one of those flower guys from the airport?"
"We're all good when we want to be, otherwise we're fucking animals. There is no VIP room in reality, and there is no reality in this city. You can't Google the answers. People talk about being on the ride of your life — THIS IS YOUR LIFE." He takes a breath. "Whatever it is you need to know, you already know. Imagine what it is to be in another country, another landscape — heat, insects, fear. Imagine watching someone right in front of you trip a wire, step on a mine, blow their body to shreds, in mid-sentence, mid-cigarette. Imagine yourself splattered with human flesh. Imagine talking to that boy for the five minutes when he is profoundly conscious of the fact that he is not going to make it home. Imagine the difference between that and being in upstate New York, drinking beer, trying to get laid, and spending the summer as lifeguard at Lake George. Imagine zipping your friends into body bags. Tell me why anyone ever thought this was a good idea. How could anyone not be angry? You'd have to be insane."
He stops. There is silence.
"Do you mind," Nic says, "while we're out, could we stop and see my producer? I keep cashing the checks, but I should say hello. Nice to have a face to put with it. Just down here, onto Melrose, a little further, and then in that gate."
"Morning," Nic says to the guard at the gate.
"Morning, sir," the man says, going around the outside of the car with a mirror that lets him look underneath for bombs. A dog sniffs the car.
"Could you pop the trunk for me, please?" the man asks, and Richard does.
"Who are you seeing today?" the man asks Nic.
"Evan Roberts."
"One moment," the guard says, going into the booth.
"I don't think I've ever been inside a movie studio before," Richard says.
"There's nothing to see, it's just buildings; make a left," Nic says, directing him to the bungalows at the back of the lot. He gets out, leaving Richard in the car. "It'll just take a couple of minutes."
A woman drives by in a golf cart. She waves. He waves back. She looks at the car. "Hey, you're that guy from yesterday; are you taking some meetings, selling your story?"
"Just waiting for a friend."
When she's gone, Richard gets out and runs his hand over the car; the scratches are deep, like scars, a whole new topography. He closes his eyes and reads the car as if he were a blind person. He reads the car while reviewing the "incident" in his mind's eye. The story — what is the story? What is he doing, and would he do it again?
Nic comes bounding out, gets into the car, slamming the door. "Thank you very much," he says. "I'm so glad I took care of that; they'll never hire me again."
"Why?"
"As soon as they meet you, the shine is off."
"Then why'd you do it?"
"Because the guy is a little shit and I don't want to work for him — there's some strange pleasure in it for me letting him think it was his decision."
RICHARD GLANCES at the clock on the dash. "I'm late, I have to meet my nutritionist. What's the fastest way to Santa Monica? I hope you don't mind."
"I don't mind. In fact, I'm hungry."
Richard can't bring himself to say she doesn't make extra, she only makes enough for however many people you order for.
They pull into the parking lot, four minutes late. "Sorry, I got stuck. Sylvia, this is Nic, my neighbor."
"So you're a nutritionist?" Nic says, smiling. "Can you tell me what to eat so I'll live forever?"
"I can tell you what to eat so that you'll feel good."
"Could you feed me those things? That's what you do, right — you feed people?"
"I could feed you," she says, "like you're a baby bird, but I'd have to get a medicine dropper. For the moment, I could give you a warm cookie; I have some fresh cookies in the car.
"I could eat a fresh cookie," Nic says, and Sylvia goes into the car and pulls out a bag of her special energy cookies. "My number is on the label," she says. "Call me when you're really hungry."
"I don't get it," Richard says when they're back in the car.
"Oh, please, we were just chatting. Don't worry, I'm not going to steal her. You know what Santa Monica needs?"
"What?"
"A Donut Depot. Your friend Anhil should open a donut-and-juice bar."
"I'll keep that in mind."
They drive without talking. "Come on, it's not my fault that she liked me."
"I just don't get it. You're thoroughly cranky and kind of mangy-looking, and yet she threw herself at you."
"They like that, the scruffy thing — it makes them think they can polish you up. And, not to change the subject, but you'd better get your car fixed soon: it drives like shit, and the temperature light just went on. You can use the Bentley if you want — it drives like a yacht."
"You're miserable, and yet you're not a bad guy."
"Is that a compliment?"
BACK AT THE HOUSE, as he's putting the food in the refrigerator, the dog appears at the sliding glass door. He gives the dog more of the chicken and rice from last night. "Did you miss me?"
On an impulse, he picks up the phone and calls his parents. Maybe it's something about the dog, or the visit to the nursing home.
"Hi, Mom."
"We were wondering if you'd ever call again. I don't know what you've got yourself into, some crazy life-style…"
"I just wanted you to know I'm fine."
"Of course you're fine, I know you're fine, there's no reason you shouldn't be fine. You're a young man; everything is not about you — your father had a little episode."
"What happened?"
"He forgot who he was. We were in the grocery store, he was talking to some woman, she asked him his name, and he couldn't remember, and she asked if he had a wife and he said no, and all the time I'm standing ten feet away, looking right at him. I started waving. And he still didn't see me. I took him from the grocery store right to the doctor, who said it was one of those transient attacks. I don't want you to worry — even if he doesn't know who I am, I'll take care of him. After all these years, it's not like I can walk out on him."