She was flirting with me, and that was okay, that was fine, because wasn’t that what I’d come down here for in the first place — to upgrade my social life? I was tired of New York. Tired of L.A. Tired of the anonymity, the hassle, the grab and squeeze and the hostility snarling just beneath the surface of every transaction, no matter how small or insignificant. “I don’t know,” I said, “sounds kind of chic to me. The doorbell rings and there’s all these neighborhood kids chanting, ‘Can Silinski come out to play?’ Or the modeling agency calls. ‘So what about Silinski,’ they say, ‘is she available?’ ”
I was doing fine, grinning and smooth-talking and sailing right along, though my back felt misaligned and my right hip throbbed where the pavement had bitten into it during a mostly sleepless night under the amber glow of the newly installed Contash streetlamps. I took a swig from my Evian bottle, tugged the plastic brim of my visor down to keep the sun from irradiating the creases at the corners of my eyes. There was one more Silinski trope on my tongue, the one that would bring her to her knees in adoration of my wit and charm, but I never got to utter it because at that moment the rolling blast of a Civil War cannon announced the official opening of the lottery, and everybody in line crowded closer as ten thousand balloons, in the powder-blue and sun-kissed orange of the Contash Corp, rose up like a mad flock into the sky.
“Welcome, all you friends and neighbors,” boomed an amplified voice, and all eyes went to the head of the line. There, atop the four-story tower of the sales preview center, a tiny figure in the Contash colors held out his arms in benediction. “And all you little ones too — and remember, Gulpy Gator and Chowchy love you one and all, and so does our founder, Charles Contash, whose vision of community, of health and vigor and good schools and good neighbors, has never shone more brightly than it does today in Jubilation! No need to crowd, no need to fret. We’ve got two thousand Village Homes, Cottage Homes, Little Adobes and Mercado Street mini — luxury apartments available today, and three thousand more to come. So welcome, folks, and just step up and draw your lucky number from the hopper.”
The press moved forward in all its human inevitability, and I had to brace myself to avoid trampling the young woman in front of me. As it was, the family of four gouged their angles into my flesh and I found myself making a nest of my arms for her, for Vicki, who in turn was shoved up against the hand-holding men in front of her. I could smell her, her breath sweet with the mints she’d been sucking all morning and the odor of her sweat and perfume rising up out of the confinement of her halter top. “Oh, God,” she whispered, “God, I just pray—”
Her hair was in my mouth, caught in the bristles of my mustache. It was as if we were dancing, doing the Macarena or forming up a conga line, back to front. “Pray what?”
Her breath caught and then released in a respiratory tumult that was almost a sob: “That there’s just one Mercado Street mini — luxury apartment left, just one, that’s all I ask.” And then she paused, the shining new moon of her face rising over her shoulder to gaze up into mine. “And you,” she breathed, “I pray you get what you want too.”
What I wanted was a detached home in the North Village section of town, on the near side of the artificial lake, a cool four hundred fifty thousand dollars for a ninety-by-thirty-foot lot and a wraparound porch that leered promiscuously at the wraparound porches of my neighbors, ten feet away on either side — one of the Casual Contempos or even one of the Little Adobes — and I wanted it so badly I would have taken Charles Contash himself hostage to get it. “A Casual Contempo,” I said, and the family of four strained against me.
She was fighting for position. The child underfoot clung like a remora to the long tapered muscle of her leg. The baby began to fuss. She was put out, overwrought, not at all at her best, I could see that, but still her eyebrows lifted and she let out a low whistle. “Wow,” she said, “you must be rich.”
I wasn’t rich, not by the standards I’d set for myself, but I’d sold my company to a bigger company and bought off my ex-wife, and what was left was more than adequate to set me up in a new life in a new house — and no, I wasn’t retiring to Florida to play golf till I dropped dead of boredom, but just looking for what was missing in my life, for the values I’d grown up with in the suburbs, where there were no fences, no walls, no gated communities and private security guards, where everybody knew everybody else and democracy wasn’t just a tattered banner the politicians unfurled for their convenience every four years. That was what the Jubilation Company promised. That and a rock-solid property valuation, propped up by Charles Contash and all the fiscal might of his entertainment and merchandising empire. The only catch was that you had to occupy your property a minimum of nine months out of the year and nobody could sell within two years of purchase, so as to discourage speculators, but to my way of thinking that wasn’t a catch at all, if you were committed. And if you weren’t, you had no business taking up space in line to begin with. “Not really,” I said, enjoying the look on her face, the unconscious widening of her eyes, the way her lips parted in expectation. “Comfortable, I guess you’d say.”
Then the line jerked again and we all revised our footing. “Mercado Street!” somebody shouted. “Penny Lane!” countered another, and there was a flicker of nervous laughter.
From where I was standing, I could barely see over the crush. A girl in a short blue skirt and orange heels stood on a platform at the head of the line, churning a gleaming stainless-steel hopper emblazoned with the Contash logo, and an LED display stood ready to flash the numbers as people extracted the little digitized cards from the depths of it. There was a ripple of excitement as the first man in line, a phys ed teacher from Las Vegas, New Mexico, climbed the steps of the platform. Rumor had it he’d been camped on the unforgiving concrete for over a month, eating his meals out of a microwave and doing calisthenics to keep in shape. I saw a running suit (blue with orange piping, what else?) surmounted by yard-wide shoulders and a head like a wrecking ball. The man bent to the hopper, straightened up again and handed a white plastic card to the girl, who in turn ran it under a scanner. The display flickered, and then flashed the number: 3,347. “Oh, God,” Vicki muttered under her breath. My pulse was racing. I couldn’t seem to swallow. The sun hung overhead like an over-ripe orange on a limb just out of reach as the crowd released a long slow withering exhalation. So what if the phys ed teacher had camped out for a month? He was a loser, and he was going to have to wait for Phase II construction to begin before he could even hope to become part of this.
None of the next five people managed to draw under 1,000, but at least they were in, at least there was that. “They look like they want houses, don’t they?” Vicki said, a flutter of nerves undermining her voice. “I don’t mean Casual Contempos,” she said, “I wouldn’t want to jinx that for you, but maybe the Little Adobes or the Courteous Coastals. But not apartments. No way.”
Then a couple who looked as if they belonged on one of the Contash Corp’s billboards drew number 5 and the crowd let out a collective groan before people recovered themselves and a spatter of applause went up. I shut my eyes. I hadn’t eaten since the previous afternoon on the plane and I felt dizzy suddenly. Get lucky, I told myself. Just get lucky, that’s all.