SIDE​​ A

Chapter 1

Happy Birthday!

There it was, that cross. It haunted Walter’s Tuesday afternoon like the empty drink that sat beside him.​​ “Nothing lasts forever, even​​ my​​ mother fuckin’​​ birthday,” he drunkenly sang​​ to the tune of “November Rain”​​ on his front porch while​​ picking​​ his​​ backpacker​​ guitar. It felt fitting as he imagined Slash kicking down the door of the old Catholic church across the street from him,​​ wielding a guitar in a grand solo like the “November Rain” music video. Reality, however, was less dramatic: the door opened peaceably and a wedding procession filed out while that t-shaped shadow kept creeping ominously closer.​​ 

The bride’s wedding dress was a luminous white against her dark Hispanic skin. Her hands were tucked under a bouquet of red roses, her figure shaded in an aura of fragile purity. It was her last still frame of innocence and the crowd excitedly snapped away to capture it.

As she edged the sidewalk, her face met Walter’s eyes, and she smiled at him.​​ The crimson lips were flared like the rose petals above her hips; a rich river of black hair rounded her face like a stone, the smooth curves advertising an age of still-budding beauty. The shadow of the cross affixed to the top of the church then at last touched his feet,​​ and for a pregnant moment they were alone in that shadow.​​ From​​ his polluted perspective, she looked like a slave on an auctioning block.

“Mon Amour,”​​ he​​ whimpered as​​ she​​ cast the​​ bouquet to the crowd behind her. She​​ then​​ smiled again,​​ turned and abandoned him.​​ His​​ heart​​ only​​ further​​ crumbled as “Amour”​​ then stepped​​ into a limousine with a groom twice her age and size.​​ 

As​​ the​​ car​​ honked goodbye,​​ Walter​​ waved​​ to them​​ with a dumb smile and tears on his cheeks. He’d been left alone with his madness for too long​​ and​​ now​​ it was beginning to devour him.

The day began as almost all days began​​ with a banana and peanut butter bagel sandwich called “The Elvis” at the Sit Stay Café, half a block north of his home. There the previous night’s scribblings were deciphered into a more legible and cohesive being, but there was still nothing of meaning. He’d lifted every stone within himself in search of a story and thought a bag of mushrooms might find some he’d missed, however, the only​​ stones​​ and stories​​ found never should’ve been lifted​​ or put on paper.​​ Drugs, depression, and desperation can reveal a person’s sickest perversions, and​​ he​​ was very sick.​​ Around eleven, the first wedding began, and by four, he’d fallen in love with three brides and wished he’d been carried off in one Hearse. The day was February 14, 2012. It was​​ his​​ twenty-fifth birthday—and of course Valentine’s Day—and he was miserably alone.​​ 

Walter had a simple home in Huntington Beach, California within earshot of ocean waves on the city’s best and most historic intersection in his opinion: Tenth and Orange. Within a few blocks were his favorite restaurant, bar, and café; catty-corner from him, the houses of the city’s first mayor and judge, and directly across from him, a hundred-year-old Catholic church whose attendees always seemed oblivious to the singing lunatic across the street.​​ Families, college students, vagrants, and​​ billionaires lived harmoniously around him, and more bicycles and surfboards fed past his porch than cars along with year-round posies of half-naked people so long as the sun was out. There were Sunday drum circles by the pier, Tuesday night street fairs, and the largest Fourth of July parade west of the Mississippi. Huntington was a beach city, tourist destination, and small town swaddled into one.

It also had crime, seedy citizens, and plenty of assholes, but that only added to its charm in Walter’s​​ eyes. It wasn’t as pristine and out of touch with reality as so many Orange County coastal communities were. It had attitude, authenticity, and just the right amount of gravel in its gut to stay grounded.  

After the last wedding of the day,​​ he​​ began cleaning up the empty beer bottles and snubbed-out joints festering his porch​​ from his​​ birthday celebration with himself that began​​ the night before. It started innocently enough with a few marijuana joints and a​​ full​​ bottle of merlot. But after discovering​​ the​​ shrooms he’d stashed away in the back of the liquor cabinet for a special occasion, he decided to eat them all​​ being as there were no more special occasions.

The rest​​ of the​​ evening​​ was​​ then​​ spent in nudity, surrounded by candles, Jim Morrison spoken-word poetry, and crumbled up pieces of his manic thoughts. Other than this, his two-bedroom cottage was​​ empty​​ except for a camping cot, a patio chair, and a portable stereo. All his furniture had been sold, and anything remaining was in his grandmother’s garage awaiting his arrival. Tomorrow he was handing in the keys.​​ 

Feeling the onset of a headache, Walter set out on his regular walk to flush it, a stroll down Orange to Main Street to the end of the pier. He was going to miss his walk. It had been midwife to many ideas and decisions,​​ including his recent one to become a writer, however,​​ he hadn’t told anyone yet. No one would understand and most likely no one would be happy. Not even he was happy. But writer is not a vocation most people choose; it’s an incurable affliction,​​ only made worse by the tragedies of life.

ENDEAVOR RENTAL CAR LAX​​ AIRPORT​​ RETURN LOT,​​ CHRISTMAS DAY​​ 2010​​ 

Walter​​ hated Christmas. It was why he didn’t mind spending the first eight hours of it​​ on graveyard shift​​ isolated​​ from the world in​​ his​​ unheated​​ green,​​ glass and metal​​ booth,​​ just large enough for him and a backed,​​ barstool chair.​​ Filled with unwelcoming florescent light,​​ it​​ burned like a ghostly lighthouse on the black bitumen plane supporting a sea of sleeping rental cars.​​ He had​​ also managed to sneak in his backpacker guitar as he would be free to fondle her most of the​​ evening​​ undisturbed.​​ No one was returning a rental car on Christmas, especially​​ not​​ at the​​ ungodly hour​​ of​​ three​​ a.m.​​ 

There​​ was​​ something holy​​ to him​​ about being in a place normally inhabited with​​ noise​​ and​​ people. The​​ holiday rush​​ had already​​ come and gone​​ and was​​ now​​ at​​ their​​ transient​​ homes​​ with​​ their​​ transient​​ families​​ or​​ with their​​ intoxicants to forget their families​​ or​​ tucked​​ into​​ bed​​ with Santa Clause and Christmas​​ morning​​ presents​​ in their head.​​ 

Walter​​ only had depression​​ in his head.​​ Not because he was depressed beyond his normal draping, but because it was the subject of his new, half-created song. While depression had often been motivator, this was​​ its​​ first time as subject.

“Yesterday I felt like I could do anything…”​​ he​​ softly​​ sang​​ into his booth, its flimsy, metallic materials​​ shaking with the perfect tinny reverb. “But today I’m just struggling not to kill myself. But if tomorrow I feel like I, I could do anything, it only would be to escape, escape this hell, without you baby blue.”

This​​ was as far as​​ he’d gotten in articulating his feelings perfectly. Even in expressing his flaws, he​​ wouldn’t​​ allow​​ anything other than perfect.​​ Nothing was immune to​​ his perfectionism, which was​​ why it was​​ also catalyst, trigger, and savior of his​​ melancholic schisms.​​ 

​​ “Nice singing,” a female voice scared​​ Walter​​ out of his head and back into his body,​​ however,​​ it was​​ too late​​ to save​​ the​​ former as it bashed against the back of his glass and metal capsule.​​ He​​ had had his chair leaned back​​ and​​ the unexpected voice sent just enough of a tremor​​ to tip it​​ backwards.

“I’m so sorry!”​​ the​​ female​​ voice​​ said, then bent down to meet​​ him.​​ Folded over himself and wedged between the chair and the backside of​​ his​​ booth, Walter’s crotch blocked​​ his view​​ of​​ the​​ voice’s owner.​​ The chair​​ was then carefully pulled​​ away and his legs unfolded, revealing the kindest face he’d ever seen. Even in the harsh light of his booth,​​ it shone softly, reminding​​ him​​ of the church girls of his youth. The full contours of her plush​​ lips and cheeks​​ embellished​​ this​​ glow​​ and drew​​ him​​ into​​ her​​ button nose, so lovely he wanted to lick it. Her​​ deep set​​ eyes​​ and long, wavy hair were earthy brown,​​ accented by her pastel pink​​ business coat and dress.

“Are you okay?” she​​ asked, her left hand reaching to the back of his head with a diamond wedding​​ ring​​ so protruding it nearly clawed his eye.

“Yes,” Walter​​ replied. “Luckily this shack isn’t well-built and the walls are​​ deceptively​​ lenient.”

“Well, there’s nothing deceptive about this bump on the back of your head,” she said rubbing it.​​ “I’m so, so​​ sorry.”

“It’s okay,”​​ he​​ said smiling and unable to blink.​​ “If it’s anyone but myself, I’m very forgiving.”

She​​ looked at him​​ curiously.​​ “That’s a strange thing to say to a stranger,” she said. “It’s also very brave.”

“Not brave,”​​ he​​ said,​​ “I just have a bad habit of being overly honest in situations I shouldn’t.”

She smiled and it further​​ melted​​ Walter.​​ It​​ had the​​ gentle​​ quality of both the caring mother and the caring​​ lover​​ he’d​​ always​​ longed​​ for but never had.

“Bad habits are in the eye of the beholder,” she said. “I think​​ it’s admirable.”

“But you’ve never​​ been​​ a​​ victim​​ of​​ my bad habit,” he said and smiled back at her. “Are you new here?”​​ He​​ realized she​​ was probably​​ his​​ coworker​​ here to lunch him. No one​​ else​​ around​​ his age in formal business attire,​​ a requirement of Endeavor,​​ had​​ reason to be​​ there. His coworkers came and went so much and there were​​ so many,​​ an unfamiliar—although not always unwelcoming—face was nothing new.

“Yes,​​ it’s my third day,” she​​ said.

“What a shitty time to be called to the ETP,” Walter said.​​ The “Executive Training Program”, or ETP, was​​ what​​ Endeavor​​ called the​​ four-month hazing period at their​​ LAX​​ airport​​ branch. A term at the airport was required by all new​​ executive-trainees in the greater Los Angeles area in their first six months,​​ and​​ was​​ where they became acclimated to​​ working​​ ever-shifting ten hour shifts five to six days​​ a week​​ on the​​ holiday schedule of a Jehovah’s Witness.​​ 

“I know, they never give you any warning beforehand,” she said. “Needless to say, my fiancé wasn’t happy. He told me to quit over it, but he’s​​ been telling me to quit​​ since I​​ started. But​​ where else am I supposed to find a job right now? This one was hard enough to​​ get.​​ Secretly,​​ though,​​ I don’t mind.​​ I’ve never been​​ a fan of Christmas. When you hate most​​ of​​ your family, it’s not a pleasant holiday.”

Walter​​ smiled again. “That’s a brave thing to​​ tell​​ a stranger,” he said.

“Hi. My name is Amber,” she said​​ shaking his hand firmly​​ as he still sat. “Amber Evans-soon-to-be-Sinclair.” She​​ then​​ helped him​​ to his feet.

“Hi. My name is Walter,” he said​​ shaking her hand again. “Walter Huxley.”

“Walter. That was my late grandfather’s name, one of​​ the​​ few family members I love.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot. Not too many Walters​​ under sixty.”​​ Walter​​ was again rewarded with a smile.

“What were​​ you​​ singing before I interrupted?”​​ she​​ asked.

“A song I’m working on.”

“Oh...” she said her eyes​​ shifting to the side. “You must be the guy in the band.”

“So,​​ you’ve already heard about me​​ then?”​​ It had been​​ happening​​ a lot with the new people lately​​ and​​ Walter​​ wasn’t​​ sure​​ how​​ he​​ felt​​ about it​​ yet.

“It’s mostly about your band’s shows and​​ what​​ a​​ party​​ they​​ are,”​​ Amber​​ said. “Although a few women​​ have​​ had some choice words.”

“None of them bad I hope?”

“Not exactly,” she said raising her eyebrows, “but​​ I wouldn’t call them flattering to a woman who has a fiancé.”

“Well...”​​ he​​ said​​ raising his eyebrows back at her,​​ “I don’t intend to flatter women with fiancés.”

“Just​​ former​​ sorority girls who don’t mind you’re sleeping with them all simultaneously?”

Walter​​ cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I’m always safe,” he​​ said.​​ “We’re​​ just trying​​ to​​ find​​ a little fun​​ in this hellhole.”

“I’m not judging you,”​​ she said.

“Sure doesn’t feel that way.”

Now Amber became uncomfortable and looked away. “I’m sorry,” she said.​​ “Anyway, I’m here to lunch you.”

“Hard to call it a lunch at three o’clock in the morning,” Walter said. “I’m not even hungry.”

“What are you going to do then?”

“Continue working on my song,​​ but in that​​ car out there,”​​ he said pointing​​ to​​ a​​ large​​ SUV.​​ 

“What’s the name of the song?”​​ she asked.

“It doesn’t have one yet. Just​​ a​​ verse and a chorus.”

“Can I hear it?”

“I don’t know,”​​ he​​ said looking​​ away.​​ “It’s not a happy song.”

“It​​ didn’t​​ sound​​ unhappy.​​ It​​ sort of cheered me up​​ in fact.​​ Not that I was sad exactly, but my mood’s always​​ more vulnerable​​ in the winter.”

“You must’ve not heard the words then,​​ because the song​​ is​​ about my depression.”

Amber’s​​ pink-shadowed​​ eyelids​​ flexed​​ open, the whites​​ of her eyes​​ looking like headlights​​ of an oncoming car.

“I’m sorry,”​​ Walter​​ said, “my bad habit again.”

“Don’t apologize.​​ I wish I was brave enough to be so open.”

“Because you also suffer from depression?”

Amber gasped and closed her eyes, then reopened​​ them out of sight.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “Just vulnerable isn’t a word most people use to​​ describe​​ their mood.”

“You’re awfully perceptive Mister Huxley,” she said,​​ “but that’s not something I think​​ we should​​ be discussing.​​ However, I’d still like to hear your song.”

Walter​​ then​​ began​​ playing, and​​ somehow​​ by the end of the first chorus, a​​ perfect​​ second verse​​ magically​​ came​​ to him​​ from​​ phrases he’d been​​ plying over​​ all night.

“And today I woke up thinking you, you were my everything,” he sang.​​ “But by tomorrow I know you’ll be somebody else. And I know it’s just me, me and my imagining, that you and only you can save me from myself. All of you, baby blue.”

The​​ booth​​ became​​ noticeably​​ warmer​​ by the time​​ he​​ finished,​​ the​​ windows​​ fogged​​ by​​ the thickening air.

“I thought you only had one verse?”​​ Amber​​ asked​​ just above a whisper.

“I thought I did too,”​​ he​​ replied.​​ “But now I​​ have two.”

ONE MONTH LATER

“Pucker your lips as if you’re going to give a baby’s belly a raspberry kiss and blow while humming​​ like this,​​ bebebebebebeee…​​ Now hum the scales with me…”

 “Bebebebebebebebe​​ . . .​​ bebebebebebebebe​​ . . .​​ beb—” Walter’s phone vibrated in his pocket. A text from​​ an​​ unnamed number.

 Are you in your car​​ right​​ now?

 Yes,​​ he texted back.

 Be there in two minutes. I can’t​​ see you​​ after the show, so​​ I want to see you now.

 He​​ still had an hour before he needed to be onstage so he put his vocal warmup CD on pause, a CD that had not left his car changer since his first and only vocal teacher had given him​​ it​​ three years earlier.​​ Despite his band’s​​ once-a-month​​ gig at the​​ Hollywood House of Blues​​ providing​​ a​​ green room, before he had green rooms,​​ he only had his car, and his car was still the only place​​ that​​ could calm his preshow jitters and where he could practice his preshow rituals​​ uninterrupted. But for her, anything could wait.​​ He​​ switched​​ the​​ stereo​​ to​​ the auxiliary channel, then scrolled​​ through his iPod to​​ Neil Young’s​​ On The Beach, their favorite album to have fun to.

She​​ soon​​ appeared out of the clusters of cars around him in the parking garage, a few blocks away from the venue. He was careful to park on​​ the basement​​ floor,​​ somewhere not​​ too​​ obvious but not​​ too​​ suspicious, not too crowded, but also not too empty.​​ He wanted his 2002 unwashed, plain-gray Prius to look even more inconspicuous than it already was.

“See The Sky About to Rain”​​ was playing as she opened his passenger side door.

“Ah, you queued up my favorite song,” she said as she sat in the seat and closed the door.

“Only because the sky​​ is​​ about to rain,”​​ he​​ said.

“I know.​​ Hopefully I’m not walking back in it.”

Their lips then went​​ at​​ each other’s.​​ Walter reached over her waist and grabbed the side seat adjustment,​​ leaning​​ her back while his body floated over the center console, landing softly upon​​ hers. He wanted to​​ hide​​ their actions​​ below the window line.​​ 

“I don’t think we’re going to have time for a full meal tonight,” she said. “I’ve got to go back soon.”

“That’s okay,” he said.​​ “This​​ is enough.”

“Enough to get you off?”

“If I focus hard enough,​​ maybe.”​​ He​​ smiled.

“Here,”​​ she​​ said and​​ pushed​​ him up​​ and back into his seat, leaning his seat back as he’d leaned hers.​​ “Were you doing your raspberries?”​​ she asked.

“Yes,” he said,​​ “but I put them on pause for you.”

“Don’t do that. I want​​ you…”​​ she undid his pants, pulled them and his underwear to his knees, then firmly squeezed the base of his penis, “…and​​ your vocal cords to be relaxed and ready for​​ the​​ show​​ . . .​​ Let’s​​ start the song over and we​​ can​​ raspberry​​ it through.”

They began​​ raspberrying​​ together—she​​ performing​​ while​​ also​​ sliding up and down his shaft, but a minute in they​​ were laughing so​​ hard they could no longer​​ focus.

​​ ​​ “I’ll just finish you with my hand,” Amber said. “The key to​​ a​​ good BJ is the handwork anyway.”

As she did​​ and​​ as​​ they kissed,​​ Walter​​ couldn’t help​​ but​​ think what a blessing and curse​​ she was. He’d never been happier, yet​​ never​​ felt​​ more ashamed.​​ The one​​ person he​​ could finally share his​​ body and darkness with​​ was​​ practically a married woman, but​​ she​​ was the​​ only​​ woman who​​ did not shy away​​ when he showed​​ her his​​ black dog​​ since​​ she​​ had​​ one​​ of her own.

Amber’s​​ depression was beyond the​​ comprehension of​​ her​​ fiancé​​ Greg. So,​​ since she couldn’t share it with him, she​​ began sharing it with Walter. But​​ the danger of​​ such shared secrets​​ is the​​ inevitability of them growing into​​ larger,​​ less​​ concealable​​ ones.

“Oops,” Amber noticed​​ Walter​​ was going​​ and swooped down to swallow​​ the​​ seeds​​ of her​​ sowing.​​ He​​ moaned and bit his lips while his hips arched​​ as​​ her mouth and hands worked​​ to get​​ every​​ drip.​​ She​​ then​​ rested her head on his lap with one eye looking up at him and half a smile.

“Thank you,”​​ Walter​​ said.​​ “Mind if we just lay down in the backseat together for a few songs​​ now?”​​ 

“I can’t,”​​ Amber​​ said. “I left Greg back at the venue​​ with his friends. I said I needed to get some tampons.”

“You​​ brought him?”

“How couldn’t I have? Plus, he’s a big Guns N’ Roses​​ fan.”

Walter​​ shook his head then​​ raised​​ it​​ above the window line.​​ “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said​​ after a while, then​​ brought his head back down.​​ “I just wish I didn’t always have to meet you like​​ you’re​​ some kind of hooker. I just wish...​​ I wish we could have a real date​​ together.”

“Walter,” she said going back to her seat,​​ “you know that wish can’t come true.​​ This has to stay just fun.”

“I know, but this is​​ becoming​​ more than​​ just​​ fun​​ for​​ me. I… I think I’m​​ falling in love with you.”

Amber became mute,​​ her facial​​ muscles tensed in-place​​ as if someone had pressed​​ her​​ pause button.

“Amber?” Walter said. “Amber?”​​ He​​ caressed her cheek, but she remained paused. “Amber!”

“What?!” she​​ then came back​​ to life.

“You just​​ froze​​ like someone turned an off-switch.”

“I what? . . .​​ You what? You… you love me?”

“Never mind,”​​ he​​ said watching​​ her​​ wandering eyes. “I think something’s wrong.​​ I’m taking you to a​​ hospital.”

Amber​​ brought her head up​​ woozily​​ as​​ Walter​​ adjusted​​ her​​ seat​​ to catch​​ it with the headrest. She closed her eyes​​ and​​ took a deep breath, then stayed still for about fifteen seconds.​​ When​​ her eyes​​ reopened,​​ they had a new sobriety.

“No,​​ it’s​​ not possible,” she said.​​ “I haven’t​​ had​​ one in over ten years.”

“You haven’t had what in over ten years?”​​ he​​ asked.​​ 

“A​​ staring​​ spell. I used to have them​​ as​​ a kid, but I grew out of it . . . I need to go.”

“No, I’m taking you to​​ the​​ hospital,”​​ he said.​​ 

“No,​​ you​​ are​​ not!”​​ she​​ shouted.​​ “I’ll be fine.​​ And even​​ if I did​​ need to go,​​ that’s​​ my​​ fiancé’s​​ responsibility, not yours.” She put​​ her​​ fist​​ to her mouth and began gnawing the knuckle of her thumb, a nervous tick​​ Walter was just becoming aware of.​​ “Sorry,” she said.​​ “I didn’t mean​​ it​​ like that.”

“But you did,”​​ he​​ said​​ softly.​​ 

​​ Amber​​ put the fist down and​​ looked away as tears began streaming​​ over her cheeks.​​ “Fuck, my mascara,” she said. “Do you have any tissues?”

“There’s some napkins in the glove compartment.”

She​​ slid open​​ his​​ sun visor​​ mirror​​ and began dabbing her eyes to stop the flow​​ of black tears.​​ “We can’t​​ keep doing this,”​​ she said to​​ her reflection.​​ She​​ then​​ clicked​​ the cover closed,​​ opened the door and​​ left.

Onstage​​ with​​ his guitar, Walter looked out to the crowd he was tasked with entertaining.​​ It used to be a lot more​​ scarce​​ during their​​ originals​​ set, but​​ in​​ the​​ band’s​​ last two years​​ of playing, it was now nearly as full as their​​ covers​​ set.​​ 

His band, Perfect Crime,​​ started​​ solely as a​​ Guns N’ Roses tribute, and because they weren’t middle-aged​​ men​​ like the six​​ other Guns​​ N’ Roses tributes in​​ the​​ Los Angeles area, they​​ quickly became​​ the go-to reincarnation​​ in absence of the real​​ thing,​​ which was not​​ Axl’s cut-rate version.​​ Walter, however, soon​​ realized​​ he could turn this​​ counterfeited​​ notoriety into real notoriety if​​ their​​ original music—which in all but name was his music—became the opener.​​ So while he performed with a guitar during the first​​ set,​​ by​​ second set it​​ was passed over to whoever their​​ Izzy​​ Stradlin was​​ at the time (they never could keep a consistent one)​​ and he became a singing stripper.​​ 

But tonight​​ he​​ could care less​​ about the crowd. Right now all​​ he​​ cared about​​ was​​ Amber.​​ During his​​ lifeless performances of the first two songs,​​ he’d been scanning every corner of the venue for her, but it was obvious she wasn’t there.

 “Um...” Walter said to the already unenthused crowd, “this next song is a new one.”

 “No​​ Walter!” his bassist Brian “Squids”​​ Squibbs​​ said from​​ the​​ side. “We are dying right now and that song will kill us. Skip it. Let’s do Minerva.”

 “No Squids. I need this song right now. It’s the only thing that will save this set.”

 “I’m not​​ playing​​ it,”​​ Squids said.

 “Fine,” Walter said. “Then get​​ the​​ fuck off​​ stage.​​ This​​ is my music and its mine to kill, not yours.”

 “I was already on my way,” Squids said​​ turning​​ off his amp​​ and​​ unplugging​​ his bass.​​ The​​ other bandmates didn’t try​​ to​​ stop him as​​ onstage​​ spats between​​ him and​​ Walter​​ happened​​ regularly​​ and Squids always​​ eventually​​ rejoined​​ them​​ a song or two later.​​ ​​ 

 “Um...” Walter said​​ again​​ to the​​ unenthused​​ and now also confused​​ crowd.​​ “I guess without further ado, here’s ‘Baby Blue Part 2’ . .​​ . Y-yesterday​​ I felt like I c-c-could d-do anything, b-but, but today I’m just str... str... kill myself—or​​ shit.​​ I’m sorry.​​ Let’s start over.”

 But when the band did, he couldn’t​​ sing a single syllable and he sure as hell couldn’t get in a wig and perform​​ as a singing stripper after this. So​​ he​​ left, going out the backstage door, then back​​ into​​ the safety of​​ his car.​​ 

Walter​​ began​​ driving, driving just to be driving.​​ Not a heavy but not a light rain began falling,​​ his wipers​​ wiping​​ across the​​ coppery​​ street lights and​​ glowing green​​ signs of​​ Sunset, Santa Monica, and eventually PCH. He​​ stayed​​ on PCH, driving south with nothing but 100.3 The Sound​​ quietly on the airwaves.​​ 

I’ll drive to midnight,​​ he thought looking at​​ the​​ blue-green​​ digital​​ clock on his dashboard display reading ten-fifty-six.​​ But when the clock reached its destination, time continued to​​ flow​​ south until​​ just a little before one when Tom Petty’s​​ "You Don't Know How It Feels"​​ came on. Being a station staple,​​ he thought​​ nothing of it until the line​​ of​​ the song​​ it​​ was named after​​ cut into him.​​ His eyes began to moist. He grimaced and cleared them, but they only grew more saturated, rapidly​​ overspilling​​ onto​​ his cheeks.

No longer able to see,​​ Walter​​ pulled​​ alongside a parking meter on​​ the side of​​ the​​ road​​ just inside Huntington Beach city limits.​​ There he​​ surrendered to sobbing. It was the first time he’d let himself since he could remember. As a child, he’d learned to hold​​ in​​ his tears, but now he was repaying​​ for​​ those lost years.

He​​ opened the door​​ still crying​​ and stepped into​​ a heavy​​ rain.​​ He ran from the car over​​ a large grassy knoll,​​ over​​ a beach bike path,​​ and​​ then​​ onto the sand, where he continued running until he reached a lifeguard tower. He hoisted himself onto​​ the empty turret’s​​ slippery, plastic banks and tucked under​​ its​​ rattling eves. Facing the​​ dark​​ ocean​​ and tempestuous sky,​​ he began taking​​ deep breaths, his lungs moving​​ with​​ the​​ crush of the​​ ocean​​ waves.​​ The​​ rain then lightened and he allowed himself​​ a​​ smile. He was still mostly unhappy, but he found peace with it. But​​ again,​​ he was interrupted by his cellphone.

“Oh my God it’s Amber,”​​ Walter​​ said recognizing her unrecognized number. “Hello? . . . Hello? . . . Amber can you hear me?” the call​​ then​​ ended.

His phone​​ screen,​​ having been unshielded from​​ the rain and​​ his​​ soaked​​ pockets,​​ then​​ immobilized​​ and​​ shut off.​​ He​​ failed​​ to resuscitate it, but accepted​​ it was a good sign she​​ was​​ trying to​​ call him. Again​​ his heart​​ had hope.

After driving to his home in Torrance which was also his grandmother’s home, having done this to his cellphone​​ before, he made a bowl of​​ dry rice and dunked​​ it​​ and​​ its​​ battery in,​​ hoping​​ for the best in the morning.

When morning came, it came with success as his phone powered up as normal. There was a voicemail notification from​​ the unrecognized​​ number. He pressed play. First,​​ he​​ heard​​ only​​ crying, then a threatening male voice.

 “Who is he?”​​ the voice said.​​ “Tell me who he is!”

 “A-a-a​​ friend from work,” Amber’s voice said,​​ “that’s all.”

 “What’s his name?”

 “Why​​ does it matter?”

 “It matters​​ because you went to see him when you were supposed to be getting tampons, but you’re​​ obviously​​ not even on your period.”

 “I started earlier, b-but it​​ was​​ just light​​ so I took​​ it​​ out before we got home. I swear.”

 “Amber tell me who​​ he​​ is!”

 “Walter, the singer of the band. I​​ was just wishing him​​ luck, that’s all.​​ I swear it’s the truth.”

 “Then why wouldn’t you tell me?”

 “Because I knew you’d react like this. You react this way​​ with​​ every male friend I have—or had.”

“Have you slept with him?”

“What? No. Never.​​ Our wedding is three months away​​ Greg.”

“Amber, I’ll ask you again. Have you slept with him?”​​ There was a silence, then:​​ “You have?​​ I want​​ you to tell him​​ because he can’t hear you nodding.” Another silence.​​ “Tell him​​ Amber! Tell​​ him​​ who’s been fucking​​ my fiancée​​ . . . Say it you fucking slut!”

“Walter! I fucked Walter​​ Huxley! Okay?”

“Thank you.”​​ Then​​ call​​ then​​ ended.​​ 

​​ ​​