THE BARRIO OF BEVERLY HILLS, Scott Sonders [reading strategies book .txt] 📗

THE BARRIO OF BEVERLY HILLS

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Scott Alixander Sonders

Do not read this unless you are a mad genius or an idiot savant. If you are average or typical, skip this. It will bore you or, worse, confuse you. This story is a mirage of life, not a genuine memoir. The context is a shimmering of reality, just over the horizon, always beyond reach. It is but a specter of truth, rising white and glaring over a locked window. The window is impenetrable; the words will not be understood. Meaning is lost, a garbled music, the static that's heard between the fine-tuning of your internal radio.

Everyone dies; few truly live. Run away now. Do not confuse Fate with Coincidence. Run away before reading what appears as a light-hearted tale. It is not light hearted. Light hearted is a mask to conceal a twisted mask of death. Unrelenting pain can only be survived with an encompassing sense of humor.

* * * * * * *
Things were looking pretty good. I was in my senior year of architectural school at UCLA, pulling a 3.94 grade point average. I was also doing an ungraded internship for a civil engineering firm that was even paying me extra cash, under the table. This little "arrangement" worked for everyone involved. The firm didn't have to do extra accounting, I didn't have to pay taxes, and no one would catch heat from the school.

The concept behind an "internship" was that it was for "gaining valuable mentored experience in your chosen field." Translated from the school catalog into real English, it meant that you basically supplied some firm cheaper than slave labor. Not only didn't they have to pay you, but they also didn't have to supply you with food or shelter. A pretty cozy deal. But because of my scholastic record, I'd been lucky enough to get placed with the prestigious firm of "Jones, Jones, Jones & Schlumberger." I could never figure who was who, but at least one Mr. Jones was a real square shooter and decided to pay me in spite of the rules. I could use the money, so I didn't argue or complain.

The only thing that bothered me was that I had to show up at the firm three days a week and neither me nor my ten year old Renault Dauphin liked the commute from Santa Monica to downtown Los Angeles in rush hour traffic. As a compromise in distance between UCLA and Downtown, and as a way of avoiding my present roommate, I got a new apartment and a new roommate out of the DAILY BRUIN classifieds and moved to the Silverlake district, not far from Chinatown. From there it was never more than a ten minute drive from the alley of our building to the parking lot at 344 South Broadway, across the street from the firm's offices.

Mr. Jones also paid for my car park expenses out of the company petty cash. The parking lot was pricey but still did a fairly brisk business, so it must've been raking in the bucks. Later, my hunch was confirmed, but that's after I met who would turn out to be the best friend of my twenty odd years.

Carlos Batista was the day manager at PARKER’S SELF-PARK. The catchy name of that parking lot came from Ray Parker, the former proprietor and never-present father of Carlos. Although Carlos shared his lucrative business income partly with his sister, she was rarely needed there. It was not a large operation requiring complicated bookkeeping or well-trained employees.
Carlos was the "day manager" only so far as he had two parking attendants and a lot-boy to help him during peak business hours, and an assistant or night manager who ran the place solo until closing up at around 10 P.M.

Actually, closing time was more like the thirty minute window of downtime when the last customers and employees left the Grand Central Market, a bustling open-air confusion of fruit, vegetable and meat stalls kitty corner to the self-park and immediately next to the office where I worked. The parking lot attendant would wait patiently until those last stragglers drove their cars off the lot. Then he'd count the receipts, log out and drop the cash in the night deposit slot at the Wells Fargo Bank, two doors down.

There had been some heated discussions among the members of the Batista household. Some had thought "self-park" was a slightly misleading term because during the day-shift patrons had the option of either parking their vehicles personally or, for a slightly additional charge, with a valet. And although his sister, Ramona, thought that valet offering was ridiculous in an already shabby area of downtown, Carlos felt it offered a sense of much needed "class" to a populace that he said "consisted of the haves who needed the service for their busy schedules, and the have-nots who didn't need it but had for too long suffered the slings and arrows of ethnic indignity." Ramona had asked him what he meant by "ethnic indignity," but Carlos merely dismissed her with an abrupt wave of his hand and the suggestion that she read Karl Marx.

Sure enough, that got his sister pissed off. Whenever Ramona thought Carlos was behaving like what she variously termed as "Lord High Boofu" or "haughty little shit," a fight would ensue. Their mother would call it, with a mixture of affection and derision, a "frat-brat cat and dog fight." But to a casual observer like myself, the meaning in Mama Carla's coining of that phrase was often lost. It was easy for me to recognize when the sister or brother was acting like a "brat," but not immediately apparent who was the "dog" and who was the "cat."
Neither could I have readily discerned that they were, indeed, fraternal twins, without someone having told me.

I'd been parking my car at Parker's for about a month. Every day, Carlos the manager would shoot me a gleaming smile along with a friendly hello and good-bye. I guessed things would likely continue in that same fixed cordial manner. Then, after work one day, I noticed that I’d misplaced my keys. I'd done this many times before, and sooner-or-later they'd always show up. It got to be such a habit that I simply bought myself one of those little magnetic hide-a-keys and wedged it just below the license plate on the inside of my rear bumper.

This was my insurance policy that I collected on regularly. I'd somehow managed not to bungle anything for awhile, so I hadn't checked the hide-a-key for several weeks. Now I needed to, but there was no way to do this without looking conspicuous. My little Renault was parked directly under a light and in full view of what I felt might be a dozen potential car thieves. Resignedly, I dropped to the asphalt, dirtying the knees of my freshly cleaned 501's and scuffing the toes of the new loafers that I'd just bought to make a good impression at work. I rolled up the shirtsleeve on my right arm and reached under the bumper. I felt around. Nothing. My hand came out covered in road sludge.

Then I heard a low-pitched chuckle and felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Carlos. He was still smiling, and was holding a box of baby-wipes in an outstretched hand. "I'm sorry," he said, "Grab a few of these. They'll help take some of that grease off. I don't like seeing a good customer wreck some well-worked Levi's, or ruin hands that obviously haven’t experienced farm work or auto mechanics." He paused, smiled even broader and added, “I don’t carry insurance for those kind of things.”

I was too chagrined to determine whether his sarcasm was actually meant as friendly or accusatory. But his smile seemed to confirm amiability. "Well, thanks,” I said, “I appreciate the hand cleaners. But I think I'm really done for, anyway.
I can barely afford this month's rent, yet alone a locksmith. Man, am I gonna be screwed.”

Carlos remained unruffled. "Well, my friend," he replied, "I can't answer you about the future status of your sex-life, but I think I can help you with your car problems." He motioned in the direction of the shed and said, "Follow me."

I did as he suggested. Once inside the self-park shed, Carlos rifled through some papers and gadgets on a high shelf. His fingers found what he was looking for and he held it up, wielding it like a sword for examination. It was about two feet long. Very flat and maybe an inch in width. It quivered and bent slowly back and forth in his hand like a fishing pole. It appeared as if cut from a single piece of tensile sheet metal, like a bacon-knife with a hook notched into its end. I recognized it immediately.

Carlos was jubilant. "I told you not to worry; this'll fix the problem." Again he motioned with his hand and said, "Follow me." Back at the car he said, "Your Hide-a-Key must've worked itself loose bumping around on these shitty streets. They'll do that, you know. Then you discover that your keys are lost at the precise moment you need them most." He again held up the "bacon-knife," and announced proudly, "This little baby's illegal if you don't have a license for it. Only people like cops and locksmiths can get them. I got this one from a friend." He said the word "friend" with a knowing wink, then proceeded to slip the tool between the window glass and weather-stripping of the driver's door, just in front of the door lock. "Just watch this," he said, "I've been practicing."

He began to work the utensil up and down, forward and back, a little like he was trolling for fish. In a few short moments, I heard a loud click-a-click-a-thunk. Then with a sweep of his hand Carlos pulled open the car door and bowed slightly. "Well, mister, it's been a pleasure to serve you. Hope your evening's a good one."

I was impressed. Not in the habit of letting kind gestures go unrewarded I said, "Listen, you just got me out of what could have been some deep shit. I want to make this up to you." Then as an afterthought I smiled and added, "And by the way, don't call me mister. The name's Jonah, Jonah Cahn." I reached my hand toward his.

He clasped my outstretched hand and said with a slight laugh, "Mine's Carlos Batista, and I own this place so no thanks are necessary. Just keep adding to my income by continuing to park here. Your company pays their bills on time."
He hesitated, "I like your attitude, if you've got a few minutes, why not let me buy you a beer?'

A thirty'ish, overly peroxided blonde at the bar had plunked a quarter into the jukebox next to our booth. As we sat down I got caught up for a moment in The Spider and The Fly, a song by Mick Jagger that could have been written for the blonde with passé ratted hair and too much black eyeliner. “Common, flirty, she looked about thirty / I would’ve run away but I was on my own. / Then she said Hi like the spider to the fly / I guess she liked the way I held the microphone...” I noticed that the red vinyl upholstery on