Malibu

There it was, the news I never wanted to hear. On our little outdated television, the reporter announced that Comedian Ron Randal was dead. Found alone.

I clutched my chipped mug of lukewarm coffee tighter. They showed pictures of his smiling face over and over as they talked about him, speculating what had happened. The freshest meat for the media to swarm around. My husband entered the kitchen in boxers and a stained t-shirt with “Rocky Hardware” written in bold. He poured his coffee and half glanced at the tv.

“Hey Katie, didn’t you used to know that guy?” he asked.

“Sorta. Not really.” I took a big sip to hide my face.

My husband laughed, “I don’t know what anyone would see in him. Besides a payday of course. I heard that hot brunette bled him dry.” He shook his head. “That’s women.” I got my kiss on the cheek and then he headed back to bed.

Comments like that were commonplace and I didn't even flinch. I turned back to Ron’s face on the tv. His smile was big, but there was something sad in his eyes. I thought about him. What must have gone through his mind? I wish he had called me. But why would he call me? I was just someone he used to know.

I placed my coffee mug on the table and used the stack of bills as a coaster. Electric, rent, medical. There wasn't anything we weren’t behind on. Since my husband lost his job at Rocky Hardware over a year ago, I had been the sole breadwinner. I was tired. I could never tell if my husband was really looking for jobs or out playing pool. But he loved us. It would all work out. It wasn't his fault he was fired. Rocky, the owner of the hardware store had framed and accused my husband of stealing. It devastated us. Especially when we were denied any severance. Of course Rocky got insurance money and moved on, while we bled out.

I heard my son Johnny, stirring in bed and knew he'd be in here any moment. He was the silver lining to my life. I snapped off the tv and grabbed his Wheaties and a large bin of medications. Using his walker, Johnny made his way in. I always wanted to help him, but I knew I had to let him do it on his own.

“You look sad,” he said in his compassionate six year old voice.

My son might have down syndrome, but he can read a human better than any child alive.

“No baby,” I responded, “it’s just my face.”

He asked if we could go for ice cream. He loved the little shop down the street, but we barely had money for food nowadays. I shuttled him off to his little school bus and said, “maybe later,” knowing that later wouldn't happen.

Just then, a knock at the door. It was a small package wrapped in shipping paper. We didn't ever get packages here. I opened it: a black Moleskine notebook. My heart stopped. I hadn't seen one of these in years. In my early twenties, I had been an aspiring writer, but like so many young people, my dreams had met reality and lost.

I picked up the book and felt the smooth, black surface under my fingers. I opened it. And I saw it. The inscription from many years ago: “To Ron, Love Katie”

Ron used to joke that I was the only writer who didn’t work on a computer. But when I wrote in my notebooks, I felt like Elizabeth Gaskell or Charlotte Bronte: Creative, free and I felt the power of putting pen to paper. I tried explaining this to Ron, but he only teased me more. To get back at him, I finally bought him a notebook. I poked fun, “Hey, maybe your comedy would be better if you tried this, Mr Smarty Pants.” I had no idea he’d kept the gift.

I sat down on our worn out sofa and gently clutched the notebook. My husband was gone and the house was quiet except for my own racing thoughts. I carefully turned the page. And then another. And another. The notebook was filled, every square inch of it with his tiny writing. Jokes. Things about life. Good ideas. Bad ideas. It felt like him. I read one joke comparing men to yoyos because they always come back. Under it he wrote, “Wow that’s so hacky. Don’t use this!” That was Ron, a true artist, but always hard on himself. I admired his courage to never give up, until I guess he finally did.

I studied the book over and over. There was no note to me. Nothing. I check the handwriting on the shipping label. It was his. I opened the very last page and on it was my name, “Katie Larry” With a number “789101112”. What did it mean? Was it when we met? No, that’s crazy? Was it a Birthday or location? No. On that same page was “Sky Banking” and an address in West Hollywood near where he had lived. Had he left me something?

Thoughts whirled through my mind. I had never cared about his money. Never. It was our friendship that had mattered most. When he moved on with Sara, the woman who became his wife, and as my husband so delicately put it, the woman who “bled him dry,” it shattered me. Is that why I had been so quick to rush into marriage with a man I barely knew? I couldn’t look back. I couldn’t think about the “what ifs.” Besides, from everything the news had speculated, he died almost penniless. What could it mean?

I debated, tossed and turned, hid everything from my husband, and was distracted. All the while with Johnny perpetually asking me, “Mommy, what are you thinking about?” Then, we got the news from Johnny's doctor: He needed more physical therapy or he might never walk like a normal child. That meant more bills, more money we didn’t have, and with my husband out of work, no medical coverage to help us. The free medical coverage was subpar and Johnny deserved more.

In a sleek glass building in the nice part of LA, I walked through a lobby. I wore my best jeans and blouse. The people here looked like money, and I looked like I didn’t belong. I walked up to the counter. A man with a glowing white smile stood behind the counter.

“Hi there, name and account number?”

I opened the black notebook and gave him the number. He looked at me as if I were crazy. “And your name...?”

I stuttered, “Katie- Katie Larry.”

What was I thinking? The account wouldn’t be under my name. My cheeks turned bright red.

“Um.. I'm not sure what you want me to do.” He smiled but was visibly annoyed.

“I’m sorry, I think I’m in the wrong place.” Like a dog with his tail between his legs, I got out of there.

Tears streaming down my face, I drove the familiar drive along the coast. Santa Monica turned into Malibu and I was home, or the place I felt most at home in the world. It was the halfway point back to our dilapidated apartment in Fillmore.

I stopped at the old spot where you could walk down to the secret beach, the one they don't advertise to keep the tourists or normal people like me away. My feet hit the wet sand and I walked along the shore. Memories flooded of Ron. We had walked here so many times, even dreamed of one day owning a house here. What a joke! I couldn't even afford to take care of my own son. I used to come here, even after Ron and I stopped talking. I remember the day I found out Johnny was going to have challenges for the rest of his life. I came here, belly huge, and cried my eyes out. It was one of the few places where I could let it all out.

I sat down under the lifeguard tower and shielded my face from the warm rays of the sunshine. I lay flat, closed my eyes, and listened to the crashing waves for what felt an eternity. But life goes on, and I knew it was time to get up and face it. I begrudgingly opened my eyes and looked up at the tower above me. The number “7” was smack in front of my face.

I jumped up and continued down the beach to towers 8, 9, then 10, 11, and finally 12. It was our route: 789101112, the path we would always walk. Those were the times in my life when I had been happiest. Under tower 12 I sat, laughing and crying. A nearby seagull inspected me oddly. The sun went down and the beach became cold, but I didn’t care. The moon hovered above the water and it was so bright out, it felt like a form of daylight.

Yes, I needed money, and needed it desperately. I had prayed, cried, begged, pleaded, but still was in a gaping hole of debt. But this gift, this small book, was worth so much more than money. It represented hope, the woman I was, and proved that I had mattered to Ron. It had been a long time since I had believed that I mattered at all.

Back at the house, I braced myself to find my husband buzzed on the sofa. Hopefully our son was okay. I opened the door and everything was quiet. Where was everyone?

I called out, “Honey?... Johnny?” but heard nothing.

Then I heard a splash and a soft cry, “Momma?”

I walked into the bathroom to find Johnny shivering in the tub, his skin pruned and body ice cold. I pulled him out.

“Baby, how long have you been in here?” He didn’t know. “Where is your daddy?” He didn't know either.

I dried him off with my blow dryer and got him toasty before tucking him into bed with a story. I took my small black Moleskine and dug into the back of my closet. I needed to bury it, stash it away, so that no prying eyes would ever find it. I opened my pink travel bag that I had bought for our honeymoon, the honeymoon we never went on. The bag still had the price tag on it.

But then, something strange caught my eye. There was a large bulge in the bag and it was heavy. I unzipped it and inside was a grey shopping bag from Rocky Nursery. I opened it, and my eyes were met with a stash of crisp, green bills. Never in my life had I seen so much money.

Just then I heard my husband's truck pull up. I popped my head into Johnny’s room and gently woke him.

“Mom?” he asked me.

I said, “Hey kiddo, how would you like that ice cream?”

We tiptoed past my husband, who was already passed out on the sofa. It was the first time I had ever been thankful to be married to a drunk. Thank God for that!

We drove down the lane with my pink luggage bag, a bag for my son, the cash, and Ron’s Moleskine notepad in the tow. My son devoured his ice cream in the back seat. He got the biggest one they had, which was bigger than his face. He was beaming from ear to ear. He was carefree. Happy.

It’s been 20 years since we drove away. That 20k turned into 200k and although we don't have a house on the beach in Malibu. We have a bungalow near the shore in Ventura. Johnny walks perfectly and even has a part time job at the local art store. He’s going to start an art group for kids with disabilities.

And Me? Well, I write. It doesn't always sell. It’s not always great, but I write. I take my little black Moleskine, and by now there have been many, to Kay’s coffee shop and work. I’m just an ordinary, middle aged woman with streaks of grey in her hair. My son asks if I’m lonely, and I tell him no. What he doesn't know is that in my writing, I see Ron all the time.