To approach the place can cloak me in gloom; a sunny day makes it even worse.
All those promises of the carefree Santa Monica lifestyle, skateboarders, yoga-ites, galleries, surfers, electric scooters, tech upstarts, designer drinks and dogs. Not that I blame the dogs, but they add to the image of the perfect life and we are so far from it, the paradox is painful.
There is, however, no time to wallow in self pity. We’re about to walk under the wooden Polynesian archway, the one I designed with the Tiki mask on top–the one on which I tied colored grass skirts to blow playfully in the breeze and had removed one spring day, so gently, to another place because the birds had begun to make a nest in the thatch.
As we are about to turn into the parking lot, I see him. There is a palpable gloom about him, as if I’ve manifested some human form of my woe, called up from some other realm, made from dust and mud and bad dreams. He stands stock still, planted in front of the window, in direct contrast to the fun façade we tried to create: the topical yellow-and-brown zebra-print walls, the thatch awning around the roof, the sixties-style font spelling out Shaka Shack Burgers.
He is tall, dressed in dark clothes. His mouth looks askew, but it is his eyes that reveal his true nature; his eyes are haunted and he stares out of them as if seeing nothing. I assume he is waiting for an appointment at the health clinic next door. They would have their work cut out for them.
We always enter smiling, as if everything is all right. Who wouldn’t want to come to work in a place they once owned and now do not? We share small talk with our co-workers: “Yes, our son still has poison oak. Can you believe what Trump said? It’s supposed to rain tomorrow.”
The day crew leaves and my husband and I are left to run the place, like we used to. Sort of. A long-time customer comes in complimenting us on being successful. He seems so happy for us that I take his order not bothering to explain we no longer own the place.
Some families arrive but it is early and there is not a lot of business. Out of curiosity I want to compare the sales from last year but then recall we no longer have access to that information. I make my husband change the music to our old-school ‘60s stuff, reminiscent of our youth, filled with hope, new love and a belief you could accomplish anything and have a good time doing so. Music from a time when the Byrds, Buffalo Springfield and the Doors roamed the L.A. streets and young girls’ dreams, and Santa Monica was a sleepy little beach town.
We fill some call-in orders as the sun fades in breathtaking beauty. The December and January sunsets from this location are the most beautiful of the year, spilling with that orange and purple as if painted by God to sort of make up for the rest of the stuff that goes on. I pick up the phone to call my daughter but then realize it is no longer our phone. A child spills her Sprite, the Beleaguered Husband has to run across the street for corn, two people want milkshakes, a grandmother asks for pickles. Sometimes I count my tips, as if earning money makes it all okay. Ah, but it’s not enough money.
I don’t know when he walked in. I must have been in the kitchen but I look up and there he is. He has a cup of water in his hand and I realize he must have asked for some and Michael gave it to him. He walks back and forth in front of the counter, pacing. Then approaches the cash register where I stand. He doesn’t speak but places a paper pharmacy bag on the counter. He proceeds to open it and unscrews a container, removes a pill and washes it down. Then he opens more containers and swallows more pills and more, one right after another. I want to caution him, to inquire if all the medication should in fact, be taken together but something holds me back and, due to the fact that he obviously has not bathed recently, I callously think it best if he’d just be on his way. My husband, too, has observed the man ingesting all the medication and we look at each other, both knowing we are in the presence of an unbalanced soul, not sure if his medication will help or hurt, or if he has arrived at the end of the line and is attempting to end it all, here, at Shaka Shack Burgers. As he refills his water cup, I’m wondering if a call to 911 will be necessary. Then he turns taking his bag and walks out the door leaving only the rancid air in which he stood. I see him standing in the gathering night, near the bus stop. Where will he go and what God will watch out for him?
Some students come in. They are happy, enthused, enjoying their burgers, and their young lives. A Dylan song comes on and I sing along softly, off key: I see my life come shining from west down the east, any day now, any day now, I shall be released. I’m about to ask the teens if they know Dylan, but a mother and her daughter arrive.
Then he’s back. He walks over to the beverage dispenser and refills his cup. I hope he’s leaving but he stops, his eye falling on Wish Fish. “What’s this?” he asks.
Yes, I hesitate a moment. “Well, that’s Wish Fish. See, you write a wish and put it in the fish. Here, see? He unzips.”
He stares at it for a while. Part of me doesn’t want him to touch it, but all are welcome to wishes. “Who reads these?” he demands.
“Well, the fish does. And I help a bit.”
He looks me over, unsure, and then his hand moves to the pen. He picks up the paper and writes. Then he folds it and slips it in the fish.
“The fish will do its best for you,” I advise, as I always do.
He begins to roam around the room. My husband is now standing at the counter with me. We see the man turn to the table where the woman sits with her child. He approaches the edge of the table where a bowl of half eaten French fries sits. Then he reaches out and takes some.
“Hey,” Mike calls out.
The woman graciously offers, “Oh, I was finished with them anyway.”
My husband explains, “That’s very nice of you but if he’s hungry I’ll fix him something. It’s just he can’t take food off the customers’ plates.”
Then the guy scoops up the remainder of the fries and walks back outside. Over the next hour or so, I glance out at the bus stop where he stands, blending in with the darkness. I wonder if he is actually going to get on a bus or is waiting for someone to come and get him or if, sadly, he has nowhere at all to go. Then, at last, he is gone, somehow vanished into the night.
I turn to the fish. I wonder if I will be able to recognize his wish from the others, but I instigated the fish long ago and have been monitoring the wishes for years, even bringing them home in paper bags because I can’t bear to throw wishes away. I have no trouble finding his. It is written in uneven scrawl, as if done by a child’s hand: “I don’t want to have any more really, really bad dreams.” It ends with a series of exclamation marks.
The fish will do its best.
Any day now, any day now, I shall be released.
