LA Easy

Chapter 1 1995 SoCal They told themselves—although not with complete conviction—it had all the makings of one of their classic road trips; though they lacked one essential: their youth, the ultimate trump card. But, what the hey, they were in Monty’s Bricklin, cruising up the Pacific Coast Highway, L.A. in the rear view mirror. Passing through the Redwood Forest, Chad offered his hand toward the towering, massive trees looming over them like watchful sentries. “The land of giants signals we are no longer under the pull of tinsel town.” Monty accelerated out of the forest, the windy road hugging the undeveloped coastline. He flexed his fingers, palms remaining on the steering wheel. I feel the pull of the open road.” “Entering Big Sur does it every time.” Chad looked to his right at the cliffs and the crashing surf pounding the shore. “What’s this,” Monty asked, “our third road trip up the coast?” “Fourth, but how many have we taken in all?” “We’ve had some humdingers over the years.” “By my county this is our fifteenth,” Chad said, “but our first in over five years.” “Yeah, should of listened to you,” Monty replied in a hollow voice, but still he held on to a certain what-the-hell, boys-will-be-boys demeanor that seemed a part of his DNA. “Gold digger found herself a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow thanks to her sugar daddy,” Chad teased. “Sugar daddy, come on Chad, it wasn’t that bad.” “What are we, Monty” Chad said, his eyes grinning. “A couple of middle-aged guys in search of their vanishing youth.” “For a couple of days anyway, Monty replied. “So, enough of the philosophical reality and let us begin to live in our ephemeral cocoon of illusion.” “Ephemeral! Listen to you. Does that illusion include women?” “Maybe … maybe not.” “Monty, back in the day you couldn’t wait to get on the road in pursuit of young lovelies.” “Back in the day …” Monty slowed down behind a tractor trailer hauling a double rack of new vehicles up an incline. He entered the opposite lane, zipped past the hissing, whooshing semi, and back into the right lane. “We were a pair of heat-seeking missiles—weren’t we? Me in need of a break from my realty firm and you …” “Getting rejected, yet again, for the lead in another low-budget film or made-for-TV movie.” “It was great therapy.” Monty glanced at Chad with a look that said, agreed? Chad was tempted to ask if this trip would be great therapy, but knew better. Monty—whose younger wife, whom he had been married to for five years, had recently left him for an even younger up-and-coming director she had met at an EST conference—had suggested, “We take a road trip up the Pacific coast like the old days.” A road trip in Monty’s sleek two-door, two-seat hatchback Bricklin sports car, which had been collecting dust in storage for years, was a first. They had always traveled in one of Monty’s more expensive and reliable cars: Mercedes S class, Cadillac DeVille, Porsche 911 and others autos of that ilk. Had the divorce effected Monty decision making? For the Bricklin was notorious for unreliability. Chad had told Monty before departure, “That fiberglass wannabe Corvette wasn’t dependable brand new—only lasted two years! Now a tune-up is gonna make it all go good.” But Chad pushed it no further, Monty needed this trip and it appeared he needed it in his Bricklin. They ate lunch on a cantilevered deck at the Nepenthe Restaurant in Big Sur, backdropped by the rugged Santa Lucia Mountains thick with oak and conifer trees. Below them, a steep hillside of chaparral shrubs and stunted scrubby trees met a rocky shoreline, where land abruptly met the Pacific Ocean. Chad chomped a hearty bite into a club sandwich, swelling his cheek. “Sooo … Mon … tay,” he said, mayo oozing out the corner of his mouth that he wiped with his napkin, “how is my buen amigo doing?” Monty took a swallow of his beer and slanted a look out toward a one-man sloop skimming along past the break, tacking into the wind. “I have been in love twice,” he said, in a rare revelatory moment. “The second time I married her and never strayed—but she did, and it cost me half my net worth and my house in Malibu.” “Well, my friend …” Chad said, holding a French fry up as though for emphasis, “Lord Tennyson said it best, ‘‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’” “All the years I’ve known you,” Monty said in an even rarer moment of analysis, “I have never known you to be in love with a woman.” Chad shot a look at Monty—Where the hell did that come from? “Now, who is getting all philosophical?” “Sorry, old chap,” Monty said with a wave of his hand. “The divorce has brought out the melancholy analytical side of me.” He crossed his hands in front of himself. “No more philosophy.” Chad smiled a casual okay, but Monty had inadvertently struck a vulnerable you’re-all-alone-in-this-life chord that had recently surfaced in Chad’s psyche. Monty forked a portion of the house salad they were sharing onto a plate and stabbed his fork into a cherry tomato, slice of avocado, and bite-size pieces of romaine lettuce. “Damn,” he said, “that is a good salad.” Monty narrowed his gaze on Chad, as if to say, Well, here we are, let’s enjoy ourselves. “Since …” Chad said with a concurring nod, “we’re taking this illusionary trip in remembrance of our youth.” He looked directly at Monty to get his full attention. “Do you remember the first time we met?—I was sleeping on the sofa of a friend of a friend.” Monty took a sip of his beer with a look of revisiting days gone by. “Yes indeed, the Oakwood Apartments, in dear old Sherman Oaks, back in … ’72?” “‘71,” Chad said. “That place had it all: tennis courts, fitness center, pool with barbeque patio, and …” Monty said in a tone indicating, your turn. “Outdoor basketball court with lights, where on my first day there—”the details hurtled through the staggered distances of memory, forwarding front and center in Chad’s mind—“I hit the winning shot from the corner.” He tapped his index finger to his temple, a mock question in his eyes. “Who did I hit that shot over?” Monty winced. “Oh, I think you know very well.” He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. “I gave you all you could handle, hot-shot.” “Agreed.” We were a good match up, couple of young six-footers in shape.” “You were a newcomer to SoCal, a twenty-four-year-old—” “I was twenty-five,” Chad corrected, “you were twenty-four.” “Okay,” Monty said, as he turned his attention to an uproar of laughter from a table of young college-age women drinking margaritas, as one member held court. Their laughter had a vigorous youthful quality of recollecting a past escapade. Monty caught the attention of one of the women, who threw him a look that said, Hi there, handsome. Monty gathered himself as though trying to recall the subject at hand. “Oh yeah, a young guy, twenty-five, who had recently quit his job with the federal government in Boulder, Colorado and arrives at the Oakwood to pursue a career in acting.” “Tell you what sticks out in my mind about that day,” Chad said, as he forked salad on his plate. “You picking up that bombshell actress at the swimming pool after b-ball.” Chad shoveled a forkful in his mouth, before chomping it down. “Oh, yeah, that is good.” He pointed his fork at Monty and said, “You homed in on a dark-haired beauty with a body that had all the requirements: shapely legs, firm, plentiful breasts that were bulging out of her blood-red bikini top, and a pretty face with that pouty nonchalance of SoCal indifference.” “Yeah, she was sitting across the pool in a lounge chair, reading a paperback, with an occasional glance up as though expecting someone.” Monty squinted as the sun emerged from behind a billowy cloud, his shelf of hair glinting in the streaming light.