Photo by Heather D'Augustine
Read earlier chapters of "Veronica Street"
She talked James into the job by appealing to his vanity, which was the cheap way to go but worth it. James had a work ethic. He was fearless. He had many skills - the best of which was he could pull things together. James could pull a permit out of the nastiest malcontent--without a bribe. He'd had a number of brilliant starts - designer of video games and apps. Cartoonist. Then he had been a cartographer of human beings, mapping the movement of pedestrian units for a firm that sold the information to data miners. He'd been a hairdresser, too. Now, he needed the money, and he'd keep the contractors honest. And so Caleb and Ayla would be spared from managing the day-to-day of construction, the ugly parts of it at least. And James would, in fact, keep the guys on point. He was a present to them both. They agreed that morning on an ownership stake (tiny) and some money up front, and James agreed right then and there. Ayla was pleased with her morning.
*****
At two o'clock in the afternoon. Ayla looked up, surprised to see Caleb. He had parked on the street outside the gates, so she hadn't heard the old clank and roar of the Mercedes, a sound that still made her fingers tingle.
He gave her an odd look, as if he were evaluating her. He looked as though he had traveled far that day.
"Is everything okay?"
"My sugar went low." He made a familiar gesture, bending both hands at the knuckles and making a downward motion in tandem.
She looked at him closely. "What time?"
"I took care of it."
"How do you feel?"
"You know how it is. Squirrelly." He held his left hand in front of his face and waggled his fingers. She went to him and gave him a long hug, her arms below his, taking in the salty, musty smell of his sweater, his breath, and lean frame.
"I hired two people -- James and a girl named Alice," she said.
"That was quick."
"Nothing to be gained from moving at a languid pace here. Speaking of which, Betschart's about to give one of his state-of-the-insurrections. Do you want to watch out by the pool?"
"Let's stay in here."
"Don't you want some fresh air?"
"It's raining."
"I meant under the awning."
He gave her an odd look. They had in fact watched two movies outside in rainy weather; it was romantic, snuggled under the blanket, the air cool, the rain dribbling off the awning's edge, reminding them of the comfort they took in one another. But Ayla decided against arguing any further for romance this evening (if such a thing were possible while watching Lawrence Betschart). Caleb seemed distracted. He looked as though he were trying his best not to spill a newly acquired secret. She was sure of it.
They sat on the couch in Ayla's office, in front of the tiny antique television. Ayla sipped at her first glass of wine, which had lipstick marks and then lip marks in just one area of the rim. For all her energy, Ayla was rarely sloppy.
Caleb lit what remained of the joint he'd started earlier. He'd tested himself twice since dinner, leaving the blood-stained strips on Ayla's desk, along with a scrap sheet of paper, where'd written down both numbers, though they were stored in the penlike device that read his blood sugar levels. He'd emptied from his pockets the glucose tab papers, a small snowfall of gray lint, a few pennies and a quarter, a book of matches from Prado, the bar he hadn't returned to someone was shot in front while he was inside, and a leaking black pen.
"--delivered!" Betschart came on saying, his thick silver hair flopping forward on his forehead. It was as though Betschart had timed the moment when Ayla switch on her TV - the man had magic.
He stood in front of a navy-blue-felt wall, on which was a stencil of glittering tall buildings, telling a special outdoor audience of the faithful that by 5 a.m. the next morning, Los Angeles would have its two million new trees:
Plant them! Care for them like your own children. They are your children, just as you belong to God, just as you belong to the Earth. Los Angeles! You belong to the Earth!
Sure some of them landed on the sidewalk. There were some mishaps. And we've had reports of a tree on the roof here and there. Some of you may not know what to do in these situations. Anyone who wants assistance can call my office - the number should be streaming along the bottom of your screens right now if this station is doing its job! Call this number, and we will work together to see the situation is taken care of, at no cost to you at all.
The look on his face said, Sold! This is my city now! Or, more precisely, Bought!
The live audience cheered wildly, whistling, the camera panning to catch a few tears.
"Now, most of my good people of Los Angeles are familiar with the program, which we began two months ago, when the Riverforest Commission's climate report first became public knowledge. That night after it was first released, when I read the report, I made my promise that we would plant over a million trees, we would do it now, and we would not wait for any reason. Well, Citizens, we have accomplished this - almost! The trees are in your hands, the future is in your hands. God loves you.
"Where is he delivering this message?"
"The Greek Theatre, Griffith Park."
"He's insane."
She shushed him as Betschart continued.
Part of our new initiative is to empower private citizen review commissions for the city agencies, which I have just mentioned.
"Which agencies did he--"
"Shh!" She squeezed his hand.
Our independent audit indicates certain tasks are not being performed by the agencies you have funded and expected to function. Of course, we considered the possibility of poking around the soft belly of these places, if you could call them that, these holding pens for payroll recipients. Or we can start fresh! Without waiting for any reason, without PERMISSION! For anyone who needs a building inspection, AND A PERMIT, we have set up an office that will attend to your needs immediately. Street repairs and lighting. These offices and their agents will have the power to issue permits and licenses. And they will have the authority, and the power to protect their implementation. If the grid don't work, go off it, is our motto!
The audience cheered wildly, shrieking with joy.
"Holy shit!" Caleb shouted.
"Shhhh!" Ayla waved him off.
"I don't know about tha--"
"Caleb!"
"This motherfucker has got to be stopped!"
This was the night when Betschart invited all residents of Los Angeles to visit any of his storefronts and declare citizenship. No proof of nationality necessary. They would receive an ID card, and with the card they would be eligible for a variety of expedited services - complaints review first among them.
"Holy shit."
"Listen to him!"
This is your city, and this is what you must tell yourselves. 'This is my territory. I am a citizen here. In Rome we had citizens, and so it is in Los Angeles.'
"He better say he was kidding before they start sending the National Guard."
The sovereign nation of Los Angeles.
"Why don't they just shoot him?"
"Who? Who's supposed to shoot him? Besides another one will pop up in his place. Like mushrooms."
"Well, if there's so many of them, where are the others?"
"Henrik's growing them in the shed."
Now it was Caleb's turn to look sideways at Ayla and wonder. She hadn't seemed surprised when Betschart promised to reopen the port of Los Angeles (still four months away, according to the "master plan"). And she didn't seem alarmed now. Do you think you're above this? He wanted to shake her and ask.
"Yeah, if one of those navy jacket canvassers comes and offers you a citizen ID card, would you take it?"
There was an ancient-looking sparkle in her eye and her right lip stretched back and curled up just slightly. "Of course not," she said.