Photo by Heather D'Augustine
'Veronica Street' is a novel of Los Angeles by Jenny Burman, serialized here at LA Observed. Read previous chapters.
She declined the taco stand, and they ended up at the Marche Café. He usually avoided the Marche because of the ceiling-high lattice of wine. It was a tall ceiling, and even though most daytime people were here for coffee beverages, there'd be the young lady, the middle aged painter, at noon with a magic-looking glass of white or red, their healthy looks and prosperity so undermining to his own project.
"They have a great smoked mozzarella sandwich," he said, stepping ahead of her to open the big brass-edged door. It only worked as a joint effort, this gentleman opening the door for the lady business. They crashed into each other in the doorway.
He wanted to leave her there, in the doorway. He'd work around her. He knew the Hahn building inside out, even now. Even now, with no one getting paid until weeks after payroll, with some departments on point and others...on paper. The thing was, he understood the non-system better than most, because he'd been in prison--and when he was in prison he'd paid attention.
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In front of Disney Hall he bumped into her, right on the street with plenty of room. She'd never known Jimmy to be awkward. It was as if someone had taken all the swagger, all the confidence, emptied it into the street drain below the fish skeleton where the stencil said, "This sewer drains to the ocean." They'd emptied Jimmy down there. And here, on the sidewalk next to her, between her body and the street was this dude with the expensive briefcase, shorter than he used to be. But even easier on the eye.
All she'd had to do was say no, I'm not taking lunch today. That's the message she had for the old Jimmy. No. But she was curious about this new incarnation. And curiosity trumped pride.
But he was not holding the door for her. Not in this life.
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It took a while but a sloppy looking waitress finally came to their table and said they were out of smoked mozzarella. She muttered something about Cruz objecting on moral grounds. So he ordered a Cuban sandwich. And to his surprise Alicia did the same. The women at the table across from them were drinking white wine, both of them. It didn't bother him--in fact he noticed that he almost hadn't noticed. And then he became aware: these were beginner's thoughts. She had unnerved him. But that's what happened when he was faced with his past. His default place was to feel bad, to regret...anything, like that he hadn't thought to make reparations to Alicia. He'd been relieved to be rid of her back then, and his relief was deep. Did he have to be sorry about everything?
The woman across, the one who faced him, was getting anxious. Her glass had gone low, and she was looking for the waitress, while the other one kept talking, her shoulders moving, her whole body participating in the effort to win over her companion.
"So, what have you been up to?" Alicia was asking.
"Do you mean recently?" He really wasn't being coy. He had not yet decided on how to think about her, or engage her--in terms of the past they'd shared, however briefly,
or the present. He preferred the present, of course. But that's not why they were here.