Lost Angels

By Douglas Myers

After fulfilling a promise at a beach off the Pacific Coast Highway, Jake Trevallion continues north to a snowcapped Mt. Shasta. Exhausted and overwhelmed after climbing to ten thousand feet, he reminisces over the events of his life that led him to this desolate place.

He thinks of his parents and memories of life growing up in Montana. He recalls his new life in Los Angeles and his three best friends: Aggie, a homebrewer who wants something more than his day job. Zeke, an actor struggling to catch a break in the business. Hank, better known as HB, who could have it all but claims he wants nothing except to have a ‘good time and a goodbye.’ Their adventures take them from the dive bar they love, to outlandish parties in the Hollywood Hills, to a final camping trip under the stars.

He relives his memories of Jacinda. When a chance encounter sets off a series of events with the woman of his dreams, there are consequences each one of them must face. And like the storm bearing down on Mt. Shasta, so too will Jake be forced to accept reality.

Through all of the imaginings and meditations over the people and places in his life, it dawns upon him these events share a connection. They are directing him toward the path he knows he must take.

But his newfound clarity comes with a price, and when the storm descends, it may be too late.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Douglas Myers
• Release date: Apr 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781942899259

Douglas Myers

Douglas Myers was born and raised in Raleigh, North Carolina. He attended Florida State University, studied in London, and moved to Los Angeles after graduation. Five years later, he returned to his home state and earned a second degree from UNC Wilmington. He currently lives in Castle Hayne, North Carolina.Lost Angels is his first full length novel. A collection of short stories entitled A Kind of Dreaming was published in 2001.

Book preview

The snow crunched under the crampon of my left boot as I planted the handle of my ice axe and ascended to ten thousand feet. This flat would serve as my base camp for a summit climb the next morning, but for now, all I could do was unbuckle my pack and rest.

After a granola bar and some water, I concentrated on slow, deep breaths to replenish the oxygen in my system. I inhaled through my nose for a count of five and exhaled from my mouth for another five and tried to take in the rugged sea of white and distant Earth tones that stretched out before me like the canvas of a masterpiece; my awe and love for the snowpeaked skyline’s beauty grew with every breath and conjured memories of home.

My solitary pioneer tracks churned a serpentine path to the tree line where single evergreens stood like sentries before clumps of trees turned into the forest. It was early in the climbing season with a wintry forecast, and aside from a few SUVs parked at the trailhead where I slept last night in my truck, I saw no other signs of climbers. I knew better than to be up here except I needed the climb. I needed mountains with deep roots like the ones back home. Something about nature, perhaps its timelessness, grounds a person more than what is ever found in a city. Here at ten thousand feet on the side of Mt. Shasta, I hoped to find it and be grounded once more.

As I clenched and unclenched my hands and wiggled my toes to check for feeling, a light wave of fresh flakes fell. The sun held its place, but a small pocket of gray clouds on the horizon showed the signs of a storm. I knew I had a little more time before setting up camp, so I shifted my pack in the snow and lay down with my head and shoulders propped against it. Intermittent flakes landed and cooled my cheeks and nose and lips and some touched my sunglasses, transformed to droplets, and wobbled down to the frames. Watching the flurry reminded me of something I once read about snow. It said to think of the multitude of tiny, unique creations before oneself and imagine these represent all of the people in one’s life. A person can sit idly by and let them pass. Or one can reach out, connect, and change.

I held out the palm of my glove and watched a few land and thought of HB, and Aggie, Zeke, and my parents, and of course Jacinda. But I did not want to think of her yet. I did not want this to turn into a time like those countless nights where I couldn’t sleep thinking about her and reliving conversations both real and imagined and scenes full of what-ifs. I closed my eyes and forced myself into an exercise of the imagination as a teacher of mine once called it. I pictured the snow on the edge of a cloud. I latched onto one little flake and imagined the descent.

I fall from the underclouds of the heavens and float on the gray currents. Then the brutal gusts from the north seize and slam me over a ridge of jagged peaks to a valley shaped like the upturned palm of a cupped hand. Through its deep wrinkled lines flow rivers with waters that echo of glacial beginnings, and offshoots of bitter winds surf through the tree lines. I am infinitesimal in this vast sea of swirling, falling softness. Even as the sun beams on the horizon, I am beyond notice. Toward the southern end of the valley stretches a field where row after row of cut stones stand. Each stone bears carved numbers and names and holds boundless reminiscences of special lives. A gust pushes me toward the face of a dark gray one, and I stick to the cut letter ‘T’ in the name Trevallion.

My parents’ tombstone was not what I expected, but it was not the first time my imagination led to an odd place. I unzipped my jacket and wiped my sunglasses off on my shirt and glanced at the storm clouds. The darkness grew as they slid through the sky but I still had time to spare. I remembered thinking about my own funeral at a coffee shop in L.A. on the day Jacinda drove me to the hospital for stitches. With another deep breath and exhale I closed my eyes, but this time imagined that afternoon and relived its moments.

Sometimes I wonder what my tombstone will look like. Will it be chiseled from granite, like my parents’ stone outside of Missoula? Will it be a lost hiker’s snowdrift in a vast white sea of nothingness? Will strangers pay homage to my ancient bones with a pile of stones? Maybe I can save up a burial fund and buy a wooden ship and be laid to rest with a sword, shield, and suit of armor. Or the boat could be set adrift and then lit on fire, how cool would that be? I know by now my imagination’s delved into the books I read growing up, like my recurring idea of building a stone castle for a home. Besides, by the time I save up the money for a Viking dragon ship, I’ll probably be married and have kids, so that wouldn’t do. They would dismiss my wishes as being eccentric. I can hear my future son telling guests, Yes, that’s a ship, and yes, we’re going to shoot it with a flaming arrow from his wooden longbow. Their collective jaws drop. Hey, you knew my father, he was crazy. Did you ever hear him bitch about our house? Anytime something went wrong he’d say, ‘See what I mean? If we lived in a castle this wouldn’t happen.’ The guests would laugh and raise their drinking horns of beer in my honor.

The idea of kids makes me shake my head. The idea of my kids calling me eccentric and crazy is even better, especially since I don’t even have a girlfriend right now.

The thought of tombstones and burials is all Stanley and Stella Kowalski’s fault, or maybe it’s Tennessee Williams’ fault. Either way I promised Momma I’d read A Streetcar Named Desire ‘when I get older.’ Momma was a librarian and so I have about two hundred and five more titles to finish since I’m starting to feel ‘older.’ She hated that ‘when I get older’ answer, but then I’d say That’s all right Momma, in my best Elvis impersonation, and she’d give up with a sigh. At one time the list approached three hundred and twenty-one titles, but as an English major at the University of Montana, I had no excuses. This delighted Momma to no end.

Thoughts of family always pervade my head whenever I read or watch something about a husband and wife. These thoughts, no matter how wide stretching or wild, like when I wondered what it’d be like to marry someone who could read my mind after watching Jean Gray in X-Men, always circle back around to Momma and Dad.

I picture their tombstone.

I remember a family camping trip, or racing Dad to see who could shovel the driveway faster and Momma waiting with hot chocolate for me and coffee for him. I remember the first time I lost to him. It was right after I said, Maybe you’re getting old, and I was serious when I said it. I don’t even remember what we were talking about, but I remember looking at him and saying it. We picked on each other, but it was the first time I had called him old. I was in the ninth grade and he finished before I was halfway down my side. Then he said, Maybe, but I just kicked your ass, and it was an epiphany. He always let me win, until I said that. I felt awful. I wanted to cry I felt so bad. I can still see the furrowed look on his forehead and the squint in his eyes. It reminded me of Clint Eastwood in the westerns he loved, and I loved to watch them with him. Between that and the sudden deepness of his voice, he smashed my ignorant teen arrogance in one crushing blow. From that moment forward our competition hardened. And whether shooting hoops, chopping wood, deer hunting, or playing cards, his motto became, Not bad for an old man, hunh? I apologized countless times for what I had said, and though he said all was forgiven, I never forgave myself.

I remember snow piled up like a long gopher’s track after Dad went out before breakfast one Saturday morning and threw his snow on my side of the driveway. I can see the pile slowly evolve into the beginnings of a drift as the snow falls in heavier flakes. I see the ends of four long, tall rows of split wood piled beside the garage disappear under the blanket of white. They look like the cottony ends of a pile of q-tips. A heavy snow blankets all noise with its own deep hush, and I see their granite tombstone again, half-covered, in quiet and stillness.

I dog-ear a page of the play and search the walls of my apartment. Sometimes it’s a welcoming castle, other times it’s a stifling studio inside a tiny speck on a map. Right now it’s the latter and I need air. I need the comfort of fellow souls. I decide to drive down Sunset and join my fellow brethren of Los Angeles.

It’s the beginning of February, and spring’s in the air like a collective wave rolling in from the Pacific. The city soaks in the sun. I find a seat at a sidewalk table at The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf. I have half an hour before I need to leave for work and head further down Sunset into Beverly Hills and to Sorrento.

I slip Streetcar out of the back pocket of my khaki pants and roll up the sleeves of my white button-down Oxford shirt; it’s the dress code for eighty percent of waiters and only a navy coat away from completing the poor man’s suit. With hot coffee in hand, my spirits rise in the warmth of such close proximity to the twelve other patrons seated outside. There’s a steady stream of traffic, though everyone seems to slow down on this section of Sunset known as the Strip. Bags rustle in shoppers’ hands on the sidewalk, and a white Lamborghini parallel parks between a Mercedes and a Jeep.

I return to the page and read, Haven’t you ever ridden that streetcar? It’s so full of double meanings between Stella and Blanche, but I read it again like a left hook of loneliness to the gut.

I think of my boss, Mrs. Cassisman. She’s like a vision of what I imagine a muse would be. I’ve personally never met one of Zeus’s nine daughters who inspire the work of artists, but I think Mrs. Cassisman could rival them. I picture her in the dark brown and white dress she wore last night, her hair down past her shoulders, the stern statuesque look through which a smile hardly ripples. I picture the faint light shimmering off her lips as she glances down at the podium to mark a table off the list. I wonder what she is like away from work and what, if anything, makes her smile. It’s not just her looks, though she could be Catherine Zeta-Jones’s younger sister, and a handful of patrons at Sorrento have asked her if they’re related.

The rumor about Mrs. Cassisman is she was a model before some rich guy snatched her up and then gave her the restaurant when he left her. I can believe the model part, but aside from that I don’t know what to think. There are gorgeous women all over this town, but Mrs. Cassisman is different.

Some of the waitstaff have colorful names for her more often associated with animals, yet an older couple referred to her as ‘lovely’ after conversing with her for quite some time. Can a person really be so duplicitous? I suppose the answer lies with the targeted audience.

Any thoughts I have of her are just a fantasy because there’s a diamond on her finger, though HB says rings mean nothing in this town. He also thinks since I have neither seen him nor heard Mrs. Cassisman mention her husband’s name, it’s a façade, and if I want final proof I should look in her office for any pictures on her desk. I want to believe him and imagine how I could talk to her outside of work. I’ve seen her with a drink from The Coffee Bean, then tell myself to stop because it would never happen and glance up to see a blonde in a red strapless dress. It’s tight in all the right places, and though she may act oblivious, she’s well aware of the eyes locked on her. She glances around then slides her sunglasses on. I bet she would do a catwalk turn if she didn’t think it too obvious. Everyone around this place is hoping to see or be seen, except for me. I just don’t want to be alone.

An older man with a navy double breasted suit catches up with the blonde and grabs her hand. His sunglasses look like a permanent attachment and I imagine he has a raccoon tan like a snow skier after a day on the slopes. He throws a quick glance at those of us seated outside as if to say, She’s mine.

Oh yeah, total gold digger, I hear a guy say behind me as the couple enters the front door.

Oh please, another guy answers. That’s a perfect example of a mutual exchange of goods. She gets money, he gets laid. They don’t really care about each other, and the minute she’s ugly or he’s broke, please, the other’d be out the door in a heartbeat.

So who do you think paid for the tits? the first guy asks. I mean, hello?

Him or the little Sugar Daddy before.

You know we should teach a whole class on the economy of sex, don’t you think?

Oh my God, I love that idea, the second guy says. We could call it the mutual exchange of goods and fluids. And we’d get paid for it.

I don’t know about that title, but you have a very dangerous mind, you know?

Of course, and I love it. Oh, and you know what? We could have a whole section on couples of convenience.

You mean …

… like a perfect little marriage for the public so someone stays in the closet and the other gets a movie deal.

The first guy gasps, Oh stop. We’d never move past it. No, that’d have to be its own class. And we could watch movies in it!

Oh this is too perfect, the second guy replies. Do you know how many people would want to take our class?

I return to Streetcar but frequently stop to hear other snippets of conversation. I sit between the worlds of comfort among relaxed strangers sipping coffee and a literary world of a classic drama and incredible dialogue. I think this is the reason coffee shops and bookstores form such a perfect union. Jumping between worlds is a beautiful way to pass the time.

I leave fifteen minutes later than intended and curse myself for getting caught up in the play. I gun it down Santa Monica Boulevard as if to make up time, while the radio blares The Rock Show by Blink 182. I park on the bottom floor of a double parking deck three blocks north of work. There are a few parking areas closer to the restaurant, but those are reserved for tourists and evening valet services. Metered street parking will not work either. Employees like me are banished to the big decks.

I mentally run through what I have to do. I know I have a tie in my locker which I think is still tied. I’ll grab it first and some pens and then throw on a clean black apron before logging in on the time clock. Of course I still have to check in at the wine bar for a receipt book and wine opener. After that, I’ll check in at the podium. A gnawing feeling fills the pit of my stomach as I know there isn’t any way to get around being late. The only consolation I can think of is if we discuss my being late in her office.

I walk as quickly as possible toward Sorrento while The Rock Show is stuck in my head. I wonder how many other people feel like music is twisted around their life like a vine. There’s FM, AM, and satellite radio. There are mp3s, iPods, streaming audio, music videos, soundtracks, ring tones, and even custom car horns. There’s elevator music and music on planes and every other conceivable place. I buy a Pepsi and read I could win a free music download. My life is becoming its own strange music video, and I am the DJ.

I plan to cut down the alley to the service entrance behind Sorrento instead of using the front door. It won’t save any time, but my late arrival won’t be so obvious. Two sets of single story buildings each housing a collection of restaurants and shops back up to each other with an alley in between. Storefronts are on the sidewalk and streets, and the alleys allow for deliveries without interrupting traffic. This is the layout for many shopping areas in Beverly Hills and its surrounding area. Sorrento is on a prime corner spot, and the fastest way for me to reach the alley is to cross the street and walk past the side of the restaurant.

I’m on the north side of the street waiting at the intersection when I see the front door swing open, and a man in a gray suit and wingtips walks out. A couple holding hands leaves after him. The man in wingtips moves faster toward the intersection and keeps glancing over his left shoulder toward the front door. When it opens again Martino, a waiter I work with, rushes out, looks right then left and yells, Hey man! Get back here! His pace breaks into a run, and I notice a bottle of wine in his right hand. I assume he either stole the wine or didn’t pay his bill. He rounds the corner of the restaurant heading down the street where the alley cuts off of it to the left, just as the cars stop for the crosswalk. I hear the Beastie Boys’ Sabotage from a rolled down window.

Hey man, stop! I yell and sprint across the intersection.

Get him, Jake! Martino yells through glowing white teeth from fifteen feet away. The man in wingtips cuts down the alley, and I think of the layout of dumpsters and entry doors where he may try to hide if he stops running. Seconds later, I start to round the corner of the alley as adrenaline pumps through my veins. My mind buzzes ahead. I picture the hundred dollar reward I will split with Martino for catching a thief. Several times a year, some dressed up or dressed down Beverly Hills bum steps into Sorrento and lifts a bottle from the display racks near the door. This guy is the third would be thief on my shift.

The first, a sad state of a wretch, stops five steps outside the door. He smashes the neck off the bottle and downs as much as he can. I launch through the front door as red wine splashes on his scraggly beard. My first thought is to shove him to the ground, but I stop. I can’t do it. I’m frozen. He smells like piss, and I wonder if he’s swallowed any glass. Get the hell out of here, I tell him, Get out!

It sounds like he says, Obliged.

The second time is an older man with a mustache and a shirt and tie and full length overcoat. He tries the subtle approach and simply walks out with the bottle clearly in hand. When I make it outside and yell to him, he claims he paid for it, then races down a half block and tries to scramble into a parked cherry red BMW. I grab his arm as he yanks the door handle. I said stop! I say to him.

All right, all right. Here, take it. He pushes the bottle on me as if I will disappear the moment it hits my arms.

Thanks. I smile. My heart pounds like a jackhammer. With the bottle in hand, I watch him clamber into the car. He shoots a nervous glance my way behind wire rimmed glasses. With his body inside the car and his left foot still on the pavement, I slam into the door with all my weight. It smashes into his leg just above the ankle. He shrieks and clutches his leg with one hand while frantically turning the ignition with the other.

What the hell you lunatic? he cries. The engine turns over. His eyes stay on me as he pulls his leg in and closes the door. I hear the click of door locks. I’m going to sue you! You hear me?! he screams.

I hear just fine, you jackass, I grin and wave goodbye as he pulls into the street.

As I round the corner of the alley, I think Ray Lewis, Dick Butkus, and Ray Nitschke will welcome me to their ranks. I know I will run this man down before he can hide and smash him like a middle linebacker. I will put the fear of God in him. Vikings in a mead hall will toast to Mjolnir, Thor’s Hammer.

I turn the corner to a flash and crash of thunder.

Chapter 2

I clutch my head to stop the pounding. It’s pure agony. I feel like twisted rods of iron hammered by a blacksmith. It is useless. The pain screams in a torturous beat.

My fingers feel wet. Someone pulls my hand away. Dampness surrounds my brow and left eye.

I hear voices.

I see a saddled pale horse with the flashing lights of an ambulance behind it. There is no rider on the horse.

Jake? Is your name Jake? asks a man kneeling beside me in a white shirt with a gray crew cut. Martino is in front of two police officers. He points in my direction and his arms move in a flurry of activity. The officers scribble several notes, then the taller of the two strides over to the pale horse.

Jake? Can you answer me? A small light shines in my eyes and moves from side to side.

Yeah? I answer. The horse neighs and stammers. When I look at the beast he winks before turning toward the street. I hear the clip-clop of its hooves as it disappears. Something soft dabs at my face and brow. The man with the crew cut me runs through a series of questions ranging from my name, to the day of the week, to where it hurts. I move my hands and feet for him. He stares at my forehead more intently as he speaks. I grunt out answers, as if monosyllabic sounds will ease the pain.

Do you think you can stand up?

Yeah. I roll to my side and scoot my knees under me.

Here, he says and takes me by the arm. Halfway up I lurch forward. I feel like I’m on one of those rides at the fair when the bottom drops away from a person’s feet. Take a deep breath, let me know when you’re ready.

Slowly, I stand all the way up. He examines my forehead one more time and declares, Well you’re lucky. Your brain’s not scrambled, but you need stitches. He places a huge wad of gauze on the left side of my forehead, the epicenter of the pain. Hold this for a second, he says. I follow his orders, and he wraps a tight bandage around my head to keep the gauze in place.

This really hurts.

He nods, it sure as hell should, but like I said, you’re lucky. You’ve got a hard head. He keeps talking, but all I can think about is asking him to turn off the flashing lights.

Jacob, are you all right? I feel a hand on my shoulder and think it’s her.

Yeah, I grunt and put my hand atop hers and then just as quickly move mine away. Sorry Mrs. Cassisman.

Jake, you better now? another voice says. It’s Martino.

Yeah, I grunt to him too.

Good. He