HiStory of Santa Monica II: More Stories

By Michael J. Atwood

The second edition in the HiStory of Santa Monica short story series, Atwood's new collection features alienated characters living in seaside city of Santa Monica and surrounding cities of L.A., and Hollywood. Atwood doesn't hesitate to set his stories during various time periods but the struggle to survive remains the same. HoSM2 does not pick up where HoSM left off; instead it wanders through a time continuum - the 1940s, 1950s and into the 21st Century - as the characters, however intellectually and technological evolved, seem to struggle with similar issues of the heart.

About HoSM

The collection is thematically linked by both the characters-who are struggling to realize their Hollywood dreams and the setting-Santa Monica, California. A seemingly peaceful seaside city, Santa Monica is also a purgatory where the characters must face failure and loss-as well as their demons and ghosts. Family and ritual are consistent motifs throughout the collection, as are the themes of escape, addiction, redemption, reparation, religion, and death. Whether it is a young couple looking to buy their first home or a man returning to his hometown for a funeral or a baptism, readers will find the everyday rituals in these stories identifiable in many ways.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael J. Atwood
• Release date: Mar 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310709357

Michael J. Atwood

Michael J. Atwood is a graduate of U.S.C.’s Master of Professional Writing program and Boston College, where he majored in English and interned with The Boston Globe. He currently works as a freelance writer in North Attleborough, Massachusetts and as an English Language Arts teacher just outside Boston. He has written for a number of publications including The Boston Globe, Patriot Ledger, North Attleborough Free Press, and Attleboro Sun Chronicle. In 2010, Aqueous Books published Atwood’s first short story collection, HiStory of Santa Monica: Stories. The collection was a “minor-league” success and sold over 1,000 copies on Amazon, Barnes and Noble and in a number of bookstores across the U.S. and international cities like London and Paris. His second short story collection, HiStory of Santa Monica II: More Stories is set to be released in 2016.

Book preview

HiStory of Santa Monica II

A Collection of Short Stories

1st Edition

Copyright © 2016 by Michael J. Atwood

Smashwords Edition

ISBN-13:

All rights reserved.

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Title Page

Praise for HiStory of Santa Monica II

Dedication

Foreword

Author's Note

Disappear Here

Conspiracy

Farmer’s Market

Spinning

The Summerland

£ondoners

With Luke Wilson

Fossil

About the Author

What you’ll find in the following pages is a portrait to some degree of bridges. The bridges that connect the past to the present, the bridges that connect dreamers, killers and saints, and the bridges that connect the truth to the lies we tell ourselves and pray to God the world believes. In this regard, Atwood’s writing ultimately reminds us that in the matter of bridges, it can either be a nail or a match.

– Anthony S. Cipriano, Creator of The Bates Motel

Not so much a sequel or prequel but a nice circuitous continuum (think Bowie's Ashes to Ashes/Space Oddity). History of Santa Monica 2 is a mature take on the landscape of the longing-to-be-lost. Atwood keeps his protagonist's promise to be more respectful of Los Angeles than some of its storied chroniclers, and the parade in paradise of shady characters, actors, writers, and agents (including government ones) are not caricature but denizens of a more complex, further West world. It may travel to London and New York but it seems like Sunset is always in the rear view mirror. Read it and disappear.

– Susan Compo, author of Warren Oates: A Wild Life, Malingering, and Life After Death and Other Stories

With HiStory of Santa Monica 2, Michael J. Atwood delivers more breathtaking tales of West Coast Am eric an wonders. For his unforgettable characters who are constantly reaching for reinvention and redemption, it is clear that the edge of the Pacific Ocean is not where their personal journeys and histories conclude, rather it’s where they begin anew. These stories are in many ways bolder and riskier than their predecessors. Within them we are once again reminded that Los Angeles is indeed a magical place that allows people act upon their dreams, yet it is also a city where everyday people work and live both big and small. Not simply a continuation or companion to Atwood’s first book, this exciting new collection is its own gutsy literary force that is the author’s powerful second act.

– Eric Wasserman, author of The Temporary Life and Red Celluloid

Fantastic storytelling! Original characters striving to stay afloat in the very deep and turbulent waters of the Westside of L.A.. Atwood writes like a true roots rocker!

– George Wendt, actor and author of Drinking with George: A Barstool Professional's Guide to Beer

What these stories make clear is that Atwood's own journey, which fueled this collection, has been emphatically worthwhile. Atwood's evocative stories are filled with characters dislocated by their ambitions.

– Dan McGinn, Senior Editor at Harvard Business Review and author of House of Lust: America's Obsession with Our Homes

***

To my wife, Melanie and my children, William, Megan, and Kelsey: Thank you for your patience and unconditional love.

To my Father: Thank you for the belief that I would realize success.

To the living spirit of my Mother: Thank you for your help in shaping of my creative mind.

"Let’s just leave this place

And go to Summerland

Just the name on the map

Sounds like Heaven to me."

—Everclear

"When their stare was returned, their eyes filled with hatred.

At this time, Tod knew very little about them except that they had come

California to die."

—Nathaniel West

"I hate the beach but I stand—in California—with my feet in the sand."

—The Neighbourhood

"You can disappear here without knowing it."

—Brett Easton Ellis

"I'm just trying to make some sense

Los Angeles

Boston gets cold this time of year

Seems like each day just leaves me numb

I gotta get out of here

Go walking in the sun."

—Counting Crowes

***

IT IS RAINING in Los Angeles when I sit quietly to read Mr. Atwood’s History of Santa Monica Part 2.

Everything about that sentence is an oxymoron. It never rains in Los Angeles, it’s never quiet living in a house with three children, and I wouldn’t say I so much read Mike’s thrilling collection of short stories so much as they read me.

There is a fraternity one joins when they make the move from the East coast to the West. An unspoken acceptance into a club that on the one hand rejects everything one was brought up believing, and yet simultaneously clings to those same roots and wears them on one’s sleeve like an accessory. It’s an accessory that distinguishes us against the Los Angeles masses. We are the tribe that grew up East of the sun and that theme permeates Atwood’s stories in both large and subtle ways.

Like its predecessor, HiStory of Santa Monica: Stories, Atwood’s writing showcases his ability to deliver textured and nuanced prose. It sticks to your ribs and resonates with a part of all of our journeys. It doesn’t matter if those journeys have taken you across the world or trapped you inside your hometown lines. The themes are inherently universal.

Atwood excels at giving us a snap shot of humanity that is both authentic and engaging to the last word. His deftly crafted, Ian Bradley, is a complex portrait of either a demon wrestling with the City of Angels, or an angel wrestling with his own demons. Atwood shows restraint as a writer from picking one or the other. He leaves that task to the reader.

In a medium that is always a dangerous flirt with cliché: this book is wholly original.

What you’ll find in the following pages is a portrait to some degree of bridges. The bridges that connect the past to the present, the bridges that connect dreamers, killers and saints, and the bridges that connect the truth to the lies we tell ourselves and pray to God the world believes. In this regard, Atwood’s writing ultimately reminds us that in the matter of bridges, it can either be a nail or a match.

Anthony S. Cipriano

Writer, Developer, and Creator of The Bates Motel

February 2016

Los Angeles, CA

***

IT HAS TAKEN me nearly six years to finally compose, edit, and now publish HiStory of Santa Monica 2: More Stories. The journey has been a long one and life has been busy—I’ve gotten two new jobs, had a third child, sold my childhood home, bought a newer home, traded-in three old cars, bought three newer cars, run five marathons, including two Bostons, hit the big 4-0, celebrated my 20th reunion from Boston College and my 25th reunion from high school, reached my 20th year as a English teacher and track and field coach, and most importantly celebrated 15 years of blissful marriage to my lovely wife, Melanie.

And, in between all of this, I wrote some stories.

HiStory Santa Monica 2 does not leave off where HiStory of Santa Monica ended. Instead, it travels in back-and-forth in a time continuum to a Santa Monica, Los Angeles, and Hollywood that exists only in the movies, books, and pictures that I’ve encountered in my life. In fact the cover of this collection features Susan Peters, a 1940s movie actress from Spokane, Washington, who realized her own Hollywood dreams but also experienced terrible tragedy. The young lady in the photo catches your eye immediately—her beauty, vibrancy, innocence, and that breathtaking beautiful face glancing down over the bluff in Palisades Park. What lies down below this Paradise? There is the hazardous Pacific Coast Highway and the beach leading to the placid Pacific Ocean below. There is danger and uncertainty.

That photo of a 21-year old Susan Peters represents everything that I wanted my collection to stand for. I simply had to make it my cover.

How many small town boys and girls, men and women have arrived in Hollywood to realize their fame? Thousands? More? Having made the same move myself from Massachusetts to Santa Monica to pursue a screenwriting career and earn my Master’s degree in Professional Writing from U.S.C. I related to her struggle. Susan Peters was signed with Warner Brothers in 1939 then subsequently dropped a few years later. She then auditioned with MGM and signed a new contract, appearing in movies you’ve probably never seen like Tish and Random Harvest for which she was nominated for an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress in 1942. However, in 1945, she was accidentally shot by her husband while duck hunting, paralyzed, and spent the remaining six years of her life in a wheelchair. Her career in Hollywood and her dreams ended. She died in 1952 at the age of 31—sick and disappointed with her life. I was struck by her story that I researched after seeing this wonderful photo captured in color.

People often ask me about the reality of my fiction. Here’s the truth: yes, I did meet Luke Wilson and buy him a beer at the Buffalo Club in Santa Monica and yes, I did shoot baskets with George Wendt (Norm from Cheers) at his home in Studio City. In fact, some the events are loosely based on people I met in Santa Monica—some things I’ve experienced. However, the rest of it is a product of my imagination and written purely for your entertainment. I hope you enjoy reading HoSM 2 as much as I did writing it. Thanks for reading.

Michael J. Atwood

North Attleborough, Massachusetts

February 2016

***

MY FLIGHT LANDS at midnight—but no one is there to meet me.

I feel like a ghost wandering through the uninhabited airport, like I’ve gone missing forever—just disappeared into thin air. It frightens me that no one notices—that no one seems to miss me. I’m alone in LAX, three days before Christmas, and wonder I if this feeling could last forever.

On the flight from Boston, I read an article in the in-flight magazine on missing persons. Apparently, more than two-thousand people go missing every day in the United States.

And these are the reported cases.

About twenty-thousand males go missing each day and of these, four out of ten are white or Caucasian. The article also claimed that about one-sixth of these men have psychiatric problems or struggle with drugs and alcohol.

They just simply disappeared, vanished, walked away from their lives, and were gone. Forever.

I walk through a deserted LAX and think about the sad fact that my parents have forgotten me. Those said parents religiously drove me to school in a dark European-model SUV every single day for ten years. But don’t be fooled; this practice was not to ensure my safety; rather it was to network with the other aspiring-Hollywood parents—producers, directors, agents, managers, actors—as well as to show off their pricey Brooks Brothers suits, jewelry, expensive sunglasses, good looks, and personal trained, yoga-sculpted bodies in tennis outfits. Now, after so many private school parking-lot business meet-ups, these very same parents can’t even remember to pick up their beloved child at the airport when I return home from college for Christmas after only four months away. I even left my dad two messages earlier in the day and yet he’s not here. I call him once more but I get his voice mail. Again.

Typical Westside parenting.

The fact is, that no one likes to drive south down Lincoln Boulevard after 5 p.m. It is absolutely a goddamn parking lot from Santa Monica all the way down to Westchester.

I keep walking through desolate terminal, so sterile it conjures a mental hospital. The musak version of Catch a Wave by The Beach Boys echoes off the walls and closed kiosks. L.A.X. is dead. A Hispanic janitor in a green uniform is mopping up something outside the bathroom; I look closer and see that it’s a puddle of blood. There’s a stinging antiseptic smell lingering and he looks up, expressionless, at me—just another rich college kid coming off a plane from the East. I see that his name-patch reads Jesus. He stares at me death in his eyes—and nods.

Feliz Navidad, Senor.

I turn away quickly and for some reason and image of all the homeless people in Santa Monica comes into my head and I think about how they probably disappeared from the lives they were living. Gabriel told me once about a crazy homeless woman who broke into his apartment one night on 11th Street and stood over his bed fanning him with dead palm leaf, screaming something about Providence and the tears that St. Augustine’s mother, Monica wept.

Blood, death, homelessness, and that anti-septic smell in this desolate airport—I see it, feel it, and smell it. This seems like Purgatory. I have a bad feeling about my return to Santa Monica for Christmas this year.

I DECIDE TO call a car service. My dad uses one from Sherman Oaks when going to the studio out in Burbank. They tell me they’ll be right out.

Fifteen-twenty minutes. Meet in front of American Airlines, Terminal 4. Okay? Fifteen-twenty. Tank you… an Asian voice says to me.

I laugh at his E.T.A. The 405 is surely jammed with the traffic of families in expensive European SUVs driving their private-school children down to Mexico for Christmas.

Bored and thirsty, I head over to the Admiral’s Club for a drink.

Inside, it’s a pretty standard scene: Brooks Brothers’ suits talking into phones, others typing on laptops and iPads, and passing out business cards, drinking Scotch and Bourbon. The speakers are playing the Sneaker Pimps’ tune 6 Underground. I notice a couple of pilots sitting in black leather chairs, watching a football game on the flat screen, and I wonder if it’s soda or booze in their glasses. There’s some kind of chocolate fountain and a variety of desserts in the dining area.

I recognize the bartender—Brody, a kid from Pasadena with long brown hair, who I went to Loyola High School with—and he doesn’t ask me for an I.D.

I inquire how he’s doing and he says that he is modeling for some agency in West Hollywood, did a Speedo water polo shoot in Hawaii last summer. He tells me I look skinny and pale then asks what I am up to; I tell him I’m going to college in Boston and that it is cold as shit. He smiles and reminds me not to forget Casey’s Christmas party in Brentwood—some guys from the water polo team are meeting at Casa Escobar first and will be doing shots while the organist plays cover tunes.

I laugh, and say Maybe. then drink half my beer in the first gulp then slide him a twenty and head to the smoking area.

I sip my beer and think about why my flight was delayed due to a terror threat on the ground—some lady threatening to blow up the place, apparently—pretty typical. L.A. is turning into goddamn Tel Aviv or the Gaza Strip these days—depends who’s shooting the guns, setting off the bombs. Things have calmed down but CNN runs a headline about it and flashes a picture of the suspect—a Ms. Cassandra Wright of Santa Monica—apparently a casting agent for CommunoSpec Studio—which is strange because it occurs to me that Casey’s dad works there. I wonder if he knows her. Strange they have the same name too. Small world—L.A. is full of doppelgängers. Probably just another case of someone losing their mind out here in Hollywood. She wouldn’t be the first; I saw it happen all the time. When you grow up in L.A., you kind of despise the industry and secretly hope you don’t have to get involved with some of its lunatics.

An FBI field supervisor is talking to Erin Burnett on the big screen. The volume is turned low but I catch the gist from the captions—agent was shot on 3rd Street Promenade in Santa Monica, a woman is on the run. Apparently, she is the face of homegrown terrorism—as you can clearly see from their innocent faces. I’m suspicious of the media’s presentation of the news most of the time, so I shrug off the story, bored with watching the spin and sensationalism, and try to think instead about Christmas.

I wonder if my dad even bought a tree and put it up in the living room, in front of the picture window that overlooks the canyon.

Probably not.

I slide into a smoking lounge and check my phone to see what people back at school are posting on Facebook and Snapchat. Mostly pictures of the Christmas parties this past week. Everyone looks pale, wasted, and weak. Boston had been cold when I left, probably 20 degrees and snowing. Now I am back home in Los Angeles and the forecast is 70 and sunny, but I’m wearing a black North Face, faded jeans, and boots, which makes me feel kind of stupid.

I think about Casey and wonder how her year at U.S.C. went. I decide I might even get down to the Jonathon Club if it hits 80 degrees and attempt to get a tan. I also hope my dad has remembered to pay his membership fees. I doubt it though; word is he’s been busy with rehearsing for a play.

My mom texts to ask if I have arrived. I shoot back a quick:

Yeah. I’m at L.A.X. Appreciate the ride. Love, Ian.

She texts for me not to be such a wise-ass and asks if I will be up to the Palisades for Christmas Eve. I think about it and her new boyfriend and my brother and sister and reply:

Probably.

I finish my beer and cigarette then decide to walk down to baggage claim to pick up my beige Louis Vuitton leather bag that my father sent for my birthday back in November. Jeff Tweedy is singing I’d like to rest my heavy head tonight on a bed of California stars… over the airport intercom and I feel tired and want to be back in my room in Santa Monica sleeping.

Must be the jet lag.

I walk outside and it’s warm so I take off my Northface and toss it on top of my bag then open another pack of Camels and light one with my new silver Zippo inscribed with IMB II, my initials. I turn and see an ad for British Airways with a picture of the Tower of London and a beautiful smiling girl, who looks like Casey. Through a cloud of smoke, I see the caption reads: Disappear Here.

I see my car pull up and I slide the lighter back into my pocket. The driver jumps out to help but I hold up my hand.

Ian Bradley? he asks.

Just pop the trunk.

THE CAB MOVES slowly down Wilshire. The red, green, and orange lights from the illuminated signs shine off my face; I can see myself in the rear-view mirror, as if I have war paint on, and I think of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr.