Bullseye: A Story

By M. M. Ruiz

Bullseye chronicles the six-week adventure of an amnesiac widowed journalist working in Spain. Peter had been floundering in his own American abyss after the horrific accident. He had few ideas of his own that weren’t drowned in the blend of alcohol and meds. His life had to be told to him by the vaguely familiar faces of others. One of those constants was his trouble making friend, Paul. While inebriated, Paul ‘helped’ concoct the trip to Spain. Although setting out to write about Pamplona’s Running of the Bulls, Peter changed courses after watching a bull fight.

That’s when he fell down the rabbit hole into endless degrees of obsessive exposure to bullfighting, matadors, toreros, flamenco, toro and gypsies. Taking on more research and writing led Peter to enlightening encounters usually revolving around celebration with a unique and at times disturbing casts of characters.

Uncorking Peter’s already bad habits of overindulgence led to a lot of drunken debauchery. The sweltering summer of Spain with its hot women, all heightened by the testosterone of Spanish culture...all kept the heat rising in Peter. With the language barrier bringing him more trouble than he could understand, by the time Peter figured this out his life was already in danger...again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Aug 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9781480866034

M. M. Ruiz

M. M. Ruiz is a tenth-generation native of Spanish decent. After twelve years of working in Hollywood, Ruiz returned to Santa Barbara, California, and wrote the play, The Whirlpool, along with screenplays, Just a Slice and The Monkey Puzzle Tree. This is Ruiz’s debut novel.

Book preview

Copyright © 2018 By M. M. Ruiz.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.archwaypublishing.com

1 [phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Edited by Jesse Jacobs, Joanne Sites, Michael Ringwald and Mia Marie

Interior Image Credit: Violet Robin Beraldo

ISBN: 978-1-4808-6604-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-6603-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018908757

Archway Publishing rev. date: 9/21/2018

Contents

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Acknowledgements:

About the Author

Dedicated to Tracy Saint James & Stephanie Tyrell

BULLSEYE - A STORY

PART ONE

It was early June and the Dodgers and Giants were tied up in the eighth inning. Although the volume on the television at Barney’s Beanery was low, the energy from Dodger Stadium still resonated. Peter Dobson’s expressionless face stared at the screen as he unconsciously toyed with his draft beer. Tim, the bartender watched intensely as he tallied bar tabs between plays. The Giants were up with their big bat at the plate, then with three balls and two strikes smacked one out of the park. The crowd roared, Tim slammed his fist on the bar, Peter didn’t even blink. Peter, a tall slender man in his early thirties had dirty blond hair and brown eyes. He dressed casually in jeans and a button down shirt. It was early afternoon on a Wednesday. The place was quiet except for a few other patrons racking up on pool tables.

Although a baseball fan, you couldn’t say Peter had been athletic other than surfing when he was a teenager. This was more than likely because he could surf out of view of his protective mother. She hadn’t always been so careful; there was a time in the seventies when she had been completely carefree. Back in the days of open sex, acid, music and flowers. It was on one of those wild rides up to San Francisco for a concert when she crashed her V.W. bus. It was that wreck that had set the course of her future. When she went to her insurance office to file a claim, she met Peter’s father. It was an opposites-attracting-at-first-sight collision. Love between the insurance agent and the flower child blossomed. After finding out they were expecting, they settled in Santa Monica.

All was fine until the first miscarriage, which she blamed on sins of drugs and sex. The second one she blamed on past abortions, the third on her past being simply unforgivable. By the time Peter was born, she was determined not to fail him with carelessness. His suffering from asthma throughout childhood didn’t help matters. Every attack sent her into a tailspin of terror over his impending death. For days after such an episode his time was spent recovering in seclusion. There she would dote on him, serving him healing elixirs of homeopathic remedies. It was then that he developed his love of reading. It was where he would escape into faraway lands. It was what he knew would be his future: to be a writer. He wanted to write books, stories and adventures, for others to escape into. Unfortunately, most of this was forgotten by the time he graduated from college, his college years spent partying resulting in a loss of focus. Funny how that happens, the place you go to fulfill your direction can be the same place you get lost in. And Peter did get lost. Lost in love without a compass. In Terrie, he found a sense of confidence never experienced before.

Terrie had been born into a journalism lineage. Nothing along the lines of a Hearst publication, but her grandfather had started his own paper. A small free paper, but a publication nonetheless. This meant nothing to Terrie until she was nine and lost her dog. It was only after they put an ad in their paper and the beast was retrieved that she embraced the power of the press. For a while she dabbled in kid friendly subjects that grabbed her attention. This kept her interested in the paper for a while, until she went through the uncomfortable adolescent years. When she came out the other side she was cute, perky and confident and used the sports section to rave about her jock crush of the month. Besides her large, green eyes set in a heart shaped face, framed by long, chestnut brown hair, it was her confidence Peter fell in love with. It was contagious. He recognized this from the first time he noticed her in an English Lit. Class. It wasn’t a self-confidence that came off as overbearing or conceited. It wasn’t even that she appeared to be confident about herself. It was more the sense that she was confident in everyone around her. From the moment he realized this, Peter knew where he wanted to be and that was with her. So he was, for eight great years.

Peter hadn’t felt confident in far too long and was used to it, sadly. Used to the blank space that had taken up residence in the front of his mind. Like the one there as he drew in another mouthful of beer. He barely noticed the daylight slip through the door as it opened then slowly fade away as it closed. However, Peter did smell his friend approaching. It was Paul who had deep blue eyes, strong facial features and was tall with thick black hair. Paul had been dating a model/actress whose side job was spritzing fragrance at Bloomingdale’s. Peter waited for the witticisms-of-the-day and watched as Paul sat and began popping peanuts into his mouth. Friends since adolescence, it was Paul’s honest cynicism Peter found most interesting. He hadn’t always liked what Paul had to say or agreed with what was said, but he always found himself amused.

With peanuts in his mouth Paul looked at Peter, then at the T.V. screen above and spat, I see you’re still pounding away at that Pulitzer Prize.

Without bothering to turn, Peter replied, Fuck you.

Paul stopped and looked down at the bowl of nuts, Hold on sunshine, not on an empty stomach. Then turning to the bartender yelled, Hey Tim, can I get a beer and burger? Tim became distracted from the numbers he was working on and gave him an exasperated look before nodding. Paul turned back to Peter, Who’s winning?

Without turning his head, but blinking a few times as if to clear his vision Peter answered, I don’t know.

What do you mean you don’t know? Paul fired back at him, You’re sitting in front of the fucking T.V.!

Merely a tactical diversion. Peter blandly responded.

From what? Paul asked still chewing nuts.

Peter took another swig of beer, I have an appointment with George at 3:00. He slowly took out a cigarette and lit it before continuing, "I think he wants to fire me.

Paul choked and croaked out, Well, that goes without saying, but he won’t.

Peter seriously asked, Why not?

Paul lit a cigarette, stood up, burped, farted then adjusted himself before stating as if fact, It goes against the rules of nepotism etiquette.

Peter turned away from the foul smells, He just doesn’t respect my work.

Paul chuckled, Of course he doesn’t.

Peter started to open his mouth, then stopped, checking himself. Did he really want to open this can of worms? He looked over to Paul, who was waiting for the go ahead. Biting his lip Peter looked up at the game to check the score. The Dodgers were down by two. He took another hit off his cigarette and looked back at Paul who was patiently waiting to release whatever he had conjured up in his head. Peter checked his watch; it was 12:30. Then Peter surrendered to what he always knew he would regret.

Peter took a drink of his beer before turning to Paul, Why not?

Paul, who was then across the room picking out a cue stick casually replied, Because you suck. Game of stick? He gestured to the pool table before turning to the bartender, Tim, we’re over here.

Hey. Peter tried to get his attention back…too late.

Tim, who was checking stock, stopped and said, No way, Paul. You got food coming. You split, then come back bitching about cold food. Get back here and clear your tab, our shifts are changing.

Paul, chalking his stick turned to Tim, We’re not going anywhere, we’re playing right here.

Tim stayed on him, If you’re playing and betting, you’re paying your tab first. Come on, anti-up.

Paul opened his arms, Tim, you make it sound like you don’t trust us.

Tim tore off the check putting it on the bar, Why would I?

Paul searched for his wallet, Uh…because we’re named after Disciples?

Tim tapped his finger on the bar, Shut up and pay up.

Paul flipped him a twenty and turned back to Peter, who was racking up.

Peter looked at him, What do you mean, I suck?

Paul lined up his break, but stopped and looked up at Peter, trying to remember where he was, Huh? Oh yeah, you suck. After breaking he continued, You write about crap… shit… some of the most boring crap I’ve ever read. I swear, last week I read some shit you wrote about wine.

Peter rebutted, Wine is supposed to be interesting subject, you know since ‘Sideways’? He hit a ball in, then missed.

Paul lined up his shot, Wine is only interesting if you’re drinking it. All that piece did was leave me confused and thirsty. He knocked one in, then missed.

Peter hit one in then missed, looked at Paul questioning, Confused?

Paul banked a shot in along with the eight ball then turned on Peter, Yeah, confused about why I was reading it and more to the point, why you wrote it? You want George to respect you? You better write something that’s going to rip his fucking heart out and leave him begging for a nurse and that’s not wine.

Tim hollered from the bar, Paul, food’s up!

After they were done eating, Peter headed for the restroom. He splashed water on his face and stared into the mirror with bloodshot eyes, searching for recognition. No such luck, it was still the same stranger that had been using his body. He’d swear pod people had come if it wouldn’t send him right back into therapy, where after months of analysis they would come to the same conclusion. It was the concussion, it was the coma, it was the loss. But what Peter was losing right then was time; it was 2:00. After drying his face forced himself back to the present fact that he was awake and no, this was not a nightmare. Peter knew it would take him at least 25 minutes to get to the office, and about the same amount of time to get to the car even though it was parked right out front. Peter also knew he had to think of something great in the next 20 minutes. He knew he could; there was no stopping it now. Paul had set the wheels in motion. Like the tide recedes before a tsunami, when it comes back, it packs a punch. He came up with most of his decisions and best work under pressure. Peter was essentially a procrastinator, keeping to the middle of the road where it was safe. But when the pressure was on it sent him into another gear, a survival mode where there was nothing to lose. Similar to a pressure cooker, a time crunch sent endorphins and adrenaline rushing through his brain, pushing beyond its usual cautionary limits.

Paul enjoyed instigating this and he had for years. Being friends for so long, they had history sharing a lot, if not most major decisions. Both being English Majors, at one time they had a lot of similar goals. Then after graduation Paul had diverted to advertising which he figured would be more lucrative, whereas Peter stayed the course of journalism, which he thought of as more purposeful. Paul was right though, Peter’s writing had lost its purpose and gotten stale, just like his life. But these next twenty minutes wouldn’t be. They’d be a tornado of brain storming ideas with the slight inebriation added to the mix. Driving to the paper, Peter knew he was risking it all. All of what? He wasn’t quite sure anymore; it certainly didn’t feel like much. Peter knew his idea was outside the box, kind of crazy and probably stupid. He also knew he had to jump out of the safe zone or die of his own stagnation.

Peter didn’t bother getting on the freeway this time of day, instead taking Sixth Street downtown. He loved this city for all it was worth. Dirty, wide, smoggy and flat, it was Los Angeles and there was no place like it. You didn’t have to travel the world to know this. You didn’t even have to experience this to know it. You could have a miserable life, but in L.A. you could look on the bright side knowing it could be worse somewhere else. On the whole, if you had to live somewhere year-round and still wanted to feel connected to the outside world, L.A. was the place.

To Peter, it was a tapestry of culture. It was like you could go anywhere in the world right there, without leaving the city. He liked to drive through each area and regarded them as important fixtures on the timeline of his life. Growing up in Santa Monica, he spent his youth surfing at the beach. His adolescence was spent partying in Malibu, Venice Beach and Marina del Rey. In college at UCLA, he filtered through Westwood, Brentwood, West Hollywood, Hollywood, Silver Lake and Echo Park. Once he was working, he weeded through Downtown, Pasadena, Los Feliz, Atwater, Glendale, Burbank, Studio City, Sherman Oaks, Van Nuys, and Woodland Hills. This was his town. As disgustingly superficial, ignorant and shallow as it could be, it was just like a bad child he had to forgive, always giving it another chance.

As Peter searched for parking he cursed this crowded city once again. Despite his aggravation, he was flooded with memories of the city through the eyes of his younger self. While still in College Peter lived in Hollywood and Terrie lived in Westwood. Terrie was originally from Pasadena where her family had lived for the past four generations. The newspaper her family still owned, The Printed Page, was based there originally, at first covering only Pasadena. Over the last thirty years it had grown to cover a sizable area, basically everything from the 210 freeway to the 10 and in-between the 110 and the 605.

Peter and Terrie waited until after college graduation for marriage to please her parents. Then they had a small evening wedding. No bright summer garden nuptials for them. They exchanged vows on a cold winter night with outdoor heaters, twinkling lights in the trees and hot wine cider flowing from a fountain. Terrie was a winter girl. It was one of the things he had held dearest, how she made the coldest, wettest day feel bright and warm. While everything around her seemed to shrivel, if not come to a cold stop, Terrie would blossom. After they wed and moved to Silver Lake, the pair commuted to work at the paper. Silver Lake suited them. The funky, hip little spot felt like it was hidden in the midst of the large, expansive city. They also liked the distance from work and family. Driving through the city to the paper didn’t bother them either; they had time alone, together. Terrie covered County and Local Politics while Peter reviewed Entertainment and Travel. As Peter became restless, he started to shift direction to more serious subject matters, focusing on the Crime Blotter and inner city gang activity. They were fortunate to have choices via her birthright. The favoritism of nepotism didn’t bother her much as she was usually proud of this newspaper.

Terrie embraced the responsibility of serving the public. She was proud to provide important information, making it available and accessible through journalism. She sought justice, finding whatever wasn’t and exposing it in the press. There to be read, at least for those who still paid attention to the press. It dismayed her how lazy and hurried people had become, turning on the T.V. or going online to have the news told to you by whatever broadcast’s spin you were partial to. In the city of Pasadena, just like in every other city, there was always some unorthodox bureaucracy going on, hidden by an appealing view. Although it was a small paper covering a larger area than it had resources for, in Terrie’s mind it was their job to inform the community nonetheless. Her grandfather had been a fairly conservative republican when he started the paper. Her father brought it more toward the middle of the road as the times changed during the late 60s and 70s. Terrie was a liberal democrat. Although they tried to hold reins on her opinions, she had a way of writing concisely, simply and honestly on political issues. Without being condescending, she could almost lure her more conservative readers into a false sense of security with her diplomacy. Showing facts without favoritism, at times even opposite sides of issues could only make sense where they met…in the middle of the road.

Peter parked his car in the lot and coaxed himself back in the present popping a breath mint into his mouth. After walking into the building, he headed straight toward the break room. He could hear George’s voice grow louder in the distance berating some poor copier about the type. Peter gathered his thoughts while getting coffee before stepping back into the hallway. As he joined the herd, he sped up his pace in a weak attempt to blend in. Unfortunately, he looked up just in time for George to lock eyes motioning to his office before continuing in the opposite direction. Peter nodded and exhaled before slowing down.

When Peter got to George’s office he hung back for a moment watching the secretary. She was juggling phone lines, taking notes, scheduling and rescheduling appointments. Peter thought, although she could do all this with incredible precision, it would no doubt be easier with a few more arms. In his mind she dissolved into an animated octopus. So lost in thought for a moment contemplating this, at first he saw eight hands snapping fingers at him. Instantaneously they morphed back to reality as he recognized the face behind the hand. With a phone plug to each ear she motioned for him to go on into the office. Peter, embarrassed, looked down as if to remember what direction he was going. In front of a computer screen, one hand on a keyboard, one writing, the phone ringing, she stopped to watch him and then shook her head as if shaking off his confusion.

Peter sat rubbing his eyes as if stimulating circulation to clear his mind. After he took a couple deep breaths he relaxed in the plush leather chair. Peter thought a casual, nonchalant approach was best for his pitch. Just as he eased himself into a confident place, he looked up into the eyes on the wall. It was a portrait of Woody, his father-in-law. Peter loved this man, respected him more than any one person he remembered knowing and was also terrified of him. Peter had always been grateful for this man, whom he held in such high regard. Woody liked him, and actually cared for him. Not only because Peter thought the sun rose and set by his daughter or because Terrie sparkled at the mere mention of Peter’s name, but because Woody enjoyed his company. He praised Peter for being a good writer and liked his ideas, most of the time. Comfortable around him, it always made Woody chuckle a little to know how intimidated Peter was of him.

After the accident, Peter spent almost a year in the hospital, then months in physical therapy. When he went back to work the hardest thing was seeing Woody every day. It felt like whenever they looked each other in the eye, their hearts broke just a little bit more, if that was possible. After the accident, Woody never quite recovered a sense of purpose, eventually backing into an early retirement leaving Terrie’s older brother, George, as Editor-in-Chief. It was one more confusing blow for Peter to see this mountain of a man, this pillar of the community crumble and dissipate. Amidst the loss of everything else familiar in his life, this was one more thing to bare on a daily basis. George, Woody’s only son, went through college on a football scholarship. Once he had a promising career in front of him until injury after injury gradually stole his future as a star athlete. George also majored in business, but couldn’t stay away from sports. He loved it too much so he wrote about it for the Sports Page.

Although George considered himself a republican, had some democratic views. Enjoying tax breaks and country clubs he found it more popular as a businessman to be supportive of the powers that be. His first marriage broke up over it. His wife, Sharon, had lost him just as he seemed to have lost himself, neither finding their way back. When he lost his football career, along with it went his drive and dreams. The only game he was left with was the Paper and money. Sharon watched helplessly from the sidelines and could do nothing to keep up with him. He distanced himself from her because she represented a past, a future, an identity that wasn’t his anymore. His wife had simply become a sore reminder.

It got to the point where George just couldn’t look at her anymore. He knew none of this was his wife’s fault, which made it worse. Sharon sensed his guilt, mistaking the reason for it. After a while she didn’t know what to think of him besides a stranger, a sellout and a cheat. None of this happened overnight. It was a long and torturous tug of war and in the end, they all lost, especially their children. Their time had come and gone. George remarried and moved into a large house in Hancock Park with a replacement family. He then spent most of his time at the paper. His new younger wife and her own friends seemed to prefer his absence.

This was different from his first marriage. His first one strong for a time, similar to that of his parents Woody and Rita, but he never let himself go there. When they all lost Terrie…he lost his parents as well. Stepping up, George assumed responsibility for the paper. He didn’t question, doubt or resent it, just accepted it as his place to be. As midlife crises set in, George dropped into a downward spiral only to be survived by the paper. With the new family and construction on his new estate in Hancock Park, his whole life had been renovated.

George was of medium height, stocky and balding slightly. He looked out the window of his office with his hands on his hips as Peter explained his idea. When Peter was done talking, George didn’t move except for his hands; they went from his hips to rubbing his head for what seemed an eternity, actually about two minutes. He finally took a deep breath and turned around, You want to what?

Peter with all the gumption he could muster answered, I want to take our readers somewhere thrilling!

He looked so earnest it was all George could do not to start laughing on that day when the hits kept coming. Instead bit his lip and shuffled through papers on his desk, Well, now that would be nice. He then paused to look up at Peter, But do you really think we need to send you all the way to Spain to do it? Couldn’t you just take a drive through South Central and watch the bullets fly?

Peter picked up his coffee and took a drink before stating, I’m not talking about thrilling as in violence. I’m talking about thrilling as in culture and ritual.

George failed to suppress the slightest chuckle as he responded, And you don’t think being trampled by a bunch of bulls is violent?

Peter sat up determined to make his point, The Running of the Bulls is an age old tradition. I want to really explore its meaning and share it with our readers. I’ll do a video diary and…

George stopped him there, Wait, wait, wait, we’re a paper. I’m not even sending a photographer over there…

Peter jumped on it quick, Then I can go?

George calmly stated, I didn’t say that.

Peter tried to set the hook, shooting back with, You said that you weren’t sending a photographer with me. Does that mean I’m shooting it myself?

George, with his hands back on his head trying to rub away the hundred other things on his mind, responded, How would that even be possible running with a pack of bulls?

Peter replied, Um, I wasn’t going to actually run with the bulls.

George bit, Now how do you plan to take our readers somewhere thrilling if you’re not planning to actually experience the thrill yourself?

Peter started, Well I was planning on talking with…

George lost it, WHAT? YOU DON’T EVEN SPEAK THE LANGUAGE! Then stopped, took a breath, prying open a bottle of aspirin. After throwing a few in his mouth, he took out a bottle of scotch and poured two drinks. He shook his head as he passed one to Peter before washing the aspirin down, continuing, You know, Peter, I’ve been pretty lax on you these last couple years because I know what you’ve been through, how hard it’s been. We all lost her…I mean shit! She was my little sister. But God damn it, Peter! We’ve all had to buck up and carry on. Letting this paper go down the tubes would be like killing her all over again. She lived for this rag, you know that…Look I know you’re still lost. You’ve been wandering around this last year with your shoes untied. George took a few breaths then continued, So, yeah, okay, go…but, don’t you come back here without a clear head. And if we send you all the way to Spain to do this story, don’t you come back here without a picture of yourself running in front of those fucking bulls!

Peter, numb for answers, replied, Yes, um, sure…okay, thank you.

Peter left, driving through the afternoon traffic to Silver Lake. On the way he picked up the L.A. Times and went to Nettie’s cafe. He wanted a comfort zone. His memories were so vague that a lot of the time Peter was merely searching for something familiar. In this case, a time when he and Terrie lived in the neighborhood. He recalled taking a bunch of newspapers, getting a table to spread them out on, and they would eat and read for hours. Whenever pensive Peter always ended up there grabbing a paper and a table, although he never actually read anymore.

After about an hour at Nettie’s he heard his pain meds calling and left. Peter picked up a six pack on the way to his loft where he zoned out in front of the T.V.

he slowly reached for a calendar. Staring at it for a while, it sunk in that it was already June 5th. He decided to medicate and drive out to Malibu. As Peter sat on the beach he thought the weather mild for June, wondering how warm it got in Spain. He figured as long as he was in the area he better pay a visit to his mother in Santa Monica. Peter wondered if his father, John would be there. They had divorced years before. Peter was never quite sure why, since his father never actually seemed to leave. John lived on his boat, but always seemed to be there eating whenever Peter called or went by. Peter didn’t understand it, but didn’t want to know the details.

When Peter walked into his childhood home was instantly hungry, Hey, what’s cooking?

His Mother as if expecting him placed a pie pan on the counter and replied, Hello dear, I thought I smelled you. Are you ready for lunch?

Peter cocked his head to the side, What do you mean you smelled me? All I can smell in here is whatever you’re making, which smells great. Are you expecting someone?

As she started to make a salad, You always smell like the beach to me. This smells just like what it is, quiche. And no, I’m not expecting anyone else, just you.

Peter took a box of crackers out of a cupboard and started in on them, Why were you expecting me? I didn’t even know I was coming.

While tossing the salad she answered, Well, I’m leaving with my walking group tomorrow for Zion. Had you not come by today then you’d miss me and the quiche. Stop eating those crackers. You’ll ruin your appetite. This is ready.

Peter put the crackers back, I didn’t know you were going to Zion.

She took a loaf of French bread out of the oven, set it on the table, pausing briefly before she turned to him with a quizzing look, Funny, I left a message for you last week.

Peter looked at her before trying to start, I didn’t… Then stopped, it wasn’t worth trying to figure out. He had come to think his Mother was somewhat clairvoyant and let it go at that. A lot of things having to do with her, he let go at that. He gave his head a quick shake, Is Dad around? What’s he up to?

As Lilith set the butter on the table she answered, I have no idea. I can’t imagine much. He never seems to be. But here he is, predictable as a clock.

Right at that moment his Father walked in, looked at both of them, at the table, then back at Peter, Hello there, Son. John then nodded at his ex-wife, Lilith. Back to Peter, How have you been? To Lilith, What’s going on here? Luncheon?

Lilith rolled her eyes. Peter said, Hey, Dad, Good, I’m good, you? Hungry? Sit down, join us.

Happily, his father, John, responded, Don’t mind if I do He then turned to Lilith, Thank you. Back to Peter, Wind on the water, I’ve been on the boat. Want to come today?

Peter, taken off guard, started to decline but as he tripped over his words. He changed his mind, Uh, I’m not- well, um, I- sure I just have to check my messages and-

Lilith cut in, John, he’s working, he just stopped for lunch.

John came back with, He’s a reporter, he can do what he wants.

Peter intervened, Well, I wouldn’t say that, I do have deadlines.

Lilith passed Peter the salad to start serving, handed John a bottle of chilled white wine and an opener, and started serving the quiche before turning back to John, You see, deadlines.

John looked at her, then at Peter and said challengingly, Oh, yeah, what’s your deadline? You got your story already?

Before taking a bite of bread Peter said, Tonight and I’m working on it. So, sure, I can go out for a short one. Don’t be trying to hijack me to Catalina.

John while tasting his quiche complied, Yeah okay Then made a face turning to Lilith, What’s in this?

She looked down at her plate, Artichoke hearts.

John gave her a look stating to Peter, I hate artichokes.

Lilith took a sip of wine, responded to Peter, I know.

Peter changed the subject, How long are you going to be in Zion?

Lilith took a bite of quiche shaking her head slightly, I’m not sure, just have to see how things go.

Peter started on his salad, Are you having someone stay here while you’re gone?

Lilith tore off some bread, No, I hadn’t planned on it.

John looked up at her from dissecting his quiche, I’ll feed the cat if you want.

Lilith looked at him and smiled. Why, yes, that would be nice. Thank you.

Peter looked at his father and back at his mother, You have a cat?

After lunch Peter thanked his mother, hugged her goodbye and didn’t mention his upcoming trip. Peter took his own car to the marina; his father had already gone. On his way, Peter was caught between regretting his decision to go sailing because he really didn’t have time and saving time by getting it out of the way. He decided to relax and picked up a six pack of beer on the way to the marina. While driving wondered if his father would read him as he did so well…then wondered if his mother already had. And now he was going out on the water alone with his Dad. Peter hadn’t planned on sharing his plans with either one of them, at least not until he made more of them. When he walked up to the boat he found his father sitting on deck eating a double cheeseburger and fries. Laughing Peter handed him a beer. His father smiled, nodded and grunted with his mouth full.

Peter was glad the ocean was loud and rough with no opportunity for conversation. It gave him time to figure out what he was about to embark on more thoroughly before sharing. Or maybe he would just call later. It seemed simple enough. His father was never pressing when it came to information regarding Peter’s personal life. He always figured it would lead to personal drama, something he wasn’t interested in. John did however like to hear about other people’s drama. Peter usually complied with some crime blotter sheet news. Already running late, when they docked Peter headed back to town. On his desk at the paper was a large envelope with his name on it. Peter decided to have a cup of coffee to clear his head first. Whether it was the beer or the boat, he was full, tired and wanted to sleep, but he knew that was a long way off. After drinking his coffee opened the envelope to five different articles from various papers on The Running of the Bulls. Along with a note that read, -

"Whatever’s going to make your story different from these…make good. I want a budget and itinerary on my desk Monday. Leave next week, do your research there. Keep me updated…regularly.

See you Monday, George."

Peter picked up a calendar staring at it for a while before noticing the blank space in the middle of his forehead. After taking a deep breath of the present, he looked around the busy writing room to see if he was being watched. Peter couldn’t tell. Everyone looked busy but he was still self-conscious. He could never tell if he was just uncomfortable in his own skin. It was same as when he woke up in the hospital with everybody staring at him; it never seemed to change. That and the struggle for the memory of that fateful night. Peter had gotten used to it the first few months after regaining consciousness. It had been such a physical struggle to relearn his life. He had to accept the weight of this incomprehensible discomfort, otherwise he’d drown in it. Then usually the phone would ring startling him, just like it did right then subjecting him once again to the present. He knew before answering it was a deadline check and quickly cleaned up his review for copy. Peter was out of there by 8:00 heading directly to the loft.

The loft had grown on him and he was comfortable in the open space of it. Its emptiness seemed appropriate when Peter moved in and that’s how he left it, except one corner for vital necessities. That corner next to the sink had a stove, a refrigerator along with a computer table and a couple chairs. On the connecting wall next to the bathroom, was a bed, T.V., dresser with a lamp and clothes rack. It was all he needed. The only thing he put on the other side of the room was a basketball hoop. Peter shot hoops when he couldn’t make his mind stop. He wasn’t good at it, but it did serve a purpose, distracting him long enough to kill time. Peter was sitting at the table watching baseball, eating a pizza when the phone rang. He looked down at the number, it was Paul.

Peter picked up, Hey.

Paul asked, Well?

Peter asked proudly, Can you give me a ride to the airport?

Paul incredulously responded, FUCK YOU!

Peter replied, No, really, can you?

Vaguely suspicious he retorted, Really? Fuck you. You smooth talking fuck! He really went for it?

With fake confidence, he said, Of course.

Paul yelled, YOU LYING DOG!

Peter calmly added, Actually, I think he ultimately went for it to get rid of me for a month.

Paul paused then, Oh, well that makes sense, I guess.

Peter replied, Yeah.

Paul was silent for a moment before asking, When are you leaving?

Peter answered, Well, the Bulls don’t run until July.

Paul reacted, July?

Peter affirmed, July 8th.

Paul asked again, So when the fuck are you leaving?

Peter answered, Next week.

Paul asked, Next week? It’s barely June.

Peter took a breath, I know.

Paul struggled to wrap his mind around what he helped set it up, Aren’t you going to research it first? You don’t know anything about running the fucking bulls?!

Peter was trying to make sense out of it himself, Well, I was, but George said to do it over there.

Paul started laughing, There! You don’t speak Spanish!

Peter started to sound questionable himself, I know.

Paul affirmed, You’re right, he does want to get rid of you. And what better way than to have you go all the way across the world on your own accord and get run over by a herd of angry bulls.

Peter thought about it for a few seconds, I don’t know if they’re angry.

Paul stated seriously, I think they tie their balls in a knot.

Peter replied, Then I guess they’re angry. Will you give me a ride?

Paul lost in thought for a moment asked, Where?

Peter, frustrated and getting irritated, yelled, TO THE AIRPORT!

Paul returned with clarity, No fucking way. Get your girlfriend to do that shit!

Peter walked over to his refrigerator and grabbed a beer, She’s not my girlfriend.

Paul responded, You know, for being the sensitive type, you sure are a cold son of a bitch.

Peter defended himself, Why, for not calling her my girlfriend if she’s not? And she’s not.

Paul told him, Fine, get your fuck to take you to the God damn airport. Jesus… and people think I’m a prick, at least I call the girls I sleep with, my girlfriends.

Peter replied, Yeah, all ten of them?

Paul thought about it for a moment, Sure, why not? If you’re sleeping with them, the very least you can give them is a title. Hey, you want to hit the track with me on Saturday? Try your luck? Could be a good time to see how much you have.

Peter agreed getting off the phone, then looked down at it thinking, what a prick.

Sex having crossed his mind, Peter called Caroline and left a message for Friday night. After finishing his beer with a cigarette, he missed her tag back while in the shower. Caroline, a 28-year-old blond, worked doing photo continuity on films. Peter met her one Sunday morning waiting for a table with Paul at The Pantry. It was Paul of course, who talked their way into sharing, among other things, a table with Caroline and her friend. Although her friend swore off Paul after that, Peter and Caroline continued to date casually. Her message said she had a wrap party for the film she worked on, did he want to come? Fuck, Peter thought, well, they did have good food and drink. But, FUCK! He hated those people, soulless bastards.

Peter had gone before and if you weren’t in the business you didn’t exist. They were cliquish, only impressed with themselves and each other. If you weren’t working on some new project or starting the next one, you were invisible. They’d be polite for a moment, but soon as they figured out that you weren’t an asset to know they couldn’t get away from you quick enough. If they found out people wrote reviews, they’d kiss ass, but he knew it was the best performance they were going to give. After these types of events he’d think, usually drunk, I’m just a critic to you now, but someday I’ll write the great American novel. Then you’ll remember my name. Caroline would pick him up the next night at nine. By then it was 11:00, Peter popped a couple sleeping pills finishing his last beer in bed. The last thing he remembered was trying to stay awake a few minutes longer to catch the news.

Friday morning, Peter woke feeling pretty good so he immediately checked his pulse. This became a habit after the accident, as soon as he was able to do so. Before having the strength to do this, if he woke up naturally, not by a nightmare or pain, would close his eyes to listen. Listen for his heartbeat just to make sure he wasn’t dead. Waking up without being in some kind of excruciating pain. In his mind, death was a possibility. Once his arms worked, when Peter woke feeling nothing he would gingerly reach over checking his pulse. With his brain badly bruised, nothing seemed certain except the pain of movement. Though for the most part Peter had healed in the past eighteen months, when waking he would automatically reach for his throat. As soon as he felt the beat on his fingertips, he would think, just checking. After establishing that, yes, he was still alive, only then would Peter start the inevitable…physical movement. Drinking became a momentary fix, but better than nothing so of course, he drank. Peter didn’t go out every night and get shit faced, but did make sure he had at least a six pack in the fridge. Finding it mixed well with meds…otherwise he faced many sleepless what if nights.

Another challenging day began as Peter proceeded to head out. First, he picked up two large specialty coffee drinks on his way to Sally Stacks Travel Agency. Sally, a buxom blond in her mid-fifties owned a travel agency for the past twenty years. She did her advertising through the paper. It booked the majority of its travel packages through her. Woody had always stood by small, independent, local businesses for all the obvious reasons. Sally was a gregarious woman with a heart as big as her bosom and sometimes as heavy as her make-up. She knew Peter for years through the paper and the family, which for the most part were one and the same. Peter would generally shy away from such an emotional overflow. He found it indulgent and disconcerting, but Peter also knew Sally would hook him up. So when entering her office, he prepared himself to remember patience. Walking up to her beaming face, Peter extended his arm with the large coffee drink to her. He figured a huge, hot beverage between them would keep her hands from wrapping around him.

It worked for about five seconds. She exclaimed, Oh, Peter, for me? What is this? She sniffed it. Oh! Banana Frappe coffee! I love this! He figured she would, but it didn’t stop her from putting it down, grabbing, hugging and patting him down. Oh, you look good, you feel strong. You gained weight. And you brought me Banana Frappe Coffee. What did I do to deserve such graciousness?

Peter smiled at her, Well, Sally, ya look good too. And it’s not what you’ve done, but what you can do.

Sally gestured for him to enter. As long as it’s legal, Sugar. Here step into my parlor. Let’s drink our coffee and catch up before we conduct business. Have you eaten?

Peter started to object, No, but I…

Sally stopped him short with authority, Ah, well, we’ll have no business on empty stomachs. Now, what shall we have? Breakfast or lunch? What time is it?

Peter glanced down at his watch, 10:30…

As he attempted to protest, Sally over rode him with, That settles it. Brunch! Stay.

She ordered him to sit like a puppy. Popping her head outside the door she gave her assistant instructions. Then whipped it back around to Peter, Now tell me dear, how the hell are you?

Peter surrendered sitting back, I’m good, Sally, really… Still working out the kinks, but moving right along.

Sally nodded, And are we dating?

Peter smiled, We are.

Sally raised her eyebrows, Anyone special?

Peter shot right back at her, You’re all special.

Sally laughed, You charmer, I’m glad to hear you’re getting out again. I’d hate to see a fine thing like you rot on the vine.

Peter laughed back at her, No, chance of that, Sally, I’m pretty sure I’ve been permanently pickled.

Still laughing she gushed, Oh you, what shall we have with our brunch? Your choice.

Peter attempted to object again, I can’t start this early. I have a long day to make it through.

Sally shook her head, That’s not one of the choices I had in mind.

He started playing with one of the miniature toys on her desk. I know, but…

Sally interrupted, But nothing, you just passed the choice back to me. Now let’s see, brunch…well, of course. We can’t have brunch without champagne.

Peter meagerly started, Sally, I do have work to do.

Setting up an ice bucket she stated, I do too, I do too, but that doesn’t mean we should do it hungry and thirsty. Besides it’s one bottle.

As Sally poured, her assistant entered with a large platter. It was loaded with a variety of fresh bagels, cream cheese, lox, tomato, onion, lettuce and olives…in addition to blintzes and a bowl of fruit salad. Sally then opened a cabinet, pulled down a shelf setting out some fine bone china.

Peter was hungry, Looks great, but you didn’t…

Sally protested, Now stop, we eat like the chosen people,

After a quick blessing she passed him a plate and toasted to safe travels before they started eating.

Sally took a sip of champagne, looked at Peter and before a bite of fruit asked, So, where ya going?

Between bites Peter answered, Spain.

Sally asked, When?

Peter, picking up Kalamata olives, Next week.

Sally stopped chewing for a moment, Why?

He thought it over while taking a pit out of his mouth, To do a story.

Sally reached for a bagel spreading some cream cheese on it before asking, On what?

Peter surveyed the array of food before him deciding what to try next and answered, A Bull Run.

While layering smoked salmon on her bagel Sally smiled, Ah, Pamplona. She set her bagel down ringing her assistant. After requesting everything on Spain, Pamplona and the Running of the Bulls…had her book a flight for the following Thursday morning to Madrid. Returning to her bagel watching him as she chewed, Sally sat back champagne flute in hand, Why are you doing this?

While taking a drink of his champagne, Peter looked down into his glass realizing he actually had a buzz. I don’t know…The thrill of victory, the agony of defeat.

Pouring more champagne, she said, I thought you already did that.

He looked at her lifting his glass, Yeah, I did.

Sally broke away from his gaze and started writing on a pad. She then tore it off handing it to him, Here, now you take this and go see Charlotte at Book Soup. Let’s see, it’s Friday and you leave next Thursday. I’m booked all weekend… I’ll pick this back up Monday and have a package with everything you’ll need by Wednesday. So, let’s plan to meet at, let’s see… ‘Lucy’s El Adobe’, Wednesday night. Invite your friends, we’ll have a Bon Voyage, oh, invite Charlotte. Now go on, get out of here, I have work to do.

Peter still had food in his mouth, a bagel in one hand and a pickle in the other, I’m not finished eating.

She started throwing the food in a bag, Sure you are, take it with you.

Sally was great at moving right along. She loved taking a little time out for people, but that’s all she really had, a little time. What she couldn’t squeeze into an hour she would rarely commit to.

Peter finished off a blueberry blintz chugging the last of his champagne, Sally, I can’t thank you enough. I…

Sally cut him off, Don’t think I don’t know it, but you can buy me a margarita at ‘Lucy’s.’ She scooted him toward the door, And your passport’s current?

Peter started, I…

Sally cut him off, If not, you go down to the Federal Building on Wilshire today or Monday morning. You have work to do now too, so skedaddle. I’ll call you.

Peter stopped her for a moment by gently taking her by the shoulders, Thanks.

Sally paused for a moment, checking out of her hurried rush just long enough to look up into his eyes and say. You’re welcome, Peter, I wish I could’ve done more.

As Peter walked to his car he thought of Charlotte. Charlotte McKinney had been one of Terrie’s closest friends. As Irish as could be, a true redhead with bright blue eyes and freckles covering her full face. She looked as though she could break out into a jig at any moment and sometimes would. Humorous to the point of mischievous, Charlotte enjoyed deceiving tourists with a thick Irish brogue as if she were the one on holiday. Especially out at night she loved charming drinks out of people. Peter liked Charlotte, but they didn’t see each other as often after the accident. It was too hard and confusing. Her love for Terrie ran deep and his lack of memory of it left her with another loss.

Charlotte loved books so much, that even with a degree was happy working at Book Soup. This was where she could emerge herself without having the responsibility of teaching. As Peter thought of her, he thought back to Sally. Sally had mentioned her twice, hmm…was she trying to set them up? Like as a couple? That couldn’t happen, just the thought seemed incestuous. Not that Charlotte wasn’t attractive, she was adorable and kind to everyone, except Paul. He loved to buzz around Charlotte like a bee on a flower and she loved to shoo him away. He insisted she was just playing hard to get. She assured him she wasn’t. The more indifferent Charlotte was to him, the more Paul thought of her as unconquered territory. Peter could have gotten the list of books at any book store. Sally was right though, he should go see Charlotte. But first he was going to the leasing company for his loft.

When Peter got to his car, decided to get it washed first. Then realized he had to figure out where to store it. Brenda would know, if she was receptive this day. Brenda Robinson was the office manager at the leasing company. She intrigued him. Peter wasn’t sure if it was her stunning physical appearance or her seemingly emotional and personal distance. He had been walking his monthly check in, every month for the past ten months. Not because he had to, but because Peter knew it was the only time this woman would speak to him, and only because she had to. It was like a once a month fix he just had to have. Brenda Robinson was a tall, statuesque African-American with strong, defined features. She dressed professionally in perfectly tailored suits with minimal make-up. Peter couldn’t tell if she was irritated by his presence or merely uninterested in anything he had to say. And that wasn’t much, because she rarely left an opening. Mrs. Robinson was all about business and nothing else, which was fine most of the time. It had gotten irritating, people constantly asking him how he was… well, other people.

For some reason it bothered Peter that not only did she not care, but that she made no effort to conceal it. As soon as their transaction was over, so was she. So of course Peter tried to talk to her as long as possible. He would actually time it. The longest he ever got was two minutes. Peter addressed her by Mrs. Robinson as many times as possible during any verbal exchange. Mrs. Robinson. He could tell it bothered her, but couldn’t help himself. Mrs. Robinson. Mrs. Robinson. Mrs. Robinson. Sometimes he would even start whistling the tune. This didn’t amuse her as it did him. She usually raised one eyebrow and Peter would stop. Mrs. Robinson hadn’t known what happened to him, but could tell something had. She noticed his gradual healing and confidence, but still never mentioned it. Giving unsolicited observations, advice or opinions was not something she engaged in. Mrs. Robinson thought it to be one of society’s major social flaws. The less she had to offer the more Peter dug. He loved the fact that she wasn’t giving up anything for free or slip of tongue. Brenda’s was a tongue that did not slip. As a journalist Peter liked her as a subject. He figured someone that private must be interesting. Then again, maybe it was because he was a journalist that she was private around him or it could be she just didn’t like him. For whatever reason she kept him at bay.

As Peter waited at the car wash, he wondered how the week that started mundane on Monday, got so carried away by Friday? Barely noon and he was already cringing at the twelve hours still in front of him. Peter was used to fatigue from the combination of depression, exhaustion and keeping up the façade of being in denial of both. He knew his job wasn’t that physically demanding, but his life was. Weeks that flew by so fast, felt so long. Peter stopped going to physical therapy soon after officially recuperated, but regaining stamina remained a constant battle. How much strength he actually regained was questionable because of drinking too much; at night and alone most of the time. What Peter figured he lacked was more ambition and incentive. For so long, he had used every ounce of both he had to come back to life. It had all left him still reeling from the experience.

It wasn’t a mystery; the alcohol that made the nights easier to get through, made the days harder to ignore. Peter made the usual promises to himself, that he was going to clean up his act, get healthy and strong. It never felt important though. It somehow seemed wrong that he should have a choice. To move on with life now was to erase what little Peter could remember of the one he had before. It took him months in that hospital bed to barely remember there was a Terrie. To what? Once figuring out somewhat who she was, was he supposed to forget? No, not forget her, just put the memories aside and move on, as suggested. Move on where? He would struggle to pull up ideas, but lose them in that dark space encasing his frontal lobe. There was no reason Peter could think of that Terrie died in that crash and he survived. Was she driving that night? He could never quite remember.

Soon as Peter felt well enough to have a good time, it seemed wrong to be able to do so. His life was like a misdirected void striving to get better, only to beat himself back down. The only thing familiar now was the struggle, the constant and unending struggle. Peter faked his way through the days, weeks and months but was fairly sure he couldn’t fake himself through this trip. He sat staring blankly at the Latino boy waving that his car was ready. When he finally clicked in on the boy, he had a flash of Spain thinking, oh shit. After fumbling through his pocket, he tipped the kid on the way out. Driving away Peter noticed a girl on the corner selling flowers and pulled over. Smoking a cigarette, he whistled the Simon and Garfunkel song on the way to the leasing company.

While Peter waited for Brenda, he admired the old, marbled wood of the long counter. This was an old building, strong and sturdy. Every month when Peter came in, he noticed the craftsmanship and detail of structure. Wondering about its history, Peter always reminded himself to do a story on the architecture of it.

As Peter studied the moldings, Brenda walked up, Mr. Dobson?

Startled at first, Peter regained his composure recognizing the flowers in his hand and held them out to her, Mrs. Robinson.

She looked at the flowers, then back to him, not quite sure, My, now why would that be?

He kept them up, They just looked like they needed somewhere to be…I thought this long piece of wood was where.

As Brenda took the flowers from his hand, she mused, Hmm, well thank you, let me get them in water.

He smiled, You’re welcome, Mrs. Robinson.

Brenda turned and walked away rolling her eyes. When returning with the flowers in a vase, she set them on the wood counter. They both stood back looking with approval nodding.

She asked, Now, what can I do for you?

He took out his wallet, Paying my rent, Mrs. Robinson. Brenda turned and walked to her desk to retrieve a receipt pad. Peter stopped for a moment thinking, then added, And next month too.

She paused slightly, Next month?

He nodded, Yes, Mrs. Robinson. I’m going to be on location working.

Brenda complied, Okay.

As she looked back down writing the receipt Peter jumped back in with, "I’ll