Oasis of Hope

Fuck! This is California. I suck it up, banish feelings, and admire the curve of the freeway overhead. I can’t get a handle on the light. It’s as I imagined it, but with more ultraviolet, a model of ozone depletion. Large concrete buildings and wire fences dominate. I see the restaurant ahead. It’s art deco all the way and screams “come in here for the biggest and the best.” I’m ready for some love. Give me some pancakes stacked a mile high. I want eggs. I want bacon and an endless cup of coffee. Inside, I squint and look around. It’s a Tarantino movie in here. Vegas-style and cold as last night’s bus. I expect to see Travolta dancing with Uma. A lovely thirtysomething woman seats me and hands me a menu as thick as my newspaper. She’s a dyed blond and very sincere. I open the three-foot-high menu and point at a picture. My breakfast is on the table in a flash. I look around the room. Americans aren’t that bad. Why do they vote like they do?

I pour one of seven coloured syrups onto my pancakes and cut down deep, and here comes the shame: I couldn’t do this in front of Carole. I haven’t thought about her for a while. How could I let her slip from my mind? I don’t need this breakfast. What if she wakes up afraid? What if she’s in pain? Of course she’ll be in pain, you idiot. She’s always in pain now. You’re filling your fat face and living the high life on Yankee dollars while she’s alone with no food in a strange room waiting to go to Mexico in a last-ditch attempt to save her life. And you’re looking at the waitress’s ass. I hate myself. I really do. I can’t eat anymore. I pay and leave a gigantic tip. The pancakes would have killed me anyway. God only knows what’s in that syrup. I step from the freezing cold to the toxic heat outside. I see several young punked-out freaks crossing the street. They look post-apocalyptic. I’m sure they’re going to kill me. I race back down the street. I’m really worried about her now. I was a fool to go for breakfast without talking to her.

I rush into our room. Carole is sitting up. She smiles at me. She asks me about my breakfast. I tell her about the kingdom of kitsch down the street. She wants to know if there’s anything she can eat. Eggs, I guess? I ask her how she feels.

“Those Percocets are wonderful.” She arranges her Holt Renfrew headpiece. What about the hospital bus? Have I seen it?

I assure Carole the bus will be on time at 9 a.m. The proprietor was absolutely sure about it. He phoned to make sure.

“Is he nice? ”

“The nicest man you’ll ever meet.”

I never get what I expect from Carole. I expect punishment, I don’t know why. I feel grateful for the love. I can’t lose her. I can’t drop the ball now. I feel guilty like I gave her cancer. I don’t deserve her. I try to stop the tape from running through my head. I click the pause button on my mind. I actually see it. For a moment I imagine the tape running through and whipping wildly about. The tape recorder can’t be stopped.

Carole hugs me briefly. I have to be careful with her abdomen. I’ve pressed too hard before, and the pain is excruciating. She is looking forward to a walk and seeing the restaurant. I fight back the tears as I watch her walk away.

I need something to stop my mind, maybe something to read. I open a drawer, and inside lies the Gideon. I think about my mother and father, and the Bible school where I dodged indoctrination. I open the Bible, hoping for one of those evangelical moments, a flash from the heavens, a life-changing message. I wander my finger down a page and something leaps out at me, something about how a strange woman is a narrow ditch and a prostitute is a deep hole.