LIFE IN THE FAIRLANE

Mark Barkawitz

“How much, Marty?” Sarah Fields asked. She lived just down the block. She had come to his house to buy some pot.

“Twenty-five bucks.”

“Is it good?”

“Wouldn’t sell you anything I didn’t smoke myself.”

Sarah looked closely at the Columbian weed at the bottom of the clear baggie. The living room was dark with the curtains drawn on all the windows.

“That’s the last of it,” he said. “You can have it for twenty. I give pregnant women a discount.” He smiled.

She took the money from the pocket of her flowered muumuu and gave it to him. It was just about the only thing she wore now that the baby was almost due. She was a big woman anyway, almost a head taller than he. And the springy, black hair, which rose inches above her dark face, made her appear even more so.

He sat down on the couch and counted the money. There were a lot of ones.

“I’m glad I got this from you before you ran out.” She put the baggie of weed in her pocket where the money had been. Leaving, she leaned on the door knob a moment. “I haven’t been feeling myself lately. I was just about to get a little wine from Sal’s Market to see if it helped any, but then I thought of you.”

“You’d better not,” he said. “You know you shouldn’t drink while you’re pregnant. Take a toke. It’s better for you. How much longer till the baby’s due?”

“Not for three weeks yet?”

“Boy or a girl?”

“I’m hoping for a girl. I already got Lamar and Joey.”

“Yeah, I guess two boys are enough for anyone.”

“Anymore likely to kill me,” she said. “I better get back before they wreck the house. Thanks a lot, Marty.”

“Take care of yourself, Sarah. And no booze. And don’t go smoking your brains out either. One a day. Just like the vitamins.”

“Yes, doctor.” She laughed and went out the door.

He looked at the money in his hand. Marty Hepp sold pot to his friends and other smokers he had become acquainted with on the block. Someone had to. But that was all he sold, no pills or blow or anything like that. He didn’t like any of that other crap. But pot he liked. And he was between jobs. So he sold enough to help pay the rent, monthly bills, and tuition down at the community college, where he had signed up for classes next semester. The rest he smoked. And he liked the neighborhood. The people were friendly. Just last month, when old Al and Rose, who lived next door, were painting their apartment, he and a few of the other neighbors had pitched in and helped. Al had lung cancer from too many cigarettes and Rose was a bit dimwitted, the result of brain surgery years before. So he and the others hadn’t charged them for their labor. He picked up the tray from the coffee table. There were a few buds and some loose pot on it. More than enough for a joint, so he crushed one of the buds between his fingers and sifted out the seeds. Taking a paper from the Zig-Zag pack, he rolled a jay and was about to light it when someone knocked on the door.

“Yeah?”

“It’s me—Lamar,” his small voice answered from the other side of the closed door.

“Lamar? Just a minute.” Lamar was Sarah’s oldest boy. Marty put the pot out of sight in the roll-top desk next to the TV, then opened the front door. “Hi, Lamar. What’s up, man?”

“My mom wants to know if she can borrow a couple a’ papers?” He was tall for ten and dark-skinned like Sarah.

“What kind of paper?”

“You know, rollin’ papers. My mom don’t wanna walk to Sal’s Market, and he won’t sell ‘em to me.”

“Oh. Okay. Wait a minute.” He pushed the door half-closed, walked over to the desk, and pulled a few papers from the Zig-Zag pack, though he wasn’t sure at all if he should give Lamar the papers. Little kids had big mouths, and he wasn’t sure how Lamar would feel about someone who sold pot to his mom. But he didn’t want Sarah walking to the store in her condition and having a miscarriage or something. So he went back and laid the papers in Lamar’s open palm. The boy’s long fingers closed around the thin, white papers like the legs of a crab.

“Thanks, Marty. See ya’.” Lamar ran off the porch and down the street. It was just getting dark.

Marty closed the door, got out the joint, and lit it, then turned on the TV and sat on the couch, smoking.

The next day, he was up early because he had to drive down south to John and Casey’s house to pick up some more pot. He put the sixteen-hundred dollars he kept stashed under the corner of his bedroom rug into his pocket, made himself a smoothie for breakfast, and filled a thermos with coffee. Wearing shorts and beach flaps and with a joint in the pocket of his denim work shirt, he left the house. He climbed into his ‘68 Ford Fairlane and drove to the freeway.

Going the other way, into Los Angeles, the rush-hour traffic was bad as usual. Across the freeway the cars were already backed up. He was glad he wasn’t on that side. Going towards San Diego, there wasn’t so much traffic. At nine a.m., it was already starting to heat up and get smoggy. Typical September in L.A. He poured himself a cup of coffee, turned on the radio in the dash, and lit the joint. The news was on. It was mostly bad: bloodshed in the Middle-East, a hole in the ozone layer, raw sewage in Santa Monica bay, and the AQMD predicting a stage-two smog alert for L.A. county. He smoked and listened; his eyes glazed and became heavier with each puff. The world outside became softer—less real. As if someone had honed-down the edges.

Because he preferred the slow lane whenever he smoked (Life in the Fairlane, he often joked.), it took two-and-a-half hours to get to the Leucadia off-ramp in north San Diego county. He got off the freeway and onto the familiar streets—many without sidewalks—of the little coastal town. Back here, a mile or so from the beach, there were still green avocado orchards and hothouses filled with red and white and orange and purple flowers and even some billy goats in back yards. But the condos were spreading inland like a disease from the coast. It was almost noon and it was hot, but not oppressively, like in L.A. The sky was clear. No smog alerts down here. He turned the corner of a small street and pulled into the dirt driveway of his connection’s house at the end of the block. Primo, a large German shepherd, and Duke, a Dobie, came growling out to meet him. As he stepped from his car, the hair was already raised on their backs, even though they’d met him a few times before.

“Hi, Primo and Duke.” He offered his hand for the dogs to sniff. “How you doing, boys?” The dogs wagged their tails when they heard their names called and recognized his scent. But they were still suspicious and moved stiffly around him. He patted both dogs. “It’s okay, boys.” They accompanied him to the front door. The hair was still up on their backs, and Primo, the shepherd, walked in half-circles, eyeing Marty as he knocked. “Hey, John, you home? It’s me, Marty. Let me in before your dogs eat me.” From inside the door, metal clicked on metal as the dead bolt slid open. The door opened about six inches. John’s suntanned face stared back from behind the chain. His eyes, yellowed and bloodshot, darted from Marty’s face to reconnoiter the area behind him. John shut the door, slid off the chain, and opened the door all the way.

“Hi, Marty.” John shook his hand, pulling him through the doorway as he did. He locked the door behind them. He was wearing new, blue overalls with no shirt or shoes and he reeked of fresh pot. All the shades were drawn on the windows, as usual, so it was dark inside. There was a strong, piney fragrance in the house.

“Come in the back room.” John led him to the door of a closed room and knocked. “Hey, lemme in, man. It’s okay.”

The door opened and they walked in. Casey, the guy who’d opened the door for them, sat back down on one of the three, wooden chairs at a wooden table—the only furniture in the room—and began trimming one of the plants with scissors. Marty had seen him the last time he was here. He was John’s partner, barefoot and wearing swimming trunks, a typical So Cal surfer/seller. His hair was very blond and he, too, was very tan. There were pot plants hanging upside down in every corner of the room. Plywood covered the only window. A bare bulb on the ceiling lit the room. On the kitchen table with some dried plants were a triple-beam scale, another pair of scissors, and a large pack of zip-lock baggies. On the bare, wooden floor were more baggies filled with pot.

John locked the door, then walked over to the table and picked up a bud that Casey had carefully manicured, cutting away all the large, green leaves and uncovering the fat, purplish-green bud. He handed it to Marty.

“How’s that look to ya’?”

Marty held it up to the yellow light in the center of the room, then under his nose and sniffed its piney fragrance. He bit off a small piece with his front teeth. Chewy. Sticky. It was definitely good pot. Just how good would determine the price. “Have any papers?”

“Already got one rolled.” John pulled out a reefer from the breast pocket of his overalls.

“I’d rather roll this one, if you don’t mind.”

John laughed. “Sure, man. Still don’t trust anyone, eh? Papers are on the table.”

“I buy for a lot of friends.” He sat down at the table and began to break up the bud. It was sticky and hard to pull off the stem, so he used the scissors to cut it up. Taking a leaf from the Zig-Zag pack, he rolled the pot into a thin reefer. He lit it, took a hit, and exhaled slowly, tasting the sweet smoke as it blew out over his tongue and lips. He took another draw, then inspected the end of the joint. The resins were already starting to build up.

“Very nice.”

“Dose a’ the good stuff,” said John.

“How much?”

“Two for a half-pound.”

“Two-thousand?”

“Yup.” John smiled.

“You guys are killing me. I know it’s strong medicine, but two grand is a little steep.”

“It’s dangerous these days.” John took the jay from Marty and took a hit. He explained as he exhaled: “The Man’s bustin’ fields every day. We’re damn lucky we got this crop in. Right, Casey?”

Casey nodded. “We can’t grow much here, but what we grow is the best. That’s a deal, bro. Once you break this up, you can turn it to those friends a’ yours for an easy grand profit an’ some head stash.”

“I don’t know if the smokers on my block can afford this stuff?”

“Don’t worry about those chumps,” Casey added. “They take no risk. It’s just like Prohibition in the Thirties. Cops mostly bust runners and distillers, guys like us. We get caught, we go to jail. You, too, Marty. They’d make a real she-man outta ya’ in there,” he joked.

“Eighteen,” Marty said.

John looked at Casey, then back at him. “You have cash?”

“I have sixteen with me. I can bring the rest in a couple days.”

“Do you believe this guy?” John asked. “Credit and a break, too. Nineteen. And make sure you’re back here on time. Our rent’s due next week.”

“I’ll be back.”

“We know,” John said. “You have a good credit rating with us.”

“Besides,” Casey added, “you’ll need your prescription refilled for those friends a’ yours.” He smiled. There was a little piece of green pot—like spinach—stuck between his front teeth.

A couple days later, around midnight, there was a knock on Marty’s front door. He’d fallen asleep on the couch, his shoes off and only his Levis and socks on. He wasn’t sure where he was when he first awoke. The TV was still on. An undercover cop was dressed like a fag, but he was beating the hell out of some poor guy. There was more knocking at the door.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m coming.” He yawned and rubbed his neck, which was stiff from the position in which he’d been lying. He opened the door. It was Lamar.

“Hi, Marty. You sleepin’?”

“Naw, man. Not anymore. What’s up?”

“My mom’s havin’ the baby an’ she wants to know if you can drive her to the hospital?”

“What? She’s having it now?”

“Yep. That’s what she told me.”

“Now, huh? And she wants me to take her?”

“Uh huh. She called Auntie Barbara, but she’s still out on a date or somethin’.”

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

Lamar leaned closer to the screen door. “You all right, Marty?”

“Me? Yeah, man.” He yawned again. “Tell your mom I’ll be right over.”

“Thanks, Marty.” Lamar broke from the porch like a greyhound. He was tall for ten. In the yellow moonlight his thin frame looked like a shadow as he cut across the grass and down the block for home.

Marty turned off the TV and put on a sweatshirt, then ran out of his house and across the front yard towards the old Fairlane in the driveway. The grass was wet and now so were his socks; he’d forgotten to put on shoes. What the hell? He was just driving her. And it was still summer-like in L.A., so his feet weren’t cold. Just wet. He backed the old car out and drove to Sarah’s place, where the porch light was on. The front door opened. She was wearing the same muumuu with a green Army jacket over her shoulders and fuzzy, purple slippers on her feet. She waddled towards the car. Lamar ran out of the house to help her. Marty opened the door for her and slid the bench seat all the way back, so she had more room, even though his feet barely reached the pedals now. She plopped into the seat.

“How you feeling?”

“Not real good. I’m very close.”

“Which hospital?”

“Huntington.”

“Lamar, you coming?” he asked the boy.

Lamar closed the car door for his mom. “Naw. I gotta watch Joey.” Joey was standing in the open, front doorway now. He was only four, but it was obvious he wasn’t going to be tall like Lamar. And his skin wasn’t dark like Lamar’s. They really didn’t look like brothers.

“Okay, man.” He put the transmission in Drive. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

“Bye.” Lamar waved and his mom waved back, as Marty accelerated away from the curb. He raced to the corner, but had to stop for a red light. He wasn’t sure what to say or ask, so he turned on the radio but kept it low. He looked over at Sarah.

“You okay?”

She nodded, then her faced tightened. “Contraction,” she explained and a little groan passed through her clenched teeth. “You better hurry.”

“Okay.” The light was still red. He looked in both directions. There was no traffic, so he drove through the intersection. He didn’t care that it was illegal so long as it was safe. He needed to get Sarah to the hospital on time. As he sped through the streets, he began to imagine the worst. What if she had it now? In the Fairlane! He stopped for another red light, checked the cross traffic, then drove through the intersection. He imagined the cops red-lighting him. Where’s the fire? He imagined the Fairlane escorted behind a flashing cop car. Then he imagined himself handcuffed and in their back seat. Sarah groaned again. This time louder. Another contraction. They were just minutes apart. He didn’t know much about pregnant women but he knew that meant she was close. Really close. He kept his foot pressed to the floor on the accelerator pedal and the tires squealed around each corner.

It was normally a fifteen-minute drive in traffic to the hospital from their place. He cut the drive time almost in half. He tried parking in the Emergency Drive-In area—he figured their predicament warranted it—but the security guard wouldn’t let them. “Ambulances only.” Marty explained about Sarah, but it did no good. He had to park on the street.

Sarah began to climb out of the parked car. “Thanks, Marty.”

He ran around the car and helped her out. “Want me to go in with you?”

“I can go alone.”

“I’ll go with you. A lady should have an escort when she’s having a baby. Come on.” He put his arm around the back of her waist. She put her arm around his shoulder and leaned on him. They walked into the Emergency Room together. A dozen or so people, sitting or standing around the waiting area, turned and stared at them. He was aware they made a strange-looking couple—he a small, white man in stocking feet; she a big, black woman in flowered muumuu, Army jacket, and fuzzy, purple feet. They walked up to the reception desk, behind which sat a middle-aged woman in wire-rimmed glasses with tightly-bunned hair.

“She’s having a baby,” he said to the receptionist.

The receptionist took out a form and laid it on the desk.

“Now,” he said, disregarding the form. “She’s having it now.”

The receptionist looked up and Sarah nodded, then groaned—another contraction. Within thirty seconds, a male nurse had Sarah in a wheelchair and was pushing her through the swinging doors marked “Emergency” in red. Marty waved until the doors swung shut and he couldn’t see her anymore, then turned and started to leave.

“Just a minute, sir.” It was the tightly-bunned receptionist. “You’ll have to fill out this form for your wife. They’re taking her right up to Maternity.”

He walked back over to the desk. “She’s not my wife. Just a friend.”

“And the husband?” she asked.

“I don’t think there is one.”

“Insurance?”

He shrugged. He didn’t know, but doubted it. Sarah hadn’t worked outside the house since her pregnancy.

“Are you responsible for her then? Should we call you if there are any problems?” She was scribbling something on the forms.

“I’m not responsible for anything. You can call me if you want, but it’s like I said—I’m just a friend. I know she has a mother somewhere. And a sister Barbara. But I don’t know their phone numbers.” So he left his name and number. Just in case.

He drove back to Leucadia the next day with the three-hundred dollars—the high-end bud was selling fast—that he owed to John and Casey. It was another nice day. He took care of business quickly, then decided to go to the beach. That’s what he liked most about his job; it left him plenty of free time. Most of his friends and customers were in the nine-to-five trap. He was glad to have gotten away from that for awhile. Even if it were only a temporary respite. He parked his car in the lot on the cliff overlooking Beacons, one of his favorite surf spots. There was a small swell running with waves breaking about three-and-four-foot with nice shape. A slight breeze blew out of the north, but it wasn’t enough to cause any ocean chop. He cursed himself for having left his surfboard at home on the garage rafters. A poor decision made in haste (he hadn’t felt like taking the time to put the roof racks on the Fairlane) as he was leaving the house that morning. He chalked it up to a lack of sleep from the previous night’s emergency escapade. But he figured a joint might get him a ride. So he put a pack of matches and a couple jays in the pocket of his T-shirt, grabbed his towel, and headed down the zigzag steps that led down the cliffs to the beach below.

The sun was sparkling on the water. It was mid-week, mid-day, and school was back in session, so there weren’t too many surfers in the water. He spotted three young surfers with their sticks on the beach, sat down near them, and lit one of the joints. When they looked over, he held it up and asked: “Want a hit?”

All three came over. By the time they had finished the joint, he’d borrowed one of their boards and a shorty wetsuit. Even though the water was still pretty warm this time of year, he liked the insulated security a wetsuit offered. He spent the rest of the day in and out of the water—catching waves, getting high, joking with his new friends, Tom, Larry, and Kevin, who had wild, curly, red hair and liked to be called Neptune. Marty didn’t leave the beach until late afternoon. Instead of rush hour traffic on the freeways, he drove the coastal route, as the sun began to set—bleeding red, gold, orange—over the ocean’s horizon. He was in no hurry; Life in the Fairlane, he sang to himself—a take-off on an old Eagles’ song. He stopped in Laguna Beach for a late lunch at a natural foods store: an avocado sandwich with sprouts and tomato on wheat berry bread with a big glass of orange juice. He was famished from surfing all afternoon. He remembered a girl. They had had lunch at the same wobbly table. Had almost married. He wondered where she was now? Didn’t matter. That wave had crashed and washed over the sands.

It was dark by the time he got home. He took a shower, read a little, and had started making a late dinner when the phone rang. He turned down the heat on the zucchini and covered the rice, then went in the front room to answer.

“Hello.”

“This is Huntington Hospital. I’m Doctor Davis. Is this Mr. Hepp?”

“Yeah.”

“You brought a Miss Sarah Fields into the Emergency Room last night?”

“Yeah. How is she? Boy or girl?”

“It’s a little girl.”

“That’s great. Sarah was hoping for a girl.”

“Mr. Hepp, we’re trying to locate Miss Field’s mother. Do you have any idea how we can get in touch with her? I’m afraid it’s rather urgent.”

“Urgent? What’s wrong?”

“We need to get in touch with her mother.”

“I don’t know how to get in touch with her mother. Is there something wrong with the baby?”

“I’m afraid I can’t give out that kind of information unless you’re a relative.”

“Look. I’m her neighbor. I brought her in there. She doesn’t have a husband and you can’t find her mother. I’m about the closest to a relative you’re going to come up with presently. Now, what’s wrong?”

“Well,” the doctor paused, “maybe you can help. Miss Fields died this morning.”

“Died?” He felt his legs weaken. He sat down on the arm of the couch.

“I’m sorry. We did all we could. There were complications with the birth. And she had a violent reaction to the anesthesia. She went into shock. We couldn’t resuscitate her. The baby’s fine though.”

He didn’t say anything, so the doctor continued:

“Her two boys were in here earlier. Apparently, they had taken the bus down here. I sat them down myself and tried to explain. I asked about the grandmother, but I’m afraid I couldn’t get much out of them. I left to get a nurse to watch them but when we returned, they were already gone.”

“They probably went home. I’ll go down and check.”

“And would you try to get their grandmother to call us?”

“Sure.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hepp. And again, I’m sorry about your friend.”

“Yeah.” He hung up the phone, but just sat there awhile. Dead? Then he remembered the boys, grabbed a shirt, and hurried out the front door.

The evening outside had turned cool. His hair was still wet from the shower, and again, he didn’t have on any shoes. He hurried past the Fairlane still parked in the driveway. Down at Sarah’s, the front porch light wasn’t on, but there was a light on inside the small house. He put his shirt on as he knocked. Lamar answered the door. His eyes were swollen and red.

“Hospital just called, man. I’m really sorry about your mom.”

Lamar didn’t answer. He just stood there, staring back at Marty.

“You and Joey all right?”

“We’re okay.”

“The hospital’s trying to get in touch with your grandma.”

“I already did. She’ll be comin’ over soon.”

“That’s good. Want me to stay with you guys until she gets here?”

“No.”

“You sure, man. I don’t mind.”

“No, I’m sure.”

“Well, okay, if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

He nodded and Lamar closed the door. He began to walk home. His feet were cold now. So were his ears. His hair was still wet. He felt like smoking a joint when he got home. Nothing else to do. For some reason, he thought of that old Eagles’ song again, then remembered his supper was on the stove in the kitchen and he began to run.