All the Trouble You Need Read online

  “Hey, Jordan, I never see you lovesick. What’s your secret? ‘Cause I hate living like this.”

  “It’s all about controlling your emotions,” he said, as though he knew what he was talking about. If Art was asking him for advice, he must be really fucked up.

  “Did it work with that Jamaican girl? Didn’t she borrow your credit card to get a plane ticket to visit her man in New York?”

  “Yeah, I almost forgot about that.”

  “And didn’t she hit you in the head with a trash can in the lunchroom of the college?”

  “Yeah, but that was a plastic trash can, not one of those metal ones.”

  “Yeah, and what about her posing nude for an art studio after you asked her not to, then she got down with the instructor?”

  “Okay, what’s your point?”

  “ ’Least you were smart enough to get away from her. Me, I still hang around like a sad dog trying to get Miko to come back to me, but she likes messing with my mind. She even tells me how surfer boy likes to have sex with her.”

  “She told you that?”

  “He’s an anal man.”

  “She’s into that?”

  As soon as Jordan asked the question he felt like he was taking advantage of Art. If Art was sober Jordan wouldn’t be asking him about the love of his life’s sexual likes and dislikes.

  “She says she just screams.”

  “She shouldn’t be telling you that kind of shit.”

  “She says her screams get him excited. She likes that, gets her off.”

  Jordan heard Art sobbing like a little kid in the darkness. “Art, I got a half of a fifth of Jack Daniel’s.”

  “Great,” Art managed to say between sniffles.

  Jordan found the dust-covered bottle on the bookcase without having to turn the light on, but he almost kicked Art again handing it to him.

  “You want a cup with some ice?”

  “No, it’s more pitiful this way. Down on my luck, drinking stale whiskey, crashed out on a dirty carpet, wondering why the world is so down on the Mexican.”

  “That’s pretty pitiful.”

  “Thanks, Jordan, you’re a real pal.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “How’s that cutie pie Trisha treating you?”

  “We’re doing okay.”

  “Oh man, she’s fresh to the game. You can shape her the way you like.”

  “You sound like a pimp.”

  “Yeah, being a loser at love makes you bitter.”

  “ ’Night, Art.”

  “ ’Night, Jordan.”

  * * *

  Jordan woke to a knock.

  “Hey, J—get dressed. We’ve got to make a run,” Ned yelled through the door.

  “It’s eight in the morning.”

  “It’s an emergency.”

  Jordan put on his pants and opened the door. Ned looked more irritated than Jordan felt; early light meant a lot to him. Every morning Ned painted landscapes on the north campus, and he had on his artist uniform, paint-stained sweatshirt and jeans.

  “It’s sick. Phil lost a finger at the Art Co-op in Summer-land.”

  “That’s messed up, but what are we supposed to do about it?”

  “Art wants us to go with him to find it.”

  “Don’t paramedics do that?” Jordan asked.

  “Not unless you pay extra.”

  Soon they all crowded into Art’s VW Bug and started south on Milpas.

  “Your cat ate the finger?” Jordan asked.

  “Not my cat. It could be any cat. They have lots of cats out there. My cat doesn’t fuck with raw food,” Art replied.

  “But it could have been your cat. Maybe those other cats are messing with her mind. Your cat’s probably gnawing on a knuckle as we speak,” Ned said.

  A mile from the freeway Art abruptly turned into the drive-through of a Jack in the Box.

  “I need a big cup of ice and a breakfast burrito,” Art said to the Jack. “You guys want anything?”

  “You got a strong stomach,” Ned said, “but I’ll take a coffee.”

  “Me too,” Jordan added. “But do we have time for this?”

  “You have to make time for breakfast,” Art said.

  * * *

  Ned coasted off the freeway, exiting toward the ocean south of Santa Barbara. Summerland, as sun-washed and ocean-cooled as the prettiest beach towns along the coast, had a reputation for being a very haunted town, and rumors of a half-dozen covens, headless horsemen, and haunted restaurants enhanced that reputation. What attracted Ned and Art and fired them up like Summerland was heaven was the offer of subsidized art studios. “Converted barns, plenty of loft space!” was the selling point, the economy of living above one’s work like a dime-store owner. Art unlocked a barn door, pulled the wide door open, and they stepped inside. Once there, Ned and Jordan shrugged, reluctant to start the search for the bloody finger.

  “I’m checking the table saw. Phil found two, but the index finger’s missing. We’re supposed to put it on ice,” Art said, as he held up the huge soft-drink cup.

  “So that’s why we stopped,” Ned said.

  “Just doing my duty,” Art said, and went off to the table saw.

  Ned and Jordan sipped coffee and wandered about, looking over the cluttered, sawdust-covered floor, nudging around in a desultory search.

  Art returned, chewing some ice from the Big Gulp cup.

  “See anything?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “The table saw was finger free. Phil might be out of luck.”

  All three of them focused on a cat walking on the paintings stacked along the wall.

  “What’s it got in its mouth?” Ned asked.

  “I don’t see anything in its mouth,” Jordan replied.

  Art flung some ice and the cat disappeared behind racks of draped, dust-covered paintings. They headed toward the rear of the barn studio near the kitchen where the clutter was more mazelike.

  “Hey, Art, is that yours?” Jordan asked, pointing to a long horizontal oil of a brown man in peasant white slumped onto the back of a galloping horse.

  “Just finished that one. That’s my great-great-grandfather escaping from Mexico. He got shot in the Revolution.”

  “A war hero,” Jordan said.

  Art shrugged. “He fought on the wrong side. He headed north and stayed.”

  Art led them to the blood-stained table saw.

  “Maybe we should look around here again,” Art said, and he and Ned began an earnest search at the base of the table saw.

  Jordan knelt and sifted through the sawdust; hoping for failure, he made another halfhearted attempt. This time he touched the finger. Jordan shot up, backpedaling into a rack of paintings. Calming himself he returned and bent to pick it up. He hoped that maybe it had slithered away. But there it was, waiting on him to get around to wrapping it up in the ball of tissue paper in his hand. To get on with it, like he needed to get on with everything else. The bloody little stub of a finger seemed to wiggle as he picked it up.

  “Ice! Where’s the damn ice!” he shouted.

  * * *

  Later at the hospital, a nurse ran with the finger like it was about to explode. They waited like expectant fathers for word on the fate of the finger.

  “Glad it was you who found it. Phil’s cool and all, but finding body parts . . . I’m not with that,” Ned said.

  “I didn’t want to find it. It touched me.”

  “Touched you? Stop lying,” Ned said. “What else is it going to do? It’s just a finger.”

  “I think Jordan’s right. It’s Summerland. The place is haunted. That finger is too,” Art said, and left to see how the operation was going.

  Ned and Jordan watched the crowd grow in the emergency waiting room as the morning passed, teenagers waiting for treatment clutched broken arms from skateboard splats and bike accidents.

  “How’s Phil paying for this? Does he have insurance?” Jordan asked.
r />   “Naw, he’s broker than me. What artist has insurance?” Ned asked.

  “I teach and don’t have it,” Jordan replied.

  “That’s why I’m leaving. I can’t live like this forever. I love it and all but sooner or later you need more, like a job with health care and a house with a water heater that gives more than ten minutes of hot water. I need a sister to be down with. If I stay here cutting shrubs and working on rich white folks’ estates I might as well be a bagman, put all my stuff in a shopping cart with my art degree, and find some hole in the ground to live in,” Ned said.

  “That sounds like a plan. Why didn’t you think of it before?”

  “Jordan, don’t be an asshole.”

  “You’re gonna miss it when you’re gone.”

  “You just don’t want to be the only Negro hanging out at the cafés scamming white chicks,” Ned said, laughing.

  “It’s not as simple as that. It’s hard to find many black women here. Plus, all the brothers are chasing them anyway.”

  “That’s why you got to get hooked up with Trisha. She’ll straighten you out. Settle you down.”

  “Yeah, that’s just what I need. Settle down right now and sprout some roots,” Jordan said, sarcastically.

  “You can’t be an exile from black life forever. This is a good life if you don’t want more than beautiful mountains and the ocean,” Ned said.

  “Listen, wherever I live there’s gonna be black life because I’m black and I’ve got life. Unless I’m mistaken and somehow I’ve become a dead white man and didn’t notice it. People move around; Mexicans live in Chicago, Jews live in Utah. Why can’t black people live in Santa Barbara?”

  “Watch, when I come back to visit, you’ll be tanning and surfing and eating bean sprouts,” Ned said.

  Art returned, smiling.

  “All the fingers are back on. He can blow his nose or beat off with either hand.”

  “Aw, Art, you sick,” Ned said. “Art, you still need a place to stay?”

  “Yeah, I can’t keep crashing on your couch.”

  “Here’s your new roommate,” Ned said, pointing to Art. “Art, try to act black for him so he knows what he’s missing.”

  “Act black? It’s hard enough being Mexican. Everybody thinks I’m a waiter.”

  “Maybe it’s the suit. Either a waiter or a mortician,” Ned said.

  “Do I get a break on the rent? I’ll be soul brother number one.”

  CHAPTER 2

  “Now, this is the promised land. Once you’ve seen Santa Barbara, you can’t go home again. Nothing compares,” Benito said, with much sincerity.

  Jordan wanted to nod yes, but his head was stuck in the washbasin as Benito scrubbed his soapy scalp. He was surprised that Benito brought up love of Santa Barbara, but maybe being the only decent black hairstylist in town he was doing so well he had to shout it out. Jordan didn’t feel comfortable with that; it was like admitting you wanted to be surrounded by white people for the rest of your life outnumbered three hundred to one. How could any self-respecting black man be comfortable in that situation? Jordan was, and he wanted to stay in this picture-postcard world, even if it made him feel guilty. Life was a permanent vacation; a swim in the ocean, a hike in the hills, coffee in the morning at the Café Roma, teach a composition class in the afternoon. He imagined himself living like that for the rest of his life; all he needed was a condo near the beach, and he was willing to give up a kidney, maybe even throw in a lung to get it. Property was the impossible dream of folks starting out in Santa Barbara.

  “You’re from L.A.?” Benito asked.

  “Yeah, the Crenshaw area,” Jordan replied.

  “You like living there?”

  “Oh, yeah. I try to get back as much as I can. I damn sure miss Roscoe’s House of Chicken and Waffles,” Jordan said.

  “Really? Sounds to me like you lying,” Benito said, in his coolish, quiet storm voice.

  Suddenly uncomfortable, Jordan laughed nervously, trying to keep the shampoo out of his eyes.

  “I’m not lying. I grew up in L.A. My family is down there. When I finish my thesis I’ll move back to the real world.”

  Benito finished rinsing his scalp, “Oh, don’t take me serious. I’m just clowning you. See, I don’t have a problem living somewhere pretty, where the sunsets are gorgeous and I can see mountains out of my back window and the ocean out of my front door. It’s a wonderful life. Plus, well, I can’t lie. I don’t have problems with blonds. I like them; I like them surfers.”

  “Surfers?”

  “Yeah, my husband’s up before dawn looking for waves.”

  Strangely, Jordan didn’t feel uncomfortable learning about Benito’s love life. He never easily admitted to dating someone white; maybe it was different if you were gay, different rules. He just told the truth about himself. Jordan wondered about that; telling the truth about himself wasn’t something he easily did.

  Later, after Benito was finished with him and as Jordan was readying to leave, he saw a familar SUV park in front of the small salon. An attractive young black woman got out; it was Trisha and then her mother, Lady Bell. Trisha was dressed in slightly baggy jeans and a fashionably short blouse. She wore her hair pulled back in a hasty, ready-for-the-beautician bun. Her very short and attractive mother wore a beautiful Spanish-style skirt and boots; her long pepper gray hair trailed down her back, and the red blouse she wore made her dark skin even more vibrant. A very attractive woman in her late fifties, Lady Bell lived her life with such joy that it was heady just being around her. Jordan was hopelessly charmed by her, as everyone was. Benito turned from Jordan and rushed to open the screen door for them.

  “Lady Bell! So good to see you and your lovely daughter.” He had this suddenly odd accent that seemed slightly Germanic.

  Lady Bell pulled him down a bit so she could kiss his cheek, and of course Benito beamed. Trisha smiled at Jordan, shrugging with embarrassment; then Lady Bell noticed him.

  “Jordan!” she said, and still holding Benito’s hand, kissed Jordan on the cheek. Lady Bell made effusive cheek, kissing seem a natural and comfortable act.

  “When are you coming to dinner again?” she asked.

  “Oh, as soon as Trisha invites me.”

  “Well, I’ve got the jump on her. I’m inviting you this Sunday,” she said.

  Jordan nodded.

  “I have two open chairs. I can do you both at once,” Benito said, as he rushed them to the washbasins. Trisha gestured for Jordan to call, and he nodded. He liked Trisha a lot, but she wore that plain gold cross for a reason. Jordan was devoutly agnostic, more pragmatic than spiritual. He knew that anything happening with Trisha would require serious commitment.

  Outside, it was another gorgeous afternoon; the ocean glittered not two miles from where he stood, and the cloud-capped mountains were even closer. He loved speeding along the 101 on days like this, cranking Al Green to the top of the Triumph’s speakers. Driving made him happy, sometimes too happy, but he paid the tickets and tried to love it a little less. The ragtop had to come down, even though it would be a bitch to get it back up when the ocean chill blew in later. He had just about got the latches open and the frame folded correctly so that it wouldn’t rip another hole into the canvas of the ragtop when Trisha came out of the salon with her hair wet, a smock over her blouse and jeans.

  “What time are you picking me up tonight?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Tonight’s the AKA dance.”

  “I forgot all about it.”

  “You said you’d go.”

  “Yeah, now I remember.”

  “You should. You said you were looking forward to it.”

  She was doing it again. That weapon of hers, looking down at her feet and transforming into a very young girl whose fragile feelings were his to destroy.

  “I don’t remember, but I’ll go,” he said.

  It worked. She smiled and kissed him just hard enough to make him think it would be worthwh
ile putting up with the embarrassment of being revealed as a stiff-ass dancer. Last time he went clubbing, a Latina had told him he danced like he was constipated.

  “I’ll see you at seven. You can help us set up the refreshments,” she said, and returned to the salon.

  He watched her walk back into the salon, thinking how much he liked her. It was surprising to him that he did; he had never been attracted to someone as conservative, or as practical, someone who wanted to go to law school. They were very different. All he wanted was more of the same, for very little to change. He liked life the way it was.

  * * *

  Ned was stretched out on the sofa showing the effects of clearing brush high up in petrifyingly beautiful Santa Ynez, at an estate close to where Michael Jackson had built his Neverland Ranch. Faint white tracks of dried sweat lined his dark forehead, his jeans and sweatshirt were dotted with thistles, and the boy was out cold, water jug resting on his stomach. Ned worked hard for the money, scuffling to pay his share of the tourist-town rent by doing all the shit jobs he could find, and he had the extra burden of needing studio space to do his art. He and his artist friends had a network of rich white folks to work for; some who even paid fifteen dollars an hour for back-breaking labor, and that was great for Santa Barbara, where you better be born with money because it was too damn hard to earn much of it.

  “Wake your dead-ass up!” Jordan shouted.

  Ned bolted, spilling the water jug across his chest.

  “Goddamn!” he yelled.

  The jug bounced off him and onto the shitty shag carpet.

  “You dog!” he said, throwing the plastic jug at Jordan.

  “You feel up to a dance tonight?” Jordan asked.

  Ned didn’t answer because he was twisting out of the soaked sweatshirt. Even in the late afternoon sun it was easy to see the welts rising across his chest and stomach. Jordan remembered the one and only time he had tried to clear brush, and the resulting lacerations and that encounter with poison oak were enough to keep him down in the city.

  “Jordan, be for real. Look at me. I slipped down a hill and bounced my ass all the way to a retaining wall. Almost broke my ribs. Man, I hate these rich bitches and their stupid estates.”

  “Gonna be refreshments . . .”