Bridgetown, Issue #1: Arrival

Bridgetown

A Novel in Three Issues.

Issue #1:

Arrival.

By Giovanni Iacobucci

Bridgetown: Issue #1, Arrival

Giovanni Iacobucci

Published by Modern Mythos Media/Giovanni Iacobucci

Smashwords Edition

Visit Bridgetown on the web at bridgetown.modmythmedia.com

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eBook version 1.0: July 3, 2014

Some of the music I listened to while writing this issue:

Yanqui U.X.O. by Godspeed You! Black Emperor

Draumalandio by Valgeir Sigurosson

Soundtrack from Twin Peaks by Angelo Badalamenti

There Will Be Blood by Jonny Greenwood

3:10 to Yuma by Marco Beltrami

Table of Contents

Top.

Music Suggestions.

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Afterword.

About the Author.

1.

Picture a vast expanse of dry earth. There is no exotic romance here, no ancient Arab empire buried under hot dunes. Rather, there is only the scrubby chaparral of the Los Angeles foothills, with soil so hard it resists the incision of a shovel. Imagine this place long before the arrival of concrete aqueducts and eight-lane asphalt highways, when the land beneath was still pregnant with undiscovered oil.

A man hobbles into our view now, listless. He's bleeding out. His white tunic is torn open, soaked through with perspiration and stained red with his own blood. He clutches a dark canvas sack with as much desperation as he clings to his fading soul. At last he collapses, taking in a mouthful of barren dust through cracked lips. His stolen prize is still in his hand.

He does not emit so much as a whimper as his organs begin to shut down. He only curses his god and the accomplices who abandoned him. Strangely, he feels no ill will towards the man who put the bullet into his belly, for he had only been playing out his part in the drama that unfolds on this unforgiving stage.

The earth continues its dance around the sun. In time, all that remains of the man is a skeleton in sun-bleached rags, its bones picked clean. The prize for which the man died is gone now, no doubt claimed by some more fortunate passer-by.

Sagebrush grows up, up through the hollow rib cage, until at last the vegetation is tall enough to cover the body fully. An El Nino year brings with it flash floods that fill this basin with mud, and in this way, the desert finally grants him a proper burial, its downpour standing in for tears. Now, he is truly forgotten by this world.

This scrubland comes to be called Pasadena, for its original Tongva name has become as every bit as buried as the man. The oil is at last sucked from its reserves. A road is paved, and the man's gravesite is marked by a sign that promises new housing and new possibilities for the families of GIs returning home from the honorable war. A house is erected. Where the bandit's remains were once visible, a patch of crabgrass is planted in a grid. The lawn is roughly—probably unintentionally—fit to the Golden Ratio.

A Chevrolet Nomad the color of Pepto-Bismol is parked in front of this single-story dwelling. A little girl in a blue dress plays in the front yard. Two yards beneath her, a human skull bears silent testament to the history of this place.

The girl becomes a young woman, and begins to take an interest in boys and music. Her parents find their first gray hairs in the bathroom mirror, and their thoughts turn to how things used to be better. In the driveway, the Nomad's future-forward tailfins are replaced with the pragmatic lines of a Cadillac Deville in Sudan Beige.

* * * *

It was August 15th, 1970, when eighteen-year-old Susanna Tanner planted her flag in the unknowable future.

I'm going and you have no say in it! I'm an independent woman!

Her father leaned against a doorframe in their home's front hall, wearing a look of sublime parental resignation.

Susanna had seen this face on him twice before:

The first was when, at the age of nine, she announced she was quitting Girl Scouts. This she demonstrated with a dramatic stomp upon her green sash.

The second time had been at the start of summer, when she told her father she was skipping prom to hang out with Jesse Cole, a twenty-something musician on the local rock circuit with a following that was, in her words, cult.

Susanna's father was beside himself at this latest incursion in her youth-rebellion blitzkrieg. He shrugged his shoulders and said, You know what this means.

I know, she replied. Her tone was almost apologetic. Don't worry, I already packed my things.

Her father pursed his lips and nodded. Then he turned and walked away. Susanna listened to the heels of the loafers he refused to take off—even indoors—clack-clack their way into nothingness.

She turned back into her bedroom. Its walls were pink, a color she'd never particularly cared for, even as a child. Her bed was too short by several inches for her to really stretch out, which was odd, since weren't these things pretty much standardized? Standing there amid the relics of her childhood, she felt like she had been living in a dollhouse her whole life. These weren't her things; these were things that had been prescribed to her, beginning at birth. What she needed to do was make her own destiny.

So she grabbed her suitcase off the bed. It was round, glossy red. She had purchased it at Macy's the year before, when she went to Hawaii for a week with Anjelica and Tricia. And then she left the room, shutting the door behind her as she went.

Susanna was fine with her father's ultimatum. She really was serious about moving out of her parents' house. But she didn't even bother to say goodbye to her mom. After all, she'd patch things up with her parents once she was done couch surfing; once she had a roommate, and her own normal-sized bed, and a bookshelf full of Ginsberg and Updike and authors she actually cared about. And then things would be better between them than they had been in a long time. Frictionless. She'd be back in their good graces by Thanksgiving, and she'd finally be happy with her station in life. This was a calculated, surgical operation on Susanna's part, like cutting a deep-situated tumor from a cancer patient's abdomen. It was medically necessary.

She passed her father's study on her way out the back door—the better to avoid her mother. For a moment, she felt a strange twinge of disappointment that he didn't come running after her.

Mostly, though, she felt relief.

When she reached the backyard, her eyes took a moment to adjust to the overwhelming brilliance of the midsummer noontime sun. Already, she could hear the knocking idle of Jesse Cole's 4x4.

She unlatched the side gate of their entirely predictable white picket fence, holding her breath as she hurried past trashcans ripe with the detritus of domestic living. She proceeded towards the front of the house.

And there he was, waiting for her:

Jesse's ride was a World War II-era Jeep, painted up in Day-Glo hues. Atop its hood, a psychedelic cartoon eagle spewed safety-orange flames, surrounded by Lewis Carroll mushrooms.

As for Jesse the man, he was all long hair and wiry features. He looked every bit a contemporary of the Bob Dylans and John Lennons of the world—though her father might've gone with Charlie Manson.

He smiled at her from the driver's seat as she approached, revealing one chipped front tooth. She adored his broken smile. It gave him a real-world charm. And she liked that the sight of the two of them together was a bit offbeat. As a child, she'd always been the girl that teachers and strangers described as nice, smart, or standup. Jesse was a twenty-six-year-old rock-and-roller with a rap sheet just long enough to make him interesting, without threatening her idyll of danger-at-a-distance intrigue.

In one Olympian hurdle, Susanna sent her traveler case flying up into the rear of the old Willys Jeep. She hoisted herself up onto its utilitarian passenger seat. The roofless car's metal interior was scorching in the summer heat, and the canvas burned beneath her white clamdiggers. No matter—it might have been hot, but at least she was cool.

Immediately, she threw her arms around Jesse and kissed him, deeply, possessively. Jesse pushed against her, embracing her body within a kind of bear hug. Susanna gave in to his control, imagining the scowling eyes watching them both now from behind the peeled curtains of her father's study.

Just as quickly as they'd started up, Jesse pulled away. As he always did, a few short words away from completing their unspoken sentence. She knew why he did it. She knew he enjoyed the power. And she was more than happy to play the part, knowing full well who really held the power.

Jesse put the Jeep into first gear and pushed the pedal to the floor. The Jeep did its best to obey. In a haze of fumes, they roared off to...wherever it was they were going. Susanna hadn't really been listening to Jesse's words when he asked her to come along with him. It didn't matter.

The Jeep was in third gear before she made note of their silent companion in the back seat. He was diligently holding Susanna's red carryall, smiling at her through the rear-view mirror. Susanna had always thought the man now sitting in the back of the Jeep looked a bit like a bespectacled piggy bank. She felt a little guilty about this, and embarrassed now for her earlier make-out show, she flashed a cheery smile at Jesse's bigger, older brother—Wayne.

Susanna and her two traveling companions escaped Pasadena by way of the quintessentially Angelino looping freeway system. As the hour passed, concrete jungle gave way to the dry, shrubby hills of California's true face. A scrubby, brown expanse. In time, Susanna felt a serene highway hypnosis begin to dull her senses.

Simon and Garfunkle's mellow vocals played out through crackling radio speakers, riding on an FM signal that was receding ever farther behind them. Susanna leaned back and felt the sun's rays pierce her skin. She imagined each cell's excess oils drying up. Daily sun exposure was a nigh-religious purification ritual for her—the teenage menace of pimples was a not-so-distant memory.

Desert scenery played on a loop around the Jeep like a Hanna-Barbera cartoon. She saw the same black-and-white CA-14 sign over and over again; all the hills looked the same; and the yellow line demarcating the two-lane blacktop seemed to ebb and weave beside them like a pulsating, analog sine wave.

That sun, the one over her head right now, the same one she could feel radiating through her body, had been feeding this world without pause for a span of time greater than any she could conceive.

All that she knew was borne of it, and would eventually be consumed by it.

She wondered what had made her think of that. But she didn't wonder for very long. She nestled her head between her shoulder and the thinly padded back of the seat in an unsuccessful attempt to find a good place to rest her head. It bobbed loosely as the Jeep rocked along the road.

She let her thoughts drift to a place of abstraction, where words were no longer adequate to contain their meaning.

When she awoke, it was to the sound of a car backfiring. She lifted her head and willed her eyes to give her the scene:

They were at a gas station. The pumps were the old-fashioned, gravity-fed kind. Most of the paint on them had long since curled up and flaked off. In fact, the entire complex seemed a rust-red relic of a civilization long since abandoned.

Jesse's not in the driver's seat, she thought. He must've gone inside the shop.

Good afternoon, came a voice from the back seat.

Hey, Wayne, Susanna said. She turned around, still blinking the sleep from her eyes. Her head was floating in a post-nap high of groggy numbness.

Wayne turned his eyes away from hers, quick. Susanna could count on one hand the number of times Wayne had been able to maintain eye contact with her through a conversation. She wondered if he was that way with all women, or just her.

I'm surprised you agreed to go along, he said. But I'm glad.

Oh. Yeah. Well, I've just sort of been needing to get away from my folks.

Wayne nodded, pretending to be examining the old gas pumps from the back seat. Jesse told me things have been tough in your house. I didn't realize it was so serious.

It's not, she was quick to reply. It's just—it's just that they still think of me as a kid, you know? I needed to show them I could get out on my own, that I was capable of making decisions for myself.

Wayne's gaze shifted to the floor. Well, listen, Susanna. Jesse can be a little overbearing at times. At last, he looked up at her directly, if only to drive his next point home. I mean, I'm his older brother—and sometimes he intimidates even me!

Susanna laughed. It was a tiny, harmless laugh, calculated to be that way. I don't believe that.

Oh, absolutely! Wayne wore an earnest grin on his face now. Look, the point I'm trying to make is, don't be afraid to tell him what you think, if you don't agree with him about something. He's a good guy. Just, a little overbearing is all.

A pause. Wayne looked back at the convenience store. Susanna looked, too—no sign of Jesse yet. Wayne turned back to Susanna. And I want you to know that you can talk to me about anything. Anytime, I mean it.

Susanna found this all a bit odd, which was fair. It was odd. What are you getting at, Wayne?

Wayne grimaced, and wiped the beads of sweat off his brow with a pocket square. Well, I just mean, with where we're going—

Where are we going, again?

Wayne paused, a bemused grin creeping across his face. You mean you don't know? Seriously? It was plainly clear this tickled him, and he delighted in the opportunity to tease her a bit. Do you always just get into cars and go on long trips? To destinations unknown?

I dunno, I was just happy to get out of my house. I mean, Jesse told me to pack enough things for a few days when I was talking to him on the phone last night, so I did. Who knows? I like to go on adventures sometimes.

Well, Wayne started in, with his hands pointed out like he was ready to start a business pitch, "since you're positively bereft of information on the matter, we're headed to a place called Devil's Peak. To the land Jesse bought with his part of the trust. We're starting construction on the compound."

He said this last term with a hint of derision, then went on: "And all of Jesse's—followers, or groupies, or whatever you call them—they're all going to be there, too. At least, according to Jesse. We'll see if they show up. He snorted. They're not exactly the most reliable bunch."

So it's really happening, Susanna said. I always just thought the compound was a pipe dream.

Tell me about it, Wayne said, with another snort.

I mean, not that I don't believe Jesse is capable of making it happen, she interjected. I do. I just—I've been hearing about it for as long as I've known him. I sort of figured it was fantasy.

Susanna, I really mean what I said, Wayne said. Don't feel pressured in any way to stay at the compound longer than you care to. The only reason I'm coming along in the first place is because I love my brother, and I want to make sure that if he's going to spend his share of our inheritance on some utopian playground, that there's someone responsible overseeing the project.

Susanna tensed a bit, though she barely realized it, as Wayne leaned in closer to her now. He continued: This isn't my 'scene,' and I don't think it's yours, either. If I'm being honest.

Susanna wondered for a moment where the shy, soft-spoken Wayne she'd known him to be had gone. But then his cheeks began to turn an apple red, and she smiled at him, hoping it would comfort him. Coming from just about anyone else, she would have been annoyed to have someone tell her how she ought to spend her time. But coming from Wayne, she knew he must have really been speaking from the heart.

Besides, he was harmless. You don't think I can get my hands dirty? Susanna hoped the playful lilt in her delivery would make clear she wasn't offended by his being forthright.

Wayne retreated to his seat in the back, and again averted his eyes. These are tough people he hangs around. Desperate people, living on the fringe of society. I just don't want to see you get hurt.

Well, I appreciate your concern. Really. But I'm pretty sure I can take care of myself.

A bell rang, and they both glanced at the door to the convenience mart attached to the gas station. Jesse emerged, carrying a carton of cigarettes and a 24-pack of beer. He eyed Wayne and Susanna, acknowledged them with a single nod of his head, and threw the beer in the back seat next to his brother. He climbed up the driver's side entrance, lit a cigarette, and wordlessly started up the car before pulling back out onto the highway.

Susanna wanted to say something to break the silence. But she wasn't sure what was the matter, if anything. She was a little disappointed, she had to admit, to see him drinking and smoking. She had nothing against either one, per se. But when Jesse was feeling optimistic, he stuck to a your body is a temple mantra—not that this precluded pot or all manner of hallucinogens, of course. But if Jesse was buying relatively pedestrian booze and cigarettes, it could mean he was feeling anxious about the big build this weekend. Or it could mean nothing at all. He was hard to read like that.

What'sa matter, babe? Susanna cooed. She retched a bit at her own choice of words, only after they'd already left her mouth. Having Wayne in the back seat made her more self-conscious of her own forced affectations of maturity she used when interacting with Jesse; having an audience made her feel like a fraud. Maybe she was just that little kid who didn't want to be in the Girl Scouts anymore, only now pretending to be a grown-up.

Nothing's the matter, Jesse said. I'm fine. To prove his point, he turned to face her, locked eyes with her, and smiled with pursed lips.

I'm fine. The words reverberated in her head. Maybe he really was fine. Maybe he was just nervous about the work that would await them, once they arrived at the barren patch of land that Jesse hoped to turn into the last bastion of West Coast countercultural optimism.

What if they got there, and none of Jesse's flaky groupies were there to meet them?

What if the promise of free drinks, drugs, and sex wasn't enough to get them to commit to a long-haul drive and weeks of manual labor under the hot desert sun? Susanna didn't want to think about the depths of foulness Jesse's mood might plunge into, nor how uncomfortable that ride back home would be.

Maybe Jesse just didn't like the idea of his engineer brother watching over his affairs, reminding him of the empirical, mechanized, capitalized outside world at a time when he was supposed to be building a place where he could be king.

Susanna closed her eyes again, and again nestled her head in that ill-fitting crevice that could've really used a pillow. All the sounds around her blurred into signal noise. Once more, she felt herself falling into the abyss.

Excerpt from the Hollywood Music Journal, May 1970:

For months, L.A. rocker/guerilla artist Jesse Cole has been talking about building a commune in the Los Angeles high desert to anyone who will listen. He's even taken to having a collections plate—passed around by a roadie in a priest costume—at his shows. Listen to him speak on the issue, and one senses a mounting tension in his demeanor. The Sixties are now officially over, he seems to be saying. Everyone who has latched onto the promise can feel the waves of history shifting once more.

It's the media that's done it, he says, punctuating his point with a long drag from his fourth or fifth cigarette of the interview. The clothes, the lingo, it all meant something more real just a few years ago. Now it's like Halloween or something.

At this point, I still can't tell if he's wearing his own tasseled leather jacket and bandana as an ironic statement on this pageantry,