From The Dead (3 page)

For a moment, Jesse traced his finger along the
permanent crease line of his khaki pants, where the fabric had
lightened a shade. He shrugged.

“Do you ever feel like you’ve lost your edge?” he
asked.

“Like what, risk-taking?”

He waved at her reply. “More like your momentum—that
bold side of you that drives you to face the odds.”

“Have you forgotten who you sleep next to?” Jada
searched his eyes, but furrowed her eyebrows when Jesse remained
stone-faced. To her, he must have looked like he studied the ether
that hovered over the coffee table. In truth, Jesse knew she didn’t
have a clue what motivated him. Nor did she care, as long as his
motivation existed. “You aren’t
afraid
of that audition, are
you?” she asked.

“After as many as I’ve been on? Granted, not
lately—”

“Because if you
are
scared,” she continued,
“you need figure out a way to hide it. Or else you’ll never get
that role.” She chuckled to herself. Jada shook her head, then
plopped back against the sofa and crossed her arms. “Don’t you want
to be an actor anymore?”

“Now
you’ve
forgotten who you sleep next to.
Why would you even ask that?”

“Things change.”

Great, now she’s in challenge mode.
Jesse
clenched his jaw, threw his hands on his head in frustration.
“Dammit, Jada! Nothing’s changed!” After a deep breath, he let his
hands fall to his sides. Why did he try to talk to her about this?
Of all people, she would be the last to understand unless the
struggle was her own. “Forget it.”

For the first time in L.A., Jesse felt alone.

Weary, he turned to Jada and looked into her eyes.
With a gentle rub to her back, he said, “Sorry, babe. It’s nothing.
Jitters.”

But he could pinpoint the suspicion in her autumn
eyes. When it came to fear detection, the woman had radar.

Jesse leaned in and planted a kiss on her lips.

He’d always adored her Italian lips.

CHAPTER 4

The next morning, Jesse grabbed the handful of film
rolls from the overnight drop-off bin and carried them to the room
behind the checkout counter, which housed a small processing
lab.

A far cry from his high-school photography class, the
room contained the same fluorescent light that filled the retail
area. A mini-lab machine sat against a wall, where he deposited the
rolls of film, cartridge and all. The machine would handle the
rest.

Unlike his film development in high school, minimal
human intervention occurred here: no need to remove strands of film
under the glow of an ominous red light, no gloved hands to immerse
film in toxic chemicals. While in the past he’d handled development
with the same tender care he’d given to the shot itself, nowadays
he treated the development phase like an afterthought rather than
an art.

He removed a set of prints the machine had spit out
during its last run. In his days at the store, he had seen a vast
array of human behavior immortalized in photographs—some to his
detriment, seared in his memory with regret. But this set of
prints, a family gathering at a lake in a rural, wooded area, made
him grin. Jesse flipped through the shots.

A proud young boy and his father posed with a silver
fish, its length almost that of the boy’s arm. A mother, dressed in
a brick-and-charcoal-colored flannel shirt, humored the amateur
photographer with a stare that implied, “I dare you: Take one step
closer with that camera.” Another photo showed the full family of
four enveloped in a hug, where the boy giggled as his younger
sister attempted to grab his nose. This last photo spurred similar
memories of Jesse and his sister, Eden.

Jesse started to put the family photo down but took
another look. Intrigued, Jesse stared at the father, who tried to
kiss both kids at once.

When viewed through a camera lens, fatherhood didn’t
seem an intimidation.

After he matched the processed photos with their
negatives, Jesse assembled the final package and brought it to the
pickup bin on the sales floor. At ten thirty, ready for business,
he unlocked the front door to a waiting crowd of nobody. Jesse
maneuvered across the retail floor, wound around displays of
cameras and how-to books, slid between narrow rows of shelving. He
approached a row of sterling wedding frames and dusted them as he
pondered the prior night’s conversation with Jada.

Jesse had resided in California for eleven years.
When he mulled this over, the banality of his status quo struck
him. At twenty-nine years old, Jesse anchored his hope on an
upcoming audition.

Don’t you want to be an actor anymore?
Jada
had asked.

Jesse and Jada met at a Java Cup location a few
months after he moved to the L.A. area. Invincible at a haughty
eighteen years old, Jesse had made a swift departure from his home
in Hudson, Ohio. At that point, Jada herself had lived in the L.A.
area for a year already. Both starved for fame, both felt as though
they flailed against its odds as if in deep water, and they became
friends quickly. Their fear and vulnerability cemented their bond.
They confided their dreams. At the time, Jada’s personality
represented everything Jesse wished he could be—an image contrary
to that of his Midwestern roots, a previous life he had managed to
escape. Jada thought she’d discovered someone as independent and
driven as she herself was. And Jesse the actor played the part
well.

A year later, the two friends moved into an apartment
near Hollywood and Vine—a shoddy location after dark, but mere
steps from the Capitol Records building, a shrine of industry
power. The pair sought opportunities with a vengeance and exhibited
sheer confidence, while in the evenings they returned home to
dinners of seasoned oriental noodles at ten cents a package. At
that time, Jesse and Jada made a pact: If one succeeded before the
other, they would remain roommates to help the pair’s less
fortunate half in their quest for fame. For all Jada’s flaws, she
never reneged on her promise.

For the next ten years, Jesse and Jada gelled in a
comfortable understanding, a shallow lifestyle speckled with
self-centeredness and minimal thought to its consequences. Their
focus centered on creature comforts and a dependence on credit
cards.

Now Jada, with her steady career at thirty-one years
old, paid the bulk of their monthly bills. And her elevated taste
had, in turn, elevated their expenses. Convicted at heart, Jesse
wished he could contribute an equal share. He wasn’t raised to live
this way, to meet a partner less than halfway. If anything, Jada
was the gold digger of the two.

Life had unfolded contrary to Jesse’s plan. By his
estimation, he should have nabbed a handful of speaking roles by
now.

Jesse felt the precursor of a headache settle in, one
so slight he forgot to give it a second thought.

As customers trickled in, Jesse made his rounds,
greeted those who arrived and offered assistance to those who
searched the shelves. The store’s core clientele consisted of
professional photographers and serious hobbyists, most of which
arrived during the day. By contrast, portrait-studio patrons
gravitated toward early evening appointments.

Jesse approached a balding man in wire-rimmed
glasses, who examined a shelf of chemicals.

“May I help you, sir?” Jesse asked.

“Do you still carry a generic version of potassium
bromide? It looks like the shelf is empty,” the man answered.
“Chemicals are chemicals—no sense in paying Hart-Bauer Corporation
extra cash.”

Potassium bromide is a powdery substance. After
photographers dissolve the substance in water, they combine it with
other chemicals to create developer and intensifier solutions. The
same potassium bromide is also used as an anti-seizure treatment
for domestic pets. Jesse marveled at the contrast: One substance
could be used for exposure or suppression.

The things nature could hide.

To ensure a customer hadn’t scooted the bottles into
obscurity, Jesse peered into the recesses of the shelf but still
found it empty. “Let me check the storage room. I’ll be back.”

The man nodded. Jesse headed through the door marked
“Private” and into the shop’s rear hallway. In the back of the
building toward the right, Jesse walked into the storage room and
flipped the light switch. A large ventilation grate loomed
overhead. The room reeked of chemicals, a sharp collection of odors
reminiscent of a science lab. The type of nervous scent that
elicited apprehension in an untrained passerby, one who lacked
knowledge behind what he smelled, yet sensed intangible danger that
lurked somewhere within.

Two of the overhead bulbs had burned out—a task each
employee pledged to fix and had, in turn, neglected. As a result,
dabs of darkness overshadowed one side of the room where shelves of
chemicals sat. Jesse considered a flashlight but decided against
it. This wouldn’t take long.

As he entered the shadows, he squinted at the
assortment and found the small bottles of potassium bromide. Jesse
removed a white plain-labeled bottle from the shelf and turned on
his heel to leave the room.

Then the drip occurred.

He felt it hit his hand.

The plastic bottle hit the floor. Lightheaded, Jesse
slid down the edge of the shelving unit to the floor, where he sat
for a moment. Had the chemicals caused a reaction? He doubted it;
after all, he’d worked in this shop for years. But what else could
it be? Perhaps a temporary allergic reaction. This hadn’t happened
before.

Jesse shook the wooziness from his head and looked at
his hand to see what had dripped. Whatever it was, it was red. He
furrowed his eyebrows and gazed up at the shelves: All of the
containers stood upright, squadrons of chemical soldiers. Nothing
had tipped over—and stranger yet, nothing had dripped from
them.

With his unstained hand, Jesse, still in a haze,
rubbed his face. His hand came down smeared in scarlet. When he
touched his nose again with the back of his hand, he discovered
another droplet.

A nosebleed.

Odd,
Jesse thought. By no means did a
nosebleed pose reason for concern, but it would make more sense in
a high-humidity climate. Southern California had been kind to
him.

It had to be a reaction. Maybe the ventilation needed
examination. Jesse would let his boss know when he arrived after
lunch.

For now, the man with the glasses needed his
product.

Bottle in hand, Jesse made a slow rise to his feet.
As his lightheadedness subsided, he took a deep breath and
exhaled.

Then he shut off the light and walked out.

CHAPTER 5

Outside his apartment building sat a large patch of
gravel where grass had failed to grow. The patch accommodated three
cars and, on a first-come basis, apartment residents parked there
to avoid the scratches experienced by those who parallel parked
overnight. When he eyed an available gravel spot, Jesse grinned at
his luck and pulled his midnight-blue Honda Accord into it.

Aside from the occasional vehicle break-in, his
neighborhood was safe. But nearby, if you continued northbound
along Van Nuys Boulevard, the status soon deteriorated. On one
occasion after dark, Jesse had ventured too far, taken a wrong
turn, and questioned his safety in two of the most frightening
minutes of his life. Soon after his arrival in California, Jesse
marveled at how community conditions could change in a moment. What
a difference between neighborhoods that sat five minutes apart.

Jesse made his way on foot toward his apartment
building. Two stories high and laced with ivy, it featured pale
yellow stucco and Spanish roof tiles that looked like adobe arches.
Each level housed two apartments with front doors that faced each
other. A similar building sat beside his own. Across the street,
matching four-room houses sat nestled in a small, white-collar
neighborhood, where the front yards lacked trees.

“Hey, Barlow! Kiss my horsey ass, you
cocksucker!”

Jesse snickered. It was never just hello with this
guy. “Can I help you?”

Jesse turned on his heels to find Gavin, his
downstairs neighbor, who wore a green track suit and had slowed to
a trot along the sidewalk. Based on the speed at which he panted,
Gavin, a compulsive evening jogger, had fed his habit for the
night. As the final hour of daylight lingered, a streetlight
highlighted streaks of perspiration, salty badges of achievement
that glimmered across Gavin’s face. Even from a few feet away, his
track suit smelled like a dishrag.

“Got myself a gig!” Gavin said.

Jesse had crossed paths with Gavin, another
struggling actor, at a television taping years ago. When the
downstairs apartment became vacant, Jesse passed the address along
to Gavin. Within weeks, the friends enjoyed their respective
advantages of rent control.

“Quite a resume enhancement,” Gavin continued. “I’m
playing a character.”

“Are you playing an idiot?”

“Whatever. You know that new themed shopping village
that opened up around the corner from Hollywood Boulevard? The one
that signed the deal with Sony to show its movie trailers around
the place, where its afternoon-cartoon characters wander around in
costume?”

“You’re in one of the movie trailers?”

Gavin’s breathing returned to its normal rate. “No,
man! I’m Clickety Clack!”

“What’s that?”

“That cartoon show,
Farmyard Frenzy
. There’s a
film version coming soon. Ever see the show?”

Jesse didn’t follow. “The one with the pig named
Bacon Bitz?”

“Yeah! I’m Clickety Clack, the horse that walks
around on his hind legs and makes that clopping noise. I get to
wear that costume at the shopping village.”