“What are you calling yourself now?”
He takes in the blond guy, who looks like a lot of forty-something year old men who make good money, maybe go to Vegas for their kicks, have a wife, kids, an affair or two. His mind races around the fact that the guy knows all about him, has been following him for some time, has mentioned his twin. Has also mentioned the woman who died some months ago, and the one who had not on Christmas Eve. He’s busted. The blond guy’s next few words confirm it:
“We’re guessing you don’t want to go back inside, do you?”
He shakes his head, trying not to appear guilty. “I’ve been calling myself Blue. Like the color.”
The blond guy’s own blue eyes take him in. “Blue, it suits you. I like it.”
Photo: Joel Goodman
His mother had named him Steve. Not Steven just Steve. He never liked that name. His twin had gotten the far better name, Anthony. Anthony and Steve, identical twins, one good as gold, the other, a bad ass from the get go.
“So, what’s your name as long as we’re getting personal?”
“For now it’s Greg Endless. Would you like to see my ID?”
“Not unless you want to show it to me.”
This makes Endless smile.
Endless had been following him for a couple of days. He was there when he came out of the shelter. He was there when he did some panhandling in Beverly Hills in the Neiman Marcus parking lot, one of his favorite spots. He was even there when he walked off the metro, at the last stop in Santa Monica under an umbrella in the pouring rain, wearing one of those old fashioned trench coats, collar turned up, like a man in gangster movie.
About an hour ago, on the first bright day in a week, when the sky is the blue of postcards, and the trees a deep primal green, Endless quietly approaches and asks him to have a cup of coffee.
He and Endless are now sitting in the corner of a stylish café in Santa Monica. The coffee he had just enjoyed, in a small cup, made the shit at Starbucks taste like swill. His time inside, his time on the street hadn’t adulterated his innate good taste. He knows—without having a lot of experience of it—what good food and drink is. He appreciates it and wants more in his life. Could he afford to, he’d have the cappuccino they served here three times a day.
“We’d like you to do a job for us.”
“You don’t look like a cop. FBI?”
“Not exactly,” Endless replies. “It’s complicated—national security.”
“Can I get another one of these? As long as you’re paying?”
“Yeah, but get it to go…”
II
Blue now has a clean furnished room above a shop that sells antiques, on the trendiest street in Santa Monica, a couple of blocks from the café where he enjoys his morning coffee, wearing decent looking sweats, good sneakers. His soft thick hair is clean and cut and tied back in a pony tail with another clean band. He has soap, shampoo, socks, underwear, pots and pans. Right away Endless had handed him store cards for the Whole Food market, for a restaurant a few blocks from here, and a pass for the yoga studio across from the market.
“I get it,” Blue had told Endless. “You want me to off someone.”
Endless merely shrugged his shoulders.
“We know you liked yoga when you were inside. I’d try Nate’s class.” He handed Blue a sheet with a schedule on it and certain classes highlighted.
Probably they wanted Blue super cool before he did their dirty work for them.
“Piece of cake, Mr. Endless.”
III
“Welcome to class Blue!” This from the pretty girl behind the desk when ever she sees him.
The teacher Endless suggested is great. Who would have thought? Nate is around his own age, and is funny. His clothes no better than Blue’s maybe a little worse. He has an innocence Blue admires, something like his own twin brother. This teacher seems to like him, his twin never did—always looked at him a little scared. Was Blue learning to act like a rich shit head, or was the teacher just naturally hip? What did it matter? Outside had always been sweet, but never this sweet. Whatever he had to do for Endless would be worth it.
Within a couple of weeks or so, Blue could feel himself calmer, his anger not boiling up inside, even slipping away, like a heavy coat that has fallen off his shoulders on the first warm day. With a place to live, a place to have coffee, clean food to eat, and now this yoga practice that suits him in every way.
Updog, Downdog, Triangle, Half Moon; he’s getting better at the transitions. He can go from Tree pose, to holding his leg out almost straight. He vows he’ll learn how to stand on his head.
His teacher Nate gives him the thumbs up.
His second week, after class, the two of them end up walking on Montana Avenue.
“How long have you been practicing?”
Without thinking Blue replies, “I practiced for a couple of years in prison. A while ago.”
The teacher nods. “Good place to learn yoga.” No sarcasm in his voice, just acceptance. Blue has a warm rush of unaccustomed pleasure in his chest, like someone is patting his heart then rubbing his chest.
Nate says, “Looks like things are going ok now?”
“So far, so good,” Blue replies. And seeing where they are, at the café where he comes every morning, Blue asks, “Hey, Nate, let me buy you a cappuccino?”
Inside, the place is almost empty, not like the rush and the line he’s gotten used to in the morning.
“Sit,” Blue says, “Cappuccino, macchiato?” Blue’s always been an excellent mimic, and he’s enjoying the foreign names, knowing he’s saying them as exactly as the guy who makes them does.
Nate smiles. “I’ll have a chai, they make great chai here!”
Blue is enjoying himself, being host. Glad to be in the company of the yoga teacher he likes, feeling almost proud to have a friend, it’s obvious the dude could be his friend. How long has it been since he had a real friend?
Someone once during his first time in juvenile detention… a lifetime ago.
He places his order, watching the barista expertly fill his cup, and then do something different with the chai Nate has ordered.
He puts a dollar in the tip jar. Why not? Cups and saucers in both hands, he turns and heads toward the table.
It is then, he sees Endless standing at the door, sun behind him, partly in shadow. Endless who tilts his head very slightly indicating Nate. Nate, whose back is turned to the door. Endless makes the faintest gesture of his pointer finger across his throat, and then vanishes as swiftly as he appeared.
Fuck, It’s him…. do I hafta? Not him. Anybody but him.
*The characters in this story appear and reappear in Hot Water, Safe Zone, Blinded By The Light, Christmas Eve and New Year.
by 
