On his walk east down Sunset, a brown bag in his hand enclosing a bottle of Patrón Silver, he realised the only way he could get in touch with her again was by knocking on her door at North Oakhurst Drive. No attempt at the exchange of numbers had been made.

He felt strangely pure passing the bars and clubs, preparing for the night’s energy, the comedy clubs and the bookstore and the sadness of Tower records with nothing left to sell. And Book Soup on the other side that was still selling, books that is.

He felt he had been in the aura of a spiritual being like a monk, or more appropriately a nun. Although nuns didn’t always have that quality of calm and oneness with the universe. Where did that thought come from? How many nuns and monks had he met?

But he had been washed and wanted to bathe in her again and be blessed by her and sit at her feet and tell her all the things he could never tell and sleep in her bed and be read to and she would put out the light and she would kiss him goodnight.

Lomita Nairn was worth a Google. No, she deserved more than that.

She deserved to be happy.

Chapter Eight

The tequila bottled had supplied half its contents.

To the man disappointed that Lomita Nairn had produced nothing from the Google god. Nor had any variation of what he presumed to be Nairn. Narne, Naryn, Nerne, any number of other fucking ways to spell the name.

He rolled his second joint and looked at the stars, the French windows of the apartment opened onto the courtyard that housed two other similar abodes, now both shuttered against the dying heat; the sound of muffled voices and air conditioners wrapped around his ears, his eyes looked to the stars and the moon and he closed them, the chair rocked on its bent bamboo rails and he felt sad and started to cry. Quietly cry, this was not unusual, as crying seemed to wash him clean, an internal shower that he enjoyed, and he cherished the privacy of that emotion. One that he never needed to share with anyone, a solitary experience that left him feeling calm and, well, just calm, and of course alone.

He missed his father and he hoped that his father wasn’t missing him. That he had found a peace that, earthbound, he never had.

He fell asleep, still rocking gently in the chair with the warmth holding him in its arms.

*

He had last seen his father in New York six months ago.