half the photo is empty California sky. Between the bush and sky is squeezed a yellowish adobe building, cornered at an angle to the plane of the photo. Worse yet, there are arches running across the near side of the building. It’s practically uncomposable, an arrowlike thrust from left foreground to right rear.
Dad tells me how he’s had one devilish time with those arches. The composition doesn’t worry him but those arches drove him crazy. Perspective is a mystery to him.
After dishes, we go out back and he shows me his painting. It’s hidden so Mother won’t see it. It’s a muddy mess with great green globs in the foreground.
I do a little drawing on it, showing him how to correct the arches and rough in a perspective idea, but it’s impossible to make any kind of painting from such a piss-poor photograph. Painting from photographs is never a good idea anyway; cameras have cycloptic vision, the dynamics of bioptic human vision is lost.
I’m dying to write Vron and tell her about the baby but I’m sure Marty wants to do this herself; it’s her baby; I’m having a hard time restraining myself.
Dad goes into his greenhouse. He sure spends a lot of time out there.
Soil’s just right now, soft enough so the spade sinks to the shaft but not muddy. New dirt opening up, shining where the metal’s pressed tight against it.
We visit Mother and tell her Marty’s news. Mom takes it easily, as if she’d been expecting it. Maybe when you’re almost dying, being born isn’t such a big deal. She might even be feeling pushed.
When we come back, I’m still restless so I go back and work some more on my motorcycle. When I’m finished, I get an impulse to take Dad for a ride. It’d be fun rolling slowly down to Venice beach. I think the sensation of riding might help brush away some cobwebs.
We happen to have two old helmets here. I search them out of the garage. Dad’s watching me.
‘How about it, Dad? How about a slow ride on my motorcycle down to the ocean; it’s a fine afternoon; let’s go watch the sunset.’
He stares at the bike.
‘I don’t know about that; it looks scary to me.’
‘If you get scared, we won’t go. Let’s try it around the block here one time to see how you like it.’
I help strap the extra helmet on him. I don’t know why he looks so out of it, not like a motorcycle rider, more like Charles Lindbergh in one of those old leather aviation hats. Also, the helmet makes his head lean forward as if it’s too heavy for his neck.
I straddle the bike and kick down the foot pegs. I show him how to get on. I tell him to put his arms around me and hold tight.
‘Is that the only way I can hold on?’
‘It’s the best way, Dad. I want you to lean when I lean, as if we’re one person.’
He grabs hold; I kick the starter, put her in first gear gently. We ease out the driveway and cruise very slowly up and down some of these short dead-end streets. I never get out of second gear. We roll back to the house and stop.
‘Well, Dad, how was that?’
‘It’s no worse than riding a bicycle. I haven’t been on anything with two wheels since I was a kid.’
‘You ready to take a chance going down to Venice? I’ll take back streets and we won’t hit any traffic.’
‘It’s OK with me, Johnny, but, boy, I hate to think what your mother would say if we have an accident.’
He giggles and straightens his helmet.
‘There she’d be in the hospital and we’d both be dead.’
‘Don’t worry, Dad, we’re not going to get killed. I’ve been driving motorcycles for twenty years. We’re safer than in a car.’
He starts climbing back onto the bike. I hook my helmet strap.
‘The trouble is, Dad, most people who drive motorcyles are maniacs. If those same people drive cars, they’ll have car accidents.’
I kick but it doesn’t turn over. I give her a little choke.
‘What kills you in a car is the steering wheel, the windshield and a face full of dashboard; the car stops and people keep going. On a motorcycle, there’s nothing to run into; you go flying through the air and slow down some before you hit.’
I hear what I’m saying and decide to shut up. It’s not exactly encouraging. Dad grabs hold and giggles again.
‘John, you could sell holy cards to the devil.’
He tilts his head back and laughs; he doesn’t put his hand over his mouth; he can’t, he’s holding on for dear life.
We start slowly along Palms. It’s a beautiful afternoon and the sun is low in front of us. There are gentle hills along here, almost like a children’s roller coaster. We lift up one side and lower on the other. We go along the Palms golf course and across Lincoln. I roll down Rose Avenue and park on the boardwalk.
We walk out toward the ocean; there are some good-sized breakers; spray is flying up, refracting the sun. There’s a bicycle path built along the edge of the sand; it’s well designed in easy, twisting curves.
We tuck our helmets under our arms like a couple of beached knights. There are people coming in from the water; kids are sitting in the and playing bongos and a drunk is trying to dance with the music. It’s mellow and I hope Dad’s relaxing and not fighting it all too much.
We stop and listen to the music. There are a few guitars with the bongos. It’s like the tropics; hard to believe Lincoln Boulevard is only eight short blocks inland, crowded with cars, light industry and thousands of signs screaming for attention. Dad turns toward me.
‘You know, Johnny, I’ve missed my calling. I think I could be a hippy.’
We stroll along the boardwalk. It’s peculiar they call it a boardwalk, because it’s cement and isn’t up on piers. It’s only a street without cars next to the sand. It might’ve been boards once or it could be a cross-country carry-over from the boardwalks on the Atlantic shore. Or maybe I’m the only one who calls it a boardwalk.
We come on a place called The Fruits and Nuts. A young couple, Tony and Shelly, run it. They take all the time in the world with us. They’re interested in Mom and suggest herbs to strengthen her heart. They offer big glasses of carrot juice squeezed from fresh carrots. They make it with a blender and it’s sweet, not like Mother’s pot liquors. Dad’s peeking at me from the corner of his eye, drinking carrot juice and smiling away. Tony has a beard with long hair pulled back in a ponytail. This is a surefire hippy, the enemy.
He tells Dad how he has herbs to help with blood pressure. I want to buy these for myself; I’ll try anything! But Tony gives them to me. I’m feeling so guilty I buy some apples and bananas; Tony assures us they’re fresh and tasty. He quarters an apple with a penknife so the four of us can share around.
It’s hard to get away. We walk along munching our apple. Dad can make more noise crunching
