In the Middle End

In the 2nd Street tunnel all bright and lit and tiled walking west with hope and hopefulness following a lead on a job some work a livelihood an occupation a vocation a calling, call it anything you want to: a possibility an opportunity a chance a new chance a way to go, a way to conquer to subdue to get around at least the decade of the greedy and the needy--pumping gas at the Unocal the gas station on Glendale Boulevard just down the hill from Dodger Stadium, one of the first ones maybe, where cars line up just after a game to fill their tanks for the long ride home to Orange County--checking oil washing windows power-steering fluid all of the above Fish convincing himself it was a holy act like going to apply to seminary--”I’m going to be a priest” he said to Soap--a long walk through the bright tunnel across Beaudry past the lake at Echo Park stopping but only for a while to watch the tall geyser of fresh water pumped into the air the paddle boats circling the plume of wetness the Asian water lilies and the red bridge the idyll broken by the sight of graffiti on the walls across the street he’d read of the gangs in the paper that toll in counterpoint to the new church rising on the other side of the lake--he walks past Burger King and McDonald’s on his left and there it is, his sanctuary his refuge he fishes the help wanted ad crumpled out of his pocket dirty and frayed and checks the address he knows this is it butterflies in his stomach it has been so long “Can I speak to the manager?” he mumbles straightening his hair with his fingertips as he speaks as clean as he can be given the circumstances but standing tall for sure upright good posture his gym teacher had said that about him in high school. “I’m sorry, we filled that job this morning. . . . Try us again. We usually have some turnover in the summer.” Walking back the same route looking so decrepit now so luminous just a few minutes ago now so gray and dim and profane cut south on Beaudry this time walking east back so far got to go to Central Avenue wishing for a beer wine whiskey something but penniless no dinero nada not even a soul on the street to beg from to proposition to ask for a nickel a dime a dollar east and east on 3rd Street, the 3rd Street tunnel so gray no tile so dim so different a gray dreary lifeless tunnel long and echoing--suddenly fear and a little shaking not from no booze but scared you could die here and no one would know--heart attack stroke mugging knifed shot beaten--and Fish begins to run, run, run emerging on Hill Street the light in his eyes Soap would be waiting, Soap, Soap excited in anticipation meaning to mean well in asking “How did it go?” not expecting to tap into the downer the depression--could he go somewhere else avoid her for now come back tomorrow yes that was it he could find something else that was not the only job in Los Angeles it’s a big city the city of lights surely . . . surely something surely there’d be something surely there’ll be something--he thinks maybe Soap has enough for a drink so they can plan map out the future decide how to spend the money he’ll have tomorrow decide where to go a fresh start . . .