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  “Hey, are you rich or something, casino money from the reservation, gold in those hills?” I ask.

  “No.” She tenses her shoulders as she tries to get comfortable on my loveseat. “Do you need more money?”

  “Why, yes. I could use a little help with something personal.”

  “Personal? Like Botox or something?”

  “Sure. That’s it.”

  “Well, I have some money put aside. I am financing my own film. But yes, I do have liquid assets in my accounts. I’ve written a screenplay and, as a matter of fact, I’m looking for a male to fill a role. You might actually be a fit... Considering your background in the profession, do you want to look at my lead’s lines?”

  “Sure. So, let me get this straight. You’re an ’indie going indie’ and you need me? Sounds like you’ve searched for the perfect fit.”

  “I’ve done a little searching. The role doesn’t pay much, to be honest. No union or agent needed. And it’s a short drama set here in LA. I can help you out a bit to get you on your feet, plus I can draft out a contract for you to sign and I’ll make payment arrangements too.”

  She’s so naïve but no one else has my back. “Sure. Do you have your own place?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about you crash here tonight, and we can start tomorrow.”

  “Ok. We’ll settle in the morning. Bills, contracts, then the gym and we can shop around for a beauty treatment for you. Oh, and can you help me find an address tomorrow? There’s a business I want to check out.”

  “Sure. I can do that. You get the couch.”

  “OK.”

  “Can I take your laptop to bed and read over your script?”

  “Sure. Here, take it with you. Be honest and critique it too,” says Guisy, passing me her laptop. “I’m pooped out, so good night.” Jay pulls her tunic off and stretches her arms out. Then she ties her wild hair up into a double bun, looks at me and smiles right big, all dimply and cute. For a split second, I feel my chest start to pound—either my conscience or the pizza starting to say hello. Just when I’m almost ready to fake niceness she moves up to me, stares at me all serious then she gives me a massive hug.

  “Thanks, John. I really need a friend.”

  As soon as I hear her snore, I open documents on her PC. Damn. It’s hot in here. Here’s an interesting file. It’s her bank balance saved on her desktop. She’s loaded. She must have a rich boyfriend or something. I wonder if she’s a heavy sleeper.

  I think I’ll look for her purse.

  Saturday was busy. We shopped for clothes and Jay picked up some summer dresses and even got her hair done up with streaks and foils. Then we went looking for records and rummaged through boutiques and bookstores searching for cool finds. After, she brought me back to her apartment so she could pick up her gym clothes.

  While she worked out, I went to my spa appointment and took in the painful delights of needles, shiatsus and even got my eyebrows waxed and trimmed to get back to Hollywood ready, though all this was a first for me. We agreed on meeting at a local market to pick up more groceries for my place, and when we got back to my apartment, Jay pulled out her credit card, called up my utilities account and hooked up my bill. Voila—we had lights.

  “Did you draft a contract?” I asked fully knowing she didn’t have time.

  “No. Sorry. I forgot but thank you for reviewing my script and giving me such honest feedback. I’m glad you’re interested. You won’t regret working with me.”

  She said ‘with’! I’ve always been told ‘for’. Starting to feel the guilt again, I decide to cut it off and ask her where she wanted to go and why this place was obviously so important to her.

  “I need to go to 10175 Slater Avenue.” She gleams with excitement. That face. God, she really is beautiful.

  “What’s the name of the business?”

  “Southern California Indian Center!” she sings.

  Oh boy. “Let’s go. I know the area. Leave your car. We’ll take a bus.” Jay bustles around my apartment cleaning up and washing down the kitchen counters, fluffing the throw pillows on my couch and then grabs her toothbrush and toothpaste out of her purse and rushes to the bathroom. Singing as she brushes, she stops to mumble out to me, “I’m so excited! Thank you.”

  After a quick trip on the bus, I open the door to the center and curtly wave her in through the entrance.

  “The smell of fried bread is just what I needed! I miss my momma’s cooking,” says Guisy. “Come on. Let’s go say hi to the people at the canteen.” Almost running like a doe, she shimmies herself into the lineup.

  “Two bannocks please!”

  “That will be ten dollars,” the clerk tells Jay, but then addresses me with a gesture. I furrow my eyebrows but decide to pull out my debit card and give it a good old try.

  “Declined,” says the elder before returning her attention to Guisy. “Honey, where you from?”

  “I’m from a small reservation just east of Seattle.”

  “You come here looking to be a movie star or something?” the Granny asks the girl with endearing emotion and concern. She looks up at me and frowns.

  “Something like that,” Guisy replies. “I’ll try my card. I’m dying for a little piece of home.”

  “Oh no honey, this is on me.” The elder lifts her aged hands out, one bearing a basket of warm fried bread dripping with butter, while the other gently moves forward, hesitates then reaches out for the young writer’s face. “Honey, you stay as long as you want. If you need anything, you come see us here at this center. This is home for you now. You stay and enjoy a hot meal and a cup of tea.”

  “Thank you.” Guisy blushes but takes in the gentle Grandmother’s touch. The affection has me feeling a little out of sorts.

  “You like it here, don’t you?” I uncomfortably murmur, avoiding eye contact with my girl.

  “Yes. This is just what I needed. A connection.”

  We sit down to eat, and with the music been played by the drummers thrumming in the background, she recalls her last visit with her family before she left for the awards night in Hollywood.

  I relish her glowing demeanor and, most of all, her virtue. What surprised me most, however, was when she got up and cleaned all the dining room tables, swept the floors, and then emptied out the garbage and recycling stations, only to be called upon by the leader of the drum group. She looked up at me and smiled.

  She was a beauty in my eyes, but tonight, I saw something else in her. I was learning about the unspoken words her people spoke. I witnessed the ease of communication between strangers in a different land yoked together by creed.

  When I heard her singing the traditional pow-wow song, it shook me deep down inside. I lowered my head, sitting alone in the corner with the last piece of fried bread. Fidgeting was my response. I forced my hands into my new coat pockets.

  But then I was reminded why I was with her in the first place: an envelope I took from her satchel. It was marked with a dollar sign and it felt thick enough to set me up, yet thin enough she wouldn’t miss it.

  Chapter Six

  Hard core

  We parted ways. I, the reluctant one, but I did it. I needed to chill and grab a few drinks. I needed to shove these fucked up feelings somewhere...anywhere to eradicate the shit flying around in my head, damn it.

  It’s her eyes; pure and happy. They don’t judge me.

  I decided to walk down the boulevard to find something to do and it was the guitar riffs and smashing symbols that caught my attention. When I got to the entrance, I stopped to check out my reflection in the tinted-out windows and damn, I liked what I saw. I still look hot. I look like I did ten years ago...only better.

  So, I lit a smoke and then checked my cell. She texted me and thanked me for a wonderful day. She saved a picture she took of us and put it on the front of my phone—not sure how she did it, but I like it. She made me smile and my curiosity made my thumb smooth over her picture, but it was the singer in the bar that brought me back to reality.

  I’ve got money to blow.

  Blow…

  I won’t do that, but everything else is a go tonight. When I walked into the bar I felt right at home. Old school pool tables, old school music, bitches wearing leather with their hair teased, easing my swagger on. Right away a hot blonde came to my side wanting to dance. We danced, and danced, and laid down shot after shot of Mr. Daniel’s.

  She treated me like a god. She kept on going to the bathroom and coming out excited and hyper to see me. That’s all it took to make me want to bring her home. And that I did. That night was a royal fuck fest—wild, like how I used to be. She was rough on me, but she wanted it back.

  Girl, get a grip.

  Standing in front of my mirror I stare myself down. “You can do it, Guisy. You can do it,” I mumble to myself. I’m just too excited. I want to go see him. I want to go over my production binder for my film. I need his ideas. Brainstorming with him will help. Besides, I left my laptop at his place. If only he’d answer a text. Darn his ass, he probably doesn’t know how to. He’s probably still up. I’ll cab it there since I left my car there too.

  His door is open. I’ll just knock and go in. He’s probably up. I hear music. He’s up! I’m so excited.

  “Hello, John? It’s Guisy. I picked up a bottle of my favorite wine. Hello?”

  No answer.

  “Hello? Johnny, where’s your wine glasses? “I search a cupboard and find them. “John, you’re too quiet. You alive, dude?” Glasses in hand, I push his bedroom door open.

  “Get up old man.” I giggle, but he’s nowhere to be seen. “What are you doing? Are you hiding?” Where the hell is he? Then I hear a door open behind me.

  “Jay? Jay, what the hell are you doing h
ere?” John slurs. Behind him stumbles in a tall, naked blonde dripping wet from an apparent tryst for two in the shower.

  “Oh. Shit. That didn’t take you long to…whatever. Sorry for bothering you.” I straighten my ruffled coat, lift my chin up and push John aside, making my way past his bimbo.

  “Guisy! Stay. She’s leaving,” he pleads behind me.

  “Fuck off!”

  John throws the blonde her clothes and then leads her out the door by her elbow, barging in front of me. He turns around.

  “Why you mad, girl?” he asks, confused as he puts on his leather vest and slips his watch on.

  “Where are my car keys?”

  “Is that wine for us?”

  I grab the bottle of wine and start to pour it down the kitchen drain.

  “What a waste, fucking stop that,” he says, trying to grab the bottle from my hand. I let it fall into the sink with a crash, then turn to leave.

  “Where are you going, Jay?” asks John.

  “Home, I’m going home.”

  “Why?”

  I turn around and meet his eyes. “I know you took my money. That was my first draw needed for site rental and payment to my production staff.” An angry tear crevasses my cheekbone revealing my pain.

  “You knew, and you didn’t say anything to me?”

  “I figured you must have really needed it, but the thing is…if you had asked, I would’ve given it to you.”

  “Who the fuck does that kind of shit?”

  “John. I never entered this world with money and when I leave my pockets will be empty. Goodbye.”

  “I’m sorry. Look, I’ll grab it. I’ll give it back. I’m sorry, Jay. I mean it.” John scurries around looking through the suit jacket he must have worn earlier in the evening. “Damn. I can’t find it. Help me look for it, Jay.” Panicking he shuffles over the table knocking empty beer bottles on the floor and dumping his ashtray all over the place. He runs into his bedroom and turns on the light with renewed sobriety. I can see it in his eyes. It’s the kind of sober one gets when they fuck up bad. The money is nowhere to be found.

  John slowly comes to the same realization that I’ve already come to—that he was ripped off.

  “You mad?”

  “I’m disappointed.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I know.”

  “What can I do?”

  “I’ll be okay,” I respond. I get up, ash my cigarette in the tray on the floor, and walk out the door.

  I want to have hope in my aged movie star. I want to have hope in my dreams. Hell…I’ve been fucked over before and bounced back every time, but this time feels different. This time I’m wiped out.

  I just need to be home in my bed to think things through. There’s always a way. I was born with resilient bones building me up.

  But why do I feel so fucking alone?

  Chapter Seven

  Reservation

  “Guisy. If you’re going to stay here, then you have to get a job. You hear me girl?”

  “Yes, Auntie.”

  My back is sore from sleeping on the floor. The small window of the reservation box house has no curtain or blinds, and it lets in tiny sunbeams which creep across the sheet reminding me of the total desolation I was born into and was bred for.

  “I knew you’d make us all look bad chasing your big dreams. Get over yourself and join the club.”

  “Yes, Auntie.” Even the Rezz dog and bourgeoisie fat cat in the corner of my bedroom glance over at me like I’m shit—dirtier than their own. They reinforce my aunt’s rants, like they know I’m a failure, as immaterial as the tattered blanket on the dilapidated floor.

  “The Boot is looking for a driver for deliveries. Go see her. Tell her I sent you. You got my car still, doncha?”

  “Yes, Auntie.” I picture myself driving my old station wagon filled with beer, whiskey and moonshine, shaking every nut and bolt of her jalopy as I drive down the narrow gravel potholed road around my reservation like a zealous Bible thumper going door to door. I would save countless souls, bottle in hand.

  It was at that point I gave up.

  I walked and walked every day. Eventually running became easy. My liver was given a fresh start. I might not have been working, but I’d get up every day like I was heading to a gig.

  I exhausted every contact and ‘friend’ in search of a role—anything, a commercial even. Failure at the back of my mind, I would come home and if my body began to shake and nudge me to give in, I would fill a bucket up with warm soap and water and destroy any morsel of dust, dirt, and cigarette grime off my walls. Then, I would shower and head to bed, thankful for another day.

  Hands in pocket I walked to the transit bus and headed out. ‘Where the Creator leads me, I will follow,’ I remember hearing Jay say. It made me smile when she said that because she believed it. So that’s just what I did. I missed her.

  On the bus, I texted Guisy again and again, but she didn’t answer me. I won’t give up on her, ever.

  The bus stopped, and I felt the urge to jump off, so I did and there on the side of the transit station was a big sign; a beautiful, green, lush sign: “Friends of the Los Angeles River.”

  I’m going to see if I can volunteer with these guys. I think it’s meant to be.

  I made some new kind of friends, people that did things for good and for no apparent reason other than making a difference for their community. I enjoyed it. I helped market their Great LA River Clean Up and did the grunt work they needed, sifting through the vast, used-up concrete and colonized river for garbage and helping dispose of all types of trash. I was humbled. What we have done to the land and to the first people is a tragedy in so many ways.

  But something still bugged me. It wasn’t her. It wasn’t missing her. It was the fact I stole from a friend. I had to make things right or I knew I couldn’t keep going on like this. So, I caught a ride back to my apartment and ran in to get a key.

  “Where do you have to go now, John?” asks one of my cleanup crew peeps.

  “To my storage locker, I’ve got to see my baby.”

  It was the one thing that meant the most to me in the whole entire world. My ride: the Harley Davidson Knucklehead.

  I called an old friend—a film industry golden boy producer.

  “Hey. Remember when you wanted to buy my Knucklehead?”

  “John? Shit, I thought you were dead,” he says and laughs.

  “I was.”

  “How much?” asks the producer.

  Playing it cool, ready for a battle, but giving no room for negotiation I say, “A hundred G’s and I’ll throw in the coat and helmet.”

  “That’s a real bargain,” the producer responds.

  I wince. The pain of losing my baby is like a dagger in the heart. But the loss of Jay’s friendship hurts even more. Not only did I steal from her, I know I crushed her dream and took what she needed to start up her project. And I know how hard it is for a Native American to break out as a writer, producer, or anything else in the industry. It was already hard enough. I want her to succeed and this is one of the ways I knew I could pay her back.

  Balls to the wall: I call my girl. No more texting—pissing around. I’m going to find her and bring her back.

  Chapter Eight

  Undoing

  “Ma...there’s a white boy here!”

  “Really?” She walks to the screen door with her hands on her hips, looking me up and down. For the first time in my life, I’m speechless.

  I take off my baseball cap and decide to come on strong. “I’m looking for Guisy. The people at the casino said she lived down the end of the long dirt road, which led me here. Does she stay here, ma’am?”

  I can’t breathe. I’ve never been on a native reservation before, but I have nothing to lose.

  My eyes dart around the living room searching for her face or evidence that she’s been here. The walls host an array of photos and wall hangings depicting a fallen native warrior riding a lamed horse. School photos of varied children and teenagers hang precariously above an old couch with no legs. An old school television is the stand for a smaller TV and on top of that sits a tired looking antenna. A tattered sheet covers part of the living room window, which is jarred open hosting a fan, filling the room with more warm air.