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TUMBLEWEED STUCK

by George Stoya

"You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again?
It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled by men -- NIV

BEGINNING in late autumn and throughout the winter months the California sun burns

soft-white, and it was considerably easier on the eyes during those long morning drives up

the coast from San Diego to Newport Beach for work. Though in the evening, once darkness

descended, so too did the presence of death --- specifically, my death. Shelley insisted I was

clinically depressed, and while I appreciated her concern, I remained convinced that

whatever it was lay beyond the ailments prescribed by the DSM IV. After all, at a

philosophical level, learning to die was the sum and substance of both ancient and

existential wisdom. So at the very least I had to be on solid ground.

My ailment or whatever one ultimately classifies it began earlier in the spring in

Northwest Indiana, where, after a three-year stint of freelance journalism in the Region, it

felt as though I'd been unceremoniously stripped of the protective aura that had previously

encased my everyday existence. Whatever it was had relentlessly invaded my living space

until it had completely displaced my immediate environment. And at first, I, too, thought

the disturbance limited to something psychological, but it proved too pervasive, too

sublime a phenomenon to adequately objectify.

When after a month or so and my condition failed to naturally improve, following

some reflection, I concluded a leave of absence was in order and decided to revisit the West
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Coast. Soon I was driving across the desert floor west of Grand Junction, Colorado. Later on

deeper south in Utah under the stars of the Mojave Desert, I became increasingly convinced

the idea of an open-ended sabbatical had been a stroke of genius for the rekindling of "my

flame." At another level, though, it seemed time again to ante-up, as the choice of evolving

or not had long ceased to be voluntary. In years past, the endless-summer ambience of

Southern California had proved the perfect place for licking my wounds and regenerating.

That was during the '70s & '80s, when being a spiritual drifter or opting for a more

Beach Boys bohemian life-style wasn't frowned upon or considered a moral stain. Since

then life attitudes on the West Coast had become much more corporate conservative and

by the mid-1990s, because I had reaped little in the way of net assets from my free-spirited

lifestyle, any concern about my liquidity had been marginalized. Although it should be

noted, that if measured by any true normative standard, my economic status was more

accurately defined in terms of "opportunities for sheer material gain" declined. Still, at

times, it was painful and the despair I repressed was none other than that of being myself.

But I couldn't or rather, refused, to identify with myself (and the corresponding

situation) as a failure. I was nothing if not resolved, and hopefully this would be invaluable

in the long run, for if there was to be a run, it was the only contest left to me. What's more,

at the very least it would demonstrate I still possessed that extra-special something of

which I once was capable, in the event things began to go sideways and down toward

oblivion. "It's just a bad case of the blues---that's all," I'd quip to anyone concerned. Shelley,

ever practical, was having none of it. Apparently, I looked much worse than I felt. But in

those days I hadn't been feeling too much, anyway. Nevertheless, having returned I could

thank the unknown god of Providence and M. Edward (Ted) Rollins' construction defect
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practice for the refuge it gave.

Ted was an old college buddy from my UCSD days. He was a first-generation

Californian whose genealogical root lay in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Mine was greater

Chicagoland by way of Gary, Indiana. After graduating in 1976, he immediately went on to

law school at Stanford. I remained in San Diego County, married, and later enrolled in

Western State University's, College of Law. But in the middle of my second year, I withdrew

to work as a reporter for the San Diego Daily Transcript. That touch of creative wanderlust

would cost me my wife.

Two years later, Ted was admitted to the bar and returned, where for the next eight

years he worked as a tort lawyer for Higgs, Fletcher, & Mack representing land developers

and general contractors. As for me, I would return to the Region to practice the fine art of

New Journalism, where possible, and bounce around until I needed some R & R, when I'd

once more head west to, say, Denver and further pursue materials for my novel. Most often,

I returned to San Diego. Mason Edward Rollins was a genuine bud and later in his own

practice, when times were tough as a freelancer, he'd always take me on as a law clerk.

Now, of course, the position not only funded my sabbatical, it also provided an

adequate, if not positive field of adversarial enterprise, which was perfect for working

through what I increasingly believed might be borderline neurosis. Fortunately, it was not

by chance that American society had become litigious. It was evident that for many,

including myself, some furies were incapable of discharge on the analyst's couch (as Mailer

once put it). Indeed, my furies had long surpassed less sophisticated forms and were

incapable of being satisfied by a one-dimensional response or rational mediation. Thus,

once again oriented to the everyday world of commercial activity, I continued immersed in
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some kind of insidious Dread, and absolutely infuriated by it.

Thinking back during evening walks along Del Mar beach, I attributed the growing

malaise and alienation to an inadequacy of subsystems, that is, of my psychological and

socially-oriented subsystems. These supplemented and supported my mental equilibrium

and allowed me to tolerate more creatively-ordered thought processes. Believing this to be

the case, I reasoned my effort at psychic redesign must be flawed. For though I excelled at

work, I would never fully reconcile the contempt I harbored for the specious ideological

discourse and issues subverting the promise of America and legitimizing its inequities. But

I all too well understood that societal tolerance for free spirits, absent recognized

brilliance, was a thing of the past; or a preserve of the talented, or even mediocre rich. As

for maintaining a healthy relationship with a significant other, forget it. Except for Shelley, I

normally summoned enough integrity and foresight to preclude subjecting anyone to the

limited scope of my prospective future.

All was from within, I held. So I continued to cleave to the poetic prophecies of Paul

Simon, "that these are days of miracles and wonder," and despite the ironies believed my

turn at the Great Wheel would again materialize. Subconsciously, I hewed to the story of

Job as an article of faith, and for inspiration enjoyed a periodic reread of Dumas's, The

Count of Monte Cristo. Utopian…it was, but it wasn't delusional. As a direct benefit of my

education it was difficult to subordinate everything I truly desired to some rational

standard of possibility. To my way of being, delusion was merely one risk among others,

and let the absurd be damned. At this point in life, I no longer cared if what I hoped for was

only dimly perceived, or felt---or even a vague apprehension. Besides, given the fictions

constituting our reality, how real was realistic?

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Over time, though, I'd grown more surly, and then increasingly distressed by the

realization my "malaise" might very well be a consequence of what it meant today to be

non-conformed.

When I posed this to Shelley, she seemed impatient. "Sooner or later," she slowly

spelled out, "you'll just have to accept what you can't change as an ugly fact of life. Besides,

I don't believe your inner-directed, Emersonian person is possible anymore. Not for

us...Life is just too technical and standardized nowadays."

Call me defensive, but I translated this as meaning I was naive, or worse,

maladjusted, and so confronted her. "Well, anyone who knows you, Klaus," she responded,

"could certainly testify to an element of Don Quixote." I sensed I was being humored. "You

don't say? Is that it?" I replied. "Is that all to be said for our freedom – even that freedom

carved out from the rule?" Shelley declined further comment.

We were seated outside on her front porch. At a short distance lay the ravine that

bordered the southeast-end of San Diego's Balboa Park. Between us on a small wicker table

sat a half-emptied carafe of Chianti. Shelley sat barely moving in the rocker, one leg up on

the chair, her head tilted slightly downward against it, as the ocean breeze, filtering

through the pepper trees and onto the portico, teasing the rich luster of her shoulder length

brown hair until a length of it separated. Though it obscured her eyes, it highlighted the

facial contours revealing her determined femininity. Finally, with a slight toss of her head

she looked up and aimed dead into my eyes, deep, but in a manner very unlike that of mine

a moment earlier, when I nearly reached out to her. "We just get older," she politely added.

"And there's no stopping it. I guess where it's still possible or meaningful, we challenge

ourselves, or fight for change, but it isn't about truth or power...at least not for me."
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Wonderful! I had hoped to avoid this but now push had come to shove. "That's a bit

oversimplified, don'tcha think? Can you honestly sit there and say you've given up on

everything you know to be truly worthwhile?" I didn't know how much further I should, or

could, push this with her. Boredom was the kiss of death, even in Platonic friendships, and

especially so in this case where the aspect of friendship was more one-sided, because in

spite of myself, I needed her.

We sat together in silence as she gently rocked. From time to time she'd sip from her

wine glass while staring out to the west, toward the golf greens across the south end of the

park. I couldn't help but intuit that her thoughts had turned to decisive misgivings about

keeping company with a forty-two-year-old journalist who, she believed, should return to

law school. Doubtless, parachuting back into a North Park neighborhood bungalow proved

an egregious downscale adjustment from her recent ranch-style digs much farther up in

Solana Beach. Meanwhile, though her demeanor was calm and serene, almost soothing, the

air between us was ominous.

Against all this I added in her two divorces and her recent failure of the California

bar exam, understanding that at forty-two, given her good looks and determination, I

would remain nothing more than a place holder if I failed to make the grade. It wasn't

much, for all the two of us Forty-somethings had going was that nothing was as it ought to

have been. That and our loathing of nostalgia, and this included the replaying of Oldies on

the radio. One could rehear thirty-year-old hits only so many times.

Finally, it was Sam, her Golden Retriever, eagerly pawing the inside mesh of the front

screen door that ended our meditations. "Sammy, my man," I cheerfully called out, as I
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opened the door and petted him. "Sammie! Sammie! Want to go for a walk? Yeah! Good

dog." I looked at Shelley for approval. "Yes. He'd like that, wouldn't you Sam?" she smiled.

"Should I find the leash?"

"Naw. He'll come when I call, won't you Sam?" I assured her. "Let's go, boy."

When I returned it was near twilight. Christmas was less than a week away. I

wanted to spend as much of the coming holidays with Shelley as possible and wondered if

she'd planned anything. At the porch steps I hesitated and watched while Sam meandered

about the front yard completing his final marking of the various plants, shrubs and bushes

at the perimeter of the property, before calling him indoors.

Once inside I could see Shelly on the telephone at the far end of the cottage living-

room, in rapt conversation. As I took the first step onto the hardwood floor I noticed her

curve inward. It was such a smoothly executed gesture that by the end of her arc all I

sensed was the fullness of her hips underneath the overlay of her sweater and jeans.

Momentarily mesmerized, I retreated to the front porch and had a smoke. The

cigarette had burned half way down when she suddenly materialized. She looked relieved.

"Feel like pizza?"

"Good idea. Any place special?"

"Someplace were they serve decent wine would be nice," she smiled. "Somewhere

downtown."

"Let's roll!" I said with a false brio, and within a few minutes we were heading north

into downtown San Diego. Since the evening air was nice enough to comfortably dine

outside on the patio, I decided the old Felippi's restaurant & deli on India Street would

make an ideal setting. Shelley seemed animated. Whatever the news, I was certain she was
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going to break it.

At Felippi's we were ushered outside and seated. Both of us were still in the mood

for a red wine and so ordered a bottle of 1992 Merlot. "Or whatever table red you've got

will be just fine," I assured the waitress. Shelley smiled in agreement. In the light from the

flickering flame of the outdoor heating lamps her facial features softened, and relaxed, she

soon beamed with serenity like a woman with child. I was positive it had to do with the

telephone call.

"I'd like to propose a toast," she proclaimed. "I've just been invited out to

Connecticut as an associate attorney for outside counsel representing the Corning glass

company."

I was floored. Obviously, she had accepted. She could sit for the Connecticut bar in

February, she explained. Tense, I congratulated her. "Are you sure you should do this?"

"Why not? I could use a change of scene."

"Well, for openers, you're a born and bred southern Californian, and the East is a

closed society," I ventured.

"Maybe. But Jon assures me that his firm isn't stuffy or anything like that. I did have

the presence of mind to ask."

"Who's Jon?"

She set down her glass. "Jon is an old friend. A dear friend. And yes, we have a past,

but it was over long ago."

Just then there weren't any strategies open to me. It cut deep, and it stung. I thought back to

Ted's observation, after I first introduced Shelley to him on his yacht out at the Coronado
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Island marina. "You'll need to finish that law degree if you want to keep her." I countered

that Shelley was disillusioned with materialism. That as she had explained, it carried a

price she was no longer willing to pay. She was searching for a new quality to her life.

"Maybe so, Klaus. But her edges are too hard for the creative life. Better work on bolstering

your Dunn & Bradstreet."

Time for the big question. "What about us, Shel?" I was insulted by the idea of her

and Jon. Her body language during the telephone conversation now spoke volumes. Or so it

seemed.

"I don't know how to put this, but I'll try," she began, reaching forward to retrieve

her glass. "I believe I'm in love with you. But I'm just not sure if that's enough. I'm not

convinced we would thrive together." She sighed. "You've got to make peace with whatever

it is you're fighting and you refuse to consider career counseling. It's not unusual for

creative people."

I cut to the chase. "When do you plan on leaving?"

"Klaus that's not the point." Her voice was strained, as though she was trying to

induce an appreciation of something I wouldn't, or couldn't, yield. As Shelly bore into me I

was determined to withstand the increasing weight of the situation. I was forty-two! Not

old – even if the mileage had put me way beyond that of my younger and former self. I

wasn't worn, I shined from usage like a Poor Richard penny.

Then subliminally, and before I could check it, from somewhere deep inside a strange

energy began to radiate throughout my consciousness. Decimated and bare, I was fully

exposed to the fangs of that now unmediated void stalking my existence. Yet, the idea of
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giving-up or giving-in was galling. I sat depleted as out above us the surreal light from the

moon intensified. All I could see was an image of tumbleweed snagged in cactus brush on

the desert floor of an Ansel Adam's still-life. At last our waitress materialized, smiling.

"Ready to order?"

****

Author Note:

Tumbleweed Stuck is from a collection of short stories entitled "Soundings From the Second
Tier."