Operation Boom is a paranoid, often darkly humorous sci-fi thriller about control, conspiracy, and the cost of being disposable.
Salvador Zapata has nothing left to lose. So when a rising tech company offers him easy money to join a groundbreaking wellness program, he signs up, agreeing to spend one year sealed in a chamber in the name of human optimization.
One year turns into four.
When Sal finally wakes, the world he knew is gone. Los Angeles is cleaner, more orderly. Crime, poverty, and dissent have all but vanished. What was once considered chaos has been replaced by calm, but only because anyone labeled undesirable has been removed off the streets, sent into wellness hibernation.
Beneath the utopian surface, something feels off. Haunted by vivid, near-hallucinatory dreams and flashes of violence he doesn’t understand, Sal begins to suspect the trial was never about wellness at all.
"West Coast Blues" by C.E. Santana is a short work of fiction that takes you on a journey to an alternate reality.
Danny Rios seems to have it all—a loving family and a successful career. But when a fatal car crash abruptly ends his life, he awakens in a world where the consequences of falling into a spiral of unfortunate occurrences—debts, financial losses, ill-advised bets, and broken relationships—proves too much for his parallel self to bear.
Now, in this new reality, as Danny searches for answers and a way back to the life he once had, he must also reckon with the altered destinies of those he loves.
Charlie obsessively checked his Funeral. He refreshed and refreshed and refreshed. He refreshed to see if there was any new Cries. If any old high school friends showed up. An ex or two.
Marisa did the same. She wasn’t expecting much — like a selfie in bad lighting — but yet she found herself checking, then refreshing, then checking her Funeral. She couldn’t help it. She would anxiously tap her leg, twiddle with her fingers, then refresh.
Jonathan, though, was cruising. His funeral was on the verge of going viral. He had stopped looking, was busy preparing tea, and getting ready to settle in for a nice nap.
Funeral was started by a college dropout named Leslie Hammond. Hurting from a devastating break up, he launched Funeral after two sleepless, furious days of binge coding. At his own Funeral, he racked up 3 Genuine Cries, 1 Contagious Cry (like a yawn, a Cry because there’s crying around), 0 Strangers Showing Respect, and 1 ex, but not the one Leslie was hoping for.
Charlie refreshed again. He made coffee; he smoked a cigarette; he bit his fingers while he looked at his Funeral. There was his mom, a beautiful woman, Charlie’s friends would always say, some to be assholes, uncontrollably sobbing over his body. His dad, a patient and noble man, standing by her, as always, a hand on her shoulder. There was Charlie’s younger brother sitting in the front aisle, looking slightly bored, but maybe just sad. There was Charlie’s oldest friend who still kept in touch through the occasional text. Charlie regretted not responding to some of those. There was his old neighborhood crew, in their late twenties and worn out, but this was a good opportunity to get the gang back together. There was an old coach from high school, an ex from college, and a few distant cousins. Charlie refreshed again, but nothing had changed in the last five minutes. He shut down his Funeral and smoked another cigarette.
Marisa peeped at her Funeral through an opening in the hand she was using to cover her eyes. Far from the life she led, it was a quiet affair. Where were her old sorority sisters, the ones whose motto was “Live, Love, blah, blah, let’s get fucked?” Where was Janice? Probably playing with her children in her new home Upstate. Where was Cindy? Marisa thought maybe she should have been nicer to her. Maybe she shouldn’t have branded her C.C. — Cunty Cindy. No exes. Not one. Zip. It was probably the distance thing, it had to be the distance, totally the distance thing since her mom insisted her Funeral be in fucking Toms River. Marisa hadn’t lived in Jersey since that one awkward year in Bayonne. Before that, since high school. She lived in New York City. Before that, Long Island for college. Fucking Toms River?
Jonathan napped peacefully. If he was to check his Funeral, he’d see that his Cries were through the roof. Mostly Genuine Cries, too. A dozen strangers had piled in after hearing about his Funeral. Exes, because he maintained friendships, dated back to middle school. People hugged each other and shared stories of all the good times they spent with Jonathan. They remembered the times he went out of his way to help someone. Pictures at his Funeral showed him always smiling, always happy, a life well lived. A couple celebrities even showed up, and one even gave a speech. Speaking of the speeches — like Jonathan, they were moving, joyful, celebratory. He wasn’t big on dwelling on shit. Everyone commented on how good a person he was. Jonathan heard them, he was just too into his nap to thank them.
The Uber pulled up to the middle of nowhere. An address in the desert, to be exact, surrounded by nothing but dry hills. It was a rundown motel, and Jose, before he saw the photoshoot set, thought it was a mistake.
Jose waited for Veronica to finish. He could see her sitting by a car, under a canopy, a hair stylist untangling complex layers of clip-on hair until Veronica’s own hair was as short as a boy. As she walked to his car, Jose could see that she was somebody. She was tall and glowing, like a golden child sent to the desert by the Sun; her aura was of someone whose worries passed through her like a ghost, unaffecting her momentum.
“Hello,” she said getting into the backseat of his SUV.
“Hey, how are you?”
“I’m well. You?”
“I’m doing alright… it says we’re heading to Los Angeles, this address is correct?”
“Yes, back to L.A.”
Jose took the highway and for a long time neither of them said a word. Jose had a classical station tuned in, and when he asked if she desired to hear something else, Veronica shook her head, “No, I need to relax. This is perfect.” Most of his customers had no complaints towards classical, and he didn’t mind it, so before a customer got in his car, Jose always switched to the classical station. It was better than listening to some unbearable pop music Jose didn’t understand its appeal; or worse, some obscure hardcore or avant garde or deep techno. He was pleased she wanted to hear this or “nothing at all,” in her own words, for the two and a half hour drive to L.A.
After about a half hour on the road, Jose felt comfortable enough to ask: “Miss, sorry to bother, but are you an actress or a model?”
Veronica was staring out her window, her phone vibrating every few seconds, but she didn’t react to it. “I am, yes.”
“Have I seen you in anything?”
“Probably not. In about a month, I’ll be in the next Michael Bay film.”
“And who is that?”
“He does The Transformer movies.”
“My kids love those films. Me, not so much.”
“I don’t blame you. I hope you like this one.”
“I’ll be more excited to go see it with them now that I know you’re in it.”
Veronica let out her movie star quality smile, and Jose chuckled.
“How old are your kids?” She asked.
“The youngest is ten, the middle one, the only boy, is thirteen, and the oldest is about to turn eighteen.”
“Oh, wow, blessed. I’m sure they’re beautiful.”
“They are. Thank you.”
“And their names?”
“Stephanie, Jose Jr., and Miranda”
“Are you married?”
“Twenty years.”
“Amazing. Good for you.”
“Eh, it’s okay,” Jose said, laughing.
“Just okay?”
“Well… No, I shouldn’t.”
“Wait, what?”
“You don’t want to hear my problems, I’m sure you have enough of your own.”
“Yeah, but I have therapists.” She laughed. “Do you go to therapy?”
“Oh, no, never. That’s not something people in my culture do.”
“Are you Catholic? Do you see a priest?”
“No, we go to a Protestant church.”
“Priest don’t know shit anyhow. They’ll just tell you you’ll be okay by confessing, but never actually tell you how to be okay. I’ll be your therapist today. Tell me whatever. I respect privacy. Being in my profession, I respect privacy more than anyone.”
Veronica was now sitting up in her seat. She wore a look of honest sincerity, comforting Jose.
“Ah, what the hell,” Jose said.
Jose and his wife met when Jose was nineteen and she was sixteen. It was his first day as a stocker at a supermarket in his South L.A. neighborhood. She was a cashier. They started dating within a week; by week three she was pregnant. Six months later they were married. In hindsight, the immense responsibility of raising a child matured Jose into a man: he enrolled in night school, he stopped hanging out with friends he deemed dangerous — some who later spent time in jail or are dead — and dedicated his life to his new family. After five years they bought their first home and soon assimilated into an ideal middle class American life: family dinners at restaurants on Sundays; soccer practice and piano recitals; two week vacations every year to Disney World, to Mexico, to Hawaii, to New York, to their homelands, Guatemala (Jose’s) and El Salvador (his wife’s); and their ten year old anniversary spent in Paris, his wife’s life-long dream.
Starting in his mid thirties, Jose began having thoughts that consumed him. He was going through a midlife crisis. His oldest daughter was starting college and to make extra money Jose started taking on second and third jobs. Later, he leased a shiny, all black Cadillac Escalade and began to Uber on his days off. The money was great and soon he quit all his other jobs, including his career of fifteen years, as an engineering mechanic at manufacturing plants, and drove full-time. He drove around rich kids going to clubs, bridal parties to Vegas, movie execs to private airports, coked up actors to houses in the hills. Every night provided excitement. There were blowjobs in the furthest backseat, rappers smoking weed, inside views into the lives of the rich, who seemed to not care about consequences, who had open affairs, who traveled the world on a whim, whose driveways were larger than Jose’s entire block in his neighborhood. It wasn’t until he started to Uber that an existential dread started to cloak Jose’s existence.
“I started to question the what if’s,” he said to Veronica, who listened intently. She had even turned off her phone to show Jose that she was present with him.
“What were those what if’s?” She asked in the non judgemental tone of a real therapist.
“I married at nineteen. I was pretty much a virgin when I met my wife. I say pretty much ‘cause I lost my virginity to a neighborhood girl who fucked anyone — excuse my language — so it didn’t really count in my opinion. To me, I’ve only ever been with my wife. Which I love, of course, but seeing how other people live, I guess I never realized how much life there is to live out there. I can’t just get up and leave whenever I want. If I’m sick, I have to go to work. If I go on vacation, it’s with her and the kids. I started to wonder how different my life would have been if I didn’t meet her and married so young. I started to envy my Uber passengers, especially the men my age. Sometimes they share stories with me. Like if I’m taking them to the airport, they tell me about the girl they have waiting for them in like Tokyo. Or if I pick them up at the club, I watch them with a beautiful girl. Shit, sometimes they’re with two girls. I imagine what it’s like to go to a mansion in the hills and enjoy life.”
Jose paused. He looked out the window at the strip malls that started to take over the desert hills as you approached the vast urban spread of Los Angeles.
He sighed, “I’m a terrible person.”
Veronica related to Jose more than Jose knew. Her father, a director, spent years in the tabloids, a new scandal every week, it appeared. He divorced his wife, Veronica’s mom, an actress in her thirties, after he cheated on her with a younger woman he met in one of his films. He remarried then divorced after another cheating scandal. Veronica, until a few years ago, went without speaking to her dad for years. He was the man Jose envied, and who Veronica loathed. She had grown up in hills of LA, tried coke for the first time at fourteen, was burnt out from nightlife by the time she was eighteen, and appeared to had turned her life around when she moved to New York to study at NYU, but then dropped out when her modeling contracts reached the millions of dollars. It was back to the only life she knew: vacations to far-off islands; work in Paris and Rome; dinners with friends, all children of fame, and with artists and models and musicians; dates with actors who played superheroes, and lead singers who lived in studio apartments in the East Village. By twenty-five, her present age, she had lived life times five, the only thing to do now was to settle, to try to live a stable life, to go to work everyday and come home to her dogs and Netflix and books. She didn’t want kids just yet, but she was starting to think of her life in her thirties. She wanted to start directing films. Her relationship with her dad became warmer with age. He was now married to his former care-taker after his stroke at age sixty. He was working again. Not on the blockbusters he was known for in the eighties and early nineties but on small films without explosions and special effects. Actually, Veronica’s first film role was in an highly acclaimed film by her father, about a spawn of Hollywood fame, who after years of debauchery reestablishes the relationship with her father, a womanizing film director, and together they learn how to forgive and love again.
“My father...” Veronica said after a long silence. She then went on to tell her story.
“I love your dad’s movies.”
“He’s one of the greats.”
“I’m sorry he put you through that.”
“It’s fine. Well, it wasn’t fine for a long time, but it’s fine now. I don’t hate him anymore. Have you ever acted on your thoughts?”
“What do you mean?”
“Cheated on your wife?”
“Oh, no. Honestly. It’s just thoughts. Horrible thoughts.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. We all have horrible thoughts at times. What makes us
strong humans is the strength to not act on them.”
“It’s hard. I’m not going to lie. My wife and I, we don’t really have sex anymore. It’s
been more than a year.”
“Do you still love her?”
Jose didn’t answer for a long time. Veronica didn’t push him, either. Finally, Jose said:
“Don’t think my silence answers your question. I do love my wife. She’s the mother of my children, and she’s the strongest woman I’ve ever known, next to my own mother. I was just thinking about the first time I fell in love with her. We were walking in the old neighborhood and walked past an old friend’s house. He was outside on his porch, as usual, and when he saw me, he walked to greet me. I introduced him to my girlfriend, the first time I had said those words, it sort of just slipped out.”
“That’s why I haven’t seen you around.” The guy said.
“I’ve been busy with work and stuff.”
“Okay, sure. I could have used you on Friday, homes. We was up at this party, and some punks stepped up to us. It was only me and Erick. Erick was getting his ass beat. I had to go my car for the gat. Almost blasted those fools but they backed off.”
Jose could vividly imagine the scenario. He had been there before. A house party, a bunch of kids with nothing to do, too much booze, someone bumps into someone, someone gets punched, someone gets stabbed, someone gets shot. As Jose pictured himself fighting over nothing, he felt a warm, delicate hand grab onto his. He looked into his girlfriend’s eyes and they said it all: you’re safe with me.
“That’s when I knew I loved her. She was all that I needed.”
“Is she all that you need now?”
Jose began to sob. It came out of nowhere. “I’m sorry,” he said, pulling the car over. He dried his eyes and felt Veronica’s hand on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he restated.
“It’s alright.”
“I just feel like a monster.”
“You’ve never talked to your wife about this, have you?”
“No. But I know she knows.”
“Tell her your thoughts. Tell her everything. Then tell her why you’re telling her all this, that you feel terrible and want to work on your relationship. Then surprise her with a vacation, just the two of you.”
Jose composed himself and continued driving. They drove in silence, just the faint piano keys from the low radio could be heard.
They approached Veronica’s home, a modest house in Loz Feliz, barricaded by trees and vines. Jose stopped the car and turned his entire body to face Veronica.
“I want to thank you. Maybe it was destiny I picked you up today. I don’t know how much longer before I did something drastic I would have regretted for the rest of my life. You helped me in ways you’ll never know and I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”
“Give me your phone,” Veronica said. Jose handed her his phone and she typed something into it.
“I just texted myself. First, I want you to bring your whole family to my movie premier next week. I want to meet your kids. I’ll text you the info later today. Then, find some vacation time for both of you and then call me. My mother and I have a vacation home in Cabo. We barely use it this time of year. Take your wife there. Enjoy life. Take molly with her. Seriously.” Both Veronica and Jose laughed. “Smoke some fucking weed. Get drunk off tequila and wine. Live like there’s no worries. Love like you were nineteen again.”
If you drive up Old Woman Spring Rd, make a right on Reche Rd in the town of Landers, make a left on an unnamed dirt road, and drive for four miles, you come across a church called The Supreme Church. It’s a small, all white adobe structure with a curved roof that resembles a spaceship. Built by William Bright, the preacher, a tall strong man with dirty blonde hair, a permanent goldish tan, and a boyish face, the church holds maybe fifty people, and it’s always empty. The giant white cross that stands near the road is taller than the church, and if one somehow finds themselves driving on the dirt road, one sees the cross and not the church, which is hidden behind a cluster of boulders. If the church had been painted tan, and not white, it could easily camouflage in its surroundings. The people of Landers (there isn’t many) and the surrounding towns know of the church, but like good Americans, no one asks questions or bothers their neighbors.
Deputy Sheriff Letterman has passed by the church many times. On his shifts, which used to be during the day and are now in the graveyard, he sometimes drives up there and parks his patrol car a few hundred yards away from the cross, and stares at it for hours at a time, until his shift is over or he’s called to disrupt a bar fight or check on a domestic violence call. He picked that spot to post when he first started to work the graveyard shift. He was driving around, bored, and in the light of the moonlight and the purple hue of the sky, he saw the giant cross, appearing to be hovering in the air. He stopped his car and stared at it, before being called back into town. Now, whenever he gets the chance, and it’s often, since getting back onto Rt. 62, where the Sheriff’s station is located, only takes 10 minutes speeding, he’ll drive up there and stare at the cross. Sometimes a shooting star zips through the sky above the cross and Letterman wishes this meant something, but he isn’t sure what. Letterman’s church, the one he attends on Sundays, is in Joshua Tree, and it’s packed on Sundays with the known faces of his community: other cops, business owners, judges, public service workers, teachers, and so on. He’s never seen anyone at The Supreme Church but he doesn’t ask questions. As long as Letterman is never called to check something out on the ten acres of land William Bright built his church on, Bright can do whatever he wants on his property.
Which is why when he is told to go up to the church to notify of a death he is alarmed. He’s in the first hour of a double shift, drinking coffee at his desk. It’s 7 AM.
“You’re always up there,” his captain says. “Maybe you can make sense of who’s up there.”
“I’ve never even seen anyone up there,” Letterman responds.
“Well, it’s the only address we have for the father of the deceased. Go up there and see if anyone actually lives there.”
✞
On the drive there, Letterman thinks of what to say. Notifications of death are hard to begin with, but not knowing who he’d be talking to, worries him a bit. He thinks of asking for backup, but that sounds silly. But he can’t shake the feeling that something strange is about to happen.
He goes over the facts of the deceased:
William Bright Jr., known as Billy, a local kid with numerous run-ins with the law, mostly for drug related crimes, entered a motorcycle garage yesterday afternoon and attempted to trade in an ounce of meth for a used motorcycle. When the men at the shop, part of a biker gang called The Desert Devils, searched him and found more drugs, a fight broke out. Billy was stabbed multiple times. The bikers escaped. Someone walked into the shop to inquire about parts, found Billy bleeding on the floor, and called the cops. Billy confessed to the man the bikers had robbed him for about a pound of meth before passing away on the scene. His last words, according to the man, was gibberish about a movie star named Clara.
“She’s a movie star, I see it!” Billy had said. According to the man, he wasn’t in agony. He was smiling. “Clara the movie star!”
It had already been an eventful day for Letterman. A couple hours earlier he responded to a 415 at Old Brien’s house, a house well known by the sheriffs. But a 415? Letterman, had thought. Old Brien’s is in the middle of nowhere. Who would call the cops on a disturbance complaint? When Letterman arrived, he found a naked girl sleeping in bed. Under her pillow he found a few bags of meth. Nothing out of the ordinary, sure, but who called the cops? It all made sense now. The girl’s name was Clara. Her boyfriend was William Bright’s son, Billy.
Letterman drives up to the cross and turns right onto the property, up to the boulders that seem to connect to the church. Stopping the car, he takes a deep breath, then walks towards the structure. Doing a couple laps around the church, he attempts to see if he notices anyone inside. Just as he is about to knock, he hears a voice from the side.
“You can come in through here.”
It’s a woman’s voice. Letterman follows the voice to a blonde woman. Her hair is long and flows freely over a loose white blouse and blue jeans. Letterman walks up and introduces himself.
“I know who you are.” The lady says. “Come inside.”
Letterman is led through a side door, through a dark hallway, and down a staircase. At the bottom of the stairs, the lady opens one of two large steel doors. Nothing can prepare Letterman for what he sees: a huge open white space, with natural light flickering through glass windows on the roof. The space is pristine clean, like a lab. There are mostly adults in their twenties and thirties, but also a few teens and small children. The children and teens sit on the floor on a rug, drawing and writing on the floor. It must be part of a class, Letterman thinks. The adults meditate in circles, separated into small cliques, like a high school lunchroom. No one looks at Letterman or stops what they're doing. There’s an eery silence. There must be thirty-five people all together, but there’s an organized hush, like a library. Or a church, Letterman realizes. People are worshipping.
Letterman is led to one specific clique sitting to the farthest corner. A man stands up and the lady takes his place in the circle.
“Hello, I’m William Bright,” the man says. He smiles. Looking into his eyes, Letterman loses his focus for a second. His crystal blue eyes stare at Letterman so deeply it’s as if they’re staring deep into Letterman’s mind. Letterman doesn’t feel uncomfortable or tense. He simply forgets why he’s there for a second, forgets who he is or his own problems. His eyes are so blue, it’s almost as if looking at water, at his own reflection.
“You’re Deputy Sheriff Letterman,” the man says.
Letterman snaps out of his trance. “Yes, sorry. How did you know?”
William glances down at Letterman’s badge.
“Oh, yes, of course. That’s silly of me.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry but I’m here with unfortunate news. It’s about your son, William Bright, Jr.”
“He passed.”
“Yes, tragically.”
“It’s quite alright. I knew for some time now.”
Letterman finds this odd but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he continues with the routine. “I’ll need you to come down and identify the body.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” William responds.
“And why is that, sir?”
“I haven’t left here in years. I’m sure there are ways to get around identifying the body.”
“There may be, but how about what to do with the body? You don’t want to make any funeral arrangements?”
“No, we don’t believe in funeral arrangements for the physical body. In our religion, the body means nothing. Someone who belongs to our religion, doesn’t die in the traditional, human way. There are no traces of the human body when one dies.”
“I’m sorry I’m confused. I’m Christian, and I’ve never heard of anything like that in Christianity.”
“Well, what makes you think we’re Christian?”
Letterman is confused. “Your cross, of course.”
William grins. “Let’s take a walk.”
William leads Letterman through a long corridor. It reminds Letterman of a corridor in a secret underground military base. At the end, another set of steel doors are automatically opened as William and Letterman approach. They enter a giant bio-dome. Letterman realizes this must be the cluster of boulders outside. They’re a camouflage for this dome. There’s plants of all types. Exotic plants Letterman has never seen. There’s flowers of all colors. Huge flowers bigger than Letterman. There’s plants with leaves the size of cars. There’s small plants that wiggle around in harmony like a school of fish. He does recognize marijuana plants. Letterman stops and stares at them. Not as an officer of the law, but as someone who sees something familiar in a surreal world.
“Almost all the plants here are extinct or near extinct plants from the Amazon jungle and other jungles around the world. All these plants tell the secrets of the universe. These plants are our God. There’s a plant that provides all the nutrients we need, just off a single seed a day. There’s a plant that when ingested, makes us immortal. That is, no ailment can kill us, only fellow man. The tribes that knew of this plant are all dead. Not from sickness but from man. I’ve lived here in this dome for years. The cross is simply a disguise. So no one bothers us. And no one does. They see a cross outside and people leave us alone. Sometimes someone may walk towards it, seeking something, but they leave once they find out no one is going to answer their prayers. The desert climate helps with that too. No one can survive outside too long before giving up.”
Bright pauses for a second to examine the growing blue buds of a long stemmed purple plant. Letterman has never seen anything like it. The colors are so psychedelic and lush it’s as if the plant was illuminated by a black light.
Bright continues, snapping Letterman out of his thoughts.
“Billy was raised here, with his mother. His mother and I had a disagreement, like humans do, and she left, taking Billy with him. She raised Billy telling him stories of how I was a crazed cult leader who worshipped aliens. Which is semi-true. These plants are somewhat alien, in a sense. I don’t think they were native to earth. I think they were brought here eons ago by an alien source. Their magic is too powerful for what grows on earth. What grows on earth are simple compounds. They feed man or they kill man; very few enlighten man. I rescued Billy’s mother years ago. She came here seeking salvation from her demons. I housed her, fed her, loved her. But she wanted out and I granted her out. Facing the problems of the world, she was bitter when she wasn’t allowed back in, and strayed my son on a different path.”
“Why didn’t you let him back in?” Letterman asks, enthralled by the story.
“He was already gone.”
✞
Letterman drives back to the station in shock. He doesn’t quite know what to believe. Alien plants that make us immortal? A religion where bodies don’t die traditionally? William Bright implying he knew Billy was already dead for some time? It’s all too much to take in. Letterman feels exhausted. When he gets back to the station he can barely focus. His captain notices this and asks if he’d like to go home. He’s been working double shifts for almost a week straight and the toll of work, the heat of the desert, the constant alertness one needs as a cop, is getting to him.
He lives ten minutes up a dirt road from Twentynine Palms, south of a large military complex serving both the Navy and Marines. He lives in a one bedroom, low level house with his two dogs, both tan labs. He used to have a third, a black lab, but he disappeared. Letterman thinks the dog was killed by coyotes. Besides the tragic loss, Letterman likes his living here, alone. The nearest home is about two miles away. He used to be married but his wife left him two years ago. She got bored of desert living and moved to Los Angeles. Letterman gets bored, too; but if he needs companionship, he’ll drive to a bar near the military base and drink with the military men —men who share his outlook on life; men who love their country; men he occasionally takes to an always vacant motel on Route 66 to sleep with them.
That’s the other reason his wife left him. She suspected him of cheating so she hired a private investigator. The P.I. brought back photos of Letterman with a young man in a military dress uniform outside a rundown motel. She was in shock. When she confronted him, Letterman said he and the man were going over a top secret project and needed privacy. She didn’t buy it. In the photo, Letterman is seen carrying a bottle of whiskey in his hand. When she left him, Letterman spiraled downward. He started drinking heavily and his job suffered. They moved him to the graveyard shift, when there was less work. It was worse for Letterman. The reason he found The Supreme Church was his need to disappear. With a personal bottle of whiskey, Letterman spent hours parked in the desert, one hand on the bottle, the other hand on his gun. The night he saw the Supreme Church’s cross was the same night he was about to finally pull the trigger. Then he saw it. It glowed under a full moon and the millions of stars visible in the desert sky. Ever since then he stopped drinking while on the job. He still drove up to the church, to sit in his car under the cross, but now he kept his gun in the holster.
He still fought the urges to go into town, have a drink at the bar, spark convo with a drunken Marine, convince him they should take a ride together —to shoot their guns.
It’s one of those nights. Letterman tries to masturbate the feelings dead but they’re persistent. So he gets in his car and begins to drive south, takes a right on TwentyNine Palms and heads towards Palm Springs. Even though he’s been living in the San Bernardino County his entire life, he’s never been to Palm Springs. That’s where rich people live. In their mid-century vacation homes, and their immaculate, lush golf courses where it never rains. But he knows about Palm Springs. He knows there are bars he doesn’t have to get men black out drunk to fuck them.
There’s a colorful flag outside a bar. It looks like a normal dive bar but once inside there’s electronic music playing; there’s air conditioning and the scent of expensive candles. He thinks it’s rather cliche of gay people, but then it’s probably just the comforts of the wealthy, he thinks. He orders a beer at the bar. There’s men everywhere but no one bothers him. He’s an outsider —they can smell it on him. His haircut is too high and tight; his pants too straight leg. He oozes cop. Or that’s what Letterman thinks at first. After his second beer, the bartender starts opening up, then a guy sitting to his left, then another guy across the bar comes to sit next to him.
“Larry,” the man says, reaching out his hand.
“John,” Letterman responds.
“Pleasure to meet you.”
Letterman nods. Takes another sip of his beer. It’s cold and refreshing. It comforts him. So does the music, and the smell of wood and leather and lavender from the candles.
“It’s nice here,” Letterman says after a long silence.
“Yeah, it’s your first time here?” Larry asks.
“Yeah.”
“Where are you from?”
“Over the hills north. Near Joshua Tree.”
“Oh, nice! I go to Joshua Tree all the time.”
“Yeah, it’s not really like that. It’s not a desert paradise where I’m from.”
Larry nods. As to say, I get it, we don’t have to talk about it. Letterman senses an awkward silence and breaks it: “How about yourself?”
“I live in L.A. I have a house here. Come here most weekends to get away from the city.” A sip of beer. “What do you do?”
Letterman hesitates, then thinks not to lie. “I’m a cop. Sheriff.”
Larry smiles. He likes that answer. “Really? I would have never guessed,” he says, rather sarcastically.
Letterman laughs. “What gave it away?”
They both laugh.
“You here for work? Investigating the place? Trying to find who sells the drugs.” Larry puts his hands up mockingly, “I’m a film producer, man. Honestly.”
Letterman smirks. He realizes that for the first time, he doesn’t have to beat around the bush. He grabs the man’s knee. “I won’t arrest you for drugs. Unless you want me to?”
The man looks down at his knee, then at Letterman. “You want to get out of here?”
✞
There’s a meteor shower the next night. The sky is so bright, Letterman can see the horizon. Everything around him has a light purple hue. The shadows don’t seem menacing. In the distance, coyotes howl. For the first time in his whole life, Letterman feels he’s a part of the cosmos of the universe. He still feels the mushrooms from the night before. The stars dance above him in a way Letterman hasn’t noticed, or admired, since he was child, taking walks at night with his father, before he passed. Letterman used to worry what his father would think of him as an adult. Yeah, he became a cop, like his dad. But his dad wasn’t picking up cadets at bars and taking them to Roy’s Motel. Or was he? Letterman never thought of it like that. Not until the shrooms. Not until he broke down and cried in front of Larry. Who put his arm around him and told him that nothing in this world matters. Look up, Larry said. We’re nothing. Letterman had heard that before. In films and New Age propaganda spread around Joshua Tree. But it never hit until last night. Why did he want to blow his brains out? For what? Out of shame? Guilt? Denial?
There’s a figure in the distance. It’s walking towards Letterman’s car. He’s off duty tonight so he gets out of his car, to let the person know he’s a cop.
“Relax, John.” It’s William Bright.
“Oh, hey,” Letterman says. He walks to meet him. “How are you tonight? I’ve never seen you outside.”
“I came to say hi to you,” William says.
“How did you know I was out here?”
“I keep cameras around.”
Letterman looks around. Where? In the cacti? On the boulders?
“Just to be safe,” William assures him.
Letterman nods.
“You’re different today,” William says.
“I’m off duty. Just came out here to see the sky.”
“That’s not it. No, it’s something in your aura.”
Letterman grimaces. Cops don’t deal with auras. They deal with body language. Tangible things.
“Yeah,” William continues. “You’re free, aren’t you?”
“I really don’t understand what you’re saying. We’re all free. This is America.”
William lets out a loud roar. So powerful Letterman feels a vibration.
“No, you weren’t free before. You were in a cage. Now you’re free.”
“Okay…”
They stand there for a few moments, looking up at the sky. Meteors —rocks the size of earth shoot about like missiles.
“I want you to come with me,” William says.
“To where?”
“The church.”
“For what?”
“To view the sky.”
“Indoors? We’re outside, the best place to view the sky.”
“No, we’re too far. We can get closer.”
William begins walking to the church. Letterman looks back at his car, then at William, who’s disappearing into the night. He’s confused. But something is telling him to go. He knows better now. He knows not to argue with forces he can’t see. So he follows William, under the cross, and inside the church.
“I hate this dusty fucking town,” Clara says, kicking a rock. She looks around. North: there’s nothing for miles, just lumps of dry hills. Same to her left and right. Looking South, towards Twentynine Palms Highway, she sees the Walmart where she works. It’s her day off, though, and all she wants to do is get high. “There’s nothing to do but drugs and now there’s a fucking drought? There’s a water drought and now we can’t even get our fucking drugs? This is the end. I feel it. It said it in the Bible.”
“It said they’d be a drug drought of biblical proportions?” Billy asks, squinting from the sun as he looks at Clara. They are sitting on some boulders near Billy’s house.
“Something like that, I’m sure. Why don’t you go ask your dad or something.”
“Yeah, okay,” Billy responds, chuckling. “I’ll text this guy again.”
Clara is anxious. She picks at dead skin around her fingers, then satisfies an itch on her knee, before reaching under her forearm. Her skin is the same color and texture as her surroundings: burnt, dry, and in desperate need of moisture. Over the course of two years, her blonde locks have turned scorched gold, and her teeth continue their rapid decay. She’s wearing a baggy black tee shirt with green skulls under a black hoodie and baggy black basketball shorts. All Billy’s, where’s she’s been living since she left home, a few roads down. Billy, seeing how anxious she is, grabs her by the waist, hugs her tight, then digs his hands inside her shorts.
“Ugh, Billy, get off. I don’t want to have sex, I want to get high. Did you text him?”
“I texted him, I texted him. He still hasn’t responded. It’s been days.”
“Fuck.”
“Let’s take a walk to the gas station. Maybe we’ll see someone.”
🌴
Clara and Billy: lovers since high school. Forever together. Neither of them is sure who tried drugs first, but as soon as they tried them together, they were hooked —not only on the drugs but on the act that brought them together in ways nothing else could. It’s needless to say that “drugs” doesn’t refer to weed or the mushrooms the visitors from L.A. take to come watch the desert sunset. We’re talking crystal meth. And TwentyNine Palms, California, is a thriving meth industry. First, there’s no industry —there’s nothing to do. Second, the desert Sun drags days on for what feels like eternity, and everyday is the same. Every single day. You need an escape, and what other options are there if you were born and raised in a place where Los Angeles, a mere two hours away, feels like heaven compared to hell; or Palm Springs, right over the mountains of Joshua Tree National park, is a desert escape you can’t escape to — your desert is a prison. What other options are there if you’re poor, work at Wal-Mart, have no dreams or aspirations. Clara had dreams once. After High School she was going to move to L.A. and pursue something, anything. Billy was scared of losing her. He knew once she boarded that bus, even if he went with her, it was all over. He convinced her to stay. He told her he wanted to start a family in the place they both were born, and live happy forever. She was scared, too. This was safe. We all know the story. To them, they’re Romeo and Juliet. And it’s true if you think about it. They’ll probably end up dead together.
They cut through the desert to the gas station on TwentyNine Palms Highway. Dehydrated they buy Monster energy drink and a pack of cigarettes.
“He’s definitely in jail,” Billy says outside. They’re sitting to the side of the gas station. Billy looks at his phone. It’s a cheap smartphone. Not as smart as an iPhone, just one of those generic pre-paid ones marketed as a smartphone.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Clara repeats like a mantra. Billy gently rubs her head.
“I love you,” Billy says.
“I love you, too.”
They don’t say much for the next hour or so. They chain smoke cigarettes, pace around in circles, stare at Billy’s phone, waiting for that text.
“Let’s go to Break and Run,” Billy finally says.
They walk a couple miles on Route 62 and arrive at a sun baked pink building. Inside, the billiards hall is empty. Billy and Clara go up to to the bar and order a beer.
“Hey, Rick, how’s it going?” They ask the old man behind the bar.
Rick hands them two beers, nods, and goes back to his paper.
“Have you seen Old Brien around?”
Rick lifts his head, and examines Billy and Clara. Clara is having a hard time keeping it together. She bites her nails and cracks her neck.
“Rumor has it, he skipped town. Owed some money to some bikers. Not the wanna-be LA bikers. Real bikers.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Billy responds.
Rick shrugs.
Billy and Clara finish their beers and head outside. They stand around for a few, before Clara starts walking.
“Where we off to?”
“I have an idea, Billy.”
🌴
Taking life a day at a time is easier said than done. This is a luxury not everyone can afford. Everyday, Clara and Billy hunt for that one thing that gives their life purpose. There's no tomorrow. Or, rather, tomorrow doesn’t matter. Mornings don't bring hope of new beginnings —if they sleep at all— just the opportunity of getting high. It's all they seek. They work for money to get high. It's the only thing that keeps them together. Billy knows this. He feels guilty. Selfish. At least up until the high hits; then, nothing hurts, there's no pain, there's no fear of death, there's no future, there's no fear of anything. There's love, though. The only feeling that stays. They fuck for hours. Long, aggressive, skin burning sex. Most people would never find it attractive or arousing. But this is the high working. The only thing that matters. They usually fuck in Billy's room, where they live. His mother left years ago, and his father, a preacher in town, wants nothing to do with him. He left him his house, as charity, to abolish his own guilt. Billy’s room: a dirty mattress, food and beer cans all over the floor, graffiti on the walls, the smell of chemicals and cigarettes all around them. A toxic wasteland. Not when they're high. High, naked, sweaty, their bodies stuck together, it feels to them like making love in a breezy cabana near the beach, candles and moonlight providing light, the sound of the waves crashing outside, the smell of freshly cleansed skin and flowers and fresh linen. This is the high working and it's all that matters.
Billy dreams as they sleep in Old Brien's house. Who knows how long they've been there. They broke in and raided the place like the DEA, turning over the mattress, cutting up couch cushions, looking in every cupboard.
Clara is a huge movie star. In dreams, anything is possible, so it’s not so far out this meth-head is a Hollywood star. She oozes star quality. Not the trashy, reality TV, over-hyped non-talent type, either. We’re talking certified star: Jennifer Lawrence, Scarlett Johansson. She lives in The Hills. She has multiple dogs who spend their days running around her lush, green yard, chasing butterflies and hummingbirds. She has a personal trainer and a cook. A housekeeper and a gardener. She has daily meetings with her manager, in between taking calls from her publicist. Her agent sends her scripts weekly, on Thursdays, so she can read them on the weekends. Her sponsors, a cosmetic company, a cold-press juice brand, send her an unlimited amount of products. She’s the face of non-profit organization and travels the world speaking at engagements. She even owns a home in Palm Springs, a few minutes from where she grew up.
Billy wakes up sweating from this nightmare. He is sure this is what Clara could have been, in an alternate life, if she would have followed her path. If he didn’t block the road.
Somehow, though, call it a blessing, Billy receives some clarity. It’s dawn. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been at Old Brien’s. Days maybe. In the backyard, under a marked rock, he had found what they were looking for: Old Brien’s stash. Old Brien is dead, he thought when he found it. He didn’t skip town. He would have left with his product, survived on the road dealing in the thousands of small towns scattered around America, where there’s shit to do but get high. Billy sits on the window ledge, smoking cigarettes and looking at Clara sleep. Clara was rummaging inside the house when Billy found it. He remembers now: he found the stash and greed hit. Junkie greed. The type you hide things even from your life partner. There must have been a pound in that stash, broken up into small bags containing three individual grams. Billy grabbed a bag then put the stash back in its place. After that all he remembers is smoking and fucking and smoking and fucking. He doesn’t remember falling asleep. They must have ran out of the first batch, and Clara convinced by Billy that was the last of it, let herself get some rest.
🌴
Deputy Sheriff Letterman, like the late night host, receives a radio call near the end of his shift. It’s 5:30 AM. He knows the address the dispatcher is sending him to. He lets out a low grunt and drives off the deserted road, cranky from his nap, to Old Brien’s.
Driving up a winding dirt road that leads to a stone hut to the side of a hillside, Letterman approaches the house slowly. He parks the car and takes out his gun. He looks through the windows of the house. A breeze picks up the curtains, then drops them, like a snoring body. He doesn’t see anyone inside. He sees the house is a mess. He walks around to the back and finds a back door leading to a kitchen. He slowly enters. The house feels empty. A veteran cop like Letterman knows this feeling well. It’s also a dangerous feeling, because instinct is sometimes off, and like a gazelle casually drinking from a well, a crocodile can pop out from nowhere, grabbing at the neck. So Letterman approaches silently, one foot after the other, until he reaches the bedroom. Clara is there sleeping, so quietly she appears dead. She’s naked. Letterman watches her for a bit. He flicks the switch for the light but there’s no electricity in the home. He reaches for his flashlight and turns it on Clara. She doesn’t budge.
“Miss, excuse me, Miss,” he says.
Nothing.
Letterman prepares himself to yell. Outside, the Sun is starting to make sense of the desert. All the weird figures — the plants, the rocks, shadows that appear to move, the tricks the dark plays on the mind — the Sun exposes all of these. Letterman doesn’t want to alarm Clara too much, who knows what she’ll do. She may be sleeping with a weapon under her pillow. She may get up frantically and start attacking. She may get up too soon and have a heart attack. Behaviour of a meth-head is extremely unpredictable. Letterman knows. He stands back and points both his gun and flashlight at Clara.
“Miss, get up!” He yells.
Clara opens her eyes. Doesn’t move.
“Miss, I’m a cop, I need you to get up!”
Letterman puts his gun away, pulls out his nightstick and approaches Clara, nudges her from a distance.
“Miss, get up!” He smacks her on the thigh with the nightstick.
Clara pops up, “What the fuck?”
“Miss, remain calm. I need you to get up and stand by that wall.”
“What the fuck is going on? Where’s Billy?”
“There’s no one else in this house.”
“Billy! Billy! Where you at?”
“Miss, please get up and stand by that wall.”
“What? Bullshit! Billy where you at?” Clara sits up, looks around. “Billy stop joking around. This isn’t funny!”
Letterman sees under her pillow. There’s no weapon, but there’s a few bags of meth. At least dozen grams.
“Miss, ima need you to stand by the wall. This is the last time I ask nicely.”
Clara looks around, trying to get her head together. She sees the bags of meth. Slowly, things begin to make sense: Billy is gone; there’s a cop in the room; there’s meth that wasn’t there before. She slowly starts to weep. “No, no, no.”
Outside, the lights of a cop car approach. The silence of an engine turning off. Footsteps and then a stocky female officer walks into the room. She grabs Clara and picks her up from the bed. Clara attempts to struggle but she’s too weak. Her life force, Billy, not the high, is gone.
🌴
Billy finishes the last of his cigarette then puts it out. He’s in the kitchen. It’s dark, and with his phone, he’s illuminating something. It’s a piece of paper. He begins to write:
Dear Clara,
The love of my life. I ruined you. Turned you into a monster. It was selfish and you deserve better. You’ll never forgive me but someday I hope you’ll understand why. You need help, you have a whole life in front of you. I saw it in my dreams.
Love,
Billy
After Billy slips the letter inside the pocket of Clara’s hoodie, he stands above Clara, looking at her sleep. He’s watched her sleep for the last six years of his life. It’s what he loves most about her. Peace surrounds her, like a glowing saint. He used to be bitter of the peace she found in sleep. If only they could live there, without terrible, hypocrite parents, without drugs, without the need for money, without failure, without guilt, without regrets, without anything, just love, the only feeling that stays, then life would be bearable.
