Case Two: Culver City Deep House. Chapter Two.
Santi and Iz's are hired to work a case that tests their friendship and their resolve by sending them... to Culver City.
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By the time we came to, the sun was beginning to rise. Outside the alley, a stream of exhausted partiers limped towards their cars, ride shares, or early morning diners.
“We’ve got to stop staring into portals,” Santi groaned from next to me on the pavement.
“I don’t disagree.” I climbed to my feet, and everything ached. “What do we tell the client?”
“The truth, I guess.”
We limped back towards the warehouse. From outside, we could hear electronic rhythms bumping from the speaker, a defibrillator trying to keep the party alive. The security guard stepped in front of us to keep us from entering, but we made eye contact and grimaced at one another awkwardly. We’d shared an odd moment, he and I, and sometimes it’s weirdness that humanizes us to one another. He stepped aside and let us in.
After a brief scan of the nearly empty warehouse, I saw Juan-David making out with a different woman and the man with the bedazzled hat and pierced nipples.
“Juan-David’s gotta Juan-David,” Santi said.
“Can’t ask a dove not to fly,” I agreed.
In the middle of the warehouse, between two of the soundstages, was the vendor area. Some tents were erected to seem mystical, filled with crystal salespeople, artwork of various levels of sexuality and psychedelic depth, and impractical clothing sold at very high markup. Next to the tents were quotidian white folding tables selling the same.
We popped into the tent of our client, Kia, as she was finishing a reading on a very thin non-binary masc who couldn’t stop clenching their teeth and grinning. Kia gave us a ‘not yet’ finger, so we stepped outside and waited by the clothes.
“I’ve always liked harem pants,” I said, leafing through a rack, “but I don’t think I can pull them off.”
Santi modeled a crystal neckless in the mirror on top of a table of crystals. “That’s the thing about harem pants. No one can pull them off. It’s like cilantro. It’s supposed to taste bad, and you just have to accept it.”
“Cilantro doesn’t taste bad, Santi,” I said, putting the pants back on the rack. “It only tastes bad to people with a certain gene expression.”
“I wonder if that’s true with harem pants.” Santi put the crystal down.
Just then, the person stepped out of Kia’s tent crying but still grinning through clenched teeth. “Thank you. Thank you so, so, sooooo much.”
“OK,” Kia said, pushing them away from her as gently as she could. She waved us in.
“Way too much molly,” Kia explained. “They came in for a reading but mostly just needed a safe place. Apparently, the shit going around is really strong.” I self-consciously looked down at the pressed pill burning a hole in my pocket. “So, did you get the ghost?”
“Well,” I said, “let’s agree that your problem is spiritual in nature, just for the sake of argument—“
“He has to do this,” Santi explained. “Like a schtick or a catchphrase.”
“We all have those,” Kia said. “Mine is, ‘you can read the universe like a book, only it’s a really hard book’. I say it at least once a day.”
“Agreeing that it is a ghost,” I continued, “no. We failed.”
“Fuck,” Kia whispered. “This shit is ruining my business. Any reading I do on anyone who isn’t blasted out of their fucking gourd fails, and it’s because of that damn ghost. That’s what I get for going on a few dates with an unstable witch, I guess. I thought she just liked big hats and candles, but no, legit witch.”
“It’s wild, the people you meet on dating apps,” I said.
“We will get it,” Santi reassured. “We promise.”
Kia collapsed into her chair. “Well, I’m not paying you until you do.”
“We’re getting paid? ” I asked Santi.
“I texted you about this yesterday.”
“You texted me a lot yesterday. I get overwhelmed.”
“Does the spirit only haunt your business when you’re doing readings at these sorts of events?” Santi asked.
“My house is protected,” Kia said. “I take precautions. Sage, crystals, a Ring doorbell, but it’s events like this where I make most of my income.”
“When are you working at a festival next?” I asked.
“Tomorrow night, in Culver City.”
Santi and I both gagged.
I drove us back to Los Feliz and was lucky enough to find a parking spot on Vermont. We got a booth at Fred 62, which was the ideal breakfast joint for the two of us. Their coffee was halfway decent, and they made enough vegan food that Santi could get his fill. He wasn’t vegan, but had enough food allergies and sensitivities to make him unwittingly kosher.
We silently fucked around on our phones until the waiter brought my coffee and Santi’s juice.
“I feel like we should talk about what happened,” I said.
“What specifically?”
“I’m not sure. I just imagine that that’s what a responsible person would do. Maybe do a wins and losses statement.”
“Well, for the sake of transparency,” Santi said, “I’m pretty miffed with you. I consider that a loss.”
“Miffed? Oh no.”
“You lost focus, Iz. I needed you.”
I fiddled with my coffee cup for a moment, hurt and embarrassed that I was hurt.
“I’m not trying to defend myself here,” I said. “I accept the criticism, but for the sake of transparency, I’m unsure what I could have added in the moment. You’re more skilled at finding these things and more athletic than me. In terms of role-playing games, you’re the ranger type— track and chase— and I’m more wizard— bookish but occasionally useful.”
The waiter set down our food, vegan chilaquiles for the both of us, and a vegan breakfast burrito for Santi. Santi picked the burrito off the plate before the waiter had finished setting it down. “If anyone’s a wizard, it’s me,” he said through a mouthful of tofu scramble and gluten-free tortilla. “I’m connected to magical shit.”
“Mmm,” I mused, “perhaps more of a druid, which is really just a ranger with magic.”
“This vital point aside, Iz, you’re selling yourself short. You do that because you hope people won’t judge you for your failings.”
“Tom1 has said the same thing.”
“If you’d been on top of things, we might have gotten to the spirit—“
“For the sake of argument.”
“For the sake of argument— first. We could have cracked the case, instead of looking like idiots.”
“We’re ghost hunting, Santi,” I said, and knew instantly I would regret what it was I was about to say. Some ideas, though, have a sort of gravity of their own and can’t be stopped once they crest the precipice. “We already look like idiots.”
Santi finished his burrito, wolfed down his chilaquiles, poured the remains of his juice down his throat, and stood. “Venmo me for my half of the bill.”
He left, and I finished my meal alone.
I got in my car and had to fight to keep my eyes open. It had been a rough night. Rather than perform a dangerous U-turn to get back to my street, I drove north and took a right towards Rodney. My route took me past Santi’s apartment, and I grimaced alone in my car. I knew I’d have to do something by way of apology, but I didn’t know what, exactly. I was in the habit of over-apologizing — something I’m working through with Tom— but that makes it difficult to know how to actually apologize when it’s needed.
I undressed when I got back to my room and drew myself a bath. I got into the tub as the water rose, hoping the heat would soothe me, but looking at my penis float helplessly on the water soured my mood. Why exactly I don’t know, but I didn’t feel like dissecting it. I may be in therapy, but I am by no means Freudian, and as a rule, I put little stock in the importance of phallocentric musings.
I had just set to work rubbing out my shins when my phone rang. I put it on speaker without looking, gambling that it was a friend and not a spam call.
“Iz? It’s Arka. There’s a Georgian Dumpling pop-up happening at a bar in Culver City— yeah, I know, gross— but it’s gonna be good. You in?”
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Who is, of course, my therapist.
Harem pants and cilantro ☠️