CALIFORNICATION
By Becky Durden
July, 2003

Okay, so I’ve been absent for a while because I visited America, then Greece, then was working in France. And now that I’m back in England, I started writing a BS set in the Auvergne, where I was working. Then…uh…whilst I was listening to music as I wrote—this BS demanded to be written. So the French BS will take a little longer. For now, here’s this…and no, it actually wasn’t the RHCP that inspired this BS. It was…I’m too embarrassed to say. ;-)

Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters. I don’t pretend to. I did write this, though.

Why does the past always come running after us, out of breath, holding up a telegram which we don’t want to read?
-- Mystery in Spiderville

It’s the edge of the world and all of Western civilisation…
-- Californication, Red Hot Chili Peppers

***

So, San Francisco.

The twentieth century, and you’re looking for somewhere on the edge of the world to keep some distance behind those European vampires who vowed to destroy you, and, in particular, you can’t go back to New Orleans right now because… well, you need somewhere new…somewhere…well, clean, to attempt to repair your damaged soul again.

San Francisco.

***

1933

One of the first things Louis did, after renting out a flat downtown, was find out the nearest cinema and sit through nearly an evening’s worth of films.

If there was one thing he did appreciate about this uglier, faster, louder era, it was this relatively new art form, where one could lose oneself in visuals and sound and, for that brief hour or so, be transported somewhere else in a way that was superficial compared to books, but offered instant relief from reality.

He was not at all pleased to see that there was nothing in the way of French or (he admitted reluctantly, the superior German) productions playing there. A handful of major Hollywood pictures were there, all involving swooning females, handsome leading men…*cough*…musicals…and…hmm… a swooning female and—a big ape.

He duly bought a ticket for King Kong, and, happy to be there, happy to be alone, he entered the screening and sat down to begin his night’s viewing.

An hour and a half later, he sat frowning at the screen, wondering how much more shrieking he could take. He decided that Talkies rather annoyed him—what was wrong with the old silent films, where clever visuals took precedent over screaming and Talking in Important and Cliched Sentences?

The ending could not come quickly enough. He wanted to applaud when the huge ape was dead and the moronic film was drawing to a close. Hmm… wait… time for Important Conclusion to Shrieking and Hysteria.

It wasn’t the aeroplanes, said Actor with as much Significance and Melodrama as he could muster, it was Beauty that killed the Beast.

Awful.

He left the cinema wondering if he could find a place showing M or even that accursed Nosferatu, anything to erase any trace of the witless Hollywood junk he had just seen from his head.

He spent the next week or so exploring the city at large, noting each place of interest and carving a niche for himself in his new home. He returned to the cinema again and again, despite himself. He appreciated this modern medium far too much to abandon it completely.

That one quote stayed with him for weeks.

***

It was Louis’ opinion, years later, in the après-Francisco period, that he had indeed experienced many Low Points in his long and dark years, but that there seemed to be an alarming cluster of them in the time he recounted spending in that city.

***

1973


How would one define a Low Point, anyway?

Was it a time of abject humiliation and helplessness?

(Theatre des Vampyres, the trial, the coffin…)

-- Check.

Was it yet another night of drunken brawling in some New Orleans alleyway?

(Reek of vomit, sharp kick to the ribs…)

--Check.

Was it hating yourself as you pressed harder against him and begged him to sink his fangs into your neck, when only an hour ago, he had been denouncing you as an imbecile and shouted so loudly that they must have heard him on Bourbon Street?

(Entire first half of the 1800s…)

--Check

Or, Louis reflected grimly, was it when you had come up here, to the rooftop of some anonymous San Francisco building, for a little respite, a little star-gazing, and, unable to bear it any longer, you leapt up onto the narrow wall at the end and stood there, trying to build up the courage to throw yourself off?

Down there, the city buzzed below, car horns hooting, people shouting. Up here, the wind tore at him fiercely, pulling his black hair this way and that, as if taunting him, ordering him, to end the chaos, to jump.

It would be so easy.

A few moments of falling through space, of letting himself go… and it would all be over.

And then again, perhaps it would not, and he would be a crumpled mess of bloody and broken bones on the pavement below, preternatural blood keeping him alive even as his brains spilled out onto the street.

It did not bear thinking about, really.

He clambered down from the edge, almost falling backwards in his haste, and collapsed onto the dirty rooftop floor. He drew his knees up defensively, and began to sob. At first, he could barely control his sorrow. He let out deep, unhappy moans, feeling as if the lump in his throat was suffocating him. The noise from his throat was almost animalistic, primeval in its raw pain and suffering, and it frightened him. It made him weep harder, until his chest hurt with the effort, and his head throbbed. It seemed the sorrow would consume him if he did not release it, and he gave himself over to his grief whilst the stars watched unpityingly overhead.

After a few minutes, he calmed down, and simply regarded the neon-lit city and star-spattered sky before him with a sad and wondering gaze, whilst red tears rolled freely down his cheek.

***

These incidents he derisively labelled ‘Self-Pitying Moments’. He hated himself for them; hated that, every so often, that human emotion of regret and grief and found a way through the cracks of his detached façade and crushed his heart in such a painful grip that death sometimes seemed the only option.

For a couple of nights afterwards, he starved himself of blood. He was not altogether sure why, but it seemed almost like a fitting punishment.

He refused to think on just what he was punishing himself for.

***

1981

Hey, man.

Louis turned and looked up at the young woman who stood over him. A young man stood near her, dressed down, smoking a cigarette and regarding him amicably. Yes? asked Louis, can I help?

Naw, man, we just wanted to know if you wanted some company, like.

Well, I was just raking over some things from my past, like my dead daughter and missing lover, or my younger brother and the disturbing resemblance my victim tonight bore to him, and the long train of guilt which started off then, but…

…Not really. Thanks, anyway, but I’m—

Well, mind if we sit with you?

A little put out by this—he was sure he had just told them he was not partial to company— he simply watched as they sat down at either side of him, hanging their legs over the side of the bay wall as he was.

I’m Leigh, that’s Mike, said the girl, we’re from Denver. Just travelled down here in Mike’s van… took fuckin’ hours, it did.

Louis turned to her a little sharply at the effortless use of the expletive, and found himself fascinated by the lip ring she wore. He wondered what it felt like for her when she drank hot coffee… would it not hurt, slightly?

So what’s your name? asked Mike, taking a long drag on his cigarette, then throwing the burning stump into the water.

Louis. Louis de…

John.

John what?

John Smith. Said Louis.

Right… said Leigh, Sure. Jean de Smithe or whatever, I’d believe, but—

Yeah! You’re totally like French or something.

Good god. Louis muttered.

Leigh grinned. Hey…wanna cigarette? she asked, holding out a packet of Marlboro.

Louis wrinkled his nose. No…no, thank you.

Leigh shrugged and offered another one to Mike. They both lit up, and she regarded Louis for a long moment. So, are you visiting San Francisco or something?

No. I live here, now.

So, where’d you live before? asked Mike.

Totally, like, France. Louis replied.

How come you came to America? asked Mike, unperturbed.

I actually lived in New Orleans, Louis said, and then wished he had not, because, of course, it brought him back round to his earlier chain of thought.

Did you not like it there?

I don’t want to talk about it, he replied firmly, and his two companions exchanged glances. He sighed. You’ll have to forgive me. I don’t really seek out—

(human)

—company that much. I’m a bit of a loner, I suppose.

No problem, man. But, y’know, even loners need some stimulation now and then.

Louis arched an eyebrow. Oh?

No, no, nothing like that… don’t worry. I just meant, ya know, like conversation and stuff.

Yeah, yeah, agreed Mike, Or you like, I dunno, become all isolated and that.

I know that, said Louis softly, forgetting in his sadness to count off just how many likes that had been now.

No girlfriend? asked Leigh.

Married?

No.

(Intrusive modern--)

Divorced?

(God’s sake!)

No.

Well, don’t get too verbose, will you? she said without malice, and smiled at him gently.

He shook his head slightly. I’m just not in a mood for chat right now…

Sorry, man. I’ll be quiet for a bit, if you like.

Thank you.

A few minutes passed, and they sat in silence, watching a couple of small boats go past. Mike took out a chocolate bar from his coat pocket, wiped off some fluff from it, and ate the bar reflectively.

Do you suppose, said Leigh, that if you trained for months on end, and stuff, and I mean really trained, and you were really fit… that you could swim the bay in one go? Just get across to the side?

I thought you weren’t going to speak.

Sorry.

Leigh, said Mike, that is, far and away, the stupidest question you’ve asked so far this week.

Mike!

Honestly, man… you know what she asked me yesterday?

Louis could not help himself. What? he asked.

She asked me if you ate a raw chilli, right, and then gave someone a blow-job, if it would burn their skin.

Mike, you bastard! You always make a show of me!

Good God. Said Louis.

Right. You can just fuck off, now, Mike. We’re gonna shut up, now. Before you put your big mouth in it again. Right, from now—

You put your big mouth in it—

From now, we have silence, right?

Mike shrugged.

Louis, a little bemused, wondered if he should just get up and leave these two young people and their stimulating conversations to it. After all, he had things to think about—such as—such as… he frowned, and decided to stay put for a while.

Mike turned to him. So, do you like San Francisco, then? A pause. What? She promised not to speak—I didn’t.

Touché. He smiled, despite himself. What did you come to San Francisco for?

Leigh shrugged. There’s supposed to be a couple of really good clubs just opened up around here. We thought it would be fun to see the place for the weekend, then we’re going to travel to L.A and stuff, then maybe… I dunno, Las Vegas or something. Whatever.

Do you like clubs, Mr. Smith?

I hate them.

Oh. Sorry.

You’re forgiven. He gazed out at the waters. He opened his mouth to say something; closed it. The subject was too silly, too entrenched in juvenile preoccupation with sex and deliberate attempts at subversion…but, then again, it was a valid question. Only…oh, what the hell? It would hurt, of course. It’s a matter of simple science. The chemicals in the chilli, which would still be carried on your hands and your mouth, if you had recently eaten them, would react with any moisture on the skin—

Man! I knew it!

***

1942

The bar was a little crowded, and smoke hung heavily in the air, vaguely obscuring the banner decked out over the serving area:

GOOD LUCK TO OUR BOYS—COME BACK SAFELY!

A love ballad was playing, but it was drowned out by the chatter of conversation in the crowded bar. Louis found himself a seat set in one of the less busy parts of the bar, and shook some of the rain from his hair as the waitress came over to take his order.

He asked for a black coffee, and then rubbed his hands together quickly, trying to warm them up after the assault from the freezing rain outside. He gazed around the bar, and noted that there were several young men dressed up in army regalia, drinking with what he presumed were friends and family come to see them off before the long journey to Europe began.

The waitress came back with his drink, leaving a receipt on the side of the table. He thanked her, pretended to take a sip from the coffee, and then warmed his icy hands around the mug. He stared at the frothy liquid before him, as voices from the next table drifted over.

Now, are you sure that you packed your best boots?

Yes.

Only, you must have heard about the state of the trenches over there. Why, some of the youngsters fighting for the allies caught all mann—

Mom, I packed them.

Your mother’s just concerned, is all.

A bit of cold won’t be my biggest problem, though, will it? said the young man, his voice full of disdain.

Louis looked up and regarded the people on the next table. The young man in question seemed to be barely an adult. His thick brown hair had been cut back, but it made his face seem all the more babyish for it. He was looking down at a bottle of Budweiser, systematically peeling the label from it whilst his parents, and a pretty blonde girl at his side, fussed over him.

We’re so proud of you, enthused his mother nervously.

He raised his head slightly, gave a small sound of acknowledgement, then returned his troubled gaze to the bottle.

Some good old American spirit will show them, said his father, you can’t keep us down for long. With Britain, we’ll have won this war in—

Remember Robert Dufresne? said the young man suddenly.

His mother and father exchanged troubled glances. The pretty girl squeezed his hand gently. Of course we do. She said gently.

David told me that they found his body a couple of days ago. They found him in some fucking field—

Language! snapped his father.

Some fucking lonely field in some part of Germany. His eyes—

Honey, said the girl, that’s enough. She squeezed his hand again, and he turned a fierce glare at her. She regarded him calmly, and his expression softened. He squeezed her hand and gave her a smile that did not reach his eyes.

You’re a survivor, son, said his father, clapping him on the back, all are family are. We came out fighting from the first war; we’ll do it with the second. It’s the old Carter blood.

Yes, dad, said the young man, with the tone of somebody used to such speeches, but his expression was fond; his smile, genuine.

Remember Pearl Harbor. Those bastards might head for the Golden Gate next.

You do us proud, said the girl standing with him, because we’ll be rooting for you all the way.

The young man smiled at her, but the smile faded as he turned away and took another sip from his drink. As he lowered the bottle, his dark brown eyes caught Louis’, and fear and foreboding, the expression of a man who is certain he is facing death, haunted his gaze.

It was Louis who looked away.

***

1971

One night, the roads throughout that neighbourhood in San Francisco were filled with revellers. It may have been the July Independence celebrations, or a concert-going crowd, or simply some organised street party—he did not endeavour to keep track of each thing now—and the noise was impossible to ignore.

He went walking through the crowds, observing the life around him with irresistible wonder. It made a young woman laugh, and she kissed him, briefly, whilst her friend offered him a garland of flowers. He declined politely and continued on his walk.

Songs were blaring from somebody’s camper van somewhere. A couple were kissing in a doorway, whilst a group of people were gently arguing about different forms of music. A little further on, a group of people were gathered in a little square. A trio of musicians were sitting at the head of the group and were playing their guitars contemplatively. The middle one began to sing, and as the people assembled began to sing, Louis recognised the tune as Children of the Revolution.

He thought he may as well sit and listen for a while, as he was unlikely to get much reading done whilst such a racket continued outside. As the songs went on, and the drinks flowed more freely, the crowd sang louder; the atmosphere became more infectious. He found himself carried away with it, old and familiar feelings of regret and sorrow dissipating, for a while at least, amongst the splendour of here and now.

A reveller turned to him at one point and remarked that life didn’t get much better than this.

Au contraire, he murmured, and told him that it most definitely did get better than this, but that it also got worse—so he’d just take what he could from moments like this, and be grateful for it. It was good and simple. It was enough.

The reveller gave him a bemused smile, and turned back to gaze at the singers.

Louis smiled, and rested his arms on his knees again, letting his soul be guided by the songs, losing his thoughts in aural sensuality. He felt such peace and lack of spite in those around him that he felt it must surely be enveloping him with that elusive sense of well-being. He was glad he had come to listen. He was glad of a little respite, of a little vicarious innocence and hedonism.

Sometimes, it was enough.