Blue Sun, Yellow Sky Page 3

  “And risk getting trampled by your adoring fans? No way,” he smiled. “Actually, Shawn called. He had a flat tire, needed me to come to the rescue.”

  Shawn was Jeff’s older brother, and, like most siblings, they were polar opposites. Jeff had memorized π to the 200th digit by the time he was 14, while Shawn mastered the art of single-handedly undoing a bra in the backyard shed of his parents’ ranch.

  “How convenient. Speaking of which, how is Shawn?” I asked.

  “He’s great. As of six months ago he’s officially licensed as a professional pot grower,” Jeff laughed.

  “Seriously?”

  “He’s got this crazy formula that calls for coconut husk instead of soil, can you believe that? Coconut husk,” he said, his tone a mixture of disbelief and adoration.

  “Are you a pothead?” I asked, wondering if I had mistaken sadness for being high. Never in a million years would I have imagined my nerdy elementary school friend giving me tips and tricks on growing marijuana—medical or otherwise.

  “I smoke on occasion, but I wouldn’t classify myself as a ‘pothead’…” he replied sheepishly.

  “Ever been baked while teaching…what is it you teach again?”

  “World History and Computer Science, and yes, but only once,” he said, looking ashamed and guilty. I laughed.

  “I knew it. You’re a stoner,” I smiled.

  “You would know considering you live in the marijuana mecca of the city.”

  “Touché,” I laughed, giving him a two-finger salute. The residents of Venice were not shy about supporting the legalization of marijuana and on 4/20, the smell of ganja in the city was as ubiquitous as barbecue on the Fourth of July. “I’m glad Shawn’s doing well,” I said.

  Shawn Miller was Jeff’s half-brother, whom neither of us knew about until our junior year of high school when Shawn showed up at school. Jeff and I had been walking towards the parking lot when we saw a guy standing in front of an illegally parked, cherry red 1992 Dodge Shadow convertible. He was impossible to miss, especially with his handmade sign that read “Looking for Jeff Anderson.” Jeff and I looked at each other, confused, and I asked, “Did you win something?”

  “I don’t think so…” Jeff said.

  “Are you Jeff?” Shawn asked, making eye contact.

  “Yeah.”

  “This is probably going to come as a shock to you, as it did me, so I’m just going to come out and say it. I’m your brother. Well, half, anyway. I’m Shawn.” He stuck his hand out and they shook, and when he introduced himself to me— I hate to admit this— I swooned a little. He had this older, bad-boy confidence I found extremely attractive and later became the type of guy I’d sought out in college. One of my many dating mistakes.

  “I’m Aubrey,” I said, feeling shy as he shook my hand and smiled with his eyes. He matched Jeff’s 6’2” height, but that’s where their similarities ended. Shawn had spiked blonde hair, two giant holes in his ears the size of dimes, which I guess classified as piercings, and tattoos peaking out from under the sleeve of his leather jacket.

  “Is this a joke?” Jeff asked, looking around. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I did a quick 360 scan of the area myself, but Shawn didn’t laugh. The look on his face held both compassion and amusement.

  In one surreal and long conversation, we learned that they shared the same father, that Mr. Anderson didn’t know about Shawn until he was asked to sign a parental release form (which he did), and that Shawn’s mother, Celeste Miller, married Shawn’s step-dad, Joe Miller, soon after Shawn was born. Two years older than Jeff, Shawn was a wild card. He wasn’t a bad person, but he lived with reckless abandon, throwing out-of-control house parties and often being dropped off by the cops for disturbing the peace. After an especially exhausting night, Mr. Miller let it slip that Shawn was not biologically his. Thus began the search for his father.

  By the time Shawn showed up in our lives Jeff and I were an inseparable duo. Sometime in the first grade our parents took advantage of our fast friendship by creating Thursday night play dates that turned into Thursday night dinners as we grew older. My first Thursday night dinner with Shawn as the newest member of the family was not as awkward as I expected. He seemed to fit into the dynamic easily.

  But as Jeff started to spend more time with Shawn, so began the drifting of my relationship with him. Nothing dramatic or sad about it really, just time for our lives to diverge. We’d spent our entire childhoods together and having accepted admissions at colleges on opposite sides of the country, our friendship was bound to fork regardless of Shawn’s emergence.

  Outside of an occasional random text, months, sometimes years, apart, we hadn’t really been friends for almost nine years.

  “So I’m supposed to believe you left my raging party to rescue your brother? That after all these years, you’re still a good guy?” I chided, as he looked over Urth Cafe’s menu.

  “No, you’re right, I’m a complete asshole,” Jeff said, deadpan. “Can we eat now?” A dry sense of humor accompanied his endearing nerdiness, which I found comforting.

  “You were late and I felt weird sitting here without ordering so I got the curry sandwich and a green tea latte, but I told them to hold off prepping it until you got here.”

  “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of ordering before me?” he asked as I waved the waiter over.

  “What can I get you?” our waiter, a Brad Pitt look-a-like, asked.

  “I’ll have the chicken sandwich and a large coffee,” Jeff replied.

  “And two chocolate chip cookies,” I added.

  “Good choice,” the waiter remarked, before taking our menus and walking away.

  “You haven’t seen me in nearly a decade. What if I’ve developed an allergy to peanuts? You could kill me,” he said.

  “Did you?”

  “What?”

  “Develop an allergy to peanuts.”

  Jeff didn’t say anything; he just looked at me with challenging eyes that told me I missed the point.

  “If you don’t like it, I’ll eat yours,” I said, knowing that chocolate chip cookies were his favorite.

  Sitting back and folding his hands across his stomach, he made himself comfortable in the stiff chair. “About my tardiness: you’re new to LA, so maybe you don’t know this, but there’s a 15 minute rule. Unless it’s a first date.”

  “First of all, I’ve been here over four years. And second, I did know the rule, I just don’t abide by it. You know why? Because it makes no sense. Friends deserve as much consideration as some random girl you’re trying to impress. Period.”

  Our waiter came by with our sandwiches and drinks. Popping off the lid, Jeff added creamer and honey to his coffee.

  “You put honey in your coffee?” I asked.

  “Sounds strange right? It’s really good. You should try it.”

  “You just randomly decided one day that adding honey to your coffee would be a good idea?”

  “No, Veronica got me into it and it just stuck I guess.”

  “Oh, how is she these days?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said and I knew I wouldn’t get any more information. “What about you?”

  “Single. Have been for a while.”

  I was trying to come up with something cleaver to say when a pretty blond hopped off her cruiser bike and began locking it up. Jeff glanced at her and started laughing.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Do you remember that time we thought we could be like Evil Knievel and we built that big bike ramp?”

  I laughed. “Yes.”

  “I still have the scar on my left arm,” Jeff said, pointing to a small bump just below his left elbow.

  “Well, I cleared it and you still owe me a snow cone,” I smiled.

  “How about I cover lunch?” he said. “But actually, I kind of have to eat and run.”

  “Oh,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment.

  “I’m leaving the country tomorrow.�
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  “Going on the lam?” I asked.

  “I’m taking a much needed vacation from my life.”

  There was something sad about the way he said it, but I looked over at him and said, “That sounds amazing. I’d love to do that.”

  “Yup. Jordan, India, China, Brazil, and Peru.”

  “Can I stow away in your suitcase?” I joked.

  He was quiet for a moment. “Actually…” he started but didn’t finish his sentence.

  “Yeah right,” I replied to what I thought he was about to suggest.

  “Why not?”

  “Uh, because I’m an adult and I have responsibilities.”

  “I’m sorry. I think I must’ve mistaken you for someone else. The Aubrey I used to know was all for an adventure and wouldn’t miss an opportunity to escape for anything.”

  “You show up after all these years and I’m supposed to just throw caution to the wind and go globe trotting with you?”

  “Sure! I don’t even know why we stopped talking in the first place,” he said.

  “Because you weren’t at my parents’ funeral and I stopped talking to you,” I said. I did my best not to sound accusatory but I couldn’t help it. A large part of me feared the conversation might lead to an irreparable argument, but I had to get it off my chest.

  He bit his lip nervously and said, “I wanted to be there.” Then for a long moment he was silent. “Vee’s best friend was getting married that same week in Hawaii and for a hundred stupid reasons our relationship was already teetering on the edge. But I wanted to make it work and choosing not to go to the wedding would’ve meant letting her go. It’s not a good excuse, especially given that we’re no longer together,” he sighed.

  “You were my best friend growing up. I needed you to be there.” The words came out as more of a necessity than an actual desire for a response. It was a phrase I’d turned over in my head hundreds of times over the years and hearing them only reaffirmed what I already knew. Nothing he could say now would change the resentment I’d harbored all these years.

  “I’m sorry,” he finally said.

  A long silence lingered between us as we ruminated on our feelings. Me, angry with Jeff for abandoning his duties as a lifelong friend, and him…well, I didn’t know what he thought, but I hoped he was plagued with guilt. I had aunts and uncles who were supportive, but they lived far away and I hardly ever saw them. Of course Jeff’s parents were there, but their apology for Jeff’s absence was formal and disconnected, and being around them made the loss of my parents exponentially worse.

  “I’m so sorry Aubs. I really am. I know I fucked that one up. But I’m here now. Let me make it up to you.”

  “You’re leaving tomorrow.”

  “Come with me.”

  “So you’re asking me to come along just as a travel companion?”

  “Yeah, we’d be two old friends on a mission to see the world. How great would that be?”

  Given my current condition, I wasn’t sure that it was a good idea, let alone a great one, so I smiled but said nothing.

  That night, I pulled a coffee table book of famous pictures from around the world off my bookshelf. The book covered the Seven Wonders of the Modern World and a few other majestic places. I flipped it open to read a few passages before bed, but found myself engrossed. I stayed up all night shredding its pages into a giant galaxy of photos I glued to the main wall of my studio. I knew tearing out the pages of a perfectly good book was sacrilege, but it was oddly therapeutic.

  Starting with China, I created a road using the Great Wall. Along the road came the Taj Mahal, which floated above water I added using images of the Dead Sea. Next came The Treasury, the Temple of Buddha, the Colosseum, then as the wall wound southward I added Chichen Itza, and at the end was Christ the Redeemer. Although it wasn’t the entire world, it did feel like a flattened, scaled-down version of it.

  Six weeks was a long time to be traveling with someone, and as I lay in bed the next morning I made a list of the pros and cons of traveling with Jeff. The awkwardness of our last conversation aside, he had an annoying habit of making his bed right before going to sleep—not in the morning like a normal person, but literally right before crawling into it and snoring all night. Also, he took showers both in the morning and at night. On the flip side, he was considerate, knew all of my quirks, and to be honest, his cons weren’t exactly deal breakers, considering none one of those neuroses negatively affected me. I could sleep through earthquakes. The number one pro on the list was not having to deal with RP alone in my apartment for the next six weeks.

  Flipping open my phone I sent Jeff a text: I’m in.

  His response: Great! I’ll e-mail you my itinerary. Meet at my place at 4?

  Me: Done.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Spontaneity

  “ART is spontaneous. Brush stokes are not meant to be calculated, but to have free flow.” I read that quote in a Quarterly Arts Magazine weeks before I even knew I’d be traveling to China and it lingered throughout my visit. What struck me about Cai Guo-Qiang, the man behind the quote, was the subtext of his words. Cai created a literal explosion of art titled Odyssey. Using 42 panels, he created a massive, site-specific installation in a warehouse with a large stencil and gunpowder. Once ignited, the gunpowder exploded and left behind a powerful imprint—a dark gray Chinese landscape complete with a waterfall, mountain ranges, a coastline, and a detailed garden full of plants and flowers. By putting down the paintbrush and letting go of his learned discipline he pushed the boundaries of his own work using an unstable element, which created a unique and unexpected image.

  The piece represented life’s explosive quality: its ability to burst and change.

  Anxious and excited about exploring a culture I morally respected and artistically admired, I could hardly believe that in a few hours I’d be on a plane headed for China.

  Following the directions on my GPS, I wondered if I had entered the wrong address. All around me were multi-million dollar homes: P-Diddy-style mansions with large pillars, sprawling lawns, and driveways so enormous they had designated “Enter” and “Exit” street markings. This can’t be right, I thought as I parked my car on the street and walked the 200 yards up the driveway to ring the doorbell. I had an entire speech planned out in my head (“I’m sorry to bother you but my friend Jeff gave me this address…”), but when the door opened, Jeff stood before me.

  “Uh, hi,” I said.

  “Hey,” he replied, not at all aware of my confusion. “Come on in. I’m almost ready. Can I get you anything? Water? Soda? Juice?”

  “You can give me an explanation,” I said, as I followed him through the foyer.

  “For what?” he replied casually.

  We walked down a couple of steps and into an ultra-modern room with black and steel Barcelona chairs that looked like they belonged in an office building rather than a living room. A huge bar stood to our left, complete with bar taps, top shelf liquor, hanging wine glasses, and LED lighting.

  “Wow, all you need are some girls in tight dresses, the guys from Jersey Shore, and a DJ,” I said.

  “One of the guys from Jersey Shore is a DJ, I think.”

  “Even better.”

  “There’s a dining room over there and the kitchen, but I’ll show you my favorite part,” he said. On the far side of the living room stood floor-to-ceiling windows with a shallow pond dug out at the bottom so it was partially inside the house and continued outside. Lightly pushing on one of the glass-paneled doors, it spun open 90 degrees to let us pass through and then made the complete 180-degree turn to close again.

  “So when we come back in the door will make a complete 360 degree turn?”

  He nodded. “Yup. Both sides of the door are symmetrical so there are actually two locks. One on either side. Double protection.” It took me a second to understand that the design was basically a revolving entrance without the typical carousal in the center. Palm trees lined the most brightly
lit and colorful walkway I’d ever seen, which led to a huge backyard. Along the right side was a two-foot-wide moat filled with a rainbow array of coral and fish. The best part was that the aquarium followed along the walkway to the pool and then surrounded it, creating the illusion that one was swimming among the fish and coral.

  “It’s definitely not what I was expecting for a school teacher,” I said, looking at him suspiciously.

  “Well, let me show you where the magic happens, then you’ll really be impressed.”

  We walked back inside and down a flight of stairs that opened up into a basement living area.

  “I didn’t think houses in L.A. had basements,” I remarked.

  “They don’t usually, it was an add-on.” The basement was minimally furnished with what looked like leftover pieces of mismatched, cheaply made college furniture. On the walls hung 80’s movie posters: Back to the Future, Weird Science, and The Breakfast Club. A long, rectangular, foldout table served as a workstation with a large computer tower, some random computer parts, an old PC monitor, a stack of external hard drives on top, and a plastic folding chair pushed in underneath. “What do you think?” he asked.

  “So you’re renting the basement of someone’s house?”

  “It’s Shawn’s place.”

  “What?” I asked, unbelieving.

  “Like I said, he’s pretty good at what he does.”

  “He makes this much money selling weed?”

  “Yes—and no. He’s a doctor, like a real one, with a M.D. after his name and everything.”

  “Shawn,” I repeated his name. “One-handed bra-popping Shawn who got kicked out of the dorms for building a greenhouse on the roof and selling weed on campus?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Wow. So…why are you living in the basement?” It seemed odd to me that in a house this large he couldn’t have a room upstairs. The basement was big, with a living room in the center and three smaller rooms off to the side. Two empty or used for light storage and Jeff’s bedroom, which had a master bath and walk-in closet.