Chasing Buffalo (Praxis x Dane Stalling)

[Dane Stalling]

Brentwood, California, October 2004

I knew my father, but he did not know me. That is not to say that he never heard my name, but he was too big to have bastard sons. He was too big not to have bastard sons. More than once, I wished he had banged one of the Riverbank Dutch girls in '73. My name would have been Van Diepen or Dejong instead of Espinoza. "You bang white girls," he said once. Not to me. It was on a piece of Super 8 film I found in his brother's closet. On the film he sat by a barbecue in the back yard of a pink house drinking tequila and smoking a joint. "You bang white girls, screw black girls, tumble Italians, ride Asians, but the Chicanas," he said, "haces el amor a las Chicanas. "

And love may have had something to do with it, although by my mother's account, he did not love her. He loved her skin though, he loved all brown skin, so I cannot say Oscar Acosta loved me, but he loved the idea of me.

Rudolfo Espinoza stood behind the leaning podium in Diesel reading the first pages of his memoir about his father in a flat voice. Madison, his agent, said that readers wanted to insert their own emotion, and that he needed to read in a neutral way so they could "co-create the emotional environment." He thought it was bullshit though. He always itched to raise his voice, make the points ring as far as his words could reach. He thought the readings, the steak lunches with the publishing dicks, the endless signing of books he was sure people would never read was all just publicity theater.

"Who cares if they read it," Madison had said once in his car, after three glasses of white at a brunch, "If you're signing it, they've already paid."

"I may as well be signing blocks of wood with a dust cover," he said.

She was taking off her stilettos. "Oh baby," she said, "If you could figure out how to sell blocks of wood in dust covers, you'd save the entire publishing industry. Overhead would drop to almost zero. The internet's going to fuck us all over and I'll have to start turning tricks again."

She hadn't ever turned tricks. He knew those girls in Stockton, on the south side of Modesto. Agribusiness was killing the pickers up there and people have to eat. Meredith probably required a contract before coitus. He thought the contract would be more fun than the coitus.

"This isn't about selling copies. It's about getting Oscar's ideas out there again. It's about changing the sociopolitical scene."

"You're adorable," she had said, and fell asleep against the car window.

Today though, something was different. This wasn't the typical WASP shopper in capris and hoop earrings. Somebody must have said something over at UCLA. These were mostly Latinos, but with Cesar Chavez instead of Che on their t-shirts, and they listened intently. He realized that this was the first time he had ever met his intended audience face to face. These were the ears he really wanted to reach. He let his voice rise and their eyes blazed.

 

[Praxis]

A black Escalade -unremarkable in most ways aside from the limousine black tint on the windows and the especially precious cargo it carried, that had been preparing to make a right turn onto San Vicente Boulevard came to a screeching halt mere seconds after the driver, Michael, had pressed onto the accelerator. A skateboarder, dressed to the two's in ragged shorts, tank top and baseball cap turned backward threw his arms up as he went by the vehicle's front, leaving them rigid at his sides in an exaggerated shrug. He kept accusatory eye contact with Michael, lazily glidling through the intersection. The solid red hand on the far end of the crosswalk had stopped flashing some time before Michael had tip toed across the white painted boundary.

"Come on, man." Michael muttered under his breath, raising a dark hand of his own limply near his face to reciprocate the he too could not believe what had just nearly happened. With the way through clear the SUV loped onto San Vicente and again began to pick up speed.
Arthur Burke, who had been studiously surveying the latest batch of preliminary documents glanced up from the binder in his lap, noted the time on his watch and affirmed Michael's frustration.

"Goddamn construction on 26th is killing us."

"Hippies with bad depth perception don't help either." Michael replied, speeding through a clustering of cars, taking advantage of a gap provided in the far right lane.

"Alright." Arthur said, closing the binder and again noting the time.
"Kid. Listen up." He said, voice cutting over the dim buzz of 104.1, a local talk radio station that boasted that its coverage of 'All things Hollywood' was unrivaled. Some truth must've supported that claim as it was difficult to name a time that the inane chatter didn't flavor the air around Arthur Burke's waking life.
Hearing no response from the backseat he unbuckled his seatbelt and turned in the plush leather pilot's chair, leaning far over toward Michael as he did. Snapping his fingers in the blonde's general direction he got her attention.
Bridgette Healey had been idly staring out the window, lost in her own thoughts and treating herself to a playlist she'd created earlier in the morning. She saw the blur of a hand in her peripheral and turned to face Arthur. Plucking the pieces of white plastic from her ears she eyed her Manager dilligently.

"Rumor mill says they've had some pretty heavy hitters in and out of Lot D all day. Keira Knightley's Bentley just left and we're twenty out." He paused after relaying the string of jargon, nodding gently and noting Bridgette's attention. She was good girl, a quick pupil and usually responded to stiff language. There was a delicate balance to it however. Too little and the girl would dismiss the information as relatively unimportant. Too much and she'd crumble to tears. One obviously far harder to remedy than the other. Things he'd learned in the twenty four years he'd known her. Twenty four years that, to Bridgette, was all of time.

The blonde grimaced, nervously tangling the earbuds in her hands. Passing the gathering of cable from one ringed hand to the other as she processed the information.

"You're good on the scene? You've got it?" Arthur asked, shifting again in his seat to give the girl his more direct face, features softening as he studied the girl's answer.

"Mhm." She nodded emphatically. "I was up all night with it. Ty helped me read." The fact that the 'scene' in question was a heated, close-quarters exchange between two potential lovers had been acted out with her younger brother seemed not to register to her. And, in truth, Tyler had been largely useless. Reclined on the couch for the several read throughs and delivering his lines with all the grace and eloquence of a stoned frat boy. Which was what he was.

"It's pretty simple stuff, Artie. 'Look like I don't want him to kiss me until he kisses me. Then swoon.' " She grinned, though in her eyes something still seemed uncertain. It had been the mention of 'Heavy Hitters' coming into play. Those being the top starlets of the previous year who's success more or less dictated their future options. Despite being what the industry considered a 'Lifer' -having been in front of the camera to some degree from her fifth birthday onward, Bridgette still would pace about her apartment until the very moment she'd heard from her agent after each audition. Something in the back of her mind always seemed to pipe up in her proudest moments. Whispering the same word it always did;

Unless...

"Kid." Arthur said to her, favoring her with a toothy, thin lipped smile she knew to be a genuine affectation of his. "You'll be fine. He wanted to see you. Remember that."

Bridgette nodded and fumbled about with her earbuds once more as Arthur turned back to face the world in front of them. Traffic was suspiciously light on a Saturday early morning heading toward Pacific Coast Highway and the Escalade was making good time down the busy side streets of Brentwood. It sailed through another intersection, finally getting caught up in another red light and stopping the trio just outside of a small promenade. The brick walkway was packed with a veritable gang of white t-shirt clad men and women of all ages. Children propped on their hips and grins across their faces, they all seemed to be gathered outside of a small shop tucked a few yards down the walkway.

A sandwich board sign had been placed at the alley's mouth reading:

Diesel Rares and Collectibles
Presents
TODAY ONLY!
Book Signing: 11 am - 1pm
Rudolfo Espinoza!!!
Eseteemed Author and Proud 'Los Angeleno'
First Come First Serve​

The thick grease paint lettering had been done in eye-catching bolds. Rudolfo Espinoza having been layered in vibrant tracings of Green, White and Red. While 'Los Angeleno' was expressly marked with quotations and scrawled comparatively harshly in standard white.

"Stop. Stop stop stop!" Bridgette cried from the rear of the Escalade, yanking her earbuds free as soon as she'd gotten them untangled and settled into the rhythmic thrum of Fleetwood Mac's 'The Chain'
"Pull over!" Her voice vaulted into an octave of sheer desperation as she watched the sandwich board sign move parallel and passed her tinted window.
Michael did, angling the SUV to the side of San Vicente, double parking the large vehicle in front of a block of apartments. Arthur turned in his seat, neglecting to unbuckle himself first this time and straining momentarily in his haste. Michael had seamlessly transitioned and was only watching the girl blankly through the rear view mirror while Arthur could only glance nervously at his watch.

"Tha-the book signing! Back there." She uncrossed her shapely legs and gestured wildly to the sign, impossible to make out or read from the SUV's distance.
"We need to stop."

"Kid..." Arthur began, squinting through horn rim framed glassed to where Bridgette was referring.

"We need to stop! It's today only. If he wants to see me that bad he'll reschedule." She added dismissively, her attention already being pulled magnet-like back toward the crowd that was filing into the shop.

Arthur groaned, setting the leather binder in his lap on the floorboard of his seat and staring helplessly down at his Rolex. The 'meeting' had been secretly scheduled for fifteen passed eleven. Fifteen minutes left. Twenty minutes until the thick, plastic wad of technology in his pocket would begin to erupt in call after questioning call. Five minutes after that and the entire meeting would be scrapped and he'd be explaining to Walter 'Wally' Gibson -the Healey family agent, why one of his most lucrative cash cows had just missed a meeting. A meeting that had been so dubiously planned to begin with that it existed on no books and had been mentioned to only a handful of those in the know.
Pondering the situation and all of it's potential solutions for what felt like an eternity to Arthur he finally sighed in a long, pent up burst through his nostrils.
He could tell by the pleading expression worn on her face that at any moment, given even the slightest of nods, she would have bolted from the car. Leaving Arthur to give chase. She'd never been prone to flights of fancy but her anxious ferocity worried him and he relented.

"Alright. I'll get the book signed. You. Go. To. Your. Meeting!" He said firmly, punctuating the last four words for emphasis. He could tell she'd been ready to press for more. To cancel the morning's agenda and let her persue this sudden rush of curiosity. Instead she layered Arthur with yet another pleading stare before turning her attention back toward Diesel.
Seeing he only held a fraction of the blonde's focus, he turned back to Michael and rolled the nearly black window down before stepping out onto San Vicente. Leaning on the door well he had to raise his voice to cut over the outside air.

"Thirteen Twelve Del Oro. Pacific and eighteenth. Hurry. Call me when you get there."
Michael nodded silently, preparing the shift the Escalade up into Drive before he thought to ask;
"Want me to swing back through after?"
Arthur shook his head, reaching quickly to the inside left pocket of his suit coat and feeling for the checkbook and wallet there.

"No. I'll call the service. But keep an eye out for Fuck and Suck. We can't have anyone make her there. Wally'd have a coronary."

Michael chuckled. "Wouldn't that be a shame."

Arthur turned to make his way back before he was stopped by the whirring of the SUV's back window lowering. Bridgette leaned out, squinting against the harsh Southern California sunlight and reaching a hand out toward him to tug childishly at his sleeve.

"Buy twenty five. No. Fifty. Err" She wrinkled her nose and seemed to consider something further before settling on; "However many they sell today. Buy that many again."
"Thaaank you!" He heard the blonde shout, her voice being drowned out swiftly by passing traffic.
With that the Escalade pulled away and Arthur hurried down the street, spotting another group of twenty or so brown skinned men and women of indeterminate age or background seemingly heading for the same place as him. He quickened his pace, glancing once more at his watch as he went.

 

[Dane Stalling]

Rudy had a lot to learn about reading. Meredith half listened to his voice at the back of the crowd as she swiped left, left, left. She'd heard him read it so many times she had it memorized. He should be toning it down though. People wanted to co-create the emotional experience.

"Excuse me," a man said, "I need to buy all your books."

She didn't recognize him, but she knew his type immediately. He was immaculately put together, expensively so, but his hair was blown. They were in the same tribe, facilitators, connectors, mavens. And he was managing a crisis, or he never would have had a small piece of leaf stuck to his shoelace. She could tell that until ten minutes ago, at the outside, his hair had been perfect. And he had made her too. Agents. And he wanted to buy.

"Of course," she said smoothly, trying not to let too much of her elation show. "For whom do these need to be signed?"

He moved in a little closer. "I'm with the Healey organization," he said, "and she wants them all. Twice."

Bridgette Healey. She didn't fit the target audience, but hell, her money was as green as all these activists. Twice as green.

"I hope you have a dolly. There are ninety in the boxes," she said, "and the store can deliver the rest wherever you like. They're $19.99, but I'll round up because I like you. You've got $3,600 in change, right?"

Five or six copies had been sold out of the top box, but those were just the beginning. Meredith expected to sell thirty, maybe, to the crowd here. It would have covered lunch and gas anyway. This was much better. The Chicanos could find their copies somewhere else.

"We appreciate your business, Mr... ?"

"Burke. Arthur Burke."

"Mr. Burke. I'm Meredith Garcia, Mr. Espinoza's agent. I wasn't aware that Ms. Healey was interested in Rudy's work."

The fractional pause told her everything. He didn't know either. This was some celebrity mania, an impulsive and probably fleeting idea that he had to handle and make disappear.

"She has... influences sometimes that we are not aware of. It is kind of you to accommodate."

Meredith nodded. Contact needed to continue if they wanted to profit from her obsession du jour. "Obviously, Mr. Espinoza would be happy to thank her personally for her interest. He will be most grateful." She handed him her card and smiled.

----

"The fuck?" Rudolfo glared at Meredith. "Where are the books?"

"They're on order. The store will deliver."

"How the hell am I supposed to sign books that get shipped from some depot in New Mexico?"

The crowd wasn't dissipating like it normally did. People stood around with twenties folded up between their fingers.

"There was significant interest from an outside party. There he goes now," Meredith said, waving at Mr. Burke as he struggled with the boxes of books just outside the store window. "This has been a very successful reading, Rudy."

Rudolfo turned to the curious eyes behind him. They were his people and they wanted... no. They needed his words, his father's words.

"Come with me," he said, and ran out of the store. The man with the boxes was sweating already.

Rudolfo grabbed his lapel. "Who bought these?" he said. "Are you trying to suppress my father's voice? Are you trying to silence the Chicano people?"

"No... please," Arthur said, putting the boxes down, "They're for an admirer of yours. A fan."

"My fans are not faceless," Rudolfo said, "They are not figments of imagination or shadow people. You paid for these, yes?"

Arthur nodded.

"Well, my fan only has one pair of eyes." Rudolfo opened the top box and took out a book. He handed it to a black-haired woman standing close behind him.

"Compliments of my fan," he said. He picked up another book and handed it to a young man with a red bandana around his neck.

There were still a few books left in the second box when he was done. The man had burbled and protested. Weak bleatings. Meredith kept up some boring monologue about contracts and the rights of buyers. She knew nothing about changing worlds. She had a mind that ended at money.

In the end, Rudolfo narrowed his eyes at her and shouted, "If my admirer wants to charge me, I'll pay. If he sues me, I'll pay. But if he's just trying to keep these thoughts off the street, out of the public, and off the market, he can go fuck himself in a cactus patch."

This generated sparse clapping from the few of his audience that remained.

The man picked up a book. "I'm Arthur Burke," he said, "will you sign this one for Bridgette Healey?"

Rudolfo picked a black pen out of his pocket and wrote,

Bridgette, thank you for the kind gift of fifty seven books to people who will actually read them.

Rudolfo Espinoza