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Truck Stop Jesus

By Buck Storm

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Chapter One
East of the Sun, West of the Moon

Silverlake, California. August 3, 2015


Paradise Jones groaned through a mouth stuffed with bitter cotton.
“Shut up, bees.”
The bees didn’t.
She tipped up her sleep mask and squinted an eye against the morning glare, looking around the room for the swarm.
It must have been a dream.
Then why did she still hear them?
Reality, in no particular hurry, wormed its way into her sleep-addled brain. Not bees—her cell phone vibrating. She pulled the mask off. A glance told her the phone wasn’t on the nightstand. Where is the stupid thing?
It stopped.
Peaceful silence filled the room. She flopped back onto her pillow and pulled the sheet over her head.
Bee-free bliss.
The bees kicked in again. Ugh. The cell had to be under the blankets somewhere. It took four vibrations but she peeled back layers until she found it. She tapped the screen with her thumb and pushed a tangle of blond hair out of her face. “Ash, this better be good. It’s the middle of the night. I’m asleep.”
The Boston-soaked accent on the other end of the line shot back with unapologetic directness. “It’s almost noon,” said Ashleigh Abrams. “Why can’t you wake up in the morning like normal people?”
“We went to Jack’s Grotto last night. Arnie had me out with some of the studio people. That swing band from the Valley played. I didn’t get home till after three.”
“I’m sure it was the band and not the fact that the studio people were there that kept you, right? You know you’re gonna be the next Scarlett. They must like you for the part.”
“I don’t want to get my hopes up. I’m trying not to think about it.”
“Uh huh. Good luck with that.”
“I danced with Colin Prince. They took pictures. You think that means anything?”
“Shut up! You danced with Colin Prince?”
“Well, he’s playing Rhett and he was there with the producer. His breath smelled like he ate a dead rat sandwich.”
“Colin Prince has halitosis? I’m calling the National Enquirer.”
“Go ahead. There’s no such thing as bad press.”
“Scarlett and Rhett, together again. I’m proud of you, you know that? A remake of Gone With the Wind is about as big as it gets. You’re not gonna forget us little people, right?”
“Oh, give me a break. I don’t have the part yet.” Paradise pulled the sheet back over her head and the world shrunk to a manageable pink cocoon. A steady drone of street noise shoved its way through the bedroom window. On the other side of the wall Silverlake—up-and-coming arts pocket of Los Angeles, California—went about its business.
Silverlake. Los Angeles. California. United States. Planet Earth.
And Paradise Jones, an ant in a hole under a pink sheet. How could any living person be so small?
Her friend’s voice pushed through the tiny speaker again. “Look, Paradise, you know the scene. Retro’s kind of dying. And your whole ’40s starlet vibe is pretty out there anyway. This movie happening right now is like winning the Hollywood lottery for you. You were born for it. You’re getting cast in the lead role of the biggest remake of the century.”
“Please, don’t jinx it. Just stop talking about it.”
“What does the manager to the stars say?”
“Arnie swears I’m a shoo in.”
“See?”
“You know how many times I’ve heard that from him?”
“Yeah, well, get over it. Fame’s gonna look good on you. And if nothing else, you got to dance with Colin Prince. That’s not what I called to talk to you about, though.”
“Wait, what do you mean my ’40s starlet thing isn’t happening?”
“Truth hurts.”
“Uh huh. It actually does.”
“You know you’re my pal. I love your starlet thing. Live in the ’40s, who cares? You are who you are, you know? ”
“I know.”
“So, Paradise,” Ashleigh’s voice was hesitant, “you’re still lying down?”
“I haven’t moved. Why? What’s wrong with you?” Paradise sat up. “Are you sick or something?”
“I’m your friend, right? I need to tell you something. You need to hear this from a friend. I’m not sure how you’ll take it.”
“You’re scaring me. What’s going on? Oh, never mind anyway. Tell me something happy. It’s too early in the morning for bad news.”
There was a long pause. “It’s not happy. You’ve been asleep, right? You haven’t seen the news or anything?”
“I slept like a baby till you woke me. And you know I haven’t; I never look at the news. What’s going on? What are you afraid to say?” Now the thumping in her chest competed with the traffic noise.
“It’s your dad. You always say you’re not close, right?”
“I hardly know the guy. Why?”
“I’m not sure how to say this, but at least that makes it easier.”
“Say what?”
“I’m really not good at this sort of thing, you know?”
“What sort of thing?”
“He’s dead, Paradise. He’s ... been killed.”
The world went silent. Silverlake. Los Angeles. California. United States. Planet Earth. Universe … All quiet.
Killed? Her father? Paradise searched deep inside for emotion, for some feeling, but came up blank. Only numbness. “Does my mom know?” A stupid thing to ask.
“I don’t know,” Ashleigh said. “I just heard myself. On the TV at work. I knew you’d still be in bed. I didn’t want you to hear it on the news or from some stranger or something.”
“Okay. Thanks. I appreciate it. How’s life in the exciting world of movie-biz catering?” Paradise dropped her feet to the floor.
“Getting ready for a hardware store commercial shoot tomorrow. And don’t change the subject. Why do you sound chipper? What are you doing?”
“Thanks for calling. It’s sad, I suppose, but people die, right?”
“Are you okay?”
“Of course.”
“Paradise … ”
“Oh, I don’t know, Ash. What am I supposed to say? I hardly knew him. Am I a bad person if I’m not broken up?”
“Yeah, I know. But he was still your dad.”
Her dad. Was that true? She supposed it was. “How? How did he get killed?”
“T-boned. Driving that old Fiat Spider of his. They said he went through a light and a truck hit him right in the driver-side door. There were pictures on the news. It’s all over the Internet.”
“Was he drinking?” Paradise set the phone on the nightstand and pressed the speaker button.
“I don’t know. Probably. Wasn’t he always? Does it matter?”
“Where did it happen?”
“It’s crazy. You’re not gonna believe it. Hollywood and Vine.”
Hollywood and Vine? So the great Gregory Jones cashed in his chips not a hundred yards from the Walk of Fame star he’d always dreamed of. Like something out of one of his screenplays.
“Hey, Ash. Thanks for calling. I’m going to ring off, okay? I have a busy day.” Paradise picked up the phone and carried it with her as she headed for the bathroom.
“Ring off? Why do I always feel like I’m talking to Audrey Hepburn with you? What movie did you get ‘ring off’ from? And no you don’t—you never have a busy day. You’re not okay. I’m coming over. I can get the afternoon off.”
“You think I sound like Audrey Hepburn?”
“That’s all you got from that? Yeah, if Doris Day and Audrey Hepburn had a weird, raspy kid it’d be you.”
“What do you mean raspy?”
“Here we go. Everybody hang on while the world spins around Paradise Jones. You get raspy sometimes. Relax. It’s adorable. And you’re only talking about it because your dad just died. Stop deflecting. I’m coming over.”
“No, please … Seriously, I’m fine. I’ll see you later. Don’t worry about me. Like I said, I hardly knew him.”
Ashleigh sighed. “Okay, call me if you need me. Anytime. Seriously, I can come.”
“Thanks, Ash. Bye.” She hung up before her friend could reply.
In the bathroom, Paradise leaned her hands on the sink and studied herself in the mirror. Bright, blonde hair a mess. Last night’s makeup didn’t work this morning. She’d been too tired to deal with it when she got home. Red lipstick slightly smeared like some twisted Andy Warhol painting. At least her gray eyes were wide and clear. No bloodshot remnants of last night’s Jack’s Grotto adventure. Thank goodness she wasn’t a drinker.
Drinker … Her father came into focus, a wraith tugging on her sleeve. Could it be true? He was really dead? Larger than life Gregory Jones? Again she ran through a quick emotional inventory. I should feel something, right? He’d been her father, after all. At least as much of a father as she’d ever known. But, nothing. Nothing at all.
She was a blank. An empty pocket.
The face in the mirror stared at her, hollow as a ghost. The smattering of freckles across her nose stood out stark against her pale skin. How could a person not feel?
She dropped her head to the sink and vomited.
Okay, maybe she did feel something.
Pulling up the story on the Internet was a mistake. The mangled Fiat, the sheet-covered body being wheeled into the back of the ambulance. The reporter relaying the event in that ridiculous, lilted reporter-eeze. “Gregory Jones, actor and ’70s heart-throb, was killed today in an automobile accident in Hollywood. Jones starred in a handful of big budget thrillers but was best known for his role as Detective Matt Gunn in NBC’s hit crime drama After Sunset. The award-winning show ran an impressive nine years, first airing in 1973 and continuing until 1982.”
Paradise counted 1973 to 1982, ticking the years off on her fingers. What are you doing? Get a grip …
Big smile on the bubbly reporter’s perfect face … In other news …
Paradise closed her laptop. So that’s it. Gregory Jones’ last hurrah. A giant, invisible fist squeezed her insides and nausea threatened again.
Billie Holliday began singing East of the Sun. New ring tone. Paradise didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello?”
“Paradise Jones?” A man’s voice, warm but unfamiliar.
She hesitated. “Yes?”
“Hi, Miss Jones. Richard Ferguson from the Los Angeles Times. Listen, sorry for your loss. I was hoping you’d have a moment to answer just a few questions about your father?”
The nausea pushed harder. Her head spun. “I’m sorry. Who is this? How did you get this number?”
“Richard Ferguson. LA Times. Just a few questions, Miss Jones. I won’t impose on your time.”
“I’m sorry. You are imposing on my time. Listen, I didn’t know my dad, okay? I met him a few times and that’s it. He’s dead. End of story. Please don’t call back.”
She terminated the call with a tap of her thumb.
The apartment walls closed in. She should go somewhere, do something. In the kitchen she used a bottle opener to pop the top off a Coke bottle. She looked at it, then set it on the counter without taking a sip.
Billie started to sing again. Anger surged. Something else, too. Grief? She grabbed for the phone. Her hand shook so badly she almost dropped it. “I asked you not to call back.”
A woman’s voice this time. Cultured and every bit as cool as the reporter’s had been warm. “Paradise. It’s Eve.”
Eve. Her mother. That hadn’t taken long.
“Where are you calling from, Mom?”
Her mother hated being called Mom.
“New York. I’m shopping. You’ve heard, I suppose.”
“Yes, Mom. I’ve heard.”
“Well, it’s no surprise to me.”
“Uh huh. You don’t sound very upset.”
“Don’t judge me, Paradise. The man was a trial.”
Paradise picked up the Coke and took a sip, then poured the rest into the sink. “He was your husband once. And your meal ticket. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“We were married for five minutes. He was about as much a husband as he was a father, don’t you think? And if I were you I wouldn’t be making any cracks about meal tickets.”
Her mother had a point. Say what you might about the psychological trauma of Eve’s erratic, on again-off again parenting, she never failed to send money in Paradise’s direction. Even now, and Paradise was twenty-four, the checks came. Larger on birthdays and at Christmas in lieu of presents.
The urge to crawl back under the pink sheet overwhelmed. “Yes, Mom. I’m not complaining. I appreciate all your help. But maybe I’ll be able to stand on my own two feet soon. I’m up for a part. It looks pretty good.”
“Paradise, you’re always up for a part.”
“I’m tired, Mom. Why are you calling? When will you be back in LA?”
“That’s what I wanted to tell you. I won’t make it to any funeral. Burt and I have plans to go to Cabo and I can’t break them. I’m shopping for the trip now.”
Burt—therapist to the stars. Benevolent stepfather with wandering hands. Eve’s meal ticket number-two.
Her mother went on. “I talked to your father’s attorney ten minutes ago. Gregory left everything to you. Not that I’d expect much.”
“Well, Mom. Don’t trouble yourself. I’m sure things will work out on this end.”
“Paradise … Are you going to be all right?”
Motherly Eve? That stranger didn’t rear her head very often.
“Yes, Mom, I think so.”
“Come to the house when we get back, all right?”
“Sure.”
“You can tell me all about the new part then. I have to run; Burt’s waiting. You know how he gets.”
“Uh huh. I know how he gets.” Understatement of the year.
“I’ll be in touch soon. You’ll be fine, I’m sure.”
The line went dead before Paradise could respond.
She’d be fine … Eve was sure. Okay.
Her father had left everything to her? Why? What everything? Gregory Jones hadn’t worked in years and he certainly wasn’t one to save. Maybe she should call the man from the Times back. At least she could get some publicity out of it.
Billie Holliday sang again and Arnie, her agent, offered a television-preacher smile from the glowing cell phone screen.
She let Billie sing half a verse before she picked it up. “Hey, Arnie.”
“So, I know you weren’t close to your old man but you need anything? You know, I mean I’m sorry for your loss and all.”
Arnie had grown up in Orange County but never failed to bring his best Brooklyn wise-guy accent to any conversation. He said it gave him an edge.
“No. I’m okay. Just tired after last night.”
“Yeah, well, get used to it. We’re just getting started. Now you’ve got six weeks or so before the reading and rehearsals. Man, you should see the sets they’re building down on the lot. What do you have going this afternoon? I’ll run you over there. Kinda get your mind off this other deal, ya know?”
Other deal? Was that what you called it when your dad got crushed in an Italian tin can?
“I don’t think so, Arnie. I don’t even have the part. I’m tired. I think I’ll just stay here today. Maybe watch a movie or something.”
“Yet. You don’t have the part yet. I’m telling you, your name is the one that keeps coming up. Let me ask you something—you’re a razor’s edge away from scoring the role of a lifetime. You know how hard I worked to get you this shot? You know how many big-name stars wanted it? Not to mention the legion of no-names—you included. Know what I’m saying? I’m a miracle worker, that’s what I am. I’m turning water into wine here. Why aren’t you excited?”
“Are you kidding? Excited? Of course I’m excited. If I don’t get this part I’m going to bang my head against the wall until I bleed out of my ears. And I’m not exactly a no-name. I’ve been in things.”
“B horror flicks and pet shampoo commercials don’t count. Every Midwest wannabe and their grandma’s done that. Look, kid, you been dreaming about this your whole life. You were made for this movie. You are a classic actress. Don’t let this Gregory Jones thing pull your eyes off the prize. We need this.”
Paradise rubbed her temple with her free hand. “Arnie, he just died. Please. I appreciate all you’ve done for me. And I am happy. Really I am. I’m dying for the part. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Maybe I just don’t want to get my hopes up.”
“Paradise, cut it out. I can tell when you’re feeling sorry for yourself. First, you hardly knew the guy. Second, you’re right there—on the cusp. Keep focused on what’s important here. You’re special. You’re a rare breed. One in a million and all that. You belong on the red carpet. And you’ll be there, I promise.”
What the world needed—another Arnie pep talk.
Am I happy? How could a person be surrounded by people all the time and still feel lonely? Like watching herself in a movie—an outside spectator to her own life. Maybe she was going crazy.
Focus … “You really think I’m going to get the part?”
“I know it. I’m an old dog. I get how this town works and I feel this one in my bones. So how about it? Let’s go see the set.”
“Thanks, Arnie. I really need to be alone for a while. I’ll get out there, I promise.”
“Okay, kid, whatever. Tomorrow though, Beverly Hills Hotel. I want you to meet some people. Real players. Colin Prince will be there, too. I gather you made quite an impression on him last night. He wants to see you again. I’ll pick you up about eleven, sound good?”
“Tell him to brush his teeth.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Okay. I’ll be ready. Thanks for watching out for me.”
“Hey, sorry again about your old man. That’s a hard deal. But remember, focus on what’s important. Focus on right now.”
“See you tomorrow, Arnie.”
Makeup gone, back under the sheet, the world turned pink again. Billie sang Ashleigh’s face onto the phone screen but Paradise didn’t answer. Gregory Jones was dead. Eve was somewhere between LA and Cabo via New York or Paris or wherever the wind blew her.
Paradise Jones, hidden safely away in some ’40s movie. Feet sore from dancing with one of the biggest leading men on the planet. Everything she’d ever dreamed of very possibly within her reach.
Pink cocoon. Silverlake. Los Angeles. USA. Planet Earth. Universe.
Paradise Jones … Alone.

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