Short Story Class Exercise: "Turnaround"

She called the contraption Glinda, after the good witch in the Wizard of Oz. But Sarah Carter could tell that Rachel, her driving companion, wasn’t going to get it.

“Why did you name it Glinda?” Rachel asked as they were loading up the Corolla to drive home for winter break. Sarah found Rachel in the campus paper, the Berkeley Scout, under Rides. She was heading to Dallas to visit her sister for the holidays and offered to buy all the gas in exchange for a ride. With fuel prices on the rise, it was a deal Sarah couldn’t pass up.

“It’s kind of a joke between me and my father. When he bought me the GPS, he said that now whenever I got lost, all I had to do was turn it on, click my heels three times and say, ‘There’s no place like home,’ and Glinda the Good would magically get me there, like she did Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz—one of our favorite movies.”

“Cute,” Rachel said, her gravely voice caked with sarcasm. Sarah and Rachel were about as different as you could get. Rachel grew up just outside of Brooklyn with four brothers, a controlling mother and an indifferent father. Cynical and curt, Rachel was slow to trust and quick to anger, and she had no qualms about listing your faults one by one, in order of their irritability factor.
“Personally I think it’s a ridiculous waste of money and technology when a regular old fold-out map that you can get down at Joe Schmoe’s garage works just fine. I wouldn’t trust that thing, but whatever.”

Sarah bit her lip and looked down at her feet. She had never been very good at confrontation.

They shoved in the last item, an ice chest filled with water, fruit and cheese for the road, engulfed in an awkward silence. 
“Well, I guess that’s it!” Sarah said a bit too brightly. “Do you want to drive the first shift or shall I?” 
“I’ll do it,” Rachel said. “I can’t bear the thought of listening to Gilda just yet.”

Sarah wanted to tell her it’s Glinda, not Gilda, but instead she stared out the window while they drove over the Golden Gate Bridge just as the sun was setting, a rich tapestry of ochre and deep violet nestling into the blue Pacific. It reminded her of a Navajo rug she saw for sale on the side of the road once in New Mexico, like the fabric of heaven, she had thought. She had begged her father to stop, but he said those stands were filled with nothing but fakes and sped by while Sarah craned her neck around to get one last look. It was one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen, and like everything in her life it seemed, just out of reach.

By the time they pulled into Modesto for their first bathroom break, Sarah had finished writing to her boyfriend Jake in Wyatt, Texas. She remembered how they had rolled on the bed, laughing uncontrollably when he got the letter informing him of the scholarship to Abilene Christian University. He was a devout agnostic who thought organized religion was the tool of megalomaniacs used to control people of weak character. But a full ride was full ride, and he was confident he could fake it for four years. Sarah’s father would rather chew rusty nails than let his daughter spend her precious college years in Abilene, the armpit of Texas.

Sarah capped the calligraphy pen and put it back in the carved wooden box that held her stationary. Even though all of her friends teased her about her old-fashioned method of communication, Sarah found hand-written letters and notes romantic and classy. She could spend hours composing her thoughts and then lovingly transferring each notion and emotion, dream and desire, carefully etched onto crisp, clean sheets of paper in rich black ink.

“So what’s in the box?” Rachel asked, as she maneuvered into a tight space between a pick-up truck and a church van in the parking lot of Flying J’s Travel Center.

“It’s nothing. Just some paper and writing and stuff,” Sarah replied, shoving it under the seat. Rachel would have a field day giving her shit if she found the flowery notecards with sappy sentiments scribbled on them, and she didn’t want to give her the extra ammunition.

“Huh,” Rachel grunted. She turned off the ignition and threw the keys at Sarah. “Your turn, Emily Dickinson,” she said, and headed into busy truck stop.

###

They got as far as Phoenix before they had to stop for the night, which was not part of Sarah’s original plan. She had wanted to leave Berkeley at noon at the latest, but Rachel’s roommate locked her out of her dorm room earlier that morning after they had a fight over the ownership of a jar of Skippy’s Peanut Butter. It took her two hours to find the resident assistant to let her in so she could get her duffel bag.

They found a Motel 6 right off I-10 and after a late dinner at the Denny’s across the street, fell into bed exhausted. Sarah was awakened the next morning by the shrill sound of a car alarm shrieking outside their window. Rachel pulled the pillow over her head and mumbled something about breakfast. Sarah shimmied into her jeans, threw on a sweatshirt and went to the lobby for coffee and sweet rolls. When she got back to the room, Rachel was sitting straight up in the bed her eyes wide and the TV remote hanging limply from her hand.

“Oh, you’re up! I just…”

“Quiet!” Rachel shushed, and turned up the volume.

A young Asian newscaster was pointing to a map of the western United States. The camera zeroed on an area encompassing eastern New Mexico and west Texas with the words “Serial Killer Feared on the Loose” scrawled across the screen.

“Police found another body last night just outside of Midland-Odessa, strangled and eviscerated,” the reporter said, her voice rising and falling with carefully constructed concern. “As with earlier victims, the vital organs were removed and the remains left in the vehicle. The victim has been identified as 24-year-old Brenda Smothers, of El Paso, Texas. Police are linking this grisly death to three other bodies found in the last two weeks in the western portions of Texas and one near the New Mexico border. Cell phone records indicate that all four victims may have become lost even though all of their vehicles were equipped with navigational systems. FBI agents and profilers were brought in last week to assist state police with the case, which has received national attention. Investigators now believe that it is possible the killer or killers are somehow redirecting their victims from their original course as they travel through these remote counties.”

“Oh my god…” Sarah sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Careful, you’re about to spill!” Rachel said, taking the tilting Styrofoam cups of steaming coffee from Sarah’s grasp and putting them on the nightstand. “Isn’t that the direction we’re headed?”

“Yes. But we won’t get lost. We’ve got Glinda.”

###

They didn’t talk much as they loaded their overnight bags back into the car, each girl lost in her own thoughts. Sarah and Jake used to joke about how rural Texas is the perfect breeding place for maniacal killers. Chalk that up to one too many remakes of Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Sarah laughed at her own paranoia and shook her head.

“What’s so funny?” Rachel asked, shooting Sarah a suspicious glance.

“It’s no big deal. Just something I remembered.”

“Well, we could sure use something to take the edge off. Feel like sharing?”

Sarah sighed. “I don’t know that you’d think it’s very funny, especially after hearing about those murders.”

Sarah fired up the engine and let it idle for a few minutes. “Let’s make sure we have Gilda programmed and ready,” she said, reaching across Rachel’s lap to open the glove box.

Rachel grabbed her arm. “Tell me what you were giggling about earlier,” she demanded.

“Okay! Lighten up on the death grip, would ya? I was just remembering that movie, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and how ridiculous it was.”
“But that was based on a true story, wasn’t it?”

“I guess so, but loosely. C’mon… that story was so over the top. My friends and I used to make fun of it, that’s what I was laughing about.”

Rachel slumped down in the seat and turned to look out the window. They were just entering New Mexico, and in a few hours they’d be in Las Cruces, the place where the first body was found.

When they stopped to gas up, Rachel bought the morning edition of the local newspaper. On the front page was a picture of a car pulled off to the side of a country road surrounded by yellow police tape and a coroner’s van parked a few feet away. The headline read: “West Texas Killings Worry Travelers.”

Inside the filling station a couple of county transit workers were getting coffee at the beverage island. “It’s a damn shame,” said the older of the two, pouring cream into his cup. “None of those girls was older than 25. Could’ve been my daughter. And weird how they got sidetracked.”

“Cops said they was all just driving through the state. None of ’em was locals,” his buddy responded, sucking his breath back through clenched teeth. “It’s ain’t good.”

Sarah paid for the gas and went back to the car. Rachel had her head buried between the pages of newspaper, her left knee rising and falling in quick succession as she tapped her foot—something Sarah noticed she did when she was upset or nervous.
“So, anything new?” she asked, hoping to get an idea of the emotional temperature in the car.

“Not really. Only that they think whoever’s doing it isn’t done. There were apparently clues at the last crime scene that’s leading them to believe he or they… or she… is going to strike again soon. They won’t reveal what tipped them off, though, so who knows. Could be purely sensationalism to sell more papers. The strange thing is, that all of the victims tried to make calls to get directions or get a bearing on where they were, but they never got the right information. They think that whoever’s doing this is able to tap into the cellular sites or satellites or whatever. I don’t really understand most of it.”

“Well, it’s definitely creepy. Let’s just make sure not to pick up any hitchhikers—no matter how cute they might be,” Sarah said, trying to lighten up the mood.

Rachel folded up the paper and stuck it between the seats. “Let’s just get going and get across that shithole of a state,” she said. 
“Hey, Texas isn’t all bad,” Sarah said defensively. “My family’s been here for generations. And my boyfriend’s going to school not too far from here.”

“Yeah, yeah. My sister lives in Dallas, remember. Doesn’t mean I have to like it, though. Whoa, back it up,” Rachel said, straining against the seat belt to turn and face Sarah. “What’s this about a boyfriend?” she teased.

Sarah smiled for the first time that day. “His name is Jake and he’s on a full academic scholarship to ACU.”

“What’s ACU? And what’s he studying? Is he still your high school boyfriend or did you meet somewhere? How old is he? What’s he look like?”

“What is this, 20 questions?” Sarah said brightly. Sure was nice to have some regular conversation. All this talk about killers and gutted girls was giving her the heebie-jeebies.

“Abilene Christian University… I know, I know, but he’s just doing it because they’ve got a great digital communications department. He’s 22. We’ve been dating since our junior year and he’s got black curly hair and brown eyes.”

“Awww, how touching, high school sweethearts,” Rachel said, the sarcastic edge to her voice returning. “That’s a strange major, digital communications. Never heard of it.”

“ACU is one of the few schools that offer it. It’s basically the study of the technical aspect of communication, like the internet and satellites, that kind of stuff,” Sarah explained.

“Too bad he’s not here. I’ll bet he’d have some theories about how this killer is messing with the cell phone transmissions to get these girls out in the boonies and helpless.”

“Well, I actually tried calling him but didn’t get through. He might have his phone off or something.”

###

They crossed into Texas just as the last splash of sunlight lit up the sky, captured in the high clouds that had gathered during the afternoon. As night fell, a glorious full moon rose in the east, casting a soft glow over lavender hills blanketed with scrub and brushwood.

Pulling over for a quick bathroom break at a rest stop, they interrupted three truckers sitting on a picnic table smoking. As they walked toward the restrooms, they overheard the men talking about the murders. “That last one weren’t more ’n 20 mile from here, just over in Kiley,” said one, scratching his scruffy reddish beard.

After they had finished, the girls hurried back to the car, careful not to look up as they walked by the table. The truckers were oddly silent. Sarah and Rachel could feel three pairs of eyes burning into them as they passed. One of the men spat and yelled out, “Night ladies. Be careful out there!”

“My turn,” Rachel said. She grabbed the keys out of Sarah’s hand and quickly climbed into the driver’s seat. “You go too slow and I want to get the fuck out of here.”

Sarah got in beside her. Two of the lights in the rest area had blown out and it was dark. A lonely wind began to growl as it crawled across the desert and the girls shivered, even though it was still 90 degrees out. Rachel peeled out of the parking lot and shot onto the highway, which had narrowed to two lanes as it inched across the desolate swath of land between El Paso and Midland-Odessa. Except for an occasional 18-wheeler, they were alone on the road.

“Do you want to hear some music?” Sarah asked. Anything to keep from listening to Rachel drumming her fingers on the dash as she drove. Rachel didn’t answer. “I really wish you would use both hands to drive,” Sarah added, followed by a loud exhale.

“Do you want to drive? Do you want me to pull over, right here, on the side of the road, next to that skeleton of a smoke tree, in the dark? Is that what you want?” Rachel said, punishing each word.

“No. I just think, with this wind and all, that maybe it would be safer if you held on tighter.”

“I’ve never been in an accident in my life. You just worry about where we’re going, and I’ll worry about getting us there in one piece.” The words hung in the air. “You know what I mean,” she said, her voice faltering.

“Yeah, sure,” Sarah replied unconvincingly, her attention diverted. “Did you turn off the road or anything when I dozed off for those few minutes?” she asked, fiddling with the buttons on the GPS unit velcroed to the dash.

“No. Why?”

“Well, Glinda says we’re not on U.S. 80 anymore. She’s telling us to make a U-turn whenever possible, which usually means we took a wrong turn somewhere and she wants us to backtrack.”

Sarah turned up the volume. A tinny voice said, “Recalculating. When safe, make a U-turn.”

“That thing’s a piece of junk,” Rachel shot back, “I didn’t do anything wrong. I told you that we’d be much better off with a regular fold-out map. I’ve got one here somewhere.” Rachel began rummaging through her bag. “I could’ve sworn it was here. I took it out when I was reading about the serial killer, to see where we are with respect to the murders. I think it’s with the newspaper. Have you seen it?”

“Please stop looking while you’re driving. It’s making me really nervous. Besides, I think I threw it out,” Sarah added quietly.

“You what!?”

“I tossed the paper when I cleaned out the car at the rest stop. I think it might’ve been in the pile.”

“Jeesus H. Christ!” Rachel exclaimed. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that? Here we are, in the middle of fucking nowhere—wait, let me change that—in a psychotic serial killer’s backyard, with no map, just some contraption that’s trying to tell us that we’re lost?”

“We’re not lost. We just must’ve missed a turn-off or a fork or something. Have you seen any markers?”

“No. Not since the rest stop,” Rachel snapped.

Sarah re-entered their destination on the GPS. After a few minutes of thick silence, the unit lit up, the satellite tracking complete. “There’s a turn-off up here in about half a mile. Glinda wants us to get off and go north.”

“What? I don’t think so. I’m not getting off a main highway to go on some wild goose chase because a computer chip tells me to, especially with some crazy killer on the loose. We’re going to keep going the way we’re going.”

Sarah took a deep breath. “Rachel, you’re going to turn off where I tell you to. This is my car,” she said deliberately. “And if you don’t want to, pull over and I’ll drive.”

“I just don’t trust that thing,” Rachel said, nodding her head toward the dash. “Hand me my cell phone. Let’s call Triple A. They have a 24-hour service that provides area information and directions. It’s about time that membership came in handy.”

Sarah handed Rachel her phone. “I wish you would just pull over so we can figure this out.”

“Nothin’ doin’. Have you looked around here? It’s right out of Night Of The Living Dead. Uh uh. No way. Not on my shift,” Rachel said, dialing. “Damn it! It’s not going through. Nothing but a bunch of static.” She tried it again. “Hello? Hello? Shit.” On the third try she connected. “Thank God! I need some assistance… What?... No, the Automobile Club… Oh, I’m sorry,” she snapped the phone shut. “That wasn’t Triple A. It was Branson’s Butcher Shop in Sweetwater.” She flipped it open and tried again. But this time all she got was static. She dropped the phone in her lap.

“The exit’s up here on the right,” Sarah said. “Please get off. It’ll be fine, I promise.”

Rachel blinked and nodded, her wide eyes glassy and damp with slight tears. She put on her blinker and started moving over toward the off-ramp, then she veered left back on to the highway.

“What are you doing!” Sarah screamed. “Do you want to get us killed?”

“No, but I think you want to get ME killed.”

“You’re nuts. I don’t know what’s going on, but we’re going in the wrong direction and if you don’t start listening to me, we’re going to be lost for good. It’s almost like you’re trying to get us lost!”

“Oh no, that’s YOUR job, isn’t it? You and your ‘boyfriend,’ who just happens to live right around where these dead girls were found and happens to be an expert in communication. I’ll bet he knows how to scramble signals from cell phone towers and maybe even manipulate navigational systems.”

“Rachel, you’re scaring me… do you hear yourself?” Sarah pleaded.

“I hear myself just fine and here’s what I know,” she said, her voice escalating into a fevered pitch. “Something’s not right here. First you throw away my map, then you tell me that stupid navigational system wants us to get off the highway onto some obscure country road, then my phone goes out for no reason… I’ll bet the radio’s out too.” She pulled at the knob, trying to turn it on, but it came off in her hand. “See? It’s all part of the master plan, isn’t it? Are you harvesting organs to sell on the black market? Is that it? Are you and your buddies planning to cut me up, gut me like fish, and sell my liver and kidneys to the highest bidder? Or are you just some lunatic who gets off on slicing girls up. You fucking psycho.”

“You’re hysterical,” Sarah said. “I’m calling the cops if you don’t pull over.”

“Go ahead, call them!”

Sarah pulled her phone out of her pocket and started dialing, but before she could finish Rachel grabbed at it and started yelling into the receiver. “Help! She’s trying to kill me!” Sarah lunged for the phone, knocking it out of Rachel’s hand onto the floorboard. She dove between Rachel’s legs in an effort to retrieve it, but Rachel kicked the phone away, wedging it behind the brake pedal. Neither one noticed that they had drifted into the oncoming lane.

Just over the next hill, J.P. McNamara listened to the radio, singing along to George Jones. The tractor trailer groaned as it climbed over the ridge. “He stopped lovin’ herrr today, they placed a wreath upon his door,” he crooned, tipping his cap back to scratch his head. “Soon they’ll caaarry him awaaay.” The semi crested and picked up speed as it hurtled down U.S. 80. “He stopped lovin’ herrr today.”

###
The state trooper kicked a piece of twisted metal from the wreckage and let out a long whistle.

“Just a damn shame,” he said, shaking his head. “Them girls didn’t stand a chance in that tiny tin cup of a car. Good thing they probably went quick.”

He watched the coroner’s wagon pull out onto the highway in a cloud of dust.

“That trucker, not so much. Looks like he suffered some before he died,” he added.

About 20 feet away, his partner squatted to inspect something tangled up in a creosote bush.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Look what I got!”

He shoved his big hands into latex gloves and gingerly pulled out a half-used roll of duct tape.

“Call dispatch. I think we may be on to somethin’.”

Flash Fiction: "Mud"

Out of the mud two strangers caught me splitting wood. Except it wasn’t wood I was splitting. It was Jeremiah. Pieces of his skull, some still fresh with bits of skin and hair, skipped across the watery rose-colored cement. One chunk landed just at the edge of the driveway, right where the sludge from the rains began. The dirt road that used to lead up to the old Missouri farmhouse had all but disappeared from the recent storm.

“How ya doin’?” asked the man, the toe of his boot nudging a gooey chunk of Jeremiah’s leg bone poking up through the muck.

Rain that hard can make the dead rise. I wished now I had put Jeremiah in the box with his sister, but I wanted the bones to wash clean in the holy water that began falling from the sky the day Jeremiah took his last breath. Who knew the strangers would appear? No one ventured out in weather like this.

“Hello?” he asked again.

He stopped at the end of the driveway and peered at me under a visor he made with his hand, shielding his eyes from a slant of sunlight pushing through the clouds. The other man waited few steps back, his right hand stuck deep inside his trench coat, fingers probably clutched tightly around a gun. I know mine would be if I was in their shoes.

“Can I help you?” I asked. Maybe they were just looking for directions. Maybe they would turn around and leave quietly—and alive. The voices had stopped after the last kill. My service was complete.

“Yes. We’re looking for a young man and his sister. The boy escaped last week from a state facility housing juveniles. And the girl, well, we’re not sure if she came willingly or forcibly.”

“Are you the law?”

“No. We’re private investigators hired by the family,” shouted the second man, his voice getting lost in a rush of wind that carried the promise of more rain. Thunder followed.

The first man kicked again at the tip of Jeremiah's leg bone. He hitched his trousers and bent down for a closer look.

“I saw them!” I yelled quickly. It worked. The man whipped up faster than a guillotined hen.

“Where? When?” He started walking briskly in my direction, his city shoes clicking on the wet pavement.

“Whoa! Stop right there, mister, or I’m not tellin’ you anything.”

“Okay, easy guy.” He held his hands up and spread his fingers wide open like a kid about to get the belt for raiding the cookie jar.

“I saw them. The boy, he was dragging the girl by her arm. She was crying. Crying. Crying. He just laughed. He had mean eyes, that one. Evil. They were hitch-hiking north along Route 17.”

“Did you talk to them?”

“No. He’s not right, that one. Bad. He come from bad seed.”

“Did you tell anyone you saw them? The police? Anyone?”

“Why? What he done?”

“That’s confidential, but there is a substantial reward for the person or persons who turn him in.”

“Turn him into what?”

The stranger looked back at his partner and shook his head. “Just let us know if you hear anything,” he said. He stretched his hand out with a business card. I didn't budge and he stuck it between the fence pole and t

“Will do. Y’all have a nice day now and watch out for the mud. You never know what you might find in there.”

NYCM Fiction Contest: category Romance/Diving

Mato and the Street Angel

Proof that love can be found in the most unlikely of places.



Mato watched the homeless girl emerge from the shadows. Pushing away a thick curl of jet-black hair, he brought the camera to his eyes and hit record. The Sony softly whirred to life. Drops of water from last night’s rain glistened under a broken street lamp like fat tears. He wiped moisture from the lens with the corner of his heavy flannel shirt.

Zooming in, he recognized the petite form under layers of clothing and a pea-wool coat at least four sizes too big. It was definitely her. She crossed the street quickly, dodging cars with the unexpected grace of a dancer. When she approached the cluster of dumpsters, Mato held his breath. Would she find the present he’d left for her?

Mato had chosen the “holy trinity of trash” as his senior thesis film project after an article last year about an artist who used only recycled or ‘found’ items for his works. After some more research he learned that the trio of dumpsters at the corner of 6th and Olive were the Mecca of professional dumpster divers and street people. Flanked by Tommy’s Burgers, a high-end furniture shop, and one of the busiest Circle K’s in the city, the trash trifecta usually offered good eats and great junk. But it was always a gamble. Sometimes another man’s trash was just that. Nevertheless, it was the perfect subject for his short film.

He had been watching the girl for a few weeks now. She came every morning at the same time, just as the sun peeked across L.A. from the east, setting the Hollywood sign ablaze with a golden glow, an irony Mato couldn’t resist capturing on film. He had been there every day at 5 a.m., camera poised on the dumpsters, waiting for her.

The first time he saw her lowering herself into a dumpster he thought he had found the perfect element for his film. The drama of a young street dweller diving for her dinner would add just the right amount of pathos to his piece. He watched as she pulled out an old wooden crate wedged between two of the bins. With a quick glance around her, she turned it over, stood on it, and hoisted herself up to the edge of the dumpster, balancing on her stomach for a split second before swinging her legs around and dropping headfirst into a pile of discarded boxes, carpet remnants, and half-eaten breakfast burritos. After about five minutes, she resurfaced, clutching a lamp set in a circle of ceramic swans. One of the swan’s heads had broken off. She waded through the dumpster’s contents and carefully lowered the lamp over the side until it came to rest on the overturned crate.

Mato pushed the zoom as far as it would go. As if on cue, the girl turned and looked right at him. His breath caught. She was beautiful, exquisite really, with delicate, almost aristocratic features. Arising from the stench and muck of a street corner dumpster like a phoenix from the ash ... how perfectly poetic, Mato thought. Still looking toward the camera, she wrinkled her straight, slender nose and then laughed at something too far away for Mato to discern. Her expression widened revealing full bow-shaped lips and perfect teeth. But it was her eyes that held Mato hostage. They sparkled with the spirit of an old soul. Not quite brown, and not quite green, they were a mixture that reminded Mato of fertile earth, fresh straw, and wildflowers. There was something else in those eyes, something Mato hadn’t seen in a long time. Hope. And her skin. Her smooth skin held the essence of young rosebuds, pink and healthy, and he could only imagine what it would be like to run his fingers along the gentle slope of her cheekbones. He felt a stirring he didn’t recognize, but if he had to describe it, it felt like home. He was right where he was supposed to be. And so was she, he felt sure.

The girl pulled herself up and out of the dumpster, wiped her hands on her cargo pants, and started walking east on Olive, the lamp tucked under her arm. Mato ran after her, leaving his tripod and camera behind. Just before she turned onto 7th, her head spun around and she saw Mato coming up behind her. He quickly slowed to a walk, but it was too late. She took off around the corner and disappeared into an alleyway before Mato could see which way she went. Realizing he had forgotten his rig, he rushed back to his vantage point. Everything was right where he'd left it. Mato looked up toward the heavens and gave thanks to whatever deity watched over aspiring filmmakers and hopeless romantics.

That was 10 days ago. He’d been coming back every morning at the same time, setting up his tripod and camera and waiting. She didn’t show up for the first two days, and he worried that he might have scared her off permanently. She returned on day three but didn’t stay at the dumpsters long, just enough to fish out of the dumpster a wrapped deli sandwich Mato had carefully placed on top of a pile of flattened cardboard boxes filling up the center bin. She turned the sandwich over a few times in her hands, then held it up to her eyes for closer examination. She shoved the sandwich deep in the pocket of her coat and headed east on Olive St., as usual. Mato knew better than to follow her again. He had a different plan in mind. He had scribbled a note on the inside of the sandwich wrapper that read, “Hope you enjoy the sandwich. You are beautiful.”

He wanted her to know that the meal was a present just for her and not some happy accident. He watched in anticipation, waiting for her to dig into it. Instead, she turned abruptly around and walked back a few paces where a tattered old man slumped against the steel gate of a closed liquor store. She bent down and whispered something in his ear. He gave her a toothless grin and nodded. She rubbed his shoulder and gave him the sandwich. Even though Mato was frustrated that she never saw his note, her generosity filled his heart and fed his resolve to know this mysterious street angel.

Over the following three days, he left cashmere gloves, a backpack with padded shoulders, and a pair of small, high-powered field glasses. His notes became bolder with each gift. “To keep your beautiful hands warm”; Let me help bear your load”; and the last: “The better to see me with.”

It was almost as though she had come to expect these gifts. She came every day at the same time, went to the same middle dumpster, and dove in with intent. Mato noticed that, in addition to his offerings, she seemed focused on objects rather than life necessities, like food and warm clothing. After watching her for almost two weeks, he also realized that she showed up in various outfits featuring different tops and shoes, but always those same military-style cargo pants with multiple pockets which she filled with intent each time she dove: old keys, pieces of green glass, discarded chunks of tile, rusted nails and screws. The odd assortment of treasures she gathered spoke to Mato, telling him that this girl was no mere street survivor.

That night at home, Mato dug out the worn copy of an L.A. Times article on Finneas Masters, the artist whose sculptures made from recycled items inspired his film school project. Mato reread the story with painstaking attention to the details. He learned that 'found' artists usually hit their marks early in the day, before the contents had been picked over. She always came at daybreak. He discovered that they usually searched for items with color and texture. He flashed on an image of her stuffing her pockets with pieces of tile and green glass. A link at the end of the article led Mato to a website featuring an artists collective called "Recycled Spirits" that worked out of a warehouse on Olive St., just a few blocks from trio of dumpsters.

Later, he told his roommate, who'd been away visiting family, about about what he'd been doing the last few weeks.

“Wath th’fuck?” Eugene exclaimed in a spray of Little Debbie donut crumbs. Eugene Prescott lumbered through life like an entitled elephant seal. The only reason he was even in school was to secure a trust fund from his old man that kicked in as soon as he graduated from college. “She’s gonna think you’re some kind of freakin’ stalker psycho. Besides, dude, you could hit anything you want. Why knock your balls over some street slash?”

"Hey, watch it! You're talking about the future mother of my children," Mato teased. "And she's hardly 'street slash,'" he added, grimacing at the offensive term. Why couldn't Eugene just say 'pussy' like everyone else? "I think she's an artist."

"Whatever." Eugene snorted and pulled the bottom of his grimy sweatshirt over a swath of pale flesh bulging over his pants like a sack of marbles. He was like a baby elephant seal with a muffin top. Mato didn't understand Eugene. With all that money you'd think he'd hire a trainer or get liposuction or something. Even though Mato had been blessed with the best of his Chocktaw and Black Irish heritage, he still worked at keeping himself healthy and looking the best he could. Flawless olive skin covered his taut, muscular body, and Mato's dark hair, chiseled features, and steel grey eyes flecked with gold drew looks from both men and women wherever he went. A few months ago, a high-powered Hollywood agent promised him instant stardom over drinks until he finally convinced her that he was more comfortable behind the camera. Pushing out her Restylene-enhanced lips in a mock pout, she chastised him for denying the world his physical beauty.

“Those eyes, Mato MacDermott,” she swooned after one too many martinis, “are the color of storm clouds at sunset.” Mato just smiled politely. From the very first time he held the 8 mm digital recorder his stepfather gave him for his 16th birthday, he knew his destiny lay behind the camera, not in front of it. And here he was, seven years later, a film major at UCLA hiding behind a parked bakery truck, courting a dumpster-diving girl who didn’t even know he existed. But that was going to change Mato avowed, with what he hoped would be his final anonymous gift.

Mato's final gift was a Red Devil glass cutter. The guy at Home Depot said it was a great tool for making mosaics out of tile. Mato imagined her thinking about him each time she used it to create her art. He placed it in box within another larger box and wrapped it in brown parcel paper with a bright pink bow. Then he placed it inside a large ice chest with a broken lid he found in the dumpster. He put a note on the cooler with an arrow pointing inside and laid it gently in the corner of the dumpster on top of a three-legged card table. He wrapped a note around the glass cutter disclosing his identity and asked that she meet him for coffee or a drink.

Once everything was set in place, Mato went back to his hiding spot behind the bakery truck and waited. She was a little later than usual and he began to get nervous. What if that pinhead bag of flab was right? What if Eugene’s prediction that she feared he was a dangerous stalker were true? Mato’s heart sank. He spent the last several nights imagining what it would be like when they finally met. He would gently pull off her wool cap. Her blonde hair would fall across her shoulders, and he’d softly run his fingers through that cascade of honeyed tresses. She would gaze up at him and smile, her wise hazel eyes searching his. He would follow the contours of her face with the back of his hand before reaching down to kiss her supple lips, pink from the cold. They would touch and the world would melt away. That’s how it was going to be.

A loud noise interrupted his daydream. He looked over at a group of thugs rummaging through the dumpsters. Please don’t let the girl come now, Mato prayed, as he watched the boys angrily rip through the bins.

“Sweet! An ice chest!” yelled one, as he turned the cooler upside down and shook it. The gift tumbled out.

“Whoa! Lookit! Someone left me a present!" he said, prancing around the dumpster with the gift held over his head. The second guy tried to grab it. "Hands off! Whatever it is, it's mine." "Yeah," snorted guy number two. "From your secret admirer, you fucking homo."

“You’re both douches,” yelled a third. "C’mon, let’s roll. There’s nothin’ else good.”

Mato felt his blood drain. Dizzy and angry at the same time, he considered chasing them down, but knew he was sorely outnumbered. That's when he saw her. She walked toward the dumpsters as she always did, but this time kept on walking. She crossed the street and headed toward Mato's encampment, camera, tripod and all.

Mato stood and stepped out from behind the truck. She stopped just inches away and looked up at him expectantly. She smelled of ginger and strawberries.

“What are you … Did you get my notes?” he stammered nervously.

“Yas,” she answered in a thick Eastern European accent. “Bot I cannot, ummm, yet read English verry goot.”

“Did someone read them to you? How did you know I was here?”

From a side pocket of her cargo pants, she pulled out the glasses he had given her a few days earlier.

“You see me,” she said, pointing to his camera. “I see you too. And I like what I see.” She smiled sweetly, just like he had envisioned a thousand times.

What's your name? Where are you from? What do you make with all the stuff you find? Questions flooded his mind. There was so much to learn about her, so much to discover. His spirit soared with possibility.

“Would you like to join me for a cup of coffee?”

She nodded. "My name is Angela. You are?"

"Mato."

"Mato," she repeated slowly, her eyes dancing. "Is beauteeful name."

She reached for him. "Come, Mato," she said softly. "I know place for coffee called Lucky's."

Mato grinned and took her hand, feeling very lucky indeed.