Chapter 22: Chapter 22 – All Together Now

Ryan walks out into the student parking lot. It’s around 9pm. The air is cool and foggy, but a light hoodie is plenty warm. The yellow light bulbs in the parking lot street lights float in the air like suspended firebugs, the fog creating halos around them. Ryan is by himself in the parking lot but like always can hear the laughter and conversation of groups of other people from far off distances. Here, a muffled, Southern California drawl making some sarcastic remark, and then a chorus of women cackling in reaction. There, a deep voiced sporty type barking about something, and another, higher pitched voice, screaming out an expletive. A cacophony of barking laughter following. And always, the murmuring of light conversation of those introverts who managed to find each other. Speaking low to one another, observations and secrets that those outside of their twosomes could never be privy to. And always, in his own silence, Ryan takes in all the audial information with winces, as barbs. But tonight is different. He has a purpose to hold onto. So the barbs don’t stick so bad. They’re easier to deflect. And it’s easier to hold onto a blank mindset. Ryan is waiting for the shooter. If he shows up, everything will change. His whole world will be different. And if he takes him along for the climax of The Plan, like he said he might, he might not be in any world at all for much longer.

Finally, a beat up gold ‘95 Toyota Corolla pulls up. The window rolls down and a voice calls out. “Get in.” Ryan complies. It’s the shooter and a few fans of the stream. There’s music playing and the car is filled with laughter. Laughter that Ryan is finally a part of. The driver, a chubby Hapa guy with a highlighted bowl cut and a dangling silver cross earring smiles a half smile and floors it. They blow by a few sorority girls and frat guys dressed up to go to some “formal” and scare the shit out of them. The frat guys scream out in impotent rage. Ryan, in the back seat, twists back, a little sheepishly, and looks out the back window. He smiles watching them look upset. He starts laughing with the group in the car and he is one with them. 

An Asian American girl in the passenger seat chastises the guy in the driver’s seat and tells him to be careful with her dad’s car. A lanky, dorky looking white guy sits in the middle seat, and the shooter… Ryan thinks it’s him at least, sits by the right window, he smirks out the window to watch the view of the parking lot flit by, then leans forward to check on Ryan. They share a smile and the shooter asks Ryan, “How do you think they liked that shit? Fucking assholes.” They all laugh again. 

The Corolla escapes the student parking lot and shoots down the mini streets of the campus. They fly by the science building, the lawns, the little church with the steeple. The student body, the anonymous student body that had intimidated Ryan so much in his walks to class, look small and trapped. Like kindergarteners or elementary school students. They jump out of the way of the car as the guy in the driver’s seat revs the engine, screeches to a halt, and daringly swerves in and out of the lanes. Ryan cannot help the grin on his face from growing wide. He tries to hide it because it feels strange to express any sort of feeling. His emotions had been bottled up for so long it felt imprudent to show anything at all. The girl in the passenger seat puts on some music from the old mp3 player attached by a cord to the Kenwood stereo system. A colorful, glowing piece of technology where the tape deck used to be, about 15 years newer than the rest of the vehicle. 

Happy hardcore techno music blasts from the stereo as the car slows to a crawl past the security guard station at the entrance of the school. The underpaid guard, bundled up in a down jacket doesn’t look up from his book, but the passengers laugh all the same as though they were pulling one over on him. The car waits for a beat at the stop sign, then screeches onto the main road, blasting up Lincoln Boulevard toward LAX and the freeway. They weave among cars, blast by mediocre restaurants, the signs of which Ryan had trudged by so many times during his solitary walks in the previous months. Thai Talay. Luciani’s Italian. Weed Doctor. Humble Potato. He feels exhilaration seeing them as blurred colors through the car window.

Ryan feels happy. He yells over the music. “Thanks for picking me up.” They start to introduce themselves to each other. 

The shooter shouts over the music, “Ryan, meet everyone.” 

“I’m Lee.” yells the guy in the driver’s seat. 

“I’m also Lee.” yells the girl in the passenger seat. 

“I’m Morgan, pleasure to meet you.” shouts the lanky white guy in the middle seat. 

Ryan yells “I’m Ryan.” They all laugh.

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Lee (the driver) speeds into the tunnel that goes under the LAX runway. The yellow lights flash by. Then up the on-ramp, lowering his speed just enough to not spin out on the “35mph” recommended upward curving spiral. They speed onto the freeway, going East, passing by the Raytheon building, then onto Long Beach freeway, heading South. After a while of cruising, Ryan asks “Where are we going?” 

And Morgan answers “We’re going on an adventure.” 

The spectral lights of the Long Beach Harbor illuminate the night sky with an orange glow. With the way the light hits the fog in the sky, it doesn’t look like night. It looks like it could be the middle of the day on Mars or morning on some other planet. As they drive closer, past the Shen-Yun billboards and oil derricks, dipping into the Earth with inexorable repetition, like giant blind rust colored birds, they exit toward Queen Mary Boulevard. They pass giant shipping containers from all over the world and the hulls of mammoth ships, around the bend, until they finally pull into the parking lot for the Queen Mary, a retired cruise ship from the 1920’s that was re-commissioned as a hotel and tourist attraction. It’s known for its haunted state rooms and hallways. 

“We’re here.” announces the shooter. Lee puts the car in park by the back end of the parking lot, where there are few cars around. They get out. The air is chilly as they walk toward the large ship. A group of tourists are waiting in line in front of a marquee that says “Queen Mary Haunted Ghost Tour.” They walk past the group and keep going. The cold bites Ryan’s hands. They walk into a crew entrance and follow a tour group around pretending like they’re ghosts. 

As they’re leaving, instead of paying for parking, Morgan gets out and lifts the parking bar up so Lee (driver) can squeeze the car through without paying. Then they go to Denny’s. 

Packed in with everyone in the booth, Ryan actually feels comfortable. He’s finally a part of the laughter instead of its victim or its isolated listener. As he digs into his pancakes, layered with butter and syrup, he feels completely at ease for the first time in a very long while. He gazes at a decrepit old man sitting by himself, picking at a garden salad in the corner of the restaurant and belts out an extra loud laugh in his direction.

On the drive home, Lee (passenger) blasts the heat and rolls down the windows in the car. Lee (male) pushes the car to 80mph on the freeway, Lee (passenger) turns around and says “California Cruising.” The pleasant combination of the heat coming from the back facing air vents and the chill wind coming in through the windows is comforting enough to make Ryan drift off to sleep. His mind is free of worry. 

#

The car pulls up to the campus parking lot. The shooter and Ryan get out. “It was nice meeting you guys,” Ryan says. It’s 3:00AM, Ryan and the shooter walk along the path to Ryan’s dorm. The shooter is going to sleep over in the dorm before the Big Day tomorrow. It’s technically already tomorrow but the real action won’t kick off until around noon, giving them some time to sleep. The campus is silent and full of fog. Yellow lamps illuminate the pathway. 

Ryan swipes his ID card outside the building door, and they walk past the student employee at the desk. They’re slumped over a book and don’t look up at the dark duo. They walk up the two flights of stairs, past the large recycling bins at the landing, to Ryan’s dorm. When they get to the door, Ryan turns to the shooter and says “We gotta get some sleep. It’s a big day tomorrow.” The shooter laughs. Before Ryan scans his ID, a disheveled looking 38 year old, shirtless, and wearing black spandex boxer briefs stumbles out of a neighboring door. He staggers toward the communal bathroom. It’s Peter.

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