The Flying Turk - Part 3
I bought Ulak a rich triple espresso and myself a hot cocoa and we walked to the train station and sat at the fountain. We sat drinking, not talking, watching two teenagers skateboard down the cement steps, over and over, wheels catching on concrete, lifting riders to the sky, the jangle of pocket chains against studded belts. My skateboarding town sets with the sun, doesn't hold parties, doesn't sparkle against the ocean like the fancy towns south. We drank and rested, our backs hard against the cool green tiles, drops of chlorine water splashing on our hair.
"So Ulak. Tell me again what happened. Where were you sitting when you met the lady?" I swept my hand in a majestic arc, inviting the drama, inviting actors to step out of his mind through his mouth filled with bitter coffee. And they did, oh yes, they did. I don't know if it was that styrofoam cup, the way its contents fired his neurons, catalyzed his brain, or if the fading light through the Lombardi pines triggered a pattern of memory, or if the smell of oil and tar and lonely rumble of the tracks sung a siren's song, but Ulak delivered, told me a story like I imagined his ancient Turkish ancestors would tell, full of mystery and adventure, and I closed my eyes, listened to the rough lilt of his voice, my own skateboard fountain opium den.
"Birdie. I met her here, at this fountain. But first, I walked to the ticket counter and asked prices of tickets." Ulak's story began so simply, so straightforward, a common sense approach to the silly non-problem of Avon sales.
He pulled out his wallet, the battered canvas velcro wallet I knew so well, stuffed with credit cards and store discount cards and cash, loads of cash, and he asked about the tickets. The clerk read the fares, a monotone voice, ran one hand down a list without thought, waited for Ulak's answer.
"I heard they caught drug dealers here last month. Two girls. I read about it in the paper. Were you the one who called that in?" The man kept staring at the list of fares. He shrugged his shoulders and didn't answer.
"I better get the furthest ticket you have. I'm not sure where I'm going yet. I'm waiting for a business call." Ulak purchased the San Francisco ticket, a careening devil-may-care ticket requiring two train switches and a long bus ride through the Imperial Valley circumventing the section of tracks still under construction.
"Geeze Ulak. That's crazy! You were gonna chase her five hundred miles? I only wanted to keep from getting arrested again and to see if she'd tell a man something she wouldn't tell me. Geeze. You're nuts."
Ulak paid no attention to me, took gentle sips of coffee, spoke of the rail clerk's trim fingernails, soft hands, hands like a girl, the way he carefully collected the tickets and change and handed them across the counter, pointed to the boarding steps covered in green outdoor carpeting. He walked to his car and grabbed the Avon bags and the local paper and sat to wait, here, the same place we sat now, one leg resting on the other, the paper held a bit close to his face, reading the paper with his one good left eye. Ulak heard the whistle of the train, the squawking announcement from the ticket office, and folded his paper.
Ulak turned to me as he relayed the story. He set his cup on the rim of the fountain and interlaced his fingers on his lap, leaning forward with his know it all grin, his I-know-something-you-don't-know grin. He stared at me for a long moment, grinning, watching my forehead wrinkle in confusion and impatience, and he crackle laughed right out loud in that train courtyard, laughed at me and my Avon.
"Birdie, she came off the train. I saw her right away. She was easy to see. She came right to me because I held those bags out in front. But Birdie. I know who she is. I don't know her name, but I know where she works. I see her all the time when I deliver coffee up in Venice Beach."
To Be Continued....
6:25:32 AM 
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