People talk about the dangers of Los Angeles: the glitz, the insincere smiles, the predatory "agents" out to use and abuse the young, the gang shootings, the muggings in the dirty back alleys of Hollywood at night, the traffic... Somehow, they always forget to mention the dangers of trying to navigate LAX. Even signs in eight languages posted every five feet aren't enough to let the unwary escape the Los Angeles International Airport unscathed.
     Through native knowledge, experience, and some cunning, Loki has escaped from the air conditioned hallways of doom into the hot late afternoon of a Los Angeles February with only minor emotional trauma from the trip. He's overdressed for the weather, even with the scarf leftover from London currently in service as a replacement strap on his airline-mangled bag. He's unbuttoned his shirt almost past the point of propriety, and stands around in slacks and shoes, sweating, at the curb where traffic crawls past in a semi-orderly fashion.
     He has spent the last several minutes fantasizing about ways to get the continual drone of warnings and regulations repeating from the speakers overhead to say something else. Anything else. Anonymously phoned in bomb threats feature in many of these fantasies.

     There is a silver Volkswagen Passat illegally parked by the curb. It's technically curb-side pickup, but they've put it through so many shapes and changes lately; a week ago it was a taxi stand. Now it's a No Loitering zone. A handicapped flag hands from the rear view mirror, which is probably the only thing leading the cop ten feet away not to holler. Everyone else is hollering, though not particularly at the car; a baggage handler is hollering at the driver.
     The driver is bearing it patiently enough. You can recognize him easily. It's Pres, in khakis and a polo shirt with a button-down collar, hair a bit rumpled, paler than you remember, more tired-looking than you remember, leaning on a handsomely polished black walking cane with a silver band at the head. The baggage handler is Mexican, shrieking in heavily accented English for him to move his fuckin' car. "As soon as my friend arrives, I'll move."
     This isn't good enough; the abuse mounts, and the Mexican reaches to push Pres. What happens next isn't immediately visible thanks to a gaggle of pedestrians at the crosswalk; when they pass, the Mexican's hurrying away, and Pres is leaning on his cane, looking ever more tired. He spots Loki and waves. "Hey. Get in before the nice police officer changes his mind. Welcome back to hell."

     Loki offers a twisted little smile on the way over. Not sympathy, but empathy for dealing with the madness of this place. You're not the only one paler than the last time you met, though with Loki it's only his "I've been staying inside too much" look. He swings his bag in and slides inside to follow it, a faint hiss of breath at finally reaching a type of seating not designed for a theoretical kind of airline passenger with proportions that do not exist in any living being.
     "It can't be hell," he says. "The weather's too good. I tried to bring you some authentic London fog, but they wouldn't let it through customs. The bastards probably won't let me take any sun back either."

     He chuckles at that, getting in behind the steering wheel and turning on the engine, tossing his cane into the back. Air conditioning immediately cuts in, and he pulls into traffic with only a minimum of honking. "Probably not," Pres agrees. "Contraband." He falls silent as he concentrates on getting out of the airport's circle.
     "So," Pres remarks after a minute or two of navigation, "Gillian told you. How was your flight?"

     "I'm not actually sure. I turned on my music around the time they started going over emergency oxygen masks, closed my eyes, and tried very hard to ignore everything until landing." Loki shifts around in the car seat, slipping off the earpiece that goes with the music. No distractions. "She thought you'd told me already, at first. I can't really bitch about being out of the loop when I've been on another continent so long, can I?"

     "Well, I knew someone'd told you," Pres answers calmly, pulling onto the highway. "You didn't freak out at the pass or at the cane. On the plus side, at least you didn't go 'oh my god, he's a cripple' like my uncle did. To be fair, he didn't know I could hear him. Us cripples get superhearing to make up for losing other things."

     Loki coughs through a laugh that's surprised out of him. "It's Los Angeles. We'll pass freakier things than that before we pass the next exit." He finally remembers to pull his seatbelt on, staring out the window as glittering city and more brightly glittering cars stream by. "Freakier shit yet in London."
     Awkward silence, incoming. Say something that isn't stupid. "Do you at least get to smack people with the cane when they're dicks about it like that?" ...that probably didn't qualify.

     "Nah. Even in Los Angeles, it's still assault and battery," Pres answers. His gaze stays on the highway, though after not too long, he's veering for an exit. "You hungry? Where would you like to eat some real American food? Actual beef, no mad cow fear here."

     Loki stifles a comment about how it'd probably pass if the cane was installed with some way to fire bullets. Not helping. "Yes. A thousand times, yes. Something dripping in grease that a living animal died to create. I had dinner with my father before I left. Then it was airline food."

     "And your tastebuds haven't committed hara kiri on your throat yet. Impressive." Pres nods, heading to - what else? A Denny's. If it were Florida, it'd be a toss-up between Denny's, Waffle House and Pollo Tropical, no doubt. "We'll be there soon. At least you've got less baggage than Gillian. I'd need a bigger cripplemobile."
     He pulls into a parking space, cutting off a woman in a Suburban. She flips him off; he ignores her, unlocking the automatic doors. "So did Gillian ask you to come fix me? Because, really, I hope not. Knowing Gillian, she did, though."

     Loki does an obligatory eye-roll on the way out of the car. "Not exactly. She did make me feel like a dick for not coming back here for so long, which is fair, because I haven't, and I ought to. Then she rearranged my schedule, found me a job, and texted her boyfriend from my phone. So. Just like her."

     "It'd be easier if you could be mad at her for it. She's turning out just like mumsie. She'd be horrified if she heard me say it," Pres comments. He grabs his cane, locking the car with an automated per-wheet! of the alarm system and limps in the direction of the doors. It's immediately apparent that the limping is not for show.
     "So what kind of job? What kind of boyfriend, for that matter? She's been rattling on cheerfully and loudly about her research and saying next to nothing about her personal life, which is always a sure sign something's up..."

     "Drummer in a band," Loki says, pushing through the doors back into blessed air conditioning again. Half-blessed, since it's always too cold just like the outside is too hot. "Just a group playing local clubs, but they're good, better than that last pack of jokers I was with. Three guesses as to who the lead singer in the band might be."

     "God." Pres lapses into moody silence, following Loki inside. He doesn't speak again until they're seated and he has a menu in front of his face. "Just like Gillian, though. Everything's so organized. So easy for her. She's my sister, and I love her, but sometimes I - well, never mind. What're you going to get?"

     "Steak and eggs." That didn't require any thought. Loki flips through the menu anyway, soaking up the brightly colored commercialized joy of old nostalgic comfort foods. "With a side of bacon. Which came from a real pig." He puts the menu aside. "Does my dad still go kvetch at your mother about child-rearing when he's visiting?"

     "Mozzarella sticks. I'm not that hungry. I don't have a lot of appetite these days." Pres puts his menu down. "And a chocolate shake," he decides. "I don't know for sure. Probably. I've been avoiding mumsie since I came out here. I know she means well, but I keep just - I get really pissed at her. Y'know?"

     "Wants to live your life for you? Doesn't understand why you can't be happy with what would make her happy? Yeah. I know." Loki pokes idly through the dessert menu sitting on the table. "I'm not planning on telling my dad I'm here until the day before my flight leaves. It's another dick move, but." He shrugs rather than finishing that sentence. "Maybe I'll get a chocolate shake too."

     "She wants me to be president. Pres for President. Cute, huh." Pres falls silent as the waitress comes over, giving his order in a monotone and not talking again until she's left. He shifts restlessly, leaning back in the booth. "She wants me to go into law, then politics. She wants me to be somebody. I wish she thought I were somebody now."

     Loki's order is less of a monotone, and more thinly concealed gratitude for being a place that serves real meat with real grease. "Fuck law," he says to Pres once the waitress is gone. "And the whole concept of grinding through college at what your parents want you to focus on. Has that ever worked out well for anyone?"

     "Yeah, well." Pres' smile is crooked. "It'd help if I knew what to be now. I'm a pretty pathetic fuck right now. I won't blame you if you'd rather stay at the Ramada or something. Be more fun than staying at my apartment, probably." He leans back more heavily. "Thank god I have my own place. I'd kill someone if I were staying in a dorm or a frat house."

     "You want me out of your way, I'll call my dad and stay at home," Loki says. "I get a hotel while I'm here, he's going to be all hurt, and I can't handle that level of guilt trip right now." He slouches back on his side of the booth, "I think living in a frat house constitutes justifiable homicide. Maybe only in Texas."

     "I didn't say I want you out of my way." Pres smiles again, still crookedly, though. "Just... well, never mind." He goes quiet again as the waitress returns with the shakes and food. "Thanks," he tells her, then returns his attention to Loki, picking up his shake. "I'm just honestly not very good company. I'm not trying to chase you onto your dad. You know I wouldn't do that."

     "Good. Because at that point, I'd really start worrying." Loki chases a piece of bacon around with his fork until he can down the slice in one bite. "Look, Pres, I didn't come here so that I could go surfing and have fun. I don't even like Los Angeles anymore. I came here because I wanted to see people I haven't seen in a long time, you being at the top of the list. So if you're lousy company, I'll live, and I'll take that over sitting around in a hotel room. Don't worry about keeping me entertained."
     He has a crooked smile of his own to show off in return. "And who else am I going to complain to about Gillian rearranging my life within half an hour of seeing me in person again, and doing such a good job of it I'd feel like a bastard to complain?"

     He smirks at that, albeit a trifle reluctantly. "Okay," Pres agrees. "You have a point." He picks up a cheese stick, biting into it. "Just doing my part to lower your expectations. That way I do anything better than piss in your luggage, you'll be pleasantly surprised."

     "You haven't driven us off an overpass yet," Loki says. "I'm impressed. Of course, you still have the drive home from the restaurant to cross that off your list if you feel like it." He holds up a dripping slice of steak, impaled on a fork. "And this? Right here? Makes the whole trip worth it. If you ever have a pressing need for new nightmare, I can tell you what my father's favorite restaurant has done with meat pies."

     "You know, I just don't need to know." Pres rests an elbow on the table, pushing his cheese sticks away and contenting himself with his shake. He slurps it rudely. "Enjoy, though. Don't mind me. When you're done, we'll head to my apartment and so on. Anything else you were wanting or hoping to do while you're here?"

     The steak is disappearing in bite-sized chunks, more slowly as Loki's finding the edges of his own appetite. "Maybe stop by that one music shop in Hollywood if it's still open. You know, the one with no parking, and an entrance from the alley, that always smells like a can of floral spray exploded inside?"

     "Not really, but I'm sure you'll remind me. We can go there tomorrow, yeah." Pres settles back again, resting his arm along the back of the booth. "So what've you been up to when my sister hasn't been running your life? You seem happy with the band, anyway."

     Dealing with runny eggs means not having to look Pres in the eye when saying, "Not a lot. Bumming around London. I got hooked on daytime soaps and spent my nights at clubs waiting for something exciting to happen without my having to do anything for it."
     Loki slurps at his own shake, and does look up. "That's the worst thing about Gillian organizing my life for me. I was doing a whole lot of nothing until she did. I was just in--I don't know. Some kind of funk, after I spent a year backpacking through Europe, got back to London, and it hadn't made any difference in anything. I was right back where I started. With the band, I'm finally doing something again. Something that might mean something."

     "As long as you're happy, I guess it doesn't matter how you get there. Still sucks that Gillian's so - closed off, I guess. She just sees things different from other people, I guess." Pres shrugs, flagging down the waitress. "I'm going to get the check and get us cashed out, unless you're gonna want something else? I've got booze at the apartment, but we can stop and pick some up if you want something I haven't got."

     Loki shakes his head, leaning back out of the way for table-clearing. The chocolate shake he keeps a possessive hand on to finish off before he stands. "Whatever you have is fine. I could use a drink, after that flight."

     "Vodka, mostly. And wine. Dad sent me a case of wine after my last fight with mumsie." Pres slides out of the booth, using his cane to help himself up. "I'll pay and come out to the car, okay? Shouldn't take long." He smiles, a ghost of the old, confident, carefree smile the Wests are so known for and he turns, the smile falling away as he limps determinedly to the cashier's stand.

     Loki heads for the door without any gawking after his friend's limp. Outside, he breathes in deep to taste the smog and warm air. Switching between London and Los Angeles is always like waking out of a dream, except he's never quite sure which one of them's the real one.

     It's not long, as promised, though longer than if he weren't ... differentially abled. Pres comes out, disengaging the lock with that high-pitched chirrup of electronics, sliding behind the wheel. He seems oddly disinclined to speak as he pulls out to begin heading towards the college campus.

     The silence doesn't bug Loki enough for him to interject randomly. Enough that he shoots Pres a sidelong glance after the car's started, but there's Los Angeles landscape to look at too.

Posted by rowan at March 01, 2009 09:25 AM