Not considering himself highly moral at all, nor expecting to receive from anybody a confirmation of piety, the oddness, the vulgarity of Joe and Mary’s act slowly evaporates from Mike’s mind. He feels surprised and embarrassed at the same time about an eerie pleasure, an almost divinely enigmatic sensation that comes over him that gradually gives him an unprecedented erection in recent years. The nearly uncontrollable thought of going for Mary if the opportunity ever presents itself fills him with both a shameful uneasiness and exhilaration.
Their moaning and groaning gradually give way to long ahhhs and ohhhs, and Joe clasps onto Mary’s massive back, giving the distinct impression that he has passed out or passed away. Before they notice him, Mike manages his erection by thinking about some tragic events in his life, like the images of live executions on TV after the revolution. He leaves the stockroom semi-entertained, and out of the goodness of his heart, he decides not to reprimand Joe and Mary for their conventional method of expressing their desire for each other in the most unconventional place.
Fifteen minutes later, he is stunned to find them both in separate aisles, squatting, working their tails off, with ear-to-ear grins, apparently happy as anyone can be considering the prevailing high rate of inflation and unemployment. Joe is whistling the music of Elvis Presley’s old song, “Hound Dog,” and Mary is singing, “Come on Baby, Light My Fire.”
No matter how hard he tries to escape the replay in his mind of the scene in the stockroom by replacing it with more somber and even sad images, he is unable to do so. He cannot quite comprehend the strange sense of enchantment, the sort of perverse sensation imbued in him by the lovemaking images of those two mismatched creatures. He shakes his head and wonders.
Mike looks at his watch and notices it is ten minutes past five. He is elated that his monotonous shift has finally ended, and with it, the agony of being cooped up in this large prison. He has to stop himself from running to the locker room. There, he sheds his working clothes and replaces them with his neat suit and white shirt and tie. Looking into the cracked mirror while putting the final touches on his tie, what he sees, even though he surely knows it is fictitious, still makes him feel a bit better, as if he is once again someone very important and respected, who is definitely going somewhere in life.
He feels tired, and somewhat unsure, as if he is running on empty, once he is on the street. Going home does not feel like an option; he knows for certain his disabled wife is not in a position to give him the feeling that she has been anxiously awaiting his arrival. To escape the San Fernando Valley’s polluted air, he enters the Sherman Way off-ramp onto the 405 freeway south, over the Sepulveda Pass, which takes him to Santa Monica where he feels more at home than in the Valley. He then takes the Wilshire Boulevard West exit and drives toward the ocean, hoping he can hit the synchronized traffic lights green all the way to where he will be able to see the blue waves of the Pacific and can inhale its air saturated with the smells of salt and kelp. Except for a few lights, he coasts fairly traffic-free all the way to the beach. He parks his car next to a late model silver Cadillac in the parking lot of the Sea Lion Bar on Second Street near the beach. Once he is out of his car, he lets the cool moist air from the Pacific caress his warm face. He fills his lungs with ocean air and holds it in for a while before exhaling. Before reaching the bar, unintentionally he makes eye contact with a man in the driver’s seat of a late model silver Cadillac.
“Good afternoon, sir,” he greets the man cordially.
“I wish it could be a good afternoon,” the man replies soberly.
Late afternoon sun shining through the windshield of the stranger’s car is providing adequate illumination for Mike to size him up. The first thing he notices about the man is how neatly he is dressed; the black jacket with gold buttons, light gold dress shirt and a richly colored tie. Long curly blond hair combed straight back, and face resembling Gary Cooper’s.
“I assume you had a bad day,” Mike says sympathetically.
“The worst day in my life,” the stranger replies with a sigh.
With Mike’s sense of sympathy fully stimulated now, he is curiously eager to hear this man’s gloomy saga. Or perhaps he is just interested in meeting someone who not only shares his own great fashion sense, but who might possibly be even more miserable than him.
He goes a little closer, and in a hesitant soft voice, he asks, “What’s wrong?
“I don’t have anybody to blame it on except myself. See, I went to Las Vegas to negotiate a very promising business deal. My negotiation failed sadly. I was so depressed that I foolishly gambled away most of my money. Bizarre as it may sound, I was so upset and mentally disoriented that I lost my wallet somewhere with the little money I had to get home, my credit cards―the whole thing. I had enough gas in the car to drive to LA, hoping I could borrow some money from my brother. Guess what? He is out of town, too. I haven’t had a bite to eat the whole day.”
“Where do you live?” Mike asks in a sympathetic tone.
“Santa Barbara,” the man responds nervously.
Mike is touched. “That’s tough. I can understand how you feel. I can lend you enough money to get some food and enough gas to get you home.”
“It is extremely kind of you, but I can’t accept,” the man replies in a gentlemanly manner.
“I insist.”
“I tell you what. How much money you got on you?” the stranger asks as he takes a gold ring with a large diamond setting off his finger.
“Oh, I have about hundred or so with me,” Mike answers innocently, as he takes a bundle of cash out of his wallet and counts it. “I got one hundred thirteen dollars on me,” Mike announces.
“Here, I paid over two thousand five hundred dollars for this diamond ring a few months ago. Why don’t you take it as collateral, and when I mail you the money, you can send me the ring back,” the man offers the deal with a convincing voice.
Before Mike has time to think, the stranger gives him the ring and a business card, grabs the money, and starts writing Mike’s address on a piece of paper. He starts his car, and before he drives away, Mike hears the man’s last words, “You’re a very kind man.”
Happy that he has done a good deed, or perhaps brokered a good deal, wallowing in his accomplishment, he goes into the bar, finds his usual small table in the corner. He looks at the ring that shines under the dim light with a great sense of appreciation. The ring’s large diamond and its quality impress him a great deal. He has no doubt that this is the easiest two thousand five hundred dollars he has ever made. No. You got to be ashamed of yourself. He rebukes himself. You promised the man to return it when he sends you the money. He scolds himself and is very proud of his honesty.
Julie, the slender middle-aged, extremely attractive barmaid