Entry #4: Inhabitants of Old Town
The ongoing serial follows Duke, a down-and-out screenwriter in Hollywood, who does the unthinkable to see his name in lights...
We took a big blue bus to the cemetery.
I’d lived in LA my whole life, and only taken the bus twice. Both experiences were unpleasant. But on this strange morning, I found myself wondering why I didn’t use pubic transportation more often. It didn’t smell as bad as I remembered, nor was every other person homeless or a tweaker. There was a young asian man in the front with a pair of ear-pods in, and perfectly white tennis shoes. He smiled at Didi and I as we boarded. In the back, was a middle-aged woman in scrubs, clearly coming back from a night shift from some hospital. UCLA was nearby.
My seat had the faint smell of disinfectant. I appreciated the cleanliness the Big Blue staff was incorporating. But could tolerate it no longer, and spent the remainder of the ride on two feet, clining onto the metal railing with a white-knuckled grip, wondering why the hell Didi didn’t just order us an Uber Black.
He told me his reasoning, as we went up the hill. That all ride-share companies were corrupt, and would sell your data, including your destinations. He couldn’t take that chance, especially with what he was about to show me (what, I still didn’t know).
We got off at our stop, fifteen minutes passed Agoura Hills. We were in nowhere-land, a place most Angelenos dare not venture to: the deep valley.
Old-Town Cemetery was unlike the cemeteries of the city; the place had unkept green grass, springtime daisies sprouting everywhere, giving it an Eden-esque quality. There were sodium vapor lamps practically everywhere, and because of the fog-layer, they still shimmered orange. We followed the warm lamps down a misty cobblestone paths. I looked out at the sea of headstones. So many lives lived, so many gone. I wondered if they all went to their graves accomplished.
Didi was walking at a much faster pace. “Hurry up,” he grunted at me, in that slight accent he had (that I still couldn’t place, nor did I feel was polite to ask). I assumed at this point, he was Moroccan or Arabic based on the soccer jersey. It was a simple deduction. And sometimes, a la Occam’s Razor, the most obvious answer is the right one.
I caught up to him, and he veered off the path, onto the field where all the headstones were. I followed, uneasily. The dew squished under my sneakers. I looked around. The place was a ghost-town. And the presence of the dead felt strong, even for me, a non-believer in anything other than my self.
“Do you know someone here, Didi?”
“I do.”
“You going to tell me who?”
He eventually kneeled by an unmarked grave-stone, and placed his hand on the grey stone. It looked cold to the touch. I couldn’t tell if he was doing some sort of religious ritual, or it was a nervous tick.
“My Dad,” Didi finally said.
“Your dad?”
I felt a chill go down my spine. The shivering that came next caused my teeth to chatter. I could’ve sworn someone was watching us. I spun around, and my eyes darted across the grounds. The sun peaked through a layer of fog, a ways down the path, creating a halo-like glow. It was only us here. Silent, other than a crow’s caw here and there.
“You’re adopted then?”
Didi shook his head and whispered a prayer to the stone, before rising. There was blades of grass on his pants now, and the knees of his jeans were stained with soil. I scanned the headstone, for any sort of markings or engraving. It was barren.
“I had to keep it unmarked. It was part of the deal. They didn’t even want me to bury him. He was my dad, and they wanted to dispose of his body…”
A knot grew in my stomach. I rubbed on my abdomen, trying to get it to go away. “You’re dad’s alive... I’ve seen him in pictures, and interviews-”
“That’s not my dad, Duke. He’s been right here for almost 19 years now.”
Didi’s voice cracked a bit, which was unlike him. It made me increasingly nervous.
“I’m really not understanding what you’re saying…”
“Because I haven’t been fully honest with you.”
No shit. Duke, you idiot. You shouldn’t have come here.
“The ritual you witnessed last night was just for show.”
A crow cawed loud and it echoed and I whipped back, watching its heavy black body soar over the both of us.
“It was staged, an act… To test you… to see what you would do after. I couldn’t let them find out you were like the others — calling the police…”
“They didn’t kill that old man?”
“They spiked your drink, and use some life-like prosthetics from a movie that just wrapped.”
“And the squealing?”
“There was a living pig under the prosthetics, chained down.”
“So, they killed a pig still…”
I don’t know why I said that. I didn’t care about the pig. But I couldn’t think of another reaction, and I needed time to think. Time to figure out how to get myself away from this pathological young man in a soccer-jersey. I discretely scanned the cemetery, hoping to spot a caretaker or some sort of employee. I was now sure that The Society owned the diner we ate at. And if that was the case, they probably owned this place, too.
I half-expected them to come out the fog next, but Didi pulled out his cell phone instead, and dialed a number. He put it on speaker, so I could hear it was a cab service. He gave the cab company the address of the cemetery and hung up. He looked at me after, almost sympathetically.
“So, your dad isn’t the famous writer?” I asked.
“That’s what you care about?”
I shrugged, and looked away. I was having trouble making eye contact with Didi; every gesture and facial twitch seemed untrustworthy now.
“He was the writer you loved… But the person you’ve seen in the news, interviews, red carpets, all that crap — that’s not him. It’s who they replaced him with. A body double. A lookalike they found in Turkey.”
Turkish. That’s what Didi was. Not that I cared about his ethnicity at this point. I just wanted that godforsaken cab to show up.
“I really am on your side, Duke. I know it doesn’t make sense. But it was for my protection. I’m in trouble, too.”
We were both quiet, until the cab came down the cobblestone. It appeared almost mirage-like. My bright yellow savior. I ran over to greet it, and opened the backseat before the driver could. I almost felt bad leaving Didi there, but I reminded myself that the guilt I was feeling was fake. He had deceived me. And was trying some new tactic to bring me back into his orbit.
The cab reversed, and swung out of the cemetery. I craned my neck, and watched Didi, who returned to the unmarked headstone of the man he claimed was his famous-writer father. I could’ve sworn he made the sign of a cross, which struck me as odd. Were there a lot of Christ believers in Turkey? The thoughts I had suddenly got muddled, and my view of the cemetery became blurry, as though my contacts had been removed without warning.
I wasn’t sure what was happening, and I sunk into my seat, only to glimpse that the cab driver had positioned himself over the glovebox, with an arm held out. He had black gloves, and his face was in shadow, and the pinch in my neck assured me that he was holding a needle.
He squeezed the plunger in a swift motion, and the rest of my vision faded. I was greeted with a dull black nothingness next, and I imagined myself amongst the inhabitants of Old Town, six feet under, surrounded in worms and dark earth.