The Perils of Praline (6 page)

The street he ran down was populated with apartment buildings that had shabby, under-watered lawns offering little in the way of concealment. About halfway down the block, though, Praline noticed a small Spanish-style bungalow with an enormous bougainvillea bush covered with magenta blossoms. He’d found his hiding place.

Just after climbing inside the bougainvillea bush, Praline heard a car roar down the street
,
and through the leaves of the bush saw a Mercedes, probably the one he and Stewart had driven home in, speed by. Praline made himself comfortable in the bush and took out his phone to check his FaceSpace page.

What he liked best about FaceSpace was that he knew so many people he didn’t know. He had 335 buddies in his circle, three or four of whom he went to high school with, and the remainder
were
very nice older gentlemen who posted encouraging and often flattering comments on his page. It really pays to use a shirtless picture of yourself when trying to make new friends.

Immediately, he noticed that Jason had already buddied him. That was fast. In addition, he’d sent all his numbers and a note that said, “If you need something call.”

On the surface, it seemed that Jason was being friendly, but Praline was sure he was up to something. He considered not accepting his buddy request, but then he had to admit that FaceSpace was the perfect way to be friendly yet distant at the same time. And that seemed the best course to take with Jason. He accepted the request.

Updating his FaceSpace page, he listed today’s mood as “Confident!” and his headline bar as “Praline is enjoying the sights in Hollywood,” which was sort of true
;
h
e could just glimpse the lovely Hollywood Hills from his vantage point in the bush. Later he’d have to take some pictures of himself at tourist spots so that everyone would know he was really there. Growing bored with FaceSpace, he
G
oogled Dave G. to see if anything new was going on in his paramour’s life. Unfortunately, the Google search produced no fresh information.

Praline fervently wished he could share the eventfulness of the last twenty-four hours with his imaginary lover. Why, more amazing things had happened to him this day, death defying and otherwise, than had happened in all of his previous twenty years of life. He wasn’t entirely sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing, but he was sure Dave G. would help him figure it out. He’d been a compassionate listener on
House-Bound, Season Six
, and in real life could only be more so.

Well
,
thought Praline, he’d just have to make more of an effort to find Dave G. Since he knew his soul mate was a struggling actor and a part-time cater-waiter, those were two avenues to pursue. He could start going to auditions in hopes of “accidentally” running into Dave G. Perhaps even posing as a struggling actor himself so he didn’t stick out. Or, he could start applying for cater-waiter jobs. While the cater-waiter option would provide much needed cash for his endeavors, Praline decided auditions were a better bet. He knew Dave G.’s physical type and what roles he might be right for
;
he had no idea which catering company Dave G. might be right for.

He did a quick Internet search for audition sites. There were more than a dozen—most of them cost money, though. Of course, there was the credit card his mother had given
him
, cautioning him only to use it in an emergency. It belonged to a man named John P. Williamson, and the more Praline used it the more likely the man would find out.

Praline was debating using the card—it was sort of an emergency, at least to him—when he found a free site called Insta-Cast and decided to focus his efforts there. As he scrolled through the ads he saw that most were for blond women under age 25 who could play parts that had descriptions like “girl-next-door type with major sex addiction” or “brilliant, beautiful attorney moonlights as massage therapist.” Praline hadn’t realized such textured roles were now being offered to women. Finally, he found an audition he was sure Dave G. would attend. It read:

“
Super good-looking guy (early 20s) to play best friend of studly marine returning from Iraq. Nudity required.”

As Praline speculated on what the plot of the film might be, the Mercedes he’d seen earlier raced down the street in the opposite direction. Obviously, it was Stewart’s husband. Praline was beginning to think Stewart ought to have mentioned that accepting a casual invitation for a little sex could lead to becoming a fugitive. It might have affected his decision-making process.

As it appeared he’d be stuck in the bougainvillea for a while, Praline decided he might as well call his mother and let her know he’d made it to Los Angeles safely. Well, semi-safely.

“Oh, thank the Lord!” Robin screamed when she picked up the phone. “I was beginning to worry.”

“The flight was really late,” Praline explained, truthfully. “And I didn’t want to wake you, Mama.”

“Oh, you couldn’t have. We were baked last night,” she explained. “But, sweetheart, you could have left a message on the voicemail thingie.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So, how is it? Have you found Dave G. yet?”

“No, but I have some ideas,” Praline replied.

“Oh, good,” his mama said, and then turned the conversation to herself
,
which, as Praline knew, was not unusual. “Last night, your step-daddy Spliff and I had the best idea. Up in Okmugmee State Park there’s this clearing of about three acres, almost impossible to get to. No one ever goes up there but the soil is good, real good, and though the light is strong the area is partially wooded so as to escape detection from the air. So we’re thinking…retirement account.”

“Retirement account?” Praline was confused. “Don’t you need a bank for that?”

“Not always, darling…” she paused, and he could almost hear her thinking dot-dot-dot. Then she whispered, “I don’t want to come out and say it on an unsecured line.”

“Oh,” Praline said, getting it. “Well, it’s good that you’re thinking ahead. I guess.”

“Yes, one or two good crops, I mean deposits, and I’ll be all set.” Then, she lowered her voice again, “The problem is Spliff. He thinks because we’re bumping uglies he automatically gets half and I don’t know if I can broker that.”

“Now Mama, think about it, who’s gonna do the planting, I mean, investing?” Praline asked.

“Spliff.”

“And who’ll be going up to check…the statements?”

“Spliff.”

“And the harvest…the withdrawals?”

“Spliff.”

“And you don’t think he deserves half?”

“Child, have you forgotten everything I taught you about business? In business, management is everything. I am management. Spliff is production. Production can be cut back. Production can be outsourced, for heaven’s sake. Why there isn’t a business in America where production isn’t optional. Don’t you know that?”

When Praline didn’t answer, she sighed deeply and said, “California has changed you, son.”

“Mama, I haven’t even been here twenty-four hours.” Though, he did have to admit he had changed. For one thing he now had an adventurous personality and all the difficulties that brought.

“And nothing bad has happened to you yet?” she asked skeptically.

“No, nothing bad has happened to me yet,” Praline replied. It was sort of true, if you looked at it the right way. He had
not
fallen off a tall building—that was a good thing; he had
not
been eaten by a security gate—that was also a good thing; and, though he was presently hiding in a bougainvillea bush, he had
not
been discovered by the homicidal maniac chasing him—that, was also a very good thing.

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?” she asked.

“Not unless you’ve joined the police force,” he replied, and his mama laughed heartily.

“Oh, sweetheart, did you see Dr. Jill?”

“No, Mama, we’re three hours behind you. The show hasn’t been on yet.” And, of course, the bougainvillea he currently inhabited did not have cable television.

“Well you’re gonna love it! Dr. Jill’s guest is a former cheerleader from Alabama who sued an entire football team for child support and won! Such an inspiring show.”

It did sound good, though Robin was much more a fan of Dr. Jill than Praline. “I’ll try to catch it later on,” he told her.

“Well, honey, I’ve got customers coming,” Robin said sweetly. “Call me tomorrow, ya hear?”

Since it seemed that Stewart’s husband had given up the search, or at least moved on to a different part of town, Praline picked his way out of the bougainvillea and headed down the street toward Santa Monica Boulevard.

The sunlight was scorching bright and seemed to wash away all the colors in the neighborhood. Except, of course, for the occasional magenta or phosphorescent pink bougainvillea and the brilliant blue sky. As he walked, he noticed the houses and apartment complexes were less and less well tended. They frequently had pealing paint on their windowsills and lawns burned to the color of straw.

When he reached Santa Monica Boulevard, which he had so enjoyed on the drive from the airport the night before, he decided not to retrace his steps, but to instead venture east and discover those parts of the Boulevard he had not yet seen. Walking with purpose, Praline noted that the Boulevard was becoming more and more industrial, and the few people he saw on the street increasingly ragged.

Of course, he worried about what might happen to him. He had no money, other than the twenty dollars Jason had given him, which, though it might buy him lunch and dinner, would probably not buy him a room in a hotel. With a mental gasp, he realized he was without a home. Which meant he’d inadvertently become part of that indolent, communist-sympathizing, government-abusing group of reprobates known as the homeless. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be begging strangers on the street for their hard-earned spare change.

No wait, he had not yet fallen that far. He still had a credit card. Granted it wasn’t his, but he could use John P. Williamson’s credit card for a hotel room if he really needed to. His mother had explained that Mr. Williamson wouldn’t have to pay for anything. The credit card company would pay and then take a loss on their taxes. So, as it was only stealing from a corporation and the IRS, using Mr. Williamson’s credit card was well within the definition of Commandment Number Four.

Praline knew he wouldn’t be able to stay in a hotel long in case Mr. Williamson noticed the charges and called his credit card company
,
turning Praline into a sitting duck. No, he wouldn’t be able to stay for more than a single night. If there was one thing Praline learned at his mother’s knee, it was how not to get arrested. But, he thought, with his customary good cheer, something
would
turn up. It always d
id
.

And so our overly-optimistic hero committed himself to looking on the bright side, and smiled broadly as he walked down sunny Santa Monica Boulevard. He noticed that cars would slow to a crawl as they came toward him, and he looked around to see if he was in a school zone. He was not.

Then it hit him; he was being cruised. Though he’d never actually been cruised in Lumpkinville, he’d read about cruising on the Internet. Supposedly, there were three cruising spots in his hometown, a stretch along Seed Tick Road, the alley behind Skip’s Year-Round Ice Skating Rink, and a particular bathroom at one of the three local Wally-marts. Praline had visited each location and the close
s
t he’d come to human contact was getting called nasty names by a Wally-mart security guard. 

A black Hummer slowed to a crawl next to him. Praline’s heart skipped. The man behind the wheel had a suspicious look about him, wearing dark glasses and a hat pulled down tight over half his face. Maybe he was wrong, maybe he wasn’t being cruised. The shady-looking man might be some kind of gang member intent on killing him in one of the drive-by shootings Los Angeles was world famous for. No, that was silly, the man was white.

Praline knew from his extensive television viewing that white people shot their spouses, white people devised confusing and illegal accounting scams, white people sent dangerous microbes through the mail, but white people did not drive around in enormous SUVs committing street crimes. They left that to other ethnicities.

After giving Praline a long, piercing stare, the SUV moved on. Pulling his orange-sherbet colored T-shirt down so that it might momentarily meet the waistband on his jeans, Praline wasn’t sure whether to be happy about that or not. Once he decided he wasn’t about to be shot, he began to think the man inside might be interested in him.

About twenty feet in front of him, a young man loitered at the curb. Obviously, he hoped to be cruised, just as Praline had been. The boy was around Praline’s age, dressed in hip-hugging jeans, a T-shirt sprinkled with rhinestones, and flip-flops. He seemed very stylish, so Praline hoped they’d become friends. While it was nice to have a frenemy, what he really needed was a true friend.

When he got close, he put on his biggest smile and was about to say “Hey,” when the young man hissed, “Find your own corner, bitch. This one’s taken.”

Wow, people back home had warned him that Californians were unfriendly, but this boy was downright hostile. Praline scurried along the sidewalk. When he was halfway down the block, the Hummer returned and pulled over to the curb.

As Praline nervously approached the vehicle, he tried to keep calm by asking himself this important question
:
Who named the Hummer after a hummer? Didn’t they know that hummer was another name for a blowjob? Praline just couldn’t understand how anyone walked into a dealership and bought a Hummer with a straight face.

The SUV’s electric window rolled down and the man asked, “Do you happen to be busy?” His voice was educated, well-modulated and urbane.

“No, not at all,” Praline answered truthfully.

“Well then, why don’t you hop in,” the man suggested.

Praline walked around to the other side of the Hummer, opened the squat little door and then, using the steps provided, alighted into the vehicle. When he got inside, he noted that the man in the driver’s seat seemed to be in his mid-forties, in relatively good shape, and had very pink skin that looked recently scrubbed. Other than that, Praline couldn’t tell much about him. His sunglasses and hat—the kind fishermen wore—made it difficult to tell what he really looked like.