CHAPTER 5 - SAGE
“Oh. My. God. Jax, you can see that guy’s butt cheeks.” We are in Jax’s ancient excuse for an automobile, headed to lunch at George’s at the Cove in La Jolla. Jax wants to eat at Juan’s, but I’m overdressed and not in the mood for grease. I insist and say it will be my treat, so she insists on driving.
“Where?” she asks.
“Right there.” I point out the window to a homeless man. He’s wearing a tie-dye tank top, tan corduroy pants that are shredded in the seat, no underwear. He’s pulling a small wheeled cart behind him. “So gross.” One of the downsides to living in one of the best climates in the country is that everyone wants to live here, including the homeless.
“Oh, that’s Crazy Carl,” she says. We pass him, and the car begins to slow and veer toward the curb.
“You’re not stopping. Why are we stopping?” Jax has had wounded-bird syndrome since I’ve known her. Friend of the friendless, hope for the helpless, aid to the less fortunate. I don’t remember a time when she’s talked about her own aspirations, making a life with career and family. I never understood it. I’ve worked hard to keep my nagging to a minimum, but I haven’t lost hope for her to try for something bigger.
“I may have some back up underwear for him. Let me pull over and check?”
“You’ve got to be kidding. You’re going to give him your underwear?”
“It’s not my underwear,” she says. “I keep a few things in the car in case I see someone who needs it.”
She jams the brake down and glances in the back seat. A small box holds snacks and toiletries. She turns back and reaches under her seat. I hear the crumple of plastic, and her hand reappears holding a three-pack of boxers. I blink thinking I must be imagining this, but it’s Jax and I know better.
“He could be dangerous,” I say. Not to mention the germs and diseases that could be taking up residence on his person.
“Sage, he’s harmless.”
“Uh, did you not just call him Crazy Carl?”
“Yeah, but that’s because he says crazy shit. You’ll see when we talk to him.”
“We?” I have no desire to do this, and it confirms another reason I was hesitant to let her drive.
Carl reaches the car, stops, and bends over so he can see in the window that Jax has just reached across me to roll down. I am still in protest mode. “That you, Jax?” he says.
“Carl, your ass cheeks are hanging out,” she shouts across me. “You wanna get pulled in?”
“That might be nice.” Carl’s tan looks as if he recently returned from a month in Jamaica. He dons a scruffy beard of dishwater blond to match his wild, unbrushed hair. When he smiles his teeth are splashed with light brown stains. I’m not exaggerating; his chompers are an array of leopard print.
“What happens when they let you go?” Jax says. “Are you going to walk all the way back here?”
He sets his hand down on the door where the window goes down, inches from my face. I glance at his hairy, dirty knuckles for about two seconds before I pull my head back against the headrest. I search the backseat for a distraction and something catches my eye. Sticking out from under the box of toiletries is a brochure about HIV. A chill runs down my spine at my first thought. I wonder if I should ask. If Jax needed someone to talk to, wouldn’t she come to me or to Emily? Then I remind myself that I haven’t exactly been sharing lately either. Jax helps a lot of people in a lot of different ways. This must be part of some program where she hands out information…for a clinic or maybe the church. I’m sure it’s something like that; I try to convince myself.
