Scott Alumbaugh

san adreas’ fault

“Look, it’s the San Andreas Fault!”

Elena Ruiz smiled openly, dimpling her cheeks, flashing her teeth, crinkling the corners of her eyes behind her oversized sunglasses. She took one hand off the wheel and thrust her right arm across the dashboard to point a slender finger toward Tomales Bay, causing her boyfriend, Bodie Grey, to withdraw his chin and wince as if she’d slapped him rather than just crossed his line of sight. A gesture, he realized, he probably deserved, given his foul mood.

But Leni’s driving always put him on edge—even on his best days—and they’d been an hour in the car already, twisting down the narrow coast highway, speeding along in her black Saab with the top down, Leni raising her voice to be heard over the wind, which amped up her excitement, and with it, Bodie’s apprehension. They’d just crested a hill and were zigzagging down a curvy, pitted decline under a canopy of thick-trunked trees. Bodie shot a glance at the steering wheel, willing Leni to keep both hands on it. Rounding a swooping turn under a towering eucalyptus, they flashed by a white cross draped in beads and wilting flowers. Bodie tilted his head toward the memorial and widened his eyes, suggesting to Leni, again without words, that that could be them.

She glanced at him still in full beaming smile, oblivious of his mood, or unwilling to let it affect hers.

“Well?”

The road straightened; they were out of the trees for a quarter mile, allowing Bodie to feel it was safe to stop trying to control the car through telekinesis long enough to indulge her. He sighed, then swiveled his head. Where was it? What does a fault line look like anyway? Riven earth? Upturned trees? A cleft? A crack? A jagged crevasse? Nothing like that here. Just wild grass and spiky shrubs and a smattering of remnant pines clinging to a downward slope leading to a slender bay that pointed out to sea like Leni’s intrusive finger; across the still water rose the spiny ridge of Point Reyes, a hooked peninsula jutting out from the coastline like a whaler’s gaff. All of it—the thin sky, the shallow bay, the shadowed northern face of the ridge—everything draped in some disconsolate shade of late-November California blue.

“Do you see it?” Leni asked. She held her smile, but it faltered, its confidence starting to crack.

Bodie faced forward. Even with the windows up, the car was filled with roiling wind. He didn’t appreciate having to yell or strain to hear. Really, he didn't have much interest in talking at all.

“It’s not San Andreas’ fault,” he said at last, almost to himself. “It’s nobody’s fault.”

“What?” Leni held her flying hair back as if trying to hear better. “Did you say nobody’s fault? San Andreas didn’t discover it, silly. Andrew Lawson did. He named it after a sag pond off the 280 down by Millbrae.”

Bodie turned to the right again. “Where is it?”

“The fault?” Leni asked, still smiling. “It runs out to sea, right under the middle of the bay.”

“So . . . I can’t really see it, can I.”

“The fault created the bay. It’s the whole thing! Get it?” She stuck out her arm to point again. “Point Reyes is granite. This side of the bay is sedimentary rock. We’re on the North American Plate. Point Reyes is part of the Salinian Block, which spins on the Pacific Plate. It used to be in Southern California and it’s traveled hundreds of miles north along the fault line over millions of years. Isn’t that cool!”

Bodie inclined his head by way of disagreeing while trying not to seem too disagreeable.

“I think it’s sexy,” she said.

“Sexy?”

“Geology is sexy.”

Bodie tried to muster a harrumph, but only managed to expend a puff of air.

Leni’s smile sagged under a deepening pool of disappointment until her lips settled and drew tight. Her eyes focused on the road and both hands remained on the wheel, which should have alleviated Bodie’s anxiety, but instead just made him feel like a heel. Tension filled the space between them, pressing each toward opposite sides of the car. 

“Look,” Bodie said at last, “I was trying to make a joke. A pun. San Andreas’ fault. Possessive, not nominative.”

“Attributive,” Leni said.

“Do you really want to argue about grammar?”

Leni paused. “I get it. I just couldn’t hear what you were saying over the wind.” They were quiet for another minute. Then she added, “Is that it?”

He nodded. “Yeah. It was just a bad joke.”

“Bullshit, Bodie.”

He rubbed his hands on his thighs, frowned, scratched his forehead. He looked out over the bay, picturing the tantrum-prone fault napping under its baby-blue sheet of water.

“I meant it as a pun,” he said. “But now that I think about it, it’s kind of a good analogy. For us, I mean. It’s like, the plates touch each other here at the fault, right? But they’re going in different directions. Most of the time, they move along with no problem, but occasionally there’s a hang up, then some scraping, and after that an earthquake, then everything’s quiet again. It’s not the fault’s fault, so to speak. It’s just the nature of a fault.”

He paused while the road wound up another rise through a canopy of cypress. They passed a shuttered clapboard oyster bar with a gravel parking lot, peeling shoulder-season decks; beyond stood a weather-beaten wharf with two rusty trawlers anchored nearby. Everything still, unmoving, as if shellacked.

“We kind of live along a fault line, you and I,” Bodie continued. “We’re going in different directions. It’s not anyone’s fault”—he suppressed a half-grin, tacitly apologizing for repeating the pun—“but occasionally it causes problems. Like this.”

Leni shook her head.

“People aren’t rocks, Bodie. Relationships aren’t tectonic. There is no greater force at work here. You decide and you act. Or, in your case, you cause a result by choosing not to act.”

“I just think relationships should flow better.”

“Flow?” Leni said. “Bodie . . . Nothing flows. Everything is pushed or pulled. Nudged or forced.” Her voice was tense, exasperated. “Everything takes work. Relationships . . . Love . . . They take work.”

Bodie nodded, wishing he’d kept his pun to himself. He took a deep breath to tamp his rising frustration while he searched the blue morning for a way to respond.

They had been traveling nearly a week, a destinationless tour around northern California. A break, at Leni’s suggestion, from her psychology practice, from his law firm, and for both of them, from the immigration clinic where they volunteered and met.

Bodie’s twenties were all about hooking up. Nearly halfway into his thirties, dating seemed more about latching on. Relationships traced a trajectory on which he could track the emotional arc from incept date to terminal phase. Most times, a conversation triggered the beginning of the end. It usually surfaced about five months in, where he and Leni were now. Month five was always pregnant with dread about when the “relationship” conversation would come up and how bad the fallout would be when he failed to do the right thing. As he always did. He wasn't ready for marriage, children. He didn't know if he’d ever be. What was so evil about that? He cared deeply. That didn't mean every woman he dated was the one.

But Leni had broken the pattern. Instead of accusing him of being commitment phobic, she’d suggested they take this vacation. That threw him. He went into the trip open to the possibility that things might be different this time.

And by all counts, the trip should have been wonderful. It sounded wonderful when Leni proposed it; or at least, Bodie did his best to convince himself it did. Late-fall touring in wine country, quiet backroads, cozy bed-and breakfasts, the rugged Sonoma coast. But the reality had turned out to be thin, shallow, everything tainted hopeless blue like the landscape. The beds were too small and the walls too thin; he got carsick on the twisty roads up by Cazadero. He didn’t necessarily want to break up with Leni; but after a week of torturous two-lane driving and stale California cuisine, he couldn’t wait to get home and stop living as if they were joined at the hip.

But now he’d really blown it. She had declared geology sexy, and he’d shut her down. She should slap him. He was a jerk. And stupid. Four hundred miles to go before they made it back to L.A. Not the best time to pick a fight. He needed to get their conversation out of these dark trees, off this pitted road.

He took a deep breath to put his self-absorption aside. To try to assuage Leni’s feelings and maybe salvage the day.

“So . . .” Bodie said, drawing up the energy to be nice, “what does geology have to do with sex?”

“Are you back with us now?” Leni asked.

“I'm sorry,” Bodie said. “I just . . . I don't know. You know?”

Leni nodded. '“I do. But it doesn’t justify your acting like an asshole.”

“I know. I'm sorry.”

She flashed a glance at him. “Well, since you’re trying hard enough to pretend you care, I’ll play along.” She pointed to her left. “Look at those exposed blue and white rocks. They’re called 'knockers.’”

Bodie followed her hand up the grassy slope. “Knockers?”

“Too big to be boulders, too small to map.”

“Yeah,” Bodie said, “but . . . knockers?”

“Don’t you think they should come in pairs?” Leni smirked and gave Bodie a sidelong glance.

“Ouch,” he said.

“And all this to our left is part of the Franciscan Complex. Doesn’t that sound like a celibacy disorder? And don’t get me started on the Cascadia Megathrust. Or Bodega Head. Though I guess that’s technically geographic, not geological.”

“Wow,” he said, “geology porn. Who knew?”

“Is it getting you hard?”

He squinted at her. “Seriously?”

She gave him a coy shrug. “Old geology geek joke.”

Bodie smiled and shook his head. Despite himself, he felt his mood lifting on Leni’s bad jokes. “You really love this stuff, don’t you?”

“I think it’s fascinating,” Leni said. “I wanted to be a geologist when I grew up.”

“What changed your mind?”

“I found people more interesting.”

“A lot more difficult,” Bodie said.

“Yes,” Leni said. “But people can change. They can grow . . . Learn to love.” She reached her hand out to cradle his face and stroke his cheek with her thumb. “Even you.”

A hitchhiker appeared around the next bend, looking to Bodie like a Eurotrash Jesus: early-30s, thin-limbed, scraggly hair, reddish-brown beard, dressed in holey jeans and three layers of shirts, a dusty forest-green backpack propped against his legs. Bodie, wearing cargo shorts and an Ozomatli t-shirt, wasn’t dressed much better. But at least he was clean-shaven.

Leni pulled over. Bodie objected by making a sound as if he were choking on an ice cube. Leni hadn’t heard, or was just unwilling to let it affect her decision. The hitchhiker put one hand on the top of the windshield and leaned his body into the car. “Thanks for stopping!”

And, Bodie thought, recently showered.

“Where are you headed?” Leni asked.

“Stinson Beach. But I’ll get out at Olema if you’re going that far.” 

“We’re stopping for lunch in Point Reyes Station,” Bodie said to Leni. “Olema is just a mile or two past that. It’s an easy walk along the highway.”

“That’s fine,” the hitchhiker said.

“Glad to hear it,” Bodie said.

“I might even get out before then to explore a little.”

“Even better,” Bodie muttered.

Leni looked at the hitchhiker, then Bodie. “Why don’t you sit in back,” she said.

Bodie frowned.

“It’ll be easier to let him out,” she explained.

Bodie’s rising mood had faltered when Leni pulled off the road. Now it stalled as if shot and fell flat on its face, dead on impact. He heaved a sigh, pushed the door open suddenly enough to make the hitchhiker have to jump out of the way, and settled heavily in back.

“My name’s Dobie,” the hitchhiker said. He dropped into the seat sideways, pushed it back into Bodie’s legs, then hefted his backpack and swiveled to set it in front of him.

“Uh, excuse me,” Bodie said.

“Sorry,” Dobie said. “No room.”

“Sit behind me,” Leni said to the rearview mirror.

Bodie grunted in response.

“Suit yourself,” Leni said, then she pulled onto the road in a swirl of dust.

“So, Dobie,” she yelled over the wind. “Where are you coming from?” 

“Bodega Bay.”

“Isn’t that a Canadian flag on your pack?”

“Oh, where am I from? Squamish. Ever heard of it? Of course not, no one has. It’s near Whistler. I’m hitchhiking down to Guatemala for the winter.”

“Why?”

“I guess you’ve never spent a winter in Squamish,” Dobie said. “Actually, I’m doing some volunteer work down there. But it’s ironic, don’t you think? I could go south just to escape the weather; most of the people I’ll be working with can’t go north even to escape death.”

No one spoke for a moment.

“Hey,” Dobie said, “I didn’t mean to be a downer. Change of subject. Tell me, why is that peninsula where I camped called ‘Bodega Head?’ Bodega is Spanish for store, right? ‘Bodega Head.’ It sounds like furtive sex in the back of a 7/11. Is that an American thing?”

Leni glanced at Bodie in the mirror, her eyes smiling. Bodie feigned an exasperated sigh, like a weary adult might give an impertinent child. “Short for headland, I imagine,” he said.

“I know,” Dobie said, reaching back to jostle Bodie’s leg. “Just a little inter-American joke, eh? We could use more of that now that Trump’s trying to make everybody hate each other. I mean, who could hate Canadians? We’re harmless.”

Bodie’s knees begged to differ. He’d ignored Leni’s suggestion to move, hoping he could make Dobie uncomfortable enough to get out sooner rather than later. By now his knees were wedged in place making two indentations, like inverted bra cups, in the seat-back upholstery. 

“So what’s in Olema?” Leni asked.

“Duh,” Dobie said. “It’s only the epicenter of the 1906 Frisco quake.”

“San Fran-cisco earthquake,” Bodie said firmly.

Leni shot a scornful glance at him.

“No one says ‘Frisco,’” Bodie said to the back of her head. “Except cretins,” he muttered.  “And Canadians, I guess.”

“Sure,” Dobie said, “The San Francisco earthquake. That’s right.” He stuck his arm out the window and pointed. “Hey, I was wondering. Do you know why the hills over there look different from these? That ridge across the bay?” Before Leni could answer, he pointed over her head, out the left side of the car. “And what are those huge blue and white rocks? And green. Some have green streaks, too. I’ve been seeing them all down the coast.”

“Are you interested in geology?” Leni asked.

“Totally!” Dobie said. “I think it’s sexy. Especially catastrophic geology. I love earthquakes. And volcanoes.”

Christ, Bodie thought, two geeks in a Saab. 

“Knockers,” Leni said.

“Huh?” Dobie said.

“Those outcroppings are bluechist knockers.”

“You mean—” he held both hands cupped to his chest.

Leni nodded.

“In that case, shouldn’t they come in pairs?”

Leni laughed her first genuine laugh all day. Dobie poked her arm with his elbow and joined in. Bodie rolled his eyes.

“Actually,” Dobie said, “I was really hoping to see the San Andreas Fault. Isn’t it near here?”

“It runs right out under that bay,” Leni said, pointing.

“No kidding?” Dobie said. “How cool is that?” 

“Really cool, I think,” Leni said.

“Fault lines are Gaia’s vagina,” Dobie said. 

“Is that nominative or attributive?” Bodie asked from the back seat.

“Huh?”

Leni shot Bodie a withering stare.

“Nothing,” Bodie said.

Dobie put his hand on Leni’s seat and half-turned to face Bodie. “The earth is a goddess, man. Fault lines are her vagina. Earthquakes are her fucking orgasms! And volcanic eruptions are like . . . like her birth throes as she spews out Titans. All that sulfurous gas. And lava! All that gory lava gushing out of her like molten blood. Even just talking about geology sometimes gets me—”

“Dude!” Bodie cut in. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“He’s Catholic,” Leni explained to Dobie.

“Oh,” Dobie said. “I’m sorry.”

Bodie gave Dobie a level stare and said, “Dude,” as ominously as he could, which seemed to do nothing whatsoever to diminish the coyote smile on Dobie’s harmless Canadian face.

As they approached the head of Tomales Bay, houses started appearing through the bordering cypress, growing more frequent until the highway made a sharp right turn and rolled down an easy hill into a one-and two-story town of wood and brick shops.

“Point Reyes Station,” Bodie announced as they passed the sign. He leaned forward. “Where can we drop you?”

“I’m going to take him to Olema,” Leni said.

“What?” Bodie sighed back into his seat. “Okay. Let’s do that.”

“Not us.” Leni turned onto a side street and double parked in front of a bakery. “Find a restaurant and text me,” she said to the mirror. “I’ll join you after I drop him.”

Bodie didn’t move.

“You don’t have any interest in Olema,” she said. “And the significance of San Andreas Fault is lost on you.”

Bodie sucked in his cheeks and drummed his fingers on Dobie’s seat.

“Fine. Let me out, Dudley.”

Bodie watched Leni and Dobie exchange a glance and share a laugh as they drove away. He sloughed it off and looked around, wondering what he should do.  He guessed it was somewhere around noon. It’d probably be thirty minutes or so before Leni returned; plenty of time to find a place for them to eat. He decided to get a cup of coffee from the bakery to boost his flagging spirits while he reconnoitered the little town.

A middle-aged woman behind the counter watched him enter before going back to counting tips. 

“Small coffee, please,” Bodie said.

“Got any money?” she asked without looking up.

Bodie’s face flushed with blood and indignation. He was about to storm out, take his business somewhere—but just then realized his wallet was in his messenger bag, which was on its way to Olema with Leni and Whatshisname. Desperate—needing coffee now that he knew he couldn’t afford it—he dug into his front pockets looking for change, but felt something grainy instead. He turned his pockets out. Loose dirt fell on the floor.

The woman frowned at his dirty hands. “That’s what I thought.” She bent her elbow to point over her shoulder. “Leftover coffee and day-olds around back after we close. Don’t let me see you before then, or you won’t get any.” Bodie hesitated until she gave him a dead-eyed stare with her flat hazel eyes. “I’ll help you after hours, but right now I’ve got a business to run. Go on.” 

Outside, Bodie wondered what to do without his wallet—wait! He patted himself down—or his phone! How would he reconnect with Leni?

Jesus, was he really that helpless? Of course not. He’d just take a turn around the town then return to the bakery where Leni had dropped him. She’d be sure to look for him there. He turned his face to the weakening sun and breathed in the marshy bayside air, chuckling at himself for being so put out by Leni’s attitude he’d forgotten to grab his things.

He fell into the flow of daytrippers swarming the town like groups of ants, trooping up and down sidewalks, poking their heads in shops, stopping to read historical markers and take pictures, until he came across a place that looked promising: a Tex-Mex restaurant glorifying itself as Distinctive Southwest Cuisine. A couple stood studying the outside menu, the man in pressed chino shorts pointing at items, the woman in a sunhat nodding her head. Bodie moved behind them, waiting his chance to look. The woman glanced at him with fear in her eyes, dipped her head, and brought her hand to her nose. The man scanned Bodie up and down, wrapped a protective arm around the woman, and shuttled her inside. 

“What?” Bodie said with a half-smile, raising his voice to chase the couple through the closing door. “I showered this morning.” He sniffed under his arm. “Well, yesterday anyway.”

Deciding Leni would like that restaurant, despite its snooty clientele, he looked for the bakery. But which way was it? The sun was there, so the bay must be that way, which meant the bakery was over . . . there. He started in that direction, wondering how he could get disoriented in a two-street town. He wished Leni would hurry back. He was getting hungry. Not just hungry. Parched. He tried to swallow, but couldn’t, his throat was so dry.

Partway down the block he saw a sign for the city park, and went looking for a drinking fountain. The fountain was broken, so he went into the restroom to drink out of the sink. The enclosed area seemed to intensify his sense of smell, and it wasn’t pleasant. He looked down his front. Had he fallen? His pants were torn and his shirts were dirty. Since when had he started wearing three shirts?

He washed his face and neck in the sink, swiped under his arms. When he finished, the counter was soaked, but there was only a blower, no paper towels. He felt bad about leaving a mess, but what could he could do?

He hit the street feeling refreshed, but by the time he stumbled onto the bakery, it had closed. How long ago had Leni left him? He stroked his beard while he searched the deepening blue sky. An hour already? Two?

Beard? He felt his face again. Huh.

He went around back, his stomach pinched from hunger, still wanting that cup of coffee and maybe something to eat. He knocked once, then again, harder. No one came to the door.

He moved to a bench nearby and lay in the dappled sunlight to pass the time. With nothing to hold it in place, the sun quickly fell, and the air just as quickly cooled.  He awoke in purple dusk, shivering. He rose and shook out his legs. He felt stiff from waiting, light-headed from lack of food. He needed to find a place for the night. The town had quieted—the tourists having already marched home, retracing formic roads back to the cities in their BMWs and SUVs—but he still might manage a ride. He grabbed his pack and crossed the highway to the southbound side and stuck out his thumb.

After a time, a car pulled over and the passenger window rolled down. He looked inside and saw the hazel-eyed woman from the bakery.

“Missed you at closing time,” she said.

“I was waiting for my girlfriend to pick me up.”

“Looks like you’ve been waiting a while.”

“Since about noon.”

A worried look crossed her face. “Longer than that, I’d say. Any idea where she is?”

“She’s gone,” he said, pointing south. “They crossed the fault line. They’re spinning away on an entirely different plate. Different reality. Different world.”

“Okay . . .” the woman said cautiously. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Dobie. I mean, Bodie.”

“Which is it?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, Bodie . . . Dobie . . . the local cops will throw you in jail if they see you on the street after dark.”

“Could you give me a lift?”

She shook her head. “I feed the needy, but I’m not in the habit of picking up strange men.” She reached into a canvas bag and pulled out a napkin. “Here.”

Bodie unfolded the napkin and saw two scones. He bit off a huge chunk of one while the woman frowned, seeming to weigh a decision. “Where are you headed?”

Bodie choked down the dry mouthful and said the first thing that came to mind.

“Guatemala?”

______

SCOTT ALUMBAUGH IS THE AUTHOR OF THE NOVELLA WILL KILL FOR FOOD, A WINNER OF THE 2014 BLACK HILL PRESS SUMMER WRITING PROJECT. HE HAS PUBLISHED FICTION IN STORYQUARTERLY AND IN HUNGER MOUNTAIN REVIEW, WHERE HIS WORK WAS RUNNER-UP FOR THE 2017 HOWARD FRANK MOSHER SHORT FICTION PRIZE. HIS ESSAYS HAVE APPEARED IN LOS ANGELES LAWYER AND BAY CROSSINGS. ALUMBAUGH IS CURRENTLY WORKING ON ZERO TOLERANCE, A NOVEL AND RELATED SHORT STORIES CONCERNED WITH IMMIGRATION IN THE US. HE CAN BE FOUND ONLINE AT HTTP://SCOTTALUMBAUGH.COM.