14. Micah
14
MICAH
The following morning, I’m up before Aaron arrives and digging around in the spare bedroom dresser. Not sure what I’m searching for exactly, but since it has to be cleaned out, I figure I’m doing double duty. There are old photographs of my father as a kid, and I can’t help wondering at what point he turned into the monster I knew all too well. Sure, drinking himself to blackout contributed to that, but not every alcoholic is cruel the way he was. My great-grandfather had the same addiction, and now I lament never asking more questions about him. It’s likely the reason Grandpa took pity on me.
I rummage around in the closet next, making a path through musty shoes, coats, and stacks of books, only to find a fishing pole hidden in the very back. And not any fishing pole. My fishing pole, the one Grandpa claimed he got rid of after the cheating scandal. I marvel at the bamboo handle, curve my fingers around the grip as if seeing it for the first time again. There were sturdier poles made of graphite or carbon fiber, but I wanted this one as soon as I laid eyes on it.
Why did he keep it? It’s true his bark was always worse than his bite. Underneath, he cared but didn’t always know how to show it. Fuck, I can’t breathe as emotions bombard me. Gratefulness and joy that he saved a memento from my childhood. And because I treated it with care, it’s still in good condition.
I have the immediate urge to head to the docks with my pole in hand. But first, I test it out. Hold it steady and practice flicking my wrist. Turns out, it’s just like riding a bike.
The need grows in my gut, so I grab a couple of lures, some fishing line, and head out to the pier. Of course, I’m not alone. Other early dawn fishers are there, and some grumble a good morning as I find a spot to sit. I could’ve stopped at the shack to buy live bait, but for now, the lures will do fine. Besides, I’m only here to test the waters, so to speak.
As soon as I cast my line, my nervous system calms. Why haven’t I thought to scope out fishing piers in LA? It’s not like I’ve had to avoid them because I was banned. Still, feeling ashamed is a completely different animal.
Suppose I’ve been too busy trying to make it in Hollywood. Suddenly, the entire idea feels misplaced and almost foreign to me. Have I really spent years auditioning for bit parts only to get a little taste of theater? It’s the only thing that’s pacified me like fishing once did. And John. John always knew what I needed.
The morning unfolds lazily as I get lost in the peaceful act of casting my line and waiting for a bite. Some fishers like to chat and gossip, but many are like me and appreciate the silence. I would say the anonymity too, except a couple of old-timers approach me to express their condolences, so I can only imagine word has spread that Griggs Malone’s disgraced grandson is back in town. I suspect others don’t recognize me or have long forgotten what happened—unless Cap reminded them. I wouldn’t put it past him.
Aaron is sanding a baseboard when I return home. It’s strange to have him here, but I also know the more he’s present, the sooner I can sell this place and leave.
I try to sneak past him with my gear. “Oh, hey. Do you fish?”
“Sort of.” I rest my pole against the wall. “My grandfather started as a deckhand on a trawler, but he also owned a boat. Today was actually my first time fishing at the pier since I was a kid.”
“The pier?”
“Sleepy Slip near Sunrise Bay. First northern exit on the highway.”
“I don’t know that area.” He looks off in the distance. “Wait, is that where the McCoys went to high school?”
“Yep. Bay High.” I set down the tackle box, figuring it’s as good a place as any. “And obviously me too.”
He smiles. “That where Johnny gets the fresh catch for his fish fries?”
I straighten. “He still runs those events?”
He hitches a shoulder. “Noticed a sign in his bar, something about the spring festival?”
My stomach warms. “It’s a yearly celebration with plenty of food and entertainment. Guess I forgot about some of the things that happen around this town. John loves those events.”
“He’s a pretty social guy. How about you?”
“Only when I have to be,” I mutter.
His eyes brighten. “Ah, so opposites attract, like me and Jack?”
I study him. “Guess that tracks.”
He wipes his brow, and a plume of dust spreads in the room. “Assumed you enjoyed being in the public eye as a starving artist and all.”
“I enjoy acting, just not all the bullshit that comes with the industry.”
“Must be why some celebrities fade into obscurity.” He eyes me thoughtfully. “And the service industry?”
“Working at the restaurant brings a steady paycheck, one that affords me the opportunity to go on auditions.”
“Ah. Gotta make a living while you chase success.”
My stomach tilts. There’s that word again. Success.
“It would be nice to finally make a living doing something I love.” I laugh humorlessly. “But we can’t have everything.”
“You’ll get there,” Aaron says. “We both will.”
I’d say Aaron is already there, but that’s not for me to define.
I motion toward the stairs. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”
“I’ve never fished before. What do you like about it?”
Damn, this guy asks lots of questions.
“It’s not everyone’s cup of tea. Suppose it brings me a certain kind of peace. Just me and my pole, out in the elements.” I think about this morning and how bright and colorful the sun looked lifting over the horizon. “Of course, snagging a fish every now and again sweetens the experience.”
He grins. “Do you keep them or throw them back?”
“Depends if it’s supper or not. My grandfather and I ate lots of fish from his daily catches.”
“Bet that was great.”
I hum earnestly. “It was.”
We’d come home smelling like fish, but he loved grilling out back or frying the filets in butter, and I’d make a side of rice or salad before we hungrily gobbled it all down.
“Anyhow,” Aaron says, “after I’ve patched up the holes and sanded most everything down, I’m gonna paint the walls. Is there a certain color you were going for?”
I glance around the space, considering it. “What would help it sell faster?”
“Neutrals are always a good bet.”
“Then go with that.”
He nods thoughtfully. “I can’t believe you don’t want to hold on to this place. I looked up the town’s history, and this house dates back a hundred years. I’ve been admiring some of the original fixtures.” He points out the built-in bookshelves in the dining area and the bronze sconces flanking them.
“Not sure what I’d do with it.”
“Rent it out, or…I don’t know. At least register it with the historical society. That might bring in some interest. Does Aqua Vista have one?”
“Hell if I know.” I smirk, imagining men with pipes and cardigans sitting behind ornate wooden desks, poring over historical documents. “God, Grandpa would hate that—pretentious types snooping around his property.”
Aaron snickers. “I would’ve enjoyed meeting him.”
I don’t tell Aaron that Grandpa would’ve found him too fussy, though it’s likely Aaron would’ve won him over in the end.
“Believe it or not, my great-grandmother was part of a hippie commune around here.” Free love and all that. “Beth’s grandmother too.”
“Jack mentioned that as well as the history of the gold rush in this town.”
“Yep. It’s actually why my family settled in these parts at the turn of the twentieth century.” At least I know some of our history from Grandpa’s stories, considering my father never shared much of anything.
“God, I nerd out on this stuff. I keep meaning to ask Beth more.”
“You should. Anyway, gotta clean up,” I say, feeling a bit too nostalgic. That history is why this house meant so much to my grandfather. And here I am, selling it.
Aaron nods. “I’ll bring some paint swatches from the hardware store. Not sure how much of a selection they’ll have, but we’ll find something decent.”
I wave that away. “Anything you think looks good is fine by me.”
“That’s pretty trusting of you.” When he grins toothily, I can see his appeal. He’s a good-looking guy with a sweet personality.
As I’m finishing my shower, my cell rings with a call from my agent, Ken.
“How’s it going, Micah?”
I put him on speaker as I slip into a pair of sweats. “Okay. And you?”
“Fine, especially since I’ve got some news.” I hold my breath as he blurts, “You scored an audition for Cold Blade .” It’s a crime drama series that’s been around for more than a decade.
“Are you serious?” My head spins as I pace my room. “The timing couldn’t be worse.”
“You’ve got a couple of weeks to figure it out. If I were you, I’d get my ass back to LA for the audition.”
“Can you email me the script?” I’m already calculating the driving distance against my schedule for the boat and ashes, but it should all work out.
“Will do. And, Micah? I think this might be your big break.”
My stomach bottoms out. Not only because I feel so far away, but because I’m not sure what that means anymore. Hollywood doesn’t feel as shiny or promising, not like it did when I first arrived, but maybe this is everything I’ve been working toward. A steadier paycheck and a higher profile that could lead to other opportunities.