Demonetized
I used to have long nights; now I have long days.
“You ready?” I call to Marlo, strolling past her with our tote bag of snacks and supplies. “We’re leaving in five.”
“Yup!” she cheerfully replies, carefully placing one half of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich onto the other.
Despite her diligent efforts, the insides immediately come squirting out from the edges to create a huge, sloppy mess of brown and purple.
At least she’s making her sandwiches on a plate now instead of directly on the counter.
“I already packed lunch,” I inform her.
“This one is for you,” she says.
“Oh, okay,” I reply, a little confused but going along with it. I made lunch for both of us, of course, but I appreciate the sentiment. “Well, put that plate in the dishwasher when you’re done. Ziplocks are under the sink.”
“I know,” Marlo chirps, rolling her eyes.
Three years ago I would’ve been begging her to chart her own path like this, to seize the day and make her own lunch, pack her own bags. I’ve stopped coming down so hard on her about that stuff, and now—surprise!—I can’t get her to stop going above and beyond.
I see a lot of myself in this, but there’s also something distinct about Marlo’s behavior, an update to our lineage that I can’t help admiring.
She’s not a killer, she’s a creator. She puts more effort and zest into life than I ever could’ve asked for, but instead of doing all this in an attempt to get more, she does it to give.
I have no idea how this incredible girl grew out of the fucked-up childhood I provided, but I suppose that’s kind of the way it goes.
The hope is that each generation improves upon the last, sees their mistakes and figures out all the shit they never got quite right.
As bad as I am, I’m no Eddie Michaels, and Marlo is neither of us.
“Mom, what are you doing?” Marlo asks.
“Watching my awesome little chef,” I reply, expecting her to be grossed out by this. At eight years old, she’s finally gotten to an age where gooey displays of love and affection will often get a playful face of exaggerated disgust, maybe even a barf sound if I’m doing my job right.
Instead, Marlo just smiles and starts to sing. “When the moon hits your eye like a big piece of pie!” she croons, getting the lyrics wrong as she throws her arms wide and starts to dance around the kitchen in a silly, spontaneous performance. “That’s amore!”
Okay, maybe she’s a bit like me and Eddie.
“Five minutes!” I remind her, continuing out the front door and making my way to the driveway where my car is waiting. It’s already on, the AC blasting away in preparation.
I open the back and carefully slide my tote into the seat next to a vast assortment of colorful flowers, each and everyone of them carefully labeled and positioned based on the order of our stops.
The car is already pleasantly chilly despite the heat of the day, which is only scheduled to get hotter.
Of course, the inside of my vehicle is not nearly as frigid as the deliveries I used to make. It’s just enough to keep the flowers from wilting.
I close the car door and turn back to head inside, but stop for a moment, gazing up at the house before me.
It’s smaller than our last home—which is to say, much more affordable—but it’s certainly not quaint.
The style is there, and I’ve done my best to create something cool and expressive.
However, the aesthetic is not what I’ve halted to admire.
It’s suddenly occurred to me that this is the first place I’ve lived that hasn’t come with some kind of baggage—the first that doesn’t feel like a burden.
I pull my phone out to check the time, making sure we’re still on track and finding myself pleasantly surprised by a home screen overflowing with notifications.
One of my new “fashion finds” videos just went live and is already picking up speed.
I’ve been making better use of scheduled uploads, keeping my work time relegated to the hours that Marlo’s at school.
A gnawing pang of desire tempts me to press one of the alerts and scroll through comments on my latest post. I feel the hunger to dive in and soak up attention like someone might crave a cigarette, but it gets easier every day.
When I first got these scars, it was much harder to shut my phone off after an upload, routinely bathing my brain in equal parts punishment and praise.
I already had my fair share of trolls, but a brand-new face and a prosthetic forearm brought them running like catnip.
I almost pulled a muscle in my finger from all the blocking.
My new look also brought a lot of kindness.
People still appreciated my style vlogs, and my unique appearance became something of a beacon for those who loved a cute dress but also felt cast to the sidelines for one reason or another.
My following actually grew, which—along with downsizing the house and a five-hundred-thousand-dollar windfall—made it possible to drop my other, less savory job.
I even have the means to make a yearly cancer research donation in Noah’s name.
The front door slams, breaking me out of my trance as Marlo comes bounding down our steps.
The peanut butter and jelly sandwich is already smashed inside her clear plastic bag.
Marlo hands it over so I can put it with the rest of the lunch supplies, then makes her way around to the passenger-side door.
We climb in and I start the engine, my Laurel Canyon Legends satellite radio station immediately launching into “Turn! Turn! Turn!” by the Byrds.
I instinctively reach out to find a new station that Marlo will like, but she stops me.
“We should listen to your music today,” she says with comically solemn maturity. “This is an important time for you.”
I flash her an amused look, unable to keep from laughing. “Okay, sweetie. Thank you.”
I pull out a folded piece of paper, opening it up and gazing down at the names on my list. “First stop, Pomona,” I announce. “Then we’ll start working our way back.”
Soon enough, we’re cruising through downtown Palm Springs on our way out of town.
The music is cranked and I’m singing along, but Marlo’s just gazing through the windows, taking it all in.
She does this a lot, much more of an observer than I ever was.
While she loves to perform, these moments of quiet create a nice balance.
Marlo doesn’t have to take up space the way I do.
She’s perfectly happy to watch and learn and listen.
She’s taught me a lot.
We pass the giant statue of Marilyn Monroe on our left, then Club Flamingo a few blocks later. Reminders of that night are everywhere, and on most days I try not to dwell. Today, however, I let the memories marinate a bit.
The investigation was extensive, but ultimately so bizarre and confusing that the results were a wash.
Nobody could make heads or tails of what actually happened that night, and I kept my part of the story as private as possible.
At first, I considered trying to explain the uncanny, possibly interdimensional creature that was Eddie Michaels, but when no trace of a body was found and strange black helicopters started circling the canyon, I decided to keep the juicy parts to myself.
The few people who did mention a giant talking bug that “made them break into the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway” just ended up sounding nuts, and eventually faded out of the public eye.
Some kind of private subcontractor took over investigations, working with the FBI, but details were hard to come by.
A few folks said it was Blackwater (or was it BlackRock?), while others claimed a division of Hex International had set up shop in the Coachella Valley but were keeping a low profile.
Officially, the events were finally determined to be a case of mass hysteria.
To be fair, there are brief moments when I question if the whole thing really was just some vivid dream. This only lasts until I catch a glimpse of my new face in the mirror or I chip off some of the half a million dollars still parked in my bank account.
With the help of a few tech savvy fans, I traced the money back to an anonymous crypto wallet.
Curiously, the only other purchases originating from this source were bulk orders of Eddie Michaels albums on their respective release dates, as well as a single, late-night marijuana delivery to Eddie’s sprawling Palm Springs estate.
I also managed to figure out where my own delivery request came from on that fateful evening, the one that interrupted Noah and me during the last meal we’d ever share.
I tracked it to the Palm Springs medical examiner’s office, and for my money, the caller was Shelly Wiseman, a twenty-four-year-old woman who had the random misfortune of working late that night.
One witness caught her leaving in the middle of her shift. They asked where she was going.
“To light myself on fire,” Shelly said.
Some kids on dirt bikes found her two months later, a heap of old, charred bones in the middle of the desert.
When Marlo and I pass the turnoff that leads up to the gondola station, we fall into silence. There’s not much to see from all the way down here, the station itself tucked deep within the canyon, but that doesn’t change the way it feels to get this close.
“We should ride that again sometime,” Marlo announces.
My head whips over to her, unable to hide my shocked expression. “Really?”
She casually shrugs. “Why not? Can’t be scared forever.”
Her point is simple yet effective.
“I just figured …” I start, not entirely sure where I’m headed before trailing off. “Huh. Okay, yeah. Sure.”
“Didn’t really get to enjoy it last time,” Marlo continues. She cracks a smile, then starts full-on laughing. It’s a silly thing to say, and she knows it, but it’s also the truth.
I shake my head in amazement. “Kids are resilient.” I chuckle, more to myself than to her.
Marlo nods, settling back into her seat. “Like you.”
I somehow manage to quell a volcanic rumble of emotion, but just barely.
“There’s a giant taxidermy bear up at the peak,” I remind her. “Also like me.”
“What?”
“A mama bear,” I explain.
Marlo furrows her brow. “You’re not a bear.”
“What am I then?” I ask. “I don’t wanna be a shark anymore.”
My daughter’s expression remains deeply unimpressed as she stares at me like I’m a total dumbass.
“Mom,” she says. “You’re a person.”
* * *
We’ve arrived at our final stop of the day, which also happens to be a return to Palm Springs. In fact, we’re just a few miles away from home, slowly pulling through the gates of Welwood Murray Cemetery.
The back seat is no longer packed full of flowers, arrangements doled out one by one as we took our time beside every gravestone, tomb, and humble memorial brick. A lot of people died that night, which means a lot of memories to honor.
We take the final bouquet from the car. Marlo wants to carry it, and I’m happy to let her.
Soon, we’re strolling through the headstones, our shadows stretching long across the cemetery grounds.
This place is quiet, tenderly soundtracked by the rustling of soft wind through nearby trees and the gentle clang of a metal carabiner against a flag pole.
The scent of fresh-cut grass fills my nostrils.
“There he is,” I announce, pointing to a nearby headstone.
Marlo nods, then bows her head slightly and walks over to the modest marble plaque. She places our flowers in front of the marker, then steps back a few feet, gazing down at them.
I stand next to her, holding her hand as my eyes linger on the boldly etched name: NOAH DOYLE.
We make these rounds every year, a long memorial trek that marks the anniversary of that night.
I’ll admit that I felt a little silly on the first year, the practical part of my mind immediately considering the fate of the poor flowers once we left each cemetery.
As someone who’s not particularly spiritual, it was difficult to wrap my head around the best way to honor so many people.
It makes more sense to me every time, though, especially since I realized that honoring the dead has plenty to do with the living.
This is an important time for Marlo and me, especially visiting Uncle Noah at the end of each trip.
Just because I can’t explain it, that doesn’t mean it’s not important.
I have no idea if Noah’s spirit is up there chilling out on some fluffy white cloud, sipping a beer and smiling as he gazes down on us. Maybe his ghost is standing right next to me, sending out those unmistakably kind and patient vibes just like he did when he was alive.
Or maybe not.
I’m here out of respect, not just for Noah, but for the grand, cosmic way that life and death intersect. The aching love that swells in my heart is real and important, but I don’t feel it like this for every single person during our annual rounds. I visit them anyway.
The phantom of each victim admiring their fresh-cut flowers is a wonderful and poetic little piece of imagery, but it’s one I still wrestle with. I don’t know where I land on the subject of heaven, or hell, or ghosts, or sparks that linger on and on after we go.
I probably never will, but at the end of the day, none of that matters. If I can’t quite be here for the soul, that’s fine.
I’m here for the body.