Rain

(I came across this the other day.  I wrote it in the late 80s . . . As I recall, my intent was to enter it in a contest Ted Turner was having . . . I can't remember what the contest was called, but the stories had to focus on solving environmental problems. The prize was money and the chance to have your story made into a tv movie.)

The look would have sent dogs scurrying. It would have dominated a packed K-Mart on a rainy Saturday afternoon. Her eyes had been led by her chin in a counterclockwise swing that brought them deadlocked and blazing on Glen as he composed himself in the crumpled BMW. He sat skewered by those eyes for what seemed an eternity, then watched as she silently mouthed the word, "Shit!" and reeled to open her own car door.

"Shit!" he echoed, swiping his fist across the dash.

She was headed his way now, bent at the waist, scowling as she passed the side of the Cherokee. There was murder in her heart. He reached for the door handle, placed his left foot on the pavement and was climbing up and out when she grabbed him by the shoulder of his sweat shirt and dragged him around to the front of his car.

"Do you see that?" she shrieked, pointing. The impact had been enough to do grievous damage to the hood of the Beemer, but her Jeep had suffered only minor abrasions: an insignificant dent or two.

"Do you see that?" she blasted once again, this time slamming her fist on the rear door of the truck, right next to the dealership tag that read, "AMC JEEP of Mission Viejo."

"I'm sor . . ." he began.

"It's brand new! Brand fucking new! I just picked it up this God damned morning!" Suddenly she turned and began pacing back and forth along the side of the truck, waving her arms, continuing to rant. She was no longer addressing him, but rather the universe at large and drivers passing on the left as they made their way from the 405 to the 5 freeway began to roll their windows down to catch as much of the show as possible.

"Oh, God I hate California! It's not bad enough that the air is brown and you can be assassinated on the Freeway, but these people! These idiot people! I swear to God," She stopped, pointing a finger in his general direction, "There's something missing. (Then turning to walk once again) There's just something missing up in their minds." Pivoting, she kicked the front tire of the Cherokee. She had a southern accent -- definitely bread in the steamy hinterlands somewhere between Texas and South Carolina. But this was no feigning Southern Belle. Her words were filled with such passion that he knew it had to be her basic style.

"First they make you live in this filth," she was now walking along beside a beat up Toyota, matching its speed and addressing a nodding Mexican in a tee shirt, "Packed in like some kind of lemming, and then along comes Mr. Right in his black BMW and lets you have it from behind!"

"Tell it, Baby!" someone hollered across the traffic.

She was once again at the front bumper of the Jeep and this time turning, she fixed him squarely in her gaze. It was the cold, determined glare of a bull preparing to charge.

"That's really what you want, isn't it?" (raising that finger again and marching toward him to get it in his face) "You just want to ram me from behind like some kind of . . ."

Now directly in front of him, she stopped. Really stopped. And Glen watched as a spasm of confusion raced across her face. Brows knit, she was suddenly slack jawed and cocking her head to one side.

"My God," she said, almost whispering, " You're crying."

He reached for his cheek and felt the water there. "Oh, you don't und..." he began, but before he could finish, she had him again by the shoulder of his sweat shirt leading him to lean on the fender of his BMW.

"Where are you hurt?" She was now holding his shoulders by both arms, looking up an in as if in search of some sign as to how serious his injuries were. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't even think about you,"

"But ..."

"Need some help?" a trucker passing on the right called down.

"Just get us a cop," she called back, "and an ambulance, too. And tell them to hurry."

Knocking her hands off his shoulders, he reeled around to the trucker. "Forget the ambulance, just call a cop." The trucker waved his CB handset in understanding.

"Now," he said, turning back to her. "Calm down. I'm not hurt."

"But..."

"The tears were there before I hit you."

"Oh . . ." What an odd thing to say, she thought. But thinking better at the moment, she decided not to pursue it. "Then you admit you hit me?"

"Of course. It'd be kinda hard to deny, wouldn't it?"

They could hear the sound of an approaching police siren. For the first time, Laurel was calm enough to really see Glen. Tall and a little seedy by 405 freeway standards -- jeans an old grey sweat shirt and more than a 5 O'clock shadow -- he did have the most extraordinary eyes. Like sacrificial pools, they seemed to call to her to jump in. A tingle of interest dashed from the base of her spine to the back of her brain.

"Stop this." she thought. She'd been in Southern California for little more than a month and it had been longer than that since she had been with a man. But this was hardly the time to pursue. She'd just had and accident, for Christ Sake! Back to business!

"Well, where the hell was your mind? Couldn't you see that traffic was stopped?" She had her hands on her hips now and leaned back on her haunches like a swaggering schoolboy. But under that tough act, under that stiff suit, Glen could only connect with the passion pouring forth, cloaked in that wonderful accent, and those lips.

"She has one of the ten greatest sets of lips of all time," he thought. They were full, rich and wet, but they also curled just slightly at the right side, as if she was permanently pursing them in thought.

They turned to watch the Police car approaching from behind them. It was an Orange County Patrol Cruiser, and when it got within a car length or two, the Cop inside called out over his loudspeaker, "Move your vehicles to the shoulder. We'll get to you as soon as we can." They turned as it passed and watched for a moment as it headed South towards Mission Viejo.

"Must be another wreck up ahead," said Glen. Getting up from the fender on which he was seated, he walked around behind the BMW.

"Go ahead and get in your Jeep. I'll hold traffic here so you can make it across." They were only one lane away from the shoulder, and traffic was barely creeping, but it seemed the best thing to do in consideration of that fine accent.

"Whatever floats your boat," she called, walking for her door.

On the shoulder of the freeway, they began the process of exchanging names, phone numbers and insurance companies. Glen was struck by this woman. She appeared the consummate corporate hag -- fast, efficient, impatient -- but just beneath the surface there bubbled this incredible emotional fountain. It was as if she'd stuffed herself into that suit and was working as hard as she could to keep herself hidden inside. And still, as hard as she tried, she just kept oozing out through the seams. He just wanted to grab her in the middle of one of her speeches about proper procedures in working with insurance companies or what to do until the police arrive after you've had a wreck, and kiss her.

She, on the other hand, had certainly noticed him. Those eyes had stopped her dead in her tracks, true; but only for a moment. This was a completely irritating situation, and he -- as the cause -- could be no more than a completely irritating person. He was someone to be structured, dominated, gotten what's needed from and done away with. And the sooner the better.

"Now," she was saying, "Since you hit me, you'll probably be the one to get the ticket. So you'll need to contact your insurance agent as soon as possible to find out what they want me to do. I'll have my people standing by in case they need to get involved."

She looked over at him and Glen caught her eye again. He jumped on the moment, using this opening to pull her off the details and onto more important things."I loved the part about Californians," he said.

"What?"

"The part where you talked about something being missing." Her brow was knit but her eyes were locked onto his, trying to remember. "That was really some speech."

"Oh, that," she started, tossing her head back toward the lane they had left, "I suppose I should apologize. I've had a lot of stress lately and I guess I just needed to ventilate." She bit her lower lip -- that wonderful lower lip -- and knit her brow again. " But you came out of the clear blue and hit me -- and it pissed me off."

Laurel turned away again. She was not going to let this guy distract her. Her new Jeep -- the one she wanted for so long -- was sitting on the side of the most God-forsaken stretch of road in Southern California, injured in battle so to speak. She had no room in her mind for anything else until that was settled.

"Have you ever filed a claim with your company before?" she asked, back to business.

Glen shook his head. She was giving him her eyes again -- the ball was definitely back in his court.

"You have a wonderful accent," he was reaching beyond the facade now, hoping she would reach back. "Let me guess: Sweden? Pakistan? Lithuania?"

Almost on instinct, Laurel's fists found her hips. She stood there for a moment, mouth slightly open, saying nothing. This guy really was about the most interesting thing she'd seen since her move.

"Close, but not quite right. I'm from Georgia." She was smiling ever so slightly now, mostly from the right corner of her mouth. Hard as it was to imagine a minute earlier, those perfect lips were made even more perfect by the increased tension at the edges.

Glen grinned his biggest grin now, daring her to resist. "Well shut my mouth," he said, "What brought you-all out here to the endless summer?"

And now, like a sunrise, her teeth became visible, just for a moment, as she snorted a quick exhale of a laugh. This was too much for Glen. He had her, surely, but she surely had him.

"Well, work, of course. You don't think anyone really lives out here because they want to, do you?" Her tone was still tough, but there was a softness about her now. Her tirade and tight control had given way to a playful banter. Inside, she felt herself pouring out through the cracks in her armor like a flood. This man simply would not cooperate and she was delighted about that. Instead he touched her somewhere where she was very hungry -- and there was nothing the tough lady in the suit could do about that but stand by and watch.

"I've been here most of my life," he said,"and I like it, I think. But maybe that's just because I don't know any better. Like you said, 'There's something missing.'"

It was near six and the sun was straining to set through a thick L.A. smog. What light got through kissed everything in a pink to gold glow. Laurel became blonder, Glen seemed somehow tanner and the whole Orange County landscape was bathed in a luxurious, sensual blanket of light. Now Laurel seemed to be standing outside herself, watching events from the side, viewing them as if she were watching a blue jean commercial on TV.

"I didn't really mean you," she said. " It's just that I've been here for only a month and it all seems so strange to me. I mean, the ground shakes and everything is brown and the people seem to live for grid lock. It was never like this in Athens."

"Athens, Georgia?"

"Yes."

"My, you are a long way away from home." Glen lowered his head and raised his eyes, holding her in his most calculated gaze. "Maybe what you need is a good tour guide."

Laurel was flabbergasted. It was as if she was orchestrating the whole conversation from her podium outside herself. On cue, Glen seemed to be feeding her the looks, the lines, the whole play she was scripting in her mind, the one where she meets the love of her life one day when he rams into her on the freeway. She wanted so badly to say,"Yes! Yes!" but the script called for her to smile tightly and fidget. And that's what she did.

Glen knew he had her. He was in control. Her discomfort was his cue. "I've got an idea. I don't want this on my insurance record anyway. Clearly, I'm at fault. How about if I absolutely promise you that I'll pay whatever it takes to make your car perfect and we get off this freeway and find some dinner?" Now her nose was wrinkled and her eyes squinting as if in a grimace. "It could be an hour before a cop gets here -- maybe longer -- and I know the perfect place to take a Georgia girl."

"Oh, come on," Laurel began. "You don't think I'm that naive, do you? I know nothing about you except what you've told me -- and the last guy I accepted promises from on that basis was the one who sold me this truck."

"So, you're saying you trust me less than your car salesman?"

"No, that's not what I meant." Laurel was now in very deep. This masquerade had gone on far beyond what she had planned. She liked the direction it was taking, mind you, but it was also very important that she stay in control. The businesswoman in her demanded it.

Glen was determined. "Tell me this: what would you do if you were out in the boonies of Georgia and had a fender bender with a farmer and you were miles from a phone to call the police?"

"Um, I'd get all the information and probably have him sign a statement," Laurel answered.

"So, let me sign a statement and let's go. I think I've got some paper right in here." Glen was now inside his car, rifling through the stacks of paper on the back seat.

"I, Glen E. Moss do hereby certify that on this, the 17th day of October, 1995, I did drive my BMW into the rear end of Laurel' What's your middle initial?"

"No, Glen, this isn't the way..."

"Come one, what is it?"

"E."

"'Laurel E. Wilson's brand new Jeep Cherokee.' What's the E for?"

"Never mind."

He gave her the look again, gazing up from underneath his eyebrows. "Laurel, what could it hurt? Tell me; I want to know."

"It's Everett."

"Everett? What? Did your dad really want a boy?"

"It's an old family name. My great grandmother was an Everett." She wanted to tell him everything about her great granny, about the bawdy house she ran in Madison,Georgia during the War of Northern Aggression, about the night she opened the house to General Sherman who later decided to spare the town and went on to burn everything between there and Savannah. She wanted to tell him -- and she was beginning to know that some day she would.

"Ok; let's see,'brand new Jeep Cherokee in the south bound lanes of the 405 Freeway where it merges with the Southbound 5 Freeway, just north of the El Toro Rd. exit. Since this mishap was entirely my fault, I agree to pay any and all bills in connection with putting Ms. Wilson's Jeep in perfect condition, signed ...'"

"No, don't sign it!" She urged. While he had been writing, Laurel had been formulating her response and was now on the verge of action.

"Just give me the paper!"

"There," he handed the paper over to her,"If that satisfies you we can get on to the best kept dinner secret in the area."

As soon as she had it, she dashed back behind the shouldered vehicles and began waving at the traffic crawling by. Eventually, a man in a Ford pulled over and rolled down his window.

"Need some help?" he asked.

"I sure do. And thanks for stopping." Laurel wiped at her hair with her free hand, waving the paper back and forth with the other.

"This man just rear ended me out there and we can't seem to get a cop to come. They're all busy and we've both got to be somewhere. He's written a statement saying it was his fault. If you'd just watch him sign it and then witness it saying that you saw the signature happen it sure would help me a lot. OK?"

"He hit you, huh?" by this time, Glen was walking slowly over to the Ford, sheepish grin on his face.

"Yes, I truly did," he said. "And I'd appreciate it if you'd help us out here."

"Well, I guess so. Have him sign it," he said nodding at Glen who put his name at the bottom on the trunk lid of his BMW. Then Laurel passed it on to the man for his signature.

"You know," she said, " I really don't expect any problems, but just in case, could you give me a phone number where I could reach you if I need to?" The man fixed her in his gaze for a minute, weighing the pros and cons of her request. Then he jotted a number at the bottom of the page. Her charms were certainly working for her today.

As the Ford eased back into traffic, she turned to Glen. "OK. Now I want you to know that if you screw around with me I'll hunt you down and burn what's left of your car, you got that?"

"Don't worry; I'm a man of my word."

"So, where's this wonderful place you've been telling me about?"

He pointed to the east, to the Santa Ana Mountains rising from the sprawl of the El Toro Air Base. They stood dry, treeless and severe against the darkening evening sky.

"Just the other side of those hills, about 2,000 feet up."

And that's how it had started, almost a year ago now. And sitting in the Hollywood Bowl with that glorious music washing around her, she could still see him pointing East towards the mountains that would become their sanctuary. How she longed to see those mountains again.

That night they had dropped her car at a shopping center parking lot in San Juan Capistrano and taken the Ortega Highway the thirty miles to the eastern summit of the Santa Anas. Laurel had been curious about the road but had not yet explored it. The coast calls so strongly to newcomers that it usually takes some time before they discover anything else.

The road was like a cavern in the darkness. She had the sensation of huge mountains looming on either side of the car, of growing altitude and deep ravines. She imagined the humid, almost tropical lushness of the North Carolina mountains. Somehow the climbing of the car and the thinning traffic made her think of that. But it was just a guess. All she really knew was that this was a very dark place with a very curvy road -- and she liked it.

They talked all the way up the mountain. Laurel told him all about her move west last month. About the job offer she'd gotten from Teknik after her presentation at the annual meeting of the (some scientific group or another). She'd spoken about the work she was doing at Georgia Tech with (need to find some study to insert here)

It was funny. She'd always thought that all she ever wanted to do was research work at a University. But the conversations with the Teknik brass had apparently come at just the right moment. She was feeling trapped in an academic box that got tighter every year. All of her friends were from the school, everything she did socially had to do with the school, every conversation she had related to her work in some way. And there was just no passion, no exuberance, no fun,. That, coupled with the fact that the research grant she'd been working on for the past couple of years was barely enough to live on, put her in position to be more than merely curious when the people from TekNik spoke to her after the conference.

But now, little more than a month into her new life, she had significant doubts about her ability to fit in. The traffic crawled, even in the middle of the night. Housing was so expensive that she had co-workers living 50 miles or more from the office, that being the place where distance and affordability crossed. Her research assistant was up every day at 4am to be on the road before 5 so that she could be in the office by 8:30. And, of course, this crush of people had a by-product, their dirt: on the ground, over the windows, under foot and mostly in the air. There were times when seeing across the street was difficult. Just this morning she'd wondered if there had been a fire as the sky lightened during her crawl to the office. But it was just smog. She imagined goldfish swimming in a bowl of water made fowl with their own excrement.

"This is like swimming in a toilet," she thought.

But really, all of this was anticipated. She knew it would be noisy,crowded and dirty when she accepted the job. The big ugly surprise had been the near total lack of natural green. Truly this place was a desert; a man made one at that. What water had been here had long since been sucked out of the ground by the thirsty basin. Now, those made rich by L.A.'s continued uncontrolled growth had arranged to drain the Colorado River and several other sources into the City's reservoirs. The result was that there was simply nothing green except by irrigation. With the exception of a few withered Jacarinda here and there, there were no trees, no bushes, no green meadows. Everything was brown -- dead, like the moon.

Glen listened. He'd heard this before from other Easterners, and had passed it off as simple adjustment problems for most of his life. But now there was no doubt about it: there were just too many people, too much dirt, too much traffic, too many gangs. Many of the people who lived here in ‘paradise’ -- even long time residents, like himself -- had escape fantasies that lead them away. But the dollar was like a manacle holding them to this place. And so it was for him.

"You know," Laurel was saying,"It goes deeper than dirt and dryness. There's this attitude here. It’s such a grab and clutch mentality here." She looked over at him and felt a shock run through her. She'd forgotten who she was talking with. Actually she'd forgotten she was talking with anyone at all. She'd been venting again.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Sometimes I'm like an overheated boiler -- I just need to drain off some steam. I didn't mean to hit you with all of this; I mean it's my problem."

"No, no, it's all right," Glen responded. "A lot of people feel the way you do. Sometimes I do myself. This can be a very ugly place."

It was more than a matter of ugliness to Laurel. Somehow, being plunged into this dusty wasteland was tearing up her soul. At times her heart physically ached and it seemed the only thing that would help would be a walk in a pine forest or a drink from a mountain stream. Many nights she ended up on the floor of her temporary apartment sobbing into her photo album. It was her finest treasure, filled with memories of trips to the country, of her old family home -- a plain white frame house on ten acres mostly in hardwoods -- of the Georgia coast and the Smokie Mountains.

In the morning her eyes would be puffy and her throat full of sighs. But by the time she left for the office, she'd have reconstructed her competitive toughguy self and no one would suspect that she was miserable. She wouldn't give that to them.

"But you know," she was saying as she looked up and out of the sun roof, "This is a beautiful place. I can see more starts from here than I've seen anywhere since I got here."

That's because we're above the smog and beyond the glow of the lights. That's why the observatory at Mt.Palomar is just down the ridge a way."

She was kicking herself for having done this to him -- no, to herself. Here she was with the most interesting guy she'd met since she moved and all she could find to talk about was how miserable she was. "He must really be getting a charge out of me!" she thought. She decided to change the subject.

"What do you do for a living?" she asked.

"I work in the movies," he answered, a little self-consciously. It seemed almost a cliche to say that here. He was both proud and embarrassed.

"Well," he went on, " That's not entirely true."

Laurel swung sharply in her seat, smiling out of the right side of her mouth.

"Oh," she said, "So now you're gonna try to score points with me by telling me you're some big producer and you want to make me a star, is that it?" He was chuckling now. "Is that it?" She persisted.

"No, no," he replied. "It's not like that at all. Actually I'm a composer. I write music. It's just that I sell most of it to the movies."

"Really!" She was intrigued. "Anything I've heard?"

"Maybe. How many slasher movies have you seen?" Glen had broken into the business by providing the atmospheric background cover for low budget thrillers. He was glad to have the work but had always been a little frustrated that the quality of the films was really not up to the level of the music. He had been fascinated with the emotional response to music since his early days at Julliard and saw it as a goal to be strived for in his work. Others in his composition group saw the beauty of music in its mathematics or in its ability to reflect modern life. They were the masters of the brilliantly constructed and completely inaccessible Opus: that weighty thing that only those with someone to impress would confess to enjoy. Glen, on the other hand, was totally absorbed in the elicitation of pure emotion in response to the music. In school, many of his compositions had more in common with the Romanticism of the 19th Century than the cacophany of the 20th.

For this reason, he was regularly snubbed by his classmates. His last Compostion teacher had taken him to a bar one afternoon and bought a couple of rounds before summoning the courage to admit that, while Glen's work was technically superb and worthy of the high marks he received, he just didn't like it. In the closing days of the 20th Century it would be hard to find anyone who would pay to hear the kind of sentimental claptrap he was writing. Perhaps he should consider placing more emphasis on performance rather than composition. Perhaps he was better suited to play a symphony rather than write one.

But Glen was undeterred. He knew what he wanted to do and it didn't matter whether he got paid for it or not. He graduated with mediocre marks and moved back to Southern California. Ironically, the kind of music he had been preparing to write was exactly what Hollywood was looking for to provide impact to their films. In recent years, budgets had become a hinderance to the grand costumes, sets and huge casts of the past. No longer could the look of the film be counted on for emotional impact. Now it was up to the score.

He got his first break by submitting a tape of one of his college compositions to several dozen production companies around town. It was a dreary but highly atmospheric piece he called "Cold Rain." Of course it was never heard by most of the people to whom it was sent. But then about six weeks after its mailing, he got a call from Mike Reynolds. He was producing a low budget "stalker" movie -- unknown cast, shot completely on location, story to be made up as shooting got underway. He needed some incidental music and, while he couldn't pay for Glen to create something especially for the movie, he'd like to edit parts of "Cold Rain" into the final version.

So began a long collaboration with Mike. It was really perfect for Glen in many ways. He hated Hollywood and movie people in general. Working in bad films provided him an income and a degree of anonymity at the same time. While his friends at Julliard were famously starving, he was quietly able to move to the village at El Cariso, tucked in the mountains he and Laurel were now driving through, where he could work surrounded by empty space and silence.

Glen rattled off the names of the dozen films he'd done with Mike over the past eight years.

"Nope," Laurel said, screwing up her nose,"I don't guess I've ever seen any of those. But I never go to the movies."

"You're in the wrong audience, anyway. These were all made for the ten to seventeen set. And, of course, anyone else who gets into spurting blood!" This last thought was presented in Glen's best Dracula imitation. Laurel made a face.

"But you may have seen my last one," he cocked his head cryptically. Earlier that evening, about the time Laurel agreed to leave the accident scene with him, he had promised himself that he wouldn't talk about this. It was something he didn't want anyone to know too soon in a relationship; it had too much potential to color or taint the way things progressed. But here he was, strutting his stuff, letting it all hang out to impress the lady.

"Oh? What was that?" Laurel asked.

"'Sunday Morning.'" He listened eagerly for her reaction.

"'Sunday Morning?'" Laurel paused. "Damn! That was a big movie." Big, but she hadn’t seen it. "You wrote the music for that?"

"Yep." Not only was it a big movie, it was Glen’s big breakthrough. It had made a stir at Sundance and gone on to find an enthusiastic audience. Now he was in position to do quality work for quality film. And the offers had been steady since "Sunday's" release.

"By the way," he said, pointing with his right hand across his chest. "I live up there."

They had gotten to a place in the road where lights gave away a few small houses on either side. High above, where the dark horizon met the starfilled sky, a couple of small lights beamed at them.

"Way up there on that hill?"

"Yep. That's home." He was proud of that, too. "But pay attention, here," he said, nodding ahead, " It's all about to happen."

Laurel turned to face forward. The road wound through some smaller hills. She had the sensation that the long climb they had been on was over, that they had reached the summit and would either continue along the ridge or begin a descent soon. Suddenly, as they rounded a curve, the hills that guarded their vision on either side of the road fell away to reveal a huge deep valley straight ahead, filled with firey diamond lights as far as she could see. Laurel let out a little gasp and reached for the dash of the BMW. Glen headed straight for the edge, but began to slow and brought the car to rest in a promontory overlooking the scene.

"My God. That's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," sighed Laurel. It was as if the mountains ended there in a cliff. The car was parked at the edge and it was straight down from there, probably about 2,000 feet to the floor of the valley.

"I come here when I get to feeling that the traffic and the smog and the angry people are too much," said Glen. "It kinda puts it all in perspective for me." He reached down and touched her hand. "Here; I give it to you. It's a present from me."

"Thank you so much for sharing it with me."

Glen leaned over and, gently pulling her toward him with his hand, kissed her softly, tenderly, tasting those perfect lips as if they were some rare fruit. She was spinning now, unleashed, hovering in the car near the edge of the precipice. And she gave herself to the moment. She allowed herself to fly.

They never did make it to dinner that night. They spent it instead with a bottle of local wine and some fruit -- and in each others arms. Glen soared with her there. He'd never met anyone he felt so easy with so quickly. It was as if after the initial banter, any reason for pretense evaporated. It was as if they'd been together for months. And she felt a complete release from herself, a renewed connection to who she really was. The night was magic.

That had been six months ago, and the two had spent many nights together since. Glen lay slouched in his home/studio gazing out the window and daydreaming about this extraordinary woman. Was he falling in love?

"There's something about the SMELL of her," he thought. "She . . . " He was interrupted by the ringing phone next to him.

"Glen, I've got to talk to you." It was Laurel on the phone. She was abrupt, anxious. Something was going on.

"Sure, what's up."

"I need to see you -- someplace where we can have some privacy. Can you meet me at Santa Rosa Preserve in about an hour?"

"Well, yeah, I guess. Where are you?"

"In my car."

"Are you in trouble?"

"I'll tell you all about it. I'll be over by the last Tenaja. Park down below and walk up. I don't want our cars to be seen together."

(Believe it or not, this was supposed to go to a place where Laurel and her team at work - with musician, Glen's help - devise technology to solve Southern California's smog problem.  They discover that low frequency sound waves cause tiny particles in the air to condense and fall to the ground like rain.  That's true, by the way.  I remember a study where tires were burned in a closed space producing a thick hazy smoke.  When low frequency sound waves were applied, the smoke began to clot in the air, gaining weight and quickly falling to the floor.  In my story, broadcasting stations are set up all over the LA basin and  are activated whenever air quality falls to a specific level.  Of course there has to be some intrigue . . . that's why Glen and Laurel are meeting in secret and not wanting to be seen together.  I never figured out what the intrigue was, but it was going to be spies or evil military guys or perverted big business trying to take control.  It's funny how old this is.  I kept wanting these people to be using their cell phones!  And why the hell is Glen crying when he his Laurel? Huh??)