From San Diego Writers Monthly publishes California Writers, California authors, new writers, offering readers info on how to get published, from literary agents, writing coaches, San Diego editors on editing, self-publishing how-to, publishing chap books and short-run books, book doctors, ghost writers, San Diego authors events, interviews of writers, book reviews, free readings, book signings, free stories, online fiction, poetry workshops, free novels, free essays, free ideas, science fiction, humorous stories, rants, funny essays, copywriting, freelancing info, and musings about living on this lonely planet circling a lonely star.

Looking west to a smear of dusty crimson sunlight, a young man of 20 stood on the shoulder of Highway 66 waiting to hitch a ride. A powder blue Cadillac pulled up and the lad was caught in a puff of loose gravel. When the dust settled, a woman dressed in a two-piece matching suit leaned over from the driver’s seat.

"Say fella, can you drive one of my cars to California? I’ll pay the expenses." She yelled out the window. Two cars pulled in behind her, and jerked to a stop.

The lad stared into the shine of the car. It looked like wet paint. He wanted to touch it right away.

"Sure will, yep I’ll do that. Should I get in now?" The young man answered.

"I need to see your driver’s license." She added.

The man hastily drew out his license from a dusty plastic cover inside his billfold. She looked it over, and smiled. "All right Maurice, keep in close to us on the road, don’t get lost. We’re going far as Needles."

Maurice held tight to the steering wheel, ‘Geez, ain’t this great, what a car. I’m going all the way from Nebraska to California in a Cadillac.’ He’d forgotten about the sharp pains of hunger and bloody sores on his feet. Now he was sitting on warm leather seats, with the cold night air off his back, and ten dollars in his pocket.

Sixty-five years later, I’m walking down the street where Maurice lives. We haven’t met yet. I don’t meet my neighbors. I move before I have a chance to care about them. It comes easy to me, being a loner. It runs in the family - both my parents were confirmed outsiders.

The year is 1995, the year I was almost destroyed by a tormented SOB. I had just escaped his weird macabre art gallery scene in Laguna Beach, and drifted back to Solana Beach. I have a suitcase, a broken down Cadillac and my checkbook with less than a hundred dollars.

I would describe Solana Beach as a coming-of-age beach community, a skate board ride from the San Diego coastline. Nothing was happening when I moved here in 1982. Now I’m watching the erosion of the old San Diego slip away, the faded, untended, and raw remains of the fifties. In its place rises a hip flock of designer homes, cars, two-toned shopping malls, and everything seems to have a contemporary face-lift. We are sandwiched between the Pacific Ocean and the affluent eucalyptus hills of Rancho Santa Fe that crest above the Interstate.

I don’t fit into the healthy, wealthy, tasteless style of complacency. I pick on their habits and sneer at their white socks and spotless Nikes. I love what we didn’t build: the ocean and coastline bluffs along Del Mar, the reserve and Torrey Pines, the mountains to the east, and how I can walk from here to there without feeling like I should be in a sports car.

I’m starting over, again. Searching for a new occupation, a real challenging job is what I tell people I’m doing. I’m searching for something deeper that needs attention. It’s not love, I’m sure of that; it’s not money, though I think it is; it’s not travel, though I could pretend it was so easily. I could say it’s a different purpose to my life. I’m single, never been married, and I spend too much time watching old movies. I worry about whether I’m pretty, intelligent, and worthwhile. I’ve loved several men in my life. I’ve loved each for what he taught me, but I dish out love as if each taker needs a different slice of me. I don’t know how to give them the whole, because I’m never quite in one piece. I drifted back to Solana Beach because of my friend Rudy, who invited me to stay with him. Rudy is a loner, but he’s a happy serene loner, that truly slides through life under the spell of nature, animals, and Indian legends he thinks are his own. It feels like we’ve known each other forever. Once lovers, now friends, he rescues me from the daring adventures I take with people, or without, reasoning that it’s just a short film and it’ll be over soon.

This evening is not black yet, not so quiet that I feel like sleeping, so I’m out taking a walk. Rudy is in the shower, worrying. Of late, he worries in every corner of his world. I feel the pressure in his head, the close to exploding tension that comes from men, any man, not making enough money to get through the month. I, on the other hand, pour a glass of wine and walk.

There’s an opening in the night, and I feel like walking in the middle of the road. Christmas is drawing near, but none of the homes are lit up. Everybody is too busy. When you stop being a part of the madness, you truly see how we live life: we eat fast, drive fast, shop fast, work fast, and there isn’t time for slow. None of the houses on the street make an impression except one.

It is a dolls’ house, a little house on the prairie, a house that Rockwell and Picasso should paint. You may notice the miniature Adirondack chairs, and wooden birdhouses painted canary yellow and barn red in the front yard. It’s not a grand yard, just a little one, enough room for an intimate garden and a picnic on the green. I’ve seen a cardboard For Sale sign on a stick, like you see on farms out in the country. Sometimes there’s bunches of sweet peas in plastic cups and a slotted tin can with a hand written $1.00 mark on it. I’ve seen wagons, miniature wooden horses, and clay pigs. I’d never met the man that lives there. I don’t meet my neighbors.

WOW! Look at that, I stand there frozen in the middle of the road, and gasp. Tonight the house is bathed in Christmas lights, red, green, and yellow bulbs looming from the rooftop and chimney, winding along the side of the house, inside the trees, and twisted between Santa Claus and his reindeers. Dozens of wrapped presents are tucked inside a painted red wagon. I can’t take my eyes away from the Christmas dolls standing upright in the yard. I loved dolls as a child. I had dozens.

In the foreground of the lights I hear a man calling out to me. I look up, and there he is in the center of the Santa Clause and reindeer dolls.

"How are you?" he calls out.

He frame is taut like iron, and a fold of white hair crowns his wide forehead. I see his inviting full mouth smile, inching closer to me. I almost back away. Why would I do that?

"Fine," I say motionless. "God I just love these lights, I’ve never seen anything like it."

"Well, I love doing it. I’m not finished yet, wait till you see when I’m done."

"How long have you been doing the lights? I’ve never noticed them before?"

"Oh well a long time, yeah, since I moved here."

"When was that?" I ask.

"Oh about 1936, each year it gets better."

"How come I never noticed?"

"Well, I don’t know," he chuckles. His boyish smile lingers. "You live down the street don’t you?"

"I live two houses down at 232. "

"I know the one. Well, I’m Maurice. Would you like to come inside for some wine?"

He notices my glass is empty now. There is something angelic and innocent radiating from him. "Thanks, not just now… I’ll bring Rudy back, he owns the house."

"I know who Rudy is - bring him back. I’ll be waiting."

He stands there until I leave, illuminated like a paper moon above the lights. I remember as a little girl we had a big Christmas tree, and lights on the house. My mother made cookies, and my father gave us so many presents. We had dinner parties then, before all the trouble began.

I burst into our little room to find Rudy standing in the shadows, hunting for something to eat. Rudy loves to work and eat. He’s a craftsman, stuck in construction, but he loves to create and mold textures and weave designs in wood and concrete. He loves working alone, without music or company. He has a few clients that keep him busy reconfiguring office spaces. The work doesn’t challenge his skills, but he loves working because he’s had long spells without work.

"Rudy! Have you ever met Maurice? The man that lights up his house?" I stammer.

"No," he replies flatly. "Isn’t there anything to eat?"

I feel my joy draining into vile reality. "Yes, but first you have to come meet Maurice. I mean it, he’s really..."

"I don’t want to now! I’m hungry." He snaps.

"Rudy, please just take a walk and meet him. You won’t be sorry." I say softly in what he calls my kitten voice.

"Oh all right, if it’ll get you off my back."

He shuffles behind me, too tired to argue, not at all interested in Christmas lights. Rudy has to be pried away from his worries these days. It’s about finances: mortgage payments, and city ordinances. We don’t live in the house; he rents his house and the studio to tenants. We live on the deck ¾ cramped in an illegal shed he built to store his tools. We’re hidden like mice beneath two hundred queen palms that whisper when the storms come through. I call it the crying room, because it’s no bigger than a Kleenex box and it makes me want to cry.

Maurice’s front door is wide open when we walk up. I smile when he appears in the entryway. He raises his arms and opens them in a half circle. I just want to run inside and get hugged.

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