Damaged Hearts. Jan St. Marcus

been in much trouble. If he’s got a record, they’re not going to let him stay with me. I guess it’s not a huge deal, I barely know him. But there’s something about him that has me intrigued. As soon as I start thinking about him, my mind snaps to his eyes. How brightly they sparkled when he was cleaned up and eating. And how polite he was. I mean, he is definitely damaged in some way—pretty severely if he’s content being homeless—maybe all he needs is a break. And in the back of my mind, some little voice is telling me that if I help him, I might be helping myself.

      And then I remember that I was supposed to help Marty in Sal’s office. Just then my cell phone rings. “Hello?” It’s Sal. Of course it’s Sal. “Hey, Sal. I know we were going to go over Marty’s shit, but something came up and I have to jet. Can we do it tomorrow?” I ask.

      “Sure. Does eleven work?”

      “Absolutely. See you at eleven,” I reply with a sigh. I disconnect and lean against the wall of the elevator. I half wonder what’s going to happen next, but then I put that out of my mind. I’m going to have fun this afternoon. Bran and I will go shopping, get some food, and hang out a little bit. I smile as I think about how normal that all sounds. I say it sounds “normal,” but what I mean is that it sounds like what might be normal for normal people. Normal for me is hanging in the house with Sparky, watching some Netflix, walking the beach, and working out. The elevator dings, and my car is right there, gleaming in the dullish lights of the garage. And something about the lighting makes the sharp, aggressive lines of the car seem even meaner than it usually looks. And now I’m smiling that big dumbass smile that I don’t want the people upstairs to see. And right now, I couldn’t care less who sees it. Another moment and I’m driving into the delicious sunlight of the Southern California afternoon.

      ***

      Okay, I know how snobbish this is probably going to sound, but the thing about having a truly high-performance car is all about how it makes you feel when you’re driving it. I know that most people buy expensive cars for status, to show off or because they think it makes you look cool. I’m not one of those people. I bought my GT3 RS because I love to drive, and I do it really well. And I guess somebody a lot smarter than me might find some correlations with the fact that I am a mathematician and say something about the precision of the car and the way my mind works are compatible or some other psycho-babble. I say it’s all bullshit. I love the way the car feels. I love the precision of the steering and the kerthunk when the gears shift in a micro-second and how responsive the throttle pedal is. I mean, truth be told, I’m a total geek for this car. It’s not the only reason to call me a geek, but if this makes me a geek, I’ll take it.

      Instead of going right home, I head north on the Pacific Coast Highway and find little spots to press the throttle and accelerate to eighty or ninety miles per hour and then slow down again. It’s a rush that always puts a smile on my face. And, knock on wood, opening it up for short bursts will help me keep my driving record clean—I haven’t gotten a speeding ticket—ever. I feel so lucky when I get in a mood like this and take a drive like this. The concentration it takes to wrangle a beast like mine keeps my mind occupied, and other things zip by like the scenery. All that’s left is the smiling. And while I’ve been told that I don’t smile much, I absolutely love to smile. Like I’m doing right now. And now that I’ve adjusted my mood sufficiently, I have a houseguest to see to, so I turn up one of the canyons just west of Santa Monica and start the drive home. My smile remains intact throughout.

      ***

      As I park the car in the garage and approach the inner door, I begin to wonder what will be waiting for me. I hear Sparky’s nails clattering on the floor, so I know he’s home and pretty normal, but what about Bran? Did he stay or did he bolt? He seemed pretty uncomfortable about the whole thing since last night and I have no idea if he saw the video. But I keep remembering that I promised myself that I wouldn’t obsess over him, and I would just let the chips fall where they may. So as I walk in the door, I give all my attention to Sparky, who seems especially rambunctious. The only thing that can make me smile more than my car is Sparky. Something about a sentient being that knows what unconditional love is and revels in it is just so fucking special I can’t get enough of him not getting enough of me. If I could physically manage it, he’d probably let me pet him for twelve hours straight. As I’m thinking that, he rolls over and presents his stomach for tummy rubs, and I indulge him, putting my bag down and sitting on the floor next to him.

      After about a minute of the tummy rubs, he pops his head up and runs to the end of the hall, right to Bran, who’s standing there watching. I don’t know how long he’s been there, but he’s smiling. “Welcome home, dude,” he says, walking down the hall with Sparky at his heels.

      “Thanks. How was your day?” I ask. I frown a bit when I see what he’s wearing: Really worn jeans that are barely hanging on his hips, a super ugly T-shirt, and no shoes. Yeah, we’re going to have to go shopping. But on the plus side, he obviously washed his clothes, but, yeah, shopping just zipped to the top of our “to do” list.

      “Pretty good. I mean, really good. I relaxed, played with Sparky, applied for a couple of jobs.”

      “That’s cool.” I stand up and grab my bag. “Hey, I hope you’re not offended by this, but I kind of want to take you shopping. Is that all right?”

      “Shopping?”

      “Yeah. Like we can get you some clothes that fit . . . and look nice . . . you know, shopping?” Bran stares at me hard for a moment. Then he does a pirouette right in front of me.

      “You don’t like this year’s fashion trends from the Dumpster Collectione?” He has pronounced these words in a mocking French accent. Or was it supposed to be Italian? Doesn’t matter, the accent was terrible and the joke fell flat, but the message was received.

      “Okay then. Just give me a minute and we’ll go.” Sparky looks at me and then back to Bran as I walk to my bedroom. I throw my bag on the bed and realize that there isn’t really anything else I need, so I turn and walk back up the hall. Bran hasn’t moved, but Sparky takes off out of sight and returns with his leash in his mouth, running up to me, dropping the leash at my feet, and sitting down.

      “He’s not subtle, is he?” Bran asks, laughing.

      “Sparky is many things, but subtle is not one. You wanna walk with us?”

      “Absolutely.”

      I put on Sparky’s leash and he’s looking back and forth between Bran and me as we exit through the garage. I hit the garage opener from my pocket and the door rolls up and we exit to the alley behind the house. Sparky pulls on the leash as he runs from smell to smell in the wide alley. He’s remarking his spots as he goes, and he keeps looking back at Bran and me.

      “I have to tell you something,” I start to say.

      “Is it about the video?”

      “So you saw it?”

      “Hard not to. It’s, like, everywhere,” he says through a smirk.

      “Yeah. It’s a thing, I guess.”

      “Now I see where Sparky gets his subtlety from. That’s kind of an understatement.”

      “Really?” I say. A little shocked.

      “Um, yeah. It’s gotten like, over a million hits.”

      This stops me in my tracks. “Really?”

      “Yeah. Really.”

      “I didn’t put it up.”

      Bran studies me and then shakes his head. “I believe you, but …”

      “I seriously didn’t. It must have been the cops.”

      “Why?”

      “How should I know?” I ask rhetorically. “Maybe they were as pissed