From The Dead
Jada Ferrari lit the collection of miniature candles along the coffee table. Darkness evaporated from the living room.
As Jada leaned forward, Jesse Barlow admired the curvature of her figure, the way her brunette hair fell in curls past her shoulder blades.
“I just bought these today,” said Jada, who brushed her hand above the flames and sent the aroma of jasmine wafting through the air. Ever the center of attention, she sat on the edge of the sofa beside Cameron and Gavin, friends from an apartment downstairs, as Gavin lit the round of joints.
The scene, once common, had grown less frequent in recent months. Nowadays, Jada, a burgeoning film director’s assistant, sought company with people who could further her career.
Jesse’s career, on the other hand, begged resuscitation.
From the recliner at the far end of the room, Jesse, distant and disengaged, stared out the window at the crisp glow of a streetlight two stories below. At the chirp of an activated car alarm, Jesse leaned toward the sound in time to see a male silhouette emerge from the shadows and wander into the apartment building next door.
An anonymous man. Los Angeles is filled with them.
Then again, everyone is anonymous to someone. And everyone has an anonymous side, a shadow within, a guarded corner where secrets hide.
Gavin passed a joint to Jada. With a puff, she held her breath, coughed a few times, then fell back against the cushions and hung limber, as though she’d craved this all day.
Cameron grinned. “Next time, you buy.”
Spoken like a low-level accountant.
Jada waved her joint toward Jesse in a hypnotic-like motion. “Are you gonna keep staring out the window or get in on the act?”
Years ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated. Never an addict or heavy user, Jesse enjoyed a recreational hit when the urge mounted within. But the pleasure had long passed. He’d grown tired of breathing the strange air, the subtle loss of control.
He wished his guests would leave but knew it would be a few hours. Soon the music would start—Beck’s Odelay, no doubt—followed by a raid on his refrigerator. Gavin and Cameron would argue whether “Loser” or “Where It’s At” was the singer’s breakthrough single.
Oh, what the hell. “All right, hand one over.” And with that, Jesse reached out his thumb and forefinger.
“There you go.” Jada beamed as she passed Jesse a joint. “You never have fun anymore. Gotta live a little!” She turned to her couch mates. “Right, losers?”
Lightheaded, Gavin giggled.
With the joint in his fingers, Jesse sank into the recliner once again. He yielded to the sharp herbal fumes that crept like a current through his veins and loosened his brain. The effect seemed immediate, his body no longer conditioned to the stuff. He focused on the array of candles as their flames increased in clarity and the jasmine grew richer.
Gavin exhaled a deep cloud and leered at oblivion, a pensive look on his face like a stoned Socrates. He waved his joint in front of his face, as if in afterthought. “You know, those Rastafari guys say this stuff helps you get close to God.”
God, thought Jesse. The God who never seemed to give him answers to a lifetime of questions. And as Jesse sat, present yet isolated, those questions resurfaced in a torrent.
Why did she have to die?
Why did I leave them behind?
Jesse leaned back further against the black leather cushion and clenched his jaw.
I’m a preacher’s son, he thought.
So how did my life get so fucked up?
The screech of an alarm clock pierced the 3:30 a.m. silence. Jada, groggy from the night before, groaned as she felt around the pre-dawn darkness for the button to make the ringing stop. Not one to snooze, she sat up in a heap as Jesse rolled over and mumbled.
“Is Barry scheduling sunrise meetings now?” Jesse asked.
Barry Richert. The Barry Richert, as Jada reminded everyone who would listen. Barry Richert, whose unexpected success arrived two years ago with a low-budget film that became a sleeper hit. These days, the man received hundreds of screenplays a week.
“A location shoot in Malibu. Call time is seven, but he needs me there an hour early.”
Her commute from their Sherman Oaks apartment would require less than an hour, but Jesse knew Jada would spend much longer perfecting her image in the bathroom. She pressed her fingers against her head, which must have continued to pulsate from the prior evening’s get-together.
“Go back to sleep, babe.” She stroked his chest once and climbed out of bed. Jesse leaned on an elbow and eyed the silhouette of his girlfriend, clad in a slinky black negligee, as she tiptoed across the crowded bedroom and turned on the bathroom light.
Through the cracked door, Jesse heard the sputter of a shower. Then he buried his head in the pillow and dozed off. He had come to dread the sunrise in recent months.
* * *
“A polarizing filter will help reduce glare,” Jesse explained. “Kind of like wearing a pair of shades at the beach.” From a display rack on the sales floor, he peered out the window while, for the sixth time, he rattled off the benefits of camera filters to a newbie.
“What about this one?” asked the customer, who grabbed a transparent red filter from the rack and held it toward the overhead light. “It looks like half a pair of 3-D glasses.”
“More or less. It can be used to cover up skin blemishes. Heavy acne, that sort of thing,” Jesse said.
The customer chuckled in a series of mother-hen clucks. She tucked a lock of silvering chestnut hair behind her ear and said, “That would come in handy for my daughter-in-law. The latest one, that is. Spent thousands on a boob job but can’t get rid of that acne along her neckline. Spends half her life in the tanning booth to cover it up. That reminds me: Can any of these filter things hide my son’s inheritance from her?”
LensPerfection sat on Ventura Boulevard near the Van Nuys intersection. Crammed within a dense stretch of bricked retail, the photography shop shared its walls with a Java Cup coffee shop on one side and an incense store on the other. Jesse found humor in the string of palm trees that loomed outside, whose lazy branches lapped sunlight in strategic array but, in the end, sat unnoticed by passersby. With their perfect spacing, the trunks appeared victims of a transplant, carted to the side of a busy street to project an image of California perfection.
Jesse smirked. Even the trees were cosmetic.
Once he’d satisfied all his customer’s questions, Jesse led her to the checkout counter with a handful of filters he doubted she’d ever use.
By eleven thirty in the morning, LensPerfection attracted its usual surge of foot traffic from those who took an early lunch hour. Most were browsers. A portrait studio sat toward the back and lured the occasional actor-to-be, who arrived with a designer coffee or vitamin water in hand, ready to schedule a shoot for the head shot that would make him famous.
Jesse’s head shots were free. After several years of part-time employment, the owner allowed the extra perk and arranged Jesse’s schedule around his bottom-rung work on film and television shoots. But the shoots had become sparse and, for two years straight, Jesse had not met the minimal hours required to secure medical coverage through his union. At this point, however, benefits were the least of his concerns.
Jesse’s wavy, dark-blond hair, chiseled jaw line, and tall, fit form caught frequent second glances from both genders. But for Hollywood’s cameras, handsome didn’t seem to cut it, not when perfection stood next in line.
Jesse felt a vibration in his pocket. When he flipped his cell phone open and discovered a new text message from Maddy, his agent, his hopes surged. She had gotten word of a possible audition, a small supporting role in a feature film, and had pursued the prospect for weeks. Although it consisted of five lines, it represented an opportunity to expand his resume and connect with its director and principals. Jesse needed the gig.
And the audition was scheduled.
Emotional attachments are dangerous; better to take the news in stride, but this audition could mark the official end of his dry spell and justify years of waiting in L.A.
Jesse returned his attention to the store and the hum of its electric doorbell. A customer, a man around forty years old, entered and hung his sunglasses on his shirt opening. Dressed in starched khakis and a perfect haircut, the man looked more like a mid-level executive who had stopped by on his way to a round of golf. Jesse wondered what a corporate job with steady hours must be like.
“Can I help you?”
“I tossed a roll of film in the drop-off bin yesterday.”
Jesse reached for the basket of completed photo packets on the rear counter. “Name?”
“Glen Merseal,” he replied.
As Jesse flipped through packets, Glen fingered through some eight-by-tens stacked beside the cash register. When Jesse returned, Glen couldn’t seem to pull himself away from a photo of a homeless man. In the photo, the subject leaned against a railing and gazed at the ocean, his face afire beneath a midday sun. With his fishing rod extended in search of a victim, the homeless man’s face spoke of mystery. Jesse couldn’t determine whether the subject appeared content or forlorn; perhaps the man struggled between the two.
Jesse began to ring out the order.
Glen tapped the edge of the photo with his finger and said, “This guy’s expression intrigues me. The photographer captured his, what? His aura?”
“Oh, it’s not a professional photo.” Jesse chuckled. “It’s just a sample photo to illustrate the paper quality.”
“Do you know who took the picture?”
Jesse shoved a hand into his pocket. “I did.” When Glen’s eyebrows rose a bit, Jesse added, “I shot that photo at the Santa Monica Pier. I’ve seen that man from time to time. Guy’s name is Marshall. He must catch dinner there. Life on the beach, huh?”
“Did you take photography classes?”
“A high school class way back, but nothing else. I dabble in it here and there, flip through books to pick up tips. Trust me, I’m no professional.”
“That’s amazing.” Glen glanced at the photo again, but this time he held it up to the light. He extended his hand. “What’s your name?”
“Jesse. Nice to meet you.”
As they shook hands, Glen reached for his wallet and removed a business card.
“My kid’s got a birthday coming up. We’re giving her a little party in a couple of weeks at a park nearby. Would you be interested in taking some action shots?”
“You’re making a professional out of me, is that it?”
“Sure,” Jesse said. “Who couldn’t use the extra cash?”
If only film and television jobs were this easy to obtain.
“Great! We’ll figure out the details letter. Number’s on the card.”
As the customer walked away, Jesse peered down at the business card. Was it possible Glen might work in the legal department at a studio?
No such luck. Glen was a franchise owner in a fast-food chain.
Jesse arrived home around six that night. No purse or keys on the breakfast-bar ledge above the kitchen counter, which meant Jada hadn’t yet come home. He tried to recall her schedule today: Dinner plans with Barry Richert and a studio executive? Ink a deal to direct an adaptation of that recent book lauded by critics? He couldn’t keep track of her life. By virtue of her job, Jada subjected herself to Barry’s continual beck and call. Then again, Jesse was thankful to have the apartment to himself for the moment; nowadays her presence alone could trigger tension.
His eyes sensitive from the fluorescent lights at the shop, Jesse slid onto the black leather sofa in the living room and went limp for a few minutes. He ran his hand through his hair. Was he getting tired quicker? Though subtle, he had noticed a difference.
He stared at the jasmine candles on the coffee table, the ones from the previous night, his sinuses acute to the sharp scent. What is it with women and candles? he wondered. Jada wasn’t the kind of woman to leave them at random spots around the apartment, however, so he counted his blessings. Subtle yet aggressive, she was the type to lay the bait and wait for someone to notice and respond with a compliment. And Jesse was grateful she chose a scent other than vanilla. Then again, Jada herself was anything but vanilla.
In its entirety, the apartment décor could be credited to Jada. The glass-top coffee table on a slab of generic gray stone, jazz wall prints fit for a coffee house, muted chrome lamps—everything possessed a contemporary nonchalance, as if an interior decorator stopped by on periodic visits and left behind articles much like you’d forget a ballpoint pen. Every element reflected Jada’s personality. It was a far cry from the more traditional embellishments he found in his northern Ohio hometown. But to her credit, Jada had managed to frame a few of his photographs and put them on the bookshelves. Jesse held no strong opinions in the matter, though on occasion he felt like a stranger in his own home.
And, of course, the lease was in her name.
He grabbed his cell phone from his pocket and read Maddy’s text message again. Countless months had passed since he’d heard good news; he had to savor this audition prospect. Most of Jesse’s media work was as an extra, a random individual who walked down background corridors or pointed at superheroes that clung to the sides of buildings. Seldom did Jesse learn whether he appeared in the final cut until the film opened in theaters.
But he had never carried a line of dialogue. If successful, this audition would be a game changer. A small role, yet even award-winning celebrities had their minor moments early on: Richard Dreyfuss offered to call the police in The Graduate; Jodie Foster lent her voice to an animated Charlie Brown.
On the other hand, his confidence had taken a severe blow the last two years. It’s said you shouldn’t become an actor if you can’t handle rejection. But while the initial rejections are heartbreaking, soon those rejections become routine, to which you grow impervious, like skin numbed by an ice cube. Jesse had always taken rejection in stride. Today, however, with his gears rusty, Jesse fought internal doubts about whether he could win this role. The way he saw it, the odds didn’t fare well for him.
No. Forget the doubt, he thought. It’s been too long. This has to work out. He didn’t want to think about the alternative: another failure, another embarrassment, another step toward a terminated dream.
Jada didn’t understand. Despite her industry savvy, she—
Jesse heard keys jingle outside. Speak of the devil.
She entered in a flourish. Without a greeting, Jada unleashed as soon as she spotted him on the couch.
“Can you believe the guy in the next building parked his crappy car in front of our doorway again? I had to walk halfway up the block to get here. My Beemer is worth more than that guy’s gas pedal! What the fuck’s the matter with him?”
A delicate body figure with a cast-iron tongue. Polished and professional on the job, though. Not an off-color word from her on the set. She knew who fed her and how to perform for an audience of her own.
Jada left her purse and keys on the breakfast bar, then plopped down on the sofa beside Jesse and kicked off her shoes. As Jesse massaged her knee, she drew her legs underneath her and tugged at a bracelet. “I hate location shoots,” she said.
That’s right, she spent today in Malibu. “That bad, huh?”
“Once the police got the street blocked off and we started rolling, it went fine. A side street off the 101. We shot a couple of short scenes in the morning to minimize our days outside the studio lot.” In a single motion, her eyes lit up and she engaged her hands in a near pantomime. “Oh, then it got to be noon and the real fun started. You know those people who wander by and decide they want to make their screen debut? Someone peeks behind a building across the street? We got one of those.”
“A side street in Malibu isn’t what you’d call a high foot-traffic area.”
“I don’t know what this guy was thinking, but he’s coy. Starts out on the 101, just walks by. Maybe a tourist who just had lunch.”
“How far away were you from 101?”
“A couple of blocks, but he wanders up the sidewalk. No crime. He inches closer till he’s a few feet away from the action.” She leaned forward and spread her fingers toward Jesse. “Amanda Galley’s starring in this thing, okay? So she’s hanging out, flirting with the crew like she does. This tourist guy waddles up and makes a remark to her, thinks he’s gonna score with this A-lister. Well, I don’t know what he said to her; the story versions change depending on who you talk to. But he got assaulted with a shoe, and—”
“A shoe? How?”
“He got hit in the head with a shoe.”
“Amanda’s! She’s in costume, some riches-to-rags character, loses all her money and collects seashells by the seashore in her high heels. Anyway, she pulls off her shoe and hits the guy right in the middle of his forehead. Disaster. The guy doesn’t know what hit him. He starts to scream when a trickle of blood runs down his nasty face. So now the police wander over to check it out, the guy says he’s gonna sue, all this shit. Because he got nicked in the head by Amanda Galley’s pink shoe. She’ll probably show up on the news tonight. What a moron.”
“Amanda or the guy?”
“Both of them. Have you ever worked with her?”
“Prima donna. And if you think about it, she’s never had a big hit.” In a huff Jada fell back against the sofa and drew her brunette hair to rest on her shoulders. Jesse found her olive, Mediterranean skin tone exotic.
Jada had had dreams of her own at one point. She grew up in Reno, Nevada, with her own mother as her biggest fan since infancy. As a preschooler, the talented Jada entered a long list of beauty pageants, where she performed a tap-dance routine with a cane and top hat, choreographed by her mom, a former dancer in Vegas. By first grade, Jada had appeared in a handful of local commercials and, when she was eight, landed a role on television: Bailey’s Gang, a hip, educational program that started as a local Reno show and graduated to syndication during the mid 1980s. Jesse had heard the rundown countless times. Jada played one of a dozen Tree House Kids on the song-and-sketch show which was, in actuality, a rip-off of better-known predecessors—an admission Jada allowed because she considered herself the show’s answer to Annette Funicello.
After five years on the air, controversy raged when a reporter photographed Bailey handing a beer to a Tree House Kid. The show entered hiatus and never recovered. Jada’s acting career screeched to a halt, but still existed in the deep recesses of her subconscious. She seemed to long for those golden days and, due perhaps to unresolved childhood issues, seemed to remain a little girl at heart. When they first moved in together, Jesse discovered a secret stash of videotapes in Jada’s closet—her favorite Bailey’s Gang episodes. Jesse found the stash adorable, but when he took his discovery a step further and joked about her collection, Jada actually cried.
Jesse got up and headed for the kitchen. “I’ll get you a beer, how’s that?”
“No, I’ll just have a glass of wine at dinner. Did you work at the shop today?”
“Yeah, a full day. Wasn’t as eventful as yours, though.”
“Nobody tried to steal a roll of film? No armed robbery?”
“Not quite,” he called from the kitchen. “A customer hired me to shoot pictures at his kid’s birthday party. A little extra cash.”
Expressionless, Jada examined her manicured nails. “Gee, exciting stuff. I can see why you like it there.”
Bottle of Budweiser in hand, Jesse walked back into the room and took a swig. He settled back on the sofa, rested his elbows on his knees as Jada moved closer. She ran her hand along his back.
“I heard from Maddy today,” Jesse said as he picked at the bottle label. “She scheduled me for an audition.”
“Taking Sides. It’s a bit part.”
“The new Mark Shea project? Why would you want that?”
“I need the gig. What’s wrong with it?”
“He’s lost his vision. His last three films tanked. He cast a sinking star in the lead role. You want to associate yourself with that? How many times have I explained this to you?”
“Look, it’s not like I have a choice. I don’t work for Barry Richert, who picks his projects.”
“How many others are up for the part?”
“Four or five. Maddy doesn’t have many specifics on it; she just knows they want someone tall.”
“Well, you should have a decent shot at it.” A quick pause before Jada swung her head around to face him eye to eye. “What else is going on? You’ve got those lines in your forehead—the ones you get when you’re worried.”
For a moment, Jesse traced his finger along the permanent crease line of his khaki pants, where the fabric had lightened a shade. He shrugged.
“Do you ever feel like you’ve lost your edge?” he asked.
“Like what, risk-taking?”
He waved at her reply. “More like your momentum—that bold side of you that drives you to face the odds.”
“Have you forgotten who you sleep next to?” Jada searched his eyes, but furrowed her eyebrows when Jesse remained stone-faced. To her, he must have looked like he studied the ether that hovered over the coffee table. In truth, Jesse knew she didn’t have a clue what motivated him. Nor did she care, as long as his motivation existed. “You aren’t afraid of that audition, are you?” she asked.
“After as many as I’ve been on? Granted, not lately—”
“Because if you are scared,” she continued, “you need figure out a way to hide it. Or else you’ll never get that role.” She chuckled to herself. Jada shook her head, then plopped back against the sofa and crossed her arms. “Don’t you want to be an actor anymore?”
“Now you’ve forgotten who you sleep next to. Why would you even ask that?”
Great, now she’s in challenge mode. Jesse clenched his jaw, threw his hands on his head in frustration. “Dammit, Jada! Nothing’s changed!” After a deep breath, he let his hands fall to his sides. Why did he try to talk to her about this? Of all people, she would be the last to understand unless the struggle was her own. “Forget it.”
For the first time in L.A., Jesse felt alone.
Weary, he turned to Jada and looked into her eyes. With a gentle rub to her back, he said, “Sorry, babe. It’s nothing. Jitters.”
But he could pinpoint the suspicion in her autumn eyes. When it came to fear detection, the woman had radar.
Jesse leaned in and planted a kiss on her lips.
He’d always adored her Italian lips.
The next morning, Jesse grabbed the handful of film rolls from the overnight drop-off bin and carried them to the room behind the checkout counter, which housed a small processing lab.
A far cry from his high-school photography class, the room contained the same fluorescent light that filled the retail area. A mini-lab machine sat against a wall, where he deposited the rolls of film, cartridge and all. The machine would handle the rest.
Unlike his film development in high school, minimal human intervention occurred here: no need to remove strands of film under the glow of an ominous red light, no gloved hands to immerse film in toxic chemicals. While in the past he’d handled development with the same tender care he’d given to the shot itself, nowadays he treated the development phase like an afterthought rather than an art.
He removed a set of prints the machine had spit out during its last run. In his days at the store, he had seen a vast array of human behavior immortalized in photographs—some to his detriment, seared in his memory with regret. But this set of prints, a family gathering at a lake in a rural, wooded area, made him grin. Jesse flipped through the shots.
A proud young boy and his father posed with a silver fish, its length almost that of the boy’s arm. A mother, dressed in a brick-and-charcoal-colored flannel shirt, humored the amateur photographer with a stare that implied, “I dare you: Take one step closer with that camera.” Another photo showed the full family of four enveloped in a hug, where the boy giggled as his younger sister attempted to grab his nose. This last photo spurred similar memories of Jesse and his sister, Eden.
Jesse started to put the family photo down but took another look. Intrigued, Jesse stared at the father, who tried to kiss both kids at once.
When viewed through a camera lens, fatherhood didn’t seem an intimidation.
After he matched the processed photos with their negatives, Jesse assembled the final package and brought it to the pickup bin on the sales floor. At ten thirty, ready for business, he unlocked the front door to a waiting crowd of nobody. Jesse maneuvered across the retail floor, wound around displays of cameras and how-to books, slid between narrow rows of shelving. He approached a row of sterling wedding frames and dusted them as he pondered the prior night’s conversation with Jada.
Jesse had resided in California for eleven years. When he mulled this over, the banality of his status quo struck him. At twenty-nine years old, Jesse anchored his hope on an upcoming audition.
Don’t you want to be an actor anymore? Jada had asked.
Jesse and Jada met at a Java Cup location a few months after he moved to the L.A. area. Invincible at a haughty eighteen years old, Jesse had made a swift departure from his home in Hudson, Ohio. At that point, Jada herself had lived in the L.A. area for a year already. Both starved for fame, both felt as though they flailed against its odds as if in deep water, and they became friends quickly. Their fear and vulnerability cemented their bond. They confided their dreams. At the time, Jada’s personality represented everything Jesse wished he could be—an image contrary to that of his Midwestern roots, a previous life he had managed to escape. Jada thought she’d discovered someone as independent and driven as she herself was. And Jesse the actor played the part well.
A year later, the two friends moved into an apartment near Hollywood and Vine—a shoddy location after dark, but mere steps from the Capitol Records building, a shrine of industry power. The pair sought opportunities with a vengeance and exhibited sheer confidence, while in the evenings they returned home to dinners of seasoned oriental noodles at ten cents a package. At that time, Jesse and Jada made a pact: If one succeeded before the other, they would remain roommates to help the pair’s less fortunate half in their quest for fame. For all Jada’s flaws, she never reneged on her promise.
For the next ten years, Jesse and Jada gelled in a comfortable understanding, a shallow lifestyle speckled with self-centeredness and minimal thought to its consequences. Their focus centered on creature comforts and a dependence on credit cards.
Now Jada, with her steady career at thirty-one years old, paid the bulk of their monthly bills. And her elevated taste had, in turn, elevated their expenses. Convicted at heart, Jesse wished he could contribute an equal share. He wasn’t raised to live this way, to meet a partner less than halfway. If anything, Jada was the gold digger of the two.
Life had unfolded contrary to Jesse’s plan. By his estimation, he should have nabbed a handful of speaking roles by now.
Jesse felt the precursor of a headache settle in, one so slight he forgot to give it a second thought.
As customers trickled in, Jesse made his rounds, greeted those who arrived and offered assistance to those who searched the shelves. The store’s core clientele consisted of professional photographers and serious hobbyists, most of which arrived during the day. By contrast, portrait-studio patrons gravitated toward early evening appointments.
Jesse approached a balding man in wire-rimmed glasses, who examined a shelf of chemicals.
“May I help you, sir?” Jesse asked.
“Do you still carry a generic version of potassium bromide? It looks like the shelf is empty,” the man answered. “Chemicals are chemicals—no sense in paying Hart-Bauer Corporation extra cash.”
Potassium bromide is a powdery substance. After photographers dissolve the substance in water, they combine it with other chemicals to create developer and intensifier solutions. The same potassium bromide is also used as an anti-seizure treatment for domestic pets. Jesse marveled at the contrast: One substance could be used for exposure or suppression.
The things nature could hide.
To ensure a customer hadn’t scooted the bottles into obscurity, Jesse peered into the recesses of the shelf but still found it empty. “Let me check the storage room. I’ll be back.”
The man nodded. Jesse headed through the door marked “Private” and into the shop’s rear hallway. In the back of the building toward the right, Jesse walked into the storage room and flipped the light switch. A large ventilation grate loomed overhead. The room reeked of chemicals, a sharp collection of odors reminiscent of a science lab. The type of nervous scent that elicited apprehension in an untrained passerby, one who lacked knowledge behind what he smelled, yet sensed intangible danger that lurked somewhere within.
Two of the overhead bulbs had burned out—a task each employee pledged to fix and had, in turn, neglected. As a result, dabs of darkness overshadowed one side of the room where shelves of chemicals sat. Jesse considered a flashlight but decided against it. This wouldn’t take long.
As he entered the shadows, he squinted at the assortment and found the small bottles of potassium bromide. Jesse removed a white plain-labeled bottle from the shelf and turned on his heel to leave the room.
Then the drip occurred.
He felt it hit his hand.
The plastic bottle hit the floor. Lightheaded, Jesse slid down the edge of the shelving unit to the floor, where he sat for a moment. Had the chemicals caused a reaction? He doubted it; after all, he’d worked in this shop for years. But what else could it be? Perhaps a temporary allergic reaction. This hadn’t happened before.
Jesse shook the wooziness from his head and looked at his hand to see what had dripped. Whatever it was, it was red. He furrowed his eyebrows and gazed up at the shelves: All of the containers stood upright, squadrons of chemical soldiers. Nothing had tipped over—and stranger yet, nothing had dripped from them.
With his unstained hand, Jesse, still in a haze, rubbed his face. His hand came down smeared in scarlet. When he touched his nose again with the back of his hand, he discovered another droplet.
Odd, Jesse thought. By no means did a nosebleed pose reason for concern, but it would make more sense in a high-humidity climate. Southern California had been kind to him.
It had to be a reaction. Maybe the ventilation needed examination. Jesse would let his boss know when he arrived after lunch.
For now, the man with the glasses needed his product.
Bottle in hand, Jesse made a slow rise to his feet. As his lightheadedness subsided, he took a deep breath and exhaled.
Then he shut off the light and walked out.