California Easter

You get what you pay for, as the aphorism goes. A 250 dollar round-trip, direct flight airplane ticket thus results in an unadjustable seat belt, a lack of complimentary beverages (disappointing) and a lack of SkyMall catalogues (even more disappointing). "It's the journey, not the destination," is another old chestnut, although the speaker invariably failures to mention what, exactly, "it" is. In any case, the first saying seems to hold true, but the second has proven patently false on this particular journey. Although he did, indeed, get what he paid for (rather, what SHE paid for), "it" was, in fact, the destination. How could it be the journey? No self-respecting voyage of self-discovery lasts for three hours. For a young man to hear the call to "go west", there is no need for romantic idealism, even if that's what the young man wants.
California is the most populous state in the union, a long land of desert and canyon and forest and beach and beautiful tanned hard bodies and bleached blonde hair and chicos and chicas and orientals and continentals and just about anyone who wants their own slice of paradise. Explains why so many people write songs about it. It's probably why she wanted to go to school here. She wanted to find paradise - and she did, for a while. More like heaven on earth, really, if you wanted to use the nomenclature of her chosen university. But that paradise faded, and she said that she Needed him, with a capital N, so he came, on the cheap jet plane with no SkyMall and no beverages and tight seat belts and fat, sleeping men and bawling children and stepped foot in California for the first time on a Thursday afternoon, in terminal 5 of Los Angeles International Airport.
Her car blares country music, which he hates, but it reminds her of home, which she loves. If she didn't love it, there's no way he would put up it. He has waited for an hour at the airport. He is tired. He is hungry. It is stretching him to deal with everything. He tries to calm himself down, but can't help but make caustic remarks, like he always does. It almost turns into a fight, but they both know where to stop. At least, she does; he's never quite sure where that line is. He puts on the only good music on her iPod, Fleetwood Mac. He's a little happier, she's a little happier. Everything is new to him, but he also feels like he's seen it all before. It's almost too perfect. He has too much Puritan in him to enjoy anything without a hint a guilt. Except, perhaps, food. He wants fish tacos. She wants barbecue. They get barbecue. They see people she knows at the restaurant. They see people she knows on campus. They see people she knows everywhere. Everyone is beautiful, almost perfect, young gods walking around heaven. Her roommate is beautiful, her friends are beautiful. He marvels at her campus. It looks out over the ocean, reaching outward and upward to heaven. Maybe that's the point. He loves it. She hates it. But she smiles at everyone she knows and he is, as usual, dumbstruck. She doesn't know that there isn't much different between shallow and deep friendships. If she does, she acts like she doesn't; maybe that's worse.He just takes it all in. Beautiful. Beautiful.
The drive down a winding road, away from heaven, and they stop at an ugly motel. She has more bags than he does. She has bottles of inebriation. He carries for her what he can. The motel clerk is a Latina, middle aged, slowly wasting away at this motel desk. She is working with an obese, chain smoking, middle aged white woman. They make small talk. They are colleagues, not friends. They are bound in misery. But the young lovers do not have time to think about the motel clerks. Well, the girl doesn't. The boy does. He can't stop thinking about them. He feels bad for them. He thinks he knows them, knows their boredom and misery. Maybe he does. Anyway, he pushes it out of his mind. All she is thinking about is him. They go up the motel stairs, put down their bags, and go straight for the bed. He feels for her with his fingers, with his tongue. She comes violently, knocking the headboard off of the bed. They laugh, as only the young and carefree can laugh.    
He rights the headboard and they go at it again, and he slides right inside her, and soon he, too, orgasms. They drink a little. He is not sure whether or not he wants to get drunk, if getting drunk is even worth it tonight, if he NEEDS to get drunk. She will drink if he drinks. She bought in excess, like everything she does. Before they leave, they will pour whole bottles down the motel sink. They fuck again. They fall asleep.
In the morning, they ascend to the heaven on earth. They are both happy.She is happier than he is, but that's usually the case. He is astounded at her presence in this place - she truly does seem to know every single person. Moreover, they are all happy to see her, or they pretend to be. She is happy to see them, too - or she pretends to be. He almost never pretends. What an asshole. They hear the pretty, perfect people, the denizens of this heaven, worshiping. One of her best friends is singing. The girl says that her friend sings like an angel. He thinks she sings beautifully, but there is nothing remarkable about her voice. He enjoys it, but she pulls him away to the library, and goes her own way, to class. She is going to Spanish, which she loves, because it is soft and beautiful. He studies his French, which he loves, because it is hard and beautiful. She comes back to retrieve him - her class is cancelled. The sun is shining. The sky is clear. They are young. Facts, facts, facts, that add up to a mutual desire to go to the ocean, hands clasped as they stroll over the sand, never sinking in. She says she doesn't go to the beach often. He feels the sun on his bare chest and the warmth of her hand and hears the sound of the waves moving in and out, making love to the shore, and can't think of anything to say.
She says she wants to do something uniquely Malibu. She wants to get cupcakes. He doesn't. They get cupcakes. They are made by a New York company. They go to the city to walk and watch and live. He bitches her out because of the cupcakes, and because he's an asshole, and he knows she doesn't deserve it but he does it anyway. But he loves walking and watching and he might love her, too, but he doesn't want to think about that, so he pushes it out of his mind with the hotel clerks and the excess wine and the fat men on the airplane. They go back to the motel. He rolls a blunt and smokes the marijuana she bought him, with a lighter that he bought, because he wants to be cool and isn't sure how, but he vaguely remembers someone, somewhere, telling him that rolling blunts and smoking and using Zippo lights is cool, so that's what he does. He does love being high. He's happy. He doesn't have to think. She feels good, the motel hot tub that they lounge in feels good, and fucking in the motel bed feels good. She thinks he's amazing. He just wants to be good at something.
They go to an observatory. It's a long walk, which he loves, but she hates. She does it though, because it makes him happy, and she loves being with him. They gaze, Whitmanlike, in perfect silence at the stars. He tries to explain the universe to her, and quantum physics, and astrophysics, and fails miserable because he has the barest sliver of rudimentary knowledge about any of those things. He feels like a phony. She gets depressed. She doesn't like to think about things outside her own bubble of existence. The universe is too big! she says. It's all meaningless, she says. It's necessary to create your meaning, he says. The beauty in life is in the pure act of living, he says. She already knows this, at her core. She lives this way. He knows this in the abstract. He doesn't. Maybe that's why she's happier. She's never thought about all this, which he can't believe. Her life was unexamined, yet it is worth living far more than his is. Although, right now, he has to admit that he's happy just to look at the stars. At the motel, they both smoke, she for the first time. They talk. They sleep. They dream.
They wake up.They fuck. They go back to heaven, but they can't find the church, the church she promised would be there. Instead, they sit on a bench and gaze at the ocean, and they are both very content to be together, and to be in heaven. They go get California sandwiches. They go get California tattoos. Hers is about children. His is about life. It is the last night, and they go to dinner, and he is still bleeding from his tattoo. It's his body crying for life. And he gets it, with a beautiful girl and a hot bowl of pasta and a drive to the beach. The sand is cold, and the waves are crashing, and Los Angeles glows like an eternal sunset, and they are both very happy. They are still in heaven. And then they drive down, down away from heaven, through the twisting canyon, to the motel, and they are exhausted, so they sleep. It is not clear why they are tired. Perhaps it is because being happy and sad at the same time is difficult. They are happy to be together. She is sad to see him go. He is sad because he is always sad. They get up early in the morning. They drive in silence. It is Easter. Christ rises with the California son, he thinks. That is why he's quiet. He's not sure why she's quiet.
The airport is goodbye. It is a quick kiss and a slow embrace. She is driving to spend Easter with her friends (for, pretend or not, shallow or deep, they are still her friends). He is on a plane, without beverages, with too-tight belts, with fat men. He is thirsty, and buys a two dollar airplane juice that is too sweet, too perfect. He sighs and pushes it out of his mind, as he always does. He thinks about his California Easter. He thinks about his Midwest home. He already misses not being there. But, he reasons, it's cheap. And you get what you pay for.