“Techoca Mountain”
I sat there at the diner looking out the window at the mountain, pretending to the waitress that I didn’t know its name, but I did—I just wanted to hear her say it. But then she looked at me funny and walked away and picked up the club sandwich the cook had just set up on the hot line. The man sitting next to me at the counter stared at her rear end. All of this went on as we sat there in the mountain’s shadows, in the ceaseless hum, everyone talking over that hum like it wasn’t even there.
A kind of blasphemy.
I looked back out the window at the strangeness and wonder of it. Sat there and finished my coffee and left.
Out in the parking lot I took out a joint and was about halfway through it when Bill Hendrickson drove up in his golf cart.
“Hey Gus, what is that I smell?”
“It is what it is,” I said.
“Marijuana, it is. Pass it.”
I handed it to him. He looked half-guiltily around and then took a big drag. We sat there in the parking lot and got high.
“Security,” I said. “What kind of security guard are you, exactly? Getting high when you’re supposed to be guarding the mountain.”
“I’m not a security guard, Gus. I’ve told you that a million times. I’m a landscaper.”
He shot a thumb at the back of the golf cart. He was right: two rakes and a shovel and a bag of potting soil. I’d seen it and I hadn’t seen it. Known it and hadn’t known it. I began to feel a bit strange, and it wasn’t just the weed.
“The energy is high today,” I muttered. “Can you sense it, Bill? Can you feel it?”
Bill looked at me as he held in the smoke, then let out a blue gust and coughed and looked around the parking lot.
“Well,” he said, “I gotta go.I’ll see you around, Gus.”
“Later.”
I got out of the golf cart and watched him drive away. The sun was cresting, was about to disappear behind the mountain. I stood there and listened. You could hear the hum sometimes and sometimes you couldn’t. Lately you could hear it all the time, though. Things were picking up.
I took the blue snot-hardened handerchief from my back pocket and covered my mouth with it. I was having a hard problem breathing. Like breathing in smoke, but I wasn’t. The cloth crackled against my parched lips, like the feel of soft sheets on feverish skin.
The mountain was powerful...too powerful...it was in me, around me, in everything…
Time has come, I said to myself.
Walking down the street I was the only person without a car. A bum. The tourists gawked at me as they cruised by on the street that led to Fat Creek. That was the big tourist attraction. They were fools, all of them. On the entire planet there are surely only one or two places like Techoca Mountain. I could sense it behind me as I walked up the street, could feel it watching me. It knew that I knew. I was afraid of the mountain, sure. No one wondered how or why the scrubbrush on it pointed the way it did—west instead of east, sideways instead of straight up. No one could explain that away, could they? In fact, they had simply come to accept it. Botanists shrugged their shoulders and mumbled something about the soil. Fools.
The Tongva Indians, who named the mountain, could have told them the truth.
I arrived at Herb’s Bar and opened the front door. It’s a trendy place, a dull place. Sometimes at night there are good looking college girls with their breasts jutting from silly little sports jerseys. In the daytime, though, it’s a dead scene—with golf on the big flatscreen over the bar and a jukebox that’s either blaring or silent.
I sat down at the bar and Josh, the bartender, walked over.
He’s the kind of guy that always has asuperior little smirk on his face. I could feel him looking at my dirty dreadlocks, my beard, my missing teeth. He sees the town bum. That’s all he knows. I gave him my trademark reckless grin and nodded amiably.
“How about a beer, Josh?”
“And what fine product are we having today.”
“Ramrod Brown, my friend.”
“You got money?”
I reached into my pocket and found six grubby, crumpled little bills.
“How much is a schooner?”
“Happy Hour. Three bucks.”
“Pour it.”
He poured the beer and sat it in front of me and I looked at the little bubbles, the creaminess of the head. My stomach started to growl.
“I’m going mountain climbing today,” I said. “I need fuel. How much is the burger and fries?”
“Six bucks.”
“You got anything for three bucks?”
“Hummus platter. That’s it.”
“No thanks.”
He shrugged and walked over to the end of the bar.
I sipped the Ramrod Brown Ale and felt it course down into the emptiness of my stomach. Breakfast was coffee and weed. This was lunch. And what would I do for dinner?
“Techoca,” I said, “have I angered thee?”
Josh looked over from the end of the bar.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Say, have you ever climbed the mountain?”
“Here we go again...which mountain would that be, Gus?”
“The hell you say. There is only one Mountain here, my friend. Only one that matters.”
He walked over. Dead eyes, that smug look like he’d been kicking ass his whole life and didn’t expect the ass-kicking streak to end any time soon. My stomach did a slow turn.
“You come in here every day and sit here and talk about this mountain and you know what? I don’t know what you’re talking about, nobody knows what you’re talking about. If you wanna sit there and sip your beer, fine, but I don’t wanna hear anymore of your shit— all right?”
I sipped the beer and sat there with a beer foam mustache, waiting. He wanted me to do something, say something, so he could hit me. When you’re a bum you’re either a ghost or a target.
His eyes were cool, brown, dead, patient.
“You shouldn’t talk about Techoca that way,” I whispered. I downed the last of the ale and walked out.
Most of the locals live in little bungalows along the bottom of the foothills. I never wonder about the people inside or what it is they do. They are as invisible to me as I am to them. But high up at the crest of one street there’s an abandoned house that’s old and creaky and unreal looking, like something out of an old Disney cartoon, sitting there under the moonlight in all the hues of blue and purple. In the backyard of the place there’s a weed-covered hill and an old California live oak with a tire stuck to a rope and a perfect view of Techoca. That’s where I meditate.
I let my eyes go sort of half-lidded and felt my astral self reach out toward the spirits of the mountain. I hadn’t eaten in three days. Coffee and marijuana and beer and now my money was all gone. Techoca, I shall starve if you desire. But if you would grant me food...money...shelter...how grateful I would be!
I meditated for four hours. I fell into the mountain’s hum, became one with it. Then suddenly my eyes snapped open, my spine straightened, my penis hardened and shot juice into my dirty jeans, my asshole clenched and unclenched of its own accord, my sould screamed: SAMADHI! SAMADHI! SAMAD—
One in the morning and the town was quiet, just the occasional dog barking and a gentle breeze coming off the foothills. I looked for a house that seemed empty and when I found one I walked around the side and into the backyard. The lock on the shed wasn’t much; I had it open in about three minutes. Inside I found what I needed: a wheelbarrow. Some rope.
And an axe.
I waited in the alley next to the little market across from the bar, watching. It was a slow night. A few twenty-something hipsters with expensive clothes and tiny rear ends milled around out front, smoking and laughing.
I waited in the shadows, feet growing numb. I didn’t care. The post-meditation glow was in me, a feeling of complete serenity. Techoca had revealed in one shining flash what I must do.
And then there he was, locking up the bar. A girl was with him. I hadn’t foreseen that, but no matter: I waited to see what would happen next.
I watched them as they embraced, kissed. The girl was young, very young, her legs long and brown. I’d transmuted desire years before, those energies kindling for the spiritual bonfire within. I looked at the girl like I’d look at a piece of furniture. I was beyond all desires of the flesh.
Josh kissed her. She leaned up against him. The moment went on and on. Finally she walked away from him and to the parking lot. He had his hands in his pockets and that smug look on his face. Everything in life was coming to him. Everything was owed to him. The girl started up her car and drove away and he began to walk down the empty sidewalk.
I followed at a pretty good distance, keeping in the shadows of the trees. The sidewalk was old and cracked in various places. The evening wind blew leaves and bits of debris and small twigs over the street.
He was walking into the wind. He never heard me coming.
I hit him in the back of the had with the blunt end of the axe and his legs went out from under him and he fell face-first into the sidewalk, his teeth shattering with a sound like a handful of marbles being hurled against the pavement. I rolled him over: he was a real mess. Out cold. Mouth a mangled mess of blood. Looked like his nose might be broken, too. I realized at that moment how young he was, just a kid really. Too bad.
I hefted him up over my shoulder. He wasn’t as big as he looked; I was able to lift him up without all that much of a problem. I tell you I was gentle with him, even. I lifted him up and lay him down tenderly in the wheelbarrow like a baby in a bassinet. I’d already hurt him too much, more than I’d wanted to. This was the only way, though. I didn’t like the kid, sure, but I didn’t hate him. There was no hate in my heart for anyone.
I picked up the rope and tied his legs and feet together and then I pushed the wheelbarrow along. He moaned a litte bit, his head lolling around from side to side. “Mom? Mommy?” he muttered. “I’m hurt, I’m hurt...”
The path to the top of Techoca is a gently sloping grade that criss-crosses the face of the mountain, engineered to allow tourists a comfortable hike to the top. I know that path better than anyone, and it’s a good thing, because this particular night the side of the mountain was darker than the inside of a cow. I mean, it was pitch black up there, which was sure comfort to me. No witnesses. Josh moaned again. I had the ax resting between his legs. I sat the wheelbarrow down and picked up the ax and waited. I didn’t have anything to gag him with and I’d hit him again if he screamed. I hoped it wouldn’t kill him, but it might.
And that would mess everything up, wouldn’t it? I needed him alive.
Alive would be better.
I stood there, waiting. He passed out again. I lifted the arms of the wheelbarrow and pushed onward.
At the top of the mountain there was an empty parking lot and a long, flat promenade that led to the Dome of the Ancients. This is what all the tourists come to see, but they know not the truth of this place: who really built it, what it is here for.
The Dome of the Ancients was dark, locked. There had once been a night watchman but he’d been fired. Budget cuts. So they relied upon an outdated security system to keep the place safe.
I sighed and took out the lock-picking kit. In a couple of minutes the door was open. I propped it open and wheeled the kid in.
He was moaning again. No matter: now we were in the rotunda. I closed the door behind us and set the axe on the ground. He could scream his head off now and it wouldn’t matter— he might as well be on a raft in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
His eyes fluttered a bit as I began the Great Prayer:
“Oh Techoca, how we thank thee for your bountiful gifts, your divine wisdom, your everlasting kindness. How our hearts jump when we see your hills, the brush growing sideways, the sun cresting over its ridge. And now we open the doorway so that your people might commune with us.”
“What…what happened? Where am I?” said the kid.
I ignored him and went on, stepping towards the portal. A metal ball swung back and forth, back and forth, suspended from the ceiling over a wide pit. They call it a “Foucalt Pendulum.” It is that, but it is also something else. In the dim light I could make out the Mural of the Ancients on the ceiling above, regarding me with their knowing eyes.
“Techoca, I offer you this small sacrifice, this gesture of my appreciation, this young man, virile and full of simmering blood.”
“You crazy mother fucker! What are you doing to me? Untie me you freaking nutjob sonuva—”
“Silence, heathen. You are in the presence of the Gods.”
“YOU CRAZY FUCK, THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS TECHOCA MOUNTAIN! THIS IS HOLLYWOOD, YOU UNDERSTAND? GRIFFITH PARK!”
I held up the axe. He got the idea and shut his mouth and started to shudder and sweat. The sweat made little streaks in the dried blood around his mouth.
“You are moments away from beholding your Truth,” I said quietly.
I sat the axe down next to the wheelbarrow and walked over to the edge of the pit and stepped down and when the pendulum swung toward me I grabbed the rope and pulled the heavy metal ball to a stop.
There was a grinding sound from somewhere in the building, a whirring of gears. I climbed back up out of the pit and reached down and with a grunt I pulled Josh out of the wheelbarrow.
He was heavy and he was thrashing around a bit, trying to get free, but it was happening now and I could feel the energy shooting through every vein and capillary in my body—liquid flame, liquid life. I sat Josh down on the edge of the pit; his legs dangled in; I pushed down on his shoulders to hold him in place and whispered into his ear: “It begins!”
The hum grew louder and lounder. A glow that seemed at first to have no source filled the room. It grew brighter and brighter until everything was bathed in neon purple light and the base of the pit was a disc of white-hot energy and smoke. The humming was a roar now. Josh stared into the light. His eyes bulged. He screamed; I laughed.
And then I saw them.
The Techocans.
They rose slowly up out of the pit, four of them. They were tall and hairless with limbs like sticks and huge insect eyes staring out from ashen, expressionless faces. They rose out of the circle of light and smoke and at their feet were dog-creatures with dripping teeth and liquid-black eyes. Josh screamed and, giggling with delight, I pushed him into the pit. He slid shoulders-first to the bottom and the dog-creatures pounced and he looked up at me and in the millisecond before they ripped him to pieces I saw the terror and realization in his eyes—the eyes of a man about to disappear over the edge of a waterfall.
All the while the Techocans watched me impassively. I kneeled, my face to the cool tile floor, and waited. I could hear the dog-creatures feeding on whatever was left of Josh the Bartender and I waited. The hum went on and on and I fell into a reverie where time lost all meaning. They communed with me, snippets of image flashing in my mind.
“You’re only here to feed your pets?” I whispered. “But there is so much I want to ask you before you go.”
Then a voice rang in my ears. It said:
“Thanks a million!”
Tears streamed from my eyes. I sobbed—was it with joy, or at sorrow that I was little more to them than some cosmic pet store employee? I waited and waited as the purple glow ebbed and faded, until finally the room was dark, and it was a long time before I looked up to see the pendulum swinging again.
On the edge of the pit, sitting there as if it were left by some unwary tourist, was Josh’s wallet.
My tip.
I walked out into the cool night, counting the money. Sixty bucks. To a bum like me, a fortune. My stomach growled. Oh, how I wished I had a good schooner of Ramrod Brown and some steak fries!
I walked back down the mountain and into the town.