2024-01-13 Pouring on the Pier
Pouring on the Pier
Location: Santa Monica Pier
Date and Time: January 13th, 2024
Summary: A chance encounter and a curiosity.
A low-pressure system sweeps across the coast, drenching Los Angeles and Ventura counties in relentless sheets of rain. Rivers course through the streets, pooling at blocked drainage grates, while the pitter-patter of rainfall is punctuated by the hiss of tires cutting through wet asphalt. Up in the mountains, roads turn into impromptu waterfalls, and from Ojai to Coastal San Pedro, the threat of mudslides lingers in the saturated hills.
It's the kind of night that feels like the city is being scrubbed clean of its sins-or at least trying to. The Santa Monica Pier, typically alive with the hum of tourists and the warm glow of carnival lights, is a sodden skeleton of itself. Only a handful of determined visitors, their faces etched with damp frustration, wander its planks. The ocean churns below, dark and indifferent, waves clawing at the wood with foamy fingers.
At the far end of the pier stands a man, dark-skinned and still against the backdrop of the restless Pacific. An off-white windbreaker clings to his frame, damp at the edges, the collar popped up around his angular scholarly-looking features. A blue ballcap crowns his head tilted low over round-framed glasses. Embroidered across the cap in looping, vintage script: "Good Medicine." Propped against his shoulder, an umbrella shields him from the worst of the downpour-black above, but inside, its canopy shimmers with something like the scattered constellations of a night sky captured by the most powerful of telescopes.. The stars overhead may be hidden behind rain and smog, but here, under fabric and steel ribs, they remain visible.
Beyond him, the sea stretches into darkness. Pinpricks of light flicker in the fog-distant trawlers, slow-moving cargo ships, or oil rigs standing sentinel far off the coast. In daylight, they're invisible, swallowed by the oceanic glare and tourist distractions. But now, they gleam like ghosts against the abyss.
The gentle wisping mist that reaches up from the cold rain hitting the warm woodwork and pavement of the pier swirls and dances in the air, dancing to the inaudible music of Cyrus' steady, urgent steps along the path leading out. His knuckles are white in an intense clutch around a laptop that he presses up to his heart, tucked under his jacket to shield from the torrential flow coming down on the few vagrants and the very last of the merchants resilient enough to still occupy the pier in the rare Los Angeles rain, but even these are all packing up to leave.
Like Addison, Cyrus was clever enough to watch the forecast closely enough to have an umbrella handy which means that he is one of the few to be calmly walking and without any hurry rather than the rushed contortion most of the inhabitants pace and countenances have morphed into. His steps slow as he catches sight of the man and his thousand yard stare over the blue-black abyss.
"It's beautiful in the rain. It's too bad so many can't appreciate that in LA." Not that Addison and Cyrus are truly the only ones. A few of the most dedicated fishermen wear ponchos along the edges of the pier, still casting their lines with steadfast intent and one or two tourists are equipped to handle rain as well and still linger, waiting for the closing hour no doubt.
Addison doesn't respond at first. Only a subtle lift of his chin suggests he's surfaced from the depths of his thoughts-like surfacing from deep, still water. His eyes shift behind his glasses: deep oak brown, yet in the muted lighting and drizzle, they appear almost tar black. His gaze smolders with an unconscious intensity, a quiet ember burning low but constant.
His eyes narrow faintly-not quite a squint, but enough to sharpen his focus. It's the kind of look someone like Cyrus might recognize: a gaze that weighs and measures. Yet Addison's reaction never goes beyond that flicker of acknowledgment. No surprise. No fanfare. Just observation. No widened eyes, no dropped jaw. In certain pockets of Los Angeles-particularly this far west-running into celebrities is as ordinary as overpriced coffee or botched parking attempts. People stop noticing. Or, if they do, they pretend not to.
He stares at Cyrus for a few seconds longer before shifting his weight. Turning on the worn planks, he casts his gaze back toward the shoreline, past shuttered souvenir shops and flickering neon, beyond the half-hearted glow of the amusement rides. His gaze lingers there, searching through sheets of rain for something-someone?-before sliding back to Cyrus with a renewed sharpness. .
"I suppose being able to enjoy it with some semblance of solitude might make it easier to enjoy," Addison replies. His thin lips pull into a taut smirk at the end of the remark-wry, but not unkind. His voice is steady, even-paced-academic in its cadence. It's easy to imagine him lecturing in a high school classroom or commanding quiet attention in a university hall. "Tabloid 'photographers' are out chasing other things in this weather."
There's a disappointed shift that slips over Cyrus' face when Addison's eyes find it, or more accurately when they recognize it. The reaction stretches down to his posture, keeping straight and at least some semblance of "professional" with a subconscious adjustment of the white cuffs of his button up shirt by the hand that isn't clutching his umbrella, pinning his laptop beneath that forearm. At least Addison doesn't gush, or call attention to the people that don't memorize author's faces.
"Thank you." He acknowledged Addison's subtle reaction without spelling it out. "One of the advantages of having a more famous name than face." His voice is a smooth tenor like under-aged and over-eager white wine, soft and shy but rich and melodic all at once. "Of course I deal with it some, but there are others who have it much worse. I try to count my blessings and I do my best to be very boring."
"Always nice to meet someone who does look at dust jackets. Most people just call me Cyrus." The soft thud of leather against wood carries him across the pier, and Cyrus uses the hand and arm that aren't busy with a laptop and umbrella to extend in greeting. His handshake is firm in a way that deviates from the otherwise soft demeanor Cyrus presents should Addison accept it.
Addison's ability to recognize Cyrus suggests he spends more time in places filled with books than keeping up with the latest release in the Action Bill Cinematic Universe. Even so, there's a trace of caution in his posture-subtle but unmistakable. Perhaps, despite his earlier quip, he's not entirely convinced that paparazzi won't brave the rain. They are far from the general hub of Rodeo Drive and Beverly Center, however.
"I might not have," Addison notes, voice measured, "if I hadn't seen your picture in the Spring Street Arcade just yesterday." His head tilts, one brow arching as he sifts through his memory. "Book signing? Release party? At The Last Bookstore." The mention of the local landmark hangs in the air, the name carrying its own weight. As if a bookstore could be a celebrity.
His gaze flicks to Cyrus's offered hand. Dark eyes settle there, lingering for several seconds-long enough to suggest deliberate consideration. Finally, he reaches out and clasps it.
Despite the damp, chilly air, Addison's hand is surprisingly warm-sunbaked, almost, as if he'd spent hours under an afternoon sky instead of standing beneath storm clouds. But there's something else. Beneath the warmth, Cyrus feels the subtle texture of gnarled flesh. Hidden from sight, a scar cuts across Addison's palm.
Addison would clearly be able to see the gears of Cyrus' mind churning against one another, machinations working dutifully to dredge through his memories until he finds his target. "Right! Spring Street Arcade. They are trying to get everyone excited about my newest release, and yet also expect me to be sending chapters to the editor for the next book. I'm jealous of the wealthy people in LA who don't have a boss."
Whatever Cyrus thinks about that scar, if anything, doesn't make it to Addison. His gaze stays level and his speech even keeps its rhythm as he carried on about being overworked in his sweat-inducing job of sitting around with a laptop drinking coffee in his posh Santa Monica loft.
"Are you from LA, or visiting?" Addison doesn't give tourist, but Cyrus doesn't quite give local either. Still, neither match the beat of the fanny-pack equipped Eastern Europeans hurrying out of the rain while speaking rushed words in an unknown language.
Addison smirks at the mention of rich people without bosses in Los Angeles. "Those are all up in Calabasas," he quips, the words carrying the easy familiarity of a local poking fun at the San Fernando Valley. "And that's hardly L.A."
"I'm always visiting," Addison adds with a faint smile-one that suggests a private joke. Maybe one that Cyrus isn't meant to fully understand.
His gaze drifts back toward Cyrus, eyes glinting with casual curiosity. "What's it about?" he asks, voice measured but easy as the raindrops drum against his umbrella. Cyrus is close enough to see now, that it's no distant nebula printed on the underside of his umbrella but a night-time image of Los Angeles, its nervous system of lights illuminated in darkness, taken from the ISS.
Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he adds dryly, "Or are you under an NDA until release?"
"Believe me, Santa Monica lacks it less than you might think," Cyrus muses as much to himself as he does to Addison, those churning gears working their way through a selection of memories yet again. His insider quip has Cyrus tilting his head slightly to the side like a confused dog, a boggled look casting over his eyes while his lips open up and shut like a guppy out of water.
"..huh," he manages to end his confused countenance before it gets awkward, the word coming out as a notably high pitched tintinnabulation that deviates from his typical tenor.
"My situation is a bit more complex than an NDA but I'd have to put you under one to tell you anything. I can share that it will be a piece of historical fiction." And horror, but that's implied. He would have noticed Addison's umbrella if he'd paid more attention. He probably would have even complimented it.
Addison chuckles softly, raising one hand at the mention of signing an NDA-as if to say he could easily do without it. In that brief gesture, the scar Cyrus had felt earlier comes fully into view: a pale, clean line carved straight across his palm, severing the natural folds of his hand.
"Mmm. That's a bit of low-hanging fruit, don't you think?" Addison teases, dark eyes glinting beneath the brim of his hat. His voice carries that same academic lilt, steady and easy to listen to, though there's a playful edge beneath it. "History horrific enough without adding too much embellishment."
His lips tug into a taut smirk-gentle, warm... and unmistakably teasing. Though in a good natured sort of way. Like the kind of barbed backsass one could expect between old friends over drinks.
ROLL> Cyrus: Willpower vs. 8 -> 0 successes. (8 5 1)
"True.." he says with a distracted tone glancing again and again at Addison's hand. "But that's why it's such easy source material. I can keep things surprisingly accurate."
While he speaks his eyes drop to scan that scar but he tries not to linger longer than would be rude. Still it's obvious that just because it's left the focus of his gaze doesn't mean it's left the focus of his mind.
"That's a unique scar. Sorry, I don't mean to be rude or intrusive, but I'm always curious given the subject matter of my writing. But if it's something you don't mind talking about?" He looks down at Addison's palm again just a bit longer but with fascination more than judgement. He's socially awkward is certainly showing.
"I apologize," he blurts. "Just that when I saw the shape, it didn't look like a work accident, and I'm a sucker for a story." He reaches a hand up to gently rub at the back of his neck while he chuckles out his apology.
There's a sharper glint in Addison's eyes for a moment, though the smile on his face remains undisturbed-pleasant, even. His gaze shifts to settle fully on Cyrus, steady and unwavering. Whatever warmth lingers in his expression doesn't soften the weight of that stare. It's not hostile, but there's something about it that pulls, that drags at the mind like vertigo one feels standing at the edge of a dark well and peering into the abyss below. Wondering if that is something moving at the bottom, down in all that black, or if its just one's imagination.
It's the kind of look that makes people want to glance away, even if they don't know why.
"I'm not precisely sure I'd want my medical records novelized, Mr. Thorne," Addison replies, voice carrying an odd lilt of amusement. The words might be a polite deflection, but the spark of mirth that laces through his tone.
Cyrus' feet begin to shuffle around without moving him anywhere while he struggles to look at Addison at all for a time. Briefly a bit of litter being carried along the current of the torrential downpour that cascades down on the pier becomes seemingly quite interesting to the author while he forces and awkward style, stumbling a bit on some of his words. "R-right, I'm sorry. Trust me, it wasn't my plan to go post it online," he promises. If Addison has ever seen any of his social media accounts it would make his claim more believable, he doesn't seem to post much at all outside of sharing promotional content for other authors under his publisher.
"Feel free to keep your secrets," he says, his chuckle at Addison's joke notably soft. "I apologize for prying." His posture has relaxed, he's even lost that stuffy professionalism that he greeted Addison with. But he's still shuffling about a bit awkwardly and clenching his umbrella awfully tight while grinning to his conversational partner.
Cyrus's subtle shuffling reflects off the pearlescent sheen of Addison's glasses, casting fleeting distortions across the lenses. Surely he notices-but if Addison does, he doesn't mention it. Instead, he offers a faint smile as Cyrus stumbles over his words and feet, the corners of his mouth curling with quiet amusement. His gaze lingers for a beat longer on Cyrus's grin, as if trying to decipher something, but whatever conclusion he reaches stays unspoken.
Cyrus would get a reprieve from Addison's strangely heavy stare when Addison turns his head to scan the roiling waters of the ocean. The night was settling in and only their crests were visible in the blackness.
"Do you always ask complete strangers very personal questions?" Addison wonders aloud. His tone, light and conversational, carries no edge of reproach. If anything, there's a note of amusement-as if he might find what others consider rude or intrusive just a little bit entertaining.
The author clutches his laptop and umbrella that much more tightly, and his lips pensively press into a thin line below his flared nostrils.
"Different people have different definitions of personal. I am sorry I offended you." The way he says 'am' implies an unspoken 'but'. "The more time you spend visiting LA, the more you'll get accustomed to people doing things you consider socially pretty weird. At least, that's been my experience." His tone of voice has metaphorically changed into an arm holding out an olive branch.
"Do you always press people the moment you sense discomfort?" He's starting to get a grin of his own now, and the bounce in his inflection almost feels like a playful poke in the ribs.
"Do I seem offended?" Addison asks, ponderously. He stares out into the sea, searching for something and not the paparazzi this time, before he turns away from the waters look back at Cyrus. He tilts his head, arching a brow over the rim of his glasses. His gaze lingers on Cyrus, contemplative but not sharp.
Then his smirk returns. This time it's somewhat foxlike. "Some people make it difficult to resist pressing their buttons," he adds, his voice a warm yet coy. A smooth drawl that blurs the line between playful and pointed.
Cyrus gives Addison an amused but expectant look when he asks his question and doesn't give it any answer other than that coy smile. He waits for him to think while he looks out over the sea, casting his eyes around awkwardly like he's unsure what to do when Addison turns away.
"So Tom said. And then he met Jerry," Cyrus tells him with a wink. "Don't worry. If I got so easily annoyed anytime someone mistook my nature for weakness I'd lead a very stressful life. And that is something I refuse to do, Mr..." he says, leaving that hanging.
Mr...?
"Calbero," Addison replies, the name slipping off his tongue with ease, as if it's the most natural thing in the world-unquestioned, unchallenged. His sly smile lingers, a quiet jab at the order of things: scars first, names second. Not that he seems to mind terribly.
He doesn't ask who Cyrus Thorne is. He already knows that Cyrus Thorne is Cyrus Thorne... or a very convincing look-alike. With celebrities there were always look alikes.
"Did you find what you were looking for?" Addison asks him, instead.
"Calbero." Cyrus repeats the name like he's committing it to memory. "Nice to meet you. And thanks for reading my books." There's a warm, subtle but very real smile that burns like a little campfire when he says this. The flames of which gently lick their way up to his eyes and it all lends an especially odd sincerity to the statement of gratitude coming from someone who should be so disillusioned with fans and spoiled with appreciation.
"A peaceful place to people watch and write my book?" He looks around at the relentless rainfall. "I'm afraid not." The first of the electronically distorted voices announcing the pier closing soon comes out from the Santa Monica Police Department golf cart and it's rider with a megaphone. "That's good timing. I've got a meeting tomorrow with some charity organizations accountant so it's probably best I tuck in by the fire. Get home safely," he urges with a friendly cadence to his inflection.
After saying farewell the two men disappear into different crowds flooding through different streets that make up the arteries that all lead back to the heart of the beast that is LA. Another dark night, this one wetter than most, brings another mystery to a mortal mind much stranger than fiction. The rain will swallow most things, not cleaning the streets but making them a different kind of dirty, yet it won't wash that curiosity from Cyrus' thoughts.
