Fallen · Tower · Los · Angeles

                                                AMERICAN GYPSY

 

I don’t know where to begin.  Perhaps at the beginning.  Or maybe the end would be a better starting place, since that’s when it will really be a mystery.  I could create an outline or a system of flash cards that would help get it all organized.  But then none of it would make sense.

Okay, so I start in the middle.  I was crying.  Not crying like “I’m a man,” crying where I sniff back the snot and pinch my eyes to keep the tears out.  Not choked up.  Nor was I crying like a bride, or a baby.  This was full-blown sob.  After this event, I would finally, truly understand what is meant by “wracking”.  I was wracked. 

There is no release or succor from lower Midwestern July heat.  Night brings no relief, except maybe constant shade.  It is still far preferable to day, however, and when driving across the country in a twenty-year-old Chevy sans AC, it is the only way to travel.  So I was as I drove east on I-10, across Louisiana on my way to Alabama.  I had that little-known, but essential Southern July no-air-conditioner tool... a spray bottle of water.  The challenge is to time refreshing the water bottle with gas and pee breaks, as keeping yourself constantly spritzed with water can run you through your supply pretty quick.  But the more you stop, the less distance you get in before sunrise.  So you learn how long you can go between each spritz in order to keep as cool as possible without the spray bottle going dry before the gas tank.  There were two ways to deal with the bladder issue, too.  You can avoid liquids so you only have to empty right when you have to fill, or you can keep that somewhat better-known, but still essential Southern July no-air-conditioner tool... a spare bottle.

I chose the second technique, which is why I didn’t have to stop at that rest stop just after Lake Charles.  But I still looked. That’s what started the crying.

Now it’s the time I should tell you my background--the real one--so you understand whether or not it’s important that I cried.

 

I didn’t have a home--stay with me, this has nothing to do with the crying--or everything to do with it maybe.  The concept wasn’t even really in our vocabulary.  No, we have a word for it, but it doesn’t mean the same thing to us as it does to you.  We don’t live where you live, but around it, in between it.  We slide by the notice of your government.  And I know this may come as a shock, but we’re not all “gypsies” or “Romany.”  Not every American idea comes from Old Europe--although there’s a lot we share-- but we’re something else as unseen and unclean.  We have no group name, so even though we’re not gypsies, they generally call us that.  If they call us anything other than trash. 

You see, gypsies are an ancient tradition, older than most so-called civilizations.  They have a past--I’d say rich past, but everyone says that, and sometimes it just wasn’t true.  Not all history is rich for every society.  Think about England under George I.  Plenty of things happen, and financially they were rich, but does anyone think their culture was at the time?  Of course not.  It’s mostly what American culture derived from and we see how interesting that is.  So is gypsy history rich?  Yes, but not all of it. 

We’re not gypsies.  We’re never rich, and we don’t have history.  In fact, that’s why we’re not gypsies, and why we’re not Americans.  We’re not illegal immigrants, either.  The immigrants part is wrong, and although many of us have, do and will perform illegal actions, our existence isn’t illegal per se.  We’re just people.  People who live in the United States of America, but we’re not Americans.  We’re all born here... we all die here--usually...but we don’t vote, or pay income taxes or register on the census.  American culture has plenty of cracks to fall through, if you just want to step in.  My mom said our family came out of the displacing of the Indians back in the late 1800s.  But to look at me, I’m at least as much white as I am Indian, so there’s definitely some Anglos other than half my dad and a quarter of my mom in there.  This one family we saw a lot back when I was a kid said their parents were Sixties refugees--draft dodgers or activists or something.  Two hippies go on the run so he doesn’t have to go to Vietnam, they go off the radar, no one goes back on.  Eventually, their kids would stay on the run, even though they wouldn’t have to.  They’ll convince stupid teenage lovers to run away with them and have more kids and eventually, there’s a whole big family tree that no one notices in the middle of the forest. 

That family... they called themselves gypsies, and I did too.  One year we must’ve run into them three or four times.  KoA in east Nebraska.  Big Bone Lick park in Kentucky.  Fort Collins, Colorado (that was the carnival) and I know there were more.  They had a different last name every time we met them, but they had a son about my age named Connor.  Connor Gypsy is what I called him, till his Dad gave me a nasty look and I realized he either didn’t like the word or didn’t like me calling attention to it.  We left town couple days after that, but the next time we met up with Connor and his family was the carnival in Fort Collins.  Connor said they were thinking about signing on with the carnies, which was another group of people with whom we share some similarity, and are often confused for.  I think when I was about eleven or twelve.  I said to Ma, “We gypsies?”  Or maybe it was more of a statement than a question.  Don’t remember.  She said, “no.  Gypsy’s are something different, but they live a lot like us.”  I said, “Connor an’his family are gypsies.”  She said “no they ain’t.” and dragged me over to a ride.  She said something to the guy at the switch in that way of talking we all knew.  He pointed over to a tent and Ma brushed her hair out of her face and pulled me in that direction.  She had a mission for something, and it was only recently I realized how important it was she teach me this lesson. 

“Hi.” Ma said cheery and bright when we were inside the tent.  It was an unmarked tent, but I guessed when we got inside that it was the Fortune Teller.  Although, at the time, I thought it was silly they didn’t have a better sign. Even at that age, I knew reads were a great way to make some quick cash, especially if you could throw in mystical jumbo and some cards or bones.  But this perfect place, perfect set-up was being wasted because of bad advertising.  “My name’s Amanda Baker.  This is my son Nico.”  I’d never heard her tell anyone our real names before.  “I’m sorry to bother you, but my boy here just asked a question that I can’t even start to answer, and I was hoping you might give him some history, if it ain’t too much trouble.”  Now you see where I got my affinity for finding the longest way to say something. 

“Nico.”  The old lady said in a thick accent that I still haven’t placed.  “Nico is Romany name.”  She stared at me, thick wiry black eyebrows arched suspiciously over those cataract eyes. 

“Well, you see ma’am, that’s exactly what he asked me.  Go ahead, Nico.  Ask her what you asked me.”  I looked up at her.  This old lady scared me, and I felt like I was in trouble, even though Ma looked more nervous than angry.  I didn’t want to talk to this old lady and I was suddenly really embarrassed about my question.  “Go on, son..”  She was looking back at me and nudged me forward. 

This was almost as bad as cop manners, but I wasn’t scared of cops.  “We gypsies?” I asked real quiet, peeking up at her.

“HAH?  Speak up, child.” 

“Is me and mine gypsies, is what I asked my ma.”

She laughed a little and glanced over at Ma.  “What did you tell him?”

“I said gypsies are something different than us, but live a lot alike.”

“And why you not listen to your mother?” the old lady glared back to me. 

“I did.  But my friend Connor’s family says they gonna join the Carnies and not be gypsies no more.”

She smiled a little, which scared me more, because it wasn’t just a creepy old lady smile.  There was some of the bad mojo in that smile, trying to figure out if it could get to me or not.  “You no gypsy.  Gypsy from Old Country.  Always a travel.  Have tradition.  Pattern.  You friend a no gypsy.  He say they stop being gypsy.  Can’t stop being gypsy.  They just gadjo on the outside.  What you mother say.  You not gypsy.”  She motioned with a bony finger for me to come over and sit at the small table covered in candles and bizarre knick-knacks. 

“Are you a gypsy?” I asked her as I sat down in the cheap plastic chair and looked over the table.  There was an ancient-looking fringed table cloth in blue and yellow patterns.  I partly remember this as some stereotypical fortune-teller encounter, but there were little clues that it wasn’t.  Like the way my head swam when I tried to follow the pattern, or the way the smoke from her cigarette had some cloying scent that wasn’t tobacco and wasn’t marijuana either.  She looked like the stereotype--black scarf tied around her head, heavy dark eyes, long skirt and loose-fitting blouse.  It was everything you’d expect a gypsy fortune-teller to be, but she was the real thing.  I saw it in her eyes that she knew things I never could.

“Rom.”

“Huh?”

“Rom is right name.  Madi is my name.”  She grabbed my chin with yellowed fingers reeking of tobacco, a smell I’d always found comfortable.  Reminded me of my parents.  She turned my head from side to side, looking in my eyes the whole time, and I watched her back.  I wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but I figured I was supposed to let her find it.  “Cherokee?”  She asked me.  Ma started to answer, but Madi silenced her with a glance.  “Let him answer.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.  “And some Choctaw I’m told.”

She nodded.  “What else?”

“What else?”

“Too white to be full-blood.  What is rest?”

“Um... white?” I answered.  What else was there?  I tried to remember anything my parents had ever said about our racial history. 

“What kind of white?”  She was getting impatient with me.  “White as different as Red.  Different as Black.  What kind of white?” 

I shrugged and she looked at Ma.  “English.  Maybe some Welsh and Scottish.  I think a German in there somewhere.  Don’t know about his dad’s side.”  Ma paused, hoping that was enough.  It seemed to satisfy the old Gypsy’s need to know, and Ma shrank back by the tent flap and peered outside while she lit a cigarette.  “I think it’s about to rain,” she added. 

“Good.  Tents are dusty.”  Madi let go of my chin and lit a few more candles on the table between us.  Her cigarette was burned halfway down in the ashtray and she reached for it with shaky hands.  I stared at it in awe, waiting for the two inches of ash to fall off onto the table or her lap or something, but it didn’t, no matter how much her hand trembled it.  It finally fell the moment she placed it back over the ashtray and the cigarette was left and forgotten about.  “You have dark cloud behind you,” she said as she flipped over a handful of playing cards.  I was expecting tarot cards--I’d seen plenty of people use them before--but it was just regular cards.  Bicycle brand.  Same as we had in the Winnebago.  “Someone has design on you.  Will find you one day.”  Her eyes glanced up at me, though she didn’t move her head, kept it down, like she was trying to figure out if I was still listening.  I jumped a little.  “Shadows watching.  Plans.  Dark future, boy.”

I looked over at Ma, with that what-the-hell-were-you-thinking look.  She wasn’t listening though.  She was staring out the tent flap, her arms folded tight and the cigarette dangling from her mouth.  She looked scared and it was scaring me.  I always thought Ma was the prettiest woman I’d ever known, but it was a very bedraggled kind of pretty.  Her hair was muddy brown, lighter than it should be because she liked to wash it in peroxide.  She was wearing a sleeveless cotton dress, gathered up underneath her breasts.  It stuck to her body where she’d been sweating on this humid summer day in Colorado, turning the pale blue into a deep midnight.  The sun had become covered by black clouds and it had started raining while we’d been in here.

“I don’t wanna be here no more, Ma.”

She turned like she’d forgotten she was supposed to be looking out for me.  “Huh?  You just pay attention, Nico.”  She frantically motioned for me to turn back to Madi. 

“Strong boy,” Madi continued, flipping over another card and ignoring me flipping out.  “Inside strength.  You never find home, though.  Roam roam roam...” her voice trailed off.  “Is good for you.  Make you stronger.”  She swept the cards to the side and barked, “give me palm.”  I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t help it.  Look to Ma.  No help.  Look back to Madi.  I stuck my hand palm up on the table.  She grabbed it and traced something on my skin with a long painted fingernail.  It tingled.

“What’d you just do?”  It felt like fire was burning up and down my arm and I squirmed.  “What’d you do!”  I jerked my arm back but she held it tight, staring me down with wild in her eyes.  “Ma!”

“Hey you crazy bitch!  Let go of my son!” Ma rushed forward and tried to pull the old lady’s hands off my arm.  I reached out with my other arm and grabbed a big candle the size of a whiskey bottle, shutting my eyes and swinging it wildly at the old woman.  I heard a crunch and opened my eyes.  Ma was stumbling to the ground, clutching the side of her head.  Madi screamed and made a sign in the air, holding two fingers pointed at me and backing away.

“Ma?”  I rushed to her and cradled her head.  I’d never seen so much blood.  “Ma?  I’m sorry Ma!”  I looked back at the old Gypsy.  “See what you made me do!?”  Ma stirred a little and told me to get Dad, so I ran.  I ran all over the carnival as fast as I could and found Dad playing dice with some carnies behind the freak show tent.  By the time we got back to the tent, Ma was barely breathing and the old lady was gone.  All evidence of her was gone too.  It was just Ma, some blood and an empty tent.  I just sat with Ma till the ambulance came. 

“I’m real proud of you, son,” Dad said when he got back to the Winnebago several hours later.  He didn’t let me go to the hospital with him and Ma.  My older brother and sister took me away and made me go to bed.  I didn’t sleep.  Dad came back and talked to Gar and Tania real quiet.  After a while he came and sat down on my bed and put his hand on my shoulder.  “Nico?  Your ma’s gonna be okay.  I’m real proud of you, son.”  It took me a while to figure out why he was proud of me, but it was because I kept my mouth shut when the cops came around.  All I said was that it was an accident, and pretended I didn’t remember anything else.  I didn’t even mention old Madi, which meant the Carnies wouldn’t try to lynch us for getting their gypsy in trouble.  “Go on and tell me what happened.”  I told him the whole story, exactly like I remembered it.  He seemed nervous through it all, but just like the old lady and Ma, he never told me why.

We packed up and left the next day.  Ma’s head was all in a bloody bandage, and I got the feeling she wasn’t supposed to have been out of the hospital so soon, and that’s probably why we rushed out of the hospital parking lot so quick.  Dad didn’t even stop for a driving break till we were in Texas.  Ma wasn’t doing so good over the next few weeks.  She drooled, we had to help her pee, she just kind of stared at us.  Gar was 17 so he started helping Dad with the driving. Tania took over caring for our baby sister.  I took over the cooking.  She got a little better, and managed to say a few words, and walk around sometimes.  She hugged me a lot and told me I was a good boy.  Then she was dead.  Just like that.  We woke up one morning and she didn’t.  We buried her deep in the ground outside Coffee, Tennessee.  I still hadn’t cried.  It just wasn’t the way I was.  I just stared at the dirt.  Dad and Gar and Tania cried.  I just stood there.  Knowing it was my fault.  All my fault.
 

                                           

Shadow Name: Lake Charles
Mystic Path: Mastigos
Order: Free Council
Player: Adam

Lady Death

          

            Jaya is 25 years old.  She was born in London, England, but her family moved to Santa Barbara, CA when Jaya was 3.  Her parents are Phillip and Indira.  They run a construction contracting business – specializing on home additions and high end remodeling jobs.  Jaya’s older brother is Victor, a conservative and hard working man who now helps to run the family business.  Her younger brother is Chaman, a very likeable, funny guy, is working on his MA in Education from UCSB.  Jaya also has some extended family in Santa Barbara.

Jaya moved to Los Angeles to attend Santa Monica Community College.  She transferred to UCLA after her second year and graduated with a BA in history. 

While in college, Jaya worked for Wally Park of Park & West Investigation.  She considered becoming a professional P.I, but changed her mind after getting shot out during what should have been a routine task.

            Jaya lives in Studio City, in a condo complex on Coldwater Canyon, about a mile north of Riverside.  She works at the Huntington Library in Pasadena and at River Yoga in Studio City – on Laurel Canyon near Ventura Blvd. Jaya Awakened as a mage of the path of Moros a year ago. She was recruited by the Free Council and recently established her own Cabal with two of her closest mage allies. She goes by the Shadowname of Missus Miller. Misses Miller is also part of an ancient and secret cult to the Aztec Death-god Mictlantecutli, who she has reluctantly agreed to serve for the span of 666 days.

History 

Jaya was born in London to Phillip and Indira Youngblood.  Phillip was a working class Eastender who met Indira while she was in London on holiday.  They fell in love and married quickly.  Indira’s family was horrified by the marriage, so Indira stayed in London with her new husband.  The couple had three children, Victor, Jaya, and Chaman.  Just before the birth of Chaman, the family relocated to Santa Barbara where two of Indira’s siblings had settled.  Phillip worked as a construction contractor for a while before Indira convinced him to hire some employees and expand his work to a proper business.  Money was tight while their children grew up, but over the past few years their oldest son Victor has become more involved in running the business and now things are running much more smoothly.

            Victor, Jaya’s older brother, has always been very family oriented.  He’s always worked hard for his parents’ approval and his sibling’s admiration.  He worked for his father the entire time he was going to college and has become a full partner in the business.  At the age of 28 he is already married and will soon be a father.  Victor did not approve of Jaya’s choice to move to L.A. to go to school and has been quite critical of her life choices ever since then.  It’s only been during the past year that they’ve begun to rebuild a friendlier relationship.

            Chaman, Jaya’s younger brother, has just started working on his Masters degree in education at UC Santa Barbara.  Everyone in the family likes and gets along with Chaman.  He was a bit of a clown growing up, but he has always been careful not to rock the boat.

            Growing up, Jaya always felt the desire to strike off on her own and find her own place in the world.  She liked her parents well enough, but didn’t care for their other relatives who looked down on her father for being a laborer and were quick to criticize Jaya and her brothers.  After graduating from high school she moved to Los Angeles and started taking classes at Santa Monica Community College.  By the end of her first semester, she had started working for Park & West Investigations. 

            She transferred to UCLA after her second year and pursued a BA in history.  Between her studies, her job at Park & West, and her work study job at UCLA’s art history library, she was extremely busy.  But she was proud of the fact that she did it on her own. 

            Just after graduation, she decided to pursue a career as a private investigator.  But a month later a man whom she had just photographed cheating on his wife, drew a gun and chased her, firing after her.  The event really rattled Jaya, and she immediately changed her plans. 

            Her manager at UCLA’s art history museum put her in touch with a friend at the Huntington Library.  Jaya was hired as an assistant archivist – her job responsibilities being mainly limited to scanning pages from old books.  The work was dull compared to her P.I. experiences, but she liked the people and the atmosphere.  She also liked having enough time to have a social life again.  Since then she has been promoted and is well liked at work.   

Jaya Youngblood’s Allies:

Marrianna Troklevich, Nurse (1 point)

            Marrianna Troklevich is a nurse at Kaiser Permanente.  She is a 39 year old Russian immigrant who came to US when she was a teenager.  Marrianna hired Jaya three years ago to investigate her soon-to-be-ex-husband’s financial status.  She suspected that her husband – Misha - had a lot of their money hidden in “off the books” investments and wanted to make sure that she got her fair share in the divorce.  Jaya’s investigation led to a safety deposit box containing a half a million dollars worth of diamonds.  Marrianna did quite well in the settlement. 

Her gratitude being stronger than her adherence to rules, Marrianna has occasionally helped Jaya out by giving her information from the hospital’s records.  Generally, Marrianna considers the information she passes to be incidental – when someone signed in to the emergency room or what medication was given to a patient.  She’s more hesitant to reveal sensitive or confidential information, though if it was important enough to Jaya, then Marrianna could be convinced.  Marrianna has also patched up one or two of Jaya’s old clients when they needed medical attention but didn’t want to deal with the sorts of questions that get asked at a hospital. 

            Marrianna currently lives in a house in Echo Park with her teenage sons Alexander, 19, and Gamlet, 14.  Alexander works as a mover and has done a little acting.  Gamlet will be starting high school in the fall.  He hopes to go to CalTech and become a rocket scientist.

Jaya's Contacts:

Balraj Rai, Blogger and Web Crawler (2 points)

            Balraj is Jaya’s cousin – on her mother’s side.  Balraj is a 29 year old computer programmer.  Brilliant and successful, Balraj has frustrated his mother time and again by not getting married.  Watching his parents bicker day in and day out for all of his life has soured him on marriage.  A geek and rebel at heart, Balraj has found his ideal community online.  He usually spends his evenings surfing the internet, reading blogs, downloading interesting files, and keeping up to date on the wide range of odd ideas and events that sets the internet buzzing.  His web site – www.mythicrealism.com – is a testament to the truly bizarre nature of our modern world.  Video footage of celebrities getting dragged out of court houses, sound files of naturalists being attacked by hungry bears, detailed break downs of how global warming will affect different major cities, interviews with alien abduction victims – he posts it all, pasting together a fascinating portrait of who we are as a people right here and right now.

            Balraj lives in Pasadena.  He works for a gaming company, but telecommutes most days.  His closest friends are scattered around the world, people he’s met online.  He also has a small group of local friends – Hollywood hipster-geeks who he sometimes parties with (hip clubs, cocktails, and pretty girls who know that comic books can result in profitable movie franchises). 

            Jaya and Balraj were friends as children, but lost interest in one another as teens.  However, they reconnected as adults one summer when there were a lot of family weddings and they were both hopelessly single.  Balraj was surprised to hear that Jaya was working with a private investigator.  He wanted to hear all about the cases she had worked on and offered to help her out if she was ever working on any unusual cases. 

            Jaya and Balraj meet up for pizza once every few months, just to keep in touch.

Shadow Name: Missus Miller
Mystic Path: Moros
Order: Free Council
Player: Kip