Free Further Joy by John Brandon

chosen, why before them it was the old lady who kept sweet-temperedly to herself, who spent hours and hours tending the citrus trees in her backyard. You can hear the unspoken complaint: Why not me?
    My parents are worn out, but also they’ve grown proficient at being worn out. They toughen as needed, like people throughout history. My father has always kept odd hours, but now my mom makes excuses to stay up at night too. She’ll say she just put a pie in, or that she’s going to finish a book. She’ll stay up and knit scarves far too warm for this part of the world, and in the morning I’ll find her kitchen chair over near the big floor-to-ceiling window in the living room. They’d gotten out of the crosshairs, as my father used to say, had made their escape from teeming vulgar commerce and my mother’s insufferable family and cold weather to boot. They’d found this sanctuary and made it home and had a child here. But now something else has found this place too.
    The guy at the motel is in his customary lounge chair. His T-shirt says NEVER SAY ALWAYS . I’m Huck Finning—interacting, which is a lot easier than reflecting. I’m a couple chairs down from the guy. He’s seen me plenty of times walking by, has eyed me through the chain link.
    â€œWhat’s it like in New Mexico?” I ask.
    He takes his time, tries to rub something off his lounge chair with his thumb.
    â€œI live in North Hollywood,” he says. “In a penthouse.”
    Now I think of vast, hazy views and bartenders in bow ties. Trees growing indoors.
    â€œThe building calls the whole top floor the penthouse, but it’s the exact same apartments as the rest of the building. In the elevator the buttons say 1 , 2, 3 , and P and I get to push P.” The guy’s smirk brightens. “I have a more commanding view of the industrial park than the folks on the third floor.”
    â€œWhy do you say you’re from New Mexico?”
    The guy produces a glass and pours me some tea. He explains that he’s a scout for a company that makes documentaries. They did one on the ivory trade, he says. They did one on these hundred-year-old Nazi officers that turn up now and then.
    â€œWhat does a scout do?” I ask.
    â€œAbsorb and process the available narrative. Also make sure no one else is poking around. Make sure there’s no one to buy out or partner with.” After a moment he says, “We’re a relatively small company.”
    I sip the tea and it’s so sweet it makes me squint.
    â€œThis isn’t far from where Errol Morris made that movie,” the guy says. “The one with the turkey hunter.”
    â€œThat movie celebrates rednecks,” I tell him. “Not all turkey hunters are like that. My father’s best friend is a turkey hunter.”
    The guy smirks again. The way his face is, he’s always either smirking or failing to smirk. “There are religions way off in the Far East where shooting a turkey would be a sin,” he says.
    â€œI’ve heard of that.”
    â€œSin isn’t the correct term, but ending another life is an act you’d be judged for. You’re not allowed to harm another creature.”
    â€œThey’re innocent,” I put in. “Animals are innocent.”
    â€œDo you think that’s possible, to live your life without causing suffering in any other creature?”
    I know this is one of those questions that aren’t meant to be answered, so I don’t try to. I watch the guy extricate a pack of cigarettes from a pocket in his shorts. He wrangles a lighter out of there too. He pulls a cigarette out and rests it on the ground, and lays the lighter right next to it. I guess he’s going to wait until I’m gone to smoke.
    â€œMy problem is getting caught up in earthly judgments,” he says. “It’s hard not to when you live in LA, and when you work in the entertainment