Free Ear to the Ground by David L. Ulin Page A

Ian’s Silver Lake apartment and screamed into his ear. “ Seven calls I’ve had in a half-an-hour, buddy boy. Seven calls. You better get fucking ready to be rich .”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œ Earthquake, baby, earthquake! Got the newspaper?”
    â€œHold on.” Ian pulled his blanket around him, opened the front door, checked to his left and his right, and stole the Los Angeles Times from the lady across the hall. “EARTHQUAKE COMING, SOURCES SAY” read the headline. Ian ran back to the phone. “Jesus.”
    â€œIs that fucking awesome?”
    Ian experienced the nausea of happiness as he scanned the article.
    â€œCharlie Richter …” he mumbled.
    â€œIs that fucking incredible? That fucking script’ll be sold by the end of the day .”
    All Ian could muster was, “My God .”
    â€œDon’t answer the phone, and I want you to get the fuck out of your house. Do you understand me? …”
    â€œBut … why?”
    â€œBecause if Jeffrey Kat zenberg comes to your doorstep and offers you a hundred grand in cash and says, “Welcome to Dreamworks ,” you’re gonna take his money. And you shouldn’t. That’s why.”
    When Grace and Charlie had recovered their senses, Grace began to plan. “Stay here till you’re ready,” she told him. “Stay all day if you like.” Charlie seemed thoroughly upset, and phenomenally hungover. Still, he smiled his thanks to Grace, and, for an instant, he seemed to forget the tremendous pounding in his head.
    Ian stood for a long time in his room, looking at the tattered Van Gogh print on his wall. His heart pounded so quickly that at first he thought it would seize. He was without a thought in his head, but never had he felt so alive. When his vital signs approached normal, he made coffee from yesterday’s grounds and spread some peanut butter over stale bread. Sometime later he called Philadelphia, to McClintock & Marcus, attorneys, and told his father’s secretary to pass along word that he wouldn’t be going to law school after all.

EYES OF THE WORLD
    THE EYES OF THE WORLD WERE UPON LOS ANGELES, AND no longer did it have anything to do with O. J. After the CES prediction—and after Caltech agreed “a major seismic event” seemed likely for the end of the year—Orenthal James Simpson was yesterday’s news. The skittish were moving out of Southern California at a rate of twelve families a day, packing their station wagons and minivans and heading north to Portland or east to Phoenix and Tucson. AM radio was abuzz with the subject and wouldn’t leave Charlie Richter alone. He’d stopped reading the papers and watching television, tired of seeing his face staring back at him.
    The mayor, too, was feeling the heat. Publicly, he proclaimed Los Angeles “a safe and beautiful place to live.” Privately, though, he watched the exodus with a mixture of desolation and fear. Eventually, he began making calls, looking for the kind of help only the federal government could give. And so it came to pass, on the morning of August 9, that the president’s motorcade stopped traffic on Highland Avenue, creating a nightmare for anyone trying to hop into Burbank on the 101.
    The president was in a peculiar mood. He had been shaken by the news that morning of Jerry Garcia’s death. Because he had inhaled. The Grateful Dead’s concert at the Avalon Ballroom in 1968 had made an impression on him he would always have to repudiate for political reasons. Riding in his limousine, he remembered that night’s second set, whenhe had peaked during the drums and had been frightened by Mickey Hart’s primal pounding of the tom-toms. But “Morning Dew” came and calmed the future president’s heart. He’d abandoned his shoes and made his way toward the stage, where a freckle-faced girl with flowers in her hair danced next to him.