L.A. KNIGHT

I’m living in a world of dead things, Elaine thought. This was emphasized further as she wrestled with a stegosaur she’d started to call “Wilma.”

It wasn’t that she didn’t like dinosaurs: in fact, she loved them. Her father, a paleontologist, had raised her on stories of the beasts: shrieking, stomping, and ripping each other apart. From the age of five, she’d been hooked.

Yet somehow, assembling fossils in a museum paled next to her girlhood visions: of setting up digs in exotic places; a real-life Indiana Jones who traveled the world on donkey-back . . .

“Hey!”

Todd Fugelsby, Assistant Curator, almost caught a spike through the leg.

“Jeez, Elaine, I know L.A. is dangerous, but I’d rather not be stabbed—especially by something that’s been dead for fifty-million years.”

“Sorry, Todd.”

Elaine’s cheeks colored as she slumped against Wilma.

“I’m a danger to myself and others. You should find another Junior Preparator. It might literally save your life.”

Todd blinked from behind his wire-frame glasses, his T-shirt blaring “Rockosaurus” basically saying it all.

“C’mon, Elaine, we’re a team: you’re the brains, and I’m the hands. Not that I want to put my hands in your brains. Ech . . .”

She watched him stare down at her from a small stepladder. She knew she wasn’t at her best: her blonde hair was tied back, wisps flying into her face; and she wore the L.A. uniform of layered tops, skirt, and Vans.

“Todd!”

Elaine leapt to his side as he fell off the ladder, giving Wilma a jolt she hadn’t felt since the Jurassic.

“You Okay?”

She offered a hand and he took it. He milked his near-injury like most guys, cradling his head against her shoulder.

“Miss Sommers. Mr. Fugelsby. I thought I was at the Natural History Museum, not a twerking contest!”

“Sorry, Dr. Fleishman.” Elaine hastily pushed Todd away. Fleishman regarded her quizzically.

“Miss Sommers, the time for love has passed: spring has given way to your eponymous season. May I remind you that bringing you here was a favor to your father—”

She grimaced, ducking her head.

“—and we are two weeks behind on this stegosaurus stenops—”

“Yes, sir. We’ll make it, sir; you have my word.”

At her side, Todd nodded like a life-sized puppet.

“Doctor, there’s something I’d like to run by you.” Elaine pushed back her hair.

“Hmmm?”

“Well, it’s about Wilma’s—uh, the stegosaurus’s—plates.”

Fleishman stood impassive. Not even his moustache moved.

“It’s just that . . . we’re putting them together in the classic way, but it’s never been proven that they had two rows of plates, either alternating or in pairs—”

Todd came back to life. “Wasn’t the first one found here in situ with two rows of plates?”

“Yes, but they might have shifted in the matrix. In 1887, Professor O.C. March conjectured that only one row—”

“Yes yes, I’m familiar. Let’s just follow the model, shall we?”

Dr. Fleishman swung out past a wall of steel cabinets, each heavy with drawers of tagged fossils.

Defeated, Elaine sighed, slumping against one of them. “I’m not exactly impressing him. Maybe I should go back to Boston.”

“No!” Todd shouted instantly. He looked embarrassed. “He likes you, I know he does. We all do.”

He grinned, his complex haircut—long in front and shaved on the siders--giving him the look of the half-scalped.

Elaine closed her eyes. “I don’t know. I should re-enroll at BU.” She thought of her checkered career there. “I mean, I don’t even have my Masters. To be anyone in this field, you need a Ph.D.”

“Wrong.”

“You’ve got one.”

“Yeah, but . . . ”

Unable to come up with anything, he picked up a plastic toy dinosaur and twirled it slowly in his hand.

“Well, to make you feel better, why not go out with me and the guys tonight? We’re gonna catch some soccer on satellite, then get so drunk we’ll have to call Lyft.”

“That’s really sweet of you, Todd, but I have to . . .” What? What was waiting for her at home? A one-room, empty apartment?

Todd was really pushing it. “You just might find Mr. Right.”

“In a bar?”

“Sure. First, he’ll drool on you, then he’ll throw up.”

Elaine backed away, hoping she wasn’t right in what she was reading into Todd’s expression. She freed her hair from its ponytail, which produced an audible sigh.

“Okay, see you after lunch!” She walked briskly past a hydraulic rock drill; and the fiberglass cast of a T-Rex skull, wearing a cap stitched with “Dodgers.”

As she’d learned to do over the past six months, she slipped on a pair of dark glasses before venturing out in the sun.

Ugh, the heat!

How could people stand it? It must have been in the triple digits, and there hadn’t been any rain since the last four Oscars. Elaine carefully sprayed on some sunscreen: Okay, it was SPF 90. She wished she could be as hardy as the kids on the lawn playing soccer. As it was, she could hardly walk without passing out. And people moved here in droves . . . why? To go to the beach and get cancer? Couldn’t they do that at home

Elaine sighed heavily as she dragged toward the Rose Garden, which she had to admit was pretty beautiful. How did they keep those flowers alive? By piping in water from Frisco? At last, she found some semblance of shade, and leaned against a low brick wall.

Benches still bearing the ’84 “Stars in Motion” logo lined the garden’s perimeter, a last reminder of the Olympics; and planters cascading with roses justified the words etched into a column: “Flowers are the poetry of heaven.”

Amid all this color, a fountain spewed purloined water on baking downtown workers. On parole from their cubes, they could enjoy a world which still included the sky—and even a couple of trees.

She headed for the grill to grab a quick sandwich, joining a line jam-packed with kids. At first, their noise unnerved her, but the sight of two small sisters sloppily sharing an ice cream soon made her smile.

She ordered turkey on rye with large fries, vowing to visit L.A. Fitness tomorrow. As she drifted to an outdoor table, she gave silent thanks for its large umbrella.

Wonder how the weather is back in Boston, she thought, as she took her first mayo-drenched bite. Probably lousy.

Yet despite the heavy, humid air, it was still her city (as opposed to the one where Angelenos kept chirping “But it’s a dry heat!” before they keeled over). It was hard for her to make the adjustment to surfer baggies and tank tops; the comparatively slow rate of speech; and the buildings, most no older than she was.

She actually missed that stupid mime in the square outside Quincy Market (Was this a historical first?). And casting for bluefish in Buzzard’s Bay with the help of her dad. Back there, they had something called seasons: tall drifts of snow in winter; red and gold hued leaves in autumn; summers that were mild compared to here. In L.A., they had seasons too, but they were called other names: Fire, Earthquake, Landslide, and Drought.

Well, I’m here now. Might as well make the best of it. All things considered, she’d done pretty well, landing the museum gig; an apartment, “Independence,” whatever that meant, and most important of all . . . complete anonymity.

Downing one last fry, she walked back to the grill and ordered a second lunch, then handed it a homeless guy who huddled by some steps.

“God bless,” he rasped.

But she wondered if she deserved it.