Chapter 3: EARLY AUGUST

If you continue up State Street four blocks beyond where the historical parade ended at Micheltorena, then head left onto Islay - its name derived from the red berry plant that once grew there and was consumed by the Chumash people - you will enter the west side of town, a place of cracked, uneven sidewalks, bumpy asphalt streets, old one- and two-story wood frame homes, newer upscale apartments, and lots of trees.
        At seven a.m. at a small apartment complex on Islay Street, Mike Stanning clunked his front door shut, double-checked the lock, and took the front stairs down to the sidewalk. As he moved briskly up Islay toward State, the morning chill was particularly sharp and in the distance the Santa Ynez mountains were dark and brooding. Though he always walked to work, he was grateful to be doing so today. He’d spent a horrible night tossing and turning and needed to burn off some energy.
        He and his wife Diane had separated the day before, she now staying with a friend on San Pascual while they sorted things out. This was a jolt. He thought they would never separate. She was beautiful, intelligent, socially adept, and everything he wanted in a woman. But conflicts had emerged, then became insurmountable until he had to concede something he thought he never would: they were not a good match after all. But the most painful part was how eager she was to leave the marriage.
        He was a young, healthy, good looking man whose journey through life had been smooth and unchallenged up to now, leaving him untested for the inevitable pitfalls and failures to come. He was born in LA into an upper-middle-class family sprinkled with doctors, attorneys, and financial wizards. Success was a way of life in his world and anything less deemed lacking, leaving him bewildered by what was happening now.
        He turned onto State and saw the ocean in the distance, so bright and shimmering. He reflected on how pleasant it is to live in such a beautiful city even if that beauty doesn’t always translate into happiness. He tried to convince himself he didn’t have to be depressed. He still had a decent job, after all, and made enough to pay his bills. Maybe as a single man he could start a new life, maybe do some traveling. But his mood kept flipflopping. He wondered who he would have dinner with tonight, or who he would talk to, or who would be his confidant.
        He turned left onto Figueroa and passed the white courthouse, so bright and imposing. As he approached the welfare office, a conviction settled over him. He would go on with work as if nothing had happened. People would marvel at how well he handled this transition. He pushed the glass doors open and entered the building, still deserted at this hour. His steps echoed through the corridor as he flipped on each