I Remember What I Forgot 

Again and Again 

by Sara Howe

Recounting the Death of Anthony Servante

 

Zuma Beach

 

 During Spring Break I mostly stayed at the hotel writing while the celebratory noise on the streets grew in volume as the day turned to night. I stared at the blog screen hoping to capture the festive mood of the holiday. But my mind was is neutral. More like parked. Or kaput. Then my thoughts turned to a few years ago. I was driving my VW back then. Giving Anthony rides to the seaside community of Santa Monica. He had meeting with various family members and friends of Norinko Hanasaki, the girl who had disappeared the year before I met Anthony. Or maybe it was the year before that. I don't remember too clearly. I do remember picking Anthony up in my VW Bug that night and driving to Santa Monica. Anthony was acting weird. Well, weirder than usual. He was quite eccentric when I first met him at the Starbucks where I worked as manager. Anthony always had the Vente Pike with almond milk and four small ice cubes. To cool it down, he always said. When I picked him up that night, I brought him a Vente and he set in down in the cup holder and ignored it. Anthony ignoring coffee. Weird. 

We drove until we met with Priest Bobue, Norinko's father, Torinko, And then we transferred to Bobue's VW bus. We turned off the 10 Freeway on Lincoln Avenue and found parking. I was told to remain in the bus and to move it if the cops tried to give a ticket. Anthony, Bobue, and Torinko jumped the fence and walked carefully down the hill leading to the mouth of the Santa Monica Freeway Tunnel, northside entrance. It seems like it was just minutes that went by when they entered and exited the tunnel. But the look on Bosue's and Anthony's face showed an ancient wear. Norinko was with them also. Torinko didn't come out. 

In a way I wish I had gone in with them. But in my heart I thanked God that I was ordered to wait by the bus.

When I dropped the Santa Monica group off, I helped Anthony into my VW Bug and drove the 10 Freeway homeward to the San Gabriel Valley. I had to escort Anthony to his doorway. I fished the house keys from his jacket pocket and opened the door for him. Before I could get him inside, he darted in and slammed the door behind him. I lay my hand on the door and hurried back to my car. It was around three in the morning. I'm not sure about the time. I was going by the foot traffic and the sparse number of businesses open (donut shops, 7-11s, gas stations). I don't even remember getting home.

What the hell happened? Who could I ask? Why wasn't the news media there to cover the event? A missing girl was found. Had they forgotten about her? The questions spun around in my head. Till I fell asleep at my desk. I wanted to write about the night's events, but my fatigue knocked me out. When I awoke early that morning as the sunlight hit my face from the window, I smelled the fresh coffee, bacon, and scrambled eggs. At the thought of food, I rushed to the bathroom and threw up. 

After the midnight trip to Santa Monica, Anthony threw himself into the blog. He sent me his first drafts, I edited them, and then he post them. Like clockwork. I was working as manager at the Starbucks in the mornings and going to Citrus College at night. I managed to make time in the late hours after homework for editing. I check the work for grammar, spelling, and typos. I didn't interfere with content, didn't even make suggestions. Because I really didn't read the work. I couldn't see the forest for the trees. I saw sentences, words, and letters. If they were in the right order, it was fine for me. However, it wasn't until a friend of my from the Starbucks who followed the blog asked me questions about the content of Anthony's latest work that I began to notice the subject matter of his articles. Trauma and Therapy. He was obsessed with them. He received emails from dozens of people who had (he believed) undergone some form of trauma. He posted these accounts of trauma without edits. He wanted the accounts to be exactly as written in the emails. In addition to these emails, he began to interview counselors, psychologists, and psychiatrists about common therapy practices for the types of trauma he was hearing about from the emailers. But little did I know that Anthony was subconsciously searching for the answers to his own trauma, the trauma he had suffered that night in Santa Monica. 

He wouldn't talk about it at first, but as he begin to find answers in his study of therapy. 

Then, someone sent him an email about his traumatic experience in the Santa Monica Freeway Tunnel. That's when Anthony returned to Santa Monica to meet with this person. He was about to face his own trauma, the trauma he had buried in the research of his blog. He lost himself in the trauma of others. Until the research led him back to the origin of his own trauma. But his trip to Santa Monica would awaken that suppressed nightmare. 

Anthony Servante died alone. His son oversaw the cremation. Officially there was no wake. Family and close friends were invited to the scattering of ashes into the morning waves of Zuma Beach, where Anthony spent much of his childhood. Starless by King Crimson was played as his ashes were dropped into the ocean foam. His son did not wish to attempt to toss the ashes since the morning wind common to the beach was kicking up sand and threatened to toss the ashes right back in our faces. Anthony would have got a kick out of that. 

But his story doesn't end there.

The story continues in Santa Monica, California. Just to be clear: Santa Monica lies between Venice and Malibu. Further north along the coast we find Zuma, Cabrillo, and Santa Barbara. Anthony knew all these beaches; he played pinball and chess on the Santa Monica Pier in the 80s. In Venice he followed the "Art" scene of the 70s. But Zuma was his favorite. It was his haven for midnight treks. 

So it wasn't surprising that Anthony took that late-night trip to help a friend. A friend he never met. But once. Her name is Norinko Hanasaki.

 Between Anthony's notes and my recollection of the Santa Monica events, pre and post, I believe I can compile a timeline that may clarify and maybe explain Anthony's sad demise. I've been putting this compilation for some time now, with the 2020 pandemic only helping me to procrastinate, but the time has come to lay out the story as best I can. But I need to be clear about this telling: This is not my story, and this is not Anthony's story. We are/were but bystanders to the history that unfolded before us. Ultimately, this is the story of Norinko Hanasaki, her family, and her friends, for they brought us into their story. 

Anthony and I are merely the storytellers.

Sunday, March 21, 2021

 

Now on Sale

Unthinkable Tales Volume 4

 

 

 When we are confronted by a horrific memory or a traumatic recollection, we trigger a defense mechanism: for some, we whistle, for others, we deny the experience. We find ways not to think about the fears we have buried deep in our mind. Unthinkable Tales bring these horrors to the surface. 

Here, your defense mechanisms will not protect you. 

Contributors include Dani Brown, Lorraine McLeod, and Devora Gray. Plus three new poets.