The access code for The Bluffdale* was ‘#-5-9-4-8-3.’ I accidentally pressed ‘#-5-4-9-8-3’ the first time and forgot the pound key on the second try, but I got it exactly right every time after that. ‘#-5-9-4-8-3.’ The keys made a little plinking sound when I dialed the callbox, and three little beeps would go off as if to say, “ding, ding, ding! That’s it, girl. You got it.” But each time afterward, nothing else would happen. The motorized gate didn’t shake or budge an inch. The big hunk of iron just stood there, unmoved, even when I asked it straight up: “Are you for real?” Same when I called it a mother f*cker and kicked the floorboards of my rental car. ‘#-5-9-4-8-3,’ I dialed. Nothing.

I had called the Airbnb host that morning to let her know I wouldn’t arrive at the house until late. I didn’t plan on leaving L.A. until I’d had a life-changing experience in a large body of water, or until I had an encounter with some wise old sage who’d say something so deep it probably wouldn’t make sense until 20 years later. Like when I’m out in my garden pulling collards with the grandkids and all of a sudden I’m like, “Ooooh, I get it now.” Either way, it would probably be after midnight, I told her. The lady said, “Oh, well isn’t that nice, dear. The key will be under one of the clay pots.” She seemed lovely and unassuming, despite not caring. Like the kind of MeeMaw who lived and let live.

We chatted briefly about the weather and how I should push hard on the door because it sticks sometimes. She told me to call her if I needed anything. I was cool with it at the time, but felt weird about it at 3 a.m. I didn’t want to pull MeeMaw out of bed so she could talk me through some ‘pound-five-nine-four-eight-three’ nonsense. Nor did I want her to have to come from wherever she was or, embarrassingly, send for backup. I looked like a kid who’d just come in from recess — disheveled and kinda ashy with grass stains on my butt. I had big, wild hair that probably smelled like some weed. ‘#-5-9-4-8-3,’ I typed again, but no cigar.

Going to California was supposed to be like a pilgrimage for me. I would have left my phone in D.C. if I could have. Things were not going well at work. And black people were being murdered in the streets. The whole capitalism/racism/sexism trifecta felt like it was killing me too. Then fear and self-doubt were swallowing me whole. In general, my morale about life was low. I’m talkin’ big-round-of-layoffs-right-before-Christmas type low. I felt both lost and bound in my life back there, craving some space to let myself feel free.

I started picturing myself somewhere in California — off the map, unencumbered. Waking up with the sun to meditate or write, gazing up at the Redwoods and exploring the Lost Coast, meeting a shaman in the desert and learning the meaning of life or something. I wanted to go without TV or internet for a while. I wanted to wrestle with my thoughts and record my ideas, to write something that affirmed my purpose in life. I wanted something that would help me feel liberated, or something.

I’d been roaming Cali for two days before I arrived at the Bluffdale. I hadn’t quite had the spiritual awakening I expected by then, but I did eat an edible on the way in from L.A. and ended up having a seriously amazing drive up the I-5, which was a start. I sang and rapped loudly like a kid on the metro. I ate a huge bag of trail mix exactly the way I like it — one M&M at a time, two peanuts and a raisin. I farted. I yelled. I smoked at a gas station overlooking what seemed like a real life post card. I laughed at my own jokes and saw first hand that God is real. The mountains and the valleys and the sky seemed perfect, vast, complex, beautiful. I was not at all stressed, had nothing to prove and no one to fear.

The rental was about halfway between L.A. and Oakland. I was lured there by the pictures I saw on the Airbnb profile. It was a two-story house in what looked like a brand new gated community with the kind of furnishings and aesthetics that one finds on Pinterest. MeeMaw clearly knew what was up. String lights were tastefully set up around the boutique garden out back. Mason jars here and fresh cut flowers there. There were fresh, plush, clean white linens and a balcony off the master suite with what looked like antique garden furniture. I planned on waking up the next morning and sitting out there after a dip in the clubhouse pool. I planned to have coffee and fresh fruit while reading a lil’ Danticat or Jamaica Kincaid. I’d do stretches and salutations, then smoke a bluntie midday. I’d write ‘til my pen ran out of ink. It looked like the perfect place for your girl to escape. All I needed to do was to get in the gate.

I hit the pound sign again and dialed the five numbers. There was a sound as if the system were trying to connect. Then came screeching dial-up noises that sounded so full of promise. I got excited and was ready to put my foot on the gas and get up in them linens like a 5-year-old in fresh snow. My hopes were dashed when the callbox let out a dial tone.

I was tempted to pull the car next to the curb by the gate, take my bikini top off beneath my cropped hooie, listen to the rest of that podcast and roll me a fattie.

‘Yes, that’s it,’ I thought. I would just wait it out. Surely someone would drive up to the gate and I could explain what was going on, show him or her the emails as proof, then slip right in behind the kind stranger.

Yes. Yes. But. How would that look? A black person flagging down a stranger’s car at 3 a.m.? Plus, it didn’t seem like the kind of neighborhood that had folks coming in and out at all hours. Matter of fact, it seemed like the kind of place where you could get shot for that exact kind of thing. Huge American flags billowed in the doorposts of brick houses I saw behind the gate, huge SUVs parked in driveways out front. The lawns were so uniformly green they looked like they could be colored with crayons. And was that a bumper sticker that said “Bush/Cheney ‘04”? It was like the place where white flight landed. Not the kind of place a black person wants to find herself at 3 a.m. tampering with a security box while carrying an eighth of weed somewhere in the car. I thought about Trayvon Martin and Mike Brown and Renisha McBride. I took a deep breath and sat up straight in my seat. ‘#-5-9-4-8-3.’

Nope.

I was this close to punching my horn, an emotional expression that I wouldn’t have been able to contain or stuff deep down inside like I do while at work. The sound would have shot itself out into the air and traveled its way through the trees, then up brick and mortar and into the bedroom window of some Bluffdale resident. And what if he stirs out of his sleep and looks over at his wife, then slowly gets out of bed and grabs the gun from a drawer? Or maybe just the cellphone this time. ‘Either way,’ I thought seriously, ‘I could actually die.’ I made sure to keep my hands off of the car horn.

I took a deep breath and pressed the buttons again. This time, mercifully, the gate opened. I drove inside but didn’t feel home free like I thought I would.

My guard was permanently up as I softly accelerated through the still, quiet streets, driving the car like it was on its tiptoes. I kept the radio dead silent and wondered if they had a Neighborhood Watch. There was more tension in my shoulders than I ever felt back in D.C. Just a few hours earlier I felt so good. I was so close to freedom. All the scenery and the trail mix and the music and farts, that all seemed so far away now.

The house I was renting was on a corner lot with neat, beautiful, ultra-green landscaping. $115 a night had seemed like a steal. I sat in the car and carefully read the host’s instructions, eager to get in and to feel safe and sound. The email said I should enter through a side door of the house, which was accessed through a wooden gate, which I’d have to unlock with a key that was placed underneath a certain potted plant. It was a process that I barely felt comfortable performing in a strange neighborhood during the day, let alone at night after fighting to get in. I was like “F*ck that,” on lugging my huge suitcase from the trunk, so instead I just sifted through the bag for my bonnet, a t-shirt and some panties if I could find them in the next three seconds. I was careful not to make any noise when I sealed the trunk back.

It was so dark outside, I could barely see anything. It was so quiet on the street, I was almost too scared to breathe. One knocked over plant, one wrong door opened, one slip of the alarm button and I could be dead. And how tragic, when I had come to Cali to try and reclaim my life.

Paranoia turned to panic as I thought about everything. I was probably so close to the key under the plant, it wanted to yell out “Marco!” A dog in one of the yards barked loud and I jumped, expecting a huge flood light to shine on me any second. “Stop! Police!” or something equally terrifying. The dog barked again and I couldn’t take it anymore. I hustled back to the car and this time I pressed my Chucks hard on the gas, speeding back down the street that I’d tried a million and one times to access. I turned the corner and waited for the gate to open. It gave me no problems this time.

A SavMart and a McDonald’s shared a huge parking lot not too far away. I parked under one of the tall lights and crawled into the back. I took off my top, put on my bonnet and went to sleep. The next morning I rolled a j, got an Egg McMuffin, found the key and the back door entrance without getting shot. I only wrote a little that day. And it wasn’t even about what had just happened.

I drove up to Oakland for the next part of my journey, a little less hopped up on my ideas of freedom. I didn’t bother telling the Airbnb host or seeking out that old sage. I didn’t rap as loudly or laugh at my own jokes. I did find myself repeating the gate code though. ‘#-5-9-4-8-3.’

*The neighborhood name was changed.

Nope.

I took a deep breath and pressed the buttons again. This time, mercifully, the gate opened. I drove inside but didn’t feel home free like I thought I would.

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Jada Smith

Writing since June 2016 · 1 story contributed