Excerpt from the upcoming book, Exposed, by Matt Hutchison. Out in Summer 2026.
Credit to Addison Wheeler for editing, and photograph courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.
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Chapter 1: Larissa – Old Friends & New Circumstances
As people age, an interesting phenomenon occurs in the body’s limbic systems, depending on a person’s socioeconomic background. Their feelings of safety and security fluctuate as they travel between cramped urban and spacious suburban environments. Depending on one’s social class background, moving between the hard dynamics of city life and the predictably monotonous commuter belt can elicit a range of feelings, from excitement to irritability, to security and comfort. Larissa Jansen is seeking safety, and she’s felt safe since crossing into El Cerrito’s familiar suburban atmosphere, close yet far enough from San Francisco’s class-splitting wood-and-steel skeleton of old-money Victorian houses and modernist apartment buildings.
Nine months after moving from Southern California, Larissa had returned home to the Bay Area more disillusioned than when she first left more than a decade ago. Her trust in the substance recovery system has been completely eroded since almost succumbing to her former program, Deepblue’s cabal of house managers cycling out vulnerable residents for cash in a profit-for-bodies housing scheme. The experience has burned into her the impression that each program operates the same way—people at a low point, in need of help, easy money. The result is incalculable trauma for the directly affected, their families, and the recovery community.
Seaview Drive is silent for a Tuesday night; the only sound heard around her is the engine of Larissa’s Bronco and the crickets chirping when she comes to a stop sign. The street lights illuminate quietly and idyllically, brightly colored two- and one-story wooden homes that soothe her nerves upon sight as she detours to San Pablo Ave. These are signs of security, stability, and comfort, something she hasn’t experienced since she was a little girl growing up across the bay in Sausalito.
A regular life. Her old family life. The life she wants back.
To map this return plan, she scouts different suburbs on her long commute from Saenz Brothers Machining in South San Francisco to her sister’s home in Concord, where she stays temporarily every other week. The tradeoff of the hellish drive is the absurdly cheap rent, a “family” rate her sister insists on. Moderate relief from the drive is a 24-hour gym membership in the city to burn stress and multiple NA meeting locations before crossing the Golden Gate Bridge.
She usually hits a meeting before the gym to reduce the likelihood of encountering the tech, banking, consulting, and marketing worker bees coming straight from the office or from a last-minute happy hour. That was before the lockdown, when crowds and traffic were commonplace—before San Francisco went silent. The pandemic’s silver lining: Barely a soul is on the road, leaving them open for her to explore new pockets of suburbs. Like most of Contra Costa County, El Cerrito gives her a homey feel, an ideal place to raise her son, Thomas. Until their reunion, she keeps exploring for the right landing spot.
The 24-hour news cycle and the governor’s stay-at-home order have scared residents into a full-blown hermit life and amped up mistrust and judgment among them. A Nazar amulet wouldn’t ward off the judgmental glares people are giving to each other up here, who don’t abide by federally mandated safety protocols to prevent the spread of the virus. Larissa abides by these rules while out and about to avoid bringing in drama by some uptight citizen passerby. She hasn’t gone out much since the move and has taken full advantage of exploring new surroundings with the absent population. What usually takes her all day to discover is that she can do it in two hours. As far as she sees, the pandemic is a welcome hard reset for us all.
The drive from South San Francisco to El Cerrito took less than 30 minutes. Still, the social class disparities were clearly evident. Post-apocalyptic scenes of the city’s striking homeless population: families, the elderly, and young alike out in mass around the Tenderloin and Mission districts, along with the increasing size of encampments around Alameda. The freest members of American society fully revealed to those who publicly stated they sympathized with their situation but had their own property values in mind.
The car glides towards the edge of Seaview Drive as 10:00 p.m. approaches, reconnecting her with the main road. The suburban silence fades with the spare hiss of vehicles, and traffic hums on San Pablo Ave as her destination comes into view. Larissa’s car turns right and pulls into a 16-unit apartment complex that looks like the only stucco on the Ave amid all the modernization surrounding her. Apartment 6E—that’s her target, and she’s nervous about leaving her car. Carson Holmgren lives in 6E. She’s known Carson since her trade school years and has made an effort to keep in touch sporadically as life has progressed. The post he made on his Facebook account last week about his wife’s recent passing gave her a reason to get in touch.
Hey Carson, I’m so sorry to hear this news about your family. I’m back in the Bay area, and if you ever want to talk, please reach out, she writes. An hour doesn’t pass until she gets the response, Hey ‘Ris, been a minute. Are you still online?
A reach-out message leads to an hour-long video call, which leads to an invitation to El Cerrito. There wasn’t any awkwardness in the call, as if their relationship had never halted. For once in a long while, Larissa didn’t feel so alone.
Her nerves settle, she walks up the stairs to her apartment, and then she thinks of what she’ll tell him about her life since they last saw each other. Hey Carson, well, I was married, got pregnant, moved, went into management, got addicted to speed, got arrested, got separated, got treatment, moved, got a job, got fired, got evicted, got another job, and here I am!
No, best to let him know you hit some snags and ended up back home.
The apartment complex is a three-story beige building; nothing sleek or modern about its design. She finds his apartment two doors from the stairs and knocks lightly, considering the time. Footsteps approach. The door reveals a short, lean-built man with brown, hat-mopped hair and a hidden face behind a blue N95, standing idly for a moment before stepping back with outstretched arms. Throwing the six-feet-apart rule out the window, she embraces Carson, tugging at his worn, blue flannel shirt and hanging on to him like close siblings, once separated, now reunited.
“Jesus, it’s been a while,” Carson says. “Come in; the couch is this way. Make yourself comfortable; you want coffee or a beer?”
Larissa enters and sees that not much has changed with Carson since they last saw each other. He’s heavier than she last remembered, and he’s been drinking from the smell of his breath seeping through the crooked facemask. That’s a habit she remembers he’s unsuccessfully attempted to kick in the past.
“Coffee would be great, thanks,” Larissa says while looking at the odd clash of worlds and mesh of styles in the dimly lit living room. The beige sectional across the room looks inviting and secure, with its seats facing the door and the white walls. She sets her bag on the carpeted floor and glances around the rest of the space. The apartment is big enough for a small family. The decor of the main room is mancave-meets-Victorian, and from knowing Carson, the last touch is his former wife’s.
Together, their styles are an anomaly; two different personalities and tastes. The first thing she notices when she walks inside is the matte writing desk holding a small vase of colorful perennials with two framed and signed Raiders jerseys of Lyle Alzado and Rich Gannon next to a framed, silkscreen poster of a San Francisco-based Turbonegro and Mondo Generator gig on display above the table near the front door.
There’s a television on mute with a documentary going on, and a black wooden dresser is placed directly below the flat screen with pictures of Carson, his daughter Bridgette, and his wife, Eve, all around. On a hiking trip in the mountains, his wife’s amber blonde hair was tied into a ponytail under an Oakland A’s cap. At the same time, she embraces her daughter, a girl of about six years old with green eyes, long brown hair, and a wide, toothy smile, decked out in a plain white shirt and faded blue jeans from behind, while Carson’s phone holds a 45-degree angle selfie pose of the three.
The photo is from a few years ago, given the gray hairs in Carson’s beard and the excess pounds he’s put on since the picture was taken. On the opposite side of the dresser is a photo of the couple embracing in pictures of their wedding ceremony. Carson is wearing a black tuxedo, looking into Eve’s eyes, leaning her head on his shoulder, and smiling coyly while tugging his arm. Her light-brown skin glows in a gorgeous, sleeveless, casual white wedding dress that makes the bright colors of the tropical flower tattoo on her right shoulder pop.
On the outside, Carson seems collected, but who knows what level of grief he’s carrying around? Larissa begins to think coming here was a mistake, given the timeframe of his wife’s passing; she feels he may need more time to grieve and process in private. She and Carson haven’t connected in a decade, and she feels their reunion could be ill-timed.
“Sure thing,” Carson responds nonchalantly. He reaches into the cupboard, retrieves a 12-ounce white bag with illegible black scribble font, and dumps the contents into the coffee brewer. “This shit cost $17 but tastes like it should have cost $7,” he says as he switches the machine to a gurgle and walks back to the couch area.
“Does it taste like that Folger’s brand battery acid?” Larissa jokes.
“Yeah, pretty much. I get this for switching to local and organic,” Carson says as he plops in his brown recliner opposite Larissa. “Are you still taking yours dark, or do you need cream?” he asks.
“Cream, preferably oat milk,” Larissa says, causing Carson to roll his eyes at her.
“Milk comes from cows, Larissa, not plants,” he retorts.
“Relax, you jerk; I’m only kidding, and regular cream is fine. God, you’re still easy to piss off,” Larissa shoots back with a smirk.
Carson grumbles, shuts the TV off, and lets out a big yawn before rubbing his eyes.
Here comes the big question. “Carson, how have you two been holding up?” Larissa asks with concern.
Silence, the kind where you can hear dust hitting the hardwood. His head lowers, and his face contorts into a weak half-smile. Presentation matters even in traumatic times. “I’m still having a hard time accepting what happened. More worried about Bridgette, though,” he responds uneasily. “I’m still processing that we’ll never see her again.”
Larissa, her lips pursed in concern and sorry for her friend, walks over behind the slumped Carson and wraps her arms around him. “Is there anything I can immediately help you with?” she asks.
Carson reaches his hand to pat Larissa’s clenched fists around his chest, “Nah, this is my deal. This whole experience is like a bad dream, a real fucking bad dream,” he says. “Counseling is in my future.”
“Good to hear,” she says before kissing his stubbled cheek and releasing him. “Can I lay on some unsolicited advice?” she asks after returning to the couch.
“Yeah, sure, what’s that?” Carson asks quietly and looks straight at her.
“Don’t hold your feelings and thoughts back; get everything you feel out in the open during your first session,” Larissa replies.
Carson nods, throws a lackadaisical thumbs-up gesture, and leans back in the chair. “Speaking from experience?” he asks. Larissa pauses, quickly thinking of a response without giving too much context to the answer. “Yeah, you can say that.”
The coffee pot across the hall gurgles to a halt. “What’s been happening with you lately?” Carson asks while walking into the kitchen and pulling two mugs from the pantry.
The icy sensation of anxiety spreads throughout Larissa’s back. Hearing this question sparks bad memories of San Pedro and Ventura. DeepBlue and her ex-husband. Anger rises inside her stomach like lava filling a pit with this brief rumination. Still, she suppresses the feeling within seconds by replacing her memories with the present moment. Her lips purse, and she looks away from Carson.“The last few years weren’t the best, and I’m currently going through a rebuild,” she admits.
Coffee pours, and the smoky aroma of free trade permeates the kitchen. “What the hell happened? Is your family in trouble?” Carson asks, handing a cup to her. The stinging part of Carson’s question is that he assumes Larissa still has a family.
“My marriage collapsed, and I lost my job. I’m back up here until I figure things out,” Larissa says timidly. “ The last year and a half was utter shit.”
Carson raises his thumb to his lower lip and rubs his beard, a nervous tic that pops up whenever he’s uncomfortable or when news arises. “I’m sorry to hear about this. Do you feel like talking about it?” he asks calmly yet cautiously, fully aware of Larissa’s preference for privacy.
Why did I come here? She thinks, knowing the high chance that questions about her past life would arise. The stinging fades; Carson’s never been one to judge, not in all the time they’ve been friends, but she has experienced that from the guy. Carson can sense Larissa’s hesitancy about the subject. “Yo, just tell me if you’re in a better place,” he responds to diffuse her discomfort.
“Yeah, I am, and hey, I’ll tell you one day. I cruised over here to see how you’re doing. How’s Bridgette been since the accident?” Larissa asks, feeling relieved she’s off the hook.
“She’s in bereavement therapy; it’s been two weeks now. I can’t tell if it’s helping because she doesn’t talk to me much. She’s been quieter than usual and has been doing all these drawings in her room. Likely her coping mechanism, she becomes stone-faced and distant whenever I bring up her mother. She doesn’t want to deal with the fact that she’s gone, or maybe this is her way of protecting herself. I can’t blame her, because I don’t want to deal with it either. But still, fuck I wish she’d talk to me; I feel like she’s been avoiding me, and that’s concerning. She just tells me she’s fine and working through her mother’s death in her own way.”
Larissa’s brow shifts at Carson’s revelations about his daughter. “Just let her be; it sounds like she’s handling it her way. She’ll talk when she’s ready; who knows what Bridgette is going through,” she says bluntly.
“Yeah, I’m making this about myself instead of her. I’m just uncomfortable with the silence and sparse interaction,” Carson says, realizing her point.
Larissa digs deeper, “I wouldn’t be either if I were in your shoes, but eventually, she’ll come around. Carson, what are you doing to cope? Sounds like she has her ways; what about you?”
This is a question no one has asked him since her passing; attention has lately focused on his daughter. Thinking about those words, a sobering feeling comes over him as he sees he hasn’t addressed much of his own turmoil from his wife’s passing. He sighs heavily. “Therapy is coming up. Right now, I’m just focusing on work and making money. I don’t know whether we’ll be able to stay in town in four months,” Carson says.
“What happens in four months?” Larissa asks.
Carson pounds his lukewarm coffee and exhales, “We gotta move; I can’t sustain this place on one income. A death benefit comes from Eve’s union, but it’s only enough for groceries and bills. I’m sapping an emergency fund we set up in case shit hit the fan, which it has. We renewed our lease back in February before this virus bullshit hit. The last thing I need is to change school districts during a life-changing event, but this area isn’t cheap. Even with people leaving the city, it’s still so expensive to rent a decent apartment around here.” His brow droops and constricts as he takes another swig; stress and pondering are easily read off his face.
Dude, don’t be an idiot, she thinks. Nothing has changed about him; he is still with his head in the sand when it comes to options and prefers a black-and-white view of how the world operates. “You know, there are state moratoriums in place because of the pandemic, which protect you from eviction, right? ” Larissa asks.
“Yeah, I know about those, but they’re only borrowed time,” he states, rising from his chair to move into the kitchen. “Wouldn’t surprise me one bit if all the rent in this complex gets jacked up to make up for the lost cash during this period. Property owners don’t care about someone’s hard times unless it’s their own,” he concludes, pouring another cup and gesturing towards Larissa to see if a refill is needed.
Declining the offer after realizing she hasn’t touched hers yet, she pulls out her phone to check the time and sees a missed call, a 415 number she doesn’t recognize. It’s too late for telemarketing; considering the late hour, it can’t be collections. “Look into your rights before looking for a new place; I’m serious,” she says.
“I can tell, thanks,” he states, eager to move on. “How have you been doing since the move back up here?”
She figures she’ll give him the abridged version of the story. James and I split; I lost my job and moved to San Mateo to be closer to family and devise a new plan. Thomas is living with his father for the time being. I was also going through medical treatment recently and had a bad experience there; I don’t feel like going into details about it, to be honest. As I mentioned earlier, a rebuild is happening. Luckily, a friend helped me get a job up here. I just work, that’s all.
“Jesus! Those are some serious life events you’re experiencing,” Carson responds, wholly aware that she’s revealing only a degree of what she’s comfortable sharing. “Is the medical issue on the downside, and how are you handling all this change?”
“I’m managing and have my good days and bad; all that shit happened at the same time,” Larissa responds with a sigh and looks at her watch—two minutes to 11:00 p.m. “I’m doing alright, though. Still able to pay my bills.”
“You’re lucky. Seems like retail and hospital workers are the only ones with that luxury today, even though they’re dealing with shitty circumstances,” Carson responds. “How are you riding out this whole lockdown thing? They got you working in shifts over there or something?”
Larissa sighs and glances toward the window opposite her view. “Yeah, it’s only five other people in our shop, and the floor is big enough where two can work the same shift safely on opposite ends. The owner called a meeting about what we’re comfortable with regarding keeping the shop open during all this, and we made a plan to keep working and organize our shifts. He’s gung ho, and honestly, I can’t afford to miss work, and we’re mindful when working—At least I am. The job pays me well enough to maintain myself up here, and I’m just saving money to get out of here,” she replies.
Carson nods, being discreet about his discomfort.. “Just be careful; the news is grim every day, he adds. Larissa concurs that the two-and-a-half months of continuous news coverage spanning lockdown, viruses, job loss, death, infection rate, case counts, distancing, and the condescending “We’re In This Together” marketing slogans seen and heard everywhere are enough for anyone to hit a boiling point. She’s about to hit hers with her family’s insistence that the 24-hour news cycle be on at all hours to keep up to date with infection rates.
“So, where are you thinking of going since you’ve got a plan to leave?” Carson asks curiously.
Larissa sinks into the couch a bit and grasps her cup. “Somewhere in the state, ideally Eureka. I can find work up there and rent a place; it would be a good place for Thomas to grow up, surrounded by natural surroundings, somewhere soothing and quiet. Just anywhere except a city; I’m sick of fucking noise.”
“Eureka’s alright; why there?” Carson asks.
“Fewer people and open space,” she replies.
“A place where the dude can run around naked in the yard, ” Carson says with a slight laugh. Larissa laughs and gives him the middle finger, “No, not at seven years old,” she shoots back.
Small talk, ten years’ worth of comfort speak: old habits ditched, new habits gained, parenting anxieties, and who’s alive and around or passed in their old circle of friends. Plans now radically changed due to each of the two’s own circumstances. Carson wants to stay in the Bay, where he grew up and has roots. Larissa’s convinced to move further North, away from the Bay. The Bay is not the same place she and Carson grew up in; it’s an ambivalent space, a counterculture commercialized and sponsored.
It’s a quarter to midnight; Carson’s day begins in six hours, while Larissa’s starts in four hours. Concluding talks start as they walk to the front door. “If I can ask, what’s your plan for getting Thomas?” Carson asks, opening the front door, and prompting the cool outside air to whisk through the apartment.
Larissa’s discomfort is evident in her lack of eye contact and hesitancy in the face of the question’s unfortunate truth. “Obviously, a custody deal needs to be sent; I’ve been researching the family attorney circuit and just opened up another credit card for this venture,” she states while looking toward the street and crossing her arms to protect against the wind. “You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who’s been through this before and can give me a referral?”
“Pretty sure I know a few divorcees to ask, probably soon to be more now that everyone is home together,” Carson responds. “Good seeing you after all these years and catching up; we’ll see each other again before you completely vanish, right?”
Larissa smirks and embraces Carson with another hug, “God, of course, dude, anytime, and if you need me for anything, you know how to reach me. I’m glad you and Bridgette are doing okay, and again, I’m so sorry. Please promise me you’ll see a counselor sooner than later?” she asks, her maternal instinct over a close friend on display.
“Yeah, you’ll hear from me this week with a referral; give me ‘til Friday,” he responds before releasing her and walking inside the house. The door shuts, and a calming feeling comes over her; the reconnection was worth the drive.
El Cerrito is deathly quiet at this hour; even the emptiness of San Pablo Ave is an eerie sight, only amplified when the yellow glow of a liquor store sign shuts off two streets from the complex. Larissa rushes to her car alone, and the outside air is cooler than it was a few hours ago. “Shit,” she whispers while running her left hand over her front pocket, searching for the bulge of her pocket knife, the absence of which only leads her to quicken her pace.
Entering the car and locking herself in gives her a temporary sanctuary. Pulling her phone out and shading the glow, the notion that it’s 18 minutes past midnight and she has a 40-minute drive home ahead of her hits. Her morning routine is already shot at this point; there’s no chance for morning exercise after what will be three hours of sleep. She feels it would be easier to sleep in the car with the blanket and emergency change of clothes in the back; easier doesn’t mean safe.
She fires her Bronco up, the engine stalling upon the first attempt until the second does the trick. Without a working stereo, she opens up a playlist on her phone for the ride home, and the second half of “Under The Big Black Sun” by X comes through the tiny speakers; the song’s ensnaring guitar hook, coupled with the lyrical harmonies of Exene Cervenka and John Doe, briefly usurps her attention. Larissa sees a new voice message notification she hadn’t noticed before. The number reads the same 415 area code from tonight’s missed call. Leaving voice messages these days is only for seriously urgent matters. However, strangers can wait; significant priorities are ahead.
