Simon Says

by William Poe

  “Simon,” Twiggy said, shaking me, “you can’t sleep at the bar. Don will get both of us. Come on. Wake up.”

  I almost fell off the barstool as I tried to right myself.

  “Drinks for everyone!” I shouted, rearing back precipitously.

  Twiggy set up the bar. Half of the patrons reciprocated. I had a dozen shot glasses in front of me. Twiggy and I knocked them back. But no amount of alcohol was going to relieve the pain. I missed Thad more than ever.

  Twiggy leaned over the bar to whisper in my ear. “See that drag queen playing pool? Her name is Patricia—I think she’s from Peru or someplace. She knows where to get some great shit. The stuff’s better than anything I’ve seen in a long time.”

  “You are the devil, aren’t you?” I said, halfway meaning it.

  Twiggy grinned.

  To some degree, cocaine was the reason I had lost Thad. If I’d offered to do it with him, to score as soon as he mentioned it, we might be together. Nevertheless, there I was, ready to start using again—as a way to forget him.

  I took my drink to the pool table and watched Patricia flirt with an over-the-hill hustler as they finished their game.

  “You no hit the eight ball unless ju say eight ball,” Patricia called out.

  When she realized I was studying her, the drag queen pranced toward me.

  “I know ju,” Patricia said, running a bony finger under my chin.

  She made a convincing woman in her leather skirt and long black hair cascading over a fluffy white blouse. Heavy mascara accentuated large expressive eyes.

  “Ju Scott’s friend, sí?”

  “You know Scott?”

  “I see him in Venice, at the Rooster Fish. I see you there one time.”

  “You’ve got a good memory.”

  “You like what Scott likes, no? Even more than beautiful boy.”

  “You mean Jerry?”

  “Sí, Sherry,” Patricia grinned.

  “Did you see a guy named Thad with Scott?”

  Patricia pushed me away. “Ju ask too many questions.”

  I slipped my arm around Patricia’s waist and pinched her butt through the leather skirt. She wagged a finger at me and smiled.

  “Not on our first date,” Patricia said as she sashayed toward the door, glancing over her shoulder and motioning me to follow.

  We drove to a neighborhood on North Broadway near downtown.

  “Is this where you live?” I asked.

  “Oh no. I live in Echo Park. But my friend, his name is Jesús, he lives here.” Patricia pointed to a white stucco apartment building and told me to park around back.

  “I want a quarter ounce, okay?” I explained as we walked toward the building.

  “Ju pretend to be my boyfriend,” Patricia said, taking my hand and pressing it to her padded chest.

  Jesús opened the door. He was a large man in loose cotton pants and a ratty T-shirt. He smelled of cigarettes and beer. Patricia clung tightly to me as she conversed in Spanish. The man finally allowed us to come inside. Patricia sat close with her arms around my neck.

  A woman sat on the couch watching television with a young boy. They paid no attention to us.

  Jesús went into a back room and returned with a Baggie of cocaine.

  “Ju try it before we buy,” Patricia said, taking the Baggie from Jesús and handing it to me. She and Jesús disappeared into the bedroom.

  I was uncomfortable doing drugs in front of the child and his mother, but they never even glanced in my direction. I pinched out a hit and snorted it. My eyes filled with water. The room brightened as if sunlight had begun to stream through the window. A wash of euphoria swept over me.

  Patricia and Jesús reappeared. Jesús had changed into Bermuda shorts. He took a seat on the couch between the woman and the boy.

  “Are we set to go?” I asked.

  “Sí. If you like,” Patricia said.

  I secured the Baggie inside my pants and motioned toward the door.

  The worst part of scoring drugs is getting to the car from the dealer’s place without succumbing to paranoia. During the trip back to Hollywood, I was sure that the police were following us. Patricia wanted me to take her home, but I pulled to the curb in front of the Spotlight.

  “Patricia, there’s someone waiting for me at home,” I lied. “Maybe another time.”

  “It’s okay. Have fun with jure boy,” Patricia said. She stormed toward the bar. I watched as she whipped back the curtain to dramatize her entrance.

  On the way home, I kept thinking about Thad. I longed for him as much as I craved another hit of cocaine. Suddenly, as if someone else were driving, I found myself on the freeway headed to Scott’s new condominium near the beach in Marina del Rey.

  Scott answered my knock. He was drunk; he must have started right after getting off work, since he was still in office clothes. He flashed a devilish smirk as he let me in.

  Thad sat cross-legged on the couch wearing nothing but skimpy shorts. Jerry sat nearby, dressed in green sweatpants and a yellow tank top. A mirror sat on the coffee table in front of Thad and Jerry, nearly hidden by a forest of empty beer bottles.

  “Looks like I’m just in time,” I said, walking over and running my finger across the mirror to pick up the crumbs of cocaine. “Seems the party is running on empty.”

  I was trying to play it cool, and so was Thad. Jerry, on the other hand, leaped to his feet when he caught my meaning. The oversized sweatpants slid down his hips. His nipples hardened into little beads as I stared at him. I knew from his films just what rested beneath his loose pants. I even recognized the trail of hair fanning out from his navel.

  Jerry rubbed his stomach with the flat of his hand, and then grasped my neck. Thad stared as he kissed me, but he didn’t protest. There was no telling what had been going on between the three of them before I knocked on the door. Thad wasn’t about to play innocent.

  I sat beside Thad and took out the Baggie of coke.

  “Good ole Simon,” Scott crowed. “And here I thought you had become a straightlaced entrepreneur.”

  “Don’t be snide,” I said, “unless you want me to take my toys and go home.”

  “You can play here anytime you want,” Scott said.

  “Then let’s party.”

  Thad scooted closer. He tried to say something, but his throat was hoarse from coke drainage. He placed my hand on his thigh.

  “I thought you weren’t going to do drugs anymore,” Thad whispered in my ear.

  “You know what they say, better living through chemistry.” It was the only thing that came to mind. I didn’t want to start using coke again, but it seemed as if I had to if I wanted to get Thad back.

  Thad and I went into Scott’s bedroom while Scott and Jerry snorted lines that I left behind. We frolicked in bed as if nothing had happened, as if we had never split up.

  Cocaine is a jealous god. We became gripped by the idea that some of our drugs had fallen on the carpet. Suddenly, we were on our knees sorting through the rug fibers. Exhausted by the effort as the obsessive thought wore off, we returned to the bed and lay side by side. As cars passed along the road, my eyes followed every shadow thrown by the headlights. At some point, we fell asleep and didn’t stir for a full day. I found Scott asleep on the couch. Jerry was curled up on a chair. A syringe had fallen on the floor beside him and a rubber tourniquet rested in his lap.

  There was no point trying to rouse anyone; they were dead to the world. But I had to get home and check on business. Money was supposed to be wired to my account. Letters of credit should have cleared.

  Thad was snoring loudly. I stood beside the bed for few minutes, wondering if I should try to wake him. In the end, I let him sleep.

  A dense mist had rolled off the ocean. The drive was slow until I got out of Marina del Rey. I had left my watch in Scott’s bathroom. It would give me an excuse to return after completing the day’s work. I dared to hope that my new willingness to get high with Thad woul
d bring him back to me.

  CHAPTER 18

  The quiet whir of my computer greeted me as I arrived at the temporary lodging. Several faxes waited. A Spanish client made excuses for not sending money. The German company who bought Bel Air Babes was concerned about a clause in the contract. The only good news came from Korea. A wire had been sent to settle the down payment on a new contract for five films.

  By noon, I had taken care of business. With no more work to do, I began to experience a familiar craving. Experience told me it was a matter of time before I gave in to the urge.

  I bought a newspaper and looked for rentals. Several places in Silverlake looked promising. One was located at 6000 Silverwood Terrace; I liked the sound of the address. The advertisement said the house overlooked the reservoir. I called for an appointment and was pleased that the owner could meet me right away.

  The prospective landlord, a fellow named Henry, asked all the necessary questions. When I said I worked from home, he insisted that foot traffic was not allowed. I assured him that I only saw clients at the film markets. When asked if I lived alone, I said cryptically, “Most of the time.”

  “What do you mean?” Henry asked.

  “Well, I’m gay. Lovers don’t seem to stick around very long.”

  Henry chuckled, “Then we’re family. You’ll be a fine tenant, Mr. Powell, and you’ll enjoy living in Silverlake. I’ll meet you there in thirty minutes.”

  A narrow, winding road led from Silverlake Boulevard up a steep hill through a neighborhood of quaint houses. Henry stood on a sliver of ground that served as the front yard to a house that seemed to be constructed mostly of opaque glass. Above the front door was a sign that announced in cursive script: Six Thousand Silverwood Terrace. An Asian man stood with Henry. I assumed he was his lover. They appeared to be in their early thirties. Henry wore a gray business suit and Italian shoes. The Asian lover was dressed more casually in jeans.

  As I introduced myself, Henry scrutinized me carefully, checking my haircut (neat, trim), my clothes (not new, but well-pressed), and my shoes (expensive; I’d bought them in Milan).

  Fong, the boyfriend, was no less observant of my appearance and demeanor.

  “Fong and I lived here for eight years,” Henry told me nostalgically. “It’s special to us. We bought it together.”

  “Did you meet in Los Angeles?”

  Fong spoke for the first time. “In San Francisco. I was waiting tables at a restaurant on Geary Street at Twenty-Second. Henry was attending a lawyer’s conference. He asked me out. One date, and we were in love.”

  “That’s romantic,” I said with a smile.

  Henry and Fong exchanged glances. There had to be more to their story, but they didn’t elaborate.

  We went into the house. A metal staircase spiraled to the second floor just to the left of the front door. The kitchen was straight ahead and to the right. Beyond the entrance was a common area, perfect for a small dining-room table. A little farther was the living room. From the balcony, the Hollywood sign was visible in the distance. Off to the right was Silverlake reservoir.

  “Henry, I love this! How much do you want?”

  “You haven’t even seen upstairs yet, or the basement,” Henry said.

  “There’s a basement?”

  “Under the garage.” Henry opened a door behind the staircase at the front entrance. Steep wooden stairs led to a carpeted room with sliding doors that opened onto the space below the house. Steel beams crossed by cables supported the entire structure. I slid open the door and went outside. Growing on the hillside, gnarled vines wound through patches of century plants that looked like sheaves of swords.

  “Did you live here during an earthquake?” I asked.

  Fong laughed. “It’s quite a ride, but the structure is built to allow play.”

  “Play?” I repeated.

  “A solid structure would fall down the hill onto the neighbors,” Henry said. “The house has been here since the fifties. There’s been no damage.”

  “Oh well, this is LA,” I said. “The future will take care of itself, right?”

  Henry and Fong smiled at the Hollywood truism.

  “How much, Henry?” I asked again after a tour of the second floor, where the main bedroom loft overlooked the living room and opened onto its own balcony.

  “Fifteen hundred a month. First and last as a deposit.”

  “You’ve got a deal,” I said, smiling.

  Henry gave me the keys in exchange for a check.

  I went to a pay phone and called Scott’s house to see if Thad was awake. I wanted to tell him about the house.

  Scott was surprised to hear my voice. “When did you leave? I thought you were in the bedroom with Thad.”

  “I left early this morning. You and Jerry were pretty far gone.”

  Scott made a pathetic attempt to laugh. “You want me to get Thad?”

  “Please.”

  Scott went away from the phone. I could hear him calling Thad’s name, knocking on the bedroom door.

  “He’s not here. Looks like some of his things are gone, too.”

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  “Gone. Out of here. Not in this place.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “I don’t know, Simon. I can’t talk anymore. I can’t even think.”

  Jerry yelled at Scott to stop chattering, saying that he had a headache.

  I hung up, perplexed. Where would Thad have gone? Was I wrong about everything? I went to the Beverly Hills apartment, loaded my belongings, and took them to Silverlake. I wanted relief from loneliness. I’d thought I’d be doing drugs with Thad, but now I didn’t care. I wanted some, with him or without him. I went to the Spotlight, hoping to find Patricia.

  Twiggy knew something was wrong as soon as I sat down. “Whatever it is,” he said while pouring a shot of Boodles, “this will help take care of it.”

  An hour later, I was so drunk that I had forgotten about drugs. Twiggy and I gossiped until last call. When I got in my car, I set out for Scott’s, as if that had been my plan all along and somehow navigated the route, though I got lost after exiting the freeway at Marina del Rey. I stopped to call Scott’s house. Jerry answered.

  “Where’s Thad?” I slurred.

  “Simon?”

  “Where’s Thad? I want to talk to him.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “You’re lying. I want Thad. Now!”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Fuckin-a!”

  “Sober up and get a life,” Jerry said.

  I smashed down the receiver and staggered toward Scott’s condominium, but instead of knocking on the door, I peeked in the kitchen window.

  Scott and Jerry were at the sink. If they hadn’t been so engrossed, they would have seen me. Jerry had a needle in his hand. I strained to see deeper into the room. Thad was on the couch kissing a guy I didn’t recognize.

  I ran to the front door and pounded on it with my fist. “Let me in, you tramp!”

  No one came to the door. I went back to the kitchen window, but the couch was empty. Scott was heading to the front door. I ran to get there first.

  “What’s the fuss?” Scott said, failing to invite me inside.

  “Thad’s here, I saw him through the window.”

  “You’re hallucinating.”

  “Liar!”

  “Okay, look around for yourself.” Scott stood aside to allow me to pass.

  I raced to the bedroom. Thad’s clothes were in the closet. “See? He’s still here.”

  “I said he took some of his things. Not everything.”

  “You let him get out the back door, didn’t you?”

  Before Scott could respond, Jerry came into the room. “You need drugs,” he said, dangling a syringe in my face.

  “I can’t believe you’re shooting up,” I said, staring at Scott with indignation.

  Scott smirked. “It’s not that big a deal.”

  “You’re g
oing to kill yourself.”

  Scott put his hands on my shoulders and said, “You need to do a line.”

  “You didn’t say, ‘Simon says,’” I shot back, idiotically.

  “Okay,” Scott said, humoring me, “Simon says, do a line. Now chill out.”

  “Thad doesn’t want to see you, Simon,” Jerry said. “Isn’t that obvious? Deal with it.” He was feeling particularly confident with cocaine in his bloodstream.

  Scott laid out lines on a mirror. He put a brass straw in my hand and said, “You go first.”

  The narcotic quickly overpowered the alcohol intoxication, draining the gin right out of my blood. My brain now functioned with focus and clarity. The future would take care of itself. I knew instantly. Why should I be upset?

  Scott and Jerry snorted lines, and then we all began talking nonstop, carrying on multiple conversations at once. I told Scott and Jerry about my new place, raving about the view and how it was owned by a gay couple, a premonition that Thad and I could make it a love nest.

  Jerry slipped into the kitchen. When he returned, he was panting as if he’d run a mile. He winked at Scott, motioning toward the kitchen with a tilt of the head.

  “You can join me if you want,” Scott said.

  “Not on your life,” I said. Needles had frightened me ever since I was a teenager and found Ernie passed out at a party with a needle hanging from his arm. I preferred to keep Ernie alive in my memories and not follow him into the grave. “I need to get home, to my new house.”

  “Here’s something to tide you over,” Scott said, scooping some powder into a folded paper.

  On the way out, I glanced in the kitchen and saw Jerry stab a needle in Scott’s arm. As he pressed on the plunger, Scott’s knees buckled. I turned away.

  I searched all over the neighborhood, trying to remember where I’d parked the car, only to find it a block from Scott’s.

  Thad was sitting on the hood. His expression was hard to read.

  “Why did you come here?” he said when I was within earshot. “You said you didn’t want to do drugs again. Did I drive you to it?”