Simon Says

by William Poe

  “As an appetizer, sometimes,” I said, laying out a fat line and sucking it up. When I came down from a bout of mania, having fixated again on the curtains, my hands were shaking too much to try cooking the drugs. Sean didn’t know how, so we continued with the lines. When we finally licked the last bits of dust from the inside of the bag, I was glad. Sean grudgingly accepted that I didn’t have any more. He wrapped his T-shirt rag around his head and tried to go to sleep. I collapsed, lost in narcotic hallucinations.

  New York! A dream creature shouted as if to awaken me so I’d hurry about my business and hit the road.

  “New York,” I repeated, sitting up. I had to leave. My life depended on it, and so did my art.

  Art? spoke a sarcastic voice. When did you last paint?

  “All that matters is what I do from now on,” I said.

  The voice raised no argument.

  “Come on, Sean,” I said, trying to wake him up. “We need to leave.”

  Sean was lifeless under his blanket.

  I let him rest and went upstairs to take a shower. I heard the water running, so I plopped down on my recliner to wait. Moments later, Dan opened the door.

  “Howdy,” he said, surprised to see me. He stopped drying his hair and wrapped the towel around his naked waist.

  “Hope Charlotte is taking good care of that,” I said. As I pointed at his waist, I saw the towel move.

  “Charlotte’s asleep,” Dan said, backing into the bathroom and nodding for me to follow.

  Dan placed his rough hands behind my head and pulled me forward as I knelt in front of him. He thrust hard, and I started to choke, but his grip was too strong for me to break free. When he came, I threw up. Dan chuckled at the mess as he mopped the floor, pushing the towel around with his foot. He threw the dirty towel onto the shower floor and shoved me into the stall. With a smirk, he left the room, muttering to himself, “They always give the best head.”

  “Fucking Hollywood,” I said, turning on the hot water to douse the tears that were streaming down my face.

  I felt worthless and empty.

  Cicero waited for me outside the bathroom door. When I saw the sadness in his expressive eyes, I said, “Do you want to come, too?”

  Pricked up ears told me he somehow understood. Wherever I was going, he wanted to be there, too. Cicero sped down the stairs when I opened the basement door. He pounced on Sean.

  “Your turn,” I said. “Go take a shower. We’ll leave as soon as you get ready.”

  Sean dragged himself up the stairs with a blanket wrapped as a toga.

  While he was upstairs, I stuffed some clothes in a bag and then went into the office. I signed a few checks and hid them around the house. Later, I planned to call Charlotte and tell them where they were in case of emergency. Otherwise, I’d send her checks made out for the rent and other expenses. I collected my company checkbook and a folder of important contracts.

  I wasn’t sure how I would dispose of my business, or if I might keep it going at some level once I settled in New York. Charlotte could deal with the outstanding deliveries that needed to be made.

  Even though I wanted to get out of Hollywood, I wasn’t ready to burn all my bridges. What was it I heard in a low budget movie that I screened one time? Hollywood is a one-night stand that you stay with the rest of your life.

  Charlotte was in the bedroom with Dan. I scrawled a note saying that I was heading to New York, and I’d be in touch. I left the note on the office chair where Charlotte would be sure to notice it.

  I was retrieving the hidden stash of coke when Sean came downstairs. “Shit, man. I thought we were out of drugs.”

  It was a lot easier to think about leaving Hollywood than to take the first step. As if it were as normal a thing to do as eating breakfast, I began cooking the powder into rock.

  “Hell yeah,” Sean said, watching me.

  After drying the nuggets on a paper towel, I wrapped each one in aluminum foil and put them in a Baggie. I handed Sean a piece but managed to resist smoking one myself.

  Sean took out his straight-shooter pipe and blasted off. He fell to his knees when the smoke hit his lungs, motioning for me to take the pipe before he lost his grip.

  Cicero’s ears drooped as Sean fell backward onto the mattress.

  Holding the pipe, smoke still pouring from the stem, I wanted more than anything to take a hit.

  Think about your art, Simon. Think about the future.

  When Sean regained consciousness, I insisted that we leave immediately. I grabbed a bag of dog food from the kitchen cupboard and took Cicero’s leash from the hook. We got in the car and drove away. Cicero sat in Sean’s lap and hung his head out the widow, keeping his eyes fixed on the house until it disappeared from sight.

  CHAPTER 32

  Just do it, urged my body.

  Follow your dream, came the counterargument.

  On and on, for miles and miles, the battle raged. By the time we reached Albuquerque, one side had conceded defeat.

  Sean suggested a motel at the edge of town where a truck driver had once holed up with him to do drugs and have sex. The motel owner came to the window wearing a dirty T-shirt that didn’t cover the lower half of his beer belly. A spider web of veins covered the end of his nose.

  “Keep the tab open until we check out,” I told the man.

  “Plannin’ to stay awhile, are ya?”

  “Need to rest up. Got a long drive ahead.”

  “It’s goin’ t’be extra for the dog,” the man said, a Mr. Lynch, according to the motel license posted on the window.

  “Add it to the charge.”

  “You stayin’ here ’cause of the sign out front? The one that says A’Merican owned?”

  “Just seemed like a convenient place.”

  “Y’know them damn furriners, ’specially them Indians, you know, from India, they’re buyin’ up all these places. Why hell, we’re the only A’Mericans on the strip these days.”

  Before the surly man could continue, I urged him to get the credit card approved, because I needed to walk the dog.

  “Been drivin’ awhile then, a’ya?” Mr. Lynch asked as he had me sign the credit slip.

  “Yep, that’s it. Dog’s about to burst.”

  Once we settled into the room, Sean turned the television to an X-rated channel. The picture was wavy and unfocused, the performers more like pallid zombies than flesh-and-blood humans. Sean couldn’t get out of his clothes fast enough. Seeing the naked women, however faintly, made him as frantic as a starving man at a banquet.

  After some food and water, Cicero curled up in a bed of towels that I placed on the bathroom floor. I joined Sean and brought out the drugs. The only time I saw daylight was when I forced myself to take Cicero for a walk. He was not used to being confined to a small room behind a closed door. He endured by sleeping most of the time. Otherwise, he gnawed on a rubber toy I’d brought along. The gnawing fed my delusions, conjuring images of a giant rodent eating through the walls.

  The television mostly served as our lighting, since the overhead bulb hurt our dilated eyes. Sean’s gaunt face, illuminated by the greenish glow, took on the appearance of a death mask. His eyes began to drift independently, as if they were decomposing and falling away. His mouth locked to form a sardonic grin. I stumbled into the bathroom, suddenly remembering Cicero and realizing that I couldn’t remember the last time I fed him. I found him stretched out on the bathmat. He was bored, but surviving.

  Under the bathroom’s florescent light, my flesh looked bleached and puckered, as if I’d been in the tub too long. My chest and forearms were dotted with what looked like bruises, but I couldn’t recall bumping into anything. My physical appearance should have raised an alarm, but I felt dispassionate, as if I were looking at someone else’s body.

  You can’t live like this, I heard a voice say.

  I stumbled toward the bed and loaded the crack pipe. On the television came a special announcement: Found dead in an Albuquer
que motel room, one Hollywood film distributor and an unidentified drifter, both of cardiac arrest brought on by prolonged use of crack cocaine.

  Cicero threw himself against the bathroom door with enough force to wake me up. I struggled to find the doorknob. A powerful stench flooded the room. Cicero pushed past me, desperate to escape the smell of the rotting excrement that littered the floor. I dressed, dragged a comb though my tangled hair, and fastened Cicero’s leash onto his collar.

  Before going outside, I felt Sean’s jugular, just to make sure. The slow thump of a heartbeat reassured me that he was alive.

  Taking in the clean desert air revived my senses somewhat. I took Cicero across the street to a convenience store, tied him to a pole, and went inside to purchase a quart of milk and a package of cupcakes. The date on the newspaper by the checkout stand caught my attention. It was Saturday—more than a week after Thanksgiving. Cicero tugged his leash as I untied it and pulled me toward a sandy lot beside the store.

  “I’ve never let a Thanksgiving pass without calling the family,” I said, looking into Cicero’s bulging eyes.

  Cicero woofed.

  I went to a pay phone near the sandy lot so I could call Vivian while Cicero did his business. I rehearsed an apology but gave up on the idea by the time Vivian answered.

  “It’s me,” I stammered, and before Vivian could respond, I blurted out, “I’m sorry I haven’t called.”

  “We’ve been sick with worry!” Vivian said. “I called your house on Thanksgiving, and some girl answered. She said you’d left town—that you were driving across country. I was sure…” Vivian paused, likely to fight back tears, “…you’d been in an accident. You’re all right, then?”

  “I’m okay. I wanted to get away from Los Angeles. I thought that going out to the desert would do me some good. There weren’t phones around.”

  The lies came as fast as I could think them up.

  Vivian, expressing her worst fear, said, “You’re not going back to that church, are you?”

  “No, nothing like that! What would make you ask such a question?”

  “That girl, what’s her name—Charlotte? She said you were heading to New York. It’s where we came to see you get married in that strange ceremony.”

  Telling her that I was heading to New York to be an artist was about as nonsensical as saying I was going back to the church, but I gave it a try.

  “You remember how I love art,” I began. “I want to check out the possibilities. See if I can get a career going. I know New York well, after all.”

  “Who’s taking care of your business?” Vivian asked, always practical.

  “Charlotte’s my personal assistant. I trust her to keep things going while I’m away.”

  “Well, if you trust her. Are you coming through Sibley? I miss seeing you, Bubby.”

  “I’m traveling with a friend,” I said, “and my dog. I told you about Cicero.”

  “He’s a Boston terrier, right?”

  “That’s right. I’m out walking him now. He’s here beside the pay phone, straining on his leash. I better go.”

  “I love you, son. I hope you come through Sibley.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Police cars had been speeding past while I was on the phone. Their presence shook me and, even though sober, I fought a bout of paranoia, convinced that the officers were radioing each other as they monitored my movements. I took a meandering route back to the motel. Once inside, I quickly threw the deadbolt and took up sentinel at the peephole.

  Cicero jumped on the bed and snuggled against Sean.

  “What are you doing?” Sean asked, starting awake. “What’s that smell?”

  The odor that drifted from the bathroom, to call up one of Lenny’s favorite phrases, was bad enough to gag a maggot.

  I went to shut the door when, suddenly, a loud bang shook the room. Someone was demanding to be let in.

  “Police!” a voice shouted. “Open up!”

  Sean and I jumped into action, stashing the drugs and the paraphernalia. Cicero barked furiously at all the commotion.

  “Just a minute,” I said. “I’m getting dressed.”

  I ran to the door just as one of the officers was about to shoulder his way through by using the passkey. Sean grabbed Cicero’s collar and held him back as several policemen barged into the room.

  “Whew!” each officer groaned as the odor of dog shit bombarded their noses.

  “It smells like death in here!” the captain bellowed, a huge fellow with sagging jowls, whose face had contorted into a mask of disgust.

  One of the cops peered into the bathroom as he covered his nose with a handkerchief. When he pulled the door to shut it, the bottom scraped across a pile of feces. The freshly released odor pushed him over the edge. He barely caught the edge of the sink before vomiting.

  “The manager said you haven’t paid for the last few days,” the captain explained. “He was afraid there might be something wrong, so he called us.”

  “I’m sorry, Officer. I was exhausted from driving, got this room, and collapsed. I just woke up and took the dog out. I was going to clean up that mess.” I pointed toward the bathroom.

  My voice was surprisingly steady given the circumstances. The policemen were easy to convince. All they wanted was to escape the horrid smell. One by one, they left the room. I heard a policeman retch as soon as he reached his patrol car.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Officer,” I said, walking outside with the captain. “The manager has my credit card number. He was supposed to charge by the day until I checked out. I’ll clean up the room and be on my way.”

  “That would be wise,” the captain said. “Your story seems to check out. We watched you when you left your room and went to the phone.”

  “I was calling my mother. She was expecting me in Arkansas by now.”

  “You best get in there and work things out with that manager. There’ll be trouble if he has to call us again. Now go on.”

  I stepped inside the room as the captain got into his car. I had soiled my underwear when the police entered the room. The smell must have been unnoticeable compared to the stench coming from the bathroom.

  Sean’s eyes were wide with terror. He had been catatonic as he held Cicero.

  “It’s okay, Sean. Finish getting dressed. I’m jumping in the shower, and then we’ll leave. I don’t intend to clean up the room. That fat bastard at the front desk can put the expense on the credit card.”

  Sean nodded absently as Cicero bounded from his arms and took up vigil at the door.

  “Good boy, Cicero,” I praised him. “That horrible smell drove the cops away before they even thought about searching the room.”

  Cicero looked at me plaintively, happy to be out of his prison, whatever it took.

  CHAPTER 33

  No Renaissance painter ever imagined the single-point perspective that is formed by the roads leading into Amarillo, Texas. As I drove, it seemed that the converging lines would go on forever.

  Upon reaching the city, I couldn’t stop thinking about the fundraising teams I led there when I was in the church. How strange, a decade later, to be riding into town looking for a place to do drugs with my sex partner.

  I pulled into a Holiday Inn downtown, just off the freeway, and asked for a quiet room, saying I was in town on business and didn’t want to be disturbed. The polite Asian woman at the front desk gave me a room facing the back parking lot.

  Once we settled in, I told Sean I was going to wash out his shirt and jeans in the bathtub.

  “Aw, come on,” Sean said. “When we get high, it won’t matter.” He examined the remains of our stash. “This won’t last long. Why don’t you get something sent from Los Angeles?” Then he paused before continuing. “Or we could go back.”

  I saw myself at the bar threatening Thad with the meat cleaver. I thought of Kevin and how, in anger, I’d almost set my house on fire. I quaked at the memory of the young boy in the back of Val’s l
imousine. The ladder of descent in Hollywood had no bottom rung.

  On the other hand, I’d started with nothing but my wits and built up a company in the impossible business of film distribution. Could I really give it all up?

  Before joining Sean, who’d already smoked enough crack to be glued to the peephole, I placed a call to Charlotte, telling myself that I wanted to see if there were any emergencies.

  Charlotte picked up on the first ring and broke into tears when she recognized my voice. “Simon! Thank god you called! There’s so much going on. Where are you?” Then she said more calmly, “How are you?”

  “I’m fine. Sean and I are traveling. What’s up? You sound frantic.”

  “I am. The landlord’s been calling. He got upset that I kept picking up the phone and saying that you weren’t here. He came by the other day and wants to know what’s going on. He demanded to know if I was living here. I said I was house-sitting while you were in Europe. He said the neighbors have complained about strangers coming by at odd hours.”

  “He and his lover lived there for years. They are friends with most of the neighbors. I guess they didn’t like seeing Val’s car pulling up.”

  “You didn’t leave a rent check. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do!”

  “I meant to send checks for the bills. I’m sorry, Charlotte.”

  “What should I do about the rent?”

  “Are you on the portable phone? Go to the bookcase. Look up the word money in the Encyclopedia Britannica. You’ll find a signed check between the pages. Use it to pay the rent.”

  “I’ve got it,” Charlotte said with relief. “The landlord should calm down when he gets his money. But you ought to call him. Do you have his number?”

  “Yeah, I do. I’ll call after he’s gotten the rent check. In a few days. What else is going on?”