Sideways

by Rex Pickett

  “No, why would I?”

  “Laughing.”

  “You think I just now cracked it?”

  “Might have. Might have been weakened by that tackle.”

  Jack started to laugh again, but his laughter quickly broke up into grunts of discomfort.

  In a bad imitation of a woman’s voice I said, “Honey, how’d you crack your rib? Oh, tackling a boar hunter,” I finished in a huskier man’s voice.

  Jack slapped a hand over his mouth and tried to stifle his laughter. In a muffled voice, he pleaded, “Stop it.”

  WEDNESDAY: THE PERILS OF SOBRIETY

  The next morning I drove a somber-faced Jack to the emergency room at Lompoc Hospital, a sprawling, single-story, ranch-style complex at the southern end of town. Inside the ER, a young, bespectacled intern with an owlish face asked him to remove his shirt and climb up onto a paper-covered table in a curtained cubicle. I waited off to the side as he performed a cursory examination. After Jack flinched in pain in response to his exploratory touches, the intern ordered an X-ray.

  As Jack was led into the bowels of the hospital to the radiology department, I retreated to the waiting room and flipped absently through a stack of dog-eared magazines. In a women’s rag I scanned a Q&A on how to determine if your man is cheating on you: “Does he make excuses for withholding sex?” “Is his routine different from when you first started living together?” “Does he exhibit frequent mood swings, alternating from euphoria to depression?” What women don’t understand, I sassed the magazine, is that for most men adultery is the best sex they’re ever going

  Bored, I folded the magazine shut and looked up. Two toddlers clung to their mother’s legs, the three of them presenting a silent and grim-faced tableau. I wondered if Dad wasn’t at that moment under the knife in some grim fluorescent-lit room having his heart resuscitated. To their left, a man with long, stringy hair was jackknifed forward, drumming a hand rhythmically on his knee as if warding off some appalling image that kept replaying itself in his imagination. From time to time he combed a grease-stained hand through his hair. I returned to my magazine and found another questionnaire, this one measuring self-esteem. After honestly answering all the questions, I tallied up my score, compared it to a chart, and found myself in

  The Formica chair was pinching my ass and the rubbish in the magazines was aggravating my mood. I spotted a pay phone across the waiting room, got up, and dialed home for messages to brighten my outlook on life. A woman I had dated briefly months ago called to tell me her younger brother had just written a novel and she wondered if … fast-forward. Message number two was an unrecognizable voice speaking in an escalatingly threatening tone about one of my unusable credit cards (God! what an occupation!) … erase. Message three was a still-worried Victoria. This time she barraged me with apologies—her not having informed me that she’d remarried (“didn’t want to set you off”), how she wished things had worked out between us—uh-huh—and a host of other mollifying assessments. Number four I didn’t really pay attention to, mostly because Victoria’s lengthy one was still reverberating in my head, but it was a friend whom I hadn’t heard from in a while wondering if I was still alive. The last one was the creditor making a second, angrier, attempt to reach me, reciting an 800 number complete with name and extension. That was it. Nothing from my agent. Obviously, things were proceeding slowly at Conundrum, if at all. I slowly paced the linoleum back to my plastic seat, slumped down, and kept on waiting, the result of my self-esteem examination reaffirmed.

  Jack emerged at last, clutching a sheaf of green-colored documents, his head bowed. He signed some forms at the

  “What is it?” I asked, rising to my feet.

  He started walking toward the sunlit exit and I trailed. “Hairline fracture in one of the ribs,” he said in a grim monotone over his shoulder.

  “No golf today, I guess,” I said, catching up with him.

  “It’s your fault, Homes.”

  “My fault?”

  “You should be the one with the rib fracture,” he said peevishly. “Not me.”

  “You’re the one with health insurance,” I reminded him.

  “Maybe Hell does have a god,” he said, loosening up a little.

  I chuckled. “What’d they do for it?”

  Jack came to a halt just outside the entrance to the ER, spun around and faced me. He unbuttoned his shirt and held it open, revealing a white body bandage swathed tightly around his torso.

  “They’ve got you mummified, Jackson!”

  “Don’t piss me off, Homes.”

  “How long do you have to wear that?”

  “Six weeks,” he said dispiritedly. “Maybe longer.” He rebuttoned his shirt and quickly covered himself up.

  “Six weeks?”

  He nodded and started walking toward the car.

  “Can you have sex?”

  He wheeled and crooked a finger at me. “Don’t piss me off, Homes.”

  “What’re you going to do on your honeymoon?”

  “I’m not happy about this,” Jack warbled in a warning tone.

  “Maybe this’ll be the oral sex icebreaker with Babs,” I called out from behind him.

  “That’s it! That’s it!” He stormed off.

  I let him walk away so he could blow off some steam. The hot sun was beating down on me, so I got back in the 4Runner, turned on some music, and waited.

  A good half hour later, I saw Jack angling toward the car. He went around to the passenger side and painfully hoisted himself in. Without a word, he slammed the door shut and stared miserably through the windshield, his face a block of granite. After a moment he barked, “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t care. Just move it.”

  I turned the engine over and let it idle. “Hearst Castle?” I ventured.

  He turned slowly and glowered at me. “Are you kidding?” I shrugged. “You really want to see the Hearst Castle?”

  “I’m tangentially interested in opulence, yeah. In the unlikely event my book becomes a bestseller.”

  “Doesn’t it have to get published first?”

  “Well, according to half the population of the Santa Ynez Valley, that’s already a done deal.”

  Jack cracked a smile for the first time that morning, resigned, it seemed, to his injury. “All right,” he said gruffly, “go call ’em.”

  “Let me use your cell.”

  “No. I’ve got to make some calls.”

  “All right,” I said, opening the door, “I’ll be back in a few.”

  On the emergency room pay phone that had insulted me earlier, I called information and got the Hearst Castle main

  When I returned to the car, Jack was concluding a call, cradling his cell phone as if he didn’t want to be overheard. He looked as though he was thinking about something important.

  “Babs?”

  He nodded.

  “Tell her about the … mishap?”

  He scrunched up his face and shook his head. “I don’t want to worry her.”

  “How is she?”

  “Weirdly distant.”

  “Are you worried that maybe she’s having second thoughts?”

  Jack pushed out his lips, then he faced me with a furrowed brow. “You didn’t answer the phone and talk to her and not remember because you were looped, did you?”

  “No,” I said, aghast at the idea.

  “And you don’t remember what you said to Victoria?” he continued.

  “I didn’t say anything that would compromise you. When I’m drunk I say things that embarrass me, but I rarely, if ever, spread malicious gossip, especially when it’s factual.”

  Jack turned slowly back to the window, captured by something in his mind. “Okay, let’s go,” he said, sounding unsatisfied with my explanation and still dismayed about whatever Babs had said.

  We drove north on Highway 1 in the direction of Morro

  In Morro Bay—a coastal retirement town pockmarked
with cheap motels and bric-a-brac shops—we had an hour to kill, so we stopped for lunch in a marine-themed restaurant perched at the water’s edge. Inside, the wall facing the ocean was broken by large, lightly tinted picture windows. It was the off-season and the restaurant was empty so we were led to a window table. Through a scrim of decorative fish nets sagging under the weight of old cork floats and rusted lures, we had a clear view of the famous Morro Rock, a gray skyscraper-sized, long-extinct volcano sitting in shallow waters, jutting up an impressive 576 feet.

  “Should we get a bottle of wine?” I suggested casually, glancing at my menu, checking to see if Jack remembered our morning’s vow of abstinence for the day.

  “No,” Jack barked.

  “Just kidding,” I said.

  “No, you weren’t. You were testing me.”

  “How’s the rib?” I asked with affected concern.

  “What do you mean, ‘How’s the rib?’”

  “How’s the rib?”

  “The rib is the same as it was an hour ago,” he answered, glaring at me over his menu.

  “Does it hurt when you breathe?”

  “No. It only hurts when I look at you.”

  I dropped my menu and met his gaze. “Look. I may be the reason we followed the boar hunter and you ended up hitting the deck in a valiant effort I’ll never forget and will anecdotalize for years to come, but you’re the reason I was pissed off enough to even get in that position in the first place. Just to set the record straight.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “I wasn’t planning on drinking last night. But when I caught you and your small-town paramour in flagrante delicto, it just set me off,” I said, raw annoyance throbbing in my voice.

  Jack avoided my stare and pretended to look over the menu.

  I raised my voice slightly to draw his attention. “I mean, what the fuck were you doing screwing her in my bed?”

  “It just happened. I didn’t have time to choose beds. Fucking chick jumped me. Besides, what do you care? The maid puts new sheets on them every morning.”

  “Not at the Windmill they don’t!”

  “How do you know?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Oh, what is the point?” he asked sarcastically.

  “I don’t like witnessing sex. Except in movies. Even then, it usually embarrasses me.”

  Jack cocked his head to one side, perplexed. “I’m learning all kinds of shit about you, Homes.”

  “Check it out from my POV. There you are, my best friend, flagpole to the ceiling, your newfound lover flashing her dark luxuriant bush—which you know I have a fondness for—now, do I want to see this in my current eremitic state?”

  “Current what state?” he demanded.

  “Monastic. As in alone, without a bush of my own.”

  “Maybe we should get a bottle,” Jack said half-heartedly. “You’re starting to go Webster on me.”

  “Nope. We’re staying sober today. It’s the only way this nonsense will end.”

  A teenaged waitress wearing a pink short-sleeved dress finally approached, holding an order pad and a poised pen. She had a small turned-up nose, blond hair braided back in a ponytail, and eyes that sparkled with innocence. “Are you ready to order?” she asked in a high voice.

  “I’ll have the swordfish,” I said.

  “Don’t get the swordfish,” Jack reproved. “You’re killing dolphins.”

  I pretended to give his eco-warning serious thought. “Then I’ll have the dolphin,” I said.

  “We don’t have dolphin on the menu, sir,” the waitress replied ingenuously.

  “Oh. Then I’ll have the sea otter. Medium rare. Pelt on the side.”

  She raised her eyebrows and focused her gaze above my head. “Should I come back when you’re ready to order?”

  Jack tented his face in his hands and shook his head disgustedly.

  “No, I’ll have the halibut,” I said in an apologetic tone, closing my menu and handing it to her. “It’s been a long week.”

  She didn’t care to hear me elaborate about my long and wordlessly shifted her attention to Jack. Jack took his hands away from his haggard, unshaven face, manufactured a smile, and said politely, “I’ll have the fish and chips.”

  The waitress, thoroughly uncharmed, turned and threaded her way through a jigsaw of empty tables in the direction of the kitchen.

  “Okay. Let’s get a bottle of Muscadet,” I said. “Low in alcohol. Basically Kool-Aid.”

  “Kool-Aid. Give me a break. Let’s just ride it out. Relax.”

  “Shouldn’t have come into a restaurant. That’s the problem.” I picked up my glass of water and banged it down on the table. “I’m on vacation. I can’t just drink fucking water. I feel like St. Francis of Assisi.”

  “I’m the one who should cave in because I’m the one with the cracked rib.”

  I pointed a finger at him. “A glass of wine will soothe that thing like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Do you really want to go to the Hearst Castle?”

  “Sure, why not? What else are we going to do?”

  “So, what do you know about William Randolph?” Jack asked. “Fill me in, Mr. Know-It-All.”

  “Well. He was a fat fuck involved with a beautiful woman who couldn’t act her way out of a paper bag. Made millions with tabloid papers dishing daily drivel, bought a movie studio so his girlfriend could get parts without falling all over her face in auditions, fucked over our great national treasure, Orson Welles, by ordering The Magnificent Ambersons to be edited into an incomprehensible mess in retaliation for being skewered in Citizen Kane. Then he erected a monument to his ill-gotten wealth and

  Jack sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “So, why do you want to go?”

  “I’ve heard it’s a pretty cool crib.”

  Jack suppressed a laugh, but a smile broke through.

  “No, seriously, I’m interested in seeing the product of his demented hubris.”

  “Did your agent ever call back?” Jack asked.

  “No.”

  “What do you think’s happening?” he asked sincerely.

  “No idea. Was supposed to have a decision some time this week. Obviously, the decision is not an easy one. Ergo, the book isn’t being deemed commercial. Or they think it’s a piece of shit, and I can just kiss off two years of my life.”

  Jack eyed me thoughtfully, but was at a loss for words.

  “Obviously, a drink would help mask this rising tide of self-loathing.”

  Jack laughed. But the laughter quickly turned into a wince, as he clutched his side in pain.

  “Obviously, I’m going to have to figure something out pretty soon.”

  “What about Maya?” Jack asked.

  “What about her?”

  “Woman’s beautiful, man.”

  “I know,” I admitted. “I just …”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said peevishly.

  The waitress returned with our salads. “Would you like something to drink?” she asked innocently.

  I banged my fist histrionically down on the table, clattering the cutlery. “No!”

  “He’s trying not to drink today,” Jack explained.

  “Oh,” she replied as though it were an aspiration of trifling consequence. “How about you? Are you okay?”

  “No, I’m not okay,” Jack said, wincing in response to another shooting pain from his cracked rib. “But I think it would be unfair to my good friend here if I ordered a glass.”

  “Okay,” she replied, moving off.

  We ate our lunches in a hurried silence, tipped outrageously to compensate the waitress, whose composure was admirable, then got back into the car and back onto Highway 1 bound for San Simeon. The road ribboned scenically along the Pacific, where large waves slapped against the black, seaweed-garlanded rocks, enveloping them with a brownish white foam. Stretching to the horizon, the
ocean was a navy blue, still blistered by glistening whitecaps whipped up by a cold strengthening wind. Bordering us on the right, fields of tall emerald grass unfurled over gently rolling slopes that climbed steeply into craggy, gray spires that notched the bottom of the sky. Tenting the magnificent whole was an unstained, vast dome of infinite blue. Truly one of the most beautiful highways in the world.

  In the seashore town of San Simeon we went into Hearst Castle’s main office and picked up our tickets. After a long wait, we were herded into a bus with a gaggle of tourists. Most of them were elderly, potbellied, and wreathed with photographic gear. The bus roared to life, and an audiotape recording came on giving us some background information on the Hearst Castle. I tuned out. As we lurched slowly up the steep grade to The Enchanted Hill I felt less like Clark Gable or Marion Davies or another luminary making an ascent to the fabled mansion, and more like some middle-aged loser marking time

  When we reached the top of the hill, we pulled into a parking lot with a few other tour buses. Looking down from its great height, the view from the summit was heart-stopping. The castle ruled over a sweep of unspoiled topography ending in a dramatic stretch of one of California’s most pristine coastlines. I could probably see for sixty miles. The man who built this place clearly had godlike delusions of his corporeal worth. If money alone could buy an entry into heaven, he had tried his damnedest.

  A middle-aged male guide, who wore an expression of worldly disillusionment and who spoke tonelessly as if he had recited his informational spiel thousands of times, led us on a perfunctory tour of the magnificently lavish grounds, eventually guiding us inside where additional treasures were to be found. Though the opulence of the castle was impressive—stately outdoor swimming pool, every surface carved or tiled—the place felt spectral, haunted by a history that seemed both unreal and unfathomable. As we paraded from one high-ceilinged room to another, walking over priceless Italian terra-cotta, floating past decadent Baroque artworks, our group finally ending up encircling the fabled, mosaic-inlaid indoor pool, I reached the prosaic conclusion that one could be unhappy anywhere. Or was I just projecting?

  As the afternoon dragged on, our tour companions snapped pictures and filmed away, embalming the fantasy chateau into a complete state of lifelessness while the guide stuffed us with useless historical tidbits. All that mattered, I thought selfishly, irritated by my clearheadedness, was that I wasn’t going to get to travel back in time