The Speed Chronicles

by Joseph Mattson

  JOSEPH MATTSON is the author of Eat Hell (Narrow Books) and Empty the Sun (A Barnacle Book), a novel with soundtrack by Drag City recording artist Six Organs of Admittance. His work has appeared in Slake, Rattling Wall, Pearl, Ambit, and more. Mattson was also the literary editor of Two Letters Collection of Art and Writing Vol. 2 (Narrow Books). His novel, Courting the Jaguar, is forthcoming in 2012, and he was awarded a 2011 City of Los Angeles Artist Fellowship for his novel-in-progress, Hexico. Mattson lives in Los Angeles.

  Addiction

  by James Franco

  JAMES FRANCO: I was asked to write this thing for this magazine about crystal meth and the dangers of it. I didn’t know what to write. Then I had this idea: I would write this thing that was like Twilight but then wasn’t. I mean, I would appropriate the story of Twilight but call it Crystal Meth and not change anything, and maybe with the new title it would feel different when people read it.

  I realized that I couldn’t go to the book as a source because the books have been eclipsed by the films; at least the characters have.

  You can never think of Bella Swan without thinking of Kristen Stewart, and you’ll always think of Rob Pattinson as Edward Cullen, so I turned to the script, which was easy enough to find online, replete with notes from the writer to change things, such as the buck in the opening dream to a deer. I thought if I just changed the format to prose, took out the scene headings, and put it into past tense, I would get something new. It wouldn’t be the book, and it wouldn’t be the script: it would be a spare and equally bad middle ground that told the same story. I kept thinking about the scene in the biology classroom where Edward gets upset because Bella smells so good he wants to kill her. This, this, I thought, surely this will work, this is addiction, but not just addiction, it is flirting with death, this is the love that kills.

  It was difficult to see how I would parse out the desires of the characters and parallel because I was starting with Bella as the focalizing character and switching to Edward when the addiction element came into play. Then the editor suggested I add some actual parallels between vampires and tweakers: never sleep, paleness, sensitive to sunlight, selective diet, one sole hunger, the burdens of living forever.

  But I suppose she gets just as addicted to him, in her own way. I mean, he is all she thinks about. And then other things happen. He drives cars really fast, people get killed, and she almost gets raped, and they can’t have sex because he is afraid that he will kill her, and blood is always on his mind, and teenagers get killed and kidnapped, and they hide out in hotel rooms from other murderous teenagers, and she is with a hundred-year-old man and she is underage, and then they go to the prom.

  It seemed like ALL teenage emotions were there, all wrapped up in a fantastical premise, and they—Stephanie Meyers, the filmmakers, and the actors—were getting away with it because it wasn’t real, it was just vampires and shit.

  Well, I was going to change all that. I was going to show how close meth addiction is to Twilight. But then something happened. My manager’s partner, Dalton, was hit over the head on New Year’s Eve. He was in his front yard, it was nine at night, a nice neighborhood in the Valley out in the Tarzana area, he was walking to his car to go get some more champagne for his guests, when he dropped his keys. When he bent over he felt something smash into the back of his head. He fell forward and then stood. No one was around. He quickly called 911 (nine-one-one).

  “I think I’ve been hit by a meteor.”

  It took the ambulance only three minutes to arrive, despite the meteor comment. They found him sitting on the lawn. His wife and his son, Peter, ran out when they heard the siren. Peter was the good son, not the older son in jail for possession of marijuana with the intent to sell and possession of an unregistered firearm. That was Sam, the bad son, the son who got some Mexican gang shit tattooed on his boyish Jewish face.

  “Please,” Dalton had said in the visiting room. “Please just don’t get the tattoo on your face, you’ll get out and you’ll get past this, you can get a job, but don’t get the tattoo.”

  The kid was out and he was crazy and this is what it had come to: His life was fucked and he blamed his father. He tried to kill his father.

  If the ambulance had come two minutes later Dalton would have died. They put part of his skull in his abdomen to preserve it. They cut open his forehead to relieve the pressure because the brain had been pushed forward. There was a hole in the back of his head. The police were investigating.

  Then I learned that Sam wasn’t out. He’d be in jail for eighteen more months.

  Crystal Meth

  In my dream I am in Olympic National Park, it is dawn. Moss-draped, shadow-drenched, tortured tree trunks twist upward, reaching for rare sunlight.

  I’d never given much thought to how I would die.

  Suddenly, in this dream, every creature in the forest is deadly silent. Neither bird, beast, nor insect makes a noise. A predator is near.

  Then, in the distance, a tiny snick. I run, fast.

  Trees whip past, I dodge branches. I’m chasing something. It’s exhilarating. Terrifying. Finally, up ahead, through the whir, the first glimpse of my prey: a deer.

  It’s running for its life. It darts through the forest maze. It sprints, but I gain. Beyond the deer, I can see the forest’s edge, white sunlight glowing against the trees. The deer races for the light. I’m just behind it, about to emerge from the shadowy darkness. The deer leaps into the light in a high arc, it hovers against the white glare of the sun. Then, bam!

  It’s white and only white all around.

  Dying in the place of someone I love seems like a good way to go.

  In Arizona, the sunlight. I have alabaster skin, I’m vulnerable. I’m an introverted, imperfect beauty.

  I can’t bring myself to regret the decision to leave.

  Before I left Arizona, I dug up a tiny barrel cactus and put it in a clay pot.

  Oh, poor little cactus.

  Poor little me.

  “Bye, Bella!”

  The three tanned, athletic, blond girls from my old school waved as they left their McMansion and hopped into a convertible Mercedes. Their flawless, bought-and-paid-for beauty contrasted with my natural paleness.

  “Good luck at your new school!”

  “Don’t forget to write.”

  “We’ll miss you.”

  I waved back, sweetly, but halfheartedly.

  “Have a good …”

  As I stepped off the curb, I tripped. When I stood, they were gone.

  “Life.”

  Clearly they were not close friends. I have a grown-up demeanor and innate intelligence and their kind is not for me.

  Rene, my mom, came out of our house. She’s in her mid-thirties. Our house was low-rent for the ritzy neighborhood. Rene is eclectic, scattered, anxious, more like my best friend than my parent. She thrust her cell phone at me.

  “It won’t work again, baby.”

  “You put it on hold.”

  “I did?”

  “Look. You also called Mexico.”

  Rene pushed me playfully.

  We laughed.

  “I’ll figure it out. You gotta be able to reach me and Phil on the road. I love saying it out loud, me and Phil on the road—woah, on the road.”

  “Very romantic.”

  Phil came out. He’s good looking with an athlete’s body. He held my three suitcases.

  “If you call crappy motels, backwater towns, and ballpark hot dogs romantic.”

  He put his Phoenix Desert Dogs baseball hat on Rene’s head and kissed her. Phil’s love for Rene is reassuring. Phil headed to the old station wagon to load the luggage, while Rene slipped her arm through mine, clinging to me as we walked to the car.

  “Now, you know if you change your mind, I’ll race back here from wherever the game is.” But her face was strained and I knew what a great sacrifice coming back would be. I forced a smile.

  “I won’t change my mind, Mom.”

/>   “You might. You’ve always hated Forks.”

  “It’s not about Forks, it’s about Dad. I mean, two weeks a year, we barely know each other.”

  Rene looked worried. “Mom, I want to go. I’ll be fine.” As she hugged me, I realized I was full of dread, doubt, and regret. I tried to keep the façade up as I climbed into the backseat of the car.

  I listened to my iPod, earbuds in my ears, as I got a last glimpse of the sparkling malls, chic shoppers, and manicured cactus gardens.

  I said goodbye to the McMansions and goodbye to the scorched landscape baking under the hot sun.

  Washington State: nothing but deep, dark, green forests for miles. Lake Crescent. Over it all hangs the mist from the ever-present cloudy gray sky. Everything is wet and green and drenched in shade.

  The thing about Charlie is that he’s a cop. He’s taciturn and introverted like me. He drove me in his cruiser down a wet two-lane highway. Trees, drenched and heavy-leaved on both sides. Silence.

  “Your hair’s longer.”

  “I cut it since last time I saw you.”

  “How’s—”

  “Good … it grew out again.”

  Silence.

  “Your mom?”

  More silence.

  THE CITY OF FORKS WELCOMES YOU. Pop. 3532. Logging town. Woodcarvings in the storefronts. Timber Museum’s sign: two loggers sawing a stump. Police station: a small wooden building across from city hall, also wooden.

  The old house. Two-story, a woodshed full of firewood. A small boat in the garage. Fishing gear, an old buoy. Getting out of the car, I thought: home.

  Carried in the bags. The house, not stylish. Only new thing: flat-screen TV. Comfortable, lived-in. Fishing memorabilia; photos of Charlie fishing with Indians. Handmade cards to “Daddy” and photos of me. Me, age seven, in a tutu, sitting stubbornly on the ground.

  “I put Grandpa’s old desk in your room. And I cleared some shelves in the bathroom.” “That’s right. One bathroom.”

  A photo: a much younger Charlie and Rene, on vacation, beaming with love.

  “I’ll just put these up in your room—”

  “I can do it—” We both reached for the bags, bumped one another. I let Charlie carry them upstairs.

  An antique rolltop desk was sitting in the corner. The room was filled with my childhood remnants, which had seen better days. I unpacked my CD case and loneliness finally overwhelmed me. I sat heavily on the edge of the bed, tears threatening …

  Then we hear a HONK outside. Bella runs across the hall and looks out the window to see—11. OUTSIDE—A FADED RED TRUCK, CIRCA 1960, pulls up … 11.

  Fuck shit fuck

  EXT. CHARLIE’S HOUSE—DAY

  Bella exits to find Charlie greeting the driver, JACOB BLACK, 16, Quileute Indian, amiable, with long black hair, and hints of childish roundness in his face. Charlie and Jacob help Jacob’s father, BILLY BLACK (from the photos), into a wheelchair. CHARLIE: Bella, you remember Billy Bla …

  … zona. Give it up for the rain. And he shakes his wet baseball cap onto Bella’s head.

  BELLA: xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

  She heads toward her seat, brushing off her hair. But she freezes when she sees—Edward. Terrific.

  Bella straightens, girding herself. Then strides to the table, and confidently drops her books down, ready to address him. But he looks up at her— Hello.

  EDWARD: Hello.

  Bella stops. Stunned. He is direct, precise, as if every word is an effort for him.

  EDWARD: I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself last week. My name is Edward Cullen.

  She’s too shocked he’s talking to her to answer.

  EDWARD (prompting): xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

  time … as the SUV PEELS out, WIPING THE FRAME—

  107EXT. HIGHWAY, PACIFIC NORTHWEST—DAWN107

  The sun begins to rise on the empty road as a sleek, BLACK MERCEDES SEDAN with tinted windows BLASTS through frame—108INT. MERCEDES—SAME 108

  Jasper driv lic in the passenger seat. Bella is in the back, her eyes red from crying. She talks on her cell phone –

  BELLA: Mom, it’s me again. You must have let your phone die. Anyway, I’m not in Forks anymore but I’m okay. I’ll explain when you call …

  JAMES FRANCO is an acclaimed actor, director, artist, and writer. His film appearances include 127 Hours, Howl, Milk, and Pineapple Express. On television, he starred in the critically acclaimed series Freaks and Geeks. Franco has written and directed several short films, and his visual art was featured at Clocktower Gallery in New York. The author of Palo Alto: Stories, his writing has appeared in Esquire, the Wall Street Journal, and McSweeney’s. Franco has an MFA in creative writing from Brooklyn College, an MFA in fiction writing from Columbia University, and is enrolled in the PhD program in literature at Yale.

  wheelbarrow kings

  by jess walter

  I’m hungry as fuck.

  Mitch knows a guy getting rid of a TV. A big-screen supposed to work great. Mitch says he watched UFC on it.

  That don’t make sense I say. A guy just giving away a big-screen.

  Mitch says the guy has two TVs.

  Mitch talks a lot of shit so I won’t be surprised if there ain’t no TV.

  Fish and chips is what I really want. I got twelve dollars which would be plenty for fish and chips. So hungry.

  Mitch says it’s a heavy-ass TV and we’ll need a wheelbarrow for sure.

  I ask where the fuck are we supposed to get a wheelbarrow. Like I just carry a wheelbarrow around. Sometimes Mitch.

  He says we’ll pawn that TV for two hundred easy. Then I could spend my twelve bucks on fish and chips or steak or whatever the fuck I want.

  Mitch’s sister lives up on the south hill. He says she’s got a wheelbarrow. She and her husband garden and shit. I met his sister one time. She seemed cool.

  I started loving fish and chips when we had it at middle school. I never had it before that. I used to think chips were the different kind of fries with ridges like we had at school. But it can be any fries.

  If we do get two hundred bucks for that TV me and Mitch are gonna gear up over at Kittlestedt’s. On Kittlestedt’s icy shit. Get on a big old spark. None of that scungy east side peanut butter we been bulbing for a month now. Not after we sell that TV. No more twelve-buck quarters for us.

  We gonna amp up on a couple of fat bags Mitch says.

  I’m hungry as fuck I say to Mitch.

  We gonna eat for days after we sell that TV he says.

  He wants to take a bus up the south hill to borrow his sister’s wheelbarrow. Mitch has a bus pass. I got that twelve dollars but no way I want to spend a buck twenty-five on the bus. Because you can’t even get that east side shit for under twelve. Twelve is the cheapest I ever seen. Anywhere.

  You comin’ Mitch asks.

  If I do spend some of my money on the bus least I could eat then. Fish and chips. Or even just get a tacquito at Circle K and some Sun Chips. I like them Sun Chips too. But I ain’t buying food unless we sell that TV.

  Mitch’s bus pass is expired. He wants me to pay for both of us on the bus. Fuck that I say. We get off. The bus drives away.

  And I think of something. How the fuck are we gonna get that wheelbarrow all the way downtown from his sister’s house anyway. It’s like two miles. And we’d have to take the wheelbarrow back. Uphill.

  Yeah that’s true Mitch says.

  I known that fucker two years. First time he ever said I was right.

  First time you ever been right Mitch says.

  Fuck I’m hungry.

  You keep saying that. Fucking buy some food then Mitch says.

  But he knows I can’t. I need my twelve bucks. He’s just fucking jealous ’cause he ain’t even got enough for a bump.

  There’s a coffee place downtown where I know this girl. I went to school with her. We walk down there. Keep our eyes open for wheelbarrows. You s
ee wheelbarrows at construction sites sometimes it seems like. But when you need one you sure as fuck don’t. I don’t think there is a wheelbarrow in all of downtown Spokane.

  The coffee shop has outside tables either side of the door. There’s two guys in suits and sunglasses drinking iced coffee. They’re eating scones. Them fucking scones look great. I’m hungry as shit. The business guys give me a look. Inside the coffee shop I lick my lips to get the salt.

  The girl I know ain’t working. Sometimes she gives me the day-old pastry. She’ll say what happened to you Daryl. And I’ll say what happened to you. I forget her name. She’s kind of fat now. She wasn’t fat in middle school. She was pretty hot I think. But she’s fat now.

  But that’s not what I mean when I say what happened to you. About her being fat. I’m just fucking around. And I did know her name before. I just don’t know it now.

  Anyways it don’t matter because she ain’t working. Some guy is working instead. With a goatee. I ask him is the girl who works here around. He makes a face like what girl or maybe he just thinks Mitch and me stink. And he looks at the stain on my T-shirt. I was having a hot dog at the Circle K a few days ago and I was with Todo and that fucker waits until you take a bite of something and then he says the funniest shit. He could be a stand-up comedian Todo. I forget what he said exactly but the ketchup squirted on my shirt. And then it left this stain.

  Mitch flops down in a booth.

  The goatee guy watches Mitch pick at his face. You have to order something if you’re gonna stay here the coffee guy says.

  They got these cinnamon rolls must be half frosting. Fuck me I am so fucking hungry. The goatee guy looks at me like I’m a fucking jerk-spazz.

  That girl—I have to start over. And then her name comes. Marci! Marci said come in and she’d give me something from the day-olds. Marci. I can’t stop blinking.