Based Upon Availability

by Alix Strauss

  “You’re looking better,” Honor says, her eyes scanning the open sketchbook.

  “No, I’m not.”

  She sighs. “Have you showered?”

  “Not really.”

  “No matter. Brush your teeth and let’s go.” She looks at her watch. “You’ll feel better after you’ve had your hair cut and nails done.” She stamps out her half-done cigarette. “Louise. Come on.”

  Honor picks up the phone, her ring clanks against the receiver. “Yes, I’m bringing Mrs. Sands downstairs for her spa treatments. Could you please send housekeeping up immediately so that the room is fresh upon our return. Thank you.”

  “Who’s Mrs. Sands?” she asks, stripping off her sweat pants and Grace Jones tour of ’83 T-shirt, throwing on a pair of jeans and velvet shirt in its place.

  Honor shrugs. “My maiden name.”

  She met Honor one night at a bar in New York after she’d been kicked out of her last band and forced to go solo. Lou wooed her with her funny stories, lulled her into seeing her talent, tricked her into loving her. She was the rocker, Honor the power player. Beauty and the beast. Ten years her senior, Honor was classy, worldly, striking. A warm body, a full wallet, a sharp bite, and a smart mind. The list of important people she knew was endless.

  It was Honor who got her an agent. Honor who kicked her ass into gear. Honor who cleaned her up, let her sleep in her guest room when Lou was out of money, out of a home, and out of drugs.

  Lou takes a deep breath once they’ve left the room, another once they enter the elevator, a third upon exiting. The spa smells of fruity shampoo and the lights are bright and the greeting from the staff too cheery. The beige theme permeates the entire hotel, even in here.

  She and Honor take seats at the pedicure station. Within minutes a woman is at Lou’s feet, another at her fingers. She hasn’t shaved her legs for almost two weeks, having a woman do it for her feels luxuriously weird.

  Honor places a hand on top of Lou’s and pats it three times, winks, and then returns to leafing through Vogue. “See, you’re doing it.”

  Lou is about to say something when she sees Morgan appear. Or she thinks it’s Morgan. The person standing in front of her is pale and drawn. Painfully thin. Deep circles reside under her eyes and the crisp, healthy person she knew seems to have vanished. Lou turns to Honor for clarification. Perhaps on drugs, everyone looks prettier than they actually are.

  “I just wanted to check on you,” Morgan says. Her hands grasp a jumbo-size Starbucks cup. Smoke is emanating off of her making Lou ache for a cigarette. “You look great. How are you feeling?”

  “Good. I guess. I’m still here.”

  “We wouldn’t have it any other way,” Honor says, interjecting.

  “Great. That’s just great. I’m so pleased. When you’re up to it, how about lunch in your room? Or if you prefer, we could do a reenactment of our first lunch in the restaurant.”

  Lou watches Morgan’s gaze switch from hers to Honor’s.

  “Sure. This is our fist day out, so we’re just taking it slow. But I think lunch would be fine. Lou?”

  “Ah, you remembered I was here, too. Excellent. Now that’s real progress ladies.”

  She watches Morgan’s face drop a little, as if she’s disappointed her, which makes Lou want to cry. Her hands are soaking in warm soapy water, and her heels are being rubbed raw, and all she wants to do is get high and go home.

  An hour later Lou has moved to the salon part of the spa. Honor and the stylist are standing over her talking.

  “Could I get a Coke?” she says, her voice raw. “The liquid kind, not the powder.” She watches Honor in the mirror, who lifts an eyebrow and smirks.

  “Of course,” says the stylist, who isn’t in on the joke, but smiles as if she were.

  A Coke arrives in a clear tall glass with just the right amount of ice cubes and it tastes so good going down Lou’s throat that she almost chokes in her rush to devour it. Immediately, she wants another.

  Honor sips her espresso while Lou chews on the ice as inches of dry, dead-looking hair fall in clumps to the floor.

  “When was the last time you had a cut?” The stylist asks, judgment gone from her voice.

  “A year?”

  “Well, we’ll get this looking a whole lot better.”

  The salon part of the spa is full, busy with the buzz of divorced women each trying to fix themselves. Everyone is too self-involved to notice Lou slip the stylist’s extra scissor into the sleeve of her sweater. The metal feels cool on her skin and to make sure the end is sharp enough, she presses the tip against the edge of the padded black chair and her wrist. The pain sends a throb to her temples and she smiles, thinking at least there’s always a way out.

  Lou feels lead by Honor as they stroll up Lexington Avenue. All that’s missing is a leash, the kind out-of-town women strap onto children they fear will be snatched up or wander off. Lou could be either. Someone passes by who looks like her dealer. What she wouldn’t give for a beer.

  Since it’s Saturday, the avenue is a mess of people. Each looks juiced up on something as they rush down the street, arms filled with shopping bags. Where’s the difference between the Botoxed, diet-pill-popping, coffee-drinking addicts and her? What’s the distinction between the painfully thin women rushing around Bloomingdale’s and Saks and Bergdorf’s with their hands extended, new purchases in one, their credit cards in the other?

  When the two enter Lou’s hotel room, everything is perfect once again and the room has that freshly vacuumed smell. Housekeeping has erased any trace of her. The puke-stained trash can, the overflowing ashtrays, the empty soda cans, the wet towels, the stained robe.

  Her CDs are in a neat stack, her guitar is leaning up against the wall, the candy and gum and other food-related paraphernalia resides by the bar, the sketchbook is on the table, the “Fuck You!” napkin is gone. Her clothing has disappeared and upon looking in the drawers in the bedroom—the room that now has fresh sheets and new pillowcases—her clothes are neatly folded. It’s as if Lou never existed.

  She enters the bathroom and her reflection startles her. The person staring back is almost unrecognizable. Her hair is smooth and silky. Three inches shorter, the long layers just touch her shoulders, and it’s the first time in four or five years that it’s all one color. A real color. Deep brown. Not something purply or reddish or fake. Her nails are clean and perfect and the burgundy color matches her toes. Her brows arch perfectly. Her skin is dewy and blemish-free. Her legs are soft and silky, like her hair. And if she can just hold onto this…It’s then that she remembers the cracked the mirror. The one she broke, but this one has been fixed. How can they do that so fast? It’s like some bizarre Twilight Zone episode, so Lou can’t tell if she dreamed it or actually broke the mirror. What is real, however, is the pair of scissors, which she quickly slips out from her sleeve and sticks in between two perfectly fresh and fluffy towels.

  She pees quickly and flushes, opens the door, and finds Honor standing in front of her.

  “I wasn’t doing anything.”

  Honor places a hand on either side of Lou’s shoulders, and at first Lou thinks Honor is going to lean in and kiss her, like in the old days, like when they were both doing X, and Lou is about to pucker up when Honor brings her body into Lou’s and tightly embraces her.

  “Please, I’m begging you. I don’t know what else to do.” Honor’s breath is hot and perfumey and her grasp is so strong it pushes air out of Lou’s lungs. “Please stay clean.”

  She thinks how good it feels to have Honor here, to have her in this position, being held and momentarily loved. As Lou brings her hands up to return the embrace, she feels Honor release her hold, feels Honor’s body start to move away.

  “I’ll try to come back tomorrow. And if not Sunday, then Monday around fiveish.”

  No. Lou needs Honor. She needs something.

  “I thought we could watch TV?”

  “I’d love to, but I’ve a dinne
r date and some errands to run beforehand.”

  “How about a game of cards?”

  Honor is moving out of the bathroom hallway and into the living room. Is already extracting a Parliament from her Hermes bag and is casing the room for a lighter or book of matches.

  “Come on, one hand of gin,” Lou insists.

  Honor is still eyeing the room, the cigarette dangling from her lips.

  “I’ll show you my sketches.”

  “I can’t, Louise.”

  Lou almost stomps her foot. “Why not?”

  “Must you be entertained every second of the day?”

  “Is spending a little time with me too much to ask for?”

  Lou goes to the fridge but remembers there’s nothing of value in there.

  “I just spent seven hours with you,” Honor states. Frustrated, she sets her bag down on the table and searches for a lighter.

  “So? What’s another two?”

  “Let’s not do this. We’ve had a nice day.”

  “Who are you having dinner with?”

  Honor sighs, takes her coat, and drapes it over her arm.

  “See you Monday.” She leans in to brush Lou’s cheek, but Lou moves away.

  “You said Sunday.”

  “I said I would try for Sunday.”

  Lou grabs onto her sleeve. “Come on, can’t you cancel whoever you’re dining with?”

  “I can’t. It’s a new client.” The cigarette has yet to be lit, and Honor is holding it now between her fingers, frustrated.

  “I thought you weren’t taking on new people.”

  “I wasn’t. I’m not, really, but this fell into my lap, and it could be very profitable.”

  “So you lied?”

  “I didn’t lie about anything. I didn’t expect to…” She stops, throws her hands into the air. “Why am I explaining myself? Do you know how much this little stay is costing me?”

  “No one asked you to pay for it.”

  “Well you certainly couldn’t have. It’s not like the old days when we had money to burn.” She takes a deep breath. “There’s no need to feel threatened. You’re not being replaced.”

  “How old is she?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “How old?”

  “She’s twenty. She’s young and talented, and she actually reminds me a little bit of you. But most of all she’s a hard worker and as far as I can tell…”

  “What? Won’t shove a quarter of a million dollars up her nose? Won’t cause you the trouble I do?”

  “Yes. Yes to everything.” Honor is yelling now. “Happy?”

  “Is she your new project? Is that why you can’t meet me tomorrow for brunch?”

  Honor’s face freezes. Lou watches pity wash over her eyes.

  “See you Monday,” Honor says through pressed lips.

  “Don’t go like this. I’m sorry.”

  Honor is silent. She reaches for her bag, but Lou arrives at it first and holds it way from her grasp.

  “I get jealous. You know I get jealous.”

  “Give me my purse.”

  Lou is smirking, batting her eyes playfully.

  “I’m not kidding. I’m late and I need to go.”

  Lou doesn’t move.

  “I need to go!” Honor’s voice is loud and harsh. She grabs her bag and is gone seconds later. Only the lingering scent of Chanel perfume remains.

  Loneliness fills the cavity of Lou’s chest so quickly, so harshly that it knocks her to the ground. Tears bleed from her eyes. She needs to fill the space. She reaches for a Camel Light, finds the lighter in her pocket, and after taking several drags knows it’s not enough. She calls downstairs and in a Groundhog Day experience has the exact conversation with the monotone voice about putting through a food order when vodka is her request. She begs the voice, sounding like Honor begging Lou to say clean.

  “Please, I’m fucking begging you. Just send up one shot. One shot glass filled with whatever you want, okay? You decide.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  He won’t be the only one sorry, she thinks, slamming down the receiver.

  She walks into the bathroom and extracts the scissors from their hiding place.

  What does it matter if you’re sober if no one’s there to see it? If, at the end of the day, it’s still just you, looking at a prettier version of yourself in a five-star hotel mirror.

  She strips down naked and waits for the tub to fill with hot water before getting in. The tub is deep and roomy. The scissors are long and sharp. The metal is cool in her grip and she wonders if it will be hard to get the blood off. If Honor will be mad. If this was the mark her mother meant when she told Lou to leave her thumbprint on the world.

  At forty-four she’s already missed the Jesus years, which is fine because Cass, Joplin, Hendrix, Smith, Morrison, and that Nirvana guy all died too young anyway. Everyone would say they saw it coming. It’s right there in her music, in her words that fans are always quoting back to her—or telling her how her songs changed their lives. And she’s happy for that. That’s what keeps her going. That and the blow. And the speed. And the coffee and the cigarettes and the liquor.

  If she were to die now it would be fine. She’s lived enough for two people, twenty-eight tours, seven records. Past punk rock, disco, grunge, folk, Dylan’s “Tambourine Man.”

  She can already see her funeral. Hipster bands like the New Pornographers, Franz Ferdinand, and Belle & Sebastian would sing odes to her. Her old bandmates from Horse House, Zsa Zsa, and Me, Myself & Eye coming together once more, performing a rock chronology of tunes that made her popular. She envisions a benefit CD being released. People she doesn’t like making money off of her death. The cultural professors would dissect the lyrics, blogsters would speculate what really happened—a conspiracy? Blame the Scientologists for her untimely passing. But in the end, she’d be reduced to nothing more than an hour special on E! or VH1. A cover story for People magazine. A rockology for Rolling Stone.

  She’s so tired. Her body aches, like she has the flu. And she’s got chills that still won’t leave her. The perfectly white ceiling however is skull-less. The room isn’t spinning. Her breathing is deep and even. Her eyes feel heavy.

  When she wakes, it’s to the sound of vacuuming and knocking on her door.

  Housekeeping.

  It’s another day. Another fucking day and Lou has been clean for the past twelve of them.

  She’s back to freezing, teeth chattering. In the middle of the night the water turned cold and Lou got out of the tub, wrapped herself in towels and robes and slept on the floor. She stands now, dizzy. Hungry nausea passes over her as she catches her reflection in the mirror. Her hair is still styled, though somewhat messy. Her eyeliner is smeared, but in a sexy way. She wets her hands, runs them through her hair. Puts her mouth under the sink, drinks, swishes the last bit, and spits it out. She applies some lipstick, retrieves her guitar, sunglasses, and a cigarette from the other room. She cracks open one of her own CDs, slips in her greatest hits on the stereo, and lets the music fill the empty space.

  Returning to the bathroom, she stands on the edge of the tub. Pretending she’s back in Seattle, performing in front of a crowd of screaming fans, she strikes a rock pose. She resurrects the smell of cheap beer and sweat as she squints, making the metal lights sparkle. She contorts her face, flashes her signature expression: lips puckered, twisted off to the right, mock surprise on her face.

  She’s still sexy. Old, tired, and clean, but sexy.

  She walks from the bathroom and into the bedroom, toward the window. The knocking has stopped. Housekeeping will come back later. She tries to stand on the padded cushion like she did the second day she was here, but her body is too exhausted, her muscles too sore. Every time she tries to pull herself up, she falls.

  It’s only after her fifth attempt that she notices her fingerprints are gone. The smudges her greasy head and hands made almost two weeks ago have been erased.
>
  She wants them back. Wants to place herself over something familiar. Something that was hers. But she can’t. She’s clean now. Like the room. Like the window.

  And like the workman on the building across from the hotel, the ones who continue to haul barrel after barrel of debris and broken bricks in the hope of fixing the roof, she too needs to start over.

  The guitar is cold and yet feels like a second skin up against her bare chest. Rather than letting it cover her naked front, she swings it onto her back and tries once more to pull herself onto the sill. It takes more effort than she’d like, but on the forth hop off her left foot and with the right one on the padded seat, she is finally triumphant.

  She knocks on the window, hoping the men will hear, which of course they don’t. Can’t. But she stands there until they see her and her crotch and her breasts, which are pushed up against the glass.

  She stands there until they point, wave, and make crude gestures.

  She places her lips on the pane and ever so carefully, sexily, sweetly, kisses the glass.

  When she steps down a bright burgundy pair of perfectly placed puckered lips are staring back at her. And once again, she’s left her mark.

  Chapter 17

  Morgan

  The Restaurant

  It’s the end of December when I acknowledge something is seriously wrong with me. I can feel it. Sharp and biting. I keep finding myself purposely leaning up against others in the subway, letting my body touch theirs, swaying to and fro with the fast movement of the train. I brush up against them. The warmth of their skin, the strong feel of their muscles makes me feel momentarily better, until I step out of the train. Then the emptiness returns, a kind of hollowness as if I haven’t eaten all day.

  My clothing is too big on me. My hair is limp and flat and I notice in the shower and at night when I brush it that more and more strands fall out. I look skeletal and am constantly cold. Even my mother’s face was one of deep concern the other day when she stopped by the hotel with her bridge group. I’m tired all the time, there are dark circles under my eyes, and when I look in the mirror I see traces of my sister. I stand looking at myself now in the full-length mirror in room 407.