He’d get this humming in his head and would wander off to the back cabin and play solitaire in the stillness. He’d sit by himself, smoke joints, sip beer, maybe eat a few valiums, and vegetate in his dingy little cave.
Then Spider showed up. And from that point on, Coyote never wanted to leave.
That ghost became his best friend. Someone he could talk to, who understood.
Finally, as he was skulking back to the house one time, Helen confronted him. “What do you even do back there all day?”
“Nothing. Just drink beer. Puff.” What was he going to say? Play cards and trade jokes with a dead man? The ghost of the biker who’d owned the place before him? She’d think he’d gone crazy. She’d be right, too. Spider couldn’t be real.
“Why can’t you do that here?”
“Dunno.”
“Why did you even come and get us if you’re not going to be with us?”
Coyote sipped his beer. Shrugged.
“I don’t like this place. It’s creepy. It’s got…bad energy.”
“Bad energy?”
“It won’t get warm. The girls say they’re hearing voices.”
“Why don’t you burn some sage or something?”
“Actually, I tried that. It didn’t work.”
The girls were running in circles, chasing each other, screaming at the top of their lungs. He needed some quiet. The buzzing in his ears was unbearable.
“I need help here,” Helen said, hands on her hips, mouth an angry line. He just shrugged and headed out the door toward the back cabins.
When he got back she was gone. Hadn’t even taken the car. Later he learned she’d just gathered up the girls, walked down the road, and hitchhiked out. She was tough like that; that’s one of the reasons he had fallen in love with her to begin with.
He never bothered looking for her or even asking around about her. He had other plans. The neighbor Diesel and his son were going to build a big grow room for him.
—
He pulled off the highway at the first Petaluma exit, coasted down into the parking lot of the Sheraton. He parked, got out of his SUV and started across the parking lot, a duffle bag over his shoulder and the McDonalds bag clutched in a fist.
“Will that be a smoking room or a non-smoking room, sir?”
“Smoking. Definitely smoking.”
The front desk receptionist’s fingers quickly beat on the keyboard. “I’ve got you all set up in room 1603.” Her smile never wavered, though her eyes momentarily hung on the sauce smear running down the front of his tie-dye. “Have a wonderful stay.” She held the card/key out to him; he grunted and roughly pulled it from her hand.
He strutted through the gleaming marble lobby, sneering at a startled yuppie woman who nearly collided with him, past the wine shop, souvenir stand, and café, to the elevators, strutting like a rock star. This was the beginning of the ritual and he felt like a king, even if he had gotten less than half of what he used to get for his product.
This was his relax time. His come-down time. A ritual he had: After he got rid of a batch of weed he’d spend a couple grand on crack and hookers before heading north and hunkering down to grow another crop, surviving on what he could, mainly Xanax and acid. Coors Light to dull the monotony.
Once in his room he took a towel from the rack and put it in the sink, ran water over it till it was soaked, and laid it along the crack at the base of the door. He flicked on the television, found something mind-numbing, a sitcom about young people in an apartment complex. He opened his duffle bag, took out a balled-up wash rag bound with a rubber band, unrolled it, and removed four blackened glass pipes, placing them in a row on the end table. He pulled out a large Ziploc bag half full of tiny plastic containers with bright red caps and fished one out. He unscrewed the cap, removed a pebble-sized, yellow chunk of crack, put it in the pipe, lit it.
Breathing out a cloud of smoke, he felt his heart begin to race as a chemical-laden euphoria filled the fissures and empty spaces between his skull and brain. That sweet, heady, chemical smell and taste, like a toy store or a new car. Rain began to patter on the sliding glass door that led to his balcony. A bit of poetry he had memorized lifetimes ago, back when he was in high school, slipped into his mind and he said the words aloud.
“Quaff, oh quaff, this kind nepenthe and forget that lost Lenore.”
The rush left him like a crashed wave pulling back out to sea and reality returned once more.
He had to get back north, would leave in the morning. He picked up his iPhone, glanced at the messages. Those stupid kids had been calling him incessantly lately, leaving him texts, wondering where he was, what he was doing. Didn’t they know he was busy? It was none of their business where the fuck he was. He was trying to make some money. The pot in that grow room better look good, too, or they were getting nothing. Nothing. Fuck them. He owed them nothing. They’d better understand that. He punched in a text:
I M back. Sorry late. Harvest tomorrow. C U in the morning.
He put the phone down, picked up his pipe and hit it. Hit it again. And again, until it was too hot to hold. Then he picked up another one, filled it, hit it, and zoned out on the mindless canned laughter emanating from the television.
There was a knock at the door. He got up and peered in the peephole. There was the girl he had ordered, same one as last time. Tall, black hair, wrinkled, ugly face caked in way too much makeup. He liked her because she didn’t mind if he just sat there puffing on his crack pipe while she gave him head. She could go on sucking and sucking all night, and she never asked him for a hit. Who cared what her face looked like? She did her job well and that’s all that mattered.
He removed the wet towel from the base of the door and let her in.
“Hi, Coyote,” she said, slipping in the door as he replaced the towel. The smell of her perfume filled the room, a sweet, jasmine stink.
Coyote grunted, went to the bed and sat down, hit the pipe, rolling it carefully over the flame. He blew out a cloud of smoke, heart pounding like a drum in his chest.
“I’m going to need you all night,” he said finally, staring dully at the television, a commercial for a ridiculous game show of some kind. “Is that okay?”
“If you got the money, honey,” she said, chomping on a piece of gum. “I got the time.”
He set the pipe down and pulled out his wallet, thick with hundred dollar bills. “Here’s a grand.”
“It’s fifteen hundred for the whole night, baby. You know that. Plus a tip.”
He grunted and counted out fifteen hundred-dollar bills, fixed her with his glazed eyes, lids hanging halfway down like a wet blanket. “Tip will be based on performance.”
“Well, I ain’t worried about that, honey.” She folded up the cash and slipped it into her purse. “Now let’s get those pants off.”
—
He woke up to a barrage of banging on the door.
A woman’s voice: “Sir? Sir? Housekeeping, sir.”
He groaned as he heard the door begin to swing open, sat up, and shouted, “Get out of here. I haven’t checked out yet. Get the fuck out of my room.”
“So sorry, sir.” The door swung back shut.
He pushed himself up, head pounding, white dots dancing in the periphery of his vision, and noticed his wallet lying open on the table.
Guess she helped herself to a tip. Bitch definitely earned it, from what he could remember.
How much had he had left in there? Six, seven hundred bucks? How had he even fallen asleep with all that fucking crack? Then he remembered the fist-full of valium and Xanax he’d chugged down with the Caberne
t Sauvignon he’d ordered up from room service. He hadn’t even come, never shot his load, at least he didn’t think he had. Just sat there puffing on that glass pipe, his money draining away while she knelt between his legs, head bobbing, sucking away at his limp cock. She was a pro, though, never stopped, never complained.
His dick was actually sore.
He got up, went to the bathroom, and fell to his knees before the toilet, sweat breaking out on his scalp and running down his pale, bloated face as he retched, his arms wrapped around the toilet. A mess of wine and McDonalds remnants chundered up and out of him.
Groaning, he stumbled back into the room. To his surprise there was still some crack left. Leftover crack: that was a true fucking rarity. He was surprised the whore hadn’t stolen it. Just looking at the little plastic bottles made him gag. He went back to the bathroom, threw them in the toilet, flushed them down. He leaned over the sink and splashed water on his face.
The ritual was done. He was ready to go north.
13
Rebecca puffed on a joint, leaning back into the filthy faux-velvet sofa as Calendula strummed his guitar. It had been a terrible day. A weird day. But she felt better. So much better. Coyote was coming back. Harvest tomorrow. She could make it through another round. They’d have their land. A little farm. She’d be an herbalist and Calendula a Permaculture Designer. This would work. It was working.
Rain crashed against the chef house, beating on the tin roof and cascading down the windows. A fire roared in the old top loader. Megan, in her pink, piggy pajamas that were starting to fray and grow too small for her, knelt on the ground, bent over the busted-up coffee table, her bunny stuffy beside her, doodling on a pad with crayons: redwood trees and giant mushrooms.
Putting his guitar down, Calendula reached over and took the joint from Rebecca. He hit it a few times and passed it back, then lifted his mason jar and slurped down the last of his wine. Picking up the bottle, he poured a slug into his jar and emptied the rest into Rebecca’s.
Shaking out the last few drops, he said, “Another bottle?”
“I don’t know. We only have a couple left.”
They’d stopped at an organic winery on the way up and bought two cases of red wine, a pinot noir he picked out and a zinfandel she’d chosen. They had a bottle of each left.
“Come on,” he said in his best Jim Morrison voice, cocking his head, giving her his “Lizard King” stare. “Tonight we celebrate, for tomorrow we harvest.”
She finished off her glass, her face and belly warm. Another would be so good. “Yeah, I guess so.” She gazed over her glasses and smiled at him. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned a moment later with the last bottle of pinot noir, already twisting a corkscrew in. He splashed more wine into their mason jars and then raised his jar up for a toast.
“To the magic and wonder of cannabis,” he said merrily. She smiled and they clinked their glasses together. She took a sip while he downed a big, sloppy gulp.
“I’m tasting garden hose and sweat sock, and you?”
Rebecca gave a sly smile. “What did that lady in Mendocino say?”
“Hints of Fireball and Starburst,” they said in unison, breaking out in helpless laughter.
“Are you guys getting drunk?” Megan asked.
Rebecca choked. “Megan. Of course not, we’re just having a few drinks. Jeeze.”
Megan began to slash streaks of black rain over her picture.
Calendula picked up the guitar and launched into the Grateful Dead’s “Ripple.”
Megan put down her crayon and sang along with him. It was one of her favorites.
Rebecca licked the sweet pinot from her lips, her eyes heavy, the alcohol swirling dizzily up into her mind. She felt content and happy. Things were good. When the song reached its crescendo she joined in.
“La la la la, la laah la lah la.” Then Calendula flubbed and hit the wrong chord, the tune suddenly going sour and coming to an abrupt end. Megan frowned.
“Well, fuck a fuck fuck,” he said, pausing to grab his mason jar. “That wasn’t right, was it?”
Megan’s frown turned to a mischievous grin and her big brown eyes sparkled. “Fuck,” she said in her sweet, tinny voice, then covered her mouth with her hands and began giggling hysterically.
Sternly, Rebecca said, “Language, you two.”
“Oh, baby,” Calendula said. “It’s just a word. Just a silly, little word. It only has the power you put into it. You gotta break down those mental constraints. Free your mind.”
“Oh, okay, Charlie Manson,” she said, giving him a wry, sarcastic look. Calendula had a weird fascination with the Manson family and Rebecca was always teasing him about it. Every now and then she found him re-reading a dog-eared copy of Helter Skelter, and she’d call him on his obsession.
“You like those girls, don’t you, you sick fuck?”
“Maybe,” he’d answer slyly. “But they’re not as hot as you.”
“You want me to carve an X in my head? Would that turn you on?”
“Maybe. We could try it out.”
A part of her knew this only encouraged him and often she regretted it. She really didn’t find his fixation on the Mason Family that amusing. But the wine was going to her head and she couldn’t resist the temptation to tease him.
Calendula smirked at her and started strumming a G chord, singing, “Garbage Dump.”
Megan asked, “Who’s Charlie Manson?”
“Great,” Rebecca said, shaking her head.
Calendula put his guitar down. “Hey, that was all you, I didn’t bring it up.” He leaned toward Megan. “He was a hippie, honey. Like your mom. A famous one.”
“Stop it, Calendula. He wasn’t a hippie. He was a bad man, a very bad man.”
“What’d he do?”
Rebecca sighed. “He killed people, okay, honey?”
Why did she say that? Why was she discussing this with her five-year-old daughter? She hated having Megan ever hear about murder or death. The words just slipped out of her mouth before she realized what was happening. The damn wine was letting her tongue fly. “But don’t worry, honey, he’s locked up in jail and is never getting out.”
“Charlie never killed nobody,” Calendula said. “Little Charlie only wanted to play his guitar. It was the girls who done it. Them and Tex.”
“Please. How did this conversation start?”
“I think you started it, sweetie.”
“Can we talk about something else?”
Megan looked up from her drawing and giggled at them. “You guys are funny.”
“Oh, we’re funny are we?” Rebecca laughed along with her now. “Well, I’m glad you’re so amused. But now, young lady, it’s time to go brush your teeth and get ready for bed.”
“But I want to stay up, Mommy.”
“Go on and brush your teeth, then we’ll see.”
Megan got up and went to the big sink in the kitchen to brush her teeth. Rebecca and Calendula looked at each other and burst out laughing.
“What a character,” he said.
They could hear her trying to sing as she brushed her teeth, “La la la la la…”
“Brush.” Rebecca shouted. “Don’t sing.”
Calendula poured a splash into her not-quite-empty mason jar.
“Are you trying to get me drunk, mister?”
“Perhaps. It does give me an advantage in certain, shall we say, endeavors.”
“You’d best play fair,” she said, wagging her finger at him before sipping her wine. She shouldn’t drink this much; she was s
tarting to slur her words and was probably going to have a headache in the morning. She usually never got this way in front of Megan, but it was so cozy and warm around the fire. With the harvest looming close it was a time to celebrate. She took another sip, her glasses slipping down her nose, and caught Calendula staring at her with a sardonic grin. She gave him a playful snarl and pushed her glasses back up.
14
Rebecca was suddenly awake and sitting bolt upright in her bed, naked and covered in sweat. She was still drunk and the room tilted and swayed slightly. She must have passed out: she couldn’t remember going to bed.
Had she taken her own clothes off?
It was stifling hot. The grow room hummed, emitting a dull glowing light through the cracks of the door even though they had draped two layers of black plastic over the doorway. Her mouth was dry and tasted of stale wine and pot smoke. The room wobbled and spun slowly. She reached out her hands and braced herself. Jesus. This wasn’t just the wine. She’d been having crazy dreams. Weird, insane, sex dreams. She closed her eyes and tried to remember.
She was stumbling through the woods. It was dark and she was lost. And she didn’t have her ticket. She kept searching her pockets, looking for it, but it wasn’t there.
But then she was on the beach and none of that mattered. None of that mattered at all.
It was a beautiful night. The moon full and high, its light shimmering across the crashing ocean waves. There were people there, their forms gleaming in the pale-blue light of the moon. They were naked and entwined. Fucking. They were all fucking and it was beautiful. So beautiful. The most beautiful people she’d ever seen.
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