What We Never Had

by Zach Wyner

  You headed for the hills with the windows rolled down, the stereo blasting some wild Ornette Coleman to eradicate the loneliness, bridge the distance between you and the infinite. Some things were still pure, unsullied, uncorrupted. This music belonged to an era in your life that came before the advent of June. She hadn’t liked jazz when it was free; the lack of structure made her squirm. You pointed out the irony. You told her that there was redemption in this music if she listened for it, that the cloying pseudo-folk songs she sang along to were nothing more than an anodyne, while this music, unfettered and boundless, manifested revolt, catharsis, renewal. You could see her now, unconvinced but smiling nonetheless at your passionate entreaties. So this music was tied to her in an oblique kind of way after all. Because you’d felt special when she looked at you in that way—that way that let you know you’d been seen. It was a look that lacked any trace of the indifference or suspicion that you’d come to expect from girls. June had been the dawn of positive attention. After her, women started noticing you, both when she was by your side and when she wasn’t, as though you’d materialized from some hazy, spectral, timorous suggestion of a man into something desirable.

  You crested the canyon and turned onto Mulholland Drive, the serpentine road that wound along the crest of the hills bifurcating the Valley and the city. Once the hub of the drag-racing world, this road possessed memories of cars slashing gaping wounds in the black night as they barreled, side by side, down its two lanes, screaming around blind turns, reaping adrenaline and glory, colliding head-on with unsuspecting motorists or swerving at the last second to avoid the crash and launching off the little lump of dirt along the road’s edge to plummet to a fiery death amongst the shrubs and coyotes.

  You pulled off the road alongside an empty lookout point—someplace conducive to reflection, to epiphany. This would be the point in the story, you thought, where you’d turn a corner, discover a new path, or recognize that you’d already turned a corner and the new path was there, laid out before you, and all you had to do was put one foot in front of the other. There’d be no need to know where the path led. It was enough that the path was new. History would not repeat itself; your mistakes would not be lived for nothing.

  Across the street from where you parked was a house with a security system placard staked in their plush lawn beside a concrete lawn jockey. A yellow Hummer boasting a Bush/Cheney bumper sticker slumbered in the driveway.

  You left your car, stepped over the chain meant to deter hooligans from enjoying the seclusion of the lookout spot after dark. A splintered bench beckoned; something rustled the thicket of bushes in front of you. Something will always be rustling the bushes, you thought, and took a seat to watch the tiny cars below—haughty headlights headed nowhere, but with great purpose. To the west, a truck engine roared. The roar morphed into a cantankerous clattering followed by a low hum as the truck shifted gears to take the hairpin turns. Then it hit a straightaway, hiccuped, and whined as it increased its speed, drew closer. A helicopter swooped into view from the east, drowning the sound of the truck, and careened over Ventura Boulevard, shining its spotlight on the 101. A faint peal of sirens reached your ears as a convoy of police cars, twinkling like Christmas lights, strung themselves across the freeway. You marveled at how benign life-and-death speed looked from a distance.

  The truck rounded the bend beside the lookout point and flashed its high beams on your back, the bushes, and the pink nose and yellow eyes protruding from the thicket. As quickly as the truck had appeared, it exited, leaving you alone with a cloud of exhaust and the sticky sensation of being watched. You were a city boy. You’d gone to college in a heavily forested area, but you’d never grown accustomed to the presence of wild animals. In four years at school, you’d spotted upwards of seven hundred cougars, ninety-eight percent of which turned out to be foliage and two percent of which were actual critters ranging in size from squirrel to raccoon.

  You closed your eyes. The creature rustled the leaves again and then moved on, satisfied that it could continue safely on its way. You leaned forward and warmed your hands with your breath. The weather was changing but the change would likely be temporary. Los Angeles never cooled for long. You endured the ache in your shoulder, your cold hands and feet. Even if revelation wasn’t lurking here in the shadows, abandoning the spot too soon felt comparable to denying its possibility. So you waited. Soon your bladder began to pound. Something needed to be done.

  You stayed low, crossing the street at a dash, and headed straight for the sleeping suburban tank. The bulk and height of the Hummer shielded you from the house’s giant picture widows, as you unzipped your fly and soaked the passenger door with a torrential stream of warm, alcoholic piss.

  So you hadn’t quite figured out what you stood for. At least you were clear about what you stood against.

  *

  The next couple of weeks passed quietly. With June no longer around, the air was different, as though someone had taken a metaphysical broom and swept the psychic dust particles from the atmosphere, clearing space for daydreams. There were times, not many, when you had the place all to yourself. Inspired by your work with Adrienne, you started to write a play about your freshman year at college. You kept your expectations low, didn’t harbor any grand Hollywood illusions. This, to you, was precisely what made it worthwhile.

  Life fell into a comfortable rhythm. You read by morning, tutored by afternoon, and wrote by night. You spoke with frequency to your parents and even brought the boys to your folks’ house for a family dinner. Having defrosted half the freezer, your dad grilled up monstrous porterhouse steaks while mom baked potatoes and steamed farmer’s-market-fresh green beans. Fresh off an interview at Whole Foods that he claimed to have nailed, an energized Bill charmed your mother with amusing anecdotes about about his childhood in Maine and talked Red Sox playoff chances with your dad until you thought they might offer him your old bedroom. Amare added the occasional quip to the conversation but didn’t really seem like himself. You wanted to attribute his remoteness to something quietly brewing, an incendiary idea that would spring forth suddenly like Athena, fully formed and warrior-garbed from the head of Zeus. But truthfully, the impression he gave was closer to that of a dying flame.

  You avoided dive bars, partly because none of you had the funds and partly because the Monday after June’s departure, you’d run out of cigarettes and hadn’t bought a new pack. It wasn’t planned, but something in its spontaneity gave you the feeling that you had a fighting chance. You’d tried to quit before, but the attention focused on the act of quitting drove you near psychological collapse. The more you prepared, the more people you told, the more daunting it seemed and the more easily you unraveled. This time you were determined to fly under the radar, to keep the seriousness of your intention hidden, to store it in some remote nook or cranny, such as a toe or an earlobe, where your conscious mind didn’t venture. No gum, no patch, no prescription medications—that shit was tantamount to getting a handjob from a girl you’re trying to breakup with. If either of the boys noticed, they were savvy enough not to comment—even during those first few days, when you carried around the hammer you were pretty sure you weren’t going to use but you nonetheless needed to feel in your hands. Little mention was made of June, but every time your phone rang, heads perked up like nervous squirrels, listening carefully to the tone of your voice, to whatever its pitch might betray.

  Then, one Thursday morning, as you drank your coffee and Amare read his online news, Bill’s phone rang. You grabbed it, checked the number, shook Bill awake, and put the thing in his hand. It was Whole Foods, asking him if he could start that afternoon.

  “Okay,” he said, sitting upright, still in a fog. “Sure, I can do that.” His eyes roamed the scenery in utter bafflement, as though he hadn’t woken up in the same position every morning for the past six weeks, and landed on your expectant grin—you’d seen the area code and held your breath.
As reality sank in and the day broke free from the tentacles of his dreams, self-worth dawned on Bill’s face with the brilliance of a fogless sunrise and his whole body seemed to smile.

  “I got a job.”

  “Well all right,” you said. “You deserve it, bud.”

  “I start this afternoon.”

  “Fucking-a.”

  He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The swelling had gone down by now but his cheekbone still bore a faint purplish streak.

  “Can I buy you breakfast?” he said.

  “As long as it’s not a 7-Eleven hot dog.”

  He grinned.

  “Nicely done, Bill.”

  *

  The three of you went to Loretta’s, an unassuming little café tucked into a narrow enclave between the kingdoms of Ralphs and CVS. The outdoor seating, a shaded space that snaked around the side of the restaurant and fed into an alley behind Ventura Boulevard, bloomed with potted plants, bougainvillea, and out-of-work actors. A knee-bucklingly beautiful Latina hostess, with braided hair and a gold tooth that sparkled in the sunlight, nearly leveled you with a smile before sitting you at an umbrella-shaded table near the back.

  “This place is righteous,” said Amare. “Why haven’t we been here like every day?”

  You smoothed your napkin across your lap. “Wait till you try the French toast.”

  Amare leaned back and surveyed the landscape. “Just when I was getting down on this city, you pull this little gem out of your back pocket.”

  “At least you’ve got a car,” said Bill. “I have no idea how I’m getting to work every day. We’ve gotta look for an apartment within walking distance.”

  Amare dug into the pocket of his jeans for his cell phone and kept his eyes on its screen as he said, “You want the car? I’ll sell it to you.”

  “How would you get around?”

  He put the phone away and contemplated the gallery of beautiful faces. “If you pay my outstanding parking tickets, it’s yours.”

  The waitress, clearly an aspiring actress or model in a yellow tank top that exposed the silky brown skin of her shoulders, brought menus and coffee. She glided away, her delicate shoulder blades arcing toward the crescent moon tattoo on the nape of her neck.

  You caught yourself staring. “The women in this place,” you said.

  “The women in this city,” said Bill.

  Amare pushed his menu to the center of the table and sipped his black coffee.

  “You’re not even gonna look?” you said. “There’re some inventive scrambles you might want to check out.”

  “Eggs Benedict is my diner bellwether.”

  “You can’t sell me your car,” said Bill, leaning in, his elbows on the table. “If we move near my work, you’ll need it more than I will.”

  “I’m not sure I’m moving with you,” said Amare. Bill frowned. “I’m broke, dude.”

  Bill leaned forward. “So suck it up and borrow a little more money from your folks. Just enough to hold you over until you find a job.”

  Amare chuckled. “Not a chance.”

  The waitress in the yellow tank top, her geniality and grace conveying a confidence as yet undiminished by smarmy agents and unreturned phone calls, materialized at your table.

  “What can I get for you boys?” she said.

  “Eggs Florentine,” said Amare.

  “Okay.”

  “I thought Benedict was the bellwether,” you said.

  “I decided against it.” He patted his belly. “Trying to drop a couple LBs.”

  A bemused grin tugged at the corners of the waitress’ mouth. Amare sipped his coffee stoically, letting her puzzlement brew. She finished taking your orders and walked away, glancing back at Amare and accidentally bumping into a table, knocking a pepper shaker to the ground.

  “She wanted you to smile at her,” you said.

  “So what?”

  “She’s gorgeous,” said Bill.

  “She’s not interested in me. She wants reassurance is all. I’m not in that business.”

  Bill rubbed his chin and fiddled with his silverware. You kept your mouth shut, fighting the impulse to debate.

  After a short wait, the food arrived and was devoured with a minimum of conversation. Not once in the past month had there been so many pregnant pauses. After the perfunctory Red Sox chatter died down, it was all you could do to not count the number of times Bill and Amare chewed their food before swallowing. At the end of the meal, Bill insisted on picking up the check and you insisted on at least paying the tip. Amare kept quiet, using the toothpick on which an orange slice had been impaled to clean his teeth.

  You left Loretta’s through the back, emerging from its verdant, greenhouse-like patio onto a scorched alleyway. You walked by the loading dock of a massive CVS and a string of grey stucco apartment buildings, your shoes scraping against loose gravel.

  “Your breakfast pass muster?” you said.

  “Pretty damn good,” said Amare.

  You waited for him to elaborate but he didn’t say anything more. You let him be.

  “Those cinnamon swirls in the French toast are ingenious,” said Bill. “You almost need a different name for the dish. It’s too good to be called French toast.”

  “It’s pretty memorable,” you said.

  “I’ve had less memorable blowjobs.”

  “You’re an idiot,” said Amare.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that a blowjob doesn’t have a higher ceiling than French toast. I’m just saying that…”

  A shiny black Mercedes, doing about thirty-five mph down the alley, shot past you, spitting gravel at your shins.

  “What the fuck?!” you yelled.

  “Christ!” said Bill.

  “Good blowjobs promote deep, restful sleep and a healthy optimism,” said Amare, unfazed by the reckless driver. “The best you can hope for after eating French toast is a swift and painless dump.”

  “Who doesn’t enjoy that?” you said.

  “A good dump is a beautiful thing,” said Amare. “But no one’s jeopardizing the presidency of the United States for one.”

  The three of you giggled the rest of the way to the car. When the laughter subsided, you tried to maintain the smile beyond its natural lifespan. You groped for something to say that might keep Amare talking but your mind was blank. All you could do was keep smiling like an asshole.

  Bill rode shotgun. When you’d gone a few blocks, Amare began shifting around in his seat, turning his head this way and that.

  “What’s up?” you said.

  “Something’s making a weird noise.”

  “It’s just my basketball,” you said. “I keep forgetting to take it out of the trunk.”

  Bill caught Amare’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “So, like, just so we’re clear, you’re bailing on me, right?”

  Amare sighed.

  “That’s great,” said Bill. “Beautiful timing.”

  “Man, I’ve got to figure some shit out. In the meantime, it’s not fair to you or Josh for me to keep freeloading.”

  You stopped at a red light, watched the Don’t Walk sign flash its warning at the empty crosswalk. “Do you have to leave LA?”

  “I don’t see what choice I have.”

  “You want to go back to your folks?” said Bill. “To New Jersey?”

  “Look, I love you guys,” said Amare. “But when I’m with you, it’s too easy to avoid reality. I need to inject a little urgency into my days.”

  “And you’re gonna find urgency in Jersey?” said Bill.

  “There’s no avoiding it in my parents’ house.”

  The light changed. You made a left and drove down your street, a contemplative quiet having descended on the car. You pulled up to the curb to let Amare out but he just sat the
re.

  “I’m afraid of what will happen to me if I stay here.”

  “You can’t sit on your ass forever,” you said.

  You and Bill pivoted in your seats. Amare stared out the window.

  “I can’t just get a job with some soul-sucking corporation.”

  “Like me?” said Bill.

  “No offense,” said Amare.

  “‘No offense’ he says.”

  “To tell you the truth, this place scares me. Everything here is centered around the entertainment industry, and I refuse to end up selling my soul to the biggest purveyors of the American myth on the planet.”

  Bill groaned, but instead of getting angry, Amare’s features softened. He smiled, fiddled with his keychain. “Dude, look. I can see it so clearly. I take some bullshit job that I hate just so I can spend my days off in coffee houses, pounding out a screenplay, and I fucking die inside. I’ll be like all the other sad sacks in this town that don’t even know they’re dead, that think that writing a screenplay about the alienation they felt as a teenager makes them vital.”

  “Alien Nation,” mumbled Bill. “Now that was a movie. James Caan at the peak of his powers.”

  Amare opened the door but didn’t step out. He chuckled. “That was a pretty fucking good movie.” A pleasant breeze swept the stifle from the air. For a minute, the three of you sat there in silence, Amare’s words sinking in somewhere deep, nuzzling up against the bone.

  He said, “Last week, I wrote a treatment about a serial-killer studio executive who murders screenwriters in the precise way that the killers the screenwriters invented murdered people. And the worst part is, for a few hours, I felt good about myself. Like I’d done something productive with my day.” He laughed, got out of the car, took a few steps toward the apartment building, stopped, and turned back. “Anyway…have a great first day ripping off yuppies, Bill.”