Lomita For Ever

by Trevor Eve

  He cleaned as much as he could off the car, most of it had been deposited on his lap, and as quick as each retch allowed him he ran into the apartment, started the stream from the shower and got in, clothes and all.

  What is it about him that brings out the worst in people?

  When he has good intentions in the first place?

  If you can call stopping for a blow job being a good intention. He wasn’t really going to do it, it was just out of interest, come on, no punishment now, no guilt. Please. His brain persisted in its independence. Everything he deals with goes to bad. It wasn’t a bad idea to get a blow job. But then vomit. Christ.

  Clarissa, Jacob, his father, his mother, Lomita. A hooker. Even with a hooker, he drew a negative outcome in her life. Ever, come on. Did he produce the positive anywhere? He stripped off in the shower, trampling his clothes on the tiles. And decided to bag them in the morning to take them straight to the cleaners. He took a comforting pharmaceutical aid. The introduction of the Z family to the wine and diazepam seemed to do the trick.

  Better than the trick that had just been turned.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The next day found him driving early to the Lorken gallery again.

  Having dropped off his clothes at Holloway cleaners, to spend, he decided, as much time as it took, just sitting outside in his car, waiting for the man. He could smell the stale vomit in the air, windows down and disinfectant sprayed on the seats, hers and his, to cover the splatter. But still – could he smell that smell? Breathe in. Yes it was there, was it less now? Now though surely, another breath, less, was it, no, still there? Well, now his imagination was engaged and so he could just be summoning up the smell. Now he would never know. Once that kicked in.

  He presumed, or was it assumed, no there was evidence, that this man would make some kind of an appearance at some point in the day.

  That was his determined, main occupation of the day. But his preoccupation was, should he ask Lomita? And how could he ask Lomita to the private view of the Basquiat exhibition?

  Ever was truly appreciative, well, a fan, of Jean-Michel Basquiat’s work. Philistines being one of his favourites, and Fishing had to be up there, looking like it was stripped of all goodness and raw to the world. Took him to his cheese-grater experiences. His skin scraped raw, all nerve ends exposed; the vulnerable pain in mental collapse.

  The exhibition promised to be the largest collection of his works gathered in one gallery in the last twenty years, with all the celebrity collectors donating to the exhibition. It should be, at least, an event.

  Ever had always felt he understood the substance of what went into Basquiat’s work. It represented a mania and disturbance of the norm that he empathised with, also Basquiat had a mother who spent a lot of time in mental institutions, obvious really. Heroin was not a shared experience though, Ever thought, but that’s a detail. An act away.

  It was all in Ever’s head, in his own imagination, the connection, but that is what it all is in life anyway. Isn’t it? Yes, for sure. Perception, how you perceive things, from whichever stance you want, or decide to take. Basquiat was all done by the time he was twenty-seven, another member of the 27 Club.

  Ever paused deep, deep down inside.

  Twenty-seven. Jesus Christ. Twenty-seven. His father was a twenty-seven. A member of the club in his own way. Unique version. All, all of them twenty-seven.

  27 27 27.

  Stop saying. Stop seeing. Breathe. All he could see inked on the retina focused by the cornea was twenty-seven. The number twenty-seven.

  His hand smacked his face, stinging his cheek. He focused on the sting.

  It fuzzed the image, it brought him back out of his mind’s eye.

  It was Basquiat’s talent, of course, yes, he wanted to see what he had never seen before, the majority of his catalogue in one place, live in the painted flesh. It was not a disingenuous whimsy.

  This made him compare and reflect on his father’s work; it worried him.

  That maybe after all the agony, the taking on of the pain, that his father was not a crippled and halted genius. Maybe he just wasn’t a genius. Ever couldn’t bear the weight of that. Ever had always felt that he himself amounted to very little, that his father had become the giant, the adored one in his life, the idolised one. He had wished as he was growing up that he had his father’s reckless abandonment and, well, just that lightbulb illumination quality.

  He didn’t know if he would be accompanied to the Basquiat by his meal ticket, and yes, he was now clear and honest to himself about the use of Lomita, as that’s what she was. His ticket. And she knew. What a silly man, that was the right word, silly, a small and insignificant description of something, what a silly man to think that his whatever, his appeal, could cajole someone into doing what he wanted. What he wanted for his own ends without anything in it for her. Horrible arrogance. He felt a bad person, something he never considered himself to be. Driven by neurotic compulsions, yes, but not intentionally bad. But maybe he should come out of the insane closet and admit what his intentions really were.

  Dammit, but he did like the woman and that in itself had a degree of abnormality about it. Did it, though?

  I mean is that wrong?

  Is it taking advantage?

  Is it cruel?

  *

  At that moment, what Ever recognised as a Rolls-Royce Dawn Drophead coupé pulled up, with the top down.

  A majestic swoosh of a car. In electric blue, not the colour he would have chosen, with a pale tan upholstery, but in whatever specification, it was a beautiful car. But shouldn’t the car be allowed to do the work, not the colour? You don’t need both, unless you do, and that in itself is worrying. A dream on four wheels, the maximum that can be achieved out of a 120-year-old concept: the motor car.

  It was him. Short, well shortish, with dark, dyed hair and a suit and shirt in a more sombre tone of grey, at least not competing with the car, covered his fattening frame, as he valet-parked with an obsequiousness from the attendants giving away his importance.

  He was walking into a building that bore his name.

  What must that feel like, Ever wondered, to have that money, that power, that control over your life, with no one to tell you there was nothing you couldn’t do, and still get such a bad hair dye job?

  It was all going to stop for Mr Lorken though. It gave Ever a feeling of power greater than Mr Lorken could ever feel, it disturbed him in a way that made him realise his wish was from a head space that had mixed itself into a distorted mode. He felt in the second, and it only lasted for that second, that he needed help, and then, worryingly, it was gone. Which is the true sign of madness, really being able to deny its existence and justifying the extremity of one’s actions without the concept or awareness of a conscience.

  His mind scanned to Lomita. He thought of her remark about revenge, his good soul clicked in for that split atom second and he wanted to talk to her, ask her what she meant. Advice, that was a positive sign, and maybe a way back. A way back into her life.

  An excuse at least, to see her again.

  He got out of his car, having been the second in line to valet, after the electricity of blue had rendered all else into insignificance, and followed Mr Lorken into the gallery. When he walked in, the man was nowhere to be seen. Had he gone into an office? A private escape. But then a glimpse of the grey passed by the entrance to where men were working, painting the walls of an empty space. Preparation, he presumed, for Jean-Michel Basquiat. He deserved a fresh coat of paint. He had come to discuss the hanging of the paintings, that would be his function in the process, that would be his control over the event. It would all, of course, be decided by him. Everything was, of course. Who lived. Who died. He was God. He was Ingmar Lorken.

  Would he be, soon, an historical figure, confined to the history books of great benefactors perpetuating the belief that it was all done for the greater good of the world. So that the world could share.

  Eg
omania, thought Ever, pure ego-fucking-mania.

  The security guards, two of them, crossed the area in an informal march at the entrance to the space that housed the one they perceived to be the great man. They would obviously prevent any communication between Ever and Mr Lorken. However it was not their intervention that presented the obstacle, as Ever’s phone rang, a rare event in itself.

  *

  It was Clarissa.

  It was a time when Jacob would be asleep and he answered the call, dismissing his instinct, which was to not.

  ‘Hello.’

  They both said, at the same time, a time delay and a sort of distort corrupted the purity of what should be simple, having put men on the moon nearly fifty years ago.

  ‘How’s Jacob? Is everything all right? Where are you? Are you at home, or where?’

  ‘I am at home, Ever.’

  She stated with a formality, the obvious suggestion in her voice being that any alternative accommodation had now proved unsatisfactory.

  ‘I am at our home. I assume that is all right with you.’

  ‘Fine, of course. Fine.’

  What else was he going to say?

  ‘When are you back? I thought you would be back soon. Jacob misses you. He still calls you Dada. He doesn’t understand anything else. You are his father in his mind, Ever, and the other guy—’

  She didn’t bring herself to the point of name.

  ‘He doesn’t really seem to be too bothered either way.’

  Clarissa was Jewish, hence the name Jacob. Culturally, not in any religiously orthodox way. But it was still a conscious, constant awareness of custom and certain holidays that were observed. Ever liked that, he felt his wishy-washy, non-committal, I-suppose-I-am-Church-of-England religious, if you could even call it that, commitment was a little sad and certainly ineffectual. So he welcomed a commitment to something, and Judaism didn’t seem half bad. His grandfather’s wife had been Jewish, so, in his head, it carried the continuity of skipped generations.

  ‘I miss him too, and you.’

  He said the latter as an afterthought, which she seemed to pick up, judging by her lack of response.

  ‘Well, when are you coming home? And what are we going to do when you do? You have to be back in what, just over two weeks?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He replied vaguely, as a return, at this point, seemed remote and so incredibly distant.

  ‘About that. I guess I’ll come home, and well, see how we go. Is that what you want?’

  ‘Well, you are responsible for Jacob.’

  ‘Wait.’

  He said, a spontaneous and instantly regretted interjection.

  ‘Am I? Am I really? After all you said, in fact, and the, and the—’

  It was difficult to form into a word. But he did.

  ‘Betrayal.’

  ‘I didn’t call you to go into all that on the phone. I just wanted to see how you are doing and whether we have any kind of future, you know, plan. It’s not unreasonable to ask. I have responsibilities too, we both do.’

  ‘Do I? I thought you removed those responsibilities from my life. That seemed to be your intention at least.’

  ‘I’m going now, Ever.’

  That was so typical of Clarissa, at the point of actually talking about some serious shit, she would pull out. Discussion, calm discussion, was not for her. Emotional argument was her thing.

  ‘I miss you OK, that’s it, let me know what you’re doing.’

  ‘OK.’

  And then after a long 6,000-mile pause, that seemed to travel every mile, Clarissa said, without much enthusiasm,

  ‘I guess I love you, Ever.’

  ‘OK.’

  He said.

  And the phone call ended with the words.

  ‘Give my love to Jacob.’

  He wasn’t sure if she caught them or not.

  He retired the phone to the inside pocket of his jacket, aware that the radio waves, even though a form of non-ionising radiation, might be causing his heart a problem. He stood and thought, I have a child, why in God’s name isn’t he truly mine? Then thought again, about its magnitude in this, his endless chain of emotion.

  And then thought again that maybe he was thinking too much.

  Again.

  *

  No sign now of Mr Lorken.

  Should he go and see Miss Money-Root? But then he had no information to give her.

  He sauntered to the door, not something he did very often – saunter – and was passed, thinking about Jacob, by a well-built man, carrying a bit of extra. He realised the truth of his size as he saw him closer – he wasn’t so short – pulling out a ticket, about to collect his car from the valet.

  Ever followed fast, desperately searching his pockets for his ticket; in the panic, of course, he couldn’t find it.

  A twenty-dollar bill was flashed as the Rolls, which had not been moved anywhere, was opened and the keys were handed to Mr Lorken.

  How long would it take them to pull his own car from the bowels of wherever the hell they had taken it? He gave the valet the found and crumpled ticket and a ten-dollar bill, but didn’t want to lose Mr Lorken. He wanted to track him.

  He dropped his phone under the swish of blue, or at least pretended to. He addressed the driver of the Rolls who had just fired the engine into purr mode.

  ‘Can you hold on a second, sir. I’ve just – it’s my phone – under your wheel.’

  Ever instinctively adopted his American-accented voice. The one he had developed when he stayed with his father and wanted to blend in, until he realised the power of the English accent with Californian girls. In this instant he felt achievement and pride in his new persona; in the next second, he felt Australian.

  ‘Not a problem. Not a problem.’

  These were the first words he had heard this man utter. What prophetically wrong words they were because he was everything that was the problem.

  ‘Nice car to have your phone crushed by though.’

  Came the limp reply from Ever, still holding his head facing the gutter. Another moment of sleuthing pride – the unseen face. He had made contact with his target, it was a weird and damaging feeling. Somehow the man now had a personality, was a reality to him and not just a figure of hatred and bitter resentment. He was now actually a person who he bitterly hated and resented.

  ‘Thank you for waiting.’

  Ever said, as he fluked the phone into his hand. Turning away and with his back to the car he lobbed across a nonchalant—

  ‘Enjoy.’

  And with that, the effortless movement of three tons eased itself from the roadside; just as Ever’s car pulled up and the keys were handed to him, dangling with a disdain between finger and thumb. The smell hit thick – windows down. He could follow his man.

  Out of downtown, the journey went onto the 10 and the Rolls turned off at La Cienega.

  Was he going home?

  Ever hoped. In the crawl that had been the freeway he had no difficulty in following this car: It stood out clearly and it was indeed a pleasure to watch its movement scoop up the road in almost silent procession.

  The destination was appearing to be Beverly Hills. Ever was not carrying his gun, the Glock 17, the end to the anguish of his father’s life that lived in Ever even after his father’s death. It all seemed so easy in these moments when his soul had left him.

  Kill the cunt.

  That was all his mind could construct. And what was wrong with that? Nothing, Ever, he told himself. Nothing. The smell of sick sank into the back of his nose and seemed appropriate.

  La Cienega took him left on Burton Way and onto Little Santa Monica, a right up Crescent, two four-way stops, one at Carmelita, the other on Elevado: was he nearly a neighbour of Lomita’s?

  He then crossed Sunset to the north and headed for North Crescent Drive.

  Gates opened as Ever stayed way back, concerned at the possible awareness and paranoia that a man of such wealth might have of
being followed, although he had never been directly behind, always keeping cars between them and moving lanes on the freeway. But now he stopped. Pulled up, engine off, just able on the curve of the road, to see the massive gates open, as the electric blue car Rollered its way inside to the cool, Ever imagined, of a large probably temperature controlled garage, and a rest.

  Ever did not feel good.

  He must have sat in his car for what seemed an hour. Oblivious to the street cleaners and the passing cars.

  He’d grown accustomed to the smell.

  It had started, he was going.

  And it was not in a good direction.

  *

  Ever returned to Havenhurst.

  He could sense the hyper anxiety crawling over his body, his nerve endings were raw, the cheese grater had been taken to his skin, exposed all the nerves to the cold whisper of air that hit them and caused pain, an anxious pain that could only get worse. There was never any thought that recovery might happen, only the consuming knowledge that it was going to get worse, cause more vulnerability and fear. Hope of any outcome that would help, that might be positive, just went into the ether, into the rising air, leaving him in the lower gloom where the air had no sustenance, where breathing didn’t really work, it didn’t refresh, it didn’t nurture, it merely allowed the lungs to take in a supply that stopped you dying. Although many times Ever had tried to hold his breath, to stop the process of breathing, hold his breath until – always the word until – as it carried a future. Filled with a misery and a depression that he could feel building from the roots that his feet took comfort from in the ground, he knew he was in trouble. Knew he was in for a bad time, knew that he needed help, he was taken over by the bad thoughts and wanted just to bury his head in shame, to protect himself from his mind, his actions and not go through what he felt was inevitable.

  Twenty-seven.

  He wanted to be medicated, he wanted to be put somewhere where he could become useless, and not have destruction in his head. He wanted it all, and it would go to black and blank. He wanted to sit in a chair and stare, and do nothing. Not eat, not sleep, just do nothing, because he would have no choice to do anything, it all left him, oozing out of his body, his hope, his feelings of love, of being loved, of wanting to see people, of wanting to hear noise, he wanted done with it, he wanted it all to stop, but he knew and it brought him great sadness that he didn’t have the courage to make it all stop. His energy had gone, he was weak, his brain had no focus, his name was slipping from his mind, his feelings were going from his body, he didn’t want to be clean, he wanted to smell, he wanted nothing good that life might have had to offer because it wasn’t for him. Life wasn’t for him, it was for all the other people who knew how to live it, who knew how to construct it, who had normal responses to situations, to people, people who understood what you were meant to do, who had reaction to conversation, to humour, that wanted food, that wanted to live. He didn’t, he had closed down and he sat in the chair and managed all he could manage. He managed to urinate, to urinate in the toilet, and that was an achievement, and close the curtains and turn the day into night. The night and day had no difference, there was no need for light, it did nothing, he was dark and his eyes couldn’t recognise light, and his mind couldn’t feel light, he was heavy and it had all gone. That is what it feels like, that is where he would be now until, until, who knows, until the until happens, and that you would never know until it did. Ever sat and sat and sat. And that was that.