by Trevor Eve
No handshake was offered by Mr Lorken, and Ever returned his wandering hand to his side.
‘I am so delighted to have had the opportunity of talking to Lomita, if I may be so bold as to call you that?’
Everybody had that reaction to Lomita, the asking of permission to be intimate with her name. At least, Ever remembered having the same experience.
Mr Lorken continued:
‘We were talking about her desire to review some pieces we have housed in our collection.’
Miss Money-Root saved him.
‘John Everett Millen.’
He had obviously completely forgotten the name in the brief time since it had originally hit the air.
‘Of course, yes, and we would be delighted to organise that for you. I will leave all the details to Miss Money-Root.’
He clearly enjoyed saying the name, and Ever wondered if that is how she got the job, it was his work represented by a name. Money is the root.
‘I must take my leave, but as we are near neighbours…’
A conversation missed by Ever, but a question that would have been asked as a way to establish socio-economic status: to get a fix on Lomita.
‘I would also like to extend a dinner invitation, at my house, to you, Lomita. Details will be supplied through the same channel.’
Pointing to his black-suited assistant, a suit that was clinging with perfect tightness, not too much, not too little.
‘I do hope you will accept, and once again, thank you for gracing us with your presence. I look forward to our next meeting, when I will be a little less distracted.’
And with a final,
‘Excuse me.’
With no acknowledgement of the minion – Ever – Mr Lorken took his leave, planting the most delicate of near-miss kisses on Lomita’s right hand, which she had extended in expectation of some regal signing off. My God, she could perform, our Lomita.
‘I will be in touch.’
Miss Money-Root wrapping up, having directed the small stuff to Ever. She too took her leave, again with an understandable excess of attention to Lomita and the minimal requirement of effort directed towards Ever. The way it should be, he thought, as she, in their eyes, and indeed in his, was the money. In more ways than one. Money on the table. Lomita, who was well into her role, handed Ever the phone, having dialled, and asked him to summon Manita. An interesting choice of word, he thought; the phone was ringing by the time he put it to his ear.
Within five minutes they were back on the 10 – this triumvirate – heading back to Oakhurst Drive, with a sense of mission accomplished. Lomita said she was truly exhausted, looked drained and very pale. With some concern, she told Manita that she had forgotten to take her medication before she left. But nevertheless gave her summary of the evening.
‘I liked Mr Lorken, I think, yes I did, very charming, and Basquiat was not a well man, although his spirit fired out of his work and had he been helped, I suppose, we wouldn’t have witnessed that manic genius. Although do all artists operate, or rather create, in an altered state? I always hesitate to use that word, genius, and so I retract it. But he was close. Wasn’t he?’
Lomita was indeed very weak, helping her out of the car to her bedroom was more effort than normal. In the event, Ever took her all the way into the bedroom, not stopping at the door.
‘Don’t worry, my sweet, Manita will put me to bed. I feel that was all a little much, but I had the most wonderful time. Tell me about your escapades in the morning.’
A pause. Lomita held his look.
‘Did you think I was unaware? Would I be that naive?’
He smiled.
‘But may I suggest you take a diazepam and calm yourself.’
That had been her first reference to his dramatic exit; he was relieved he didn’t have to go into it now.
*
It was a pill and the shopping channel for him.
And maybe if he felt together enough, a call to Clarissa.
He didn’t feel together enough, realised he had eaten nothing, and what he did have in his stomach was now in a gutter downtown. He went into the kitchen, made some toast and a cup of tea, but could find no marmalade, so just settled for hot toast and melted butter, and a cup of tea. Comfort food at its finest.
He took it back to his room and devoured it while watching a woman having her hair curled with a brush that heated and had an option to blow hot air at the same time. He had the sound down but enjoyed the company of inanity as opposed to insanity. He wondered why there was only one letter difference in the two polar opposite words. That must have caused some errors in the past with the slip of a finger.
This man is inane.
Would let you off the hook far better than the pronouncement –
This man is insane.
Big difference. A life could be changed by that. And with that thought, inanely rolling around his insanely fuzzing brain, he drifted for a couple of hours into the sleep of the fortunate.
Dreamless.
He woke, two hours later, and watched the shopping channel with the joy of brain removed from thought.
A lipstick that stayed on through whatever you did to it, then a tray of sparkling gems was rotating under the bright studio lights to make them twinkle.
Twinkle, twinkle little star how I love you what you are. No, those aren’t the right words. He couldn’t remember and turned off the television.
The remote felt uncomfortable in his hand, he had pressed the off button with an incorrect feeling that remained in his fingers. He switched it back on in an attempt to get the right feeling and turned it off again, keeping a hold on the button, hoping the feeling would change and result in a comforting feeling that would enable him to release, but he couldn’t feel the comfort and his finger squirmed on the remote; he started to sweat and forced the button down to turn it off. The feeling crawled through his body, spurring a growing mental discomfort.
He switched it back on and there was a relief as the television shone its colour, then the desire to turn it off and be left with the correct feelings returned. He was nervous that his finger, a different finger this time, would leave him with satisfaction; he pressed and maintained a pressure on the button, waiting for the permission that he would grant himself, that he hoped would come, so he could remove his finger. It didn’t come, he was rolling now on the bed, fired with heat and a panic that he would never be able to release the button and gain the satisfaction required for him not to turn it on again. Then the thought that if the correct feeling didn’t happen, a terrible thing would happen to who? To whom? He was confused as he resisted the mind-squeeze that pressured him – to Jacob. Get it right. Please. He pressed it off and on again, and off and on again, each time holding the finger to relieve the curse that had now transferred to Clarissa, then after seventeen attempts, odd number is good, he took his finger off the button, and waited, until the compulsion to do it again had been satisfied. It wasn’t, then it was, after twenty-seven times.
Twenty-seven times, then, with the relief of a faint, he experienced the correct feeling in his finger. Nothing bad was going to happen to anyone, he was OK, Jacob was going to be OK, Clarissa was going to be OK, the television was off, all was right in the world.
He was wet and his sheet, as he threw it off himself, was clinging and showed dark over his body. That was an obsessive-compulsive act, and he hadn’t had them since they medicated him in the institution, but now they were back. It was all coming back.
God, to God he prayed getting out of bed, like a seven-year-old, kneeling and praying for the safety of those he loved, and for the preservation of his brain. He was praying to God to keep him sane long enough to commit an act of insanity. A murder. Did God know? Ever swore he wouldn’t tell him. And craved for half a bottle of tequila to be downed in one effective and all-consuming effort.
Ever didn’t have that long now, the ball was starting to roll; the hill was getting increasingly steep.
Chapter Twenty
-four
The dawning day would bring the meeting with Bruce Wong.
A car he didn’t care anything for, so long as it could go forward when engaged in a gear. He wasn’t fussy about which gear. The first trip was to La Cienega. A trip he had taken for granted, but Lomita was not really prepared for his departure anywhere. She stated clearly that he was not fit. Could she tell? Could she sense that there had been a further collapse in the night? Paranoia and an inability had descended on him, he seemed to have forgotten how to act to show that he was normal, fit for purpose. He was behaving awkwardly, was he? He had no idea. How do you behave, when you are telling someone that you are going to return your rental car? Negotiation, you negotiate, you convince, you do normal things like say—
‘Oh, I would love a cup of coffee.’
Which he said, not wanting one.
‘I’ll pick one up from—’
Not completing the sentence as he couldn’t think of a coffee place; Starbucks wasn’t exactly a memory tester, really. Trust, he had to build trust.
‘I’ll be fine, back in a couple of hours.’
Not even beginning to explain the piece of crap that he would be returning with, that was going to be parked on her elegant driveway. No, it could go in the garage. It was a four-car garage. No problem. Straight in there, really.
He hadn’t got back to sleep since his remote episode and felt nervous at touching or leaving or inhabiting any space, or light switching, or door closing, or any action that might involve the cold creeping horror of repetition. It was in this state that he felt the respectful need to convince Lomita that he was safe to go and purchase this car on his own and return his Discovery to Sixt on La Cienega. It was a matter of economising.
She was not convinced he was in any state to do anything, sensing the edge that a lack of sleep gives to a person. She could tell, God, she could tell. That feeling of alienation, of not being in the game. Not playing. Being inanely insane.
Manita was to accompany him.
‘I really don’t want to put Manita through this – it’ll just be boring.’
‘Then company will relieve the boredom.’
This was a really bad idea. For all the reasons that anybody could immediately think of.
Including Ever, who was way ahead on these reasons, also realising he had to take a trip to the ATM; in his head he started to panic again; the not getting his own way; the knowing it was wrong but not wanting to be told he was wrong.
He was getting a little cross. Like a child, not being allowed out to play. They had a disagreement, he kept it polite, he promised, vowed that he would be fine. It would take him two hours and he would be back, she had his number, he had his phone, they were connected. He was, inside himself, so grateful and full of a soft emotion, that she cared.
She cared more than he did, he was just compulsed, on a railway line, stuck with a magnetic force that wouldn’t let him off, but that was starting to eat him from the inside. It didn’t like him being stuck, his psyche, it was giving him things that were breaking down his confidence, his control over his obsessive compulsion. He was being devoured. That way, maybe he could, without knowing it himself, be released. He was being split from the inside. And it was beginning to hurt.
He left anyway, with Lomita pleading the opposite, though with no bad feeling. He started the engine on his Discovery and couldn’t let go of the key. Three times he went through the process of turning it on and off, until it felt right.
Inside.
What was Mr Wong going to think?
The car was deposited at the rental company with the minimum of fuss, which involved a routine check for damage. He never understood this process, as he was fully insured. The check revealed nothing that he could be accused of, be hauled before the rental company and put on trial for unintentional, or was it wilful damage, to the vehicle. But the smell of vomit, lingering, caused a glance, disturbed, from the inspecting man.
What can you say about vomit?
‘A friend’s dog,’
Mumbled Ever, following the inspecting man round the car.
Had that helped?
It’s not damage – fact – an act of life, a natural event. An act of God. He always felt he was in the wrong.
Wherever.
Whatever.
He was on his cell, ordering a cab from the Beverly Hills Cab Company to take him to Chinatown; on completion of the call Clarissa’s name was illuminating the screen. The ringing barely had a chance to tone itself before he had pressed the button to accept, resisting, with an agony, the urge to cancel the call.
Had his dealing with the remote last night caused a problem? To Jacob?
He spurted.
‘Everything is all right isn’t it?’
It came out with such an urgency that it surprised Clarissa.
‘And with you?’
‘Yes fine.’
Was his reply. Not definitive.
‘Why are you still there? What are you doing?’
‘I’ll be back soon.’
He lied.
‘I want you to come back, it’s all shit. I’m an idiot, I’m sorry Ever. I don’t know what I want. Sorry, I’ve had a few drinks. Jacob’s good. He’s asleep.’
‘Does he ask after me?’
Weedy thought, Ever.
‘Yes, he does, of course he does, he knows fuck all, he misses you, you are his father for fuck’s sake, nothing is going to change that, in his head, it’s in his head, at least not until he’s older and he can understand and asks and we will explain. Won’t we? Will we? Ever?’
What was in Jacob’s head was Jacob’s truth. The facts didn’t change that because he didn’t know. Jacob didn’t know. Ever’s father didn’t know. Ever was lost.
‘Hello, Ever, can you hear me? Hello?’
He found himself.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you hear what I said about the father thing?’
Why did she have to continue with that thought, and why couldn’t she have just left it without it having the explaining problem attached? That had now presented another situation, another issue to be addressed.
‘Yes.’
Was all he could summon.
‘We’ll just explain one day, won’t we?’
‘But yes, yes of course.’
He didn’t know why he began those words with a But.
But the cab was arriving.
‘Hang on, I’m just getting into a cab… I’m going to Bunker Hill Avenue, Chinatown.’
He said addressing the driver. Clarissa shouted.
‘Why the fuck are you going there? Bit early for spare bibs.’
‘You mean ribs?’
She laughed, he liked to hear her laugh. He liked people laughing.
‘Too much kid stuff. Kid stuff all the time.’
‘I’m going to meet someone to do with my father’s will. I still have things to wrap up, you know, I’m not just pissing around.’
That wasn’t all a lie.
‘Love you both, and miss you, I’ll be back in about a week.’
That was a lie. Though not all of it.
‘I’ll let you know what I’m doing.’
That was also a lie.
‘Are you OK?’
He wanted to pass the focus over.
‘Yes, but I am just a fucking mess Ever. My life just feels a mess. I’m sorry to call. I’m drunk and I’m an idiot and I should never have done… one day you will understand.’
‘I do understand, already I do. I know why you did what you did.’
His hand was rubbing his thigh back and forth in a pattern that he had to keep up till the phone call ended. He tried to end it.
‘I’ll call tomorrow. I do try, you know, and you don’t pick up.’
‘Sometimes I turn my phone off, I just can’t face shit. Not all the time, I am in a different space than I was, you know, where I was.’
He was not concentrating now. Only on his leg.
‘I love you babes.’
Oh fuck, don’t call me that. Did he say that or think it?
He could hear the noise of liquid falling down her throat, swallowed in large intakes, large breaths in between, she was giving it some.
‘Got to go. Nearly there.’
‘Love you babes.’
He obviously hadn’t said it.
‘Love you too.’
He didn’t think that was a lie.
‘Kiss to Jacob.’
‘Kiss to you. Big fucking kiss, I want that. Can you talk to me Ever?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You know, make me come.’
‘I’m in a taxi.’
‘Please.’
‘I can’t.’
‘I’m doing it anyway, I’m going to come.’
‘Got to go.’
He could hear her breathing and he knew what was about to happen.
His leg could now stop being rubbed; he turned off the phone with one hand and exhaled a breath of relief that she was still with him, Jacob was all right, and that he could stop rubbing his leg. Knowing she would still be rubbing herself; well probably just about coming to a stop.
‘Which number, you want?’
‘It’s at the cross with Cesar Chavez Avenue, 1402. Building on the corner.’
‘Where you from?’
‘Originally here, then the UK.’
Here we go again.
‘And where’s the trouble coming from?’
‘The what?’
‘On the other end of the phone, forgive me asking, just messing with you.’
‘Yeah, a lot of people do that. That’s my wife. She’s OK, just misses me.’
‘Yeah, right, and they always have a funny way of showing it.’
The journey then continued in silence, filled for Ever with a visual image of Clarissa. Step by step. And then a little post-masturbatory doze.
‘This good for you, my friend?’
Back to it.
‘Yeah that’s good.’
‘That’s going to cost you the best part of fifty-five bucks.’
‘OK, that’s…’
Before Ever could continue.
‘That’s a thirty-minute ride. That, per hour, is not a big rate. I’m not totally unskilled labour, you know, I’m responsible for your life, for those minutes, my friend.’