Exit Here.

by Jason Myers

  Pause.

  “I don’t fucking get it,” she says.

  Don’t you think you can right your wrongs, Laura? That you can make things better by trying to get back to everything you lost?

  “How many chances do you want, Travis?”

  One more.

  I try to pull her into me and kiss her, but she holds me off.

  “I can’t kiss you, Travis. Bryan’s right inside.”

  Fuck him.

  “No, fuck you. Just leave,” she tells me. “Please fucking leave.”

  She storms back into her house and I turn around, facing the city. From where I am, I can see all the way past downtown, up into the hills where I live.

  But staring at all of this, especially the downtown area with my father’s fingerprints all over it, makes me feel completely on edge, and I squeeze my eyes shut, closing out the neon glow of the city, and I just stand there and listen to the faint sounds of the honking horns and the helicopters. And when I open my eyes again, I walk back to my car and drive home and smoke the joint that Cliff gave me and fall asleep watching Stand by Me.

  8.

  I’M STANDING ON THE EDGE of a diving board, overlooking an empty swimming pool, and there’s nothing else around me except for a few pieces of trash and chairs.

  How I came to be here, I have no idea, as I stare into the skyline, this sort of half night of nothing, and I can hear this song.

  Where it’s coming from, I don’t know. But this song is so faint that I can’t really make it out—it’s just this soft, sad, tune that has me really nervous.

  And then I hear my name and turn around.

  There, at the other end of this board, stands this girl, but I can’t see her face at all as the song becomes louder—

  Quickly.

  And the sky becomes darker—

  Quickly.

  And then this girl, she begins to move along the board, coming straight at me, but I can’t do anything. I can’t move. I’m so scared. There’s pee running down my legs.

  And then this girl stops in front of me and the music goes dead.

  A hand reaches for me and cuffs my wrist—

  I’m in a bathtub, soaking in blood, and I can’t see anything because of these bright lights shining right in my eyes, but I can hear these two voices whispering.

  A door shuts. There’re footsteps. The voices stop. And then a hand starts pushing my head underneath the blood, and I can’t stop it.

  My arms are tied together.

  My feet are tied together.

  And I can’t stop it—

  I’m back on the diving board again and I can see this girl’s face now.

  The blood.

  It’s running from her eyes, her nose, her mouth, and this girl, she’s crying blood, and she reaches for me again, and she says, “Jump,” then pushes me off the board.

  And then I’m falling. . . .

  • • •

  And this is when I wake up, shaking, sweating, sometimes even covered in piss, always thinking about the girl in the dream, Autumn Hayes, and the night I met her in Hawaii, the only time I would ever know her, except for now, in these strange dead mornings.

  This is my dream.

  Travis Wayne

  9.

  I MEET MY FATHER FOR lunch at a small italian restaurant near his office building. Two and a half weeks have gone by since I’ve been back, and this is only the third time I’ve seen him.

  Wearing a white Ralph Lauren suit and a dark blue tie, my father fingers his silverware while I look around the restaurant. I notice this cute girl with blond hair and braids, sitting across from this blond guy I think I used to go to grade school with. She’s staring at me and I look away quickly because I know she’s the girl that got trained by like twenty dudes at some house party I was at like two summers ago.

  Looking back at my father, his black hair parted firmly to the right, he sets his knife down, folds his hands together, and says, “So, what would you do if you were me, Travis?”

  What are you talking about?

  “I’m talking about your complete lack of motivation. Your seemingly complete and utter disregard for your mother’s and my wishes, and your complete unwillingness to do things the right way.”

  You mean your way?

  “Well, look at me,” he says. “I would say I’ve led a pretty damn successful life up to this point.”

  Pause.

  “Except for the fact that my son doesn’t seem willing to even try to do anything important.”

  I look away from my father and down at my sweaty hands.

  My father continues. “I mean, I don’t know where it all went wrong. You’ve embarrassed the shit out of me with your failure in Arizona, something that seems to be common knowledge to a whole lot of people. And since you’ve been home, what have you turned around? What have you done besides get trashed with your loser friends?”

  They’re not losers.

  My father grunts. “Let’s be real, Travis.”

  Not all of them, Dad.

  “Well, regardless, son,” he says, picking up his glass of ice water. “My point is you haven’t done anything. I paid for your trip to Hawaii and you got back and flunked out of school. You dropped from a 3.0 to a nothing—to a big black X mark.”

  I just need some time.

  “Time,” he sneers, practically spitting out the drink he just took. “For chrissakes, you’ve had nothing but time your whole life.”

  I know. I know.

  I look up from my hands.

  I just need some more. I promise I’ll figure something out.

  “What about USC?” he asks.

  What about it?

  “Have you given it any more thought?”

  No.

  “Because I can pull some strings and get you in there with no problems. You’d be third generation.”

  I know.

  Pause.

  I lower my head so our eyes can’t meet, and I tell him that I don’t think I want to go there. I tell him that I didn’t like it when we visited.

  “Probably not enough losers going there for your taste.”

  Dad.

  “Well, regardless,” he says. “If you don’t wanna go to USC . . . fine with me. But you will be in school, and you will be productive with your life, son, and you will not embarrass me anymore. Got it?”

  I nod.

  My father looks at his watch and shakes his head. “I canceled a very important meeting today because I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

  How do you mean?

  “I mean this lunch has already turned out to be a complete waste of my—”

  My father gets interrupted by his own cell phone. He stops talking and digs the phone from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and answers it.

  This is your life, I mumble under my breath.

  But my father doesn’t hear this because he’s still on his phone rescheduling the meeting he canceled.

  • • •

  Around two in the afternoon, I go to the Victoria Theater, this movie theater that’s been around since the thirties. They’re showing the David Lynch movie Wild at Heart on the big screen.

  When the movie’s over, and I’m walking back into the glaring sun and thick, sticky air, this older lady with gray hair hands me a yellow flyer that says “Help Save the Victoria Theater from Being Destroyed.”

  According to the little piece of paper in my hands, the city council is considering selling the building along with a handful of other sort of landmark buildings and parks across the city to make some money and help slow their bleeding budget.

  I light a cigarette, and as soon as I turn the corner, I crumple the flyer into a ball and toss it into the first trash can I see and decide to make a surprise visit to Claire’s.

  Pulling up on Morgan Street, the Blood on the Walls CD Awesomer absolutely blaring, I slip into a parking spot near the corner of Kennedy Street and walk up to where the Vietnamese restaurant
is and ring the buzzer.

  A female voice answers.

  Is Claire in?

  “Who wants to fucking know?”

  Um, Travis Wayne.

  “Holy shit! It’s me, dude—Claire! Fuck yeah! Come up!”

  I get buzzed in and jog up a set of wooden stairs. The only door at the top is ajar. I push it open even farther and then Claire jumps out of nowhere, startling the hell out of me. She’s holding a cap gun in her hand, wearing a pink bikini top, a pair of pink and white underwear, and has a leather holster strapped around her waist.

  “Freeze, sucka,” she smiles, pointing the red tip of the plastic weapon at me.

  I throw my hands above my head playfully.

  “Gotcha, man,” she says, then shoves the gun into her holster and hugs me. “You finally made it over. You didn’t flake. Twice in a row you didn’t flake. Who is this guy?”

  Who is this guy? The words slam around my head for an uncomfortably long time.

  “Well, get your ass in here and check my shit out now.” Claire pulls me into her place.

  There are three other girls inside. Two of them are wearing the same style of underwear and top as Claire, and the other one, this black girl with a purple mohawk, is wearing a beater top and a pair of black running shorts.

  “So this is it,” Claire says, spreading her arms.

  It’s a huge space with high ceilings and hardwood floors. A bunch of paintings and framed photos align the walls and a ton of old VICE and Mojo magazines lie scattered around the living room floor and furniture. There are like two bedrooms and a spare room and a bathroom and kitchen.

  I like it, Claire.

  “I’m glad,” she says. Then, “Hey, Skylar.”

  The black girl looks up from the chair she’s sitting on. “What’s up?”

  “This is Travis,” Claire says. “He’s my friend who’s back from Arizona.”

  “Oh, cool,” Skylar grins, standing up. We shake hands, and she says, “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Nice to meet you too. You’re the roommate?

  “Yeah,” says Skylar.

  Claire points to the other two girls. “This is Tara,” she says, waving a finger at the blond one with two half sleeves. “And this is Brianne.” Claire points to the other girl, who has dark brown hair and no visible tattoos.

  Claire says, “We’re modeling for Skylar right now.”

  What for?

  “She’s a clothing designer and her online store is getting launched in like two months and she wants us to try everything on to make sure the shit looks right.”

  It looks great.

  “Thanks,” Skylar says.

  One of the other girls, Brianne, walks over to the CD player sitting on top of the entertainment center and slides some new CDs into it and hits play.

  The newest Cage album starts bumping though the speakers and Claire hooks an arm through mine and pulls me into the kitchen.

  On the large oak table, there are all these photo spreads of Claire. Claire in lingerie. Claire in ripped stockings and stilettos. Claire in a bathing suit with two studded belts crisscrossing one another around her thighs.

  What are all these for?

  “Just some preliminary shots for Sklyar’s website,” she says.

  At the far end of the table sits the Guns N’ Roses complete photographic history book with lines of coke already cut, sitting on the book’s cover.

  You blowing rails already?

  “I haven’t yet,” Claire smiles, walking to the other side of the table. “But I’m working at the Inferno in like an hour and was gonna hit a couple before I spilt.”

  Pause.

  “You’re welcome to help yourself, dude.”

  Nah.

  “I’m really glad you dropped by,” she says.

  Me too.

  “You just feel better to be around now.”

  I light a smoke and decide not to ask her what that means.

  Are you gonna go to the Pretty Vicious show tomorrow night at the Breaking Point?

  “Oh fuck,” Claire says. “That’s tomorrow night? I forgot all about it. I’m working at the Silver Fox restaurant tomorrow night.”

  You still work there?

  “I have to. The money is way too good to pass up. This place isn’t cheap.”

  Get out of your shift.

  “I can’t. I traded with a girl who needs to be off tomorrow, and she took one of mine.”

  That sucks.

  “I know it,” Claire snaps. “I love that damn band.” She walks to the G N’ R book and grabs the straw lying next to it and snorts a line. “This is the only way I can deal with the assholes that hang at the bar these days,” she smiles, holding her head back.

  I would need a lot more than that.

  “Tell me about it. There’s only one good night at that bar anymore: their punk-as-fuck night on Saturdays.” Claire leans down again and does another one, and about five minutes later I tell her I’m going to split and she hugs me again and kisses me on the lips, then does it again using her tongue this time.

  I get a boner, and Claire smacks my ass and goes, “I’m so fucking high,” then starts giggling as she shows me out of her place.

  • • •

  The next night is the Pretty Vicious show at the Breaking Point, which is a way chill place to catch shows. It’s kinda small and there’s no stage, so the bands have to play on the floor, and there’s a Black Sabbath pinball machine next to the bar.

  Michael, Kyle, Dave, and I get there and order beers and shots and we watch the first band play and then it’s Pretty Vicious. They start destroying and halfway through their set, Cliff wanders in and doesn’t say much except, “The girl singing is cute.”

  When Pretty Vicious is done with their set, it’s just after eleven, and while the next band is setting up, Kyle asks me if I wanna do a key bump and I say, Sure, why not, and he says follow me, and I do, and so do Michael and Dave and Cliff.

  We follow him into an empty bathroom.

  Dave jams his foot against the bottom of the door to try to keep anyone from coming in and then Kyle pulls out his keys and a baggie of coke from the stash he keeps for himself when he’s out dealing.

  “We should get the fuck outta here after this,” says Cliff, who’s putting out his cigarette in the sink, running two fingers though his hair.

  Where to? I ask.

  Cliff turns from the mirror. “There’s this blast on Langley Drive, kinda close to City College.”

  “Screw that,” Michael snorts, taking the blow from Kyle’s hands. “I know that house and those parties always suck. Unless hanging out with white kids with backpacks who carry markers around and write on garbage cans is your thing.”

  “Whatever, dude,” Cliff snaps back. “You hate everything.”

  “No, I just have good taste,” Michael shoots back.

  Someone outside the bathroom pushes on the door, almost knocking Dave over. Dave pushes back, then pries it open just a crack and says, “We’ll be out in a minute, fuckin’ chill.”

  Michael takes a bump and hands the coke to me, then says to Cliff, “Go there and have a bad time. We’re heading down to the Hill and then to Kennedy Street to hand out our flyers.”

  The Hill is this small strip of bars in between the Grant and Harrison College campuses.

  “Flyers for what?” Cliff sneers.

  I scoop out a bump and do it.

  “Our fucking show, man,” Michael snorts.

  Then I scoop out another one for my other nostril.

  Cliff says, “What are you talking about?”

  “My band, Lamborghini Dreams. We’re playing a show the night of the Freedom Festival at the Renegade Studio with this other band, Patrick Bateman, and this San Francisco band, Von Iva.”

  Once again, someone outside the door tries to shove it open, and this time Dave slams it shut, and then Michael cuts in front of me and yanks the metal handle off the paper towel dispenser and slides it through the
door handle as a lock.

  “It’s easier than hooking up with a dickpig at a Korn show,” Michael says, and Cliff goes, “Let me see a flyer.”

  “They’re in the car,” Dave tells him. “I ran out of the ones I brought into the bar.” Taking the coke from Cliff, he goes, “It’s our antifreedom show.”

  “That sounds really stupid,” Cliff says. “It doesn’t even make any sense.”

  Michael lights a cigarette. “Yeah it does, assbag. It makes sense ’cause we wanna run shit. We want everyone to listen to what we say and do what we tell them to do.”

  Slamming the rest of his Heineken, Kyle says, “You guys should wear turbans and fake beards when you play.”

  “Hey, that’s not a bad idea,” Dave grins, handing Kyle his drugs back.

  Grunting loudly, Cliff says, “What the hell would you two cokeheads tell people to do or even do your fucking selves if you were in charge of anything?”

  Michael: “Totally legalize crack cocaine.”

  Dave: “Kill Sammy Hagar.”

  Michael: “And anyone who listens to the Dave Matthews Band.”

  Dave: “And Flogging Molly.”

  Michael: And torture anyone who doesn’t think Appetite for Destruction is the best album ever.

  Dave: Or anyone who disses Mike Patton.

  Kyle’s laughing, and Cliff goes, “You guys are just so fucking cool,” then knocks the dispenser handle away and walks out.

  Three angry dudes walk in and start talking shit about having to wait, and Michael starts in, but it all turns into nothing and we all end up back at the bar, smoking cigarettes.

  “I still think we should go to the party,” Cliff moans, slamming a Jäger shot.

  “So go, biooootchhhhhh,” Michael rips.

  “What about you, Trav?”

  What about me?

  “You wanna roll with me?”

  Probably not.

  “Oh, come on,” Cliff whines. “I’ve barely hung out with you since you’ve been back. Besides,” he tells me, “I got something to give you.”

  What?

  “It’s a fucking surprise, dude. But you’ll dig it. Just come with me.”

  Pause.

  “Please, man. Let’s catch up.”

  Fine, I say, and Cliff says, “What about you, Kyle?”