by Jason Myers
Twisting back around about halfway through my smoke, my father asks me something that I don’t understand at first. It almost sounds like he’s asking me about a crack pipe.
What?
“Your friend,” he says. “What’s his name? You know, the one who slammed his car into a house and killed all those people.”
Kyle.
“What?” my father snorts.
His name is Kyle, Dad.
He’s slept over at our house at least fifteen times. He’s gone out to eat with us at least twenty times. You’ve dropped him off at his dad’s at least ten times. You’ve told him how good of a kid he is at least thirty times.
None of this I say to my father.
I flick some ashes and take another drag.
“Well,” my father nods. “What’s the word?”
Word?
“Yeah,” he says. “The word. The latest update?”
I set my elbows on the edge of the table and glare as hard as I can at my father because I know he doesn’t care.
He’s fucked, man.
“Jesus, Travis.”
What? You asked.
“Well use some fucking tact next time,” my father snaps, dropping the knife he’d been fingering back onto the table.
I take another drag.
Sorry.
Our waitress comes back with our drinks. “Here you two are,” she grins. My father and I both say thanks and then she takes down our orders and disappears.
“She’s a fox,” I think I hear my father say under his breath. Then: “So, Kyle?”
What about him?
“It’s a shame, Travis. Don’t you think?” he suggests, putting the scotch to his lips.
Probably more of a waste, dude.
“Dude?” My father’s eyebrows rise.
Dad.
My father takes another pull. “Well I’m just glad that you weren’t—”
Dad.
“Huh?”
I stub my smoke out.
I don’t want to talk about this with you.
My father shifts nervously in his seat. “What would you like to talk about?” he snaps.
Nothing.
“Nothing?”
Nothing.
I take a drink of beer.
I’m not into it.
“I see,” he says, rolling his eyes, shaking his head. “What exactly are you into, Travis?” he asks.
But I don’t get a chance to even answer him because his cell phone starts ringing, and after he checks the caller ID, he glances at me and says, “I have to take this.”
He tells me that it’s important.
My father says that this call, this very one, “is the only thing I want to think about right now.”
That’s pretty cool, Dad.
I finish my beer and have another smoke and then our food gets served along with two more drinks, and about halfway through my dish, my father gets off the phone and says, “Sorry about that.”
It’s fine.
I look across the room and watch this family of three—two parents and their daughter—being seated by the same man who seated me. The daughter is wearing this pink layered skirt from Miss Sixty. She has a Dior bag clutched between her hands. And she looks exactly like the girl I saw in the last restaurant I met my father at for lunch. My hands start shaking and I close my eyes, and when I open them again, the only thing I see is my father taking a drink from his scotch.
“So anyway,” he starts, “there were a couple of things I wanted to go over with you.”
What did you say?
“Are you listening to me, son?”
Yes.
“You look pale now.”
I’m fine.
My father quickly checks his watch. He says, “At the end of the month I’m going to be honored at an international business conference right here in the city.”
Awesome.
“Yeah, son. Awesome. Thanks,” he snorts, lifting a forkful of kung pao chicken to his mouth. Still chewing and talking, he continues, “Anyway, I need you to be there. It’s a black-tie event, so you’re going to have to get fitted for a tux.”
I take a huge bite of chicken and feel a line of sweet-and-sour sauce dribble down my chin.
All right.
I reach for my napkin but it’s all crumpled up into a small ball with brown stuff all over it, so I wipe my face with my hand, then my hand against my jeans.
“Nice, son,” my father says.
I take a drink of beer.
“I also need you to make sure your sister is going to be on her best behavior.”
What do you mean?
“Come on, Travis. I don’t know what she’s mixed up in, but she looks like shit. Your mother told me that her mood swings are out of control.”
So do something.
“No. My daughter’s better than this. Her pride and genes will eventually kick in and she’ll straighten up and get her shit together.”
Pause.
“Same as you.”
I eat another piece of chicken.
And my father goes, “On that note, school.”
What about it?
His shoulders bunch up. “Have you been giving it any thought?”
Here and there.
“For Christ’s sake, Travis. School is not optional. If you want to be anything in life, you’re going to have to finish college and work at it.”
I don’t say anything.
“I’ve talked with the USC people. All you have to do is apply and you’re in. You’ll have a fresh start. You’ll be third generation, son.”
I don’t want to go there.
“What the hell is wrong with you? Where did my son go?”
I’m right here.
“No,” he snaps. “I don’t think you are. I don’t think you get it yet.” He slams the rest of his drink and leans across the table. He says, “You’re gonna take a little ride with me when we’re finished.”
But—
“No fucking ‘but’s’, son. You need to get some things straight in your head.”
• • •
I have no idea where my father is about to take me as he balls out of his parking spot with all the windows rolled down on his Mercedes.
The things I do know are that one, I do not want to go with him; two, he’s totally drunk; and three, he told the host dude in the front lobby to eat his ass.
Slamming his car through one alley and then another, my father goes, “Travis, take the CD case in the glove compartment out.”
I open the compartment and pull it out.
“Find Phil Collins’s greatest hits and put it in,” he orders as we shoot out of the second alley.
I find it. Slide it in. And my father slams on the brakes for a red light.
“Look at all of this,” he grunts, over the blare of the song “Another Day in Paradise.” He points at the windshield, toward a block of sprawling metallic sculptures sprouting from fake green lawns in the front of glass cased buildings. “Just take a good look at what you are now a part of, Travis. What people are doing with their lives now. Look at the opportunities people have because of a few select visions.”
My father hangs a left two blocks later and puts on a pair of shades. “This is it, son. The future of this state. Your future, if you just do what I ask of you and listen to me and quit fighting me.”
I roll my eyes. It all seems so fixed.
I’m not fighting you, Dad. I’m fighting myself.
My father does not hear me say this. To be honest, though, I’m not even sure if I said it out loud.
My father holds his arms out. “Look at the masterpiece I’ve created. I’ve given people a purpose. This is what counts, Travis. Making other people happy so that you can be happy. All of this,” he says, flipping his shades down, “is a reminder that you have to take things seriously to get anything done in life.” He nudges me with his elbow. “This is what I see when I drive through this part of the city.” My fath
er flips his shades back up. He cranks the stereo volume and bolts through the traffic, jumping onto an exit that takes us out of the city.
Where are we going?
“You’ll see,” he smirks as we blaze by bright green fields caged in by barbwire fences.
A few miles later we’re turning off the highway and onto this gravel road that we follow until it spills into a huge pasture, pierced in the middle with a large billboardesque sign that says WAYNE REALTY on it.
My father brings the car to a stop and steps out holding a brown sack in his hands. “Come on,” he says.
I get out and follow him.
“This is why I asked you to lunch today, Travis.”
What is this?
“The new superheadquarters for Wayne Realty,” he grins. “Fifteen wide-open acres of whatever-the-fuck-I-want-to-do-with-it property, all tax free, approved by the same friends I got elected to the city council.” He turns to me. “What do you think?”
It’s pretty nice.
I light my second-to-last cigarette.
“That’s it?” my father snorts. “Nice?”
I like the sign, Dad.
“Jesus, Travis! Have you listened to a word I’ve said to you today? This is all yours if you just do what I tell you to do. You’ll never have to do shit work like I had to.”
But—
“But nothing,” my father snorts. He charges at me, stopping a couple of inches in front of my face. “Here’s what I think.”
What?
My father grabs the collar of my shirt and balls it into a fist. “I think you’re going to get your shit together starting right now, right here, today.” His jaw clenches tight. “I don’t know what happened to you in Arizona or Hawaii and at this point I don’t give a shit.”
Crap. My cigarette falls from between my fingers.
Inching so close to me that I can see the food stuck in his teeth and smell the scotch and chicken on his breath, my father goes, “You will be in school in August. If you don’t want to go to USC, fine! But you will have at least applied to three schools by the end of next week, and if you haven’t, then shit is going to start disappearing from you. The car. Money. Your CDs. Your DVDs. Anything I think might be important to you. Are we clear?” he asks, eight lines of his spit nailing my face, some even hitting my lips.
Yes.
“And just so you know that I mean business,” he says, reaching into the sack, “watch this.” My father pulls all five of my Nirvana CDs out of the sack.
What are you doing?
“Motivating you, son,” he barks, then snaps each CD in half, dropping them on the ground.
You didn’t have to do that, Dad. Shit.
“You didn’t leave me any choice, Travis.” Wiping some sweat off his face, my father says, “I have a meeting in Vanguard, which is that way.” My father points away from the city. “And I’m already running late because you don’t know how to park a fucking car.”
You’re not taking me back to my car? I ask.
“My car,” he says. “And no, I’m not.”
So what am I supposed to do?
“Improvise. Make it happen for yourself,” my father laughs. Then he jumps into his car and tears back down the gravel road and leaves me wiping the dust out of my eyes.
Pilgrim dick.
I stand there, squinting into the sun, waiting for something. Maybe he’s just joking and he’ll come back and take me home.
Maybe, maybe, maybe not.
I dig into my pockets and pull my cell phone out and scroll down to Laura’s name. The sun is torching my skin. I hit the call button and it starts ringing and it rings until Laura’s voice mail comes on. I don’t even bother to leave a message. I hang up and then I call Michael and Michael picks up like right away.
“Baby, what’s going on?” He sounds a little loaded.
I need you to pick me up.
“From where?”
I’m stranded on a gravel road a few miles outside of the city.
“Awesome.”
I’m not joking, man. My dad brought me out here to show me some land he bought and then he bailed.
Michael starts laughing. He goes, “Your old man ditched you, brah. That’s fucking righteous. That’s fucking rock ’n’ roll.”
Whatever, dude. Come pick me up.
“I don’t know.”
I’ll fucking pay you, man. Please.
“All right,” he says. “But you have to hang out with me for the rest of the day.”
Fine, dude.
“And you can’t bitch about it.”
Okay.
“Promise?”
Promise.
“Tell me where you’re at.”
• • •
Michael shows up an hour later driving a brown van the size of one of those short yellow buses, with yellow and orange flames painted on the sides of it.
Sticking his head out of the window, he goes, “Get in, you fucking loser,” and I walk around to the other side and jump in.
Thanks for picking me up.
“Pleasure’s all mine, baby.” Michael makes a U-turn.
Whose van is this?
“My lead singer’s. He bought it a couple of days ago. It’s gonna be our touring van.”
I light my last cigarette and look behind me at the four other seats, the huge bed in the back, and the track lighting along each side of the roof.
Shouldn’t you guys play more shows before you start thinking about a tour?
“We’re playing this Karen O look-alike contest at the Glass Castle the first weekend of August.”
Karen O. The chick from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Awesome.
“Not really,” says Michael, who’s stuffed in a Skid Row wife-beater and white jeans. “It’s sorta lame, but it’s a gig.” He turns onto the highway. “I’m sure there’s going to be a ton of dickpig scenester babes just ready to be slayed.”
Inhale. Exhale.
Michael reaches for the tape deck and hits the eject button. He flips over the tape he’s just ejected.
The song “Under the Milky Way” by the Church starts playing and Michael lights a cigarette. He goes, “We’re going to cover this for the show.”
Really? You want to?
“I don’t, but Dave and Thomas want to.”
I flick some ashes out of the window.
Where are we going?
“We’re making a delivery to Cliff at his trailer.”
You’re selling heroin now?
“Fuck no,” Michael snorts, sliding on some black shades. “I got speed for him. I took over Kyle’s business.”
You what?
“I took Kyle’s shit over. I went to the jail and talked to him about it and we made a deal.”
I toss my smoke.
What was the deal?
“That I could go to his house and take whatever he still had, plus all of his customers just as long as I gave half of the profits I made off of that stash to his old man.”
Have you?
“Not yet. I haven’t sold all of it. I just went over there like two days ago.” Michael blows some smoke rings. “And when I went to pick the shit up, Chris tried stepping at me. He told me that I was an asshole for even thinking about dealing the rest of Kyle’s shit.”
What’d you do?
“Laughed in his face. Chris is fat and dumb and pretty much a piece of trash.” Michael tosses his ciggie. “The dude barely graduated high school. He works a construction job, dates a high school chick, slaps her around, has a really horrible tribal tattoo on his arm, and drinks like a twelve pack of Old Milwaukee every night.”
I start laughing.
Come on, man. You shouldn’t say that shit about him.
“Fuck you, Trav. He didn’t have the nicest things to say about you.”
What’d he say?
“He told me he thinks you’re an asshole for putting Laura ahead of Kyle when you went to the cabin with her instead of his arraignment. He thinks y
ou only care about yourself, and that even if it’s bad news, you don’t like it when other people have the spotlight.”
He said that?
Michael nods.
Fuck him. What a turd burglar. It’s not like Kyle isn’t one of my best fucking friends. I just went to see him the other day.
“Hey, don’t kill the messenger,” Michael smiles. “I’m just telling you what he told me.”
That dick.
Michael steers the van onto an off-ramp, then reaches over and shuts the tape off. “What’d you think when you went and visited Kyle?” he asks.
It was depressing, man. Way too intense.
Michael comes to a stop at the top of the exit and rubs his nose. “Tell me about it,” he says. “When I was there, after we talked business, Kyle really pissed me off.”
How?
Michael makes a left and says, “Because he’s already given up. He’s already committed himself to going down.” Lighting another cigarette and bumming me one, he snorts, “While I was there I told him everything he needed to know.”
About what?
“About how to beat the rap, Trav. All he has to do is listen to me and he’s a free man.”
I take a drag and can’t help but laugh again as we reenter the city and melt in with the rush-hour traffic.
29.
I FEEL LIKE AN ASSHOLE as Michael slowly maneuvers the van around the small, winding road of the trailer park that Cliff calls home.
This is creepy, I tell him, looking out of the window at young children who stand there and stare at us.
“What is?”
This fucking van. This is the exact same type of van they use to abduct kids in TV movies.
“So what?”
I’m just saying.
“Hey, dude, you’re in the Mobile Rape Unit now. Live with it.”
The what?
Michael lowers his shades. “The Mobile Rape Unit. When you got in, did you see the letters MRU branded along the side?”
Yeah.
“MRU,” Michael smiles, stopping in front of Cliff’s trailer. “Mobile Rape Unit.”
That’s fucked up.
“Quit being a pussy, man.”
I open the door and step outside. The sun is still pressing. I’m sweating all over again, and I can hear the faint sound of the Velvet Underground coming from Cliff’s home.