by Jason Myers
I did, Claire. I just didn’t care. I wanted to help him out.
“Damn,” she says. “You tried to do a good thing and ended up subsidizing your own girlfriend’s abortion.”
I squeeze my lips tightly together, and watch my hands start to shake.
And Claire goes, “Come here.” She gives me a hug. “I am so sorry for you. That sucks so fucking bad.” She lets go. “Fuck those two.”
You’re right. But it goes deeper than that, deeper than “fuck those two.”
The bartender brings our drinks over and I pay him as Alice Cooper bumps into Digital Underground.
“Cheers,” Claire smiles, tipping her glass against mine.
Cheers.
She swallows a drink. “How did you find out about it?”
Chris told me some things.
I take a drink, smudge my smoke out.
Then I confronted Cliff and he told me it was true.
“Have you talked with Laura?”
Oh yeah. She knows.
Claire rubs her forehead. “This is some heavy shit, Travis. We should probably do some heavy-duty partying.”
The corners of my lips arch. I pound half the drink down my throat.
Should I call Michael?
Claire grins. “No need to, man. I dropped into his new place on my way here and picked up a gram.”
I thought he was moving at the end of the month.
“That was the plan, but the landlord called and said that him and Dave could get in there earlier, free of charge if they wanted. So they were moving their things in today.”
Splitting her legs again, Claire presses her dress against the stool with an open hand, then leans into me and whispers, “Let’s go to the bathroom and do some River Phoenixes.”
Some what?
“River Phoenixes. It’s the nickname Skylar, Emily, and I came up with for doing bumps in the bathroom of the Viper Room while we were partying in LA in April.”
Let’s do it.
Digital Underground changes to Kiss.
Claire hops off the stool. “Girls’ or guys’?” she asks.
You pick.
“Girls’,” she says, shaking her entire body out. “But I gotta pee first. Meet me there in like two minutes.” Claire downs the rest of her drink and heads for the bathroom. I watch her walk until she disappears around the corner. I finish my own drink and smoke another cigarette and walk to the ladies’ room.
Inside, Claire is standing in front of a mirror running a tube of gloss over her lips. “You ready?” she asks without peeling her eyes off of herself.
Yes, Claire.
“Awesome,” she says, dropping the gloss into her purse. She gestures me with her right hand. “Follow me.”
Claire leads me into a stall. I shut the door and lock it.
She says, “I haven’t been in a bathroom stall with you since me, Cliff, Michael, and you went to Omaha to see Jack White play bass with the Stooges.” Claire lifts a baggie of coke and a small, shiny knife from her purse.
I ask Claire if she’s heard anything about Jack White playing a solo show in the city.
Claire hands me the knife and baggie. “Yeah. From a bunch of overactive, overimaginative retards who think he’s the new Lou Reed.”
I pop the baggie open and dig out a large bump with the tip of the knife and move it toward my nose.
“But I doubt it’s true,” she says. “I doubt Mr. White is going to come to any dive bar and play a solo set in this fucking city.”
Tell me when I’m good, Claire.
“You’re good,” she giggles, pushing herself off of the stall. “Snort now, Travis.”
I shove the knife up to my left nostril, snap my head back, and sniff hard with everything I have.
Damn.
Claire takes the knife and drugs from my hands. She dips into it and scoops out a big bump. “Tell me when I’m good,” she says.
You’re good.
She inhales the pile. Hands the knife and baggie back to me, and starts telling me about this girl she met last fall during her first semester of college. “Her name was Brenda,” she says. “She lived on the same dorm floor as me. We had this American History class together and sat next to each other.”
I dig into the bag.
Claire continues. “She was from this wealthy suburb of Chicago. Her parents were absolutely loaded. They would put five hundred dollars a week into her checking account, which she used on blow. And this chick would do two fucking eight balls a week. Easily. She was always loaded.”
I lift the knife from the bag.
“You’re good,” Claire tells me. I snort the bump.
“So anyway, about halfway through the semester, we’re in the history class, and right in the middle of lecture Brenda sneezed. And there was this superloud, superintense popping noise, like BANG, like a fucking champagne cork being squeezed out.”
Claire stops.
What?
“Do another bump,” she grins.
I do one.
And Claire goes, “When Brenda sneezed, she blew her fucking septum out, and this stream of blood started pouring from whatever was left of her nose, all over the classroom.”
Pause.
“And I never saw her again.”
I almost drop the coke on the floor.
What the fuck was that?
She takes the coke and knife back from me. “What, Travis?”
Why would you tell someone that kind of a story while they were doing blow? It’s pretty fucked up.
“But”—she giggles, stabbing the knife into the baggie—“does it make you want to stop what you’re doing?”
I don’t say anything.
“Does it?” she presses.
I guess not, Claire.
“A story like that, does it make you want to never do drugs again?”
No.
“Do you think anyone’s stopped driving around drunk since Kyle’s accident?”
I doubt it.
And Claire shrieks, “Exactly.” She says, “Because until it’s your septum, or your fucking spinal cord that gets destroyed, and as long as this shit still makes you feel good, better than it does to be sober, there is absolutely no reason to stop doing any of it.”
Claire stops. She knifes up two more bumps, one up each nostril. Then she closes the baggie, folds the knife away, and drops both of them back into her purse.
I am superhigh and I ask Claire if she has a marker or a pen on her.
“No. Why?”
I want to write something on here.
I point to the wall of the stall.
Claire looks toward the ceiling as if she’s in deep thought. Her mouth pops open. “I know,” she says. She digs through her purse and pulls out a stick of black eyeliner. “Here.” She hands it to me.
I twist the cap off and press my hand against the wall on my left, right next to this spot where someone’s written “COBAIN IS GOD.” But nothing comes out. I cannot think of anything to write.
“I’ll go first,” Claire says, running one hand down the part in her hair.
All right.
I’m embarrassed. It was my idea and I couldn’t think of anything.
Claire takes the eyeliner. She scans all the walls before flipping the toilet seat down and straddling it. She writes “Fuck you, Jordan Catalano, and your so-called life. Fuck you for being that hot. Fuck you for being that cool. Fuck you for breaking the hearts of millions of girls around the world. You bastard!”
“There,” Claire smiles, standing up. “Now you try again.”
I take the eyeliner back, but still nothing comes out. My head is completely jammed. So once again Claire takes the eyeliner away from me. “Let me write something for you,” she says.
Go ahead, Claire.
Claire inches up to me and drags her fingers down the side of my face. “I got it.” She turns around and writes “Fuck you, Clifford Miles and Laura Kennedy. Fuck you for doing what you did. Fuck you fo
r going behind people’s backs and lying for all these months. What do yo—”
I grab on to Claire’s forearm.
I think you made your point.
“Did I?”
I think you did.
“Okay,” she whispers. “Here.” Claire puts her hands over mine. “Like this.” She sets my hands on her waist. “How does that feel, Travis?”
It feels pretty okay.
“Just pretty okay?” she presses, leaning into my neck.
It feels amazing.
Claire pushes her crotch against my pelvis. She bites the lobe of my ear.
Aerosmith changes to Dio and Claire sings, “There’s no sign of the morning coming, you’ve been left on your own, like a rainbow in the dark, just like a rainbow in the dark.” Then she bites my ear again.
What are you doing, Claire?
“Nothing.” She pushes me away from her. “I’m just glad you called me tonight,” she grins. “Really fucking glad.”
• • •
Fast forward two hours.
Claire and I are at this bar the Jungle Gym, two blocks over from the Drunken Whale.
There are two good things about the Jungle Gym—two good things only. One: They have a nickel-pitcher night every Thursday. Two: They have a pre-’91 G N’ R pinball machine. And I have been dying to play the machine since we got here, but I haven’t been able to because this guy with long and gross blond hair, wearing jean shorts and a NASCAR tank top will not get off of it. He wouldn’t even take the twenty bucks I offered him, telling me, “I’ll be done when I’m done, stud.”
I sit on a bar stool and stare angrily until Claire stumbles out of the ladies’ room and falls all the way across the room to me.
She jumps onto my lap after handing me her like tenth vodka tonic, then she bites my ear again.
What’s up with that, Claire?
“I don’t know,” she smiles, begins rubbing my crotch.
Is that what you want?
“I want another motherfuckin’ drink! Will you buy me another drink?”
What do you want?
“Vodka tonic.”
I turn to the bartender, order two. Claire buries her head in my shoulder and goes, “Can I tell you something, Travis?”
Anything.
She tilts back so that our eyes are dead on. “My mother has no idea, absolutely none whatsoever, who my real father is,” she slurs.
I thought your dad took off on you when you were little.
“Yeah,” Claire slurs. “Probably like five minutes after he nutted inside of my mom.”
The bartender brings us our drinks and I pay him.
“Wanna know something else?” Claire asks.
What else?
“I was born in the back of a used station wagon . . . on some dirt road outside of Dysart, Iowa.”
Nudging her to the edge of my knees, I say, That’s some pretty weird stuff.
“I know it,” she whimpers. “I’ve never told anyone that before. But I wanted to tell you, Travis.” Claire smothers her hands over her face.
I won’t tell anyone.
Pause.
Are you going to cry, Claire?
“Maybe.”
But I don’t think you have to. You’ve made it this far without anyone knowing.
She parts her hands to the sides. Looks at me. “I’m really sorry,” she says.
Don’t be.
“But I feel terrible now. That was like fucking heavy and shit.”
So what?
Claire leans back into me. She bites my ear again. Sticks her tongue inside it, sending this awesome chill down my back. Every strand of hair on my neck stands up.
“Can we go now?” she asks.
You wanna leave?
“I do. I want you to take me home. I want you to fuck me, Travis Wayne.”
• • •
“Wanna know something, Travis?” Claire asks in between a series of yawns, me trying my absolute hardest to navigate my car through the city streets without sideswiping pedestrians or running over people on bikes.
What’s that?
“I’ve always had a crush on you. I’ve always wanted to hook up with you.”
You’re drunk, Claire.
“And you’re fucking hot, Travis. I wanna fuck you!” She bites my ear again.
Chills attack my spine, and while I’m shaking my back out, Claire falls against the door and says, “Will you promise me something?”
What?
“Will you promise me you’ll stay in the city? That you won’t leave again?”
Claire, I—
“Just please, Travis. Promise me. I love you. So do this for me. Promise me you won’t leave again.”
Okay.
“Okay what?” Claire snaps.
I promise I won’t leave again.
“Thank you,” she says, trying to control another yawn.
I pat my legs down to feel for cigarettes but I’m out so I ask Claire if she has any.
“I’m out too,” she says.
Awesome.
“Stop and get some,” she says. “There’s a mini-mart right up the street here.” Claire points to the windshield.
Cool.
“Sweet,” she smiles, yawns again, and at the next block, I turn into the empty parking lot of this really small gas station.
“Hurry up,” Claire sighs, patting her mouth over and over with her hand.
I walk into the station and grab two packs of Parliament Lights. Pay and leave.
While I’m standing on the sidewalk in front of the gas station, I hear glass breaking to my left and spin in that direction, a gust of wind blowing past me, almost knocking me over.
My eyes latch on to a thin streak of shadow as it darts across the darkened edge of the parking lot, and as I regain my balance, Cliff steps out of the deep shadows, shedding his framed outline, becoming real to me.
“Travis.”
I feel relief—then I feel complete anger.
Are you following me, Cliff?
He takes another couple of steps closer to me.
“No way. I’m not following you. I don’t follow people,” he informs me while crossing his arms and scratching the tops of both of them with his fingers.
What are you doing out here? I ask him.
“I’m just,” he starts, stops. Looks around. “I’m just lurking around I guess. Did you hear about my dad?”
No.
I start packing one of the boxes of smokes.
Cliff leans down and scratches the bottoms of his legs left uncovered from the cutoff jeans he’s wearing. He says, “My old man found out that I’ve been screwing Marcy and he got into a fight with her. She tried hitting him with a pan, but missed, and then my dad smacked her across the face and knocked her clean cold, and when she came to, she called 911 and my dad got put in jail for the night.” Cliff stiffens his back and looks at me. “Isn’t that funny, Trav? My dad in jail for a night.”
I don’t say anything. Open my cigarettes.
“Who’s in your car?” Cliff asks, moving even closer.
Claire.
“She drunk?”
Yeah, Cliff.
I light a cigarette.
And I have to get going.
I start for my car.
“Hey, man,” Cliff says.
I stop but don’t face him.
What?
“Can I use your cell phone real quick?”
It’s dead, Cliff.
I push forward.
“Travis.”
This time I flip back around.
What do you want, Cliff? I fucking hate you! What do you want?
“Can I have some change for the pay phone?”
Are you serious?
Cliff nods. “Please, man. It’s important.”
And it’s now when my eyes drop and I notice the two big gashes on his right arm that are still kinda bleeding and the fact that he’s barefoot.
“Please, man,”
he whispers this time.
Fine.
I reach into my pockets and scoop out a handful of change.
Here. Come and get it.
He takes the money.
“Thank you,” he says.
Fuck off, Cliff.
But as I’m turning away from him, he grabs my arm and goes, “Do you remember that girl me and you lost our virginity to? The one we tag-teamed in the abandoned school basement.”
Ripping my arm away, I say, Yeah, what about her?
“She was sixteen and she was hot,” Cliff says. “And we were only thirteen.”
So what, Cliff? What are you even talking about?
“Do you remember what happened when it was over? You came first and then I came and while we were getting dressed again, I made that really bad joke.”
Pause.
I sigh.
I remember you saying something. So what?
“Do you remember the joke?”
I don’t.
“Because I do, Travis. And after I said it, both of you looked at me like I was a complete retard. Like I was this big pie grinder. And you rolled your eyes and told that slut not to pay attention to me and she laughed and said that she’d take your advice.”
So what, Cliff? It was a stupid fucking joke.
“So you do remember it.”
Yeah, I do. You went, “Why did Travis cross the road?” And the girl asked you why, and you said, “’Cause his dick was stuck in the chicken.” It was so fucking stupid, man. And you made both of us look like complete jackasses when you said it.
Cliff rolls his head back and flips his chin to the sky. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he quips. “I made the great Travis Wayne, the guy everyone’s supposed to love and be cool with, look human. What’s the world coming to?”
What’d you want me to do after you said that, Cliff? Laugh? It wasn’t funny.
Cliff slides away and throws the change I just gave him across the parking lot.
You’re not getting any more, I tell him.
“I hated you after you laughed at me that day” he snaps. “I never forgot about that shit.” Cliff thrusts forward, making me step back.
I’m sorry I laughed, Cliff. What do you want me to do about it now?
And he says, “Nothing. I just wanted to make sure that you still remembered.”
I never forgot, asshole.
“Good,” he says, then walks away from me, disappearing into the same shadow.
Me, I continue to my car and climb back inside of it. Claire is sleeping. She’s passed out in her seat, her head against the window, one of her hands stuffed under her face.