Exit Here.

by Jason Myers

So have I.

  I light a cigarette.

  But she’s gonna do what she wants to do. No one in my family can really stop her. She is who she is, and she knows it.

  “Kind of like you?”

  I have no idea who I am anymore.

  Claire lights a cigarette. “That’s pretty dramatic, don’t you think, Travis?”

  No.

  I blow a smoke ring.

  Maybe.

  I blow another one.

  It’s been a weird summer. Maybe that’s it.

  Claire fingers over the drink menu and goes, “It’s been a pretty shitty one.”

  Nodding, I’m like, I got a friend in jail, a friend in the hospital, there’s another girl dead—

  Claire’s eyes slam shut.

  It’s like some Boyz n the Hood, Menace II Society type bullshit.

  The corners of Claire’s mouth jump and she starts laughing to the point of tears.

  I’m serious, Claire.

  “I know you are.”

  Everything has fallen apart.

  Claire stops laughing suddenly and takes a drag. She says, “Shit, Travis. Like anything was ever put together in the first place.”

  I smudge my cigarette out in the ashtray.

  Good point.

  Stepping up to our table, a small Korean woman in an apron skirt smiles and nods before asking us what we would like to eat.

  Claire picks up the menu and points at it, ordering a vegetable and rice dish and an apple Martini.

  The waitress turns to me.

  What’s the most unhealthy meat dish on the menu?

  The woman looks confused by this question. She nods again, asking me what I would like.

  The most unhealthy meat dish.

  “Travis,” Claire snaps, smudging her smoke out. “Quit being a dick.” She picks up the menu and points at it again. “He’ll have the pound plate of spiced pork.”

  Plus a side of green beans.

  The lady nods again and says okay, and walks to the kitchen and places our order.

  Claire takes another sip of water, glaring at me while she swallows it.

  I only wanted to know, Claire. They were just questions.

  “Sometimes you can be such a jerk about things though.”

  I bunch my face, light another cigarette.

  “I’m serious,” she says. “You’re like a sweetheart most of the time until this dark side comes out in you.”

  I lean back, shaking my head.

  What-the-fuck-ever, Claire. You don’t seem to mind it much. You keep hanging out with me. So just drop the critique, all right?

  “Fine.” Claire lights another cigarette. “I want this to be a nice night. I want this night to build into something.”

  What does that mean, Claire? Build into something.

  “I like you.”

  You like me?

  “Yes.”

  Like how?

  Claire’s face gets a little flushed. “Like maybe we could start dating or something.”

  The Korean lady returns with Claire’s martini and sets it on the table.

  Claire, I—

  But she cuts me off. “Just hear me out, Travis. Please.”

  Fine.

  She takes a sip of her drink. “I know you’re attracted to me physically—most people are.”

  You’re right.

  “But I think we have something else besides the physical thing,” she says. “We’re fucking rad when we’re together. We know everything about each other. It’s like everyone always thinks we’re doing that couple bullshit anyway when we’re hanging out. So I’m thinking, why not. I’m kinda sick of hooking up anyway.”

  Inhale. Exhale.

  I run a hand through my hair and pinch the bridge of my nose.

  “So there it is,” she says, smiling.

  Claire, I say. It’s like—

  She cuts me off again. “Don’t give me a fucking speech, Travis. Just don’t. I know you want this. Let it happen.”

  But I’m leaving again.

  Claire’s whole body jerks back. “What?”

  I’m moving to LA. I’m going to go to school at USC. I’m gonna be third-generation.

  Slamming a hand down on the table, she says, “You fucking liar. You said you were staying. You told everyone you were back for good.”

  Things have changed, Claire.

  “Fuck you.”

  Whoa, Claire.

  “No. You knew you were leaving and you still let me say everything I just said. That’s fucked up. Does your ego need to be padded that much?”

  I grind my smoke out.

  Just stop for a second, Claire.

  “No, I won’t. I’m so fucking embarrassed. You’re such a prick. You lied!” she shouts. “You promised me that you wouldn’t leave again!”

  Well, ya know what, Claire?

  “What?”

  Life changes everything—even promises.

  “Fuck you,” she snorts, and stomps right out of the restaurant, just as the Korean lady brings our food out.

  With a perplexed look on her face, she sets the food down and stares at me.

  It was too unhealthy.

  She keeps staring.

  The meat dish. It was too fucking unhealthy, I say slowly, loudly, then pick up a fork and start munching on my green beans.

  44.

  MORNING.

  I lie in bed and think about jacking off for what seems like an extraordinary amount of time before I finally decide not to and slowly make my way down the stairs.

  I see my mother. She’s sitting on a couch watching an episode of Sex and the City and I try to sneak back upstairs but she hears me and says, “Please come back here, Travis.”

  Shit.

  I turn around.

  And my mother’s like, “You don’t have time to talk to me anymore. Is that it, Travis?”

  Anymore? I’m thinking, but I say, I’ve been busy with some things. I had some tough things to decide.

  My mother lifts the DVD remote and pauses the episode. “Your father and I are proud of you. You gutted it out. You have your whole future to look forward to now.”

  I yawn.

  Did you take that from his speech the other night, Mom? Or was that your own little anecdote?

  “You don’t have to be at war with me, Travis. I only want for you what you think you want for yourself. Can’t you and your sister see that? I’m not pushing you two away. I’m giving you two your space. There’s a huge difference.”

  I know there is.

  “So why the attitude? Why are you always so defensive around me, like I’m your enemy?”

  I don’t know.

  “What’s going on with you? You haven’t been the same kid since you came back. You were more relaxed and much more pleasant to be around during Christmas.”

  So what, Mom? Things happen and people change. You can’t be the same person all the time.

  “Your father is.”

  I roll my eyes.

  Well, maybe I’ll be more like him after I become a Trojan man and turn into his prodigy, which is all he wants anyway. Someone who looks like him to take his life over when his own looks begin to fade.

  “That’s not true at all,” my mother snaps.

  I toss my arms up.

  It’s probably much closer to the truth than you’d like to admit.

  I spin around and start for the stairs.

  “Travis!”

  I stop but don’t turn around.

  “Have you heard anything from your sister since yesterday?”

  No. Why?

  “Because she and Amy told me they were going to an early movie last night and that they’d be back around ten, but they haven’t come home yet.”

  I haven’t heard anything. Maybe you should call Amy’s parents.

  I hear my mother sigh. Then the TV starts making noise again.

  “I probably should,” I hear her say as I head up to my room.

  • • • />
  Afternoon.

  I head down to Kennedy Street and stop by Canteen Records and pick up the new issue of VICE, as well as the new Fleshies CD and the new one by Everything Must Go.

  When I step back outside, the change from the cool air of the store to the humid air is so intense that it feels like I’ve run into a wall and I almost fall down, catching myself on the door handle on my way to the cracked and burning pavement beneath me.

  I quickly gather myself and keep moving down the street and run into Dave and Rodney, the guitar player for Lamborghini Dreams.

  They’re each carrying twelve packs of Budweiser, and Dave has these really horrible black marker drawings all over his arms—some dicks, some boobs, a blob that looks kind of like Kelly Osbourne, a bigger blob that looks a lot like Britney Spears.

  I swing my eyes up to Dave’s face.

  Dude.

  I point at him.

  “What?” he smiles.

  Have you looked in the mirror the past couple of hours?

  “Probably not since last night. Why?”

  I start to laugh.

  You have so much cocaine on your grill right now.

  “Nah-huh, shut up.”

  I’m serious. It’s like someone put a facial mask of coke on you.

  Dave turns to Rodney. “Do I?”

  Rodney nods his head and starts laughing. “It’s all over you, man. You even have some in your hair.”

  “Fuck, man.” He hits Rodney in the chest. “Why didn’t you tell me before we left, asshole.”

  “I didn’t know, dude. I swear it,” Rodney laughs.

  And Dave goes, “Do you realize I saw like four people I know on the walk to the liquor store? I talked to one of my fucking coworkers.”

  “I know,” Rodney answers.

  “Fuck. Not cool at all.”

  I start busting up and Dave goes, “We need to get back to the pad, like now. You wanna come, Trav? Michael’s up there.”

  No, I got stuff to do.

  “Fine,” Dave snorts. “But you’re gonna be at our show on Saturday, right?”

  I am.

  “’Cause we’re putting you on the list,” he says. “And that’s big-time, baby. Huge.”

  For sure I’ll be there, man.

  And Rodney’s like, “See ya in a coupla days.”

  I watch them run across the street and eventually they just fade into everything else.

  • • •

  Evening.

  At like nine I get home and the house is empty. On one of the kitchen counters I see a photocopy of the Rawson Park deed giving the property back to the city. I take it up to my room with me then change into my swimming trunks and walk out to the pool, switching the underwater lights on.

  I dive in.

  The water feels amazing against my skin, like a thousand years of scars and bruises and fractures and sprains are going away with each passing second. I take a huge breath and swim under the surface and hold everything in until I can’t any longer. Then I pop up, gasping for air.

  I do this over and over and over again, until I can’t anymore, then I float over to the small ladder and climb out and begin drying off.

  My mother walks outside with my father and they stare at me from across the water.

  What’s going on?

  I walk around the edge of the pool.

  “Your sister is what’s going on,” my mother says.

  What happened?

  “We just bailed her and Amy out of jail for shoplifting,” my mother snaps. “They were caught stealing clothes from the Gap this afternoon.”

  My father punches the side of the house. He walks inside and lurks into his work den.

  I cover my shoulders with a towel.

  What’s gonna happen to her?

  My mother steps in closer to me. “Nothing will happen to her record. Your father took care of that. But we’re checking her into rehab first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Is she here right now?

  “No,” my mother moans. “She’s at the hospital getting a psyche evaluation. She’ll be there overnight. Then she’s off to rehab at the Tomlinson Clinic in Russdale.”

  Pause.

  “How long have you know she’s been abusing OCs?” my mother asks.

  Since June.

  “Travis!” My mother lunges at me, and for a moment I think she’s going to hit me, but she stops just short of my face with the palm of her right hand. “Why would you keep that from us?”

  You guys knew she was fucked up. Dad even told me that he assumed she was on something.

  “You still should have told us.”

  No I shouldn’t have. You guys told her she might not be able to get her license because she might be using.

  “So?”

  So you guys knew.

  “We didn’t know what she was on.”

  I whip the towel off of me and throw it to the side.

  But you still knew, Mom. She’s been messed up for a while. This whole family has known.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I walk past her.

  You know exactly what that means, Mom.

  I open the door and slam it shut and walk up to my bedroom and watch that movie Me and You and Everyone We Know again.

  45.

  THE FIRST ANNUAL KAREN O look-alike contest is tonight at the Glass Castle. I park like three blocks away from the club and walk there, passing at least fifty girls who look like they’re trying look like Karen O.

  Think lots of black hair styled every which way.

  Think lots of really big sunglasses.

  Think lots of blue eye shadow streaked across both eyes.

  Think also lots and lots and lots of shredded and V-neck and mismatched color tops and off-color pantyhose.

  There’re about a hundred people in line at the door and I hop into it, smoking a cigarette, listening to the couple in front of me. The girl is wearing a white shredded top with a big red heart on the chest, a red mesh scarf, indigo colored pantyhose, a pair of gold and white high-top Chuck Taylors. Her black hair is straight, except for the bangs, which hang crooked, just above her sunglass covered eyes.

  The guy on the other hand is dressed like he wants to look like the guitarist for the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

  Think really big black hair puffed up high.

  A white T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, dotted with random black paint drops.

  A pair of tight black jeans, cuffed to his mid shins.

  Think also black eye shadow, black coated fingernails, and a pair of knee-high black boots.

  The two of them talk fast and rub their noses a lot and are going back and forth about how cool it would be if Karen O was actually here to judge the contest.

  “I would just die,” the girl says, and the guy goes, “No offense to you, babe, but if she is here, I’m going after her,” and the girl goes, “Fine by me. You fucking her would only make you hotter to me,” and then this other girl, who’s standing in front of those two, turns around in her saggy red V-neck blouse, her black ruffled skirt, and her turquoise colored fishnets, with her eyes streaked blue, and she says, “Karen O’s not even going to be here? What the fuck? If she doesn’t need to be here then I don’t need to be here.” Then she walks off, disappearing into a sea of impersonators, and behind me these two girls start clapping, and one of them goes, “One less person to stand in the way of me winning this thing.”

  I finish my smoke in two long drags, then smear it out with my foot and hear someone scream my name.

  I look toward the door and see Michael standing outside the front entrance smoking, wearing a pair of ass-tight black jeans, a Deep Purple shirt with no sleeves, and a red do-rag wrapped around his forehead, tied in the back.

  “Yo, Trav, what the fuck are you doing back there?” he yells, waving me to him. “You’re on the fucking list. Get your ass in here.”

  I walk to the door, past all these people in line, some pointing at me, maybe won
dering if I know someone who knows someone who knows Karen O. Or maybe they’re wondering, How is he going to show up here wearing what he’s wearing?

  Think a pair of white Levi’s.

  A light blue V-neck T.

  A pair of low-top Adidas.

  Think also no styled hair, no face makeup, no painted fingernails, and no visible do-rag.

  “Yo, yo bioooooooootch!” Michael sniffs, rubbing his nose before hugging me. “You’re Travis Wayne, brah. You never have to wait in line.”

  I shrug.

  Maybe you’re right.

  Michael flicks his smoke and flips his head at some girls. “It’s like a farmer’s market of dickpigs in there,” he snorts in my ear as the two of us walk inside the Glass Castle, packed full, wall-to-wall with kids, mostly girls—girls who look like they want to look like Karen O.

  And blah, blah, blah, I’m thinking.

  “Here,” Michael says, handing me an orange bracelet. “Put this on. Free PBRs all night.”

  Thanks, man.

  “Shit, I got you, dude.” He rubs his nose. “Grab a beer and come backstage. It’s where we’re all at. We’re partying hard. I’m like on my third straight day of being up.”

  Okay, Michael.

  He turns, cutting and weaving through a ton of traffic, and I push my way to the bar, wedging myself between this guy with a black mullet and a pin-striped blazer, and this girl wearing two off-the-shoulder tops—a yellow one underneath a black one—a pair of black spandex, a black leather glove on her right hand, and black boots.

  I order a shot of Jäger and a PBR and look at the girl, a martini in her gloveless hand, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ song “Maps” blasting from the invisible speakers. She swings her eyes on me. “Do I look good?” she asks.

  You look like every other girl in here except maybe those two.

  I point across the bar at these two girls. One has bright red hair and pink sunglasses on. She’s pretty chubby and is wearing a yellow top with a bear on the front of it.

  The other has orange colored hair and no sunglasses on and she’s wearing a zebra-striped turtleneck with half sleeves and long, dangly earrings.

  “Those girls look like shit,” the girl with the martini tells me.

  They don’t even look that much like girls.

  Martini girl laughs, then turns away, and the bartender puts my drinks in front of me. I pay him for the shot, then slither and slide my way into the backstage area.