by Jason Myers
49.
SO I LEAVE MY HOUSE and drive to the nearest ATM and empty everything I have out of my checking and savings accounts, before doing the exact same thing with my credit cards. Then I figure out where the nearest airline ticket office is and I drive there and purchase a one-way airplane ticket that leaves for the island of Maui in four days.
50.
THAT AFTERNOON, I GO TO visit Kyle.
He’s sitting across the metal bolted-down table with a black eye and fat lip, and I ask him about it, but the only thing he can say is, “Altercation. Cigarettes.”
For most of the visit we sit in silence. He tells me he already knows about Laura and Cliff from Michael. He tells me he already knows about Chris from Michael. He tells me that Emily’s mother and father were here last week and told him that they’d never be able to find it in their hearts to forgive him. Then he tells me he heard I was moving to LA and I don’t want to say anything about Hawaii, so I nod, and I tell him how stoked my father is about everything.
“I thought you hated your father,” he says, sneering.
Maybe I do. But he’s stoked.
We span more time, saying nothing, looking everywhere but at each other—spanning time until one of the security guards behind Kyle yells, “Visiting time is over, folks. Wrap it up now!”
Kyle nods his head slowly. “I have to go back to my cell,” he says.
I know you do.
“Have fun in LA.”
I don’t say anything.
He stands up. “Write me sometime.”
Okay Kyle.
I hold my fist out.
“Bye, Travis.”
Kyle turns around without touching my fist. He walks away from me instead and I watch him disappear into a small doorway with the much older, much bigger, much more violent prisoners.
51.
LATER THAT NIGHT, MY PARENTS want me to meet them at the Red Tie for dinner, but I do not want to go to the Red Tie because I do not want to run into that waitress Maggie ever, ever again.
I take a shower, rubbing my skin raw with hot water, thinking about how I’m going to get out of the dinner, thinking about how I don’t think I can go through with it, thinking about popping a thousand-milligram Vicodin, or a twenty-milligram Valium, or maybe a handful of Xanax, and sleeping until I die.
I’m tired. I do not want to do anything anymore. And when I’m through with my shower, I call my father and ask him if he’ll at least pick another restaurant.
Anyplace besides the Red Tie, I tell him.
“I won’t.”
Please, Dad.
“The Red Tie was your mother’s idea. Tonight was your mother’s idea. She thought it would be nice if the three of us spent some time together before you and I leave for LA.”
But I—
“Travis Matthew Wayne,” my father says, sternly, coldly, “your mother is going through a tough time right now with your sister in rehab. So fucking humor me and get your ass to the restaurant.”
Fine.
• • •
I arrive at the restaurant almost forty minutes late and walk through the tinted doors, telling the hostess I’m with the Wayne party. She tells me to follow her and leads me up the stairs to the VIP room.
A small sense of relief hits me as I approach the table my mother and father are seated at and don’t see Maggie anywhere.
Maybe she’s off tonight.
There are two empty chairs on the other side from them and I slide myself into the one across from my father, who tonight is dressed down in a white Gucci shirt, sleeves rolled to his mid-arms, unbuttoned at the top, tucked into a pair of beige slacks. He finishes off a glass of champagne and then grabs the bottle of Dom Pérignon sitting in front of him and refills his glass.
From somewhere above me is the sound of Frank Sinatra singing “The Best Is Yet to Come,” and suddenly I’m eight years old again and it’s winter, nighttime, and a small shower of snowflakes trickling down from the starlit sky outside.
I’m sitting at a table, illuminated by the wavy, orangish light coming from the candles floating on the water in the wineglasses at the center of the table, wearing a black tuxedo and a pair of shiny black shoes. My hair is combed and parted firmly to the left, and people keep coming up to me and grabbing my arm and telling me how much I look like my father.
Sitting next to me in a white dress with black laces strung around the waist of it is my little sister. Her snowy blond hair hangs past her shoulder blades and has been combed out extensively, and all of these people keep telling my mother and father and me that Vanessa is an absolute doll. A perfect-looking girl. As beautiful as they’ve ever seen. “You guys are gonna have to keep an eye on her when she grows up,” they all wink and smile and nod.
The place we’re at is called the Chateau Ballroom, and more than three hundred people have gathered here to celebrate the tenth wedding anniversary of Lance and Scarlett Wayne, who soon leave the table to dance.
About halfway through Frank Sinatra’s “The Way You Look Tonight,” my sister leans over to me, twirling an elastic hair bow between two fingers, and says, “Mommy and Daddy look really happy.”
It’s ’cause they are, Vanessa, I say.
And then my mother’s aunt whispers, “I’ve never seen two people who look that in love. I only hope all of you stay this happy forever. I really do.”
Jump back to right now.
My father sets his glass down after taking a drink, killing almost half of it. Looking at his wristwatch, he says, “You’re really going to have to do some work on this punctuality thing, Travis.”
My lips squeeze together tightly as my eyes dart from him to my mother, who has her elbows on the table, her face between her hands, and is staring idly at the empty chair across from her, the one beside me, the one my sister would normally be occupying. And I actually miss Vanessa right now and all of her snotty, bullshit looks. The condescending remarks. Watching her get loaded on liquor. Every single guy staring and gawking at her with their mouths wide open, lines of drool hanging from their chins.
These are the things I miss most about my sister.
But when my mother notices me watching her, she tries to force her lips into a smile, which doesn’t really work well at all, and then she drops her hands and looks at my father, who’s still talking about my tardiness.
Saying, “You’re not going to get anywhere by showing up late.”
Snapping, “Ninety percent of anything you do is simply showing up.”
Snorting, “Your being late for everything is really turning into an epidemic.”
“Christ, Lance,” my mother cuts in. “Just stop it.”
My father scrunches his face. “What?”
And my mother goes, “Just cut the shit, okay?”
And I’m thinking, The Wayne Party.
I’m thinking, Some fucking party.
My father grunts and downs the rest of his champagne.
Maggie walks over to our table with an order pad.
“Hi, Travis,” she smiles. “How are you? Good, I hope.”
I feel like an absolute ass. A fucking joke. Sitting here with Maggie standing over me, her face reminding me of all of my failure, like this huge poster, this giant list, this big mirror reflecting back to me everything I’ve never done right.
Her face is the word “innocent,” the word I misspelled during the first round of a spelling bee competition in fifth grade with my parents in attendance.
It’s the goldfish that died because I forgot to feed it when I was in seventh grade.
It’s the night I forgot to pick up my sister from a friend’s house when I was sixteen and she was mugged and beaten up while she walked around trying to find a cab.
Instead of it really being Maggie’s face I’m staring at, it’s the face of a dead girl in a Hawaii motel room.
“Would you like something to drink?” Maggie asks after my lack of response to her previous question.
How
about a Bud?
A large grin cuts through her face. “A nonalchoholic Budweiser.”
Don’t start shit, I say. You won’t win this.
“Hey, I’m just doing my job, Travis. I know you’re underage and me serving you a beer is against the law. It could get me into a lot of trouble.”
Both my mother and father look at each other, then at me, and I know they’re about to get involved, which is not a good thing for her job security at all, so I stop this quickly.
I say, Just get me some ice water instead.
“And water it is,” Maggie says, grinning still, because she thinks she’s gotten the better of me.
After she leaves to retrieve the drink, my father turns his attention back to me and asks what that exchange was all about.
I shrug.
I don’t know, Dad. I guess she just sucks.
Maggie returns with my water and sets it in front of me. “Are you all ready to order now?” she asks.
My mother and father look at me and I tell them to go ahead, that I already know what I want, and then I pick up the water and it’s warm. There are no ice cubes in the glass at all.
And I say, Excuse me. I ordered an ice water.
Maggie, who was jotting down my mother’s order, looks at me and goes, “Huh?”
I ordered an ice water and there is no ice in this glass. This water is warm. I wanted ice in my water.
“You just said water,” Maggie snorts, her cheeks turning red. “You ordered water.”
And my mother says, “That’s not correct at all. I heard him say ice water, and besides, I’ve never had a glass of water at a restaurant without ice in it. Did you do this on purpose?”
“No, I didn’t,” Maggie snaps. “He said water and I gave the kid water.”
“Hey,” my father jumps in. “Do you have a problem with my son?”
“No, I—”
But my father cuts her off. He says, “I want to see Jesse, your manager, right now.”
“Fine,” Maggie shrieks, then spins from our table and disappears into the kitchen.
My father empties the bottle of champagne into his glass and says, “That’s too bad.”
What is, Dad?
“It’s too bad Maggie’s about to lose her job.”
I sit back and say, No, don’t. Please don’t get her fired.
“Are you kidding me?” my father snaps. “She was being a fucking bitch to my son and my wife.”
But it’s not her, Dad. It’s me. I hung out with her one night and it did not go well at all.
“Did you sleep with her, Travis?” my mother asks.
“Scarlett,” my father snorts, grabbing her arm. “Don’t ask him that.”
Leaning forward against the table, I say, Whatever, Dad. It’s no biggie.
I look at my mother and think, Fuck it.
I say, I tried to have sex with her but I couldn’t get it up. I was too high on cocaine.
“Jesus Christ,” my mother snorts.
And my father lunges at me and backhands me across the face so hard that my neck snaps sharply to the right and bounces right back up like I’m some sort of bobblehead doll.
Fuck you, Dad.
“What?” my father snorts. “Fuck me?”
“Lance, Travis,” my mother pleads, trying to stop us.
But my father goes, “No, Scarlett.” He goes, “Did you just hear what came out of his goddamn mouth?”
And I say, I thought you’d be superstoked, Dad. Knowing that your son is hooking up and fucking hot girls. I fuck lots of hot girls, Dad. I don’t hang out with ugly people. Ever.
And I’m saying this loud enough for all of the tables around us to hear it. Then the manager shows up.
Putting a hand on my father’s shoulder, he asks, “Is there a problem with one of our waitresses, Mr. Wayne?”
No, I bark, before my father can answer. It’s all me. It’s my fault. Maggie is awesome. I’m not feeling well. I’m actually leaving.
“No you’re not,” my father snaps.
Yes I am.
I jump out of the chair and look at my mother, her face back in her hands, eyes covered, breathing very quickly and heavily.
Mom.
She doesn’t look up.
I’m sorry about this.
“Travis, sit down,” my father orders.
No, Dad. I’m leaving.
“Why?” he asks.
Because I’m already gone.
I shove the chair away from me and leave the Red Tie Restaurant.
• • •
I end up at Rawson Park. It’s the only place I can think to go to avoid my parents for the rest of the night.
The park is empty and I sit on a tabletop and call Claire. She answers her phone and tells me she’s working at the Inferno bar. It’s superloud in the background and she’s yelling, “I don’t want to talk to you!”
I know you don’t. I was just calling you to tell you that I’m going back to Hawaii to turn myself in.
“What?” she yells. “I can’t hear you!”
I’m going back—
“What?” she yells again.
Somewhere nearby a dog is barking loudly. The owner comes out and tells the dog to shut up but it keeps barking, so the owner yells louder and louder and then I hear the dog make this horrible squealing noise and then I don’t hear it bark again.
And Claire shouts, “Are you still there?”
Yes! I’m—
“Well, you shouldn’t be. Don’t ever call me again!”
Click.
Fuck!
My voice echoes.
“Fuck you!” I hear someone yell back.
I squeeze my phone as hard as I can. Then,
BAM!
I slam it against the top of the picnic table.
BAM! I do it again.
BAM! I do it and the phone face cracks.
BAM! I do it and everything breaks. I smash the phone into a billion fucking pieces and I pound the table with my fist repeatedly, stopping only when I notice that my knuckles are bleeding.
Turning around, I look at the tornado slide, then sprint to it, and climb up its ladder, sitting in the same spot where Laura and I had sex. I’m trying to cry, but nothing is coming out, and I lean back against the cool metal and imagine bugs, big black ones, like roaches and crickets, crawling around the inside of my brain.
I imagine red raindrops falling all around me.
Lying at the top of this tornado slide, imagining how this city would look in flames, I slip my bloody hand down my pants. I wrap my fingers around my penis and massage it until it gets hard. Then I begin sliding it furiously up and down. As fast as I can. Going at it at it at it.
Visions of Cliff jamming a rusted coat hanger between Laura’s legs pound my head, and my eyes pop open.
My mouth dives for air.
I tilt my head forward, my body covered in sweat, and I slowly lift the crotch of my pants and pull my closed hand out.
I clench it as hard as I can, so hard that it looks like the veins are going to pop out of it, and when I open my hand again, a white and red stream of come slides past my wrist and down my forearm, and I sit up and find where Laura wrote our names and slosh the rosy red slime across the heart she drew.
52.
WHEN I WAKE UP THE next day, I find a note from my father, stuck to my bedroom door. A note that goes:
Travis,
Please take your car down to Rex’s shop on Kennedy Street this afternoon. It needs to be fixed up before you leave so it can go back to the dealership.
Thank you,
Dad
P.S.
Don’t worry about what happened at dinner last night. I’m sorry for slapping you. Your mother will be fine. Her recovery time is much quicker these days. The only thing you need to be thinking about is school. I’m proud of you. To see my only son carry on in my footsteps has always been a dream of mine and I couldn’t be happier with the choice you made.
&nb
sp; I tear the letter from the door, crumple it into a ball, and set it on fire in the bathroom sink.
• • •
While the car is getting worked on, I leave Rex’s shop to grab a bite to eat. I lurk down to Taco Bell and stuff a number six down my throat, and on my way back to the shop I see Michael emerge from a crappy basement apartment holding a fog machine, an old man by his side.
I shout Michael’s name and wave an arm in the air and he gives me the rock horns. “Come over here!” he shouts.
I step into the street and wait for a break in the traffic, then jog over to him.
The old man smiles and walks away.
“I thought you were gone,” Michael says.
Not for three days.
I look at the fog machine.
What’s going on? What’s up with the old dude and the machine?
Michael, who is wearing a pink V-neck T from American Apparel and a pair of dark blue jeans, and has a black rag wrapped around his left wrist, lifts his shades and sniffs, “That old dude was Gerry. He sells hot electrical equipment from his shit-hole apartment right there.” Michael turns and points at the door he just walked out of. “The band needs a fog machine and I just scored us one.”
I light a cigarette.
A fog machine, huh?
“Yeah. We’re shooting a video next month for this song I’m working on right now. In the video, the four of us are gonna be in an unmarked black van, stuck in traffic. Suddenly the back doors fly open, a shitload of fogs rolls out, and the band jumps out, one by one, on like the gayest fucking scooters we can find.”
I start to laugh.
What’s the song?
“Well, I’ve only written the first verse of it, but the title is ‘Jewelry, Electronics, and Firearms.’ ”
Oh, wow. The David Crosby story, I say.
Michael smacks me in the arm, grinning. “Nice one,” he says.
Pause.
“What do you got going right now, Trav? You got some time?”
I reach for my cell phone but remember I don’t have one anymore. Fuck it.
Yeah, I got time.
“Come up to the pad with me. You can check the verse out. Kick it a little before you leave.”
All right.
Michael and I head toward his place, but at the end of the block, he makes a left.