Exit Here.

by Jason Myers

  Where are you going?

  Michael points to this dented, wine colored station wagon parked next to the curb. “We’re taking this,” he says.

  Is it yours?

  “Nope.” He walks around to the passenger side door and unlocks it. “It’s Rodney’s.” He climbs into the wagon and crawls to the driver’s side.

  I walk to the door and look inside. There are no real seats. The driver-side seat is a small wooden stool that’s been nailed to the floorboard. The passenger-side seat is a white lawn chair that’s been bolted down. The backseat is a small iron bench that’s been welded into the car floor.

  Are you kiddin’ me, Michael? Rodney drives this? You drove this?

  Michael sets the fog machine behind the stool he’s on. “Yeah, what’s wrong? It runs.”

  I shrug. Toss my cigarette.

  Sweet.

  I plop into the lawn chair and close the door.

  Why do you have it?

  Turning the ignition, Michael goes, “I was at the Cheetah bar last night with a bunch of people and somehow I got left there by myself, so I walked to Rodney’s apartment ’cause he only lives a block away. But he was all passed out when I showed up, and instead of assing out on his nasty sofa, I saw his car keys sitting on the table and I jacked them, then jacked his car.”

  The wagon finally starts.

  Does he know?

  “Of course,” Michael snorts, looking at me. “I called him today. I told him. He wasn’t happy, but hell, bullshit happens, ya know.” Michael slowly turns the car out of the space and we loom down to the end of the block and make a left on Kennedy Street.

  “Don’t do anything to draw more attention to us,” Michael warns, pulling up to a stop sign. “I’m pretty sure this ride isn’t street legal.”

  You think?

  Michael nods. Says, “I’m pretty sure,” right as a cop rolls past us, both officers glaring at Michael and me.

  “Shit,” Michael snorts, then guns the car up a block, whipping it into the parking lot of a Burger King, and eking out the other end of it, stopping behind this large building.

  We sit for about two minutes before Michael goes, “You think we’re cool?”

  Probably.

  “Righteous,” he barks, cranking up the volume of the Vaz CD we’re listening to and gunning the wagon back onto the street, back to his pad.

  We walk to the front of his building, me holding the fog machine and Michael fumbling with his keys. When he finally gets the right one in the lock, he looks at me and says, “You know I was just fucking around with you the other night, right?”

  Were you?

  “Of course I was, Trav. I mean, I was a little cranky and strung out, but shit, I got so many fuckin’ things going on, ya know. I can’t be expected to be rad all the time. You know that, Pony.”

  I know, Michael.

  “So we’re cool. Me and you. You understand that I wasn’t being a dick, I was just being me with no sleep.”

  Yeah, man. I understand.

  He winks. “That’s why we’re close, brah.”

  I follow him up to his place.

  Inside he tells me to put the fog machine wherever. I set it next to one of the sofas and Michael turns his iTunes on and starts blasting some Mötley Crüe.

  “Here,” he says, walking at me.

  What?

  He hands me a wrinkled piece of paper with the words “Jewelry, Electronics, and Firearms” scratched at the top of it. “Read it,” he says. “It’s the first verse I was telling you about.”

  Nice.

  “Take a seat, man. Stay awhile.”

  I jump over the back of the nearest sofa and sit down. Michael walks into the kitchen, returning like a second later with half a twelve pack of Budweiser. “Help yourself,” he tells me, dropping them on the floor next to me, disappearing into his room.

  I light a cigarette and start reading the song lyrics, which go:

  When you’ve reached the breaking point,

  Grown tired of despair,

  When you’ve fallen through the cracks,

  Spiral desperation’s everywhere,

  When your back’s pushed to the wall,

  When there’s no one left to call,

  When your soul’s been set to burn,

  And there’s nowhere left to turn,

  There’s always jewelry, electronics, and firearms,

  Jewelry, electronics, and firearms

  A huge grin parts my lips as I fold the piece of paper and set it down on the coffee table. I hear the door to Michael’s room open.

  Taking a drag, I yell, I like it a lot, man!

  “Like what?” a girl’s voice answers.

  I jump, startled. Look to my left. The lead singer from that band Patrick Bateman is walking into the living room, her hair pulled back, her awesome body stuck in a pair of tiny American Apparel running shorts and a faded Black Flag T-shirt.

  She stops behind the couch across from me, sliding her purse strap over her shoulder. “What do you like?” she asks again.

  I point at the piece of paper.

  The song he’s writing.

  “Yeah, it’s okay,” she says. “You’re the guy moving to LA soon.”

  That’s the rumor.

  “What’s in LA?”

  USC.

  “Oh, shit,” she snaps. “Look at you. Mr. Bigtime.”

  Are you trying to take a shot at me?

  “No.”

  Then keep that “bigtime” shit to yourself.

  She sticks her tongue out and Michael reappears holding a mirror with a pile of coke on it.

  He looks at the girl looking at me, then looks at me looking at the girl, and smirks and nods his head like he’s won some sort of a contest.

  “Party time,” he says, dropping into the couch next to me, setting the coke on the coffee table next to his song.

  “You two know each other already, right?” he smiles, waving a finger back and forth between her and me.

  Not really. But I saw her band play.

  “Awesome.”

  The girl looks back at me and shrugs. She walks over to Michael and leans down and kisses him and tells him she has to get going. “But I’ll see you later?” she asks.

  “You’ll see me later,” he smiles. They kiss again and the girl says bye to me and leaves.

  Michael leans forward and starts making lines on the mirror. “Damn, she’s something else,” he comments.

  I light another cigarette.

  When did you two start hooking up?

  “A couple of weeks ago. After this party. She came back here and I slayed it. Finally.”

  Pause.

  He looks up from the coke.

  “You jealous?”

  No.

  “Maybe a little?”

  I don’t think so.

  “Yeah, whatever, Trav.” Michael lunges for the beer and grabs one. “She’s a really awesome girl. I think I’m really into her.”

  So what, do you love her now?

  He pops the can open. “Maybe.”

  I roll my eyes, think about leaving.

  “Shit, man,” he snaps. “It’s almost three. Saved by the Bell is coming on. Will you shut off the tunes?”

  I get up and walk over to the computer and shut the music off and sit back down, ashing into the tray.

  Michael flips the channels until he finds TBS. He jacks the volume and racks up six lines of blow. “So you’re moving again,” he says, swinging his eyes on me. “You’re heading for Los Angeles, huh?”

  I am. So what?

  He starts to hum along with the Saved by the Bell theme song, then stops. Says, “I can’t believe you’re actually going to leave again. I cannot believe you’re going to leave all of this.”

  What is this, Michael?

  I smudge my cig out.

  He spreads his arms and says, “You know, Trav, this.”

  But the only things I see are piles of drugs, a stack of Kobe Tai porn,
a fog machine, and a pair of supertight jeans.

  Things that seemed so important like nine months ago.

  Things I don’t care if I ever see again.

  Michael opens a small case full of short red straws while I look back at the TV.

  Today’s rerun of Saved by the Bell is the one where Slater’s dad wants him to join the armed services just like he did, only the things is, that’s not what AC wants. What AC wants is to continue his standout wrestling career at the University of Iowa, so he hatches a plan with Zack Morris. He gets Zack to impersonate him during a meeting with one of the military recruiters, the ultimate goal being to make it seem as though Slater is too crazy and too unfit for the military. The plan goes well until Dick Belding starts poking his nose around in things. He catches Zack red-handed in the act of Slater-impersonating, and all hell breaks loose and Slater is left with the daunting task of confronting his control-freak father.

  Blowing two lines up his nose, Michael goes, “This shit is way too simple, man. Just tell your dad what’s up, ya know? It’s your dad. He should listen. If I was on the show, I’d smack Slater and tell him to quit being a fag about shit and go to Iowa and wrestle.” Michael takes a swig of beer. “That’s why I get mad when I watch this show,” he says. “It’s simple, dude. Everything is way too simple.”

  I don’t really know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything, and he pushes the mirror at me and holds the straw out.

  “Your turn, Trav.”

  No thanks, man. I’m straight.

  “It’s your turn, man.”

  I don’t want any, Michael, okay. I’m fucking over it.

  “Oh right,” Michael snorts, mocking me. “You’re over it, man. You’re just a step above all of us.”

  I didn’t mean it like that.

  Michael flips his hand, like he’s waving me off. “Don’t ever fucking try to explain yourself to me again. I don’t care.”

  Why are you getting mad?

  “Because,” Michael snorts, sliding closer to me, “I think the least you could do is humor me now.” He rubs his nose. “I’ve been really good to you.”

  I know you have.

  “No, I don’t think you do, but that’s fine. It’s fucking cool with me. Have a fucking blast in LA. I mean, it’s not like this shit’s going to go away from you out there.”

  And I’m like, It’s not about getting away from this, so how about we just drop it.

  He snorts another line. “It’s dropped.”

  I dig out my last smoke and light it.

  Have you heard anything from Cliff?

  “Nope.”

  Nothing?

  “Nothing, man. But he’s around,” Michael says, taking another drink. “I know he is. I don’t believe the rumors.”

  Which ones?

  He burps. Blows another rail. “I heard one from this guy who knows this broad from Springfield, who told him that Cliff was in Omaha, holed up in some motel, listening to Nine Inch Nails records backward.”

  Yeah, right.

  “I’m dead serious, Trav. I also heard from some babe who knows this guy who supposedly saw Cliff in Mason City shooting heroin with Katie in the parking lot of a Kentucky Fried Chicken.”

  Inhale. Exhale.

  Now that I can actually buy.

  Michael slams the rest of his beer. Grabs another one. “No way, man. Cliff doesn’t have the resources to do shit. Everyone he knows he either owes money or favors to, not the other way around.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose.

  And Michael’s like, “He’s a junkie. He doesn’t have anywhere to go. The best thing that asshole could do for himself is shove a gun up his mouth and squeeze the trigger.”

  Pause.

  “Bang!” Michael yells as Dave slams into the apartment holding a bottle of Jim Beam and a fistful of socks.

  “I’m drunker than thirty old men in an Arkansas trailer park!” Dave stammers, barely able to stand in front of us.

  “What’s up with the socks?” Michael asks.

  Dave points at him. “Bought ’em for you. They were selling them at the gas station I bought cigarettes from.”

  Dave tosses the socks at Michael, then turns and nods at me. “Travis.”

  Dave.

  “Hey,” Dave shrieks. “I gotta joke for you.”

  Cutting more lines, Michael’s like, “What is it?”

  And Dave slurs, “What’s the best thing about twenty-eight-year-olds?”

  What?

  “What?”

  “There’s twenty of ’em,” Dave chuckles, flopping onto the couch across from me.

  Pause.

  Then Michael’s like, “Oh shit, I get it now. There’s twenty of them.” He starts laughing.

  “Wait, man. Wait,” Dave says, waving his arms in the air. “I got something I bought.” He pulls a black DVD case out. “We have to watch this.”

  “What is it?” Michael asks.

  “I don’t know, but that dude Marco told me I had to go home and watch it. He said I wouldn’t be disappointed.”

  Michael reaches over and takes the case from Dave. He pops the disc into the DVD player and hits play.

  For like a minute, there’s only fuzz and Michael starts laughing. “You got ripped off, man,” he jokes.

  But then the screen flashes and a kid, probably our age, appears on it, hanging from a ceiling beam with a rope tied around his neck, masturbating.

  Think asphyxiation.

  Dave tells Michael to turn the volume up, so Michael does, and with clarity, I can hear the kid moaning as he jacks his piece really hard.

  And Michael’s like, “I wonder what he’s thinking about,” right as the kid shoots off this monster fucking load. I mean, it fucking sprays.

  Just think about mayonnaise bursting out of a garden hose.

  Both Michael and Dave start clapping until the kid tries to untie himself, but can’t do it. At first he puts both his hands around the rope and tries to pull himself up to the beam, but then one of his hands, the one with all the come on it, it slips, and the kid’s neck snaps back.

  He regroups for a moment, then tries to loosen the rope by tugging at it, but nothing is giving and then he really starts to panic. He starts ripping at the rope, like over and over and over again, but it’s just not working.

  His face turns all red.

  His tongue is hanging out.

  His legs are shaking violently.

  And probably five seconds later, the kid stops moving altogether. The noises he was making quit coming.

  He’s totally dead.

  And Dave goes, “Michael, play it again.”

  “I’m already there,” Michael says.

  Why? I ask.

  “’Cause that was awesome,” Dave says.

  No it wasn’t, man. Michael, don’t play it again.

  “Screw you, Trav. It was awesome.” He does two more lines.

  It was fucked up.

  “Hey, man,” Michael barks. “You can leave if you’re not into it. I don’t care.”

  You’re serious?

  “I’m dead serious,” he snorts. “I’m completely over your self-righteous bullshit this summer. You’re not better than anyone here, okay? So if you don’t wanna watch the shit again, bail. Go home. Move to fucking LA. I don’t care.”

  I stand up.

  Fine.

  “I’ve never seen anything this cool,” I hear Dave say.

  I walk to the door.

  “Me neither,” Michael laughs.

  I open it and split.

  53.

  IT’S TWO DAYS BEFORE I’M leaving for Hawaii. Two days before I fly into Maui and take a cab to the police station and deal with whatever needs to be dealt with.

  I swim laps all morning and finish in the early afternoon. When I go inside, my mother is just waking up. She’s walking downstairs in her pajamas, barefoot, her face the color snow white.

  She tries to smile at me but I don’t think she can
, and then she sits on one of the chairs in the living room and puts her face in her hands.

  Mom.

  She doesn’t do anything.

  I’m sorry about the restaurant.

  Still not looking, she groans, “No you’re not. But it’s okay. I’m not mad. It was a stupid idea. Just like your father said it would be.”

  Mom.

  This time she looks up.

  Do you need anything?

  “No,” she whispers.

  I’m going upstairs.

  “Okay.”

  I start walking for my room.

  “Wait,” my mother suddenly snaps. “What are you doing this afternoon?”

  Nothing.

  “I made a care package for your sister but I don’t think I can see her again today. Would you drive to Russdale and give it to her?”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Please,” my mother presses softly, a tear shimmering in each eye. “Would you do that for me, Travis?”

  Yeah. I will.

  “Thank you. And maybe you and I can have lunch before you go off to school. I’d like that.”

  I turn toward the door and walk away.

  • • •

  Russdale is a very small town, almost two hours away from the city.

  I leave the house around three, and before I get on the highway, I stop for cigarettes and coffee at this gas station and run into Chris and April on my way out of the store.

  Chris looks stiff and in pain and April looks timid in her huge shades, hugging herself.

  “I heard you were gone,” Chris says.

  Soon.

  Pause.

  I don’t know when I’ll be back.

  “At Christmas,” Chris says. “Just like last year.”

  No. Probably not. Things are different this year.

  “How?” April shoots. “How is anything different for you?”

  It just is.

  Silence.

  I look at April and she looks at the ground and then I look at Chris and his face is bare and plain.

  “Well, good luck,” Chris says, clearly not meaning it.

  Good luck with what, Chris?

  “Leaving,” he says. “Good luck with leaving, Travis.”

  54.

  I GET TO THE REHAB clinic, which is actually about ten miles outside of Russdale, just after four. The building is old and gray and brick. There are park benches and tables and a bunch of recently planted trees dotting the clinic’s lawn.