Someone coughs, three times.
If you lie and watch long enough, along the curving ridge of Guerrero Street, every description will have an action to complement it. Every reason will have a reason not to.
Soon, Johnny will come in with breakfast on a tray.
Thursday will be Friday and the morning’s noises, laughter, anger, orgasm, will thrum along my spine.
Welcome Thieves
There’s a new pool hall just off campus. The door guy has a shaved head, warns Adam to take it easy on the cues and then keeps his change.
“Don’t sweat it,” the cocktail girl says. “He just got out of prison.”
Adam pretends to line up a shot, checks her out. Nerd glasses, no tats, cheap silver rings on every finger.
“Me too. We were probably on the same tier.”
“You hang with the Aryans?”
“Muslim Brotherhood.”
“What you in for?”
“That’s a question can get you shanked.”
“C’mon. Ponzi scheme?”
“Mann Act.”
She laughs. Adam drops a twenty on her tray.
“What happens if I order a drink?”
“I’ll bring it.”
“What if I don’t tip?”
“You will.”
“What’s your name?”
“Eve.”
On Friday they go see a saxophone player and slam tequila, end up in the corner of a dumpy Mission bar, kiss along with the beat and through the changes. Adam winds his hand inside Eve’s skirt, plays with the elastic band of her underwear, her uniform being just about the cutest thing in town — black top, black mini, HI, I’M YOUR SERVER!
People try to flag them, order drinks. It’s a kick.
And then it’s a month.
And they still don’t hate each other yet.
Eve’s just south of pretty, hair cut in an architectural sweep, silver hoops and red cowboy boots. Foot up on the rail, knocking them back. She exudes a complete lack of bullshit, guys staring into their ice thinking how lucky Adam is, thinking screw the models and heiresses, a girl who can laugh deep and raw, who can incorrectly quote Proust while slamming a double Jim Beam and then lean across the felt for a killer cross-side bank, is almost certainly worth her weight in pure uncut Turkish hashish.
“Give me a sense of humor over chocolate and flowers,” Eve says, racking the balls after another win. “Any day of the week.”
Dudes along the rail laugh, raise their drinks.
“Tonight we will not sleep on the petals of the roses I will never buy you,” Adam whispers, kisses behind her ear.
THERE ARE MATINEES. Eve likes them dim, with rubber monsters. Adam is a sucker for subtitles. They trade music. Dissonant classical. Nina Simone. Mountain with Leslie West. They talk politics, talk literature, declare the ironic cowardly on a blanket in her blanket-sized backyard, mojitos and carrot sticks and a Dixie cup of ranch dressing.
Eve bats her eyelashes.
“Well, should we go upstairs?”
They’ve been chaste so far. Why? Because it’s hard work. Because it’s more fun to be exasperated, pant in the hallway, force each other to unlatch and say goodnight. Just like their parents had to. Like their parents’ parents. Let other people give in to carnal stupidity, the ease of obviousness, all the way home on a bus full of gangbangers like he just shoplifted a crow bar.
When it finally happens it will be a thing of beauty, a revelation.
Adam rolls in the grass, pretends to consider.
“Yeah, okay.”
Eve’s apartment is full of fem textbooks, Steinems and Dworkins and Paglias. She spells women womyn, worships PJ Harvey, breathes a combo of dirty and oh, darling into his ear, switches between position and era and arbitrary gender designation.
No one has ever called Adam a filthy dyke before.
Afterward Eve sits up and tells him they didn’t just fuck.
“We didn’t?”
“I enveloped you. There’s a difference.”
He pops in a new disc, Dolly’s The Bargain Store, gets up and makes a pair of G&Ts. They play chess naked in the kitchen, stick to the seats while Adam demolishes Eve’s advance of unprotected pawns.
“Listen, I think we should make it official.”
“What, like a referee?”
“I think we should be committed.”
“What, like Bellevue?”
Adam bites his tongue. Literally. It hurts.
“No, like boyfriend and girlfriend.”
“Sorry pal, but you can take that patriarchy and bake it.”
He brings out the king’s horse, forks her rook. “Why, you want to see other people?”
She considers her position, doomed. “I want to not be interested in your opinion if I do.”
A fly circles in front of the stove, bobs and weaves. Adam reaches out.
“Got it.”
“Not a chance.”
“You think I’m lying, open your mouth.”
“Fuck that.”
He holds out his fist. “Scared?”
Eve shows molar. He presses his hand to her lips. The fly zips in. She runs to the sink, gags and spits.
Not gloating seems cooler, so Adam mixes another drink, heavy on the G, light on the T. She grabs his shoulder from behind, wrenches him to the floor. The drink spills, ice rattling into the corners.
Eve straddles Adam, pins his arms beneath her knees.
“Fine. We’re a couple.”
“Wait, really?”
“Really.”
She sticks out her tongue.
He bites it.
Dear Gabriel,
It’s the best of times and the slightly less best of times. Actually, I’m in sort of a bind here. I’d tell you all about it except then you’d be an accessory and when I get squeezed by the Feds you’ll be the first one I rat out. I’m not proud of my weaknesses, but at least I know what they are. Hey, has your mom talked you into joining the Peace Corps yet? If so, I say don’t sweat the grades. Party with your friends before it’s too late and you’re digging a well in Gambia.
Love, Uncle Adam
He wakes up, scared.
There’s a noise at the door. After a while it goes away.
For weeks Adam has been pretending everything’s fine. No one wants a boyfriend with baggage, right? But, seriously, shit is getting real.
If Adam had just moved into a different building he would never have met the guy across the hall. Bruce Parsley. Tall, bald hustler in a floppy Gilligan hat. Has PARSE tattooed on his neck and when you meet him points to it and goes, “Call me Parse.” Bruce Parsley spends every afternoon in the driveway under a beach umbrella. With a cooler and a tracksuit. Dudes walk by and slap five with folded twenties in their palm, walk off with merchandise. Different stuff, depends on the day. Only thing Parse doesn’t move is drugs. He points to a needle and a happy-faced spoon tattooed on his arm, “I don’t move no drugs.”
If Adam had just grabbed that studio in Piedmont, he never would have opened his yap, bragged that he was all about business, a killer salesman, crushed the numbers on the big board in the back room at Comp-U City, lit blunts with Benjamins, could talk an Eskimo into a crate of seal jelly, could get an Arab to buy rubbers packed with sand.
“It’s not what you study, it’s how you use it on the street.”
Bruce Parsley grinned. “That so?”
“Hell, yeah,” Adam said, wanting to be a tough guy without the balls to step back and laugh, Hey, man, forget it, I’m full of shit.
And now Bruce Parsley is righteously pissed. Could be for any number of slights or business aggravations, but probably rooted in the fact that he fronted Adam nine Samsung 9s in a plastic bag, the ones with the retina display and voice-activated package, handed them over like, “You know what this means, right?”
“Definitely.”
“You know I know where you live, right?”
“Of course.”
Bruce Parsley nodded, popped a can of Old Mil with his thumb.
“Don’t fuck with me son, I go ten deep.”
Adam immediately lined up a buyer for all the units at a nice profit, waited down at the waiting spot. But the rich prep kids his friend had vouched for turned out to be four speed-metals in a roofer’s truck. They revved over, wiry and feral, snatched the bag, and sped away.
Now Adam practically has to sneak into his own place, phone buzzing twice an hour, texts piling up.
BParse69: Adam, this ain’t no LOL. Need units or cash asap
BParse69: Adam, hounds r comin if u don respnd 2day
BParse69: Adam u r so dead. K?
Eve rolls over, bad breath. But the good kind. Sour apple. She’s gorgeous, half-awake, messy hair and the sort of hangover eyes stylists spend hours faking on models. Adam’s throat constricts. From hyperbole? Okay, she’s not gorgeous. But for him? Perfect. Is he so freaking lucky? He is.
“Morning.”
“Hey.”
Adam gets up and starts an omelet, sauteés onions and peppers before realizing there are no eggs, drops the whole steaming mess into the sink.
Eve takes a thunderous piss, sits at the kitchen island in nothing but boxers.
“Listen, we need to talk.”
Adam prays not pregnant, but if so resolves to handle it way cooler this time.
“Sure. What about?”
“In three days my sister’s getting married.”
He almost tears up with relief.
“Hey, that’s great.”
“Yeah. Except for the part where I so fucking hate her. Like, ten years and eleven thousand dollars worth of therapy later, our drama is even less resolved.”
“What about your parents?”
“Don’t get mad, I was totally gonna tell you. Dead. Cessna. Tried to land in a cornfield. Was saving the story for a night we had some wine and I felt like crying. Anyway, I get a call yesterday, Uncle Benny is drunk and going on about how I have to come. He keeps saying you’re a bridesmaid. You’ll regret it. Trust me on this.”
“Wait, you’re Jewish?”
“No. Why?”
“Um, the cadence?”
“Sorry, Lutheran.”
“Anyway, Uncle Benny is?”
“Dad’s brother. Sort of takes care of us now. You ever heard of Winter Kills?”
“Sure.”
Eve pretends to look at the watch she’s not wearing, taps the imaginary face.
“Let it sink in a minute.”
He does. Nothing’s there. Until it is.
“Wait, your uncle is Benny Winters?”
“I mean, yeah.”
Winter Kills used to make upper-crusty sportswear that somehow blew up with the lower crust, b-boys and corner loungers suddenly wearing five-hundred-dollar windbreakers and shooting each other over gold deck shoes. There were a few lawsuits. Poor PR decisions. Eventually the Internet banded together and wrote them off as a modern corporate plantation. Protests, broken windows, million-lounger marches. So Winter Kills shuttered for a year and rebranded, changed the name to Welcome Thieves. Opened again with leather and fringe. Choke chains and biker boots. Edible gag balls. It was so weird it worked. So stupid it was brilliant. Now they’re bigger than ever.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Don’t get excited, Uncle Benny’s got cement pockets. But he is offering two plane tickets. Plus a hotel room.”
Adam imagines standing next to the guy with a drink, turning on the charm. Discussing inventory, capital. Labor relations. CEO shit. Totally not bringing up Indonesian sweatshops or child labor, even just to be like, What else would those fucking kids do? Bottom line, Adam has legit ideas. Good ones. A dating app for strippers called Euphemism. Dental house calls. A brand of pork soda called Porksoda. He just needs a mentor. An investor. Any of the -estors.
But he’s smart enough to take his enthusiasm and bake it.
“So you want me to come. Like, as your boyfriend.”
“As my amanuensis.”
“I totally know what that means. I just forget right now.”
“It means you look good in a tux so all my aunts don’t waste calories wondering am I a disciple of Sappho.”
“That’s a Lesbos reference, right? As in Isle of?”
Eve nods in a way that says she loves that he’s following along, has a foot in the game.
“But I don’t have a tux.”
“Who wears a tux?”
“I don’t have a suit.”
“You got pants?”
He looks down.
“Yeah.”
“Listen, if you’re not up to it, I have other candidates.”
There’s a banging at the door. The new steel hasps are tested. The banging gets louder, loudest, goes away.
“Okay, I’m in.”
“Why are you whispering?”
“I’m not.”
“Are you sure you can afford to miss a week of classes?”
Adam’s major is Trend Creation. It’s even dumber than it sounds. The Internet is already one giant pop-up ad. Movies are two reels of product placement with the occasional actor. All modern relationships are basically people holding hands in outdoor tubs, looking at a sunset and waiting for the Cialis to take hold. There’s not a single person left on the planet with spare mental territory for things they actually want. Adam knows he should switch to a hot new discipline, like deprogramming. His very best idea: raise cash to build the Paleo Existence, a theme park in Wyoming filled with dank caves, bison fur skirts, and animatronic sabertooths. Unloose modern hunter-gatherers in a pristine environment surrounded by electric fences. Charge bearded hipsters two hundred for a bag of salt, five for a stone knife and a torch. Let them get their serious homo-habilis on for a few weeks, cudgel and hair-drag, make new gods of the stars.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I can.”
“Good, because there’s one other problem.”
Okay, now it’s definitely pregnant.
“What?”
“I don’t fly.”
“Don’t?”
“Won’t. Ever.”
“So we have to drive?”
“Yup.”
“Where is it?”
“The wedding?”
“No, the circumcision.”
“You ever heard of Vegas?”
Dear Gabriel,
People need water to survive. Which is a strange thing, since people are mostly made of water to begin with. Although some scientists, one Lama, and a couple hippies think we’re made of dark matter. Which is also a strange thing, because we’re not sure what dark matter is, or if it even exists. Which means we’re mostly made up of conjecture. We are walking theories. Except for people who can’t walk. Or theorize. Don’t ever do drugs, Gabriel. Although, when your grandmother told me not to do drugs, I went right out and immediately did drugs. So forget I said anything. You’ll do whatever the hell you want to in the end. Dark matter always does.
Love, Uncle Adam
He hits a used car lot deep in the Oakland wasteland, buys an ’89 Taurus for three hundred bucks. Cigarette burns across the dash, a sheen of previous drivers you couldn’t disinfect with kerosene. Then forges notes to each of his professors alluding to something undiagnosed, but likely contagious. Finally wins a hundred in gas money hustling lames at nine ball, packs a duffel, tiptoes past Bruce Parsley’s door.
Beep-beep-ba-beep.
Eve hops in the passenger side, looks hot, black bodysuit and red lips, turns the radio to NPR. A man who sounds like a receding hairline discusses the Egyptian situation. Then an interview with John Updike’s mistress, who insists Rabbit was a lousy lay.
“She sounds like fun.”
“Chick’s a human stain.”
“That’s a Roth joke, right? ’Cause they’re, like, similarly misogynistic in style?”
Eve leans over and kisses him, buckles his seatbelt and then hers.<
br />
They take side streets to the bridge, find a space in the capillary action, one honking Prius after another. Eve grabs her bag, a vintage pink oval Tina Marie probably once hauled around Malibu. She finds a cellophane, dabs at her nose. Adam doesn’t like coke but is a firm believer that things he doesn’t like and what anyone else might need to make it through another day on this depressing fuckhead of a planet are two entirely different propositions. Or at least he’s said that in bars sometimes. To girls. It usually works.
Eve cracks a textbook, flips pages.
“Wait, are you serious?”
“I have a paper due when we get back.”
“On obsessive behavior?”
She gives him the finger, speed-reads aloud. Apparently matriarchal societies flourished before the time of Jesus but had been branded heretics by early Christians. In India, women burned themselves on pyres when their husbands died, in a custom called suttee. There’s a whole chapter on Madonna, and another, even longer one, on the less-appreciated Brontë.
Then it’s midnight and they’re somewhere south of L.A. Adam is pretty sure he should have cut east at some point. There’s a sign for an all-night diner.
“Hungry?”
“Starving.”
The place is packed, truckers, bartenders just off shift. Suspenders and denim. Horsetail wreaths and George Jones framed in charcoal. The waitress is cute in her little outfit, white nylons. Sort of a punky haircut, short, uneven.
“We’re not really handicapped,” Eve tells her, points to the Taurus.
“Don’t worry about it. Only one who ever parks in that spot is the cook, unless you count fat a handicap.”
Eve orders eggs, pancakes, bacon, home fries, coffee, bagel, sweet roll, sausage, potatoes, rye toast, wheat toast, Kix, jelly.
Adam’s phone buzzes.
BParse69: In yr apartment right now.
BParse69: Taking shit on yr bed. Dude u ever heard of thread count?
BParse69: Hope nothing important on this comp u ter.
“I’m gonna go find a sports section.”
Eve makes a face.
“You hate sports.”
“I meant world news.”
The little convenience store is closed. He leaves some dimes on top of a stack of bound Clarion-Ledgers, sees the Taurus has a ticket beneath the wiper.
“Raw luck,” says a guy smoking two Winstons at once.
Welcome Thieves Page 17