The ground was covered with a foot of snow, but the horse paths had been marked. The Suburban fishtailed as soon as I veered across the snow field. Which was wildly fun, but soon I lost traction all together, spun around, and became stuck in a rut. I examined the Suburban’s dials and buttons, and found that it was in two-wheel drive. I shifted into four-wheel drive and floored it. The Suburban leapt out of the rut and blazed through the snow like a Siberian train.
I got onto the horse trial and sped toward the first obstacle, which looked like hay bales. I slowed down and the Suburban easily crawled over the wall of hay. The obstacles were not as fun as driving flat out across the open snow, so I gassed it and flew to the other side of the park. There was a small rise in the ground that I could get airborne off of if I went fast enough. So I went fast enough. In all my driving history, this was the first time I had ever jumped a car. I was beside myself in laughter. This was the most fun I’d had in years. I spun the SUV around, drove back the other direction, and jumped again. I could do this all night. Maybe middle-class life wouldn’t be so bad. When I was making my third lap red and blue lights flashed from the road across the field.. I tensed up and brought the Suburban to a stop.
Last time I ran from the police, things didn’t go so well. But there was a lot of deep snow between me and that squad car. The cop would have to drive through a couple hundred yards of snow to get to me. There’s no way. Unless the cop was also in a lifted 4x4. I rolled my window down. Jennifer Trunchbull would probably send me to prison if I was arrested for trespassing or whatever that cop wanted to get me for. And even if it was just a ticket that the cop had in mind, I was not in a financial position to be paying tickets. I turned the Suburban off so I could hear the cop. The cop wasn’t on the bullhorn and wasn’t driving out into the snow. Absolute silence. The cop turned on a spot light and pointed in my direction. It was a standoff.
Fuck it. I started the Suburban and floored it in the opposite direction of the cop car. I weaved around the obstacles in the horse path. When I left the path, I glided through the crystal sand at over sixty-miles-an-hour with a fifteen-foot tall snowbow in tow. In a matter of seconds I was back on the road and speeding through sleepy neighborhoods. I took random turns and drove through a few empty fields. When I was confident I had shaken the tail, I got back onto the side roads and drove at civil speeds. I tried to go through a drive through at a Taco Bell, but they were closed. The roads were still empty so I could have hauled ass, but I kept it slow in case another police officer spotted me.
I took the long way home, being careful to observe all traffic laws and stay off of the main streets. From the time I left the equestrian park until the time I shut my garage, I didn’t see another police officer. The simple pleasures of small-town living. The LAPD would never have let me get away with that.
Leftover sushi and breakfast from Einstein’s were the only things in my fridge, and the only food in my house. But I hate leftovers. I’d rather sleep on an empty stomach. I crashed into my bed without undressing. It felt like my eyes had just closed when my phone rang. I silenced it and rolled over. But it kept ringing.
“Hello?”
“Caish, your color has been drawn, report for urine testing.”
I grumbled something.
“Caish. Green is today’s color. Are you coming in or are we sending the sheriff to your house?”
“I’m coming in. I’ll be there at eight.”
“It’s eight forty-five, Caish. Come in right now.”
I pulled my phone away from my ear and checked. Sure enough, 8:42 a.m.
“Okay, yeah. On my way.”
“Good. See you in ten minutes.” Jennifer hung up.
I was drunk with sleepiness, but managed to get downtown without any incidents and peed drug- and alcohol-free urine into a plastic cup.
Now that I was out an about, I went to Walmart to buy cereal and milk. The last time I was in Walmart was over a decade ago. Missoula’s Walmart is massive. Packed full of the cheapest products on earth with sweatshop pricing. All sorts of people were pushing around shopping carts full of chintzy cookware, tacky clothing, and worthless trinkets. Children screaming, flopping, and flailing on the linoleum floor. Teenagers meandering the isles with their friends, putting on hats and sunglasses from the racks, taking pictures of themselves, then laughing and looking around. Blue-vested employees preside over the entire mess with an exhausted surrender.
The grocery section was easy to find. With Cap'n Crunch in one hand and a gallon of milk in the other, I returned to the front of the store to find twenty-five cashier stations, with three of them operational. The self-check-out area was closed, and lines to the three cashiers were horrendous. Waiting in line was something I had forgotten about. When you have millions of dollars, lines are not part of your life. Occasionally things get a little backed up at a Lakers or Dodgers game, but for the most part, rich people don’t wait in lines (unless you consider traffic to be a line, in which case everybody waits). What a complete waste of time. There I stood, shoulder to shoulder with the rest of America. The only thing to tell these commoners that I was of a higher ilk than them was my Canada Goose coat. But I doubt most of them knew what a Canada Goose coat was, let alone how much it cost.
After waiting in line for ten minutes, I remembered I needed more tissues. I asked the people behind me in line to hold my spot, but by the time I found the tissues and returned to the line, the people were gone. I explained my situation to the other people in the line, but they insisted I “wait like everybody else.” They didn’t get. I did wait like everybody else. I had just forgotten tissues.
Having braved the line (twice) and escaped that societal stew, I climbed into my Suburban and collected my thoughts. If I didn’t win the lottery again soon, I’d be a regular in this place. My life would be stripped of quality and I would be forced to “shop the sales” and, God forbid, use coupons. I couldn’t let that happen. I drove from Walmart straight to the gas station and bought two hundred dollars’ worth of lottery tickets. Mega Millions, Powerball, and Scratchers. This was my new job, and I had to take it seriously.
My books from Amazon arrived, and I read up on how to track hackers and con artists. But reading is too tedious, so I called a professional investigator, Sara Thomas. She was expensive, but had a stellar track record. She was located in Los Angeles, so we Skyped and I granted her access to remote into my electronic devices. I gave her all of the information I could, and forwarded her the link to the FBI’s file. She told me she would report back to me every Friday with updates on the case. It was refreshing to deal with a professional.
Weeks passed without Alex stopping by. I thought about stopping by Grier’s, but I didn’t want to be needy, so I waited. Another storm rolled through and I had a chance to use my new snow blower. Netflix released a new miniseries that kept me busy for a day. Kevin stopped by to see if I needed any help with removing my icicles. I went on another late-night tear in the Suburban, and this time was not spotted by Missoula’s finest. Every time my color was called, I dutifully reported and deposited urine-filled cups into the bureaucracy. I bought more lottery tickets. I upgraded the sound system in the Suburban. I smoked a pack of cigarettes a day. Sometimes two packs. I bought more interesting books only to discover that it wasn’t the content that made reading boring, it was reading that made reading boring.
The fog of boredom was crawling in. Depression’s black cloud wasn’t far behind. Missoula’s winter months were besieging me.
Sara gave me the same runaround as the FBI. Every Friday she’d make up excuses about why she couldn’t get me my money back. I stopped paying her and eventually the Friday reports stopped. Such a waste of money.
Alex finally came over and did the same “we shouldn’t” routine. Something about, “Really, Caish, I just came over to talk.” I knew what Alex wanted to say, “We should stop because of my family,” and all that. It should have been much easier to get from the false-resistance phase to t
he smoking-after-sex phase, but Alex wouldn’t budge.
“Well, come in and let’s talk then,” I said.
“Let’s talk here,” Alex said.
“Alex, it’s like, negative a thousand degrees out here. Let’s just step in where it’s comfortable.”
“Grab your jacket if you need to, but this shouldn’t take long.”
Alex’s face looked hurt, something was wrong. I pulled out my pack of Newports, lit two, and gave Alex one. I pegged Alex as the Newport type and bought a pack for the next time we were smoking in bed. We took a few drags of our cigarettes in silence, standing shoulder to shoulder looking out from my front porch. The road was covered in bulletproof ice and flanked by three-foot berms of plowed snow. Past the road was a snow-covered clearing surrounded by naked trees. The sun was elbowing its way through the clouds and dancing off the white champagne powder. The entire observable world was locked in ice. How anything survived out there is beyond me.
Alex broke the silence, “Caish, really though, we can’t keep doing this.” Alex reached took my hand. “As much as I love it, and as much as I miss you, we can’t do this.”
“Why not?” I couldn’t think of a good reason.
“You know why. If Peyton found out, I would be a single parent and all my family and friends would talk shit and resent me for being a cheater.”
“Nobody is going to find out. I don’t see why you’re so afraid to let your heart do the thinking every now and then.” Which is bullshit, we think with our brains, not our hearts. But I knew that Alex was a sucker for this kind of romantic soliloquy. “We have something special Alex. You know that. I know you don’t feel this way with Peyton. And, judging by the last time you were here, I know Peyton isn’t as good in bed.”
Alex didn’t say anything. I looked over and saw a tear rolling down Alex’s cheek.
“Hey, woah, Alex, what’s up? Don’t cry.”
“Caish. I have... uh...” Alex sat down on my porch steps. I sat next to Alex and tried not to show that I was freezing to death. My jeans did little to insulate me from the frozen cement steps. Alex went on, “I love Peyton, Caish. And look what you’re making me do.”
“Woah, Alex, I’m not forcing you to do anything. I thought we were both doing what felt right.” I could see where Alex was coming from. It couldn’t be easy being stuck in a shitty marriage and having kids to take care of, and then having a long-lost lover swing back into town with money and free tickets to Hot Sex City.
But at the same time, I couldn’t understand why Alex was so worked up about it. Why not just explain it to Peyton. Tell Peyton that, sure, they were married, and Alex would like it to stay that way, but that Alex would like to have sex on the side with a far more attractive person. Peyton would probably be reasonable and understanding if Alex put it that way.
“Caish. My family isn’t the only reason we shouldn’t be doing this. I... uh...” Alex paused. “You should know that... um...”
“What’s up, Alex?”
“So, um. A couple of weeks ago, like a few weeks after we had sex the first time, I got the flu.”
No.
“Or at least what I thought was the flu.”
God no.
“Caish.” Alex was holding back tears. “You gave me HIV.”
15
“No! That can’t be,” I said. “Did you give me HIV?”
“No, Caish! You gave it to me!” Alex’s voice cracked and we both choked up. Not sobbing, but shaken. It didn’t help that we were sitting on my porch in sub-zero temperatures.
“No way, Alex, I couldn’t have. I always use protection. I don’t have HIV.”
“Caish, you gave me HIV.”
“No, that's impossible. I don’t have HIV.”
“Have you been tested?”
“No, but I know I don’t have it. Trust me. I’d know. I’m very careful about that sort of thing.” And I was. I always used protection. Well, almost always. There was a time a few years back when I got a pretty bad flu, and I’ve had friends get HIV so I knew the symptoms, but I didn’t get checked because I knew I didn’t have it. There’s just no way. I’ve been in perfect health.
“Have you ever done heroin?” Alex asked.
“No. Well, yeah, but I always used clean needles.”
“How do you know they were clean? Were they your own needles that you got from a hospital or clinic?’
“No, but Alex, I’m rich. I’m not some back-alley junkie harpooning my arm with filthy needles. Any time I ever used a needle was at classy house parties. Clean places with clean people. Rich and famous people.”
“Caish. I got tested. I have HIV. And I probably gave it to Peyton, but we haven’t talked about it yet. I didn’t have HIV before we had sex, and now I do. You gave me HIV.”
“No, Alex—”
“This is the last time I will come to your house. I just came to say goodbye and to tell you to get tested. You have HIV and the sooner you can treat it the better.” Alex stood up. “Don’t freak out too much, it’s not really terminal these days if you get treated.”
I followed Alex down my walkway toward the curb where we folded into each other for what would be our last hug. I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“You should also talk to anybody you’ve had sex with in the last few years. Tell them to get checked,” Alex said. Then Alex got into a shitty middle-class car and drove away. The icy wind cut through my clothes as I stood staring in the direction Alex drove. Walking back toward my front door, I glanced at the Black’s house and saw Ms. Black watching me through a window. A cracked window. Not cracked in the sense of being broken, cracked in the sense of being open a few inches despite the deathly cold. She was on her phone and stepped back as soon as I looked in her direction. There’s no way she could have heard what Alex and I were talking about. Her house was at least a hundred feet from mine. But, other than the breeze, it was absolutely silent in this frozen tundra. I heard Ms. Black clack her window shut.
After a hot shower I bundled up and drove to St. Patrick Hospital. I wandered into the emergency room and told a nurse behind a desk that I needed to get tested for HIV. The nurse said, “Okay, no problem, let me just get you to fill out some forms here. Have you been to St. Patrick before?” as if I didn’t just tell the nurse that I think I might have a life-threatening illness.
“Yeah. Um. I was born here,” I muttered, looking through the forms.
“Oh, great,” the nurse said, “Welcome back. You can fill out those forms right over there,” the nurse pointed into a waiting area where several injured commoners were observing our conversation. “When you’re done bring the forms back up here and we’ll get your bloodwork started.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Oh, and do you have an insurance card with you?”
“I don’t have medical insurance. I’ll pay in cash.”
“No problem. Let me know if you have any questions about those forms.”
CNN played from a TV and a toddler made toddler noises. The only decoration was a fish tank. The room smelled sterile. The chair I chose was next to a coffee table full of old issues of People, InTouch, Time, and National Geographic. Two of the commoners were still staring at me, unashamed when I met their gaze. I worked through the forms, entering my name, birthdate, address, and phone number over and over again. When I finished, the nurse smiled and said they’ll be right with me, again seeming to forget that I said that I think I have HIV.
Once again I was waiting in line. I arrived after these country bumkins, so I couldn’t be helped until after they were. It didn’t matter that my net worth was more than they’d make in their lifetimes. It didn’t matter that I could be dying of HIV or AIDS. These people didn’t know who I was. I let CNN tell me what to think until I heard, “Caish Calloway?”
“Yeah, right here,” I said, getting up and walking over to the nurse.
“You can walk down this hallway right here and head into room E112. Dr. Clayton will be
right with you.”
Room E112 was small. I sat on wax paper that covered the padded bench/chair upon which Dr. Clayton would likely have me lay. I still hadn’t taken off my Canada Goose coat; I couldn’t stop shaking. The chills, probably. My breathing became shallow and irregular. My vision lost focus. An elephant was slowly sitting down on me and there was nothing I could do other than panic.
Dr. Clayton walked in looking at a clipboard, muttering something about, “So, looks like you’ve come in for some blood work.” When Dr. Clayton looked up, her face went from friendly to solemn and she set her clipboard down.
“Cash, my name is Dr. Clayton. Let’s get you out of that coat and lying down.” We took off my coat and Dr. Clayton tossed it into one of the three chairs in the room. My movements were announced by the wax paper as I spun around and laid back. Dr. Clayton immediately began a cannonade of tests. Flashlight in my eyeballs, “Do you feel nauseous right now, Cash? Any dizziness?” Something plastic clicking in my ear, “Do you have the chills?” Stethoscope on my chest, “Any difficulty breathing?” A nurse came in and assisted Dr. Clayton. Forehead swabbed with something I’d never seen, “Are you taking any medications right now?” Upper arm strangled by a blood pressure machine, “Any allergies?” Mouth probed with a cotton swab that was bottled up and sent away, “Any soreness or pain anywhere on your body?”
“Just anxious,” I said.
“You’re a little pale, we want to make sure you’re comfortable.” Dr. Clayton pulled a fleece blanket from one of the cabinets and laid it on me. Suddenly I was seven years old being tucked in by my mom—before she turned into a greedy bitch. Tucking me in, kissing my forehead. Smiling with more warmth than my blankets. Jesus. What a woman she used to be. She tasted money and went off the deep end. It occurred to me that I was now living in the same city as her and became dizzy. But at least I was warm and being cared for. Dr. Clayton didn’t kiss my forehead, though.
“Let’s draw some of your blood and see what we’re dealing with here, shall we?”
Malibu Motel Page 21