Malibu Motel

by Chaunceton Bird

  Tobie walked in from my bedroom, clearly having just woke up. He had joined me for this morning’s bliss train. An unlit Marlboro dangled from his lower lip.

  “That sounded dramatic.” Tobie opened my fridge and bent into it. “You got a light?”

  “Not in there,” I said.

  Tobie walked over to me and held his cigarette to the flame of my Zippo, then walked back to the fridge. “So what was all that drama? Woke me the fuck up.”

  “That was Caleb. My brother. Have you two met?”

  “Nah,” Tobie pulled out a doggie bag from Chili’s and put the box into the microwave. Chicken and waffles.

  “He’s my oldest brother.”

  “Hm. What’s his deal?”

  “Nothing. Just typical Caleb, trying to control everybody else’s life. Wouldn’t let his wife live her own life. He’d rather have her in pain than taking TNT just because it has a bad reputation. He’s completely risk averse. To the point of causing pain to those around him.”

  “Yeah, hm. Whatever.” Tobie was back in the fridge. “Caish, you outta Bud?”

  “I dunno. If you don’t see it, then yeah.”

  Caleb had riled me up. He’d given me stress that I didn’t need. Stress is pain. I dumped two Fentanyl pills onto the coffee table and razored them to pieces. Reduced them to a fine powder. Then I scraped the powder into a spoon.

  “You already headed back in?” Tobie asked.

  “Yeah, I need to chill out.”

  Tobie shrugged. “Well I might join ya after breakfast.”

  He must of read my expression through the dark, because then he added, “Don’t worry, I’ll use my own.”

  I held my lighter to the bottom of the spoon and watched the powder reduce itself to a brown bubbling potion. I used the syringe to sprinkle a few drops of water into the spoon and stirred the Fentanyl. I drew as much as I could into the syringe, pushed the air out of the chamber, found a vein, and injected the liquid joy into my arm. Before I settled back into the couch I put the spoon into my mouth and cleaned off the leftovers. In seconds I was weightless. My heart pumped the warmth through my arteries. As reliably as a Swiss train, the bliss train swept me away from the pain.

  At around eight that night, my vibrating phone pulled me down from the clouds. My vision was blurry. I lit a cigarette and answered my phone.

  “Mhm?”

  “Caish?” Somehow I could tell that Candice, my landlord, was smiling on the other side of the phone.

  “Yeah, hi Candice.”

  “Did I wake you up?”

  “No, no I’m up. You’re fine. What’s up?”

  “Caish it’s about your smoking. Some of the tenants around your unit have complained that their apartments are beginning to smell like smoke.”

  “That’s so weird, I haven’t smoked in my apartment since the last time we spoke. Are you sure it’s not somebody else?”

  “Yes. Mind if I come over?”

  “Mmm... When?”

  “How does now work for you?” Candice asked.

  “Well, it’s a little late, maybe you could come by tomorrow sometime. Earlier in the day, if you could.”

  “Well, it’s only seven thirty, and, as it were, I’m right outside your door, could you let me in?”

  “Umm, yeah. Sure, no problem.” I pulled up the shades and threw open the sliding door to my balcony. “I um...” I flicked the cigarette off my balcony and ran into my room to open more windows. “I’m just indecent at the moment.” I packed up my kit on the coffee table. “Just give me a second to put some clothes on and I’ll be right there.” I used a pillow to fan out the smoke.

  “Everything alright in there?”

  “Yeah, no, definitely,” I shook Tobie, “it’s just late is all.” Tobie had passed out on the other side of the coffee table. “Tobie!” I shouted through a whisper, “Tobie, wake up. Tobie!” Tobie grumbled back to life. I held my hand over my phone, “Tobie, my landlord is here, sober up.” I turned on all the lights in the apartment.

  “Caish?” Candice asked. I hung up.

  I pulled out a garbage sack and filled it with all the boxes, cans, food, and ashtrays I could find, then flung it off the balcony into the parking lot below. I stashed my kit under the couch and put my pill bottles in the bathroom cabinet. Running through my room I spotted another ashtray and tossed it out the window. Returning to the front room, Tobie had tidied up the blankets and pillows. He was throwing a pizza box off the balcony. I sprayed Febreze into every room and onto every piece of furniture. Then doused Tobie. Candice knocked on the door. “Caish?” she said through the door. “Open up.” I scrambled from room to room making sure the place was presentable. Kicking this under that, straightening this, getting everything just so. “Caish, I’m coming in.” I heard her key slide into the tumblers of the deadbolt. “Tobie, sit on the couch.” I ran into my room. I heard the knob unlock, then the door open. I walked out of my room pulling a shirt down over my head.

  “Jesus, Candice, I said I was just getting dressed. What the hell?”

  “Sounded like there was a bit more going on than getting dressed.” Like always, Candice was smiling. She looked at Tobie and extended her hand, “Hi, I’m Candice, nice to meet you.”

  Without getting up, Tobie lifted his limp sweaty hand for Candice to take ahold of. “I’m Tobie” he said. She shook his hand, then let it flop down onto his lap. She tried to be couth, but I saw her wipe her hand on her skirt as soon as she let go. Tobie’s hands can be sticky at times.

  “Caish, you’ve been smoking in here,” she said, turning to me.

  “No I haven’t.”

  “Okay, Caish. Despite your noble effort with the Febreze, it smells like smoke in here. Also,” she stepped toward the balcony, “maybe you could come with me out to your balcony?” She walked out and leaned over the railing. Turning back to me, she said, “Come on out, Caish, have a look.”

  I walked out to the railing and looked down. An exploded garbage bag was on the roof of some shitty green car below. A few cars down from that there was an ashtray sitting next to a dent on the hood of some shitty truck. A breeze nudged beer cans through the parking lot. “Am I supposed to be looking for anything in particular?” I asked.

  “Caish. This is your final warning.” Candice wasn’t smiling anymore. “You pull this shit again, and you’re out. If you’re late on rent by a day, you’re out. If a neighbor calls complaining about anything going on in this unit, including your frequent visitors, you’re out. Ya with me?”

  “Yeah. Whatever.”

  “I’m giving your information to the owners of those cars that you vandalized, and you will be billed for the clean-up.”

  “I’ll just go clean it up myself.”

  “No, you won’t. My people will clean it up, and you will be charged.” Candice walked back into the apartment, looked around, then walked out without another word.

  “She seemed sorta pissed,” Tobie observed.

  Rent was $1,050 a month, and it was due in nine days. My bank account was down to $207.44. I still had that $5,212 in cash stashed, but I didn’t want to use any of that. That was mine, not Candice’s. I earned about a thousand a week selling pharmaceuticals, but I had to buy $1,200 a week for new inventory from Jack and to refill my own prescriptions. I also had to find a way to pay for cigarettes, alcohol, and food.

  My storage shed hadn’t been opened in months. The metal door slid up and revealed three hundred square feet of stuff I didn’t use any more. There was no musty smell because this unit had circulated air conditioning and heating. The movers had stacked everything to the ceiling. Couches on top of bookcases full of antiques next to paintings above electronics. Bins full of designer clothing. Clearly-labeled boxes stacked neatly. Expensive luggage full of expensive shoes.

  At my feet was a box labeled “coffee table toppers.” It was full of decorative bowls with decorative balls to fill the decorative bowls, candles, photography books, small tactile games, and coa
sters. The box was light, and fit into the trunk of my Crown Vic with room for more. I loaded as many boxes as my car could carry. I found the box labeled “camera stuff” and pulled out my Nikon D5 DSLR camera along with a few lenses.

  Back at the apartment I plugged in the Nikon battery and started unloading my boxes. On my laptop I pulled up Craigslist and a few local online markets and looked at what people were selling similar stuff for. When the battery was charged, I took a few pictures of every item and listed them for sale. The rest of the night my phone was buzzing with eager buyers.

  My storage unit had enough stuff in it, and enough valuable stuff, to pay my rent and then some. I could afford to pay my rent and buy higher quality pharmaceuticals from Susie and Crack-Hand Jack. I was back to buying lottery tickets every time I went to the gas station. I even had enough to drive to Denver and buy cocaine and go shopping for new designer clothes—a simple luxury I had deprived myself of for too long. I made a weekend stay of it and indulged at the Four Seasons.

  After five months my storage unit was empty, but I had eight grand in the bank. I sold what I could in my apartment and brought my bank balance up to $9,043. To get rid of my car payment I sold the Crown Vic (for a profit of $400, because I’m a hustler like that), and bought a $1,000 beater: a 2008 Dodge Neon. The used-car salesperson gave it to me for only $200 down, no credit check. It would have to do for now.

  But the money I made selling prescriptions was not enough. When I ran out of things to sell (even sold the Nikon), I felt like the captain of a ship that had a hole in its hull. Taking on water and unable to bail it out quicker than it was coming in. In a matter of weeks, I was unloading the lifeboat. I had to cut back on everything except cigarettes and Fentanyl.

  Candice made regular inspections of my apartment, and didn’t seem to have much patience for any small infraction. So when I missed rent for the second month in a row, I wasn’t too surprised to come home to a yellow piece of paper taped to my door that said: “NOTICE OF EVICTION: Three Day Notice to Pay or Quit” and told me that unless I paid everything I owed in rent, I’d be removed from the premises pursuant to Montana State Code sections 70-24-108, 70-24-422, and 70-24-427. Three days.

  I still had my $5,212 in cash, and I had a few hundred in the bank. I could make rent. But for how long? Why was I keeping up this farce in Missoula fucking Montana? This place had been sucking the life out of me since the day I arrived. First Alex gives me HIV, then they took my house on Canyon River Golf Course, then these backcountry lenders wouldn’t lend to me for another house so I was forced into an apartment like some college student. Probation knee-capped me. The Montana lottery was no good. Then the repo guys stole my Suburban. The only good that came from this barren wasteland was Crack-Hand Jack and the discovery of Fentanyl.

  California called. I was a pinball desperate to get back to the hole at the bottom but kept getting bounced up through tunnels into bumpers around loops in and out of pockets and against flippers. Distractions and forces beyond my control were forcing me to live a life of slavery. All the while, gravity pulled me toward California. The peaceful rest at the bottom. The center of the universe. Paradise. Palm trees, warm breezes, and sex with azizs. Oceans of wine and beaches of cocaine.

  I had done this before with much less experience and became a multimillionaire. This time I had $5,212 in cash and a little in the bank. I had the most valuable education: street smarts. I had enough opioids to last me for a couple weeks. I knew which lotteries to play and where to stay.

  Excitement overcame me. I unlocked my apartment and began throwing clothes into a duffle bag. I filled a roller suitcase with my shoes and the rest of my clothes. I dumped my drawer full of pills into my backpack. My laptop, phone, and chargers fit snug in with the pill bottles. I put my $5,212 in a small inner pocket of the backpack. I looked through the apartment for anything else I’d need. Nothing that I could see. I had sold everything of value and was looking at an empty apartment. It reminded me of Crack-Hand Jack’s trailer. The only thing left in my front room was a torn leather couch that wouldn’t sell. Wires hung from the wall where my TV used to hang. Nails marked the places where my art used to hang. The cupboards in the kitchen were empty. I had three forks, a steak knife, a spoon, two mismatched plates, a bowl, a coffee mug, and twelve shot glasses. The fridge was packed with takeout boxes at various stages of rot. I pulled out a bottle of vodka that Shanice had left and slid it into my duffle bag.

  After scanning the apartment one last time, I picked up my keys and pulled my luggage out into the hallway. I was locking the door when I realized that I wasn’t coming back to this apartment ever again. I pulled the key off my key ring, opened the door, and tossed the key into the apartment. I left the door open and the lights on.

  I pulled off the highway for gas on the way out of town and looked back in the direction of Missoula. My birthplace had failed to help me get back on my feet. Friends and family had let me down. In the end Missoula left me right back where I started so many years ago. Filling up a shitty car in a Texaco, anxious to get to California.

  21

  On my way through Utah on I-15 at about 1:00 a.m., I had a revelation. I had been praying, asking the Lord for some help. Not much help, just enough to get a few million in the bank again and I’d take it from there. God’s finger lit my lightbulb. My route to Los Angeles would take me straight through Las Vegas, the city of opportunity. This must have been why I felt inspired to save the $5,212. Too many coincidences to call it chance. God had a plan for me and I was just now seeing it.

  As the sun was rising I pulled into the parking garage of Treasure Island. I stepped out of the car and felt the brisk morning nip of the desert kiss my cheeks. I resolved to never see snow again. I left my roller bag in the trunk, put on my backpack, and slung my duffle over my shoulder. Treasure Island had a room available. I decided to freshen up before heading for the roulette table. After a forty-five minute scalding-hot shower, I took a nap. I slept until the early evening. All the better, the roulette wheel needed to be warmed up before I got there. Room service brought me a shrimp alfredo dish and coke with a bottle of cheap wine. I paid for the room and the food with my debit card, figuring that I needed all $5,212 for the casino downstairs. Plus, might as well clean out the account and start with a blank slate.

  Rested, fed, and clean, I put on my nicest clothes and took the elevator down to the casino. On my way down, a small family boarded the elevator. Tourists. Dad had on a Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts, mom had on an Old Navy flag T-shirt tucked into Levis. The three children were dressed like children. To think, people used to respect themselves and wear dresses and suits. Humanity has declined.

  The elevator doors opened to the electric jungle of the casino. Rings, bings, whirls, and dongs. Hundreds of thousands of light bulbs of every size and color blinked to the beat of the jungle. Drinks girls sauntered about, balancing trays and smiles. Tourists lost their money playing slots and video poker. Pit bosses kept their eyes peeled and dealers kept their cards dealt. Treasure Island’s casino floor had a lowish ceiling with a Tuscan theme. Comfortable. The type of place you could spend an evening. And a fortune. But the Lord had made my path clear. After exchanging my $5,212 in cash for chips, I walked straight to the roulette table.

  For sake of prudence, I watched for a few minutes before placing my bet. The roulette wheel is a perpetually spinning wheel. Wood casing holds the ever-spinning wheel and has an inset in the top of it that the dealer spins the ball around. The dealer spins the ball around in a counterclockwise direction, and the wheel spins clockwise. The little white plastic ball then slides down into the wheel, bounces around for a couple seconds, and chooses the winner.

  The ball was landing on red more often than black. And the house was losing. I watched a high school kid double her money, first spin.

  The roulette table is more complex than what you see in the movies. Next to the wheel there is a felt board with thirty-six numbered spaces. Each number is
colored either red or black. You can place bets on the numbers (and do tricky things like corner bets), or you can make column bets, where you bet on a third of the numbers on the board by placing your chips at the end of one of the columns. You can do the same thing by betting on different number batches of twelve. But the only bet that really matters involves two boxes at the bottom of the board, one colored red, and one colored black. If you bet that the roulette ball will land on red, and it does land on red, then you’ve just doubled your money. If you bet red and the ball lands on black, the house takes your money. It’s a risky game without the help of the Lord.

  Two other people were playing when I walked up to the table. The dealer had just flicked the ball around the wheel and it was riding the top rail around.

  “Bets closed,” the dealer said.

  I nodded and waited until the ball bounced into the black 22 slot. There are thirty-eight slots that the ball can land in. Thirty-six of which are black and red, two of which are green. If the ball lands in either of the green (either a zero or a double zero), the house wins.

  The dealer announced the 22 black and dealt out winning chips to the person standing nearest to the wheel. Small bets, it looked like. At the dealer’s nod, I placed my $5,212 in chips on red. The other two players looked at me with bulging eyes, then turned to the dealer.

  “Big money on red,” the dealer said, seemingly without any emotion at all. “All bets placed?”

  The two other players repeated their small number-specific bets by leaving their chips on the table.