by Jason Myers
“From where?” James asks.
“Joliet, Illinois.”
“No shit. I’m from Illinois.”
“I know you are, man. I’m a huge fan of your work. I’ve read everything you’ve put out.”
“Oh wow,” he goes. “Why?”
“James,” Savannah says.
And James goes, “You must have some kinda fucked-up head, man.”
“Maybe I do.”
“You have to if you’ve read all my stuff.”
“I haven’t even read everything you’ve written,” Michael says. “I stopped after that short story you posted about those two kids, the teenage brother and sister in Kentucky who are fucking each other, then they murder their dad and bury him in a field and run away. Shit was so gross, dude. Especially how detailed the sex was.”
“You pussy,” says James. “That story was totally hot. Made me wanna fuck my sister.”
“Jesus Christ, James,” Savannah snorts.
I’m laughing right now.
“What is wrong with you?” she asks.
“Nothing at all, baby.” He smacks Savannah’s ass. “Even he’s laughing.”
James is pointing at me.
And I go, “That’s pretty funny.”
“See,” he snaps.
“I’m a big Lamborghini Dreams fan too,” I say. “Always Driving Drunk is one of my favorite records ever.”
“Shit’s overrated,” says James.
“So are your fucking books, you pilgrim dick.”
“Blubber cheek,” says James.
“Rim muncher,” Michael snorts.
“Jaime makes awesome music under the name Tiger Stitches,” says Savannah.
I totally wish she hadn’t said this either. Like, these dudes don’t fucking care. Such an amateur fucking move by her.
“Tiger Stitches, huh,” Michael goes. “That’s a dope name, man.”
“Yeah, it is,” says James.
“Thanks,” I go.
“So it’s good then,” Michael goes. “The music.”
I shrug. “I like it just fine. Probably some of the best stuff out right now.”
“Well,” snaps James, “we should go listen to it.”
“What?” I go. “Nah, you don’t need to do that.”
“So it’s not good then,” James says.
“No, it’s dope. All my songs are dope.”
“I wanna hear it then,” Michael says. “Let’s go to the Whip Pad and get high. Blast some Tiger Stitches.”
I’ve always maintained, always told myself that I’d never give a shit if one of my heroes took an interest in my work at some point. I’ve always said it wouldn’t matter, wouldn’t be a big deal. But this is pretty fucking rad. This is actually the coolest thing that’s ever happened in my life.
“So you’re holding?” Savannah asks James.
James makes a face. “Is that a serious question?” he says.
“It was.”
“I was born with a bag of coke in my hand, Sav. Without the blast, this life is bullshit.”
38.
THE WHIP PAD. FIRST OFF, it’s right across the street on the other end of the block from my father’s gallery. Before we jump in there, we stop at a liquor store across the street. James buys a twelve-pack of Budweiser and a pint of Jameson.
“Warm-up drinking,” he says, when he walks back outside.
Savannah seems in awe of him. I wonder if they’ve fucked before. I wonder if Savannah’s fucked Michael. Or if she’s fucked both of them at the same time and is going to today.
She’s a slut. Like, she wants to fuck me because of some poems she saw me read online. It’s nice, I guess. I was hard. But that seems crazy to me.
I wonder if she’s gonna blow my father for flying her out here and showing her paintings to a sliver of the world.
We walk down a small set of stairs and inside. I’ve read about this place before. This kid Kaden, James’s cousin, he wrote about James and the Whip Pad in a book called Dickpig Sux.
I hadn’t even thought about that before now. It didn’t even occur to me that the Whip Pad was so close.
We walk down this long, narrow hallway full of graffiti and bikes and posters and into the last room on the right.
“Make yourselves comfortable,” says James.
Me and Michael and Savannah sit down at this round table in the center of the room.
James, he grabs a record from a crate next to the door and puts it on.
“Who is this?” Savannah asks.
“Shannon and the Clams,” James answers. “From Oakland.”
“They’re fucking great,” Michael goes. “They opened for the Dreams on a small East Coast tour we did last year.”
This is insane to me. How I’m sitting in James Morgan’s room. Life is such a fuckhead like that. If my mother doesn’t go insane, go fucking crazy on me a few nights ago, then I’m never here. I’m never in San Francisco. Never meeting Savannah or Dominique or Kristen. Never in James Morgan’s fucking room in the famous Whip Pad listening to a sick garage/psych band.
James grabs a mirror and sits down at the table.
“When did you get back to San Francisco?” Savannah asks.
“This morning.”
“How was L.A.?”
“Fucking radical,” he says. “We got the funding for the movie. We start shooting next spring.”
“What movie?” I ask.
“This screenplay I wrote based on a short story of mine called The Whore,” says James. “Nobody wanted to touch that shit for a year, man. It’s the most honest, perverse, and violent depiction of a two-faced slut you’ll ever see. I’m directing it too. One of Michael’s old homies, this dude Travis Wayne, stepped in to produce it, so it’s going to happen for sure.”
“Sick,” I say.
James dumps an entire bag of coke onto the mirror and starts cutting it with his ID.
“So what’s this dinner you want me to go to tonight?” he asks Savannah.
She looks at me and goes, “Jaime’s father wants to get a bunch of people together at the Cigar Bar and have a nice meal. He’s invited me and told me to invite whoever, and since I don’t know anyone here really besides you, you’re my fucking date.”
“Sounds boring,” says James.
“Hey,” Savannah goes.
And I say, “It will be, man. Unless you show up. My father’s a dick.”
“Jaime,” says Savannah.
“You don’t know,” I say. “He is. He’s a fucking asshole.”
“You hate your dad?” Michael asks.
“Actually, I just met him yesterday. But from his track record, I’m thinking that he’s pretty much an asshole.”
James laughs. He rolls up a hundred-dollar bill and snorts a line and then hands the mirror to Savannah.
“So why are you here then?” Michael says.
“My mother OD’d. We don’t have any living relatives near Illinois. Now I’m here for the week while she’s getting treatment.”
Savannah does a line and Michael goes, “And now you’re kicking it with us. Worse things have happened, dude.”
“Tell that to my mother.”
“She’s the one who OD’d,” says James. “The thing I’ve figured out with family bullshit, like, total dysfunction is that these people who you start figuring out are really just a bunch of selfish assholes, these people can turn your life upside down in a second and you don’t even have a say in it. No choice. It’s just done and you’re left to navigate through the shitstorm you didn’t start. It ain’t fair.”
“Right,” I say.
“But if you’re smart about it,” James continues, “if you’re really fucking smart about it, man, you can turn that shitstorm into a goddamn paradise. Those people can go fuck themselves. They’re evil and the quicker you realize that, the quicker you can take your life back. It’s your life, man. It’s yours. And you can take it back and carve out a path that has nothing to do with them. T
his is the window, man. This is the space in which you decide to be a legend or a pussy. Be a legend, dude. Use their dysfunction to make yourself better than they’ll ever be.”
Savannah passes the mirror to me, but I decline and then Michael takes the mirror and does a line.
James is staring at me.
I go, “What?”
And he goes, “I can see the anger in you, man. I can see the hate in your eyes. How old are you?”
“Fourteen,” I say.
“Tiger Stitches, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s dope, man.”
“Thanks, dude.”
“You don’t do coke?” he asks.
“No.”
“You should,” he says. “It’s fun.”
“It’s the tits,” Michael snaps. “Totally righteous and shit.”
“Really, guys,” Savannah goes. “He’s fourteen.”
“That’s just a silly number,” says James. “Anyway, dude, use that hatred, that anger.” He lights a cigarette and takes a pull from the Jameson. “Use that to carve yourself out of stone, man. Make yourself better than them. All of them. They’ve turned your life into chaos.”
“Yeah.”
“There’s nothing better than chaos to prove you’re worth a damn, man.”
James takes the mirror back and does another line. “The second you start listening to those ancient people, that’s the moment you stop living your own life. The life you want for yourself.”
Savannah hits another line and passes the mirror to Michael.
“I love cocaine,” says James.
“I love good cocaine,” Michael says back, then does another line. “That’s the shit I love the most.”
“Me too,” James goes.
39.
“SO WHAT DO YOU THINK so far, son?”
Me and my father, we’re in his Benz again driving to the restaurant, just the two of us, while the National plays from the speakers.
And I’m stoked about this. The music, I mean. It’s cool my father likes the National. They’re one of my favorite bands. I guess my mother, despite despising every ounce of my father, was telling the truth after all about how rad his musical tastes are.
“Your house is nice,” I say. “The maids are cool. Rad car.” I shrug. “It’s okay.”
“That’s it,” he says.
“Yeah,” I groan. “What were you expecting me to say? Thanks for picking me up at the airport and listening to Pulp before you went to bed last night.”
He laughs. “You heard that.”
“Duh, dude.”
We stop at a red light. “Okay,” he goes. “I’m sure you hate me and don’t want to be here, but could you do me one favor?”
I don’t say anything. I just look at him and fold my arms.
“Address me as something other than ‘dude’ or ‘man’ or whatever else. I know I haven’t been a part of your life, Jaime, but I am your father.”
I roll my eyes. “Why should I care what you want me to call you?”
“I’m only asking, son.”
“Fine,” I say. “Deal.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’ll address you differently as long as you address me as something other than son.”
I watch his jaw clench. He appears to be agitated, but it’s only fair. To me at least.
“We have a deal?” I go.
“Sure,” he says. “Deal, son—I mean, Jaime. We have a deal.”
“Great, Justin.”
My father turns left onto Market Street, which is really busy right now.
He says, “Kristen told me you guys had a nice visit last night.”
“She’s great,” I say. “I like her a lot. She seems to really appreciate all the nice things she has. Must be nice for her.”
“Jaime,” my father says. “Come on now. Don’t start this.”
“I’m not starting anything,” I tell him.
“I give your mother two thousand dollars a month in child support, and I send you a check for a thousand dollars every birthday and Christmas.”
My body goes numb. This ringing in my ears starts now. Like someone’s punched me in the gut or the back of my head. I’ve never seen a thousand-dollar check from my father. I’ve never even seen a goddamn card from my father. But I don’t say anything about that. Instead, I take a deep breath and keep in mind what my mother has told me about him. How he’s the world’s biggest liar and how he’s selfish and such a dick.
I say, “It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not like I’m jealous of Kristen. My life is dope back in Joliet.”
“That’s good,” my father tells me. “Your mother is a wonderful person. Despite all of our problems and what happened in the past, Morgan has one of the best souls in the world. When we found out that she was pregnant, to this day, I have never seen someone look so happy. She was beyond thrilled, Jaime. That look on her face was pure joy. She gave me a hug and squeezed my neck and went, ‘There’s gonna be a little us running around. What a dream. We’re going to have the most beautiful child in the world, and he’s going to have the best life.’ ”
Tears form in my father’s eyes and he looks to his left, away from me, and wipes them.
“I know it hasn’t been the best life, Jaime. God, I wish so many things had happened differently. But I look at you, and you’re handsome and healthy and so talented, from what your mother has said, and I couldn’t be prouder of anyone.”
“Ha,” I say. “That’s rich. It’s been fourteen years since you got that news about me. Fourteen damn years. And now I’m seeing you. Now I know what my father looks like, what his voice sounds like, how he dresses. I don’t care how hard you try and revise the past in order to look good in my eyes this week. All that stuff happened. It happened and you can’t change what you’ve done. No amount of money or words can change the way you treated someone else. What you did to someone else. Okay?”
“You’ve only heard one side, Jaime.”
“Shut up,” I say. “Just stop. Nothing you say can justify what really happened that night. So don’t even try.”
My father doesn’t say anything. I can actually hear his grip on the steering wheel tighten. See his knuckles turn white.
“Do you understand that?” I go.
“Sure,” he whispers.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Awesome,” I say. “Thanks for working with me on that . . . dude.”
I put my shades back on and stick two fingers into the tiny pocket on the right side of my jeans and touch the two blues inside it.
Everything is better now.
I wish more of life was this way.
40.
THE CIGAR BAR & GRILL. IT’S on the edge of the Financial District. A valet takes the keys from my father immediately after we pull up, and the two of us, we head down a steep set of stairs and walk through a heated patio full of men in expensive suits, smoking cigars and drinking cocktails.
A hostess takes us to a large room that’s been reserved by my father just for this dinner party.
Also, everyone on the staff we’ve encountered knows who my father is. The hostess, this pretty Latina girl with short hair and big brown eyes, even winks at my father.
She winks twice, actually, and looks back over her shoulder at him before she leaves the room.
This server hands my father a glass of red wine and tells him it’s a Malbec, then asks me what I’d like to drink. I order a Coke.
Leslie is here already with two other couples. She’s wearing this purple strapless dress with a slit on the left side, leaving her thigh and the “stay up” part of her stocking exposed.
My father introduces me to his friends, including the other founding member of my father’s hedge fund and his wife. The other couple work out at Bay Club San Francisco, this super-nice health club in the city.
They ask me all this cheesy question bullshit, like what do I think about the city so far and if
I’m excited to be in the city and if I hate my father yet.
That last question is sorta relevant and funny, I guess.
But I spare that man the embarrassment and say, “You can’t hate someone you don’t know, right?”
It’s the most honest way to answer that question without being a total dick about it.
Still, though, a moment of total awkwardness definitely follows this answer and only dissolves when two different servers bring in these two big trays of appetizers, which they set on a small table a few feet from ours.
They’re followed by the first server, who hands me my Coke and sets two more bottles of wine—a red and a white—on the table. He opens them both and pours a small sample into two different glasses for my father to breathe and taste.
My father tips the three servers twenty bucks each.
“Help yourself to some food, Jaime,” Leslie tells me.
There’s a quesadilla platter on one tray and what I’m told are house-made tortilla chips with guacamole and salsa sides on the other.
I grab a plate and place a tiny bit from both trays on it and sit down.
Kristen finally shows up. Thank fucking god for her. I’m pretty sure she’s drunk, too, and possibly high with the way she’s talking really fast and rubbing her nose. She even checks her nostrils for powder residue with a glance at the back of a spoon.
She’s with her boyfriend, that dude Tyler, and he’s a real fucking treat too.
Dude’s about as tall as my father. He’s got thick black hair that’s parted cleanly from the left to right, the sides about an inch shorter, with a fucking lightning bolt shaved into the left side of it.
Lame.
He’s wearing a Cal-Berkeley letterman’s jacket with a charcoal-colored cardigan and a deep black V-neck underneath that. Also tight purple jeans that are rolled past his ankles, a pair of black TOMS, and a large gold chain that hangs past the middle of his chest.
My father is, like, the happiest person ever right now. He practically tackles Tyler and they hug and high-five, and I look up at Kristen. Her jaw is pretty alive right now, and she flashes me a smile and points at my father and Tyler and then makes a gun with her right hand and shoves it in her mouth, squeezing the fake trigger with her thumb.