by Jason Myers
She’s wearing skintight black jeans, a white Nirvana T-shirt that’s two sizes too big, and a brown cardigan the same size as her shirt, with darker brown patches over the elbows. A black bandanna hangs from her neck.
My father introduces Tyler to me. I stand up and he extends his hand and goes, “There he is.”
“Excuse me?”
“There you are. The kid I’ve had to hear about all day. I’m Tyler,” he snaps.
“What up?” I decide not to shake his hand and shove my hands in my pocket. “Sorry you had to hear about me all day, dude. Hope it didn’t impede too much on whatever . . . ya know, whatever it is you were doing.”
My father jumps in and goes, “Don’t be offended by his bluntness.”
I make a face and look at Leslie, who says nothing. Just takes a drink of wine and looks at the ground.
“He gets that from his mother.”
“Are you fucking serious right now?” I snap.
“Jaime,” Kristen says. She turns her hand to the side and moves it back and forth real quick.
Dude’s a dick. I can tell.
“Anyway,” my father goes. “We’ve got some hors d’oeuvres and some wine. Help yourself.”
I sit back down.
Tyler glares at me.
I glare back.
“Thank you, Mr. Miles,” he says. He picks up a bottle of wine and pours a glass.
I’m wondering if anyone besides Kristen knows he’s a drug dealer. I’d never say anything, cos narcing is bullshit, but I wonder if they know at all or if Kristen and him lie about it to my father and Leslie and make up some kind of ridiculous story about what he does for work and how hard his days are sometimes and his plans for the future.
But as I’m processing through all the scenarios, I watch my father and his hedge fund partner pull Tyler aside. I see Tyler nod and my father smile, and then I watch the three of them leave the room together without telling anyone.
Kristen sits down across from me.
“Is that what I think it is?” I ask her.
“My boyfriend selling coke to your father and Mark?”
“Yeah.”
Her lips squeeze together, and she nods. “It sure is. Justin’s been texting Tyler for the last hour to make sure he’s coming.”
“Jesus,” I go. “How does that happen?”
Kristen laughs out loud. She pours herself a glass of wine and says, “Your father was looking for it one night. This was a year ago, probably. Him and my mother were drinking before a David Byrne show in Oakland, and me and Tyler happened to walk into the house right before their car service showed up. Justin just asked if we knew anyone who could get them some cocaine. He said his normal guy moved to New York. I never knew he had a normal guy. Like, I already assumed they did coke. I’ve seen Baggies laying out upstairs. I’ve seen both of them walking out of bathrooms together at parties and restaurants just sweating and talking all fast. Like, duh, ya know. When Tyler said he had some, I thought I was going to get sick. I couldn’t believe it. But they didn’t even bat an eye. They’ve never said anything to me about it. I guess as long as I’ve got that 3.8 GPA and kicking ass with my clothes, it doesn’t matter that my boyfriend deals coke, which means that I’m probably doing it too. It’s crazy. They’ve been letting me drink since I was fourteen.”
“Damn,” I go.
“It’s kinda like you,” she says.
“No, it’s not. With me, my mother is too fucked up to know I’m drinking and stealing her Oxy. No way would she ever sanction that shit if she found out.”
“Doesn’t matter,” says Kristen. “It’s still the same. Just because you’re too fucked up to pay attention doesn’t make you any less guilty of being negligent.”
Nodding, I say, “That’s a great fucking point.”
“You want some wine?”
“I can’t.”
Kristen looks around and laughs. “Sure you can, dude.” She pours me a glass.
I lift it and take a drink, and then Leslie says, “It’s really good, huh, Jaime?”
“I guess.”
“Cheers,” she goes.
“As long as you don’t make them parent you too hard or become some kind of big nuisance in their life, you’ve got the freedom to indulge, Jaime.”
“Great.”
“Welcome to this life,” she says.
“Welcome to your life,” I say back.
41.
FINALLY, LIKE FORTY MINUTES AFTER me and my father arrived, after listening to these people talk about million-dollar trades, shopping for new BMWs, this twenty-thousand-dollar-a-plate fund-raiser for the Democratic National Committee that Barack Obama spoke at that my father and Mark attended, about skyboxes at AT&T Park and Oracle Arena, and after five more bottles of red wine have been ordered and brought to the table, Savannah shows up with James.
“Oh my god,” Kristen says. She’s still sitting across from me, next to Tyler now. She turns back to me. “That’s James Morgan. He’s one of my favorite authors.”
“I know,” I say. “I met him today.”
“What?” she snorts. “And you’re just telling me. How?”
“I was at the gallery, and he showed up to see Savannah.”
“No way,” she says. “Did you talk to him?”
I nod. “I went to his place, the Whip Pad, and kicked it for about an hour. He’s a cool dude. I thought he’d be a bigger dick than he was. He throws parties now with that rapper dude Omar Getty. I also met Michael, the drummer for Lamborghini Dreams.”
“Fuck that band,” Tyler snaps.
“Fuck you,” I snap back. “Jock.”
“Excuse me.”
“I can’t believe you hung out with Morgan,” Kristen continues, just glowing now. “I can’t believe he’s here.”
“Dude’s so overrated,” Tyler says.
“You don’t know shit,” I say back.
“I’m so excited,” Kristen says. “Ahhhh. Dude’s straight up at my family dinner right now. It’s the shit.”
“Whatever,” says Tyler. “Who’s the babe?”
“That’s Savannah,” I go. “She’s the artist my father flew to San Francisco.”
Tyler slams a drink and rolls his eyes at Kristen, which she doesn’t see. I can’t believe she fucks this dude. He’s like a wannabe fucking hipster. I can smell the fakeness, the phoniness all over him. Like he’s the jock, the goddamn meathead, who used to listen to Linkin Park and Incubus and 50 Cent and then he heard “Float On” by Modest Mouse or watched Garden State or read his first issue of Vice and saw himself and his best friends represented in, like, seven of the “Don’ts” and was totally embarrassed. So his jeans got skinnier. His “nu metal” CDs got tossed (actually, probably sold to Rasputin or some shit like that). His jackets got smaller and his shoes got brighter and his hands carried shopping bags from used clothing stores and he dropped the “bro” and picked up the “brah.”
He was prolly fifteen or sixteen when this all happened. So now he’s totally cool. He’s had four years to memorize the Wikipedia pages of bands and authors and movies. He’s had time to tell the same lies over and over and over, so now they’re his truth. And he’s not in high school anymore, so his past doesn’t mean all that much and he’s had time to make a new Facebook and Twitter and Tumblr and re-create himself from scratch with links to videos and songs from dope-ass bands and pictures of himself holding tickets to dope shows and him posting links to rad articles from cool magazines and him dressed all hip and selfies of him with some nerdy-looking indie rock kid with black-framed glasses and a gigantic sweater who doesn’t know this guy woulda beat the shit out of him after giving him an atomic wedgie just five years earlier and now he’s getting coke from him and they’re staying up late talking about Coachella and the Violent Femmes and Two Gallants and Nirvana.
I’m surprised that Kristen’s been fooled by him.
Savannah’s pulled her hair back and up into a fancy ball, making a part
on the left side. Two large brown-and-black feathers hang from each ear. She’s wearing tight white jeans, a loose beige tank top, a baby-blue Members Only Windbreaker jacket, and a pair of black leather boots that stretch up to her knees.
Everyone at the table stands up to greet her. Me, I’m thinking about how she wished we could fuck.
“There she is,” my father says. I notice he’s not smiling, though. He actually looks a little bit put off, which is weird until I realize he’s being like that because he didn’t know James would be with Savannah. When he told her to invite anyone she wanted, he probably assumed it would be a girl.
James looks nice too. He’s wearing a black peacoat, a gray V-neck sweater with a blue collared shirt underneath that, the collars tucked into the shoulders of his sweater, a pair of tight, shiny dress slacks, and white alligator-skin shoes with pointed toes.
My father gives Savannah a hug. A long hug, complete with a couple of small squeezes and a hand rub.
It’s embarrassing. Kristen notices it too. How my father is basically drooling over the young, beautiful artist he paid to come here.
I look over at Leslie. She’s smiling, but that smile is fucking fake.
“Who’s your friend?” my father asks.
“Justin, this is James Morgan. He’s pretty much the only person I know in San Francisco.”
“James,” my father says. “Welcome.”
They shake hands.
“What do you do, James?”
He laughs.
So do I.
Then, after a few seconds, he goes, “Is that for real? Like a real, serious question?”
“Yes, it is.”
“I write a little bit,” he says.
“Great,” says my father. “Another San Francisco writer.”
“Come again?” says James.
“Isn’t that the running joke?” my father goes. “Everyone in San Francisco is a writer.”
“Justin,” Savannah says, cutting in, “James has written six books, three of them New York Times bestsellers, two of them turned into movies, a couple collections of poems and essays, and he’s about to direct his first movie next year.”
Leslie laughs.
It’s so awkward now that my face is turning red.
My mother was so right about him. The wannabe. The fake. Like, if she was right about this, then I know he’s been lying about all the other stuff. The phone calls and the money and the cards.
“Well, fuck,” my father goes. “That’s impressive.”
“It’s what I do,” says James. “Thanks for having me, I guess. Do you try and ridicule every guy you’re jealous of?”
“What?” my father says.
“Hey,” Savannah goes, turning to James and putting her hands on his shoulders. “It’s fine, man. Be cool.”
“Nothing,” James tells my father. “I just got back into town and haven’t slept much. Makes me a little cranky.”
“You’re fine,” my father goes. “Grab a seat and a glass of wine. We’re about ready to order.”
As Savannah says hi to everyone else, my father grabs her and goes, “Sit up here, please. With us.”
He pulls out a chair next to him and across from Leslie.
“Sure,” Savannah goes, and sits down.
But when James tries to sit on the other side of her, my father goes, “Excuse me, James. Those seats are for my friends.”
Kristen leans across the table and goes, “He’s wasted.”
“He’s an idiot,” I say.
“Right,” she says.
“It’s fine,” Savannah tells James. “Just sit by Jaime.”
Leslie looks sick. I’m so ashamed of my father.
James walks around the table and pulls out the chair next to me. “What’s up, partner?”
We fist bump.
“Is your father always such a douchebag?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“That’s right,” he says.
Pause.
“What a prick, and his wife is right there too,” James continues.
“It’s bullshit.”
“Yeah, it is.” James looks at Kristen. “Hi,” he says.
Kristen is glowing. Just staring at him. “Hey,” she says.
“How are you?” James asks.
“Just fine,” she goes. She introduces herself and Tyler to him and then says, “Can I tell you something?”
“It’s not gonna be some asshole shit like your father said, is it?”
“Not at all. He’s my stepfather, actually.”
“Same thing,” says James. “What’s up?”
“You’re probably one of my favorite authors ever, dude. And it’s an honor to meet you.”
I watch Tyler make a face after she says this.
“Well, thank you,” James says. “Thanks for supporting my art.”
“Art,” Tyler says, not asks.
“Yeah,” says James.
“Oh, come on, man,” Tyler goes. “It used to be art.”
“Tyler,” Savannah snaps. “What the fuck is your problem?”
“Nothing,” Tyler snorts. “I used to read your books. And then you wrote yourself and your book PieGrinder into The Bottle Cap Gang, and after that, I was over it, man.”
“Why was that such an issue with you, man?”
“The ego you have to have to do that. It’s fucking gross, man. Like we all know you wrote PieGrinder, but you gotta throw it in another book.”
James downs his glass of wine in one gulp and then says, “If only you knew what you were talking about.”
“I do. I read it, man.”
“Not that I need to ever explain my fucking work to anybody,” James starts. “But that was an inside joke for some friends. When PieGrinder came out, all these people I knew, some of them vaguely, came out of the woodwork and began telling everyone that the characters in the book were based on them. That the story was about them and their lives. So when I dropped that part in The Bottle Cap Gang, with that made-up author saying I was an asshole for having hung out for a week to see all this shit go down and then write about it, that was the joke. And the people it was intended for got it. And that’s all it was. It was for those fucking people, man.”
Tyler blushes. “Whatever,” he says.
“Yeah,” James goes. “Whatever, brah. Like, some jock wannabe hipster from the Marina thinks he knows some shit about my books. Fuck that. I see right through you, man. Right through you.”
I laugh as this waitress comes up to the table and asks if we’re ready to order.
Glancing back at Savannah, my father’s sitting, like, six inches from her now with his arm on the back of her chair, while Leslie sits with her arms folded across her chest.
Like, great idea, dude.
Like, some family fucking dinner.
And this is when I realize that I’ve never had dinner with this many people before.
42.
“COME WITH ME,” KRISTEN SAYS.
I’m standing up, looking at all the plates on the dining table still filled with food.
Everyone’s so high on coke that they couldn’t eat.
Only James and I ate the majority of what we ordered.
Bathroom trip after bathroom trip after bathroom trip I watched, and at one point, I thought about screaming, “Just dump the shit out on the table, yo, and ask the waitress for eight straws. Everyone knows you’re going to the bathroom to do blast or shit because you did blast.”
“Where we going?” I ask Kristen.
“My car,” she says.
“I’m in.”
She gets the keys from the valet and lights a cigarette immediately after we get out of sight.
“Damn, I needed this,” she says, as a cloud of smoke flows from her mouth and nose.
“What a shitshow,” I say.
“Right. Worst idea ever,” says Kristen. “Although having dinner with James Morgan is pretty fucking cool.”
“It’s insan
e,” I say. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“I told you this life is fabulous if you let it be. Besides all the other crap that’s happening.”
“I feel bad for your mother,” I say.
“Don’t,” says Kristen. “I’ve seen her pull that shit on your father so many times.”
“That’s bullshit,” I go.
“It is what it is. They do it because they can.”
“That’s stupid.”
“It happened once, Jaime, ya know. One of them did it first. And once is all you need for the other person to become so jaded and cynical to the point where they decide to do the same thing and perpetuate the situation instead of dissolve it.”
“It’s so fucking childish.”
“It is,” says Kristen. “I mean, you think your father and my mother have accepted the role of being adults just because they brought a kid into the world?”
“Obviously not.”
“They’re friends more than parents. Your father married my mother when I was nine. He’s been hands off my whole life, which is fine by me. I’ve never needed their hands to guide me. I just do what I do cos I love it. I like school. I love to learn. And I love making clothes and selling that shit. I’m easy.”
“Me too.” I guess.
“I’d hate to see them have to actually parent or give a shit. That’s probably a huge reason why I stay so busy. So I don’t have to put them through that grind and watch them be miserable by having to truly care. It all works, ya know. This is the dream scenario that any kid would fucking love to be living.”
“Sure,” I say.
“I’d rather have it like this than watch the two of them fucking fail cos they don’t know how to be involved and not be the center of their own universes.”
“Do you really think they don’t care at all, though?”
“No. I think they’ve figured out that pretending to give a shit is just easier than giving a shit, and since I’ve never complained about it, I think they’re actually convinced that pretending is the same thing as being.”
“It’s easier.”
“And that’s what it’s all about, dude.”
43.
“JUST HOLD THE FOIL UP to the end of the tooter and chase the smoke when it starts peeling off the pill,” I tell Kristen. “It’s easy. You’re just chasing the dragon until your world becomes glass.”