by Jason Myers
Two seconds later, there I am, on my knees, and my face is in the toilet and vomit is shooting out of my mouth.
All those drugs I’ve never done, and here I am throwing them up and everything else my body wants to push out because I did too many of them.
60.
LESLIE IS GRADING PAPERS IN the living room when I finally come back downstairs.
When she looks up at me, her face is angry and her eyes are like ice.
“What’s going on with you?” she asks.
I shrug. “Nothing.”
“Are you sick?”
“Why?”
“I heard you throw up. I was in the office.”
“I’m fine.”
Leslie’s face hasn’t changed. Neither has her glare.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “Not at all.”
“I’m sorry to hear that . . . I guess. Is there anything I can do to help?” I start looking around the room. “Where is my father?”
“He’s long gone,” she says.
“Should I call him?”
Leslie drops the stack of papers in her hand on the coffee table and stands up. She shakes her head. “No,” she snaps.
“Well, what do you want me to do then? What’s wrong?”
“I want you to stop being a fucking bitch to your father,” she barks.
Just the tone of her voice startles me. Hearing those particular words come out of her mouth, this fucking blond hippie art teacher, it’s fucking weird, and it really rubs me the wrong way.
“Say that again,” I snort.
“You heard me the first time,” she says. “Don’t play stupid, Jaime.”
I toss my arms into the air and go, “Who do you think you are, Leslie? My mother?”
“You listen to me,” she says. “That man has been nothing but great to you since he picked you up. He’s treated you with respect, kindness, and understanding, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand in my own house—our house, not yours—and listen to you say those things about him to a complete stranger. Do you know how hurtful that was to watch? Do you know how bad that made him feel? Standing in his own house and having to watch his own son, his abandoned flesh and blood, tear him down like that and call him those names and say those things about him after he flew to Illinois on a few hours’ notice just to bring you into his home so you weren’t all alone. You ungrateful brat. If there’s anyone being a monster, it’s you.”
The skin on my face is burning. My heart is racing.
“If it was so goddamn awful,” I rip, “where is he? If he’s so hurt by what I said, then why the fuck isn’t he here talking to me?”
“Because he actually has some respect and dignity,” she hisses.
“Yeah, right. You don’t know anything, Leslie. Nothing. You have no idea what you’re talking about, so stay the fuck out of my business. This is between me and him.”
“This is my house!” she yells. “You’re in my fucking house and you will not disrespect my husband like that in front of me or him again.”
I roll my eyes and even though I don’t want to do this at all, I start laughing. I can’t stop myself. I just laugh and run a hand over my face.
“What the hell is so funny?”
“This,” I say, spreading my arms out. “This! Like, here we go again.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Once again, my father is fucking gone, and the woman he’s in love with is trying to define him to me. That’s awesome.”
A sudden hush comes over Leslie, and her face dries up and turns white.
“The only difference between you and my mother right now is that you’re telling me how great he is instead of how awful he is, and I still don’t even know who he is. Bravo!” I snap, smacking my hands together. “The woman he was in love with before you is the one who shaped my impression of him. She’s had fourteen years to do this, though, so if you think you’re going to make me feel bad about what I said and shed a different light on him with some passionate five-minute rant in the living room after I just finished talking to that other woman, you’re about as crazy as she is too.”
Leslie says nothing. She’s fucking shell-shocked.
“I appreciate him for making sure his fourteen-year-old son wasn’t totally alone and by himself after his mother almost died, but if he wants me to think he’s anything other than what I know him to be based on what happened between him and my mother, he’s gonna have to do a lot more than house his own fucking son. Dude’s never given a shit about me until he legally had to. Never even pretended to maybe give a shit. Fuck that.”
Leslie’s head drops and her eyes close and I put my earphones in and walk out of the house.
61.
DOMINIQUE MEETS ME AT THE west portal station. It’s really windy and cold. When I look around, it almost seems like I’m in a different city. It was sorta sunny in the Haight and not very cold, and instead of mostly apartments and stoops, I see houses and driveways.
She gives me a hug. It’s really fucking nice. Just to see her again and see someone smile and at least look fucking happy.
“You smell nice,” I tell her.
“It’s the least I could do. Are you hungry?”
“I could eat. Sure.”
“Pizza okay?”
“Pizza’s great. I’d eat it for every meal and snack if I could.”
“You’d get so fat, though.”
“But I’d never have a bad meal.”
She grabs my hand and we walk away from the train station.
“Ya know, I really, really love your septum ring,” I tell her. “I keep thinking about it. It looks so good on you. It just fits. It makes a pretty face just a little bit more pretty.”
“Do you spend a lot of time thinking about me, Jaime?”
“I mean, not a lot. Not really all that much. Here and there, ya know. Like right after I’m done thinking about how amazing my father is and how rad my mother is too.”
“Shut up,” she says, pushing me gently, jokingly. “I’d rather you didn’t think about me at all then.”
“Not even the nose ring?”
“Nope.” She’s grinning. “Nothing about me at all.”
“Never,” I say. I reach up and touch the end of it. “I could never not think of this.”
“You should get one while you’re here.”
“You think it would look good?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Duh. Anything is gonna look good on someone who already looks so damn good.”
“Maybe I will then,” I say. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“Not tomorrow,” she says. “I’ve gotta be there with you if you get it, and tomorrow I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Cos,” she says, glowing now.
“Cos why?”
“Cos we got offered a show tomorrow night, opening for King Krule at Slim’s,” she says. “We got the e-mail this morning. The original opener dropped off the bill and that main dude, Archy, stepped in and wanted us to play. He’s a fan, I guess. I mean, we were all blown away. He wanted an even younger band on the bill than his. I’m still a little shocked.”
“That’s so fucking cool, Dominique. I’m stoked for you. I like that band a lot.”
“The show’s sold out, too,” she says. “And it’s all ages, mister. So you can totally get in and be there. I’ll put you on the list.”
“Fuck that,” I say. “I’ll pay. Guest lists should only exist for family, cos they’ve supported you enough, ya know. They’re probably a huge reason why you have a guest list.”
Dominique grabs my hand again and says, “I’ve never thought about it like that. There’s people who haven’t come to some of our shows cos they couldn’t get on the list.”
“Fuck those people,” I say. “Save a spot on your list.”
“No,” she goes. “As much as I love you saying that, you’re getting a spot. The show is sold out. The only way you get in
is to be on the list.”
“Right,” I say. “Great point.”
“I’m so excited,” she says. “I’m seeing my fucking dream playing out, and it’s way better than I ever thought it would be.”
“Good,” I say. “I’m excited for you.”
“Thanks, babe.”
“So what’s up with the pizza?”
“It’s right around the corner,” she says, and then pulls me into her and puts her head on my shoulder.
62.
DOMINIQUE’S HOUSE IS SMALL AND cute. It’s one story and white with a garage and a tiny front lawn. It’s so quiet here too. Again, it feels like I’m in an entirely different city, and I like it. The quiet and the grass and the trees and the families.
We walk through the front door and right into the living room. She tells me to take my shoes off. The floor is wood with a dull shine. It’s really clean inside.
“Is anyone else here?” I ask Dominique.
“No,” she says. “My mom’s at work. She’s probably at the Transmission Gallery.”
“How long has she worked for my father?”
“Almost a year. It’s been so great, too. Having inside access to all this art and meeting the artists. Your father really saved us,” she says.
“How’s that?”
“My mom was laid off from her old job. She’d been with them for over ten years and made decent money, but we were still barely getting by. It’s just been her, ya know. She’s raised me and my older brothers all by herself, so when she lost her job, it was so sad to watch her struggle. We all got jobs to help out, but we weren’t even making ends meet. She was really depressed but tried to hide it as much as she could, but we could tell. It was different. She was quiet and distant and she cried a lot alone in her room. We were all set to move into this tiny two-bedroom apartment in Oakland when she met your dad. Her background is in media relations, and he was about to open the second gallery in SoMa. A couple of days later he called her and offered her a job with salary and benefits. I’ve never seen someone as relieved and grateful as my mom was, because it meant we could stay in the house. We’ve lived here for eleven years. This is our home and when your dad hired her, it meant we could stay here. It was huge.”
We walk into the kitchen, and she pulls two cans of Coca-Cola from the fridge.
“Where are your brothers?” I ask her.
Handing me one of the sodas, she says, “My oldest brother, Malcolm, just moved to Santa Clara. He got a scholarship to play college ball there.”
“That’s cool,” I say.
“It is. He worked his ass off, ya know. He was getting looked at by Duke and UCLA and Kentucky until he tore his knee up really, really bad his sophomore year and didn’t play his junior year. But he rehabbed and came back and when he got the Santa Clara offer, he jumped at it. He deserves it too. He’s so good and he’s so nice and sweet. I miss him a lot.”
“What about Jamal?” I ask.
Dominique sighs, still smiling, and she goes, “Jamal’s working out all day. He gets up at, like, six every morning in the summer and goes and works out until, like, three and then he goes to work till eleven washing dishes at the restaurant in Hayes Valley. But he’ll be at the show tomorrow night. Malcolm might even be able to drive back and be there. I’d love it if you met them. They’re so sweet, ya know. They were my protectors growing up. They really helped my mom raise me.”
I take a sip from the Coke. Like, it’s still just really fucking hard for me to hear how awesome my father is again, from all these people. So what if he’s changed? So what if he’s gotten his act together finally and done some rad shit for people out here? Does that excuse what he did to my mother? Does that make it okay that it took my mother’s lame suicide attempt for him to finally claim a small part of his son? His only child?
I take a sip of my Coca-Cola. And I say, “You guys are really fucking ambitious. You’re so driven.”
“We are,” she says. “Driven by the ghost of our daddy.”
“Where is he?” I ask.
She looks away from me. “You don’t have to tell me anything,” I say. “You can tell me to shut the fuck up if you’d like. It’s really not my business.”
“He’s dead,” she says. “I never even knew him. He died from an overdose when I was seven, but my mother had cut all ties with him before I was born.”
It all makes sense now. Last night when we were walking from Dolores Park and she snapped at me about my father.
“Jesus,” I say. “I’m sorry, Dominique.”
“No,” she says. “No. Don’t be. He was a fucking asshole, I guess. Just a piece of shit at the end.”
“Did he ever try to reach out to you?”
“No,” she says. “He never even wanted us. He was too busy being a rapper and a hustler in Oakland. It’s so pathetic. Like, why the fuck do you keep making babies with your wife if you despise everything that comes with it?”
“Is that why you don’t drink or get high anymore? Cos of him?”
Shaking her head, she says, “Not because of him. He’s one of the reasons I stay sober now, but I decided not to drink or drug anymore because of Ricky.”
“Your ex.”
“That’s him,” she says.
She drops her face in her hand and squeezes her forehead. She looks so stressed out right now. Upset. Worn out just from her ex being mentioned.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Like, I don’t need to know shit. I’m leaving in less than a week now.”
“Don’t say that,” she says, looking up.
“Huh.”
“Just don’t say it like that. You’re just leaving.”
“But I am. And then I’m gone, and if talking about some dark shit in your life makes you sick or uncomfortable, then don’t do it.”
Dominique rolls her eyes. She says, “Have you considered for a second that I do wanna tell you this stuff? I want to talk about it. I think it’s fucking clear how much I like you, Jaime. And I wanna share myself with you. Think about that instead of jumping on me and telling me I don’t have to and that you’re leaving.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be. Just relax.”
“Okay.”
It’s about time for some blue, I’m thinking. Like, I’m getting short with my patience. It’s clear. Instead of listening, I’m telling her not to talk. It’s awful and she’s right. She’s so fucking right.
And she says, “Ya know what, man? Fuck this conversation right now, actually. You wanna see my room?”
“Sure.”
She takes my hand and goes, “Come on then. We’re going this way.”
• • •
Dominique’s room is like a teenage girl’s room, I guess. Except she has a keyboard synth set up against the wall on the right side of the room, there’s a sampler on a small table next to the synth, and she’s got, like, two microphones and an acoustic guitar and a bass set up next to the table.
This is the dream right here. I’m drooling just looking at the gear and thinking about how I’m gonna shred on all of it.
Her floor is covered with clothes. I mean, I don’t even see more than a few inches of the actual hardwood floor when I look it over.
Her walls are painted bright pink. There’s a walk-in closet to the left of the door. A desk and a computer is next to another closet on that right wall with all the cool gear. And her bed is straight ahead. It’s huge and there’s, like, six pillows on it and it looks so soft and comfy.
Ghostface Killah, the Knife, Kendrick Lamar, Thee Oh Sees, the Growlers, Beach House, Purity Ring, and Big Black posters are pinned all over the wall along with posters from all these Vicious Lips shows.
It almost feels like validation. All this time and energy I’ve spent seeking out amazing music and learning how to play instruments. Giving my fucking life to this stuff and not settling on being young as an excuse to not get into good shit or make amazing stuff.
This is th
e payoff.
Kicking it with Dominique and meeting someone who’s been doing the same thing as me.
“I love this,” I tell her.
“Sorry about the mess.”
“Why? Just gives this place some more character, I guess.”
She goes over to her computer and plays some music. That M83 song “Midnight City” comes on.
“One of my favorites,” I say, and start dancing around a little bit.
“Of course it is,” she says, then starts dancing too.
The smile on her face is priceless. She looks so happy, and I feel so happy as we dance to this song. It’s like one of those moments that you wish could be looped so it never ends. These four minutes on repeat for the rest of your life. Cos part of you knows this might be the happiest you’ll ever feel or even be capable of feeling. Part of you is scared that you’ll hold this moment to such a high standard that everything going forward will suck and you’ll find yourself living in the past all the time, letting the nostalgia dictate you and manipulate the way you feel about everything else.
“Midnight City” fades into “Gila” by Beach House, and Dominique pushes me onto the bed now.
My dick gets hard right away.
And then she crawls on top of me and stops when her face is directly over mine.
“What do you think?” she says.
“I think I really like you and that this is fucking perfect right now.”
“Me too,” she says, and then I lean up and we start making out.
Putting my hands around her neck, I gently push her onto her back, then run a hand down her body. It’s so tight and nice and when my hand touches her jeans, I unbutton them.
“Oh yeah,” she goes.
I pull back. “Is that cool?” I say.
“Duh,” she says. “Keep doing what you’re doing.”
I pull her jeans down past her ass and then slide my fingers beneath her underwear. Her pussy is wet. I slide two fingers in and she moans and bites down hard on my bottom lip.
Just back and forth I go, finger-banging her as Beach House sings . . .
“Give a little more than you like, pick apart the past, you’re not going back . . .”