Blazed

by Jason Myers

  “That Tyler fuck,” I say, after taking a swing from the PBR he handed me when I got to his neighbor’s garage.

  “The worst dude ever.”

  “Yeah, him,” I say. “He fucked Kristen over bad, so I’m hitting back hard since no one else is going to. My father certainly ain’t. Fucking troll was trying to blame her.”

  “What a pie grinder,” Eddie says.

  “Right.”

  “Well, I’m totally down, man. You think it might help with her?”

  “I don’t know, dude. I really don’t.”

  Eddie shrugs, then says, “It doesn’t matter, actually. You need my help, I’m there. We gotta stick together, ya know. Can’t count on anyone else if you can’t count on your friends and your band.”

  “So true.”

  “How we gonna hurt him?”

  “We’re going straight for his balls, man. We’re gonna cut ’em off.”

  Eddie makes a face. “Huh?”

  “That blubber cheek’s got a brand-new BMW. I did some Facebook stalking and found out where he lives. The car is done. Cars are my specialty.”

  Eddies grins. “Sure,” he goes. Then, “You’re a weird dude.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s cool, though. Everyone’s a weirdo.”

  “That’s what they say, but I’m not so sure anymore. I’m not.”

  “No, man. You’re wrong. Everyone’s a fucking weirdo, everyone’s a little bit crazy and a little insane. It’s just that some people are better at hiding it than others. They’re in denial. But it’s true. We’re all insane. And there’s nothing wrong with it. This one’s for the freaks, homie. Tonight is for the freaks.”

  81.

  WE RECORD FOR, LIKE, THREE hours. It’s Good. The songs are actually great, considering we’ve only played three times together. Eddie’s neighbor had a couple of nice mics for us to use, he had some percussion shit that I laid down separately afterward, and he had a fridge full of beer and some weed for us.

  It was perfect.

  During the last take of “Swindle Big/Or Die Trying,” the final song we record, that dude Brandon was making out with shows up in a brand-new red Lexus.

  His name is Doug and he’s twenty-two, and he tells us that if we want, on Saturday night, him and his friend Milo are doing their pop-up store at seven in this parking lot in Potrero Hill and we can play a quick set.

  “Really?” I go. “That can happen?”

  “Yeah, man. Toward the end around eight. You guys will be good for at least thirty minutes. We do it every time we bring out the store, and it’s always been about thirty minutes before the fuzz gets there.”

  “Can you do it?” Eddie asks me.

  “Yeah, I can. I don’t leave till Sunday morning.”

  “We’re in, dude.”

  “Awesome,” says Doug. Then him and Brandon kiss and Doug goes, “Come on, Mr. Big, we’ve got some catching up to do. I missed you this morning.”

  “Let’s go,” says Brandon.

  As they’re walking out of the garage, Eddie goes, “You top or bottom, Mr. Big?”

  Brandon shrugs and Doug goes, “Don’t know. We’ll find out soon, though.”

  They jump into Doug’s Lexus and Eddie goes, “Good for Brandon.”

  “Sure.”

  “Let’s go beat up that Beamer now, homie.”

  82.

  THE SHIT WE BRING WITH us: My switchblade, three cans of spray paint, a pound of sugar, two bags of beef jerky, and six PBRs.

  Eddie gives me one of the bikes he just fixed up to ride. We’re heading to Tyler’s loft in SoMa.

  “What if he ain’t there?” Eddie goes.

  “We wait it out, dude. That’s what the fucking snacks are for.”

  “You’re good,” he says.

  “Again, cars are my specialty.”

  M83’s “Midnight City” blasts while we ride. It’s a nice ride too. Pedaling through the Mission on a fucking mission with probably the coolest kid I’ve ever met.

  It takes us prolly twenty minutes to get there. His crib is in this alley called Sumner Street. It’s really small and narrow but sure enough, there’s his Beamer parked on the sidewalk against the building to leave room for other cars to get by.

  “Dude,” says Eddie. “It’s right in the open, man. Like, everyone who lives in this alley can see us.”

  “That’s why we gotta be quick, man.”

  “I don’t know,” Eddie goes.

  “You don’t have to do this,” I say. “I’d understand if you didn’t. Hell, I’m just stoked you came with me. But I’m making that car ugly. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. It’s fucking getting what he deserves.”

  “Fuck,” says Eddie. Then he slides out a pint of Jim Beam and takes a huge swig.

  “Just stay back,” I say. “Be the lookout.”

  “No, fuck that,” Eddie rips. “I’m in. How we doing this?”

  “Let’s stash our bikes here, next to this fence. I figure we’re gonna have about one minute. You tag the fucking car and I’ll handle the rest.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Even if anyone sees us, they won’t do anything. We’ll be long gone before the cops come. It’s gonna be fine.”

  “It has to be, right? Cos cars are your specialty.”

  “Fuck you.” I laugh.

  “Let’s get this booger pussy.”

  We fist bump and me and Eddie, we fucking do this shit.

  And yeah, we fucking do it right. We do it really fucking well.

  83.

  KRISTEN OPENS HER BEDROOM DOOR after I knock. I’m holding two Coronas. She’s wearing just tiny pink shorts and a black cashmere crewneck sweatshirt that says Murder City Devils on the front, and she’s listening to the Beach House album Bloom.

  “Here,” I say, handing her a beer.

  Her eyes are red and puffy. “Thanks. Come in,” she says.

  There’s eight empty bottles of Corona next to her nightstand and a mirror with lines of blast lying across it.

  “You wasted?”

  “Beyond wasted,” she says, lying down on her bed. “Come on, Jaime. Sit down here,” she goes, patting the spot right next to her.

  I sit down on the edge of the bed instead.

  “Don’t be such a baby,” she says. “Come here.”

  I take a swig before swinging my legs up and scooting all the way back to the headboard.

  “How’s it going?”

  “It sucks,” she says. “Everything sucks. I’m such a fuckhead.”

  “That’s not true,” I say.

  “Yes, it is,” she says back. “I blew it last night. Not only did I miss the show, I didn’t make anything for Dominique to wear.”

  “It was okay, though,” I say.

  “Not for me,” she says. “Like, I fucked up and slept through the entire day. It would’ve been so huge for me to have my clothes on her for that show but no, I had to stay up for two and a half days and miss everything. I just suck so bad right now. I’m blowing it, and this has to stop.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This,” she says. “Those lines of coke on that mirror are the last lines I’m ever doing. I’m done with this shit. All of it, for good. Tyler, the coke, maybe even the drinking, my stupid friends. Done with it, Jaime.”

  I take a drink and don’t say anything.

  “Where’d you go after you and Justin got into it?” she asks.

  “I met up with Eddie and Brandon. We recorded in Eddie’s neighbor’s garage.”

  “Recorded what?”

  “Four tracks. We started up a project this week called Skullburns.”

  “Damn,” she says. “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You guys are a bunch of little go-getters. Good job.”

  “What else is there to do?”

  She smiles finally. “Right,” she says. “Besides date some fake-ass hipster asshole and do all his drugs, then sleep through the good shit, what else is t
here to do?”

  I start laughing, and her phone goes off. She picks it up and looks at it.

  “Are you fucking serious?” she screams, sitting up.

  “What’s up?”

  “Tyler!” she snaps. “That pig cheats on me and then has the audacity to fucking accuse me of fucking his car up.”

  “What?” I say, trying to act as shocked as I can.

  “What a loser! I’ve been here all night. Fuck him!”

  “What’s the text say?”

  “ ‘You know anything about this, whore?’ And then there’s a picture of his car all fucked up.” She starts laughing now and says, “Damn, it is fucked up. But I didn’t do it. Ugh! Kudos to whoever did, though. Rad.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” I say.

  “Sure.”

  “Would you ever go back with Tyler?”

  “Fuck no. Never. I hate him. I will never talk to him again!”

  “That’s the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay then.”

  “Why?”

  “Cos I know who did that to his car.”

  “You do?” she says.

  Pause.

  This smile eclipses her entire face.

  “Oh my god,” she goes. “I love you!”

  Kristen lunges at me and hugs me.

  “You are so incredible. I wanna be like you when I grow up.”

  “Shut up,” I say.

  “But seriously,” she goes. “That’s amazing. You did that for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Damn,” she says.

  “I hated that guy from the second he walked into the restaurant that night.”

  “That’s right. You have.”

  I take a drink. “Big-time.”

  When I look back at Kristen, I find her just staring at me and smiling.

  “What’s up?” I say.

  “No one’s ever done something that cool for me. No one’s ever stuck up for me before.”

  “That’s what I do for the people I love. I got your back. I always will.”

  “Thank you,” she says.

  I take another drink.

  “Just thank you,” she says again, and then she puts a hand on my face. “You’re so cute,” she says.

  I don’t say anything.

  “So cute and sweet and perfect.”

  I don’t know what to do.

  “I should do something nice for you.”

  “You don’t need—”

  But before I can finish saying that thought, Kristen’s mouth is on mine. Her tongue down my throat, wrestling with my tongue.

  I throw my hands against the sides of her tight body and lean forward and push her on her back.

  “Fuck me,” she says. “Please. I’ve wanted you to fuck me all week.”

  I get on top of her now and she pulls off her sweater. Her tits are so nice and round and perfect.

  “I want you,” she says as we kiss some more. “Please,” she goes. “Fuck me.”

  I can’t, though. No way. I shouldn’t have even done this. I’m with Dominique.

  Pulling my mouth from hers, I say, “No, no, no.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I can’t do this.”

  “No. You can. Just fuck me. I want you to. I’ve wanted you to.”

  “No,” I say, as she tries to pull me back down to her. “We’re not doing this. I’m with Dominique. I can’t do that to her.”

  Covering her face with her hands now, Kristen goes, “That’s right. You are.”

  I slide off the bed and stand up. “I’m sorry.”

  “No,” she goes. “Don’t be. You’re right. We can’t do this. Not to her. Never to her.”

  “Yeah.”

  Kristen pulls her sweater back over herself.

  “It woulda been nice, though,” I say.

  She smiles. “It woulda been amazing.”

  “Totally.”

  Pause.

  “I’m gonna go to bed.”

  “All right. But Jaime.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For being one of the good ones.”

  “I’m not sure I am.”

  “Yes, you are,” she says. “You are definitely one of the good ones, boo.”

  84.

  “ABOUT A MONTH BEFORE YOU were born, your mother and I were doing really good. We were still living in that tiny apartment, but I’d just gotten this really nice promotion that I knew was going to lead to a lot more money for us over the next year. Still, though, we didn’t have much and we needed to get your room ready, so I decided to make everything myself. Your crib, the shelves, the dresser and bookcase, the closet door. Just everything. I’d done a lot of carpentry to get by when I first moved to New York, and a good friend of mine had a studio that he let me borrow so I could build those things after I got off work.”

  My father is standing in my room. I’m sitting at my desk. I was writing the lyrics for this new song, “Sticking to My Guns,” after finishing this new poem.

  Last night, before I went to bed, I grabbed the box with all the letters in it and put it in front of his and Leslie’s bedroom door with a note that said, If you can’t talk to me, then I can’t read these.

  My father is wearing a pair of black dress pants and a white V-neck T-shirt with a pair of shades hanging from the V.

  “It was hard on us,” he continues. “I was putting in twelve hours a day at the office and then another three or four after that at the studio. Your mother didn’t want to use what I was making. She wanted some store-bought stuff. She was angry that I was spending time at the studio, but I always begged her to come there with me and be with me, but she refused and she iced me out. We barely spoke for those two or three weeks. Everything I made was good, though. It was quality. Way better than anything we could’ve bought, Jaime. The day after I brought everything to the apartment and set your room up, I came home after work and she’d smashed the shelves with a hammer and kicked in the side of the crib. The day after that we went to the store and bought all new stuff, which she hated the second after we set it up.”

  “She was pregnant, man. Like, cut her some slack.”

  “I did,” he says. “I never said anything about what she’d done. Not a word. I loved her with every ounce of my being. She was my dream, my angel. I loved that lady to death.”

  “Why are you telling me this? If this was in one of the letters, I guess I’d rather read it now.”

  “Man,” he goes. “You can be just as cold as she was when you want to, ya know that. So damn cold and cruel.”

  “Listen,” I say. “What I know of what happened, what you did, that’s as fucking cold as it gets, man. What you did. So she complained about some furniture . . . who fucking cares? You hit her and pushed her to the ground. Don’t even say it’s the same. They’re not even in the same universe.”

  My father takes a deep breath and squeezes his forehead.

  “What?” I snap.

  “Remember, your mother loves you, Jaime, and deep down, she is a wonderful person.”

  “What are you talking about when you say that shit to me? What?”

  “I went back to Ohio to visit my father the day after they admitted him to the hospital for the last time. Your mother was about to burst and didn’t want me to go. She begged me not to go, but that man was my hero and he was going to die within weeks. I wanted to see him while he could still talk and carry on a conversation. I knew he’d be a vegetable soon before he finally passed, and I wanted to just talk to him and tell him how much I loved him.”

  “All right.”

  My father takes a deep, deep breath and wipes the tears from his eyes.

  “Man,” he says. “It’s been awhile since I took myself back to that hospital room. Man . . .”

  “What?”

  “My father was a very handsome man, Jaime. Very handsome and very charming.”
<
br />   “Great. That’s awesome.”

  “During my first visit to see him that last trip, probably twenty or thirty minutes after we started talking, he looks me dead in the eyes and goes, ‘I can’t die with this on my chest, son.’ I told him he could tell me anything, anything at all. And that’s when he told me about him and your mother, him and my wife.”

  My world, it flips upside down and the blood drains from me. Everything is fuzzy. My hands and fingers are numb. Heart is broken, it’s gone.

  “Jaime,” he says.

  “What’d he say?” I mutter.

  “He told me about their affair. They’d been sleeping together for three years. They were in love. That’s why he had been in San Francisco. He was there to try and convince her to leave me and marry him so he could leave everything he had to her and you, since I didn’t have anything.”

  Falling forward, my head drops against my arms on the desk.

  “I was devastated, Jaime. In one cruel swipe, I’d lost my hero and the love of my life. The two people I loved the most, who I trusted the most, trusted with my life, had been betraying me for years, plotting and planning, even having a conversation about running out on me and getting married.”

  Lifting my head back up, I snap, “Just shut up! Okay? Just shut the fuck up!”

  “Jaime,” my father starts.

  But I say, “Stop it! Please!”

  “It’s the truth, Jaime. I’m not lying. I’m—”

  “I don’t think you’re lying!” I yell. “I don’t, but just stop it. Fuck, man. Just stop talking about it and leave me alone.”

  “I’m sorry, Jaime. But you deserve to know.”

  “Shut the fuck up!” I scream again. “Please . . . okay? Just please stop talking about it . . . Dad.”

  85.

  YOUTH LAGOON OPENS WITH “DROPLA” off their Wondrous Bughouse album. Dominique, she seems pretty upset with me too. For a lot of reasons, I’m thinking, even though she tells me she’s fine, which is bullshit cos she’s not.

  I was half an hour late meeting her at this taquería on Eighteenth and Valencia. I’m really wasted, too—at least four blues deep, like, six or seven beers, some dope I got a hit off of while I was walking through the Haight trying to wrap my head around what my father told me and if it was true or not (I declined my mother’s phone call from the hospital today) and what it means and who the fuck do I know and really have in my life who isn’t a monster, who isn’t the most selfish person ever, who doesn’t lie.