Blazed

by Jason Myers

  Also, she could easily be pissed about me not telling her I was sorry for making her wait. Or maybe it was the rant I went on about all women being cunts and whores at their core. All of them. No exceptions or anything. Cos they are. And it’s evil and they think they can just get away with it. They think they can destroy you before they mow you down and that it’s fine and that they can just walk away from the damage they’ve done and leave you to live in the ruins like it’s no big deal.

  Cunts.

  And whores.

  All of them.

  We’re standing outside Great American Music Hall, on the edge of the Tenderloin, like, twenty feet from the entrance of a strip club, and it’s the worst day and night ever in my life, but then Youth Lagoon begins playing and everything changes. It really does.

  For the first time since me and her rolled up, like, twenty minutes ago, she smiles and says something.

  She goes, “Yay. My favorite on this album.”

  It’s a start at least, and I say, “Mine too.”

  “I remember when Keisha texted me that he was going to be on NPR playing songs off this, I freaked out. I cleared my entire day. At first, when I heard it, I didn’t know what to think.”

  “Me either.”

  “It was really good, but it wasn’t what I expected. Year of Hibernation cut me so deep and left such a fucking mark on me that it’s all I wanted. Like, I refused this album for a week even though it was great, because it wasn’t Year.”

  I’m laughing because I did pretty much the same thing, except my denial of the record lasted a month.

  “Then the band was driving to Santa Barbara to play this small festival and Mark put it on and it became an addiction. A different one, though, and it’s all I listened to for the next month. Now I’m here. Listening to it live, and it’s even better than I imagined.”

  Me looking at her right now, her leaning against the wall next to the box office, looking gorgeous and happy, it dissolves the hate I’ve been holding in me all day—poor girl doesn’t even know about my father telling me that stuff—and all the ice melts away.

  “It’s so rad to just watch you talk about music you love,” I tell her. “To see your physical reaction to go along with the thrill in your voice, there’s nothing I’d rather watch. Nothing, Dominique. Like, what’s that Frank O’Hara line?”

  She shrugs.

  “ ‘I look at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world.’ ”

  Her face lights up even more. “That’s fucking beautiful,” she says.

  “I feel that way every time I look at you,” I say, as that song “Raspberry Cane” ends and the song “Posters” begins.

  “Jaime,” she says, blushing. “Come here.”

  We kiss finally. It’s great to feel those lips against mine again. Her tongue whipping against the walls of my mouth.

  “What has been going on with you tonight?” she asks.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell her, as I start dancing around like a weirdo on the sidewalk. “No idea. Everything is perfect. I’m so good right now.”

  Dominique grins and shakes her head. She starts dancing around with me and here we are again, another magical fucking night, the two of us on a sidewalk somewhere in San Francisco, listening to one of our favorite bands in the world play some of our favorite songs ever.

  Thank god for Youth Lagoon.

  Once again, arriving in my life and saving me, for a while at least.

  • • •

  James walks outside holding a record, signed by Trevor, and a T-shirt. He tries to hand them to me but I go, “It’s for her. This is Dominique, man. Dominique, this is James Morgan.”

  “Whoa,” she goes, looking stunned. “Nice to meet you. How do you two—”

  “We’re old-school homies,” says James, winking at me. “Jaime’s, like, my best friend now.”

  “Jesus,” I go, laughing.

  “You two kids have fun now. I’m gonna go back in. See you at Savannah’s show tomorrow night, homie.”

  “Thanks again, dude.”

  “You’re fucking incredible, ya know,” Dominique says. “How in the hell . . .”

  “I’ll never tell,” I say. “Never.”

  “I love you,” she goes. “Even if you think I’m a cunt.”

  “The biggest one for sure.”

  She laughs as Youth Lagoon begins playing “July.”

  Both of us jump up and down and she grabs me and we twirl around in circles, singing together.

  When the song is over, this younger-looking black kid walks past us and goes, “Roxys, bud, coke.”

  “What’s that?” I ask. “You got blues?”

  “Yeah. Follow me.”

  I look back at Dominique. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere. I’ll be back in a second, though.”

  “Jaime,” she goes. “No.”

  “You coming or not?” the dude says.

  “Yeah.”

  We walk around the corner and cut into this alley.

  “How many for eight?” I go.

  “This many,” he says, and whips out a knife.

  “Whoa, man. Whoa. What are you doing?”

  “Give me all your money.”

  “What are you doing?”

  Dude grabs the back of my neck and pushes me into the wall.

  “All your money, bitch. Now.”

  “Fine,” I say. “Fine.”

  He lets go of me. Slowly, I turn around, see the knife again.

  “It’s cool,” I say, then I push him and try to run, but he grabs onto me again and tackles me.

  “Dude,” I yell.

  “Give me your fucking money.”

  I kick him and get to my feet, then—

  POP!

  Dude just drills me in the stomach.

  BAM!

  He hits me in the face, and I stumble back and fall down.

  I’m totally helpless as he opens my wallet and pulls out all the money. All thousand dollars.

  “Fucking faggot!” he yells next. “Just listen to me next time.”

  “Fuck you,” I say. “Fucking worthless piece of shit. Fucking pussy.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Fuck you.”

  BAM!

  BAM!

  BAM!

  He kicks me three more times.

  BAM!

  He punishes me in the face with this last kick.

  “Jaime,” I hear. It’s Dominique.

  The guy who robbed me takes off like a punk, the pussy he is, and she drops down next to me.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” I sit up.

  “You’re bleeding,” she says. “Come here.”

  “Don’t touch me!” I scream, knocking her hands away. “Don’t fucking touch me right now.”

  She’s crying. “Why are you yelling at me?”

  “I told you to stay back there. What are you doing here?”

  “What were you doing?”

  “Stop it,” I say. “Stop asking me shit. What the fuck are you doing?”

  Pushing myself to my feet, I go, “You’re pissing me off.”

  I can feel the blood running down my face. Taste it in my mouth. It’s fine.

  My mother hits harder than that dude.

  But that guy stole my money, which is her money.

  It’s not some full-circle shit. But it’s sorta close to some full-circle shit.

  “I’m gonna call 911,” she goes.

  “No!” I scream. “What is your problem?”

  “I’m just trying to help,” she cries.

  “I don’t need your fucking help. I don’t need anyone’s fucking help.”

  “Jaime,” she gasps, reaching out and grabbing my arm.

  “Get the fuck off of me, Dominique. Get away from me right now.”

  “Fuck you!” she screams. “You’re an asshole. Just like e
very dude’s an asshole. So screw you.”

  She flips me off and rolls right out of the alley.

  Using my shirt to wipe off the blood, it hurts. I can feel the pain setting in.

  “Goddamn it!” I kick the wall. “Fuck.”

  I lean down and reach into the sock on my right foot. I’ve got a hundred bucks in there.

  I take it out and then I call Dominique.

  She doesn’t answer.

  But, like, five seconds later I get a text message from her that says, You broke my fucking heart. You’re a junkie and an asshole. I hate you. Go back to Illinois. Hate you!

  I start to text something back, but I stop. What’s the point? She’s right. Everything she said is the truth.

  I’m no different than my mother and my father.

  I’m selfish.

  I’m a junkie.

  I’m the bitch.

  I’m the cunt.

  And I’m the fucking whore.

  86.

  “YOU POOR THING,” SAVANNAH SAYS. “Who would ever want to hurt such a cute face?”

  I’m sitting in the kitchen of the apartment above the Transmission Gallery with my shirt off.

  Savannah, she’s sitting in front of me, cleaning the blood off my face with a damp towel.

  I wince every time she touches me. My face stings. My ribs are covered in pain. She picks up the lit joint from the ashtray on the table next to it and takes a hit and then puts it in my mouth so I can take a hit.

  “What happened to you?” she goes.

  “Just a misunderstanding,” I tell her. “No biggie.”

  “It doesn’t look like it’s no biggie.”

  “It’s over,” I say. “Everything is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This,” I say. “It’s all over.”

  Savannah’s hair is hanging straight down her back. She’s wearing a large red-and-black flannel that’s unbuttoned down to the top of her chest and a pair of tiny black cutoff shorts.

  The Growlers record Are You In or Out? is spinning on the player.

  I took a cab straight here from the alley. She’d just gotten back from moving all of her paintings to the other gallery for the opening tomorrow night. My father was here twenty minutes before I arrived, and she said he was sick and worried because he hadn’t been able to get ahold of me all day and night.

  “I had a feeling I was going to see you tonight, though,” Savannah says.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know why, but when we started talking about you, I couldn’t help but think you’d make your way over here sometime tonight.”

  Savannah gives me another hit and then picks up her bottle of Pacifico and takes a drink.

  “Weird.”

  “Maybe,” she says. “This has been an interesting week.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  She laughs.

  And I go, “What do you think about my father?”

  “I think he’s a good guy, Jaime. I think he’s genuine. He’s got a really good heart, and everything he does comes from a really good place.”

  “That’s what you truly, honestly think?”

  “Yes, it is. I don’t know anything about what’s happened to him, but he was hurt badly at some point in his life. It’s really obvious to me. I see it in him. And I can tell that it’s where all of his sincerity is coming from. He cares about people. He cares about his life and he’s passionate about it.”

  “That’s bullshit. He was all over you in front of Leslie, in front of everyone at dinner on Saturday. It was embarrassing.”

  “It was what it was. But there was nothing malicious about it. He was a little drunk.”

  “How can you justify that?”

  She stops wiping my face and goes, “I wanna show you something.”

  “What is it?”

  She stands up. “I’ll be right back.”

  I take a drink of her beer and text Dominique, apologizing for what happened and everything I said.

  I was a monster back there. It was pathetic.

  As I’m taking another hit off the joint, Savannah hands me a picture in a frame and my jaw drops.

  “I found this two days ago in a drawer in the other bedroom.”

  “Oh my god,” I say.

  “I think that might have something to do with what happened on Saturday.”

  The picture is of my mother and father. In it, they’re sitting on a rooftop in New York and my mother, she looks exactly like Savannah. It’s shocking how similar they look.

  “Jesus,” I say. “Just wow. And look at them.” I look up at Savannah with tears in my eyes. “They look so happy. So pretty and happy.”

  “It’s an amazing photo.”

  I’m floored right now.

  I wipe my eyes and Savannah sits back down.

  “Your father is so deeply wounded, Jaime. He’s scarred forever. Whatever happened is something I don’t think he’ll ever recover from. He’s moved on in every other part of his life. That’s obvious. But as far as his attachment to certain parts of his past, I think he’d do anything to get back to this rooftop.”

  “To re-create the day. Relive a certain day.”

  “What?”

  “Did he take you on the roof with him at all?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “A couple days ago. We sat up there and drank a bottle of wine.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “Your father loves you so much, Jaime. When he talks about you, the passion in his voice is unreal. It’s contagious.”

  “What is wrong with these people?”

  “Nothing and everything at the same time.”

  I laugh.

  “You’re right,” I say.

  Savannah slides the towel down my face one more time and says, “When someone is living with one foot in the present and one foot in the past, it can be really difficult to understand why they do some of the things they do. It can seem really off and hurtful, but if that person is real, if they’re genuine about what they’re doing, it tends to start making a lot more sense once you realize how big the void is and that all’s they’re doing is trying to dump a little bit of sand into it.”

  “That’s fucking beautiful,” I say. “So you’re a poet, too.”

  “No,” she goes. “That’s your job, Jaime. I watched the new one you posted.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “I loved it.”

  “I want to have sex with you,” I tell her. “Right now. I want to be inside of you.”

  She blushes and smiles. Puts her hand under my chin. “I want that too.”

  I lean forward, but she turns away.

  “We can’t, though.”

  “I know.”

  I put my hand on her face.

  “Thank you,” I tell her.

  “Thank you,” she tells me back.

  “I should get going now. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  She puts a hand on the back of my neck and pulls me into her. We kiss twice on the lips and that’s it.

  And that’s perfect.

  She walks me to the door and before I leave, I say, “James really likes you, ya know.”

  “I know.” She’s grinning ear to ear. “He’s on his way over.”

  “Nice.”

  “It’ll be fun,” she goes. “That’s what he’s there for. He’s that guy.”

  “The fun guy.”

  Savannah cracks up laughing. “The fun guy. Absolutely.”

  87.

  IN MY ROOM, I PUT on a pair of jean shorts and a tank top. I call Dominique. She doesn’t answer, so I leave her a voice mail.

  I say, “You have every right to never speak to me again. I’m so sorry for what I did and what I said. I was an asshole. I was everything I’ve always railed against and hated. I fucked up. I love you and I fucked up. I’ve got two days left and we’re playing a show on Saturday night. If anything, I’d love to just see y
our face one more time . . . even if it’s for a second. Just one second. If you can’t do that, I’ll understand it even though I’ll hate it. My world was floored this morning. That’s not an excuse for the way I treated you, but that’s why I was in the mood I was. I’d do anything to take this night back, but I can’t and it’s over. Moving on from it because I’m seeing the brutality of what it’s like when someone wants to go back but can’t. Anyway, dancing with you to Youth Lagoon. Beautiful. You’re beautiful and I love you and I’m sorry.”

  I set my phone down on the desk and then I spit on my hand and start jacking my piece. A minute later, I come into a paper towel. After that, I drop a blue on some foil and take a fucking run with it.

  I smoke the entire thing over the next ten minutes, then I open my notebook up and turn my webcam on.

  I’m good to go.

  Hitting the record button, I start reading . . .

  “In my head there’s a perfect world and my mom isn’t fucked up and my dad never hit her, I dream often of this perfect world because it’s pretty there, and outside my window is a garden and a blue jay and a robin and an eagle . . . at night, the lights go off and ugliness begins to breathe, danger everywhere, the captain yells, jump off the ship if you wanna save yourself . . . me, I never listened cos I never trusted anyone but her, and so every night I sank, every night I drowned in the horror of the nightmare I was born into . . . it was the end of August and all the farmers were taking the crops out of the field, I’d watch the neighbor girl dance in her bathing suit, her skin shining from the suntan lotion, her face filled with life, water from the garden hose killing off the final ticks of heat from another brutal summer . . . when I was eight, I stole a pack of baseball cards from a store down the street . . . later that night I felt so guilty that I threw it away without ever opening it . . . one day I’ll be like the moon and no one will hate me . . . one day this will all be over and we’ll sail on the backs of hawks and butterflies and problems won’t exist and funnel cakes will take care of any anger . . . next fall, when the next crop is due out, I’m gonna rig an old pickup and take my sweetheart for a joyride . . . California is where we’ll head, either that or Charleston . . . fountains in the woods crumbling from age, no water can ever give a person their youth back . . . the key to youth is the heart . . . I refuse to get old and turn out like all these madmen . . . youth forever, kids or nothing, tomorrow night, I’m jumping from the ship . . .