by Jarett Kobek
I fell asleep. I don’t know for how long.
Adeline pushed me with her feet. The television was off. The Wonder Years was over.
—Baby, she whispered. Baby, wake up.
—What is it? I asked.
—I’m done being miserable, she said. I’m done being neurotic. I’m done with a life of unending strife. I’m going back to New York.
—When? I asked.
—As soon as I can, she said.
—What about me? I asked.
—Stay if you want, she said.
—But why? I asked.
—You know why, she said.
—Yes, I said. I do.
Suzanne didn’t come home until 10 pm. They fought. Adeline packed.
I sat up, reading, thinking about Jaime. I called him, told him the situation, asked him what I should do. I wanted Jaime to scream, to holler, to demand that I stay in California, to stay with him, to never leave.
—Your choice, he said. I’ll miss you if you go.
—But you think I should? I asked.
—Your choice.
We got off the phone. A soft knock at my door.
—Come in, I said.
Suzanne. It was the only time she’d been inside my room.
—She hates me, said Suzanne.
—No one hates you, I said.
—She does, said Suzanne.
I wondered what it was like having this for your mother, someone who would conspire with her daughter’s best friend. I smelled the booze.
—Where did I go wrong? asked Suzanne.
—Parenting is hard, I said. You’re much better than mine ever were.
JULY 1988
Baby Meets Jaime’s Friends
As Adeline was in New York, Suzanne rarely appeared. Without the narrative justification of family, the house became an expansive storage space for her earthly possessions. We only saw each other on the occasions when she needed a change of clothes. She’d give me money for expenses.
My real human contact was with the maids. They arrived every few days, these two lovely women, Maria and Rosalita. They barely spoke English. I hardly spoke Spanish. When they realized that I wasn’t part of Adeline’s family, they started laughing at me, a gentle laughter like running water. They made strange food, and shoved plates at me, saying, “Eat! Eat!” I’d creak out a gracias.
Jaime slept over about five nights a week. I’d pick him up in Hollywood and drive him to Pasadena. We never went anywhere, never saw anyone. He’d sit around Suzanne’s house, telling me stories about his childhood, about going to Venice Beach, about seeing Guns N’ Roses play a frat party at UCLA before they got famous, about how he didn’t really like that Sunset Strip bullshit.
Then we’d fuck. We fucked in every room. We fucked in rooms that I didn’t know existed. We probably created these rooms, demanding that they burst into existence as venues for our lust. Old, unused bedrooms cluttered with junk. In the kitchen. In the living room. In the den. In the backyard. In the front yard.
He wouldn’t talk about his family, only saying that they lived near Pasadena, somewhere in Highland Park, a place name that I recognized from driving on the 110.
This went on for months.
One night, after we’d fucked, our arms wrapped around each other, I asked why he hadn’t introduced me to his friends. Or shown me his apartment.
—You, like, wouldn’t fucking like it, dude, he said. It’s not your scene or something.
How the hell did Jaime know my scene? We argued. I wouldn’t let him get away. Wearily, exhausted, he sighed and said I could come to his apartment. I could meet his friends. I asked when. He said tomorrow.
—You mean it? I asked. Really?
—Sure, he said.
I pulled him back. His flesh against mine, not even sex, just that moment of electricity, of one body against the other. We rolled and tumbled for hours.
Around noon, I drove him to Hollywood and Vermont. He told me to return, later, in a few hours, at six o’clock. He gave me his address.
—One thing, he said. You’ve got to, like, realize we can’t like be physical, okay? Not around my friends.
—Oh, I said.
—You have to say yes, okay? he asked. They don’t, like, know. I haven’t told them. I wanna. I really, like, fucking want to tell them.
—Okay, I said.
I drove through the streets on instinct. Los Angeles is as easy to navigate as New York, both cities being enormous grids. I went up on Sunset past the Marlboro Man and parked at Tower Records. Running along the building’s sides were large reproductions of album covers. The only one that I recognized was Michael Jackson’s Bad.
Tower was a junk shop that sold one kind of junk. Popular music at the exact transitional moment when compact discs began replacing the vinyl record. The CDs came in long cardboard boxes, the discs and their plastic clamshell cases occupying about one third of the length of the boxes. Two boxes could be placed side by side, forming the same shape as one vinyl LP, allowing record stores to avoid the cost of new shelving.
Inside that garish yellow and red building, it was clear which side had won. CDs were on almost every rack. Tower was terraforming.
A pair of girls stood by the doorway, talking loud, both wearing extremely vivid makeup, their hair teased out to unfathomable lengths, media stereotypes that I couldn’t believe existed beyond television.
—I heard, like, this is where, like, he used to work, said one girl.
—Really?
—Yeah, like, when they were totally broke. Like, he used to like sleep underneath the steps because he, like, didn’t have an apartment.
The albums in Tower seemed so grotesque. Late-adolescent, final-period rock ’n’ roll. Bravado about sex and women.
Giving up, I walked on Sunset, landing at Duke’s, a coffee shop, sitting for an uncomfortably long time, eating and drinking while I lingered over the LA Weekly. I read the listings for live music, enthralled and appalled by the sheer scope of human ambition, at the thousands of bands performing that week. Would any gain recognition? Were any good? Was it the folly of youth, the folly of America, the folly of an impossible dream? Looking at the names all up against one another, I got a flash that these bands were comprised of the underclasses, of people without Adeline’s opportunities. People scraping by on marginal talent, hoping the spark might light a fire, hoping to transcend into our social betters. Why did people try? Why do people do anything?
Two hours later, my waiter banged fresh silverware on the table. It wasn’t long until 6. I left a tip and went to my car.
I stopped at a gas station on LaBrea and asked for directions. The attendant told me what to look for and where to go, finishing every sentence with the words hee haw!
—Wilton? That’s way up past the freeway off Hollywood, hee haw!
—Thank you, I said.
—You take care, hee haw!
Jaime lived off Franklin Avenue. Other houses on the block were in good condition, but his property displayed the scars of a rental. Chipped paint, broken driveway, crabgrass. Years of neglect and abuse by an absentee landlord.
I rang the doorbell. A girl answered.
—Hi, I said. Is Jaime home?
—Yeah, she said. He’s home.
She stopped, saying nothing. She wasn’t even looking at me, but past me, focused on something over my shoulder. I smiled. She didn’t smile back.
—Can I come in?
—Come in? she asked.
—Yeah, I said. Come inside and see Jaime.
—Oh, she said, sure, come in.
She melted away. I stepped into the sitting room of a California Craftsman. Trash littered throughout. Old vinyl couches that someone’d stabbed, slits running down their back cushions, stuffing pushing out. Broken children’s toys. A long crack along the length of one wall.
I stood there like a grinning idiot.
—Where’s Jaime’s room? I asked.
—Oh, his room.<
br />
—Yeah, I said. His room. Jaime’s room?
—Jaime’s room’s off the kitchen.
What’s the German word for the moment when you discover your lover in his bedroom, shirtless, holding a crummy acoustic guitar, surrounded by two men roughly your age, also shirtless? What’s the German word for that?
—Hi, I said.
—Oh dude, said Jaime. You made it. Awesome.
—Yeah, I said.
—Baby, he said, this is Tommy and that’s Raoul.
Tommy and Raoul were a specific kind of Hollywood, very polished and very dirty, as if they’d spent some great portion of their lives refining their appearances only to then roll in the dust.
—Hey, man, said Raoul.
—Hi, dude, said Tommy.
Jaime’s room was spartan. A crummy desk and a Murphy bed, pulled down from the wall, Jaime sitting on its edge. Tommy and Raoul on metal folding chairs. Garbage on the floor, debris, old candy wrappers, and empty soda cans. Jaime’s unwashed laundry was on his desk.
—What’s happening? I asked. Should I take off my shirt too?
They all laughed, with their big moon eyes. Not at the joke.
—What? I asked.
—It’s nothing, man, said Jaime. Don’t worry.
—Something’s up, I said.
They laughed again. That old anger, the rage, boiling up.
—We flipped, is all, said Jaime. No big deal.
—Flipped?
—Acid, dude, he said. You know, flipped acid?
The conversation ended with Jaime’s fingers placing two tabs of sacramental blotter on my tongue. The acid was called Magic Mountain. Jaime showed me the sheet, stamped with a repeating pattern of a mountain, a radiant Eye of Providence superimposed over its peak. The paper tasted like chemicals.
—We flipped about thirty minutes ago, said Raoul.
There was a period of terrible anxiety, waiting for the outcome. I’d inflicted this thing on myself. The next few hours were unavoidable. Imprisoned by the drug.
Another taste in my mouth, disgusting dryness. Rotmouth. A trickle of cool sweat leaked from my left armpit.
—I’m going to look at your backyard, I said.
Too many trees. A lemon tree at the back struck me as someone’s prize. I have no idea why. The lemons vibrated. I couldn’t look at the leaves, not without trails coming off them, their shapes warping. There wasn’t any grass on the ground. Patterns in the dirt, mounds and valleys and footprints. Something was definitely going on upstairs.
—Hey, said Jaime. How are you feeling?
—Jesus! I yelled.
—Calm down, dude, he said. It’s all okay.
—When did you get there? I asked. I didn’t hear you.
—I’ve been here for a few minutes, watching you.
—How are you feeling?
—It’s really starting, he said. I’ve done it a thousand times. It’s always different and always the same.
Raoul played a song on Jaime’s guitar, voice drifting through the open window: It was Staggerlee and Billy / Two men who gambled late / Staggerlee swore he threw seven / Billy swore that he threw eight / Staggerlee said Billy / Oh please don’t take my life / I’ve got three hungry children / and a very sickly wife.
On the last word, my head spun. Raoul’s voice dragged out, slow like molasses, thick like syrup. Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii iiiife. I wasn’t in the backyard, I was inside Jaime’s room.
—Why’s it happening so quick?
Staggerlee he went down to the devil / and he leaned up on his shelf / he said come out here Mr. Devil / I’m gonna rule hell by myself / well the devil called his demons around him / Lord, let’s climb this wall / He said here’s a bad man, Staggerlee / and he’s going to kill us all.
Orange light filled the room, licked with invisible flame. My jaw ached, I couldn’t stop clenching, biting from the back of my mouth.
—Jaime, why’s everything on fire?
—What? he asked.
He was on fire. His face demonic.
—Dude, he said, you don’t look so good. We’ll go for a walk and get you some air.
Me and him, side by side, stumbling along Hollywood Boulevard. I saw the street signs, anyway, and walking was good because walking prevented me from focusing, walking wouldn’t let me fixate. My brain broken, made stupid. I wanted to express my thoughts, but nothing came out, not the right way. I wanted to tell Jaime what I saw.
—Dude, he said, you’ve got to stop.
—Stop?
—Dude, he said, you keep saying hee haw! Hee haw! It’s freaking me out.
—Hee haw?
—Yeah, he said. Hee haw. You keep saying hee haw.
—Am I laughing or am I crying?
Standing on a bridge over the freeway, looking down at the traffic. I could read the drivers’ minds. The woman driving the red car was cheating on her husband. The truck driver was a murderer. The taxicab drove itself, lacking any guiding presence, no person behind the wheel. I heard their thoughts. What’s for dinner? I wonder if he still loves me. Will I get that promotion? How will I afford the mortgage? I’ll have to kill the bitch. Dark night, the car headlights flashing green and amber.
—Come on, said Jaime.
People on the street. I don’t know them. Who was I? Did they fear me as much as I feared them? Someone walked by, leashed to a two-headed dog.
Jaime talked, but the words came out silent, dialogue balloons from comic books, air writing in luminescent lettering, falling apart before I could read. Down into a thick alphabet soup on the sidewalk. Dissolving.
—Are you listening?
—What?
—I was dude I was saying that I can dude I can see the, you know, the wires behind the world. I can see who’s pulling the strings. It’s not God. There is no God. God is the wires. We are the wires. So are we God?
Every new block was a descent, misery on all sides, tunnel vision, loss of ego, loss of self, until we reached the next street sign. The world rang back with clarity, with totality, sounds of bells. BRONSON, GOWER, EL CENTRO, VISTA DEL MAR, ARGYLE.
Stars on the sidewalk, names I couldn’t read. I stopped, scrambling the letters into place.
—What does it say? I asked Jaime. Does it say Stagger Lee?
—No, he said. It says Tod Browning.
—Tod Browning? I’m standing on Tod Browning?
VINE.
—I’m at Hollywood and Vine! I’m at Hollywood and Vine! I’m at Hollywood and Vine! THERE WERE A LOT OF GOOD CLOTHES IN THAT BAG.
The buildings sang songs. The lampposts too. I could see down the Boulevard, fire at its farthest end, past the castle, past the mystical palm trees. I could see through a building, to the other side. I read a name. ANGELYNE. Image of woman, huge-breasted, blonde, red lips, futuristic sunglasses. Her mouth opened, the building speaking through Angelyne, her bosom jiggling, four words. What Time Is Love?
The city burning, I smelled the city burning. Jaime took my hand and pulled me toward the flames. I screamed, in a fit. In the fire, I could see it, I could see Frankenstein’s monster stomping Hollywood, lightning shooting from bolts in his neck, buildings crushed. I could, I could, I could. I looked at the people around me, to see if they could see it, but I couldn’t see Jaime anymore, the only people that I saw were the pinheads from Freaks. I’d wanted to see famous people in Hollywood, but mercy god please not like this. The little girl pinheads dancing in their pink floral dresses, their black open broken mouths highlighting rotten yellow teeth, waving at me and calling out my name, but they weren’t saying my name, they were shouting out, HEE HAW HEE HAW HEE HAW HEE HAW HEE HAW HEE HAW HEE HAW HEE HAW HEE HAW HEE HAW.
Crashed into blackness beneath a jet coal statue. My eyes wouldn’t focus but I read the words. ERECTED IN THE MEMORY OF RUDOLPH VALENTINO 1895–1926.
—Where are we? I asked Jaime.
—You were, like, freaking out, he said. So I b
rought you here. No one’s ever in this park at night.
—What time is it? I asked.
—Almost dawn, dude. You can see the sun rising.
—The sky’s the wrong color. Everything is the wrong color. Why are my pants wet?
—You pissed yourself.
—What happened to my shoes?
We walked toward his house. The fluidity of thought returning while the physical sensations of the drug lessened. Trails, color and visual distortions. But now it was almost pleasant, I controlled the drug. Rather than the drug controlling me.
—Can I come inside? I asked at Wilton and Hollywood.
—That’s not a great idea, he said.
—Why? I asked.
—You can’t handle your shit, he said.
—Oh, I said.
—Sorry, it’s just how it is.
AUGUST 1988
Baby Calls Adeline
I called Adeline.
—I’m coming back, I said.
—I’m waiting, she said.
AUGUST 1988
Adeline Receives an Unwelcome Tutorial
on the Nature of the Police State
Unbeknownst to me, Baby’d gone and matriculated his silly self to New York University. He emerged from the West Coast in late August, plunging into freshman life. Orientation, course registration, purchase of textbooks. I inquired as to how he could possibly afford such an education.
Baby explained that he’d been classified as a financial independent. His grades in high school were exceptional, his income pitiful. NYU had bestowed a merit scholarship upon him.
“A gol’ darned free ride,” he said.
“Good for you,” I said. “Never pay for nothing.”
Having dawdled with Jaime and bandied about with childish notions of love’s sweet blossoms, Baby’s return occurred a bit too late.
A fortnight earlier and he would have been on scene, thick in the mud, for the moment when the world changed, when the city metamorphosed itself with a sacrifice of blood, becoming a dark Satanic mill in service of real estate developers.
Fourteen days earlier and he would have been home for the riot at Tompkins Square.