by Brad Listi
I paused for a moment to light another cigarette. My eyes went up to the sky. There was a break in the clouds and a sea of stars inside it. Everything seemed to be trembling.
I turned back to Caroline and continued.
“I was scared,” I said. “I didn’t want to hurt her. I realize that now. That was never my intention. And I had no idea that she had been pregnant. I had no idea that she was as fragile as she was. I couldn’t have known. She never told me. She never really told anyone. The people she did tell, she swore to secrecy. I never had a clue. I was nineteen years old then. I was just a kid. I was a baby myself. And so was she. I mean, Christ. I’m only twenty-three now.”
“Exactly,” said Caroline. “There’s no way you could have known.”
“I’ve been in a lot of pain,” I said. “I knew it, but I didn’t realize it until right now. So much of what I’ve thought and said and done these past few months is a response to pain. And I haven’t really acknowledged it properly. And I haven’t been able to move past it because up until this moment I haven’t confronted it directly and admitted that it’s there.”
“Exactly,” said Caroline. “That’s exactly right. You have to see what it actually is. You have to diagnose it. You have to have that moment.”
“And what’s weird about that realization is the fact that it also makes me realize something about Amanda that I never realized before. I realize now that when she killed herself, she didn’t really want to die, she just wanted her pain to end. She was in pain too. It was about pain, not death. She had pain, and she convinced herself that she couldn’t handle it any other way. The pain became unbearable in her mind. And it might have only been that one night. It overwhelmed her, and she made a terrible, rash decision. She made such a big mistake. And there’s nothing anyone can do about it now. That’s the hard part. It’s such a difficult thing. But it’s something that I have to live with. And the only sane thing I can do is learn from it and move on.”
Caroline put her arm around me. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
“Me too,” I said.
“So, so sorry,” she repeated.
“I’m so sorry for Amanda,” I said. “And I’m sorry for her friends and family. I’m sorry for everyone.”
Caroline took me in her arms and pressed my head against her chest. “You poor thing,” she said, and kissed me on the forehead.
Tears formed in my eyes. I thought I felt one fall.
“I don’t mean to dump all of this on you,” I said. “I know it’s pretty heavy.”
“Not at all. I’m glad you told me. I feel honored that you would trust me enough to tell me.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I appreciate it.”
“You have a good heart.”
“Thank you.”
“You have to understand that.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re a sweet human being, and you deserve to have a happy life. You have to promise me that you’ll allow yourself to have a happy life.”
“I will,” I said. “I will. I will.”
I turned my head and kissed her. She tasted like lollipops and champagne. We reclined on the desert floor and made out for a while. It felt good. It felt better than anything had felt in a long time.
“You’re so easy to be around,” I said. “You’re such a beautiful person. You’re so easy to talk to.”
“Same with you,” she said.
My heart was pounding and my palms were sweating. The fire was bright. I was lying on top of Caroline. Our faces were inches apart.
“I know that this is going to sound really crazy,” I said, “but I honestly feel like I love you right now. I really feel like I love you. Is that incredibly weird?”
“No,” she said, squeezing me. “It’s not weird at all. I feel like I love you, too. I feel close to you.”
We kissed again.
“I feel like I love so many people,” I said. “And I never tell them. And if I do, I don’t tell them enough. And sometimes I just feel like I love everyone.”
“Me too,” said Caroline.
“That doesn’t trivialize it, does it?” I said.
“No way,” she said.
I reached over and picked up the bottle of champagne and proposed a toast to the two of us. We each took a sip, then we kissed again. I took the cork out of my pocket and tossed it in the fire. We watched it burn. A few minutes later, Caroline stood up. She took me by the hands and helped me to my feet. We hugged for a long time, then we kissed for a long time. I told her that I loved her. She told me that she loved me, too. Then we started walking.
“Where are we going now?” I said.
“My place,” she said.
We walked back into the city and found our way to her tent. The tent was big and red, and it was pitched between two campers.
She unzipped the door, and we climbed inside.
27.
We tried to have sex. It was useless. I was too wasted and couldn’t get it up. Too many chemicals. I apologized profusely. Caroline gave me a hug and told me not to worry. We talked and kissed for the next two hours. And at some point, we drifted off into a drug-addled half sleep.
A couple of hours later, the sun broke the horizon and the light inside the tent turned pink. I sensed it and sat up. I had no idea how long we’d been lying there. The air around me was stale and cold, and my face felt numb, and my nose was stuffy. I blinked, looking around, trying to get my bearings. I was light-headed and surprised to be naked. I felt nauseous. Things were different now. The high was gone. So was my sense of comfort. So was my confidence. I was dizzy and felt strange.
I looked down at Caroline. She was sprawled out on the air mattress, six feet three, asleep. Her hair was mashed against her face, and her mouth was slightly open. She looked like a hangover. The attraction was gone. So was the sense of familiarity. So was everything. I sat there, remembering. The night came back to me in a flood. I remembered the dancing and the walk and the conversation by the fire. A strange uneasiness washed over me. I put my clothes on in a hurry. Then I started to feel sick. The feeling took hold of me in a terrible wave. I unzipped the door of the tent, stuck my head outside, and vomited.
I heard Caroline stir. I finished vomiting, pulled my head back inside the tent, and turned to her. She was lying there, looking at me.
“Are you okay?” she said. Her voice was scratchy.
“Yeah,” I said. “Just a little under the weather.”
She grimaced.
“I have to go,” I said. “My ride is leaving for Vegas any minute now.”
“Vegas?” she said.
“That’s where we picked up our camper.”
She rubbed her eyes and propped herself up on one elbow. She yawned and brushed her hair out of her face. She removed a piece of paper and a pen from her backpack and wrote down her address and phone. I took it from her and put it in my pocket.
“That’s my number in Palo Alto,” she said.
“Okay.”
“I’ll be swimming down at UCLA later this year. Maybe you could come. Maybe we could have dinner or something.”
“Sure. That sounds good.”
There was a brief silence. The two of us looked at each other.
“I feel like shit,” she said.
“Me too.”
“Last night was crazy.”
“I think it was one of the craziest nights of my life.”
“You were so sweet.”
“I was out of my tree,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been that happy in my entire life.”
“Yeah.” She laughed. “I know. It was great. I had so much fun.”
“I did too.”
We hugged. I told her I’d write. She picked up the earmuffs off the floor of the tent and handed them to me. She insisted I take them. I put them on. She laughed. Then she leaned over and hugged me again.
“I’m glad I finally got to meet my
soulmate,” she said.
“It’s about goddamn time.”
“You take care of yourself, Wayne.”
“You too.”
She kissed me on the cheek.
I waved good-bye and crawled outside into daylight.
28.
There was a stiff wind blowing across the desert as I made my way back to The Searcher. The sky was coming alive. The wind was roaring in my ears, and the magic of the darkness was gone. The night was officially over, one of the strangest nights of my life. My neck and back ached. My brain felt like it was made of mashed potatoes, and I hadn’t eaten anything in twenty-four hours. I figured I should probably take some vitamin C.
The remnants of the Man were lying in the distance behind me, a forgotten heap of ashes. The desert was spotted with forgotten heaps of ashes. Fires were smoldering, and streams of smoke were billowing into the sky. It looked like a battleground, like the aftermath of a meteor shower. My eyes hurt. The sun was rising. The sun was always rising. The night before had been like some kind of dream. I was having a hard time figuring out exactly what had happened. I was all out of cigarettes. I figured that was probably natural.
My friends were no doubt back at The Searcher now, waiting for me, in all likelihood. Maybe they were pissed off. They had probably cleaned up camp without me. They were probably looking at their watches, cursing my name, wondering where the hell I was, what the hell I was up to. They were probably contemplating whether or not they should break up into search parties and go looking for me. Perhaps they were contemplating leaving me. We were scheduled to roll out of there any minute now. Lynch and I had an eight-hour drive ahead of us. Traffic would potentially be a factor. We had to be back in Las Vegas that night no later than 9:00p.m. My flight departed at 9:30. Lynch was catching the red-eye back to New York at 10:00. He had to be at work first thing the following morning. He had to show up at the office and be professional, ready to tell his boss what the hell had happened all week.
I felt like I had just come back from the moon.
Lynch was standing out in front of our camper when I rolled in. He was alone in the dawn, standing with his hands in his pockets, yawning, wearing his cowboy hat and shades. He told me I looked like hell. I thanked him. He asked me about my earmuffs and the details of my evening. I gave him a brief rundown. We loaded my bike onto the rack on the back of the camper, and then we climbed inside the cab. Lynch took the wheel. I rode shotgun. The others were in back, out cold, dead asleep. At that point, I was too scrambled to sleep. My hangover was monstrous. My insides felt hollowed out, and my brain felt like it had been erased. My throat hurt, and my lips were chapped. I was dehydrated to the core, my body ached, and yet somehow the notion of drinking water seemed revolting. Lynch turned the key and started the engine. I stuck my head out the window and vomited again.
We rolled away across the desert. The sun was up, and traffic wasn’t bad. We’d made it out ahead of the rush. A staggered line of vehicles was moving along the old dusty road in the sunshine. An assortment of costumed volunteers was lined up at the exit gate, bidding people farewell in the morning light. There was a guy on a megaphone standing off to the side of our lane. He was dressed up like the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz.
“YOU ARE NOW ENTERING THE REAL WORLD,” he said. “WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCONVENIENCE….”
Lynch gave him the finger.
29.
Later that morning, we pulled into a Denny’s restaurant somewhere south of Reno. At that point, it was just Lynch and me. We had dropped off the rest of the crew back at the Super Kmart an hour or so earlier. Everyone was terribly hung over. Blair was feeling sick. Horvak and Henry looked haggard. Good-byes were said quickly, in a fog, without ceremony. Lynch and I helped them unload and wished them well before setting off on our long day’s drive to Vegas. We headed down the road in a stupor before stopping off at Denny’s in search of caffeine and nourishment. At the time, it seemed like the logical thing to do.
“You don’t look good,” said Lynch.
“I don’t feel good,” I said.
We were sitting in a greasy booth in the corner. I was leaning against the window, trying to keep myself upright. Lynch was leafing through a USA Today in slow motion. It amazed me that he was even able to read. I closed my eyes and tried my best to focus on my breathing in an effort to stave off nausea.
A few minutes later, our food arrived. Lynch had ordered a plate full of bacon and eggs. For some reason, I’d ordered the Denny’s fruit salad in a worthless attempt to make amends for the previous evening’s ingestions. It was a lost cause. My stomach was ravaged, and my appetite was shot. I looked down at my plate and grimaced and sank back into my seat.
“You gonna be okay?” said Lynch.
“Potentially,” I said.
Our waitress reached over and poured us some more coffee. She was twice my age and twice my size. Her name tag identified her as BETTY. She asked us how we were feeling this morning. Lynch said the word “fine.” I nodded and said, “Thank you.” Betty shook her head and grinned at us, and then she walked away.
I picked up my fork and played around with my fruit a little bit, trying to come to terms with it. I stabbed at a grape and ate it, but it didn’t really agree with me. None of my food was agreeing with me. There were some cantaloupe slices and watermelon slices and banana slices. None of it looked any good to me. All of it looked like alien food.
I set my fork down on the table and asked Lynch to hand me our travel bible, a Rand McNally road atlas we’d picked up last Wednesday on our way out of Vegas. He reached inside his backpack and slid it in my direction. The atlas was red with a picture of a desert highway on the cover. I sat there staring at it for a while, contemplating the act of actually opening it. Lynch was staring down at the sports page.
“It’s gonna take me a week to get over this,” I said.
“It’s gonna take me a month,” said Lynch.
“I think I made an ass out of myself last night,” I said.
“You and twenty-five thousand of your closest friends,” said Lynch.
“I think this might be the worst I’ve ever felt.”
“Consider it an achievement.”
“I think I’m gonna start getting healthy when I get back to L.A.”
“Right.”
“I’m gonna get myself into shape,” I said. “I’m gonna get my shit together. I’m finally gonna quit smoking—end of story, once and for all.”
“Eat your fruit.”
“I’m gonna get a gym membership,” I said. “I think I might even start taking karate.”
Lynch looked up at me and roared. “Oh, Christ,” he said. “You have officially fucking lost it.”
“I’m serious,” I said. And then I started laughing too.
We went on this way for a while, and then the laughter petered out and both of us were quiet again. There was Muzak playing overhead, a vaguely familiar pop melody, light rock, adult contemporary. Maybe it was Foreigner, maybe it was Phil Collins. Maybe it was neither. I was having trouble placing it. Lynch turned his eyes back to the newspaper, scanning the statistics and the box scores. I picked up the atlas and made a halfhearted attempt to trace our route back to Vegas, flipping from page to page before stopping at a profile of a town called Goldfield. According to Rand McNally, it was located right off of Highway 95, in between Reno and Vegas, an abandoned gold rush settlement in the heart of the desert wastelands.
“Hey, Lynch,” I said. “There’s a ghost town on our way back to Vegas.”
“I know,” he said. “We passed right by it on the way up. I remember the signs.”
“I didn’t see any signs,” I said.
“You were probably asleep,” he said.
“I was never asleep,” I said.
“Bullshit,” said Lynch. “You slept all the way through midday.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, “I wanna make a stop there. I wanna take a little side trip.”
&
nbsp; “No, you don’t,” he said. “Trust me. The place is a boneyard. There’s nothing left to see.”
“I don’t care,” I said. “I just want to stop and check it out for a second. Get out and stretch my legs. It won’t take long at all.”
Lynch turned his eyes up from the paper and stared at me, waiting for some kind of punch line. But I never gave him one.
“You’re kidding me,” he said.
“I’m not,” I replied.
“You really wanna go and see a ghost town?”
“Yeah. I really do.”
“What in the hell for?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I just want to see if it’s there.”
Lynch kept staring at me, waiting for a better explanation. I kept my mouth shut and held my ground.
“You’re serious about this,” he said.
“Pretty much,” I said.
“This is mandatory,” he said.
“Essentially,” I replied.
“Well, if that’s the case,” he said, “we’d better get on the road, then. We’re making it to Vegas by sunset, no matter what. That’s my only stipulation. If I don’t catch my flight, I’m a dead man.”
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s go. It’s not like I’m gonna eat anything, anyway.”
With that, I raised my hand and signaled to Betty for our check. She waved back and smiled and made her way over toward the register to ring us up. Lynch and I sat there in silence for a moment, both of us staring blankly at our food, and then Lynch started up the conversation again, inquiring about my plans for the immediate future, curious to know what I was going to do with myself when I got back to L.A. He wanted to know what my overall strategy was.
“So what’s the deal?” he said. “You fly back to L.A., and then what?”
“And then I’m not really sure,” I said. “Probably just deliver pizzas for a while and try to figure it out as I go. Maybe get back into the market. Maybe try to get a job in the movies. Maybe write a script. Blah, blah, blah. It’s kind of a gray area. I just know it’s not gonna involve anything corporate or conventional. Nothing soul-crushing. Nothing nine-to-five.”