by Daniel Parme
"No," I said. "I don't really have many good stories. I've always been sort of boring, actually."
"Yeah. It sounded like it from what you said on Leno. Or maybe it was Oprah. I don't know. I guess everyone's gone through what you've gone through."
"You know," I narrowed my eyes a little, "they say that sarcasm is the weapon of a weak mind."
I think I hit a nerve with that one. She took a deep breath through her nose, crossed her arms, and said, "You know, I don't really give a shit."
And that was that. She turned and walked quickly down Carson. It wasn't quite storming off, but her steps were certainly not happy ones.
Chapter 10
The thing about being stranded in the mountains is that you have no one to talk to, so you talk to anything. But the other thing is that once you start talking to one inanimate object, there's really no reason not to talk to more. (You might have a little bit of a problem if they start responding, but I'm no professional, so whatever.)
The other thing is that you can no longer get it up.
And that is a serious fucking thing.
Serious enough that you start talking to your dick. You give little pep talks. "Come on. You can do this. I've seen you do this. You know you can do this. Just focus. Focus. Visualize yourself getting up for this game, making all the big plays, and then fucking do it! Do it for pride! Do it for the love of the game! Do it for me! JUST FUCKING DO IT!"
I'd been having these little conversations with Little Travis (LT, to his friends) ever since we left the hospital. He just wasn't into it. Didn't care. If I hadn’t been so attached to him, I'd have told him to get lost. You're not welcome here anymore. Sure, we've had some great times together, but what have you done for me lately?
But, no matter how difficult, I still loved the little guy. So, inspired by my chance encounter with Virginia, I decided to give him one more chance.
It went down like this:
"Ok, buddy. You have to snap out of it. I know, I know. You've been through some pretty tough shit. It's amazing you survived. And I understand how hard it is to get over it. Believe me. Who knows better than I do, right? I was right there with you, beside you. It was me and you, brother. I know this is hard, but it's been long enough. It's all over now. You can go back to your old self. Remember that guy? Easily excitable, curious, anxious, even a little over-zealous sometimes? You remember that guy? I remember that guy. I loved that guy. And, as your friend, I feel I should tell you that this new guy you've become, well, he sucks. I miss our time together. Even our alone time. Especially our alone time. We were always there for each other, remember? Anytime you ever needed a helping hand, I was there to give it to you. And I was always happy to be there for you. Now, I can let that Playboy Mansion thing go. It was still too soon. I understand that. But it's been long enough, my friend. You have to get your shit together. You can't go through the rest of your life this way."
But LT, he wanted nothing to do with it.
So I gave up on the words. Instead, I closed my eyes and thought about women. All about women: the thin hair on the forearms, the smooth slope from ear to shoulder, the soft curve of the underside of the breast, the small of the back, backs of the hands. Everything. I imagined that wonderful journey up the inner thigh, the way you can feel the rising temperature as you get closer, the way the scent gets more intense as you get closer. The taste and the feel of Her on your lips, dribbling down your chin. I thought about it. I thought really, really hard about all of it.
But that little bastard, he didn't budge.
There was nothing I could do.
Finally, I gave up. I was exhausted.
And then, an epiphany: I was forcing what I wanted onto him, and maybe this wasn't the best way to bring him back to life. Maybe I had to relinquish my control of the situation, let him take the reins, forget about my needs and let him focus on his.
So I did. I just closed my eyes and cleared my head. I just drifted, and let whatever came into my head come into my head.
What came into my head was Erica, my dead friend, my first. She was naked. She was just lying there, naked. Naked and dead and pale blue.
This is what I saw.
This is when LT sprang back to life.
This is when I completely freaked out, left my apartment, ran to the first bar I could find, and drank until I couldn't remember where I was.
Chapter 11
I’ve never been a man who’s claimed to possess what people commonly refer to as a sense of style. Ever. I like my earth-tones solid and my pants to have cargo pockets, and that’s about as far as I take it. It never really mattered that most of my clothes were nearly identical to most of my other clothes because I spent most of my time in dark, dingy places that reeked of cigarette smoke. Places you’d have to be worried about getting some sort of funky-smelling stain on whatever it was you were wearing.
Style, I’d found, was a waste of my time. Too much effort and too much money are required to maintain a keen fashion sense. I’ve read that Einstein kept a bunch of identical suits hanging in his closet so he didn’t have to waste any brain-power deciding what to wear. And that man was a fucking genius.
I, however, am not now nor have ever been a genius, which I think goes a long way towards explaining a great many of my decisions. But I digress.
The point of all this fashion talk is that Synchek was picking me up soon. Tonight I would meet his group, and I had absolutely nothing to wear. I owned one suit, but I didn’t think this was a suit and tie kind of affair. Beyond that there were jeans and khaki cargo pants and a few not-so-ratty button-down shirts. As we’ve already discussed, I like pockets and solid earth-tones. Cargos and blue button-down it was to be.
I looked at Synchek’s letter, still affixed to the fridge, and I started to get an uneasy feeling, as though I’d just smoked a ton of weed and was now incapable of going to the bar with all those fucking people. The feeling didn’t last long though, as it was interrupted by my phone.
It was Synchek. He was here, waiting in his car out front of my building.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
I got outside to find a behemoth of a black Caddy, recently waxed, with tinted windows and a man I’d never seen before opening the back door. I wouldn’t have been able to pick him out of a lineup, but I’d recognize that limp a mile away.
“Mr. Eliot,” he said as he gestured for me to climb in.
“Uh, thanks,” I said. And in I went.
“Travis! So good to see you.” Synchek sat on the driver’s side of the back seat, his newspaper folded on his lap. “Are you excited about this evening’s festivities?”
“Sure am,” I said. I even managed to put on a pretty good fake smile. Sometimes the skills you learn in the food service world come in handy in the rest of the world as well. I was most certainly not excited.
“Excellent. We are all looking forward to it as well, aren’t we, Malcolm?”
Malcolm, it would appear, was the driver, the gentleman who opened the door for me. “We sure are, Walter. We’re all very excited.”
I didn’t know what to say. “Well that’s good then.” Like I said, not a genius.
“Travis,” Synchek continued as he reached into his breast pocket, “this might seem like a bit of an odd request, but you must understand that many of our members are people of high-standing in the community. We prefer the location of our meetings to be, shall we say, discreet.”
“Discreet?” I know when somebody’s getting euphemistic on me.
“Secret, Travis. Our members value their privacy, and so I need you to do something before we continue any farther.”
“First off, I know what discreet means. And what would that something be?”
The thing he had taken from his pocket was in his hand. He lifted it and allowed a long, narrow strip of black fabric to dangle there in front of me, like some raven-haired Rapunzel inviting me up to her dark tower.
“Seriously? A fucking blindfold?”
“I know it seems, well, probably a bit frightening. A man you don’t know driving the car. A man you just met asking you to voluntarily put on a blindfold. On your way to a mysterious destination. But you are free to say no, of course. We’re not kidnapping you. I know it’s a difficult decision, but I ask that you trust us, if for no other reason, then simply because we are giving you the option in the first place.” Apparently, he’d had this conversation once or twice before.
I took the thing and tied it around my head. “I’m going to be severely pissed off if I take this off and find myself in some remote cabin about to be chained to a bed with a nasty old mattress and some dude named Buck licking his lips. Like, seriously pissed off.”
Malcolm chuckled. “I like this kid, Walter.”
“Yes, so do I, Malcolm. Even if he is a bit crude.”
“I’m in a blindfold here, man. How about some slack?”
“You’re right, Travis. I’m sorry. Now, we’ll be arriving in about twenty…” His phone rang. “Excuse me for a moment, please Travis.”
“Sure.” This was fucked up. I’d just let myself do a really stupid thing, and I knew it. I told myself not to trust them, and I didn’t, but I still tied that black strip of fabric around my head. And now I was in the back of a black Cadillac, unable to see but perfectly capable of listening to Synchek on the phone.
“…no, Angel. I told you. You have to mash the pills up and mix in some of the wet food. Otherwise Donner won't eat it. He hasn't defecated in four days, that's why. Ok. Good. Yes, you're coming, and I won't hear another word about it. Just make sure you pet him for at least fifteen minutes before you leave. He'll get cranky and claw at the sofa if you don't. I will not! He'd be defenseless! I know he's a house cat, but what if he gets out?”
I mean, come on, how can you mistrust someone with that much love for his cat?
We talked some small talk about the weather and the Steelers and fireworks, and then, out of the blue, "We’ve arrived, Travis. You can remove the blindfold now.”
I took it off and rubbed my eyes. It was twilight, so the shock of the light wasn’t too intense. I looked at the building. It was a warehouse. Just a warehouse. I looked around to try to get a sense of where we might be, but there was nothing else nearby. Just a field and some trees in the distance. No signs. Nothing. "Well, at least it isn’t a cabin."
"Ha! Very good, Mr. Eliot. I shall very much enjoy listening to you speak tonight, I’m certain. And I know it's not much to look at, but it is what is at the heart of a thing that matters, Mr. Eliot."
From the looks of it, the inside of this building had better have been trimmed with gold, its floors carpeted with some sort of fine Italian fabric, and original paintings by Van Gogh and Klimt hanging on the walls. The wall, with the front door, was old white paint peeling down to the ground in some places. I'd have thought it was just some abandoned warehouse, maybe a crackhead or two huddled on the floor inside.
After some serious fumbling of his keys, Synchek got the door open and let me inside. The hallway inside didn't exactly give me high hopes about the rest of the interior. It was just a long, straight hall with florescent lighting and vinyl flooring. A small table, almost a podium, sat inside next to the door, with a black register closed on top of it.
"You're right, Walter. This looks much better than I thought it would." I found it easy to jest at him. For some reason it seemed he didn't quite understand sarcasm, and it's impossible not to be sarcastic around people like that.
He didn't respond. He just locked the door behind him and led me down the hall, past a door on the right that had too many locks to count at just a glance. I let myself wonder what could possibly be behind this door. Curiosity, as it turns out, likes to fuck with more than just cats.
But this door was not to be opened, and I was left to let my mind dwell on what was back there until we reached the door at the end of the hall. No locks on this one. Just a simple white door with a simple silver knob that would turn simply to the left and allow me simple passage to a much more difficult life than I could ever have guessed.
It's a shame I didn't think about it that way then, that I walked right through, as one typically does with an open door. Then again, I suppose there was no reason to be suspicious then of anything that may have been hiding behind that door. It would just be a room. I'd been through many doors, and up to this point none of them had fucked up my perception of life.
"This," he said, holding the door open for me with his foot, extending his arm to present me with the room, "is where we meet." He seemed to enjoy gesturing with that arm. I think maybe he was trying to make up for the fact that he no longer had his left arm. Can't really hold it against him, I guess.
"Wow. This is quite a room." And it was. The walls were papered with a majestic deep maroon and trimmed with what appeared to be oak. There was a bar at the back which, it appeared to me, was stocked solely with bottles of red wine. Eight tables, with six seats each, were set for dinner with fine silverware and china and wicked gorgeous centerpieces of lilies and some other flower. Closer to the door, to us, a table was set up with coffee dripping into a pot and stacks of simple and elegant mugs. The front of the room boasted a sizeable podium facing rows of black, cushioned folding chairs, lined up like a battalion ready to take orders from whichever general happened to be speaking. There was even an almost comically gigantic crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. "Seriously, Walter. This is impressive. I almost forgot I was standing inside a dingy old warehouse."
He looked pleased. "Thank you, Travis. I'm quite proud of it."
"It's a bit empty, though, isn't it? When's everyone else supposed to get here?" I was under the impression that we were cutting it pretty close.
"Oh, they should be arriving shortly." He looked at his watch. "We'll begin in roughly half-an-hour."
Hearing the words 'half-an-hour' brought out my nerves. It was like a countdown had begun, and not to the start of something awesome like the space shuttle launch, either.
"What exactly will I be doing, here?"
He put his hand on my shoulder. It was a little too paternal for so young a relationship. "You've no need to be nervous, my young friend. It's nothing you haven't done before. I'll get up to the podium, welcome everyone, and then introduce you."
This thing, this thing with him never really answering any of my questions, was starting to bug me. "And what, exactly, will you be introducing me to do?"
"To tell your story, Travis. That's all. To tell your story and," he scratched the tip of his nose, "if you're comfortable taking a few questions, I'm certain everyone would be grateful."
I really wasn't in the mood for questions, but hell, I'd been answering so many questions already that I was beginning to feel like the fucking Oracle, only without the whole offering thing. It seemed people were lined up for miles, wanting to know. Everyone wanted to know. I could handle a few more questions, sure. Especially for five thousand bucks.
"Yeah. I could answer a few questions."
"Excellent." He looked again at his watch. "I have a few things to attend to before everyone arrives. Feel free to fix yourself a cup of coffee or a glass of wine from the bar. I'll return shortly." And off he went, through a set of double doors across the room from the bar.
I mad-dashed it to the bar, got open a bottle of wine. It smelled of merlot, sort of. Had the color and the body, too, but there was no label. There had to be fifty bottles of the stuff. I was still a little unsure about what I'd gotten myself into but figured a glass of wine, or maybe two, would calm me. I downed my first in one gulp and poured another. It was good, this wine, and I made a mental note to ask Walter what it was. Actually, I felt a little ashamed of myself for taking it down so quickly. I'm sure there are those who would have been appalled at my behavior. I should have been sipping slowly, getting a good sense of its nose and whatever else you're supposed to do when tastin
g wine. But when you're scared, no matter of what, it seems you have no time for anything at all.
This time I happened to be correct. I heard the door and looked up to see a group coming in, and coming in, and coming in. They must have rented a bus. Or, from the look of these people, maybe it was a super-sized limo. Most of the crowd were men, all dressed up in suits that were probably worth more than any car I’ve ever owned. Their hair was slicked, and not one of them had any facial hair. I could feel the power coming off of these men, like they were radioactive or something. About a third of the group were women, also dolled up, covered in diamond bracelets and necklaces and earrings, their faces obviously Botoxed at some point in the recent past. I could smell the perfume all the way across the room. And it was easy to guess what they were wearing: MONEY. They absolutely stunk of money. Most of these people looked to be in their thirties and forties, although at least a handful were pushing sixty and seventy.
I suddenly felt underdressed in my khakis and blue button-down shirt, both purchased in discount stores. I found myself finishing my second glass of wine and pouring my third. I found myself sweating a little, shaking a little. I wasn't expecting people like these. I didn't even know people like these existed in Pittsburgh.
But apparently they did. And as I was standing there, behind the bar, staring at this rich mess and pouring another glass of wine, a few of the gentlemen managed to make their way to the front of the bar.
"Two glasses," ordered the tallest of the three, resting an elbow on the bar and turning to face the other two.
I poured the wine and set the glasses in front of him. "You know, it's customary to say 'please'."
He whipped his head around and glared at me, obviously insulted. "Excuse me?"
