by Nic Sheff
The dog, content with its one dead chicken, goes running off. And it’s at that exact moment that someone comes around the corner and screams, “Hey, you, stop! What are you doing?”
I turn, startled.
The man is wearing a hooded sweatshirt with the word Texas printed in orange letters across it. For some reason, that Texas is the only thing I can see. My eyes are fixated on it.
And then he yells again. His accent is thick. “You! What are you doing here?”
My mouth hangs open.
“I . . . I . . .”
I take a step back.
My mind turns round, but comes up with nothing.
“You stay right where you are. Don’t move.”
“T-Tolliver,” I say. “S-Simon Tolliver? I’m looking for Simon Tolliver.”
The man stops.
“You knew him?”
“N-no,” I stutter. “I . . . He . . .”
The man drops his head. His whole body slumps over like something heavy is weighing him down.
“Did he . . . do something to you?”
I realize, then, that the tears are still coming down, so I wipe my face and try to breathe, saying, “In a way.”
“I’m sorry,” he tells me, then, coming toward me with his head still bowed, he says, “This Tolliver, he was not a good man. We’ve been here a few months now. The Realtor told us the story. It’s very sad.”
My eyes go wide. “He’s gone?” I manage to ask. “Do you know where?”
“No. We bought the house from the bank.” He clears his throat. “I’m sorry,” he repeats.
“It’s . . . okay. I’m okay.”
And then I turn.
I turn and I run.
The man doesn’t call after me.
He lets me go.
24.
THE FOG IS COMING in fast off the ocean, and the wind has gone still. I take my jacket off and wrap it around my waist.
The concrete sidewalk is all busted up from where the roots of trees have grown through, jutting out in places, nature fighting back against the oppressive onslaught of human development.
I take out the picture of Simon Tolliver again and stare into his black-and-white-photocopy eyes.
“What the fuck do I do?” I ask him, waiting for an answer, but getting none.
There’s a liquor store on the corner with flashing beer signs in the window, and I go in to get a bottle of water and some peanut M&M’s just ’cause I see the package and it looks good suddenly. The man behind the counter looks Korean, with a broad face and thick Coke-bottle glasses.
“Hey,” I say, pulling out the photo, maybe for the last time. “Do you know this guy? He ever come in here?”
The man looks lazily at the photo. “Oh, yes, he come here,” he says in broken English. “Friday he play lottery.”
My breath catches in my throat. “Every Friday?”
He shakes his head. “No. He here last Friday. Lotto, very big. Twenty million. He only come when lotto very big.”
I thank him and walk out with the water and M&M’s.
The fog is thick, so I can hardly see in front of me. I walk carefully back to the beach.
That cool breeze is blowing through my mind.
I’m getting close.
I can feel it now.
Closer and closer.
Now it’s only a matter of time—’til the jackpot gets big enough, ’til I find Simon Tolliver. And Teddy most of all.
25.
THE SKY IS STARTING to clear, so I can see the half pale moon on the horizon. I’m crossing Geary on the way back from having to work a couple hours at Cala Foods, because this other kid, Miguel, called in sick, when I get a text from Jackie, asking if she can come over.
Yeah, for sure, I text her back.
And then I see that I have a missed call from Eliza.
I press the phone to my ear and keep on walking up the street.
Her voice is soft and beautiful through the electronic distortion. She asks me if I want to come over tomorrow night and have dinner with her. She repeats, several times, that she’s cool with taking things slow.
Of course, I’m not sure if I should go. I mean, I’m not sure if I should let myself. Finding Teddy is the most important thing, and I’m so close. I can’t lose track of that.
But I guess dinner couldn’t hurt.
Or, I don’t know how it could.
We can have dinner.
And then, when the jackpot’s big enough, I’ll go back to that liquor store and wait for Simon Tolliver. It’s simple, really. And, in this moment, it feels like everything might work out.
So I cross down to Clement Street and walk up to our house.
Jackie is already there, waiting on my front steps, bundled in her giant parka and big knee-high boots.
“Miles, hey, I’m sorry.”
I can see she’s been crying—her eyes are red and swollen, but not from the cold.
“Are you okay? What’s going on?”
She laughs, like it just bursts out of her, then she hugs her knees to her chest and looks down at the concrete.
“A fight,” she says.
A fight—with Preston. I take out a cigarette and light it and sit down on the step.
“I’m sorry. Am I bothering you?”
“No, no, not at all. How long have you been here?”
“Just, like, ten minutes.” She puts her head on my shoulder. She smells like incense.
“What was the fight about?” I ask.
“I don’t know . . . nothing. He’s . . . well . . . Does he seem different to you?”
“Different?”
There’s yelling from across the street, and I look up to see two men arguing in front of the Vietnamese restaurant.
“Yeah, different,” Jackie says, ignoring the high-pitched shouting. “Like . . . he’s so into partying and stuff and . . . I know he’s always kind of been that way, but it feels so much . . . more now. Does that make any sense?”
“Sure, yeah.” I smoke and breathe in and out.
“I’m sorry,” she says, taking her hat off and pulling back her long dreads. “I shouldn’t be talking about this with you. He’s your best friend. It puts you in a bad spot.”
I laugh. “Hell, you’re my best friend, too. I mean, sometimes I feel even . . . closer to you than—”
“Yeah, me too,” she says, cutting me off.
I stare down at the scuff marks on my boots.
“My therapist,” I blurt out overly loud. “He tells me this thing about how sensitivity is like a bell curve, you know—like we learned about in school. Basically on one end is someone who’s so sensitive they can’t even function in the world. And on the other end is, like, a total sociopath, killer, whatever, who can’t feel anything. Most people are in the middle—or around the middle. But me, I’ve always been way closer to the so-goddamn-sensitive-I-can-barely-function side. And I’m not saying you’re like that, but you’re definitely more sensitive than a lot of people. And . . . and you’re a deep thinker, too.”
She laughs then. “You don’t think Preston is a deep thinker?”
“No, no,” I tell her. “It’s not that. But he doesn’t overthink things. And that’s awesome. I wish I could be more like that.”
“I’m glad you’re not.”
She takes my hand in the warmth of hers.
I swallow something down in my throat.
And then my phone vibrates in my pocket.
Jackie lets go of my hand—not that it means anything—and I check the screen.
Again—of course—it’s Eliza.
“What’s up with her?” Jackie asks, seeing the name on my caller ID.
“Nothin’. She wants me to come to dinner tomorrow night.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You going to go?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure if I should. I’ve been trying to . . .”
Again, I want to tell her about Teddy. But I don’t. I can’t.
“I’m not sure I have time,” I say, hoping that’s vague enough.
Jackie kicks the heel of her boot into the concrete.
“Have time? It’s one night. I see the way you are, always taking care of everyone. You should go have fun—just do something you want to do.”
I smile then and wonder if she’s right—or if I can even let myself.
“What about you and Pres? Are you gonna be all right?”
Her eyes close and open. “Yeah, for sure. He’s just . . . goin’ through . . . I don’t even know. Maybe it’s ’cause we’re comin’ up on senior year. And who knows what the hell will happen after high school?”
I nod. “Well, no offense to you or Preston, but I can’t wait ’til we never have to see that place again.”
She laughs. “Me neither.”
I stand and feel a sudden coldness against my cheek. “Come on in,” I say. “You had dinner yet?”
I help her up.
“Thank you,” she tells me.
We walk together inside.
26.
IT’S AROUND TEN THIRTY when Jackie finally leaves. She stayed and ate dinner with us and watched a couple episodes of Arrested Development on Netflix. My mom, of course, took a pill and went to bed. But me and Jackie and Jane and my dad all sat together laughing and eating ice cream. We would’ve kept on watching probably all night if we could’ve, but tomorrow’s a school day and my dad made us turn it off.
So Jackie gets in her mom’s car and drives off, and I say good night to my family and go quickly to my computer. I try to look up the California State Lottery, but, for whatever reason, the page is taking forever to load. There must be something wrong with our Internet.
Anyway, I’m sure the lottery won’t be big enough for Simon Tolliver to buy another ticket yet. That guy at the liquor store said it was just at twenty million. Not that I’m 100 percent sure how the whole thing works. I’ll have to look it up tomorrow.
I turn the computer off and go to lie down on the bed. But then I hear my phone vibrating again on the table next to me.
It’s Preston. His name comes up on the caller ID.
I roll my eyes. I mean, Jesus Christ. Like I’m some couples therapist.
I answer the phone and start pacing around my small room.
“Yo. What’s up?”
His voice comes through strained. “Did you talk to Jackie?”
“Yeah, she just left here.”
“Oh.” There’s a pause, then, “Is she okay?”
“Yeah, of course.”
Another pause. “Can I come over for a second, you think? Smoke a cigarette?”
“You don’t smo—”
“Come on,” he cuts in. “Please. I don’t have anyone else to talk to about this stuff.”
I nod my head, though obviously he can’t see that. “Sure, yeah, no problem,” I say.
He thanks me over and over.
We hang up.
It’s funny, I guess.
And I’m happy, too, that I’m able to be here for him—for both of them. As they’ve always been there for me, no matter what. So I put on my big jacket and a hat and a scarf and these fingerless gloves, ’cause it really is cold outside. I have old-fashioned-looking plush slippers that used to be my dad’s, so I put those on, too, and grab my pack of cigarettes.
Out in the kitchen, my dad is up still, boiling water on the stove. He’s wearing a bathrobe over flannel pajamas and drinking a glass of straight whiskey.
“What’s up, Tiger? Can’t sleep?” I say to him, and he laughs.
“That’s right, old man. What about you?” he says.
“Preston called. He’s coming over.”
“You’re the marriage counselor tonight, huh?”
“That’s just what I was thinking.”
“You want some hot chocolate?” he asks.
I smile at him. His beard has grown in thick and long, so he almost looks like some hipster guy from the Mission.
“Is that what you’re having?”
He nods.
The kettle starts to whistle on the stove, and my dad turns the flame off.
“You’re a good friend,” he tells me.
And then my mom yells from their room, “Sam! What are you doing?”
I guess maybe the kettle woke her up.
“You better go on out,” my dad whispers.
I do as he says.
The night is very black and very cold—none of the streetlights are working, and the wind is still blowing in strong from across the bay. I smoke my cigarette and wait for Preston’s little Fiat to pull up in front.
He arrives about a minute later.
“My man,” he says as we hug briefly. He smells, as always, like pot and incense. His ski jacket is zipped all the way up to his chin, and he has a wool hat pulled down low over his eyes. “It’s fucking freezing.”
I nod. “Sorry, my mom’s up,” I tell him. “You mind if we sit out here?”
“Of course, yeah. That was the plan.”
He leans against the railing, and I crouch down on the balls of my feet.
“Jackie said she came over here.”
I scratch at the back of my neck. “Oh, so you talked to her?”
He scratches at his broad chin with long, thick fingers, the nails wide and flat. Above him a large crow flies down from the branches of a scraggly-looking beech tree. I blink my eyes to try to make it disappear, but it’s still there, hovering in midair.
“We texted,” he says. “What, you guys had dinner or something?”
“Yeah. We watched Arrested Development. She was upset.”
I blink again and watch as the crow swoops down lower. I tell myself it must be in my head. It has to be. It’s the middle of the night.
But then the crow flies up again. It flies up, and a giant glob of white crow shit goes splattering all over the shoulder of Preston’s jacket.
“Jesus! What the hell?”
“That bird took a shit on you,” I say.
“Jesus Christ.”
“I mean, what are the fucking chances?”
He laughs and I laugh and we laugh together.
“Look, man,” I say after a minute. “I get you coming over here. But Jackie loves you. Seriously, you don’t have to worry.”
Preston crouches down next to me. “Really? She’s okay?”
I nod. “Of course. She loves you.”
He smiles and plays with the zipper of his jacket. “It’s that simple, huh?”
“It seems like it, yeah—though obviously I don’t know anything about relationships.”
“What? Yeah, you do.”
“I know about fucking them up.”
He spits over the railing. “What does that mean?”
“You know what it means.”
“Eliza? That wasn’t your fault.”
My eyes close. “No, that’s not it.”
“Then what, man?”
“Nothing,” I tell him. “It’s nothing.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Well, anyway, I appreciate you lettin’ me come over like this.”
“Of course.”
He smiles. “I should probably hang out with Jackie tomorrow night. But maybe Saturday we can all go to a movie. Are you gonna try to see Eliza?”
I smile back. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
He nods. “Well, be careful, okay? You’re probably sick of me saying it—but be careful.”
“Thank you. I wil
l.”
“You better.”
We hug and say good-bye, and he starts down the stairs.
“Sorry about that crow shit,” I call after him.
He gets in the car.
And drives away.
27.
ELIZA’S FAMILY HAS MOVED into a new house since I knew her last—and, from what I can tell from here at least, it’s a lot smaller than I would’ve imagined.
She points it out to me—a two-story town house at the top of the park at Alamo Square, a tiered park with a view of the entire downtown skyline and the Bay Bridge and the East Bay in the distance.
We hike up the concrete steps that cut through the center of the park, passing the playground we used to play in together when we were kids. There’s something so familiar being here with Eliza, and in a way, it’s like no time has passed at all.
The sky is clear and cold and the wind blows in strong off the ocean. As we walk through the park together, I look out and can see the reflection of the sun on the windows of the houses along the East Bay like fire spreading.
Eliza says nothing, but takes my hand in hers, and I feel her warmth against the wind and the cold. She has the hood of her sweatshirt up covering her hair and is wearing a heavy jacket over her sweatshirt and those same torn jeans tucked into big lace-up boots. Her eyes are very blue against the black of her hair and the fading light.
She leans forward then, and I realize she’s trying to kiss me and so I drop the backpacks and I kiss her and she kisses me, and the feel of her against me makes me dizzy and light-headed.
“This is me taking it slow,” she says, her nose pressed against mine.
I don’t have it in me to fight her. Not when I’ve spent what feels like my whole life chasing after her.
We kiss, our mouths and tongues together, and we breathe into each other, and it’s like everything in my life has been leading up to this exact moment. It is all perfect, part of some greater plan for me and for her and for the whole universe. We are kissing and it is all beautiful and miraculous and exactly as it’s supposed to be—like there really is some divine will looking out for me, looking out for us both.
