“They want to discuss my options,” Julia says.
“I thought it was New York.”
“That’s what they want to talk about. It’s up in the air. I’m flexible because I know you want to be here.” She pauses. “It’s still a possibility, I guess.”
They don’t say anything for a long time. There’s a loud crash outside—the sound of glass shattering—and Julia asks what that was and he makes a guess, telling her it was the wind.
“But New York is better for you,” he says quietly, clenching his teeth. “New York is two hours away from your family.”
“I can barely hear you,” she says.
Chase sits up in bed, exhausted. “We don’t have to do this now. Any of it.”
“Why don’t you want to go to New York?” Julia asks. “Just be real with me, Chase.”
An image: a one-bedroom apartment with mismatched furniture and piles of books and newspapers and all those blank canvases and a crib next to a futon and the stark plainness of it all and a baby and there’s Chase staring out a small and grimy window overlooking a sea of brown and gray buildings.
“I don’t know if I’m ready for New York again.” Chase walks to the window and pulls back the blinds. The sun is blazing and he can feel the heat radiating out from the glass. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.”
“For New York?” Julia asks. “Or for—”
“For everything else.” Chase cuts her off. “No, I’m not ready. I’m so far from ready you have no idea. I have no plans. I have no ability to make plans. I see today and tomorrow and that’s it. I’m regressing. And you see it happening to me but won’t say anything. You’re either hoping it goes away or turns around or whatever, but you don’t want to face it.”
“It’s less complicated than you’re making it.”
“Suddenly you’re ready? How does that work? Spell it out for me. What makes sense about doing it this way?”
“What way?”
“You’re just starting out. I’m nowhere. And we’re going to be parents?”
Julia keeps saying: “Nothing is decided.”
Chase drives out to the Hills, the unfinished development in Summerlin where Michele’s house will be, not far from Spring Mountain and the house where Chase grew up in Green Valley. Michele’s parcel has become a wooden skeleton on a concrete foundation. There are no signs of life: no grass unrolled or saplings planted. Chase parks at the end of an empty street and sits in the Mustang listening to the radio while looking down at the valley and the Strip bisecting it. When he turns the engine off everything is quiet except for the palm trees rustling and all the sharp edges get dulled for a moment. He smokes a cigarette and turns off his cell phone in case Julia calls. He watches the red and white lights from an airplane as it drifts silently toward McCarran. Chase walks to the edge of the asphalt where a red stone column stands—the entrance to a new development that was put on hold. Carved in it are the words SUNRISE MANOR. And then Chase looks for his apartment on Boulder Highway and after he finds it his eyes move north to the Strip and then west to the Palace and then over to Wyoming Avenue where Devon’s gallery is and then to a small road you can’t see just behind the Sahara—Beverly Way—where his mother lives, and it all looks so easy from up here. Sometime later, he feels relieved when he checks his cell and sees that no one has called. Sitting in the Mustang looking out over the lights of the valley, he makes a call.
“So?” Julia says, still on the phone an hour later. They’re both exhausted. There was disgust in his voice, she tells him, when he asked her repeatedly how she could let this happen. He says he was only arguing that it was wrong for them. And then Chase switches tactics and tells Julia he cannot see a way that he would ever be okay with it but if she wanted to go forward with something like this it was her choice. It had been a couple of days and already it was killing them.
“Tell me something,” Chase says.
“Like what?”
“Anything,” he says.
“I read that it’s twice as safe as having your tonsils removed,” she finally says.
10
Hunter and Chase are sitting outside in the heat by the backyard pool. Chase is here to pick up Brandi. Hunter wanted to come along. The house belongs to Brandi’s mother and stepfather who are, apparently, away. The house is a mess: empty bottles of Absolut and Corona and red plastic cups scattered everywhere. Jessica Simpson blasts from speakers the girls have dragged onto the patio. Brandi and her friend smoke Marlboro Lights and drink the Starbucks green tea Frappucinos they demanded Chase bring. They’re waiting for a ride to a town house in the Mesas for a two-girl/schoolgirl special. Chase and Hunter were on their way to get ice for Hunter’s father’s party when Michele called Chase to tell him where to go. Brandi is one of their best girls and loves to get high so Michele asked Chase and Hunter to be cool and let her share Hunter’s weed. But Chase and Hunter arrived too early and decided to take a swim and hang out by the pool until it was time to head for the Mesas.
The four of them are on chaises by the pool, stoned. Melted whipped cream drips off the sides of the Starbucks cups onto the concrete. A procession of black ants drown themselves in the sugary white puddles that have formed around the cups. Chase’s thoughts drift to Julia and between songs he hears the sound of chain saws and a motorcycle revving and he closes his eyes and hopes to just drift off into nowhere. But the music is too loud for Chase to lose himself and the girls talk over it. When Chase opens his eyes again it’s to turn his head to the side and stare at Brandi’s tan skin slick with oil. Both girls have their navels pierced and their bikinis are pink and pale yellow. Brandi’s friend is the one in yellow and though Hunter told Chase she’s younger than Brandi it’s hard to tell because of the silver eye shadow and the fake breasts and the cigarette. She has a notebook open on her lap and is copying a homework assignment from Brandi. They’re both attending summer school at Centennial. Chase is too high to follow the conversation, just catching fragments.
“I so want your tits,” Brandi says to her friend. “How much?”
The girl, barely paying attention, says, “Free-ninety-nine.”
“Bailey better send some of that my way.”
“Bite his nipples when he comes and he’ll give you his gold card.”
“But fucking Cabo again? I don’t think so.”
“Like there’s something special about it.”
“And he doesn’t tell you you’re there to work.”
“Drunk sunburned fags who sweat all over you.”
“It’s by the ocean,” Brandi says, mocking Bailey’s lazy voice.
“Listen to the waves crashing.”
“Yeah, but some fat man is passed out on my bed and he’s snoring and farting.”
“Those look really good though,” Brandi says, checking her Nokia.
“Who is it?”
“The Spaz.”
“Is she not a complete dyke?”
“With those glasses? With that hair?”
“She wants to transfer to Meadows next year.”
“She dropped out?”
“Rush’s dad’s getting her in.”
“Is she fucking him, too?”
“She was at the graduation.”
“For Rush?”
“Rush’s dad had all these limos lined up waiting to take them to the parties.”
“I heard Russell Crowe spoke at the ceremony.”
“You know that bitch got into the VIP at Ice on Thursday.”
“Rachel did?”
Hunter reaches out and nudges Chase’s arm and mutters, “Ice, ice, dude, remind me to get ice for tonight.”
“Her mother’s a paraplegic,” one of the girls says.
“Or a paralegal,” the other girl says, their voices a blur in the afternoon heat.
“Rachel was paid like eight hundred dollars by Rush’s lacrosse friends.”
“For what?”
“To go with them to a room at the Hard R
ock.”
“Oh God.”
“When they were done, she was totally passed out and they stripped her down—”
“Stop—”
“And they shaved her head and wrote Eminem lyrics on her ass and—”
“Oh God, stop—”
“And took a shit on her and left her out on the Hard Rock beach.”
“I so wish that was true.”
“And Bailey says we’re mean drunks.”
“Someone’s going to fuck her up for real.”
“She’s going to get her ass kicked.”
“You know Rachel stole three thousand dollars from the suite.”
“No way.”
“Bailey just keeps it in a drawer.”
“And she stole it?”
“Not all at once,” one of the voices says. “Over a period of a few days.”
“How did the Spaz accomplish this?”
“By replacing fifties and twenties with dollar bills—”
“What a genius. Who’s dumber? The Spaz or Bailey?”
“—and always keeping a fifty or a twenty on top of the stack.”
“Why did she do it?”
“Rush put her up to it. At least that’s what the girls say.”
“What a thieving little bitch.”
The girl copying the homework tosses the notebook to the ground and the wind ruffles the pages and a few pieces of paper tumble into the pool and neither of the girls notices. As Chase shifts on the lounge, eyes closed, his bathing suit damp from swimming, it occurs to him that either one of these girls could be dead tomorrow. They could simply go to yet another party and trust the wrong person and take the wrong drug and pass out in an empty bedroom and never wake up. This causes something icy to move through Chase.
Brandi straddles Hunter. He wakes up, yawning. “Where is it?” she asks, playfully.
Hunter says, “The blue bag.”
“But it’s not there,” the other girl says. “We already checked.”
“Then I don’t know where it is,” Hunter says, closing his eyes.
“Well, where else could it be?” she presses.
“Maybe you’ve smoked enough for one morning,” Hunter says. “Do your homework or eat a sandwich or something. You’re blocking my sun.”
The girl reaches inside Hunter’s shorts and removes a tiny cellophane bag and tosses it to her friend.
“But that stuff is shit,” the girl says.
“No kidding,” Hunter says.
The girls go inside anyway and Hunter again asks Chase to come with him to the party his dad is throwing tonight and when Chase tells Hunter he can’t Hunter rolls his eyes.
“What else are you going to do?” Hunter says. Then adds, “I can’t survive it solo.”
“I have to drive them to the Mesas in thirty minutes.” Chase hesitates and looks over his shoulder toward the house the girls just went into and then back to Hunter. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
Hunter’s cell has a Chewbacca ring tone that roars a few times and as he reaches for it, Chase realizes that if he adds their ages together—the girls—they are thirtysomething.
Hunter squints to see the number and answers it and says, “Ice, dude. I got it, Dad. I know, ice, ice, ice,” and then he hangs up. Hunter drops his hand to his crotch and adjusts himself. “How do you think this all looks?” he asks, stretching. “I mean, being here and the summer?”
Chase nods. “It is what it is, right?” and then, “Does it matter?”
“Well, you brought me here,” Hunter says. “I was just curious what you felt.”
Hunter stands and hesitates for a moment as though he can’t decide about following the girls inside. He says nothing to Chase. He just walks toward the house, leaving Chase alone and staring into the clear blue water, the notebook paper floating on the surface, the black ants reeling in the melted whipped cream. A chain saw rips through a dying palm, its sound carried by the wind up, and over the wall that surrounds the backyard and then the white glare of sirens wailing somewhere down in the valley reminds him it’s time to take the girls to the Mesas.
Inside, Chase follows screams of laughter upstairs. He follows the laughter down a carpeted hallway to a girl’s bedroom. He pushes the door open. No one notices him. The girls are still in their bikinis. The three of them are sitting in a stuffed pink chair. The girls are climbing around on Hunter’s lap. Hunter isn’t wearing his bathing suit. An HP desktop monitor is in front of them while they play to the black eye of a webcam. One girl types and the other pulls her hair up into a ponytail. Chase moves close enough to smell the coconut oil. He reads over their shoulders as they update a MySpace profile. Brandi is now straddling and dry-humping Hunter’s thigh as he buries his face in her neck and cups her breasts, then slides his hands inside her bikini top. The other girl slides a hand over Hunter’s erection and pulls Brandi’s top completely off as, with her free hand, she adjusts the webcam. Chase turns away, heads downstairs, and waits until they’re finished.
Hunter’s father is having a party in the enormous pink house in the gated section of Summerlin for a comedian he signed to headline at the Stardust, and Chase wonders if it’s the same comedian Michele went to see the other night. Hunter’s father is an executive at the Stardust and may own part of it—even Hunter doesn’t know, or at least doesn’t talk about it, and Chase vaguely doesn’t care. Hunter’s dad is too tan and wears a gold Tank watch and his teeth are bright white from his Zoom sessions and he has been too recently Botoxed: faint red blotches dot his forehead. Hunter’s father calls Chase “Charles” and likes to squeeze his shoulders and rub his back whenever he says hello. Hunter once told Chase he thought his father might be gay (which may explain his mother and the young Italian) but Chase never asked what made Hunter think that and Hunter never brought it up again.
“Leonard Warren just came back from Telluride with an orange tan and his leg in a cast.” Hunter’s father is speaking to a group of thin middle-aged people and he’s loud enough so that Hunter can hear him from across the living room. He actually looks over at Hunter and Chase just to make sure they’re listening over the soft strains of Mariah Carey. “Lenny Warren. Leonard. My son’s childhood playmate who used to stick firecrackers up the asses of dead animals—or at least I hope they were dead.” Hunter’s father goes on to explain that Leonard Warren was a disturbed and abused child who was destined for a life of Disney World vacations with a whale of a wife and Ritalin rats for kids until Leonard Warren went in on a real estate deal with a partner of Hunter’s father and made two million dollars last year. The two million helped Leonard Warren hook up with a gorgeous model-bartender from the Palms, and when they got married Leonard Warren’s father bought them matching red Hummers.
“And what does my son do?” Hunter’s father asks, glancing at Hunter. “You want to tell them, or should I?”
Hunter raises his Corona in his father’s direction. “Ativan, Welbutrin, and Zoloft—it’s all working out for you, huh, Dad?”
“I guess I’ll have to tell everyone what my son does,” Hunter’s father says. “And really, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I mean, I’m his father and I’m not ashamed. In fact, it’s quite impressive. My son gets set on fire and thrown overboard from a fake pirate ship four or five times a night and then gets wasted with some wetbacks at the casino and stumbles in around three while his friends make small fortunes and marry beautiful women.”
Hunter’s face is blank as he brings the bottle of Corona he’s gripping to his lips.
“That’s what five years at UNLV gets you,” his father sighs theatrically.
“And you still can’t figure out why I won’t work for you?” Hunter asks.
His father suddenly walks over and apologizes loudly and tries to hug his son but Hunter stands stiffly, waiting the scene out.
“You want to get in on the action?” Hunter’s father turns to Chase, grabbing him by the shoulders and holding on.
“Wh
at action is that?” Chase asks.
“I could use a sharp mind like yours.” Hunter’s father laughs and slides his hand up the back of Chase’s neck. “What do you do these days, Charles? Last I remember you were painting walls in the ghetto. No one shot you over there I take it?”
“I’m still painting.”
Hunter’s father takes a deep breath and stares at Chase too long with his glassy eyes. “Have a lovely girlfriend, too, I hear.”
Chase glances over at Hunter, who simply shrugs.
“That’s admirable.” Hunter’s father sips from a large glass of warm gin. “I hear she’s very beautiful. A businesswoman? Is that right?”
Chase nods.
“Does she have any friends who would hook up with my son?” Hunter’s father laughs, and when he brings his hand up to wipe the sweat from his face, Chase notices that the thick gold class ring on his finger is from USC. “I’ve always had a feeling about you, Charles. That you were the one friend of Hunter’s who would do something special and not just run a car wash or manage a nightclub. I always knew that you’d do something real, you know? Something tangible.”
“It sounds like Leonard Warren’s making out.” Chase shrugs.
“Leonard Warren is a fraud.” Hunter’s father closes his eyes and waves a hand around. “He’ll be broke and in jail within a year.” He starts grinning and then makes a grab for Chase again. “Thank you for being such a good friend to him … I’m referring to Hunter, by the way. He gets so much out of knowing you, Charles.” Hunter’s father has placed a moist hand on Chase’s cheek and is staring at him lovingly until his fingers locate the scratches and he snaps out of it.
The Delivery Man Page 16
