Slipstream

by Leslie Larson

  “Be right with you,” the bartender said as she sped past him to the other end of the bar. People leaning over, holding up their money. A guy with dreads was passing out the shots to a group behind him. They knocked them back, slammed the glasses on the bar, and reached for another. The bartender opened a handful of beers, carried the bottles by the necks past Logan.

  He had to pee. All that fizzy water.

  Another bartender with thick black hair on his arms, a red bandana on his head, and heavy silver hoops in his ears rushed to Logan’s side of the bar.

  “Excuse me,” Logan called out.

  “Be right there,” the guy replied without looking up from the glasses he was frantically filling with ice.

  Just go to the bathroom, Logan told himself. When he was inside, he learned to break things down into the smallest parts. You didn’t look at the whole time you had to do, just the few moments in front of your face. Get through chow, take a shower, watch a little TV, go to group. One day. Concentrate on five-minute blocks. So he’d take a leak. When he came back he could have the beer.

  The bathroom was dim, almost dark, lit by candles set in niches in the walls, which were covered in sheets of steel held in place by dime-sized rivets. A long zinc trough on one side served as the urinal. An identical one, except with faucets, ran down the middle of the room. Guys hung around washing their hands or waiting for one of the two stalls at the end of the room. The relative quiet was a comfort. Logan peed. A guy at the end of the trough gave him the eye. Logan turned away, went to the sink, washed his hands. He bent over and splashed water on his face, wet the back of his neck, rotated his head to ease the tension. When he finished drying his face with a paper towel, the wispy lackey, the one he called Jeff, was standing in front of him.

  “Oh, hey, Logan,” he said, out of breath and relieved. “I’ve been looking for you. Listen, Aaron’s sick. Jerry thinks maybe we should call it a night.”

  Logan pulled over on the freeway. He ran around to the passenger side and jerked the door open. “Hold it, man! Just hold it a second!” he yelled over the traffic noise. He didn’t want to have to clean the car up. He got Mutt under the arms and dragged him to the edge of the shoulder where the asphalt ended and a ditch separated the road from a big tract of empty land. It was raining again. Logan stood behind Mutt and wrapped his arms around his stomach so that he wouldn’t pitch forward onto his face.

  “All right,” he yelled. “Let ’er rip. Heave-ho.”

  The guy retched so hard that Logan stumbled, almost falling on top of him. He hoisted him back and braced for the next heave. The vomit splashed like a waterfall: steak, lobster, red wine. Mutt didn’t hold back on the sound effects, either. He sounded like he was being turned inside out.

  “Watch my shoes, man,” Logan shouted. “This is genuine Italian leather. Aim for the ditch, buddy. Don’t get my shoes!”

  When Mutt was all puked out, Logan pushed him against the side of the car. They were both wet, rain streaming down their faces. “You got a hankie?” he asked. “Something to wipe off your face?” Mutt was too stupefied to answer. Logan signaled for Stone to roll down the window. Fucker sitting pretty in there all cozy with the radio on. The other lackey was lying across the backseat, passed out.

  “You got a hankie? Something I can clean him up with?”

  Stone was smashed, too. His face was moist and paler than ever, except for a slash of brilliant red on each cheek. He gave Logan a shitfaced grin as he passed his handkerchief. Logan wondered if he’d gotten hold of anything at the club. Ecstasy or something. But who cared, it wasn’t his problem. At this point he didn’t give a rat’s ass what happened to any of them, as long as he dumped them at their hotel first.

  Mutt closed his eyes while Logan wiped his face. “Those guys are shits,” he slurred, almost crying. “Teagle’s a fudgepacker and Stone’s a son of a bitch. Everybody hates his fucking guts. High and mighty prick. He can suck my cock.”

  “Hold still,” Logan said. “You can tell him that as soon as you get back.” Why did he spend so much time washing grown men’s faces?

  “You’re okay. You’re all right,” Mutt went on. He slid sideways off the car and Logan had to grab him by the jacket to stop him from falling. “I really appreciate it. You’re a real pal. I mean it.”

  “Nada,” Logan said. He helped him back inside the car and stood there a minute, buffeted by the wall of air from a semi blowing past. The traffic had thinned out. He could smell the wet weeds in the field, the dirt. The Bogart jacket was soaked through. He remembered that he’d talked to his daughter earlier that evening, though now it seemed like days ago. Jesus, she’d sounded like his mother. He’d been a fuckup where his kids were concerned. Christ, it was a shame. But that was the story of his life, wasn’t it?

  “What are you in?” Stone asked as soon as Logan got back in the car.

  Logan glanced into the backseat before he started the engine and pulled back onto the freeway. The two lackeys could have been corpses the way they were slung all over each other.

  “What do you mean?” he said, merging farther to the left.

  “I mean when you’re not doing this. As an actor. Are you in films, or what?”

  “Oh, commercials mostly.” It didn’t feel right between him and Stone, now that the other two had passed out. The rain made it worse, enclosing them in the car. “You see that spot where the guy wakes up in a house right next to the ocean? That was my most recent. I get some bit work on a TV series now and then. I played a photographer in that show about the magazine. You catch that?”

  Stone nodded. He was trying not to act as drunk as he was. Logan felt something bad coming. Stone took out his wallet and fumbled in it awhile. He pulled out a photo and held it near the steering wheel so that Logan could see.

  “What’s that?”

  “My kids. A picture of my kids.” Stone took the picture back and looked at it himself. “You got any kids?” he slurred.

  Logan nodded. Not too much farther, he told himself.

  “You with somebody? Got a wife? A girlfriend? I don’t want to get personal or anything, just wondering.”

  The windshield wipers slapped back and forth. Logan concentrated on the rhythm and kept his eyes on the red taillights ahead. “No,” he said quietly. “Not right now.”

  His exit came, finally. He rolled down his window as he turned onto the surface road and listened to the water spray up from the tires. There weren’t many cars on Wilshire.

  “It’s boring, Logan. It’s a boring life,” Stone burst out. “Don’t get me wrong. I love my wife and kids. But it’s all over. There’s nowhere to go from here. It’s kind of lonely, know what I mean? Like that song.”

  Logan clenched his teeth as Stone sang “Is That All There Is?” He cursed at a red light that prolonged his agony.

  “Not like you,” Stone said in a pleading voice. “Not like your life, Logan. God, I admire you. I really do. I envy you. You’ve got it made. And I’m stuck. I’m just stuck.”

  What a relief to pull up in front of the hotel. Logan turned off the engine and popped the trunk. The sooner he got rid of these losers, the better.

  “You get what I’m saying?” Stone whined. “Do you understand what I mean?”

  “Sure,” Logan said. “Of course I do.”

  A doorman unloaded the trunk while Logan dragged Mutt and Jeff out of the backseat. He led them to a bench near the door, where he propped them into sitting positions. Stone was waiting back at the car. He started fumbling in his wallet again when Logan came back.

  “Here, here’s my card. It’s got my work number if you want to call me there, and my e-mail address. Just to shoot the shit or whatever. Or anytime you’re in Atlanta, be sure to look me up.”

  “Will do.” Logan took the card. The money Stone had given him at the club was still in his pocket. It had to be a few hundred. He was sure Stone had forgotten he’d handed it over.

  “You’re a good guy,” Stone went on
. He gave Logan a few thumps on the shoulder. “I’m really glad I met you. I wish we lived closer so we could hang out sometimes. Go round, take in the sights. Like we did tonight.”

  Logan nodded, waiting to see if the wallet was going to come back out. Stone looked at him uncertainly, then offered his hand. They shook. VICE PRESIDENT, it said on Stone’s business card.

  “Well, I guess this is it,” Stone said, glancing at his co-workers slumped on the bench. A bellhop had loaded their bags on a cart. “Take care, buddy. It’s been a great night.” He turned and lurched toward the hotel.

  “Hey, Jerry!” Logan called when Stone had gone a few steps.

  Stone turned around with an expectant smile, like he had been hoping that Logan would call him back, like he’d been waiting for this moment all night.

  “You forgot to pay me, pal. Remember?”

  Stone opened and closed his mouth like a fish sucking air. The red streaks on his cheeks spread to the roots of his hair. He took out his wallet and looked at his watch. “About seven hours,” he said in a flat voice. “Here’s eighty dollars. Thanks for your time.” Without a backward glance he slouched off toward the big revolving door and the brightly lit lobby. Mutt and Jeff followed him like puppies.

  Logan started the Lincoln. Eighty bucks, the fuck. Chump change, at least to Stone. What about the gas? It just went to show you: get it while you can. No one was going to hand it over, you had to take it for yourself. Logan turned the radio on, but the music grated on his nerves. He punched it off. He turned right on Wilshire, headed east. He felt edgy—jumpy but tired. Be glad, he told himself. Just that morning he’d been worried about five bucks to gas up his truck, and now look at him. He had enough money to live it up that night, to do almost anything he wanted.

  And what was that?

  Get high. Feel the stuff hit his veins and then the sensation of flying up, higher and higher with each breath, lighter than air. When everything snapped into crystal-clear focus, when you knew what you wanted to do and, even better, knew you could do it. Right then. Your blood singing. Happy. Free. He could do it. He had the means, the will, the knowledge. He even had the cash to pick up a woman. They could rent a room, a nice one, maybe even in the hotel where he’d just dropped off Stone and his friends. Stay up all night, fuck and get high, catch the first morning light. The sweet pink dawn. Head up to Mulholland, look out over the city, the ocean in the distance.

  Logan stopped at a red light, even though there was no one else at the intersection. He tapped his finger against the steering wheel. Sometimes it could be so quiet in the middle of the city, like you just hit a pocket of secret air. A warm current in the cold ocean. Help me, he pleaded, to no one in particular. What am I going to do?

  The answer came from the black sky, the drizzle lit into flurries around the street lamps.

  There was only this minute to get through. This minute, and the next minute, and the minute after that.

  15

  To keep herself from going to the window every time a car came down the street, Jewell turned on the television. Celeste had called again, around ten, to say that she was dropping Dana off at her house and that she’d be home soon, but that had been over an hour ago. Rachel had been asleep for hours. Rain pattered against the window. Jewell got off the couch, went over to the phone, and pressed number three, which was programmed to Celeste’s cell. Her voice mail picked up right away. The phone was switched off.

  The weathercaster, a petite woman with a freakishly pronounced widow’s peak, pointed to the massive storm system on the satellite map. “A Pineapple Express is blowing in from the southern Pacific,” she announced, “We’ll be seeing lots of moisture.” They had reporters out in the field: Beatrice Tran in a yellow slicker on the Santa Monica pier and Emilio Noriega with an umbrella on Wilshire. Wind whipped their hair. Already there were flash floods, flight delays, a small mudslide. A seventy-four-year-old man had drowned on his way home from a late-night trip to the supermarket. The live footage showed the roadblock he’d evaded, the place where his car had been struck by the torrent that flowed across the washed-out road. He’d panicked, opened his door, and been swept away. The camera zoomed in on the rain-soaked grocery bag squashed in the mud, on the frozen pizza and pint of ice cream.

  “The storm door is open,” the weathercaster said. “Systems are lined up all the way to Japan.”

  Jewell switched off the TV and put on her shoes. She dug her jacket out from under the pile of books on the dining room chair, found her wallet and keys. Her fingernails throbbed at the quick. Each fingertip pulsed. Her face felt numb and rubbery.

  She went into the dark bedroom, wrapped Rachel in a blanket to protect her from the rain, and carried her out to the car. The rain was coming down in sheets now, warm, like the weather-woman had said. Rachel didn’t wake up when Jewell laid her in the backseat, when she shut the door and started the car.

  Jewell drove grimly, turning the wheel, applying the brakes. The headlights cut two silver cones through the rain. She drove too close to the curb and water pummeled the underside of the chassis. The car fishtailed. She went through a red light on Sunset Boulevard. A pickup screeched to a halt, blaring its horn.

  As she drove north, the ground swelled into gentle hills. She crested one rise and there was Silver Lake, glowing like mercury spilled into a bowl. She turned without thinking, first right, then left, then left again. Spanish-style stucco houses with tile roofs and arched windows stood along the residential streets. A few porch lights were on, yellow to keep the moths away.

  She recognized Dana’s house, no problem. There was a banana tree on one side, a three-legged stool on the porch. Dana’s car was parked in the driveway, Celeste’s at the curb. Jewell switched off the motor. Lights were on in the house, front and back. A sudden cloudburst hammered the car from all directions, and Jewell thought of the time she and her father had ridden through the car wash in his dented-up gas hog. Brushes spinning on the windows, the whirlwind of soap suds and blasted water. He’d laughed his ass off, enjoying it as much as she did.

  The rain was loud on the windshield, like gravel thrown up from the road. It was hard to think. She could drive up on the lawn, spin a few doughnuts. Plow right through the front window. Or write a note, slide it through the mail slot. Then take off and never come back. She wished she could turn the radio on, but she didn’t want to wake Rachel.

  She turned and looked into the backseat. Rachel was on her back, her arms thrown over her head. Sound asleep. Jewell tucked the blanket more snugly around her, opened the door as quietly as possible, got out, and gently closed the door. She dashed across the yard, trying to shield her face with her arm, but the rain pelted her anyway, making it hard to see. The lawn squelched beneath her feet. The windows were low to the ground, covered with blinds. She ducked down next to the one in front and, from the edge, was able to make out the end of a sofa and a floor lamp that gleamed on a honey-colored wood floor. There was a glass coffee table. On it was Celeste’s purse.

  Jewell crept to the side of the house, slipping in the muddy flowerbeds that made a sucking sound when she lifted her feet. The room on that side was dark. Farther back was a redwood fence with a gate that led to the backyard. The banana tree tossed, its fronds gleaming like a fish. The gate was locked. Rain soaked the shoulders of her jacket, seeped through her shoes. Her hair was plastered to her head. She pressed her eye to a crack in the fence. A square of light fell over the back lawn. The bedroom. A flower she couldn’t place released its scent into the wet night. It was tropical, cloying.

  Rage churned so violently in her chest that her breath tore out of her throat with a ragged wheeze. The yellow light from the bedroom taunted her. Rain ran down her face, into the collar of her shirt, between her breasts. It was pathetic to be standing outside like this, drenched, peeping in. She gritted her teeth. Rachel was okay in the car, she reassured herself. Again she thought of driving away and never coming back. But then, in a silence that seemed to
come between raindrops, she heard Celeste’s laugh. There was no mistaking it. No one else laughed like that.

  Jewell ran toward the front of the house. She slipped in the wet flowerbed and knocked her shoulder against the stucco wall. She leaped onto the porch and started pounding on the door, her fist keeping up a steady beat until a light came on in one window and feet thumped across the hardwood floors. The curtain in the front window moved, and Jewell caught a quick flash of Dana’s face looking like she’d just witnessed a car wreck.

  The deadbolt clicked and the door swung open.

  Dana gasped. She brought her hands to her mouth in an exaggerated gesture straight from the silent screen. “Where’s Rachel?!” she shrieked hysterically. “What have you done with my daughter?!”

  Jewell glared at her through the water running down her face. She realized that her chest was heaving up and down, that her neck felt as if it were swelling, Hulk-like. “She’s fine,” she choked.

  “Where is she?!” Dana wailed in a high-pitched screech.

  Jewell wanted to put her hands around Dana’s throat and slowly squeeze off her air. Her pulse raced in her throat, high, thin, and dry. “She’s in the car, sleeping,” she rasped. Seeing Dana’s face go ashen with horror, she added, “You’re the one who left her at my house, remember?”

  Dana, who was a good half-foot shorter than Jewell, lunged forward and knocked Jewell out of her way. She rushed down the walkway toward Jewell’s car, rain pocking the cement around her like someone was taking potshots at her feet.