When he stepped outside the rain blew in his face. Breakfast, he reminded himself. Just get through breakfast and worry about the rest later. Down at the Olympic Flame on Figueroa you got two eggs, two strips of bacon, hash browns, and toast for $2.99, which was a good deal but it was still over three bucks with tip, and money was another thing, wasn’t it? Cash was low. He got so sick of it: the scraping and saving, counting his dimes. Six dollars an hour. Whoa. Big deal. If he was lucky enough to work five hours a day he earned a whopping thirty dollars, not even enough to pay for his goddamned room, his little fleabag hole-in-the-wall with the broken down bed and the who-knows-what stains on the fuzzy-ass rug. The room where hundreds of poor bastards before him had gotten drunk or stared at the walls or, if they were lucky and had a little money, got their rocks off for maybe ten minutes before going back to their miserable lives. Meanwhile some jerkoff was sitting at a desk making thirty bucks an hour pushing paper around on his desk, or, even worse, thirty bucks in five minutes signing his name to some deal or a thousand other things that were a hell of a lot less work than grunting and straining and wiping the ass of some poor schmuck who couldn’t lift a finger of his own hand.
How? How was he ever going to get any money? He turned the corner at Four Brothers Furniture and the rain hit him in the back of the neck, sending icy shivers down his spine. At this rate, he was never going to have a goddamned thing. Even if he worked twenty hours a day he’d only make a colossal $120 before taxes, big fucking deal. Simba, the guy who sold incense and scented oils, was at his table under the awning of the Bodega Santa Maria. Logan slapped palms with him. Plenty of people would front him some stuff right now, no cash down. All he had to do was say the word. He could unload it fast, make a nice wad, and clear the hell out. Take off down to Mexico or out East to the boonies, get a sweet little place. Start over.
Man, he was in a bad way.
The Olympic Flame was long and narrow, with a counter running the length of the place and a row of two-spot tables along the wall. The thick, homey smell of hot grease hit Logan’s nose before he got to the door. The light was low inside. Four or five guys were hunched at the counter. Gus, the Greek owner, was working the grill while he kept his eye on his bleach-blond wife, who was waiting tables. She had a fine, tight little ass. Oso, a big, slumping guy who lived and breathed the Lakers, was sweating over the sports page at the end of the counter nearest the door. Logan hurried past him. The last thing he wanted to do was listen to a character analysis of each and every player.
“Logan, my man,” Gus said.
Irene, the wife, poured his coffee.
Logan ordered eggs over easy with rye toast. He sipped his coffee and watched Gus flip pancakes. Why couldn’t he be more like other people? Why didn’t he care about the goddamn Lakers or a wife with a tight ass or Jesus in heaven or low gas mileage or drought-resistant plants? Something. The trouble with being clean was that things kept coming up in your mind. Crazy things, things from the past. Technicolor. You had no control. It was like an article he’d read in an old magazine lying around in the lobby at the Morningstar: some researcher touched a guy’s brain with a fine-haired paintbrush and every time he touched a different spot, the poor bastard remembered something that had happened fifteen or thirty years ago like it was yesterday. What the experiment proved was that everything, every little thing, was all stored there in your brain, waiting to creep up on you. It was almost like tripping. And that was what had been happening to Logan, what had been setting his nerves on edge. Just that morning, out of the blue, he’d remembered climbing the fence of an empty lot, jumping down on the other side where someone had left a board with a nail hammered through the end. He must have been nine or ten years old. The pain shot all the way up his leg to the base of his spine. And when he’d looked down there was the nail coming through the top of his foot. He hadn’t thought of it for eons, but that morning it was as vivid as the moment it happened.
And that was just the tip of the iceberg.
“More for you?” Irene said, holding up the coffeepot. She had a lot of mascara on. Each eyelash was the diameter of a toothpick.
Logan nodded, even though the coffee wasn’t doing the hole in his chest any favors. He pictured it like a cigarette burn in a blanket, the edges scorched and crisp, the pink mouth in the middle open, juicy.
“You wanna take this home? Want me to wrap it up?” Irene said. She gave him the eye as she pointed to his plate, dipped her head, smiled. All that was left were the hash browns and a half slice of toast. Jeez, how bad off did she think he was?
“No, you can take it away. I’m done.”
“Anything else?” she asked. She gave a sneaky glance at her husband, then patted Logan’s hand. “Anything else I can do for you?”
The rain had stopped and the sun was trying to push through the clouds when he stepped outside. He decided then and there that he would go to a meeting. The New Way Tabernacle over on Broadway had one that started at eleven, in five minutes. Logan turned in that direction and stepped up his pace. You couldn’t say he wasn’t trying. The hole in his chest was a yearning feeling, he decided. As if something inside him was reaching. He pulled the bill of his cap low over his face, and put his hands in his pockets. He crossed the street thinking how he was going to lay it all out on the table once he got to the meeting. He was going to let go of his problems and hope for some help.
“Hey, hey, hey!” someone called behind him. “Hey! You! Psst! Psst!”
Logan turned and saw a gangly figure in a thigh-length sweater and a stocking cap pulled over half his face waving his arms in the air.
“Wait!” he called. “Come here!”
Some kind of street crazy. But just as Logan was about to turn and keep walking he realized it was Wally, the guy who worked the register at K&M Liquors, where he sometimes bought Lotto tickets. He hadn’t recognized him outside of the little cubbyhole behind the counter where he usually sat watching a toaster-size TV.
“Hey, where you been?” Wally called. “I look for you.”
Logan didn’t know whether Wally had a language problem or if he was just simple. He couldn’t figure out where he came from, either. Serbia or Croatia or one of those places that fell apart? Iraq or Iran or Afghanistan or one of those Middle Eastern places where they were always blowing the shit out of each other? Anyway, the guy knew about three words of English. He was super-friendly, though, like Logan was a long-lost friend. Logan walked back to where Wally was standing in front of the store.
“Hey, how’s it going, man?” Logan said.
Wally pounded him on the chest with the palm of his hand, right where the hole was. “Hey, you win, you win!” he beamed.
“Who, man? What’re you talking about?”
Wally looked at Logan with wide eyes, like he was the one who was crazy. “Yeah, they come! They say me! They say me your name!”
Logan’s pulse picked up. He didn’t know whether he was scared or excited. “I won the Lotto?” he asked cautiously.
Wally shook his head furiously. “Here!” He grabbed Logan’s wrist and pulled him into the store. “Here! Here, see!”
Wally ducked behind the crowded counter, punched a button to open the register, and fished out a stub of paper. “See!” he said, thrusting it at Logan. “Look!”
GRAND PRIZE: TRIP TO MEXICO it said across the top. It took Logan a minute to recognize his own shaky handwriting: name, address, and phone number. Then he remembered the fishbowl on the counter, the raffle ticket he’d filled out weeks ago, on a day when he was feeling flush.
Wally snatched the ticket away from him. “Phone no work. They try.”
“Yeah, the phone’s at the end of the hall where I live. Pay phone. That was before I got my cell. Nobody ever takes a message.”
Wally fished under the counter and came up with an envelope. “You win!” he said. “Call here.”
Bang, just like that.
Logan forgot about his meeting. Mexico. Mexico
. In his early twenties, he’d spent almost a year crisscrossing it with his friend Bellamy. They’d slept on the beach or in the bed of the pickup. There was nothing like it: the rich charred smell in the air, roosters crowing in the morning. The beer and the beach. The sun. And the water. Blue, baby. Blue.
A bus rumbled past, churning out diesel fumes. Logan paused under the awning of a Shoe Pavilion and opened the envelope. He’d won a one-week vacation to Cancún, all expenses paid. Unfucking-believable. He’d been to the Yucatán on his other trip. He and Bellamy had spent weeks living in a palapa village on a little bay near Tulum, selling pot to gringos who came to get drunk and laid. One of the best memories of his life was floating in the turquoise water with the sun blazing down on him. Everything was right there. There was nothing more to want. If he could go back to that—
But he couldn’t. It would violate his parole, big time.
As Logan stood staring down at the ticket with all the people passing, the sneakers and boots lining the windows of the Shoe Pavilion behind him, the gum stuck to the sidewalk, the grit flying up behind the cars, who should walk up but Pete Cortez? Pete, Petey, his buddy from way back. They’d gone to high school together, partied through their teens and into their twenties. For a while they’d even had a landscape business and really kicked ass, wiping up big bucks from the hoity-toity set down in Laguna Beach. Petey was a wizard with plants; he could turn anything into the fucking Garden of Eden. All the big shots wanted him. Logan threw back his head and laughed. God, it must have been ten, twelve years.
“Oh my God. Logan!” Petey cried, his face breaking into a grin. “Where you been, man? Where the hell you been?”
“Around,” Logan laughed. “I been around.”
“You living downtown?” Petey asked. “I am. Just a few blocks away.”
“Yeah, I’m staying at the Morningstar? You know it? What a trip! What do you know? We’re still homies!”
They embraced, pounding each other on the back. Up close, Petey smelled like beer. He looked a little scruffy, like he could use a shave, a wash for his jean jacket and Levi’s. But he was the same soft-spoken, sweet guy. Skinny as a snake and loose-strung; he moved like a puppet. He had spaniel eyes: deep brown, gentle.
“I’m heading up to The Fuse,” he said, pointing up the street. “Come join me. I’ll buy you a drink.”
Here we go, Logan thought. He stuck his hands in his pockets, looked down at the cigarette butts smashed on the sidewalk. I’m not drinking. I don’t drink. I quit drinking, he rehearsed to himself. He couldn’t decide which one to use. He looked at his watch. Five past noon. “What’s The Fuse?” he asked.
“Place up the street. Nothing special, just a good place to hang out. Cheap.” Petey had the nicest, warmest smile. “I’m a regular.” He grinned, clapping Logan on the shoulder.
Just because you go to a bar doesn’t mean you have to drink. Hadn’t Logan already proved that to himself? Drinking wasn’t his real problem, anyway. And how often do you run into an old buddy on a day you’re feeling blue? How often, for that matter, do you win an all-expenses-paid trip, even if you can’t use it?
“Vamonos,” Logan said.
The place was dark inside. It took your eyes a while to adjust enough to see the few guys at the bar, chatting with each other or with the bartender, who had sideburns that looped over his jaws, then curved up into a thatchy mustache. Pete was right, it was friendly. He ordered a Miller Draft. Logan got a Coke.
“This is my lucky day,” Logan said, crunching ice. “You’ll never guess what happened.”
He took the prize information out of the envelope and showed it to Petey. “Only trouble is, I can’t leave the country,” he said.
“How come?”
Pete drank like he was thirsty. He finished the first pint in a few gulps and ordered another.
“Little problem with the law,” Logan said with a grin. “I’m on probation.”
They talked awhile about Mexico, about what a fucking different world it was—closer to life, and closer to death. More real. Logan tried to explain what the water was like there on the Caribbean coast, how it was like that movie Liquid Sky. Brilliant and clear. They decided that Logan could go if he wanted to, that you didn’t need a visa to go to Mexico, that chances were he could be gone a week and no one would notice. That luck was on his side. It’d be worth it, man. On the other hand, if he didn’t want to go, he could probably sell the ticket. Might be good for five or six hundred, which wasn’t bad. Logan’s hands itched. There was something important he wanted to tell Petey, something big and deep, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. His legs felt twitchy. The hole in his chest fluttered like a tight muscle.
“I’ll have the same,” he said when Petey ordered his third beer.
It didn’t feel strange to drink it. It felt normal. Which just went to show you. It was him, after all. That’s who he was. Just like his dad and his grandfather before that. Like his brothers and all his friends. His confidence came back, the loose, easy feeling. He breathed a sigh of relief. How long had it been since he’d had someone to talk to? Petey was different than the losers Logan usually met. He had a brain, and he really cared. At two beers, Logan stopped. Which also went to show you. If you don’t want to fall, don’t go where it’s slippery. He was on shaky ground, he fully admitted it. Still, at two beers he climbed off the stool, gave Pete a last pat on the back, and walked out the door.
His mind was a pleasant blank as he walked back to the Morningstar. He felt calm. He noticed the parking valets who stood around the lot, trying to look tough in their white jackets as they flicked cigarette butts at each other’s feet. He noticed how quickly the clouds were moving across the sky, the white limo parked in front of the rescue mission a couple of blocks from his place, the waifish girl at the bus stop who lifted her eyes and smiled at him when he passed.
It started to pour right when he got to the Morningstar. The cleaning woman was vacuuming the lobby. He couldn’t stand the monotonous drone of the machine. He took his cap off and shook the rain from the shoulders of his jacket. The elevator was there, waiting, so he took it, but when the door slid closed, he panicked. It was the same fucking size as some of the cells he’d been in. He forced himself to stand still, not to hammer at the walls. The elevator inched its way to the third floor. He burst out, gasping for breath, when the door slid open. The radiators were blasting; the hall was like an oven.
TVs blared from behind closed doors: game shows, talk shows, soap operas. He strode past them. The hole in his chest was like an aching tooth, like a cavity when you eat something sweet. Someone was shouting in the room next to the bathroom. Jesus, it was hot in here! Like a goddamn sauna. Not that he’d ever been in one. You’d think they’d want to save energy. He turned the corner and headed down to the end of the hall, where his own room was. He stood outside his door and looked at the three innocent numbers, 3-1-2. All the lonely times he’d spent there came down on him, the nights he’d lain in the bed staring at the ceiling, the mornings he’d woken up and looked past his own feet to the open window and into the wide, empty Los Angeles sky. Trying, trying to stay on the straight and narrow. He didn’t put the key in the lock. He felt like he might never go inside that room again. Like someone else might be living there already.
Instead he tapped lightly on the door of the next room. Damon opened it immediately, as if he’d been waiting. Strung out. Logan wasn’t surprised: he knew Damon had been holed up in there for almost a week now. He hadn’t heard Damon’s weights clanking late at night, hadn’t heard the radio, hadn’t heard Damon going out to his job in the morning or coming back in the evening. Hell, Logan had even smelled the stuff coming through his open window.
“Hey,” Damon said.
Inside was the chemical smell of a human body cranked up high, the caustic reek of someone who had traded lowly animal pleasures like food and sex and sleep for the high-flying burn and whir of a mind vibrating to a different frequency
. Logan didn’t waste any time. Damon’s stuff was spread out right there on the table near the window.
“Got a bump?” Logan said.
Two hours later Logan sat on the foot of his bed facing the window with a hand over each kneecap. One thing had led to another. Didn’t it always? It was really fucking amazing. A chain reaction. First he’d won the contest, then he’d run into Pete. If he hadn’t run into Pete, he wouldn’t have had the beer. If he hadn’t had the beer, he wouldn’t have had the bump. If he hadn’t had the first bump, he wouldn’t have had the second. And then the third and fourth and fifth, then the crack, then on and on, and now here he was. And if the phone rang right this minute, if his PO called him in for a test, that was it. He’d be right back where he started: back inside with the smell of funk and BO, noise bouncing off the bare walls like rocks rattling in a tin can. He was a goddamn son-of-a-bitch asshole! A motherfucking asswipe idiot! Jesus, Jesus, Jesus! What the hell had he been thinking?
He tried to think of an excuse, a way out. He fought the urge to get under the bed, to duck and cover, put his hands over his ears. Don’t let his caseworker call now, don’t let him knock on the door. His mind raced: the dirty test, the look on the booking clerk’s face when they brought him back. With a twist of his guts, he realized how good he’d had it. Now he’d blown it all. Good-bye to his room at the Morningstar, coffee and the paper around the corner, $1.99 bowl of Chinese noodles at the Jade Kitchen. No more evening strolls on the gum-scarred sidewalks, aimless jaunts in the pinging Toyota, mornings sitting on the wall down at the boardwalk, nodding at women who jogged by in shorts. Salvetti and his skinny wife, they’d have to do without him. He wouldn’t see Jewell.
Slipstream Page 22
