Unraveling

by Owen Thomas

  But the Civic seemed to have a mind of its own. When I reached the I-10 I headed east instead of west, increasingly alert to the fact that my own purposelessness had been a ruse to keep my conscious mind distracted. I was escaping. This was a jailbreak, plain and simple. I was over the wall and making a run for it.

  By the time I reached Palm Springs, the sun was rolling off the table behind me and the approaching windshields were all blood orange smears against a deepening periwinkle sky. Hot air, carrying the smell of baked earth, whipped and popped through the car in soft torrents.

  A man in a red LaBaron pulled even and gave me a casual look, one motorist to another. His sunglasses were perched up on his forehead like a second pair of eyes. He vaguely resembled a young Stanley Tucci playing the part of a four-eyed alien bug. Our eyes met and the man looked away, obviously unimpressed, slowly accelerating. He was the one who looked like a star. I breathed in the anonymity.

  In another hour, the world was dark and the road was a thin line through the sparse and quiet desert. Traffic was steady, but nothing like it was in the city. Across the dirt meridian, in the west bound lanes, cars and trucks came at me like stray, luminous insects headed back to the hive. My cell phone rang. I looked at the screen and recognized Simon Hunter’s number. I sent it to voicemail. Twenty minutes later it rang again, this time from Blair. I sent it to voice mail. My friend Holly called. Voice mail.

  They knew where I was, I thought. It knew. It knew that the difference between could leave and leaving was less and less with every mile. The phone was like some sort of electronic radio collar that started beeping and trilling when I strayed too far. Somewhere on a computer screen in the heart of Hollywood a flashing red dot was getting closer and closer to the edge of the monitor, tripping alarms as it went. The phone rang. Blair again. Voicemail. I turned off the phone, dropping it on the passenger seat.

  The day caught up with me just outside the town of Blythe, California. I was tired and stiff from driving. The Civic was almost out of gas and I needed something to eat. I exited the freeway and found a filling station and then drove around the small, quiet streets lined with small, quiet houses until I found a strip mall with a revolving sign advertising a diner called Mojave Pete’s.

  I collapsed into the orange vinyl booth, exhausted and glad to sit down, as if the walk from the car in which I had been sitting for nearly four hours had been too much.

  The menu was a single laminated sheet the size of a road sign, selections on one side, a map of Blythe and its purlieus on the other. According to the map, the Arizona border was a stone’s throw away. Phoenix was another hundred miles or so, just off the edge of the menu, near the blue thimbles of fake cream. Much closer to the red dot that said “you are here” was a black box labeled “Ironwood State Prison” and another black box labeled “Chuckawalla Valley State Prison.”

  Mojave Pete had inset a photo of himself at the top of the menu beneath the logo. A bald, fleshy-lipped man, Pete held a plate of food in each hand and was smiling broadly in his black apron as if to say, look what I did! His left arm featured what looked suspiciously like jailhouse tattoos. I wondered whether Mojave Pete was an ex-con who opened a restaurant in Blythe because he lost all sense of himself whenever he traveled too far from one of those shadowy black boxes on the menu.

  The waitress stopped by with some water. I ordered the Chuckawalla Waffles, an orange juice and a side of hash browns. Breakfast for dinner. My father, never a man for greasy spoon diners or waffles or any breakfast food served past noon, would have been appalled.

  When I was done, I sat and stared out the window at the revolving sign stirring the crepuscular air of Blythe, California, land of prisons. I felt stupid about my entire life, including the senseless four-hour trek away from the place that awaited my return. I tried to imagine going back. I could not. I also tried to imagine pushing forward another hundred miles to Phoenix. I could not. Both options seemed pointless and physically unrealistic. When the check came, I asked about places to stay. She brought back a menu and flipped it over to the map side. She traced the streets with a chipped silver nail to a place called Blythe Landing.

  “You look familiar,” she said, studying me.

  “One of those faces,” I said.

  That night I lay in the dark hotel room, exhausted but unable to sleep, listening to the air conditioner cycle on and off. It was barely eleven o’clock, which was significantly ahead of my normal routine. And yet what I wanted more than anything else was to be unconscious. I was tired of the sound of my own thoughts. I wanted the refuge of dreamless sleep. I craved silence. I clutched for stillness.

  But stillness was wriggling and covered in oil. I fretted over everything in sequence. My life played over and over behind my eyelids on a relentless loop. Relief, of a dubious sort, came only when I projected myself into the lives of others, real and imagined. I wondered, for instance, what Elena Ivanova must have felt like, alone, on her ship floating back to earth, Lieutenant Miller behind her under the Rhuton-Baker dome, watching her lights growing smaller, dimming against the night. I wondered if she had wanted to turn around; to just go back and forgive him and start again. I thought of Peg Entwistle and wondered what had gone through her head, standing atop the H, looking down over the lights of little Hollywoodland, town of tinsel. I wondered if she had considered turning around, climbing back down. Forgiving herself. Going home.

  The room bordered a small courtyard. Voices – male and female – seeped in through the windows. The voices hardened into actual words every ten minutes or so when the air conditioner stopped and I could hear better.

  …said you did love me.

  I did. I mean…

  And now you don’t? Now it’s her? Your courier for fuck’s sake?

  No. It just kind of happened.

  And we plan this whole trip, and…

  I know. But I wanted to tell you…you know…in a different environment.

  That doesn’t make any sense to me. I’m sorry. I t just doesn’t.

  I know.

  I don’t even know who you are any more, Kyle.

  I know. I don’t either.

  Never before had air conditioning been such a blessing.

  But the soap opera in the courtyard was not the problem. It was the voices in my own head that were keeping me awake.

  I got out of bed, put my clothes back on and made my way back through the hotel to the bar. The place was empty and obviously in the process of closing. A hanging television was off and no one was behind the bar. I pulled up a stool anyway.

  “Sorry, we’re closing.”

  A slim man in khakis and t-shirt with a surfboard image on the shoulder materialized from behind me and stepped behind the bar. He was carrying a green plastic rack of glasses. A purplish port-wine stain claimed much of the left side of his neck as it dropped into the collar of his shirt.

  “I was afraid of that,” I said, standing again.

  He gave me something like a smile. A hooked scar bisected his mouth. Smiling made it move under his nose like a needle. His eyelashes belonged on a giraffe.

  “You staying here at the hotel?”

  I nodded.

  “Tell you what; I have to put these glasses away. That’s probably time enough for one drink. We can pretend you’re a holdover just finishing up.”

  I knew my celebrity was working for me and that anyone else would probably have been shown the door. But I did not protest. He would get to chat up a starlet in mid-sex scandal and I would get my drink. That was the bargain.

  “Thanks. That’s great,” I said. “Bourbon, water back.”

  “Beer and wine only. Sorry.”

  “Oh. Well. Then pour me something red and chewy.”

  He did. I drank and watched him put away the glasses and clean the bar with a white rag that he kept turning over and pushing over the wood in sweeping circular motions. He had a very relaxed way about him. To my surprise, he did not linger or fawn. It was as though the C
ivic had the power to render me anonymous even when I was not actually in the car. I was glad I had been wrong.

  “Always this quiet around here?” I asked stupidly. He looked up, pretending to think. Then he flipped the rag over and resumed polishing the glossy wood.

  “You know, I think we might have more people when we’re actually open.”

  He laughed and I echoed.

  “Great wine,” I said, my blooming depression making me sound sarcastic.

  “Yeah? You wanted red and chewy. I aim to please.”

  “Not exactly a connoisseur I guess.”

  “Bah. You know what you like. That should be enough. I’m Eric, by the way.” He gave me a nod from the far end of the bar and kept polishing.

  “I’m…” I hesitated, not really wanting to give up the anonymity. Not wanting to heave all of my oh-so-current celebrity baggage up onto the bar. I contemplated making up a name. Elena, I wanted to say. My name is Elena. I imagined the hate in Angus’ eyes upon learning that I had adopted the name of his character for my own casual purposes; whenever I was in a jam in a strange bar.

  “I know who you are,” Eric said reading my face. “That’s okay. In here you’re just red and chewy.”

  I felt myself blushing. If he knew who I was then I had to assume he knew everything. On cue, Zack’s directorial debut started its loop again in my head. It did not matter that Eric the bartender had not seen it. I had seen it. My brain refused to recognize the distinction. I had seen it. Everyone had seen it. Eric the bartender had seen it. He watched me cringe.

  “Chewy for short,” he said, obviously trying to encourage some humor.

  “You calling me a Wookie?”

  “Hey, Wookies know their wines.”

  “Not me,” I said, trying to shake myself free. “My father knows his wines.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  I looked up, confused.

  “No. My father knows his wines.”

  Eric nodded. “Yes, I know. Your dad’s a Chardonnay guy though. More white and dry than red and chewy.”

  “You mean you…”

  Eric nodded.

  “… know…”

  Eric nodded.

  “… my father.”

  Eric nodded.

  “Hollis.”

  Eric nodded. Then he stopped. “Yeah. Hollis. From Ohio.”

  All I could do was stare at him. “How is that possible?”

  “He was here. Sat right where you’re sitting.”

  “No way.”

  “Yeah. Maybe a year and a half ago. That man can tell some stories.”

  Incredulity would not let go.

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “No. Seriously.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Sixties. White hair. Big guy. Looked like he could lift some weights in his day.”

  “Swimming…” I said in a daze.

  “Swimming, yeah that’s right. And now he’s big into fishing and watching Buckeye football. I remember him. He was a hoot. He warmed that stool all night.”

  “This… is so… weird. Really?”

  “Really.”

  “He was here.”

  “Yes.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Drinking and telling stories.”

  “Why… I mean…”

  “I don’t know. And if I did I wouldn’t tell you. Bartender’s oath. I could get disbarred.”

  “Funny. What stories?”

  “Nope.” He held up a hand.

  “You’re serious.”

  “Bartender’s oath.”

  “How did you know he was my dad?”

  “Nope.”

  “Aw come on …”

  Eric contemplated the rag in his hand, weighing mixology ethics.

  “He just told me. He was a little…”

  “Drunk.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “No. You didn’t. But he was, wasn’t he?”

  Eric ignored the question. He went back to polishing the brass fittings.

  “He wanted me to guess who his daughter was. I had no idea and he told me. He called you Matilda at first so I still had no idea. Eventually he just told me. Didn’t strike me as a particularly big deal.”

  “What else?”

  “No, no.”

  “Eric…”

  “You know how many conversations I have on any given night? A year from now I will remember that I met Tilly Johns and someone will ask me what we talked about and I will tell them fuck if I remember, something about her dad. Same with your dad; I don’t remember what he said. I just remember thinking, okay, so this is Tilly John’s dad. And then I moved on.”

  “What the hell was he doing in California?”

  “Having a drink. That’s all I remember. Is he still alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “So finish your wine and go call him and ask him.” He looked up quickly towards the door behind me. “Don’t turn around,” he said, sotto voce, then spoke up in a near shout. “Sorry, we’re closed. Yeah, sorry. Eleven. Thanks guys.”

  Eric tossed the rag beneath the bar and came down to where I was sitting. I looked over my shoulder, but whoever it was had gone.

  “Three guys,” he said. “Road-tripping. Too pale for Arizona. I’m guessing Kansas. Montana maybe. They all had that Hollywood tourist, movie star mania look in their eyes. It wouldn’t have been pretty.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Okay, Chewy. Time to go.”

  “Just like that? You’re kicking me out?”

  “No, not just like that. You owe me six-fifty. Then I’m kicking you out. I’m technically breaking the law by serving you after we’re closed.”

  “But I’m famous. I’m a star.”

  He grinned.

  “You know, you celebrity types are all the same. Take up a seat all night chewing your wine and yammering on about your family without any regard.”

  I tried to laugh and drained the glass and gave him a twenty.

  “Keep it,” I said. “Thanks for the drink.”

  “Come back any time we’re actually open for business.”

  I swiveled and stepped down from the stool and shuffled off to the door.

  “Tilly,” he said.

  I turned.

  “It’ll pass.”

  I looked at him for a couple of seconds, processing. I nodded.

  “And say hello to your dad for me.”

  * * *

  Back in my room, the air conditioner had been carrying on without me, as had the couple in the courtyard.

  What is it you want me to say? Kyle? Look at me. What exactly is it you want me to say? Huh?

  I want you to accept that I’m sorry. We don’t have to go the way this is going. Okay? We don’t. We can turn around. We can go the other way.

  That takes a lot, Kyle.

  No. It just takes forgiveness. That’s all.

  I did not bother turning on the light. I locked the door, stripped off my clothes and climbed back into bed. The excursion had been a net loss. For twenty dollars I was no closer to sleeping and I had picked up yet another incessant loop of thought: a year or more earlier, my father had perched upon the same barstool and spoken of me to the same bartender. The coincidence was astounding enough, especially given the wholly random and arbitrary course of events by which I had been delivered to that barstool.

  But more astounding and difficult to process, was the notion that my father speaks of me to others; that he might actually want to claim me unapologetically to strangers – bartenders in Blythe – people to whom he was free to say anything or nothing; people who would easily believe that his daughter’s name was Nancy, and that she had two beautiful kids and a doctorate in Buckeye football.

  I fumbled around for the remote on the nightstand, igniting the sideways volcano of blue electrons. Wolf Blitzer was splitting a screen with Hilary Clinton’s campaign manager.

  …don’t think you can really dis
count the importance of experience. Look, we’ve got two wars in full swing and a terrorist…

  I kept moving. Emeril Lagasse was up to his wrists.

  …onion, pepper, celery. Get that going for three minutes. Garlic. Tomatoes. These are bay leaves. Look at those beauties. Worcestershire. Hot sauces, oh my gracious. You want real Cajun jambalaya then you want…

  I moved on, killing the sound, cycling through the channels and numbly watching the world in pantomime as the room around me flashed and burned. It was the CNN ticker that caught my attention.

  … Entertainment Headline News… Angelina Jolie took lessons in Old English for her new movie Beowulf… Zack West arrested in West Hollywood on drug charges… Mel Gibson tells…

  I sat up and turned the sound back on. Wolf Blitzer was still talking about the campaign. I muted him again and then remembered the phone I had silenced in disgust on the drive. I bolted out of bed for my purse. When the phone powered up, the screen glowed in my hand. I had five voicemail messages.

  Tills, this is Simon. Listen, call me when you get this. I’ve got news you are going to want to hear. End of message. To save this message, press…

  Tillyjohn. This is Blair. Listen. God knows I am an asshole sometimes. I don’t know what got into me this afternoon. It was a tense day and I took it out on you and I feel like a real shit. I’m not surprised you’re dodging this call. I deserve the cold shoulder. I mean that. But when your shoulder warms up a bit I want to apologize and I want to talk about how we can make this whole … eh … video thing better. Okay? You know I love you. I want to help. And I am sorry. Call me. End of message. To save…

  Tilly, hey this is Holly. Chad just called. Some heavy shit is going down with Zack. You probably know. Call me. Ciao. End of message. To sa…

  Tills. Simon. Haven’t heard from you so I’m calling back. Listen, Zack has been arrested. Possession. And not just a little bit. Thought you should know. Call me. End of Messages. To…