South on Highland: A Novel

by Liana Maeby

  “Play it by ear?” I said as I slipped out of my clothes and into one of Johnny’s T-shirts. The blanket we were using was a bright, coarse tapestry that made me feel like we were dust mites living beneath a floor mat—an apt metaphor if I’d ever heard one. I climbed under the covering and pulled it up around Johnny. He draped his leg over mine. His hand meandered under my shirt and softly caressed me all the way up my torso before coming to rest atop my collarbone.

  I turned to kiss him, but he was out cold. So I flipped back around to face the other direction and counted sheep. When I ran out of those, I counted alpacas, and llamas, and then I counted little faux Indians beneath a cocaine sky.

  The next morning was really the next afternoon, and once again, my head felt like it was being attacked by an ogre wielding a dull hammer. I wrapped myself in a flannel shirt and headed outside. In a corner of the camp was a small generator, and attached to that was a series of extension cords, one of which fed life into a black plug that trailed up to a Keurig individual-cup coffeemaker. I’d discovered the machine my second week in the desert, and instantly all that outdoors became a little more homey. I’d been making trips to visit the appliance every afternoon and evening, throwing a couple of dollars into the box of coffee canisters to help with whatever magical system these folks had for getting their provisions out to the desert.

  On the first day of the coffee, I managed to track down a pair of Styrofoam cups, riddled with teeth marks and starting to corrode, and I’d been rinsing them out for reuse since. I filled each with dark roasted liquid, took a long, heavenly pull from one of the cups, and wandered out to deliver the other to Johnny, who was sure to be in need of this particular kind of afternoon fix. Johnny wasn’t in the trailer or hiding from the sun in any of his usual places, so I sat down at the big table in the middle of the camp to wait for him to reappear. I pulled out my notebook and jotted down a few of my recent thoughts and impressions. (Dear Diary, the desert’s weird! It’s both hot and cold!) The notes I’d taken since coming to the camp were rather underwhelming, and the feeling that I needed to delve a bit further into this whole research thing was beginning to gnaw at me like it was the jackrabbit I secretly feared would find his way to that precious Keurig extension cord.

  I heard a trio of high-pitched giggles coming from a nearby tent. Acting on a pretty plausible hunch, I walked over and peered through the gauzy curtains. Sure enough, Johnny was inside. He was reclining in a chair while a young girl shaved his face with a straight razor. Another barely legal wisp was cleaning his boots with wax and a cloth while a third hovered around simply tittering at everything Johnny said. I stood at the entrance for long enough that I couldn’t just slip away, and the group took notice of me.

  “Leila, hey,” Johnny said, beckoning me inside. The girls looked at me nervously and faded into the background.

  “Brought you coffee,” I said, stepping through the curtains and handing Johnny his cup from an arm’s length.

  “Thanks, kiddo,” he said, grinning in that lazy way of his. His green eyes were calm and soft and unconcerned. I guess another word for that is “high.”

  “Sure,” was all I replied.

  Every once in a while, I’ll get a jolt of something nonsynthetic and very raw running through my body, which reminds me I’m still something of a human being. I guess this is what’s referred to as “emotional pain” by the normal, nonvampiric person. Watching those girls flit around Johnny, I suddenly realized that for all our ostensible coupling, he and I hadn’t even slept together. One of us was always too fucked-up to make something as insignificant as having sex a priority; our romantic overtures were tiny gestures offered in between a sniff and a shot, a cough and a nod.

  Johnny took a sip of his coffee. “What are you up to?” he asked, running a finger against his freshly shaved chin, which still had dollops of Barbasol all over it.

  I suddenly felt the need to crawl even deeper into the invisible shell I’d built up around myself, out of sarcasm and quips and a little bit of Bubble Wrap. “I don’t know,” I said, pretending nonchalance. “I guess I should try to get some work done. That is why we’re here, after all.”

  I felt a couple of bubbles in my protective shell pop.

  “Cool,” Johnny said, sounding totally unfazed as the skinny barberess wiped shaving cream from his face with a wet towel. “See you around dinnertime?”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  I turned and bolted through the front curtain. I reached into my pocket and fingered an Adderall, sending it on an express ride through my digestive system via a gulp of coffee. Outside in the flat desert air, I tossed my notebook from one hand to the other, my mind a vibrating muddle of stuff I didn’t want to think about. I swilled the rest of my coffee, crumbled the Styrofoam cup, and made my way to Kennedy’s cave.

  Kennedy was sitting outside on a stool with a stoned fella in shorts and white boat shoes, testing high-end headphones. With a giant noise-canceling pair plugged into an iPod, Kennedy was nodding his head in approval. When he saw me coming, he sent the guy on some errand and beckoned me inside. I took my seat on the driftwood couch and Kennedy fetched me another jar of that antioxidizing moonshine. “Back for more interrogation?”

  “Yeah,” I said, my leg tapping violently against the side of the couch. “I guess I need to hound you until more of my research is done.”

  We sat in silence for a moment.

  “I don’t think that’s why you’re here,” Kennedy eventually said, fixing his amber eyes on my irises. He didn’t blink, and I looked in vain for evidence of a bug or a fossil buried inside. “I think you’re here because you want something from me.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I want to talk to you about my project some more.”

  “Nah.” Kennedy crossed one foot over the other. “You’re upset about something, and you think being around me will fix it.”

  I scoffed and shook my head, alarmed.

  “So. Do you feel better?” Kennedy asked.

  “No,” I said. But I did.

  And there it is, I realized, biting my tongue to keep myself from shouting at Kennedy. The key to my story. I had it figured out, the reason two dozen kids had followed this long-haired twentysomething away from the comfort of their parental-funded apartments and VIP after-parties, past outlet malls and casinos, and straight into this land of dust and cacti. It wasn’t that Kennedy had some unique vision or special insight into our souls; it was that everything he said was issued without fear of consequence, and every action he took was done without any sense that the principle of remorse even exists. The confidence, the lack of second-guessing, was utterly irresistible—and I found myself wanting to ask Kennedy to explain my own life to me. In other words, what I’d learned is that everyone loves a sociopath.

  The instant my mind latched on to this idea, I had to test it. I had to see if Kennedy was really so blasé and indifferent to consequence. And for that, I had to make him lose control. The two of us sat in silence, our conversation now a staring contest. His eyes burned into my own, and the words “Do something unexpected” ran through my head. Without looking away, I settled on my default method for trying to gain the power in a situation: I took off my shirt.

  Kennedy didn’t flinch, nor did he smile. I unlatched my bra and dropped it on the ground. Kennedy cracked his jaw and continued looking directly into my eyes. I got up. I walked over to the handcrafted armchair Kennedy was so arrogantly sitting in with his legs spread akimbo and his hands folded behind his head. I glanced over to the sheets that served as a front door and made sure they were pulled shut. I got down on my knees. I looked into Kennedy’s eyes, but there was no new reaction at all, just that same honeyed glow that radiated a bemused impenetrability. It was like he could care less where I went with this thing. I was losing the contest, but I couldn’t stop. I undid Kennedy’s belt and opened the buttons of his dark blue jeans, and tried to swallow a way out of my own head.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 
INT. AIRSTREAM TRAILER - DAY

  Leila inhales a line of Adderall.

  The place is a total mess. Leila’s sitting on the floor with her notebooks spread out in front of her.

  LEILA

  (to herself)

  Okay, idiot. You are going to write now. Today is the day you get something done. You’re not going to be useless anymore. No way, nohow.

  She snorts another line.

  LEILA

  That was a terrible pep talk.

  Leila flips through her notes. She shakes her head.

  ANGLE ON: A note that just reads “Keurig Coffeemaker!”

  She flips to another page.

  LEILA

  (reading)

  “His eyes had a honeyed glow that radiated a bemused impenetrability?” What am I supposed to do with that?

  She snorts another line. Looks around. She gets up and starts cleaning the trailer, folding shirts and gathering discarded underwear.

  She brings a black T-shirt over to Johnny’s bag. A little black toiletry case falls out. Leila opens it, and inside are a needle and a wad of black tar heroin.

  Leila sits back down. She gets up. She walks over to the drugs and hovers.

  LEILA

  Fuck it.

  Leila goes to the cabinet and pulls out a spoon. She winds a belt around her arm. She unravels a cigarette and pulls out the cotton filter.

  She pours water into the spoon and adds some heroin. She heats the mixture and sucks it up into the needle. She tries to find a vein but misses.

  LEILA

  Damn it!

  She tries again. Nothing.

  LEILA

  Come on, come on.

  One more time. It hits.

  LEILA

  Oh!

  Leila’s eyes glaze over, and she slowly slumps backward onto the floor.

  SMASH CUT TO:

  EXT. FIELD – DAY

  A family reunion in the enormous backyard of a country home. Two dozen adults and children hover around picnic tables.

  LITTLE LEILA (5) sits on a swing, pumping back and forth. She zooms through the air and giggles.

  ANGLE ON: A younger JIM and BETH, who watch their daughter on the swing.

  BETH

  Does that look sturdy enough to you?

  Leila waves.

  LITTLE LEILA

  I want to go higher!

  The swing set starts to creak and groan.

  BETH

  (yelling out)

  Leila, be careful!

  LITTLE LEILA

  Higher, higher, higher!

  BETH

  Jim, do something. She’s going to get hurt.

  JIM

  It’ll hold. She needs to learn her limits.

  Beth grimaces. Leila laughs wildly as she continues to pump.

  LEILA

  Higher, higher!

  Suddenly, the swing gives one big creak and snaps. We hear joyous, maniacal laughter, and then we see black.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Jesus Christ!”

  Johnny’s voice jolted me awake, alarming me with its volume.

  “Fucking goddamn it, what the fuck!”

  Normally soft and tempered, his words felt like they were assaulting me from the inside of my own skull.

  “Please . . . just come on.”

  The first thing I felt was cold, and then wet, and then really, really confused. I was confused as to why I was on my back being pelted with icicles as they broke through the holes of the showerhead. Confused as to why I was wearing all my clothes. Confused as to why I was so fucking confused. The mummified expression on Johnny’s face didn’t provide any answers; he managed to look both completely terrified and utterly zoned-out at the same time.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Johnny leaned over and touched my face. “Oh my God, you’re alive.”

  I coughed.

  “I fucking thought . . . Jesus.”

  I coughed and coughed. Johnny turned off the shower, and I shook the water off my face.

  “Hi.”

  “Are you okay? Do you feel okay?” Johnny held my hands in his own.

  “I’m wet,” I said. “And cold. What are we doing?”

  “You fucking OD’d.”

  “What?”

  “I came in, and you were lying on the floor, turning blue.”

  I took notice of the invisible anvil that was crushing my head against an invisible boulder.

  “Christ, I thought you were dead,” Johnny said softly, with that bewildered-zombie expression still clouding his face.

  I was shivering like crazy. Johnny helped me out of the shower and sat me down on the bed. He dried me off with a towel and removed my wet clothes, pulling my tank top off my skeletal frame and wrestling my soaked jeans to the ground. He rubbed the towel over my shoulders and legs while I shook. He dried my hair gently.

  I was getting warmer, but my face still felt wet. I wiped it on the towel, but a second later, it was damp all over again. It took a minute, but I realized what was going on. I was crying. Sobbing, in fact. Tears streamed down my cheeks, and I was shaking back and forth inside Johnny’s thin arms.

  “Oh no. No, no, no.”

  “Shhh,” he said. “Leila, it’s okay. You’re okay now.”

  I gasped for air. “Am I?”

  I pulled back and looked Johnny in the eye. “Yeah, you are,” he said. “But you can’t ever do that again, okay? By yourself? This shit is dangerous. I told you that.”

  I nodded. I apologized, an understatement, for ten thousand reasons. Johnny wiped the salty eye juice from my face. I was naked in his arms—for the first time ever, I realized. Johnny kissed me on the lips. I dug my fingernails into his skin and pulled him toward me. My head pounded, but I didn’t want to have to think about anything at all. I meshed my face with his, and our tongues grappled, forcing everything else into the background. Johnny fell toward me, pushing me onto the mattress. He ran his lips down the length of my neck while his hands sought out any soft parts that were still on my body. I pulled at Johnny’s shirt, and he expelled it, pressing his chest up against mine. Next came his pants, and then it was sharp hip bones against sharp hip bones, a fencing match in a Murphy-bed arena. I felt his teeth gnaw at my sternum and his hands come up around my throat. I dug my nails into the parchment skin of his back until I drew blood, and I felt him bury a gasp in the bones of my chest.

  The sex I finally had with Johnny was rough and ravenous, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open and I fell asleep midway through it. When I awoke sometime later in the pitch black of night, Johnny was in the corner of the trailer holding a lighter beneath a metal spoon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The band was called Say Tin!, and they were Johnny’s and my saving grace. Or at least they were the reason we were able to hang around the desert for a bit longer without having to make a sick, sweaty drive back to Los Angeles. Because while moonshine and psychedelics reigned at Camp Kennedy, the boys of Say Tin! were good-and-proper junkies. And they were smart enough to realize that if they were to bring along a little bit of extra dope, they could probably unload it for a premium out in the land of negative civilization.

  I met the quartet of black-clad musicians while I was having a cigarette for breakfast and watching the sun go down. They were unloading their gear out of a black Astro van and stumbling around, getting their bearings, behind matching pairs of Ray-Bans. Rex, the not-so-bright high-school friend of Kennedy’s, was trying somewhat futilely to manage the situation and make sure the equipment found its way back behind the stage instead of being dumped in the center of the camp, where it might end up covered in any manner of beverage, bodily fluid, or Silly String. The boys were casually ignoring Rex’s suggestions, in favor of activities such as yawning, spitting, and taking turns peeing on a cactus.

  I smiled at them through the haze of the opiates in my head and offered cigarettes around, a gesture that basically made us blood relatives without having to s
o much as introduce ourselves. I swiftly sussed out that they needed a place to get high, and invited them to my trailer, leaving Rex to handle moving the equipment with the sheer force of his nervous energy.

  If a single nod between me and the boys was enough to solidify a bond, then a mere glance established Johnny as their soul mate. Five minutes after introductions were made, Johnny and the Say Tin! kids were swapping tales of debauchery in Brooklyn, waxing nostalgic about Lower East Side bars, and singing Ramones riffs in a round.

  “Oh, 151? On Rivington?” Curtis, the band’s charcoal-voiced singer, asked. “Yeah, I’ve had sex in that bathroom.”

  Almost in unison, the rest of the boys nodded, implying that they’d had sex in that bathroom as well. I was struck by a twinge of jealousy. Were these guys outdoing me? Were they more dedicated to cultivating the perfect image of waifish depravity than yours truly, the patron saint of tousled hair and razor-sharp rib cages? I didn’t have much time to dwell on this possibility, however, because soon enough, cash was exchanged, and Johnny and I had ourselves a mountain of fresh dope—which we swiftly shot straight into our veins.

  After an hour spent lying on the bed, running our hands absently across one another’s bodies and drifting in and out of being anything at all, Johnny and I walked out to see Say Tin! play for the camp. The band’s bizarre logo, a minimalist goat’s head, was emblazoned on their kick drum, and a crude pentagram made of twigs was burning on the ground below the stage. I watched them play their dark, dense garage rock with Johnny’s thermal shirt wrapped around my ever-shrinking body and his hand clutching my waist. I made eye contact with Kennedy, who stood alone on the other side of the stage, but quickly looked away from his sorcerer’s eyes.

  With jealousy mingling with opiates in my bloodstream, I made the decision right then and there that the rest of the night would be a motherfucking party. Johnny and the boys missed their precious Lower East Side dive bars? Well, we had an Airstream trailer and twenty miles of earth to destroy. We had beautiful girls and expensive drugs and not a goddamn person in sight to tell us no.