The Edge

by Jamie Collinson

He filled the plastic cup to the exact line, and placed it on a little sill above the sink.

  Back at the cramped examination space, the woman swabbed his throat and drew his blood, cooing at him encouragingly as she did so.

  ‘So you showing negative on the swabs,’ she said. ‘But you gotta wait seven days for the blood and the urine panels to come back, to know you in the clear. OK, sweetie?’

  Adam nodded gratefully. ‘Is that it then?’

  ‘Sure is,’ she giggled. ‘What else you expecting?’

  Back in London, there’d always been a painful penile swab. Adam remembered the first visit he’d ever made to a clinic, when he’d been twenty-one. An Indian doctor below him, struggling to insert the long plastic rod into his penis. Speaking calmly and philosophically in his musical lilt, the doctor had looked up, and told him that if he kept wriggling, it meant they were in conflict, and that was no good for either of them. There was, Adam reflected as he left the cubicle, a very fine line between experimentalism and degeneracy.

  Back in the Los Angeles waiting room, the couple who’d been giggling and touching were now sitting quite still, in silence, their faces drained of colour. As Adam passed them, he saw the harsh fluorescent light from the ceiling reflect from the tracks of tears on the woman’s face.

  My God, he thought. What horrors must unfold in here. What sentences passed down.

  Sorrow for the couple was tempered by the elation that always accompanied leaving these places, which flushed through him as he stepped back out into the corridor. Clean, he thought. Clean clean clean! Why was it that he always found himself thanking something, in these situations? Why was he, unlike other men – unlike the father who had raised him – so weak?

  Still. He could always improve. For the second time that day, relief spread warmly within him as he walked down the corridor to the elevators and pressed the button.

  After a moment, the elevator pinged. Its doors opened to reveal, wearing scuffed Dr Marten shoes and a white lab coat, hair tied back and a serious expression on her face, Erica.

  ‘Adam,’ she said, frowning.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, his voice breaking midway through the word.

  Erica glanced over his shoulder, where a sign told disembarking elevator users that the Sexual Health Center was a short way down the corridor to their left.

  Erica moved a hand to the elevator door to prevent it closing, her frown deepening.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she said.

  ‘I was getting a check-up,’ he said.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Well, that’s… sort of responsible of you, I guess?’

  He couldn’t bring himself to take her up on the opportunity to lie. The part of his brain that had once supplied these so easily was now, apparently, perished.

  Her clever eyes were flashing, scanning his face, where he knew guilt was written.

  ‘… I see,’ she said. ‘Something happened in Denver.’

  Adam made no reply. His face felt tired, lifeless.

  For a moment, it seemed that Erica might simply accept the news and move on. Her eyes had lost their focus on him as she processed this new knowledge. When they refocused, flashing with something else now, he saw how wrong he was.

  ‘Stay the fuck away from me,’ she said, very calmly.

  She stepped back into the lift, jabbed a button, and was gone.

  30

  Can you do a pint tonight? Really need one.

  There was only Craig left.

  Tonight’s not good, came the reply. Tomorrow?

  Really need to see you tonight, Adam said. Having a very bad day.

  Who cared if he sounded desperate – that was exactly what he was.

  The little flow of ellipses told him that Craig was typing, typing, still typing. Typing and deleting, perhaps. Presumably thinking, deciding. Fuck you, Adam thought.

  OK, the reply, unjustified by the typing, read when it came. Early doors though like 5. Where?

  Great, Adam replied. Long Shot.

  The sooner the better. He was already at home, had been since the hospital. The blind was drawn, holding back the blistering LA sun, preventing Stef from knowing if he was home.

  It was four o’clock already. If he walked up the hill to Echo Park, he’d need to leave soon anyway. Time, time. Why, like the song said, did it go by so slowly? How was it to be filled? He poured himself a third, large glass of white wine and slumped back onto the couch.

  He wasn’t home, really. This wasn’t home. The searing light of Los Angeles was alien and unreal, a world away from the cloud-stained skies and cool air of England. Hadn’t he been more alive in England, with the spray of rain and grim reality in his face? He’d exiled himself on a different planet, one on which the relentless UV sun would eventually scorch everything into nothing.

  Perhaps it was time to go home, after all. Otherwise, he’d become one of those expat Brits in LA, with a leathery face and a bad, loud shirt with a pointy collar. There’d be a row of vitamin tubs on his office shelf. He’d develop an awful transatlantic accent, his Ts crumbling to Ds. He’d become someone who habitually asked for the exciting bits to be excised from meals in restaurants.

  He drank the wine quickly. Sure enough, it was time to leave.

  He walked up Sunset slowly for once. Not really out of choice, but because a stocky woman was pushing a child’s stroller ahead of him, bearing a car tyre, an unopened Amazon box and a half-unfurled street poster advertising a sneaker brand. It was very difficult to get past her. As she walked, she repeated, over and over: ‘I pray for my little girl to die, Lord. I pray that she is raped, and thrown into a park or a lake. My little girl is not needed. By the power of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. I pray for my little girl to die, Lord.’

  Finally, atop the hill and able to speed up, Adam passed her. At the bar’s door, a heavily tattooed, bearded young man with skinny black jeans and a chain wallet was opening up as Adam arrived.

  ‘What’s up,’ the barman said, ushering him in and heading behind the bar.

  The room was pleasingly dim and smelled of stale beer. Adam took a seat at the bar, trying not to look too miserable. The last thing he wanted was to be asked if he was OK.

  ‘What’s your poison?’ the barman asked him.

  ‘Hmm,’ Adam said, considering. No more wine. Potency was what was needed now. ‘Tequila soda, please,’ he said.

  ‘Coming right up.’

  As the barman poured the drink, Adam glanced over at the bright portal of the open door. No sign of Craig. Just the wide expanse of Sunset Boulevard, a steep bank of litter-flecked, scrubby hillside beyond it. The finally mellowing, softening sunshine. An endless procession of cars and motorbikes scudding by.

  ‘Here you go, man,’ the barman said, and placed a brimming drink in front of him.

  ‘Thank you,’ Adam said, and knocked half of it back.

  It was 5.20 before Craig arrived, and Adam had ordered a second drink. The barman, happy to have a customer, had appeared encouraging.

  Craig cocked his head, making a sad face and extending his arms.

  ‘Ah, come ’ere you,’ he said, advancing across the bar in a pristine white, V-necked t-shirt, skinny jeans and boots. He threw his arms around Adam and gave him a bear hug.

  ‘How you doing?’ he asked, stepping back.

  Adam grunted, embarrassed.

  ‘I’ll have what he’s having,’ Craig told the barman. ‘Even if it doesn’t seem to have cheered the silly fucker up.’

  When the drink was served, they moved through to the back room, an even darker space in which wide, leather-covered benches surrounded a scuffed pool table. After the scorching light outside, the darkness felt velvety and luxurious.

  ‘Thanks for coming out,’ Adam said. ‘What have you got on later?’

  ‘A date, as it goes. And a show I need to be at. A combination of the two.’

  ‘Work and pleasure,’ Adam said. ‘You’re not supposed to mix them, are you? But e
veryone does here.’

  Craig frowned gruesomely. ‘Deary fucking dear,’ he said. ‘Not this nonsense again. What on earth’s got into you?’

  Adam told him.

  ‘Shit,’ Craig said when he’d finished, chuckling. ‘That sucks. Then again, look on the bright side. Now you get into all sorts of new complications with new women.’

  ‘I’m tired of complications,’ Adam moaned.

  ‘What about your friend Isa?’ Craig said, watching Adam. ‘She seems nice.’

  ‘Oh, she contacted you then?’

  ‘Yeah, I sorted her out a number.’

  ‘She’s a colleague,’ Adam said. ‘And anyway, we’ve got history.’

  ‘Jeez,’ Craig said. ‘You need to stop fucking banging everyone.’

  ‘Ha!’ Adam said. ‘Says you! You literally bang everyone!’

  ‘Yes, but I’m good at it. You’re not. In fact you’re really shit at it.’ He shook his head as though truly disappointed.

  ‘We need more drinks,’ Adam said, standing. ‘Stay here.’

  Craig glanced at his Apple watch.

  ‘When is your date?’ Adam asked him.

  ‘Sevenish.’

  ‘Wanker.’

  ‘Cunt.’

  The barman was seated in front of the bar now, staring at his phone. He got up and moved back around it as Adam approached.

  ‘Two more of the same, please,’ Adam said.

  ‘Well, alright. You guys OK back there?’

  ‘Excellent, thanks.’

  The barman began work on the drinks. ‘You guys are hittin’ ’em up,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right.’ Adam flashed a grin, and carried the fresh drinks back to the table.

  ‘Who’s the date with?’ he asked Craig.

  ‘No one you know.’

  ‘Fucking hell,’ Adam said, sipping his drink.

  ‘Hand,’ Craig said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Put out your hand.’

  Adam did so. Craig placed a wrap in it, throwing a casual glance to the pool room’s entrance.

  ‘That’ll cheer you up. But go easy, it’s for my date.’

  ‘Your business date.’

  ‘Oh, fuck off. Who was it said that the bogs are the new boardroom? Go smash one before I fucking take it back.’

  ‘Maybe I’m not in the right mood.’

  Craig pulled another face.

  ‘What happened last time, by the way?’ Adam asked him. ‘Was it all OK with Joel and your boss? About the drugs?’

  Something flickered across Craig’s features. ‘Ah yeah, all fine in the end.’

  ‘He never found out?’

  Craig held his gaze. ‘He did find out. But I told him you’d brought the coke.’

  ‘Oh, that’s just brilliant,’ Adam said.

  ‘It’ll never matter to you, mate,’ Craig said, his voice softened. ‘For me it might have been my job.’

  ‘You might have asked me.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Adam stood up, wobbling a little, and placed a hand on top of the bench to steady himself. ‘So what happens if my bosses want to sign one of your artists? Your boss tells them no, because their employee knocked his friend off the wagon?’

  ‘He’s not gonna give a shit that you did it, mate. Why would he? He just didn’t want me doing it.’

  ‘It’s my reputation though, isn’t it?’

  The atmosphere had soured. ‘Don’t come all careerist with me now, Adam,’ Craig said. ‘You go out of your way to show you don’t give a shit about your job, so it’s a bit fucking rich.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Adam said. ‘Is it?’

  ‘Go on.’ Craig glanced at his watch again. ‘Hit that shit and cheer the fuck up.’

  Adam turned away, and walked a little unsteadily down the three steps to the corridor below. The gents was brightly lit, and the one stall, as usual, had bouncer-friendly gaps at the top and bottom. There was no flat surface. Through the psychic fog of misery, Adam had a flashing realization that he was about to make things worse.

  He pushed away the unwelcome thought, unwrapped the cocaine and looked at it. Some powder, some big lumps, some smaller ones. Who cares? he thought. He dug his apartment key into it, scooping up and sniffing a satisfying bump. The lumps in the coke burned his nose, but he sniffed them all back, manfully, feeling the bitter drug smear down the back of his throat.

  The familiar, jet-engine-kicking-in, floodlights-clunking-on feeling lit through him. He placed his foot on the toilet seat, balanced the coke on his knee and removed a receipt from his own wallet, quickly making a little wrap of his own out of it. When he had, he tipped a quarter of Craig’s coke out into it, then a little more.

  Back at the table, Craig held his drink up, and Adam knocked it with his own.

  ‘Are we good?’ Craig said, grinning again.

  ‘Always,’ Adam said.

  He passed Craig the wrap.

  ‘Drink up,’ Craig said. ‘I’ll get us one more for the road.’

  Adam heard him order the drinks and head for the toilet himself. As he was peering into the gloom of the pool room, trying not to think, a sudden glow from the table below him drew his eyes. It was Craig’s iPhone, and a text had just arrived on it.

  Adam’s heart skipped a beat when he read the name. Angelina.

  The phone went black, and Adam tapped its screen to wake it up again.

  Runnin lil late like 7.45 c u there, it said, followed by a Martini glass emoji.

  Adam felt his skin tighten coldly around his skull as the phone went black again.

  This was the world he’d fashioned for himself. False and dishonest; his own grim psyche reflected back at him.

  A couple of minutes later, Craig was back. If he’d noticed how diminished his stash was, he wasn’t letting on.

  ‘Alright?’ he said, grinning his rodent grin.

  ‘Yes, much better now, thanks,’ Adam said, smiling back. There was nothing, after all, to redeem or reconcile. No point confronting any of it. Nothing real with Angelina, nor with Craig. They could fucking have each other.

  ‘Listen,’ Craig said as they started the fresh drinks. ‘Try and chill out tonight. Things’ll look better in the morning. You’re in a city full of beautiful women, mate, it could be worse.’

  Having dispensed wise words and bad medicine, he departed. It was only quarter past six, and Adam was on his own again. The barman looked at him cautiously as he took up a seat at the bar once more.

  ‘Same again, please,’ Adam said.

  ‘Well, alright.’

  ‘Back in a minute.’

  In the toilet, he didn’t bother crouching under the gap at the top of the door. With only a bit of Craig’s coke to go at, it seemed more important to crush up the rocks. He did this with the flat of the key, pressing the wrap against the stall’s wall. He’d finally raised a nice, fluffy bump to his nose when the door to the toilets flew open.

  ‘I fucking knew it,’ the barman yelled. ‘Fucking cokeheads. Get the hell out of there.’

  Adam sniffed the coke up, and did so.

  Outside, the sun was dipping low, and the cars’ headlights were on as they cruised up the Boulevard towards Dodger Stadium or Downtown. Adam’s body was pulsing as he walked, quickly and purposefully down the hill, a light sweat on his brow, the mind behind it emptying of all but the thoughts of the home that wasn’t home, of the drugs in his pocket and the booze in his fridge.

  31

  The river gleamed painfully in the late morning sun. Actually, it was hard to tell if the pain came from the gleam, or from the quickening throb in Adam’s head. Crooked, was how everything looked. Slanted. Two words from the titles of Pavement albums. And over-bright, too. He felt very brittle and weak, his bones and the muscles in his legs aching. It was as though he’d just emerged, sore and hollowed out, from a period of hospitalization.

  The day was very hot and sunny, and he was sweating heavily enough for his eyes to sting wi
th it and his clothing to have dampened. It didn’t matter. He was wearing his house-clothes: a very old, stained, shapeless pair of blue shorts and a faded, many-holed t-shirt with a hip-hop label’s logo on it.

  He didn’t look good, he knew. He was unshaven and pale, with lumpy black bags beneath his swollen eyes. When he’d looked in the mirror, he’d remembered an old boss telling him one Monday morning after a heavy weekend that his eyes looked like piss-holes in the snow. They did again now.

  Cyclists went by, most of them the serious kinds with the logoed Lycra and insect-like sunglasses. Most of them male. MAMILs, he remembered hearing them called. Middle-Aged Men in Lycra. They were intent on what they were doing, and few of them smiled. Certainly, none of them was Erica.

  He had texted her twice the night before. He remembered that, but not exactly what he’d said. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to check the messages in the morning.

  He wasn’t quite sure why he’d come to the river. To see something beautiful perhaps. To be where he’d met her, and to torture himself. To start once again, with new resolutions in this bleakly beautiful place, to make new promises to himself that in all probability, considering the ever-mounting evidence, he would fail to keep.

  A cyclist scythed by and grunted something at him, and he realized he was walking in the centre of the bike path. Fuck it, he thought, and swung under the railing and onto the steep, dirty white concrete bank. This railing was usually the physical barrier between bum and regular citizen. Adam had never seen anyone altogether normal-looking wandering on the bank. Maybe the odd kid, smoking a joint and watching the water. Occasionally a fisherman or two. Certainly there would be no cyclists down here.

  It was quite freeing. He let momentum carry him a few quick steps further down towards the water, its thick green smell rising up to greet him. Nausea rose, too, from his stomach, but he breathed and swallowed and it subsided. Still drunk, he thought. A little, anyway. The real pain is yet to come. One Sunday afternoon in London, still awake from the night before, in a pub that smelled of stale beer and was pooled with dusty sunlight, a fellow straggler had raised his pint to Adam and said, ‘Put the pain in the post, eh?’ That was where it was again now.