“So, tell me this: Is it money you want?”
He doesn’t answer, but he looks at me like, What do you think? Obviously he wants money. I reach in my pocket and count the change.
“I’ve got eighty cents,” I say.
He chuckles again and turns off the highway, pulling into a place called the Painted Crow motel. I’m glad to see the free HBO sign, even though the light behind the B has gone out, so it reads FREE H O.
Levon parks, clears his throat, and says, “OK, let’s move.”
We both get out, and I follow him into the lobby. There’s a girl behind the counter with a serpent tattoo crawling up her neck. She’s eating a microwave burrito, and her phone has a faded skull on it. She doesn’t look at me, but she smiles at Levon when he says he wants a room with two beds. I’m guessing Levon isn’t into the serpent-chick type. But what type would he be into?
I let him lead the way out of the lobby to the rooms that open onto the parking lot. Each room has a faded green plastic chair outside it. We pass a fat woman smoking and two kids with dirt on their faces, looking guilty. I film them secretly by tucking my handheld into my sleeve. The film will come out upside down, but it’s easy to switch in post.
Room 109 has wood paneling on the walls. It smells like bleach, and there’s a painting of a lion jumping out of a bush, except the perspective is off.
“That would be a cool name for a band,” I say, sitting on the farthest bed from the door, the one my mother always chose. “Bad Hotel Art.”
He doesn’t smile, but his face softens. He pulls two brand-new toothbrushes out of his weird, shiny green backpack. For a moment, my heart plummets and I can feel a shift, like I’m teetering on a precipice. Emotional vertigo.
I barely know this guy.
He is giving me a toothbrush from a strange, green backpack.
And his partner, who is coming back, hurt me.
“What’s the deal with your bag?”
“It was a gift.”
I shift back to safety, away from the edge, at the sight of his face proudly defending the backpack. He hands me one of the toothbrushes.
“You came prepared.”
“Except I don’t have any toothpaste.”
“Hmm, that’s kind of how it works. We can get some tomorrow.”
A hint of surprise comes over his face, like he can’t believe I’m not resisting or being difficult.
There’s a cot in the corner of the room, which I assume is for Cancer Stick. The thought makes me tremble.
After a few minutes, Levon finally starts to talk, and it’s like a river breaking through a dam. The words flow out in a rush.
“We’re going to Miami. It’s better if you don’t ask me too many details and just go along for the ride. We can get you some clothes and some snacks or whatever for the road. Just do what we say, stick to the plan, and nothing bad will happen. Got it?”
“Got it. Just tell me one thing. It’s about my father, right?”
He pulls back his bedspread and throws it into the corner, then looks at me. “Duh,” he says flatly.
“Look, I don’t doubt it. My dad’s a royal A-hole.”
Levon makes a little noise, and I study his face. His features come together like a car crash—long nose, wide-set eyes, lavender-tinted lips. Separately they’re average, but as a whole, they’re extraordinary.
He throws one of his pillows on the cot. I wonder if he’s actually friends with Cancer Stick. I hope not. The closest thing I’ve had to friends are Fin the janitor and Billy Ray, the boy who stalked me through middle school. Because I was Wade’s daughter, Billy Ray thought I was God by relation. I never had the heart to tell him that Wade was not the hero Billy Ray thought he was. Not even close. But we had a mutual appreciation for watching the trains in Oakland, and I shot a video for his lame band, Tap Water. The video was cool, but the song wasn’t even listenable.
I keep my clothes on and sit on the bed, turning on the TV. Levon goes into the bathroom to wash his face but leaves the door open so he can keep an eye on me. The news comes on, and at the end of a segment, I see my face. It’s my NRS junior picture. I’m smiling facetiously, wearing a white T-shirt with a black star on it. For some reason, I’m not even shocked to see my face on TV. It’s more like a quiet thrill. I wonder if the Borings are watching this. I know Fin isn’t, because he doesn’t own a TV.
Obviously, it was bound to happen. The newscaster, an earnest Asian woman, says something about “rock star royalty abduction” but I’m concentrating on the zit that’s on my forehead. I don’t consider myself a vain person, but this picture is definitely not my best moment. I’m grateful Levon isn’t watching. The anchor mentions a number to call if anyone has any information. I film the TV when the number comes up, just in case.
When Levon comes out, he’s in his boxers. I start counting the ridges of his abs—there are eight of them. While he turns to watch the sports segment, I sneak a video of his naked upper half, washed in the TV light. His skin is creamy and smooth. I try not to stare at the deep grooves on each side that run from his lower stomach to his crotch area. He gets under the covers in his own bed and pulls two pictures out of his worn wallet.
“Girlfriend?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“Yes,” he says in an end-of-conversation tone. I don’t pry, but I find myself wondering who’s on that small square of paper he’s holding up to the light. A blond cheerleader type? A skinny girl with glasses in a room full of books? Am I actually jealous? I don’t even know the guy. Besides, he hasn’t looked at me with any hint of sexual innuendo. Surprise and maybe a hint of laughter, but nothing even suggesting romantic.
The other picture is worn at the edges, and I can sort of see it as he holds it up. It looks like an elderly woman, probably his grandmother.
HBO is playing a rerun of The Sopranos, the episode where Tony sees the geese in his pool.
“This is probably one of the most famous television episodes ever. Even more so now that James Gandolfini died,” I say.
Levon puts away his pictures and looks at me.
“The thing about Tony Soprano is he had so many layers,” I continue. “Like, the guy kills people but then cries like a baby over some geese.”
“Yeah,” he says, turning out the light.
“What about you. Kidnapper who carries a picture of Grandma?”
It’s too dark to tell, but I think Levon is blushing a little. He turns toward me and starts to say something but then looks back to the TV. By the time the credits roll, he is asleep. I could easily leave right now, before Cancer Stick comes back. But I don’t have any money, and this is not a great part of town. I go into the bathroom, turn on the water, and film myself with my handheld.
“My name is Candy Rex. I’ve been kidnapped, and I’m somewhere south of Hartford in a red Toyota.”
When I open the door, Cancer Stick is sitting on the cot, rolling an unlit cigarette through his fingers. I let out a yelp, and Levon tosses a little but doesn’t wake up. My handheld is sticking out of my front pocket. I turn sideways so Cancer Stick can’t see it and walk toward the bed. I get under the covers with my clothes on, and he’s still looking at me. I swear there’s a smirk on his face. My heart starts up again, like a loop on an EDM track. He looks as if he’s on some kind of hard drug. He watches me for what seems like an eternity—but is probably twenty minutes—and then heads outside.
Levon is awakened by the sound of the door closing, and he gets up and joins him. I can hear them arguing again, and then Levon comes back inside, alone.
“What’s up with him?” I whisper.
“Forget it. Go to sleep.”
I cover my head with a pillow and think, What would my mother do? Would she have run by now, or would she go along for the ride? I miss her in my body, my bones. I never thought you could physically ache for so
meone. Certain memories pop into my head, like when she made this elaborate rainbow out of color-coordinated Froot Loops. She was always making things—out of anything, really. Like films are for me, creating art was what plugged her into the world.
Mostly, the things she made were for me: a giant pinwheel out of diner straws, a marshmallow Christmas tree, a flip book of drawings that showed birds leaving a nest, one by one. My first seven years of life were completely shaped by her presence. There were always flowers around her. In her hair; on her impossibly thin, print dresses; painted on the backs of her hands. Every time I see a lily or even a dandelion, I feel a sharp pang.
Levon is fast asleep again. He makes a soft puffing sound with every other breath. His left foot wiggles a little, like a dog dreaming. His elegant lips rest in his signature half smile.
I’m in a strange room, with a stranger.
I could call the help line or Rena or someone to come get me. But I don’t. I just stare at the ceiling, frozen.
I keep waiting for Cancer Stick to come back, but he doesn’t.
I have no idea how I’m going to sleep, even though I’m exhausted. I close my eyes, trying to block out the image of the empty cot in the corner.
Please don’t let him come back. Please…
Chapter 6
When I wake up in the morning, Levon is already showered and dressed, his hair combed. He seems like he’s been sitting there, waiting for me to wake up. He has placed a banana and a Styrofoam cup of orange juice at my bedside.
“I’ll be outside in the car when you’re ready,” he says, then gets up to leave and shuts the door quietly, as if I’m still sleeping.
The cot is still made, but I half expect Cancer Stick to burst out of the bathroom wielding a weapon. I check just in case, then swill the juice and start to eat the banana. I normally don’t like bananas, but everything is different now. I eat around the brown spots, and it actually tastes pretty good.
I wash my face, adjust my hair a little bit, and leave the room as I came, with only the clothes on my back—dark-blue jeans, an old Rolling Stones T-shirt, and a thick purple hoodie.
Our first stop is Target, and Levon seems blown away by the place, like he’s just landed on another planet.
“You’ve never been to Target?” I ask.
“Not inside one, no.”
“Where’ve you been hiding?”
He gives me a serious look, like that’s going too far. I lead him to the girls’ department where I throw some basics into the cart: underwear, socks, a blue jacket, and a bathing suit. (He did say we were going to Miami, if we make it that far.) I also get a Hello Kitty bag to put it all in. It’s way too young for me, but I’m not really thinking about age-appropriate bags. We get some toiletries, a huge box of Cheez-Its, and a case of Smartwater.
“What is Smartwater?” Levon asks.
“It has electrolytes, whatever the hell that means. I just like the packaging.”
“Well, I don’t think you need anything to make you smarter.”
He pays for it all with a wad of cash, and I avoid the eyes of the cashier, a woman with a bun on top of her head, wearing cheap, overly applied makeup. She looks like she could be a fan of the Black Angels. I hope she hasn’t been watching the news. When we leave, her eyes follow me all the way out the door. When we get outside, I grab Levon and we run to the car. I get in the front.
“So, where’s Cancer Stick?”
“His name is Jamal?”
“OK, where’s Jamal.”
“None of your business.”
As we get back onto the highway, it starts to rain. Levon doesn’t even slow down.
“Not so fast,” I say, but it doesn’t sound much like an order. I look over at him. His face has changed. It’s back to being angry or indifferent. Not the same person who was looking at his girlfriend’s picture last night or who actually smiled at my jokes.
“So, you don’t have a cell phone either?” I ask.
“No.”
“Mine is in my dorm room. Didn’t get to pack for this particular excursion. But we should get one for emergencies. They have disposable pay-as-you-go ones. Don’t you feel naked without one?”
Did I just say naked?
“Mine broke,” he says not very convincingly.
“Anyway, I use mine mainly to surf IMDB.”
“I know what that is.”
“Good. There’s hope yet.”
He gives me a hard look. I’m pushing it again. He passes an eighteen-wheeler with pretty good precision considering the slippery conditions.
“Do you know the route without a GPS?” I ask.
“Just heading south mostly,” he says. “And I got this.”
He pulls out an ancient map of the states from under his seat. He shows me the page with the Eastern Seaboard, with the journey marked from Massachusetts to Florida in pen. Each stop has a colored-in circle, like a subway line.
“This is fine, but we’re gonna want to avoid New York City, take the Tappan Zee Bridge. You’ve gone too far east.”
He gives me a different look now, still surprised but also maybe a little relieved.
I scan the radio stations. It’s the usual tired songs: Nickelback, Katy Perry, Kenny Chesney.
“It’s always the same,” I tell him. “Mainstream music is just cross-marketing. Rock sells sunglasses and leather jackets; pop sells lip gloss and soda; country sells cowboy hats and beer.”
His face is momentarily unreadable. I can’t tell if he’s really listening or if my words are going through him.
The last station I come to, HOT 93.7, is playing “Spill It on Me.”
“Well, if it isn’t the song that pays for my life. And hopefully this kidnapping.”
I must admit my father sounds really good on the song. He was thirty when it was recorded. Just as the third verse kicks in, Levon turns it off.
“No Butt Crack Angels for you?”
“I’ve heard that song one too many times.”
“You and the rest of the world.”
When we reach the Tappan Zee Bridge, the river underneath it shimmers, reflecting the gray clouds. Levon picks up speed again, and I check my seat belt.
“You know, the cops must be alerted. I saw a segment on the news.”
“What? Did they mention me or the car?”
“I don’t think so. They showed a dated picture of me, and one of my father, of course.”
He slows down, checking the rearview—or what he can see out of it.
I curl my legs under myself and force myself to look out the window. It’s hard not to look at him; it’s like he’s some sort of magnet and my eyes are made of metal.
“So what’s Jamal’s deal? Is he meeting up with us again?”
“Listen, leave everything to me and chill.”
“Yeah, as if it’s any other day?”
I don’t tell him that I am relaxed. Something about driving and how I was raised on the road. What would I be doing right now on break in Oakland? While the Borings would be skiing in Aspen or Jackson Hole, I would be drinking coffee with Rena, maybe hanging out with Billy Ray at the train tracks. But Rena’s detached mothering and Billy Ray’s schoolboy crush all seem like another world to me now. The one I’m in is propelling me forward, and it’s hard not to feel the rush.
Still, I need to get more of a read on Levon.
“Can you tell me one thing? How you know my father?”
He looks at me, contemplating whether to talk, then sighs and says, “My dad worked for him.”
His tone is definitive, like when I asked about his girlfriend. I decide to leave it for now. Obviously my father screwed his father over in some way.
About two years ago, they did a reality show on the Black Angels, and it’s been the only glimpse into my father’s life I’ve
had since he dropped me off at Rena’s house. It’s so strange, watching your father on a tiny screen through the eyes of Bravo producers. Sandwiched between Real Housewives and Top Chef, the show lasted nine episodes, even though I only watched the first four. In one, the big drama was that Wade had no vegetarian food backstage at some venue in Texas. They had brought an actual pig, and he ordered them to take it away. The fat, gay chef was livid. In another, Wade had passed out on the bus, and his bandmate’s teenage son drew all over him. That was kind of funny, but it all made me sick, really. I mean, didn’t they ask him where his daughter was? Why do celebrities acting imperious and practicing debauchery get so praised in this country? Who even cares about the Black Angels anymore?
I start counting the dotted white lines on the highway again, like I did when I was a kid. In the seven years I toured with the band, I visited almost every state in the country—and some European countries as well. I was too young to remember much, but ironically the square-shaped states of America stick out in my mind. The flat plains stretching like a giant pancake, the red earth jutting up in ridges, the whitecaps on the streams. The world was a moving place, and my bunk on the bus was filled with stuffed animals my mom would buy me at gas stations.
There was one—a bear wearing sunglasses—that I carried with me at all times. Underneath the sunglasses, the bear had no eyes, and that haunted my dreams. When I asked my mother about it, she told me the bear could see through his skin, like an octopus. I didn’t know how my mother had such strange information, but I believed her. In fact, everything in the world, every thought I had, went through the filter of her. To me, she knew everything. Which is why when she died, I went back to square one: I knew nothing at all.
The gas station we are at has stuffed animals, but no bears with sunglasses. I grab a frog and hold it up to Levon, giving him my best smile. I also grab some big, black sunglasses with fake diamonds on the plastic frames. When we get back into the car, I stick the frog on the dash facing us. I hope it will give us good luck in whatever the hell we are doing.
I switch on the radio again and turn it to an NPR station. There’s someone reading an essay about being abused as a child. We don’t say anything for a good part of an hour. I keep glancing over at Levon’s reaction, and I can tell that he’s moved. Unlike most guys, his face doesn’t reject emotion. It’s almost like he can’t hide it. Since I now have my sunglasses on, he doesn’t know how much I’m watching him. When the woman finishes, I turn the volume down and say, “It always could be worse, I guess.”
Stealing Candy Page 3
