by S. G. Browne
“Bond,” I say, extending my right hand. “James Bond.”
The dealer looks at me without shaking my hand and lets out a single bark of laughter, then he looks over at the hustler. “Where the fuck did you get this guy, Eddie?”
Eddie shrugs and wipes his nose, then shoves his hand back into his pocket and gives me a sideways glance like he’s pissed-off at me or something.
“You look more like the Wizard of Oz in that suit,” says the dealer.
“Funny,” I say. “Judy Garland told me the same thing.”
The dealer sizes me up, probably trying to figure out how much money he can squeeze out of me.
“So, you looking to be a secret agent?” he says. “I’ve got plenty to choose from. James Bond. Austin Powers. Jason Bourne.”
“I’m actually looking for something else.”
He nods. “Did you have anything in mind?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. “Surprise me.”
He takes another drag on his cigarette. “First thing’s first. Eddie, make sure he’s clean.”
Eddie walks up from behind and asks me to raise my hands, then starts patting me down.
“What’s this for?” I ask.
“Just precautions,” says the dealer.
“A few nights ago some fucking loser pulled a toy gun on us and tried to run off with half our stock,” says Eddie from behind me.
“Did he get away?” I ask.
“Let’s just say I don’t think he’ll be in any condition to try it again anytime soon,” the dealer says, then flicks away his cigarette. “So don’t get any ideas.”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” I say with a smile.
“He’s clean,” says Eddie, stepping away.
The dealer claps his hands and rubs them together. “Okay, Mr. Bond, now let’s see what we’ve got that might surprise you.”
From behind the Dumpster he produces a metal briefcase, which he sets down on top of an upside-down oil drum, then he unlatches the case and flips it open. Inside the case is lined with custom foam compartments containing more than four dozen plastic vials, all filled with ten milliliters of clear, amber fluid.
“Are these the real deal?” I lean in for a closer look, playing the role of the eager buyer.
“Straight from the factory,” says the dealer. “Nothing but top-quality, manufacturer-tested product.”
While your average Jane or Joe buying a black market Ego might be inclined to believe the claim of authenticity, I know it’s bullshit. First of all, with the control measures in place, it’s virtually impossible for any Egos to go missing from the factory without raising an alarm. But the obvious giveaway is his merchandise. We don’t offer The Rush Limbaugh, The Kim Kardashian, or The O. J. Simpson.
“So what do you think?” He points to the vials as he names them off. “Elvis? James Dean? Superman? Newman and Brando are popular picks right now.”
I shake my head. “I’m not interested in the latest trend. I don’t want to be who everyone else is. I want something fresh and bold. Something that makes a statement.”
He gives me an appraising smile, no doubt meant to make me feel as though he understands me. “Are you looking for reality or fiction?”
“Is there a difference?”
He looks me over a second, then nods. “Yeah. I think I’ve got what you’re looking for.”
He reaches into the suitcase and brings out a vial labeled DR. STRANGELOVE. “Perfect for the man who has everything. Or who wants more.”
“Strangelove’s still a little too vanilla,” I say. “What else have you got?”
He puts the vial back and looks over his selection. “If you’re interested in going with something a little darker, I just got in a new shipment that includes The Jack the Ripper, The Al Capone, and The Genghis Khan.”
“A little too dark,” I say. “I was hoping for something a little more creative or artistic.”
“A fan of the arts,” he says. “I think I have just what you’re looking for. If you’re musically inclined, I’ve got The Kurt Cobain, The Jim Morrison, and The Bon Scott. Or if your tastes run more to the literary world, I have an exclusive on The Kurt Vonnegut and The Philip K. Dick.”
“Do you have a quantity discount?” I say.
“That depends,” he says. “How many are you interested in buying?”
“As many as ten grand will buy me,” I say.
He stares at me a moment, probably trying to decide if I’m serious. “You have the cash?”
I pull a wad of hundreds from inside my coat and hold the cash up with my left hand. He stares at the money, then offers up a smile.
“Well, I think we can work something out,” he says.
“Great,” I say. “So now that you know I’m here to do business and not to steal your stock, how about doing me the courtesy of making this transaction without someone looking over my shoulder.”
“Eddie,” he says, “why don’t you go wait at the entrance to the alley.”
“You sure?” says Eddie.
“Yeah,” says the dealer, eyeing my wad of Franklins. “We’re good.”
Eddie gives me a parting glance before he walks away and heads back down the alley. As soon as he’s gone, I turn back to the dealer, my right hand palming the syringe that I had up my sleeve.
“Okay,” I say with a smile. “Let’s make a deal.”
CHAPTER 48
Delilah stands over me, her sunglasses on top of her head, a garment bag over one shoulder and a duffel bag in her hands. She’s wearing skintight jeans, mid-calf boots, and her long black leather coat. She looks angry. I’m not sure why. I don’t remember doing anything to piss her off, but I don’t remember what I was doing before this or how I ended up on my back on the floor. So I figure anything’s possible.
“Did you hear what I said?” she says.
“No.” I shake my head to drive home the point. “I must have missed it.”
“I said I’m leaving.”
“You’re leaving?” I stare up at her. From this perspective, she seems a lot taller. “When will you be back?”
“I’m not coming back.”
“You’re not coming back?”
“No.”
I blink my eyes but I can’t seem to muster the energy to sit up. It’s just so comfortable here on the floor. Either that or I’m paralyzed.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because I can’t deal with this anymore,” she says. “You go out on your own and you don’t tell me where you’ve been or what you’ve been doing. I hardly see you anymore. And when I do see you, you’re asking me if I’m a spy or telling me to mind my own business or ignoring me. That’s not my idea of a healthy relationship.”
“So where are you going?” I ask, calm and easy. Like she’s getting a manicure. Like she’s meeting a friend for lunch.
“I’m staying with Tami until I get my own place.”
Tami. I don’t know any Tami. At least I don’t think I do. Maybe I should know her. Or at least act like I do.
“Tell her I said hi.”
Delilah just stares at me. Actually, it’s more like a strong glare. I’m thinking about asking if I can borrow her sunglasses.
“Is that all you have to say?” she asks.
I know there’s probably more I should say but right now, I can’t think of anything. To be honest, I’m not even sure this is really happening.
I seem to be getting a lot of that lately.
“When will you be back?” I say.
Delilah stares at me without saying a word, then she pulls down her sunglasses, turns around, and walks out of my view—which, admittedly, is somewhat limited.
I listen as her footsteps echo away across the hardwood floor. Then the front door opens and closes and I’m alone in the house on the floor on my back, staring up at the ceiling fan and the crown moldings and the decorative plaster ceiling, thinking about the day I moved into this place with Delilah. I notice how the crown m
olding looks like birthday cakes, which gets me thinking about the surprise party my team threw for me, which leads to thoughts of Chloe and Angela and Holden Caulfield blended with memories of Tarzan and Nat and my father.
My thoughts mix and mingle, like guests at a party—except people at parties tend to cluster together in comfortable groups rather than moving about. And my thoughts aren’t exactly clustering. Instead I see them as square dancers, allemanding to the left and do-si-doing, circling and promenading one another. Though in square dancing you usually end up back where you started, and I’m not sure where one thought ends and another begins. So I’m thinking my thoughts are more like shadows on a busy city street, blending into each other as they pass until I can no longer keep track of them.
I try to focus on my thoughts and memories, to hold them in place so I can get a good look at them and keep them from slipping away, but they’re not cooperating. They won’t sit still, no matter how hard I try. But even if I could get one of my memories to cooperate, there’s no guarantee it would be an accurate depiction of what actually happened.
The problem with memories is that they’re not objective.
One person’s memory is another person’s fiction. Everything is a matter of perception, defined by individual feelings, beliefs, and desires. A single, objective reality doesn’t exist. All of the input and stimuli we encounter gets filtered through personal experience and interpretation and mood. Nothing is definite. There are no rules for how something looks or tastes or smells from moment to moment or from one person to another.
The color of a sunset.
The taste of a peach.
The scent of a rose.
Truth is, subjectivity is the only truth.
And right now, my truth is in need of some transformation.
CHAPTER 49
I glide through the room like an ancient shaman, revelers and worshippers reaching out to touch me, to feel the magic of my existence. I embrace their adulation as I float along, riding the waves of desire.
A rider on the storm of love.
Donna Summer stops me and gives me a kiss and tells me I light her fire. Patsy Cline rubs up against me and says that we could be so good together. Dusty Springfield grabs my ass and whispers in my ear that she’d like to love me two times.
I think I could get used to this.
I continue through the room, the center of attention, but I’m not concerned about who sees me or who knows I’m here. Everyone is high on something, stoned immaculate, and I’m their vision. Their dream. When they awake from their slumber, I’ll be nothing more than a fleeting glimpse of a shadow, a ghost who slipped out of their consciousness like a last breath slipping from the lips of a dying man.
When you’re strange, no one remembers your name.
I step over John Bonham and Bon Scott, who are both passed out on the floor in their own vomit. George Harrison and John Lennon laugh at them and take pictures, which they post on Facebook as Freddie Mercury moves through the room in a black-and-white-checkerboard leotard and tights, clapping his hands together above his head and singing “Fat Bottomed Girls.” Mama Cass Elliot and Karen Carpenter linger around the dining room table, eyeing the selection of appetizers like two tortured souls battling their inner demons.
Mick Jagger walks up and greets me with faraway eyes and an intoxicated smile. “Hey Jim, it’s good to see you, man. How’ve you been?”
When he talks I almost feel as though I could fall inside his cavernous mouth.
I give him an answer about strange days and roadhouse blues and he starts telling me about how he can’t get no satisfaction. I listen and nod and wonder what he’s doing here since he hasn’t broken on through to the other side yet, but I don’t really care about Mick. He’s not who I came to find, so I look around the room to see who else is here.
Buddy Holly, Richie Valens, and the Big Bopper sit around a coffee table covered with empty and half-empty beer bottles, passing around a bong with Steve Gaines and Ronnie Van Zant, all of them talking about taking a road trip to New Orleans. Holly suggests they charter a plane and I know nothing good can come of that.
Off in a corner, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain, Brian Jones, and Amy Winehouse are all doing shots of tequila and lines of coke. Joplin calls out for me to come over and hang out with them, but something tells me I don’t want to join their little club.
Bob Marley and Jerry Garcia are sharing a laugh and a joint over by the fireplace while Johnny Cash and Roy Orbison, both dressed all in black, are hitting on Etta James. Marvin Gaye grooves all by himself in the middle of the room, singing “Got to Give It Up.”
Mick is still talking, going on and on about how you can’t always get what you want. I’m ready for a different scene, so I tell him I’ll be right back and make my way to the kitchen, where I run into Joey Ramone and Sid Vicious doing shots of whiskey. For some reason I’m filled with a sense of déjà vu, like we’ve all been here before.
My brain seems bruised with numb surprise.
I do a couple of shots with Joey and Sid and we talk for a while about whiskey, mystics, and women before they wander off to rejoin the party. I’m about to follow them when I notice a set of sliding glass doors leading outside, standing open to the night, so I take the bottle of whiskey and walk out to a deck overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The water is black beneath the midnight sky, stretching away from the Malibu shore and blending seamlessly with the infinite night, the world dark and endless and full of mystery, the water reflecting the quarter moon like an alien world.
Out here on the perimeter, there are no stars.
Sitting on one of the deck chairs, eating what appears to be a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich and drinking from a can of Pepsi, is just who I’ve been looking for.
“Mind if I hang out?” I ask.
“Be my guest,” says Elvis in his trademark drawl, his mouth full of peanut butter and banana and white bread.
I sit down and look at him, feeling unsettled for some reason I can’t quite grasp. A recognition born from some mysterious source.
This is the strangest life I’ve ever known.
“Would you like some grub?” says Elvis. “All the fixings are in the kitchen, so feel free to help yourself.”
“Thanks,” I say. “But I’m more into tacos or a good, thick steak.”
“Don’t have any tacos or steaks.” Elvis takes another bite of his sandwich. “How about a cupcake or an Eskimo Pie?”
“Maybe another time.”
We sit there in silence for a minute or two, looking out at the ocean, the December sky clear and the quarter moon reflecting off the water’s surface, shimmering like a mirage.
“It’s not Graceland,” says Elvis, washing down a mouthful of his sandwich with some Pepsi and motioning out toward the moon over the Pacific. “But it sure is pretty.”
I nod. “There’s something about the winter air that makes it crisp and clear.”
“And bright,” he says. “The moon’s never bright like this in Memphis.”
And that’s my cue.
“How would you like something to make it a little brighter?”
I reach into my shirt pocket and remove a single liquid-filled capsule, which I drop into the palm of Elvis’s hand. He takes the capsule, pops it into his mouth, clinks his Pepsi can against my whiskey bottle, then takes a long swallow.
“Thank you,” he says. “Thank you very much.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“How long will it take to kick in?”
“Not long,” I say with a smile.
He looks at me with his own smile, like we’re sharing a joke or like he’s remembering something from another life. Another reality. Then he takes another bite of his sandwich, chases it with more Pepsi, and follows that up with a hearty belch.
“Hey,” he says. “I think I’m starting to feel something.”
My work done, I give my regards to Elvis and head back into the house. No one�
�s in the kitchen when I walk inside and close the sliding glass doors behind me, so I decide to rejoin the party for a little while.
Bonham and Scott are still passed out in their own vomit, while Marvin and Freddie are attempting to break up a cat-fight between Mama Cass and Karen Carpenter. Orbison has won the Etta James sweepstakes, leaving Cash brooding on the fireplace singing “Oh Lonesome Me.”
Lennon stops me and asks if I’d like to come with him and George on a little acid trip. I’m more of a peyote guy myself, so I decline, then make my way over to Marley and Garcia, who are sharing another joint. I enjoy their company for as long as I can until Jagger comes strutting over and insinuates himself into the conversation. Somehow, Marley and Garcia manage to get away, leaving me with Mick and his Grand Canyon of a mouth. Fortunately, Patsy Cline and Donna Summer rescue me and take me into a dark corner where we do our best to set the night on fire.
Sometime later, Janis Joplin starts walking around the room and asking the guests if anyone has seen Elvis.
Well, I guess I’d better go now.
I tell Patsy and Donna I’ll be right back, then I walk down the hallway toward the back of the house. No one notices when I slip away through the service entrance, a backdoor man, a spy in the house of love.
I know the dream that you’re dreaming of.
I know your deepest, secret fear.
Once I’m outside, I look up at the quarter moon hovering in the blackness like a half-open portal, offering a glimpse into another world. The longer I stare at it, the more it feels like I’m falling into it, as though my consciousness is rising from me, being drawn into the heavens, sucked into the moon’s glow, and I realize my ride on the crystal ship is about to come to an end.
Before it does, I climb into my ’59 T-Bird, then I turn the ignition and pull away, heading south toward Los Angeles on a moonlight drive.
CHAPTER 50
The Pixies’ ”Where Is My Mind?” plays on the radio as I drive south along the Pacific Coast Highway toward Santa Monica, the quarter moon reflecting off the ocean as Malibu recedes in the rearview mirror. After one in the morning in mid-December, there’s not much traffic heading in either direction, so I have the four-lane highway nearly all to myself.
