Julian.
“Guess who’s here?” Rip asks me.
“Who?”
“Guess.”
“Who?”
“Guess.”
“Tell me, Rip.”
“He’s young, he’s rich, he’s available, he’s Iranian.” Rip pushes me into the living room. “Here’s Atiff.”
Atiff, who I haven’t seen since graduation, is sitting on the couch wearing Gucci loafers and an expensive Italian suit. He’s a freshman at U.S.C. and drives a black 380 SL.
“Ah, Clay, how are you, my friend?” Atiff gets up from the couch and shakes my hand.
“Okay. How about you?”
“Oh, very good, very good. I just got back from Rome.”
Rip walks out of the living room and into Trent’s room and turns MTV on and the sound up.
“Where’s Trent?” I ask, wondering where the bar is.
“In the shower,” Atiff says. “You look great. How was New Hampshire?”
“It was okay,” I say, and smile at Trent’s roommate, Chris, who’s sitting at the table in the kitchen, on the phone. He smiles back and gets up and starts pacing nervously around the kitchen. Atiff is talking about clubs in Venice and how he lost a piece of Louis Vuitton luggage in Florence. He lights a thin Italian cigarette. “I got back two nights ago because I was told classes start soon. I am not sure when they do, but I hear that it is rather soon.” He pauses. “Did you go to Sandra’s party at Spago last night? No? It wasn’t very good.”
I’m nodding and looking over at Chris, who gets off the phone and yells, “Shit.”
“What is wrong?” asks Atiff.
“I had my guitar stolen and I had some Desoxyn hidden in it and I was supposed to give it to someone.”
“What do you do?” I ask Chris.
“Hang around U.C.L.A.”
“Enrolled in classes?”
“I think.”
“He also writes music,” says Trent, standing in the doorway, only wearing jeans, hair wet, toweling it dry. “Play them some of your stuff.”
“Sure,” Chris says, shrugging.
Chris goes to the stereo and puts a tape in it. From where I’m standing I can see the jacuzzi, steaming, blue, lit, and past that a weight set and two bicycles. I sit down on the couch and look through some of the magazines spread across the table; a couple of GQ’s, and a few Rolling Stones and an issue of Playboy and the issue of People with the picture of Blair and her father in it and a copy of Stereo Review and Surfer. Flip through a Playboy then start to space out and stare at the framed poster for the “Hotel California” album; at the hypnotizing blue lettering; at the shadow of the palms.
Trent mentions that someone named Larry didn’t get into film school. The music comes out over the speakers and I try to listen to it, but Trent’s still talking about Larry and Rip is cracking up hysterically in Trent’s room. “I mean his father’s got a fucking series that’s in the fucking top ten. He’s got his own steadicam and U.S.C. still doesn’t let him in? Things are fucked up.”
“They didn’t let him in because he’s a heroin addict,” Rip calls out.
“What bullshit,” Trent says.
“You didn’t know that?” Rip laughs.
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
“He practically eats it raw,” Rip says, turning the volume on the television down. “He used to be normal.”
“Oh shit, Rip,” I call out. “What does normal mean to you?”
“No, I mean really normal.”
“Shit, I never knew that about Larry,” Atiff says.
“You’re so full of shit,” Trent calls out to the bedroom.
“Oh, Trent, suck my dick,” Rip yells.
“Take it out,” Trent calls out, laughing, walking back to the bedroom. “Hey, who made the reservations at Morton’s?”
Déjà vu passes through me and I open a GQ, faces from my sisters’ walls come back to me. The music is loud and the songs sound like they’re being sung by a little girl and the drum machine is too noisy, and insistent. The little girl voices sing out, “I don’t know where to go/I don’t know what to do/I don’t know where to go/I
“Guess who’s here?” Rip asks me.
“Who?”
“Guess.”
“Who?”
“Guess.”
“Tell me, Rip.”
“He’s young, he’s rich, he’s available, he’s Iranian.” Rip pushes me into the living room. “Here’s Atiff.”
Atiff, who I haven’t seen since graduation, is sitting on the couch wearing Gucci loafers and an expensive Italian suit. He’s a freshman at U.S.C. and drives a black 380 SL.
“Ah, Clay, how are you, my friend?” Atiff gets up from the couch and shakes my hand.
“Okay. How about you?”
“Oh, very good, very good. I just got back from Rome.”
Rip walks out of the living room and into Trent’s room and turns MTV on and the sound up.
“Where’s Trent?” I ask, wondering where the bar is.
“In the shower,” Atiff says. “You look great. How was New Hampshire?”
“It was okay,” I say, and smile at Trent’s roommate, Chris, who’s sitting at the table in the kitchen, on the phone. He smiles back and gets up and starts pacing nervously around the kitchen. Atiff is talking about clubs in Venice and how he lost a piece of Louis Vuitton luggage in Florence. He lights a thin Italian cigarette. “I got back two nights ago because I was told classes start soon. I am not sure when they do, but I hear that it is rather soon.” He pauses. “Did you go to Sandra’s party at Spago last night? No? It wasn’t very good.”
I’m nodding and looking over at Chris, who gets off the phone and yells, “Shit.”
“What is wrong?” asks Atiff.
“I had my guitar stolen and I had some Desoxyn hidden in it and I was supposed to give it to someone.”
“What do you do?” I ask Chris.
“Hang around U.C.L.A.”
“Enrolled in classes?”
“I think.”
“He also writes music,” says Trent, standing in the doorway, only wearing jeans, hair wet, toweling it dry. “Play them some of your stuff.”
“Sure,” Chris says, shrugging.
Chris goes to the stereo and puts a tape in it. From where I’m standing I can see the jacuzzi, steaming, blue, lit, and past that a weight set and two bicycles. I sit down on the couch and look through some of the magazines spread across the table; a couple of GQ’s, and a few Rolling Stones and an issue of Playboy and the issue of People with the picture of Blair and her father in it and a copy of Stereo Review and Surfer. Flip through a Playboy then start to space out and stare at the framed poster for the “Hotel California” album; at the hypnotizing blue lettering; at the shadow of the palms.
Trent mentions that someone named Larry didn’t get into film school. The music comes out over the speakers and I try to listen to it, but Trent’s still talking about Larry and Rip is cracking up hysterically in Trent’s room. “I mean his father’s got a fucking series that’s in the fucking top ten. He’s got his own steadicam and U.S.C. still doesn’t let him in? Things are fucked up.”
“They didn’t let him in because he’s a heroin addict,” Rip calls out.
“What bullshit,” Trent says.
“You didn’t know that?” Rip laughs.
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
“He practically eats it raw,” Rip says, turning the volume on the television down. “He used to be normal.”
“Oh shit, Rip,” I call out. “What does normal mean to you?”
“No, I mean really normal.”
“Shit, I never knew that about Larry,” Atiff says.
“You’re so full of shit,” Trent calls out to the bedroom.
“Oh, Trent, suck my dick,” Rip yells.
“Take it out,” Trent calls out, laughing, walking back to the bedroom. “Hey, who made the reservations at Morton’s?”
Déjà vu passes through me and I open a GQ, faces from my sisters’ walls come back to me. The music is loud and the songs sound like they’re being sung by a little girl and the drum machine is too noisy, and insistent. The little girl voices sing out, “I don’t know where to go/I don’t know what to do/I don’t know where to go/I
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