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 don’t know what to do/Tell me. Tell me …”
“Did you make the reservations?” Trent calls again.
“You have any meth?” Chris calls back to Trent.
“No,” Trent calls back. “Who made the reservations?”
“Yes, I made them,” Rip shouts. “Now shut up.”
“Do any of you guys have any meth?” Chris asks.
“Meth?” Atiff asks.
“Look, we don’t have any meth,” I tell him.
The music stops.
“You gotta hear this next song,” Trent says, pulling on a shirt.
Chris ignores him and picks up the phone in the kitchen. He dials and then asks whoever’s on the other end if they have any meth. Chris pauses and hangs up, looking dejected.
“Some guy propositioned me today,” Rip is saying, walking into the living room. “He just came up to me in Flip and offered me six hundred dollars to go to Laguna with him for the weekend.”
“I’m sure you’re not the only guy he approached,” Trent says, coming out into the living room and opening the door that leads out to the jacuzzi. He bends down and feels the water. “Chris, do you have any cigarettes?”
“Yeah, in my room, on the bed stand,” Chris says, dialing another number.
I stare back at the poster and wonder if I should do the coke I have in my pocket now, before we go to Morton’s, or when we get there. Trent comes out of Chris’s room and wants to know who’s lying on the floor of Chris’s room, sleeping.
“Oh, that’s Alan, I think. He’s
“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 don’t know what to do/Tell me. Tell me …”
“Did you make the reservations?” Trent calls again.
“You have any meth?” Chris calls back to Trent.
“No,” Trent calls back. “Who made the reservations?”
“Yes, I made them,” Rip shouts. “Now shut up.”
“Do any of you guys have any meth?” Chris asks.
“Meth?” Atiff asks.
“Look, we don’t have any meth,” I tell him.
The music stops.
“You gotta hear this next song,” Trent says, pulling on a shirt.
Chris ignores him and picks up the phone in the kitchen. He dials and then asks whoever’s on the other end if they have any meth. Chris pauses and hangs up, looking dejected.
“Some guy propositioned me today,” Rip is saying, walking into the living room. “He just came up to me in Flip and offered me six hundred dollars to go to Laguna with him for the weekend.”
“I’m sure you’re not the only guy he approached,” Trent says, coming out into the living room and opening the door that leads out to the jacuzzi. He bends down and feels the water. “Chris, do you have any cigarettes?”
“Yeah, in my room, on the bed stand,” Chris says, dialing another number.
I stare back at the poster and wonder if I should do the coke I have in my pocket now, before we go to Morton’s, or when we get there. Trent comes out of Chris’s room and wants to know who’s lying on the floor of Chris’s room, sleeping.
“Oh, that’s Alan, I think. He’s
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