Actually I want you 9 page

In the morning I woke up and discovered there was really nothing wrong with the world at all, apart from waking up with barbecue breath. I boiled eggs and drank a carton of milk, and then stood on the roof deck for an hour trying to piece together a lyric that would say exactly all that while not saying exactly all that. Baby called me and said, “Why aren’t you picking up your work phone?”

It took me a moment to realize that she was talking about Virtual Me, which of course was not in my possession. I stretched and closed my eyes. The sun was straight overhead and pointed only at me. I replied, “Because I only use it for, like, connecting with the Internet. Don’t cross the streams, Baby. Why haven’t you got me my Mustang?”

“Ha-ha, this is me laughing, Cole. I want that girl on the show.”

It felt slightly less sunny out here. “I hope by that girl you are referring to my car.”

“The Internet loves the idea that you’re dating someone. They want to know if she’s the one, Cole. She’s a very pretty girl. Think about what it would do for viewership.”

I didn’t have to think. I knew exactly what the world would do with it, because they’d done it with every other girl they’d ever spotted me with. The idea of trying to date in public tweaked exactly the same part of my brain as the idea of speaking to my parents or old friends from home. Which was to say the same part of my brain that was always contemplating blowing myself away or jumping off a bridge or eating some pills.

It wasn’t a part of my brain I liked to engage. Until very recently, I thought I’d lobotomized it from my skull, but apparently it was still in there.

Baby said, “Convince her to be on the show and I’ll get you a Mustang.”

I laughed before I’d even though about it, because it was such an obvious devil’s bargain that there was no danger I’d fall into it.

“We need to have dinner, Cole,” Baby said. “I think that is the thing. Bring her. Tonight. Clear your schedule.”

“I’m not feeling very dinner-y,” I replied. “Seeing as my track nearly got screwed over yesterday and I had a bunch of topless girls in my apartment last night.”

“That sounds exciting. I like exciting.”

“I was being plenty exciting without that.”

“Were you?” Baby asked curiously. “Are you being exciting now?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“Great. I look forward to seeing it. Dinner tonight, don’t forget. Also, pick up your other phone when I call it.”

She hung up. I called Isabel.

“Culpeper,” she answered.

It never got old, her taking my calls.

“It thrills me when you answer the phone like that,” I told her. I walked to the edge of the roof deck. I could see palm trees and more roof decks. The rest of them were empty, so it was just me and the sun. “Please tell me you are naked.”

“I’m at work, Cole.”

“Naked? Well, it is Santa Monica. Do you have Virtual Me?”

“Of course I do. You just tweeted.”

“Was I funny? Did the Colebots like it?” I watched a little boy appear on one of the roof decks one house away, on the other side of the empty rental. He had a little plane in his hand, and he was flying it up, up, up as high as he could get.

“Oh, please,” Isabel replied. “Also, I think Baby tried to call Virtual Cole.”

“I know. I know everything. Could you possibly use your skills to find me a Colebot who’s having a party in the L.A. area today? Or getting married? Or divorced? Some sort of festive occasion that might involve music?”

I watched the little boy on the deck sail his plane around the table. He was deeply content in a way that I couldn’t ever remember being. If it had been me, I would’ve flown that plane to the edge of the roof deck and jumped.

“I thought you knew everything.” Isabel sighed noisily. “What’s in it for me?”

“My eternal admiration of your superior intellect.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Also, Baby wants to have dinner with us.”

She made a noise that I couldn’t interpret. Then she said again, “I’ll see what I can do.”

After she hung up, I noticed the boy had come to the edge of the roof deck and was staring at me.

“Hey,” I told him. “We’re twins.”

It wasn’t as creepy as it sounded. We were both wearing khaki shorts and no shirts and were tan with sun-kissed brown hair. I couldn’t decide if he was four or nine or twelve. I had no idea of the specifics of children. He was too young to drive, but old enough to be able to turn doorknobs.

“Are you a time traveler?” he called warily.

“Yes,” I replied. I was pleased that he had also noticed the similarity. Already I was shaping this into a song. “But only forward.”

“Are you me?”

“Sure,” I said.

He scratched his stomach with the plane. “What is my future?”

I said, “You’re famous, and you have a Mustang.”

We both looked at the Saturn parked behind the building. With a frown, the boy hurled the plane at me. It careened through the shimmering air before disappearing somewhere into the roof crevices of the rental house, palms hiding it.

“Well, now you’ve done it,” I said. “You’ve probably broken it.”

The boy looked dismissive. “It’s not about the landing. It’s about the flying.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. I felt agreeably goose-bumpy, like I was creeping myself out on purpose. “Maybe you are me. Are you real?”

On the chair behind me, my phone rang. It was Isabel, calling me back. I pointed at the boy and turned to answer it.

“I found you a wedding,” she said.

“I think I just talked to younger me from the past,” I replied. I turned back around, but the roof deck opposite was now empty. “He was flying a plane.”

“Great. I hope you told him to not do drugs. Do you want the address or the name or what?”

I tried to see where the little plane had landed. I sort of wanted it. I made a note to break into the rental house if at all possible. “Give me the everything. Oh, tweet that. That’s something I would say.”

“I’m hanging up now.” She did.

I called T.

“Cole!” he said gladly.

“Life is about to happen,” I said, with a last glance toward where I had seen younger me. “I’m just putting on a shirt.”

He and Joan arrived so quickly that I suspected he had been lying around waiting for me to call. Together, we made the odious journey across the courtyard to Leyla’s part of the compound. Joan and T trailed me, cameras on shoulders.

“Hey,” I said to Leyla.

She was sitting at the island in the kitchen, eating a plate of chopped-up raw vegetables, her dreads hanging around her long face. She blinked at me and then at the cameras. I had not knocked, but she didn’t say anything about it. I tried not to hate her, because it felt like a victory for Baby.

“Today is the day we make magic happen,” I said.

Leyla ate a piece of something green. She chewed. We all got older while she swallowed. “What did you have in mind?”

“Grand things. Where’s your kit?”

She just looked at me. I couldn’t tell if she was high or stupid or simply hating me back. None of those things were mutually exclusive.

“Your drums? These things?” I air-drummed. “Get them. Put them in the Saturn. Come with me into the future.”

She put another vegetable in her mouth. She chewed.

“Since we started this conversation,” I said, “two hundred babies have been born on this planet. And what have we accomplished? You have eaten that thing.”

Leyla swallowed. “You didn’t hurry to get over here until now. Time is continuous, Cole. It doesn’t speed up and slow down. Do not let yourself be fooled by whims. Contentment is constancy.” She drew a slow, even line in the air with something I thought was a zucchini.

I said, “Sure. Okay. But we’re on a schedule now. Drums. Saturn. You and me, baby. Bring your garden there. You can eat it on the way. Do you have a wheelbarrow or something? I’ll chuck it in there for you while you get your kit together.”

She didn’t move. “What am I playing?”

“Music.”

“What kind of music?”

“Mine.”

“Do I know it?”

“There is this thing called jamming and it means you play a piece of music with other people even if you have never heard it before, and if you tell me you have no idea how that’s done, put down that carrot because I’m firing you.”

Leyla ate the carrot. “Music is inherent, man,” she said. “And you don’t have to be such a hole all the time. I’ll get the drums.”

Jeremy was at band practice with people who were not me when I arrived to fetch him.

It wasn’t that I didn’t understand Jeremy getting a new band while I was missing/dead/etc. I was sure I would have done the same thing in his position. Well, I would have started one, not joined one, because I don’t really like team sports unless I’ve invented both the team and the sport. But I didn’t begrudge him for finding some new people to play music with. It’s what we do, after all. We can’t get this out of our blood. The music.

But it didn’t make me feel any better about having to share him. Especially since I wanted better for him than this: a fairly boring band playing inside a fairly boring garage attached to a fairly boring house in a fairly boring part of L.A. I could hear their efforts as I pulled the Saturn up to the worn curb. They were clearly just a high-class cover band with an unimaginative guitarist, a drummer who had learned everything he knew from pool halls, and a singer named Chase or Chad.

That bass player was top-notch, though.

I got out and stepped over a hose snaked across the concrete drive. It was attached to a listless sprinkler that showered the small, brown yard.

That sprinkler, I thought, was a lot like Jeremy. That water wasn’t going to improve that yard any more than Jeremy was going to improve this band. What a waste.

The music died as I approached. The only sound was the cha-cha-cha of the sprinkler. The dim interior of the garage reminded me how much I wanted the Mustang. The smell of it reminded me how much I missed Victor. Our garage practices had been works of art.

“I’m here for Jeremy,” I announced. “Jeremy Shutt. In the case that there are two Jeremys here.”

The humans in the garage simply stared at me, so I explained a few self-evident facts. (1) A band practice is moveable, while a wedding is not, and (2) no amount of practice was going to make this band interesting enough to get a label on board, so (3) really I was just saving them all a lot of time.

The singer, who looked even more like a Chad or a Chase up close, didn’t seem to appreciate my insight. The drummer and guitarist just sort of waved. It turned out I knew both of them, even though I couldn’t remember either of their names. The drummer used to play for a band called ChristCheese, which had been more successful than you might imagine, and the guitarist had been with Pursuit Ten until their percussion guy had OD’d in a bathtub in Oklahoma, which is a sad story no matter how you look at it.

To the singer, I said, “In conclusion, it will make no difference in the relative scheme of things if Jeremy comes with me now.”

The singer was clearly trying to behave himself in front of my cameras, but his voice was a little strained. “You can’t just disappear and then expect to come back and find all your toys where you left them.”

I said, “Don’t be like that. I will not break Jeremy. He’s clearly too valuable for that. You’ll have him back, and you can continue on this grand old path to playing high school proms. We all have to share.”

“Don’t play all, whatever, high and mighty now,” the singer said. “You can’t act as if you’re being gracious while you diss my music.”

“Diss!” I replied. “If you want to hear a proper diss, I can prepare some words for you. But no, my friend. I was merely placing things in perspective for you. You are doing that, in there. And I am doing this, with them.” I gestured to T and Joan. Even with the dimming presence of the Saturn, it seemed quite obvious to me that Cole > Chase.

The ChristCheese drummer and Pursuit Ten’s ex-guitarist both looked at singer Chad/Chase to see what his next move would be.

“Yeah, I know what you’re doing. I know about the show,” he told me. “You think you’re all that because of who you were. But no one cares if you were big once, dude. Your singles are so old that grandmas are humming them. You’re only famous now because you’re a total loser.”

Very evenly, I said, “Also because of those three multi-platinum albums. Let’s be comprehensive.”

“Oh, come on! Don’t pretend you don’t know why people are watching the show. You know I’m right,” the singer scoffed. “Or you would be with a label instead of Baby North. Come on, man. Don’t even pretend it’s about the music.”

His words wedged their way into my heart. Once upon a time, I had written the soundtrack for everyone’s summer. Once upon a time, my face had been on the cover of magazines. Once upon a time, all of these guys in this garage would be shitting themselves to hear my voice in person. What was I doing now?

Just get the show over with. Make the album. Disappear into the Los Angeles sunset with Isabel. But that didn’t feel quite right, or true. I asked, “Don’t you have an Eagles cover to be practicing, or something?”

ChristCheese drummer rattled a cymbal. Pursuit Ten guitarist looked at him sharply, as if warning him not to get ugly. I kind of hoped it got ugly. I wanted to hit something, or to get hit.

The singer said, “I’m not going to take that kind of shit from you.”

“You just did. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to go do a real job now. Jeremy, what’s the verdict?”

I turned to him. It wasn’t a challenge. It was just a question. There was no point gaming Jeremy. Did you game Gandhi? No.

“Jeremy, if you go with this joker,” the singer said, “don’t bother coming back.”

“Chad,” Jeremy said gently.

I knew it.

“I’m serious,” said the guy. The Chad. I knew it.

I said, “Don’t make Lassie choose, Chad.”

“You, shut up. Pick, Jeremy.”

Years ago, I’d dated Victor’s sister, Angie. Pretty seriously. Our breakup after my first tour had been ugly and nasty and entirely because I had slept with anything that took its shirt off in my presence. It was the first time I’d really realized I’d lost my soul and that the beauty of not having a soul was that you couldn’t seem to care that you no longer had one. Even though the band had just gotten back, we already had studio time booked for the next album. Angie had wanted Victor to quit. I had wanted Victor and his magic hands to come with me and never return to Phoenix, New York.

I made him choose between us.

I didn’t think it would kill him.

I didn’t think at all.

Dirt kept falling over the wolf’s muzzle. Somewhere, Victor’s grave was always being filled in.

My day was approaching ruination.

“Jeremy,” repeated Chad. “What’s it going to be?”

Jeremy tucked a bit of hair behind his ear. He sighed. His eyes were on his bass and on my car.

I interrupted. “Stay here.” I hadn’t even realized I was going to say it until I said it. And then even after I said it, I couldn’t believe that I had. It didn’t sound like something I would say.

Every face in the garage turned to me.

I plunged on. “I’m not going to screw you over, Jeremy. If this toolbag won’t take you back just because I need you now, I’ll figure something out today without you. I’ll catch you on the next one. No big deal.”

I felt so virtuous and so awful. If this was the right way, I didn’t like it. I needed to make a note to never do it again.

Jeremy nodded. He didn’t say anything for a moment. Neither did Chad. He didn’t seem to understand what had just happened.

Cole St. Clair had failed to be an asshole — that was what had just happened.

It continued to feel terrible. It felt exactly like that first night, when Isabel had told me to drop dead, and when I had realized that I wanted desperately to become a wolf and could not anymore. No, would not anymore.

I told myself now that I’d feel great later. Noble.

Then Jeremy said, slow and serene and Southern, “Sorry, Chad, but I think I’m going to go with Cole. I might come back, if you ask me, but I would have to give a lot of thought to the emotional manipulation you brought into the conversation today. You know that’s not how I like to work. Give me a moment, Cole. I need to get my sandals.”

He had picked me. I hadn’t asked, and he’d still picked me.

This feeling was almost worse than feeling shitty. Really, it was the difference between the two emotions that was hard to navigate. The sudden lift from crap to joy.

“You bastard,” Chad said. It was unclear if he meant me or Jeremy. He clarified, “You no-talent boy-band wannabe.”

I saluted at him with two fingers.

Jeremy joined me with his bass case. We performed a lengthy handshake, which helped ease my tremendous, painful joy. In a rather perfunctory way, I hooked my foot into the garden hose and twisted the sprinkler round. Artificial rain blasted into the garage’s interior. Now the guitarist and drummer made some noises.

Chad knew a lot of swearwords.

I turned with Jeremy and headed back to the Saturn to where Leyla waited. T was filming everything. I imagined the shot framed gloriously, soaking wet musicians in the background like a car explosion in an action movie.

“That was nearly reasonable of you,” Jeremy said. He added confidently, “They’ll call me.”

A drumstick hurtled by my head. It rattled on the concrete as it landed.

Jeremy leaned to pick it up. “But probably not you.”

After we’d done the episode but before Isabel was off work, I hung out with Jeremy in his old beat-up pickup truck, parked in the middle of a beach lot. It was just the two of us. I’d sent Leyla back with the Saturn because I didn’t want to see either of them ever again.

The sounds were traffic and someone else’s boom box and the surf and the slap of arms on a volleyball. I lay in the truck bed on a dry, crinkly tarp, and Jeremy sat on a tire, looking at me and the ocean. Overhead, the sun pierced the jet trails, baking cracks into the asphalt down below. I was still wound up from performing and now would’ve been a good time for a beer. Jeremy offered me some unsweetened iced tea.

“I don’t want your witches’ brew,” I told him, but I took it anyway and set the jar down by my head. For several long companionable minutes we did nothing together. Jeremy leaned his head back and watched the sky, looking like a wizened Australian guy in the full sun. I closed my eyes and let the heat bake my eyelids. Here with Jeremy, it would be easy to pretend the last three years of my life hadn’t happened, and I could restart without any of my sins. Only then I wouldn’t have met Isabel, and I wouldn’t be here in California. I wondered if there had ever been a more direct route to this place. Maybe I’d been on it and ruined it. Maybe if I’d just stayed on the straight and narrow all along, I would’ve met Isabel at a show.

No, because she didn’t like concerts, and neither did I.

I thought of those three topless girls in my apartment and how they would never be Isabel and Isabel would have never been them.

I couldn’t keep my eyes closed because my brain was moving faster and faster instead of slower and slower. I opened them and said, “All of the girls look old now. When did that start? All I can see when I look at them is what they’re going to look like when they’re forty. It’s like the worst superpower ever.”

Thoughtfully, Jeremy replied, “Really? I always see people as kids. Since I was in, like, middle school. It doesn’t matter how they’re acting or how old they are, I can’t not imagine them as kids.”

“How awful. How can you possibly flip someone off if you’re imagining them as a toddler?”

“Exactly,” Jeremy said.

“Tell me. Why is Leyla so unacceptable?”

“You know I don’t like to judge people.”

“We all do things we don’t like.”

He picked a nub of rubber off the tire and flicked it onto my chest. “She’s not really our thing. Style-wise.”

“Musically or ethically?”

Jeremy said, “I’d rather not perjure myself.”

“Do you even know what perjure means?” I wasn’t 100 percent on it myself. I had a very specialized knowledge base. “I want to fire her. I really do. But what’s the alternative?”

I regretted saying it as soon as it was out of my mouth. Because the alternative was dead, and I didn’t want to talk about it. Don’t say anything, Jeremy. Don’t say his name.

So you ready to do this thing?

— What?

NARKOTIKA.

I didn’t give Jeremy time to answer. “You wouldn’t be with me if it wasn’t about the music, right? I mean, you wouldn’t be doing this with me if it was just about me jerking off on camera as a loser, right?”

“Is this about what Chad said?”

“Who’s Chad?” I asked, as if I couldn’t remember. “Oh, him. No. I was just thinking because of … maybe. Possibly. I’m on a road of self-evaluation. This is one of the side streets.”

Jeremy thought about it. He thought about it for so long that the sun moved a little overhead. A family went by us on their way to the beach. One dad was in a wet suit with a surfboard under his arm. The other dad was in the world’s geekiest swim trunks. The children trotted behind them making gleeful supersonic noises and punching each other.

“Jeremy,” I prompted, because I couldn’t take it anymore.

He said, “What we just did wasn’t about the music. The way’s never been about the music. The way is about the show. The gig. This is just another gig. The studio was about the music.”

“Can I do the music without the way? Like, and still sell anything?”

“I think you like the way too well for that.”

“Hey.”

Jeremy said, “I’m not saying it’s bad. You’re good at it. But sometimes I think you’ve forgotten how to stop doing it. Do you think maybe you should get out of the city for a little bit?”

“Is that a suggestion or a question?”

“Just to get your head back together.”

I rocked my head to look at him. I could feel the knob at the back of my skull grinding and crackling against the tarp and the ridges of the pickup bed. It was sort of satisfying. I shook my head back and forth. Not disagreeing with Jeremy, just feeling the crunching on my head. “What makes you think my head is not entire already? What a glorious time I’m having in this state.”

Jeremy took a drink of unsweetened iced tea. He said, “Chip died.”

“Who the hell is Chip?”

“Chip Mac.”

“Are you even using words, man? Or are you just communicating with a series of clicks and whistles?”

Jeremy repeated slowly, “Chip. Mac. The guitarist Baby hired for you.”

“I didn’t know his name. How’d he die?”

“OD’d.”

It didn’t mean anything at first. Then I made the connection, but the wrong one. “That was totally not my fault.”

“No,” Jeremy agreed. “It wasn’t. He’d just gotten out of rehab, and he’d been in the hospital, too. Did you know the bass player?”

“He was just some kid.”

“Picked up for dealing last year,” he said. “I asked around.”

It was rather heartwarming to imagine Jeremy asking around on my behalf. “So, what? You think Baby was trying to get me wingmen.”

He made a noise of affirmation. It wasn’t really surprising. It did make me feel a little strange, thinking how the guitarist was now dead and he’d just been alive and angry at me. And also thinking about how things might have been different if I hadn’t fired them that night. No wonder Baby had been so aggravated that I’d fired Chip, perfectly poised for a disaster on television. “What if I hadn’t fired them? Lucky.”

“Luck,” Jeremy scoffed softly. “There’s no luck.”

“Then what?”

“Your feet take you where you need to be.”

I thought about this. “My feet have taken me to some pretty rough places.”

“That was your dick, dragging your feet along with.”

I laughed. A flock of pelicans flew by, ungainly but beautiful, reminding me I needed to call Leon and make him ride a Ferris wheel. A word appeared in my head, unbidden: home. Was that what this could be? Was that what I wanted?

“I don’t want to give you back to Chad,” I said.

There was a very long pause. Even by Jeremy standards. Then he said, “I can’t tour with you, Cole.”

Just as before, when he hadn’t trusted me, it wounded. I didn’t care if the rest of the world didn’t trust me, Baby and America and all that. But Jeremy — Isabel —

“I’ve changed.”

“I know,” he said, and he got out the truck keys. “But some things you can’t change.”

In our clinicals today, we’d been going over codes. Codes are basically shorthand for terrible things that happen in hospitals. They’re mostly standardized in California.

Code Red: Fire

Code Orange: Hazardous Material Spill/Release

Code Yellow: Bomb Threat

Code Blue: Someone’s Heart Has Stopped

A few of the more twittering idiots in my class had been transported by fear at the idea of a code possibly going down during our clinicals. Part of me was sort of hoping for one, though. I was going out of my mind with boredom. A hazardous material spill seemed like a good time. The big thing about the codes was to not panic, anyway, and I was excellent at not feeling emotions. The point was to gather all of the information you could, and then act on it.

Baby was basically a code. I couldn’t decide if she was a Code Gray: Combative Person or Code Silver: Person With Weapon/Hostage Situation. In either case, there was no harm at all in finding out more about her. Which was why I agreed to go out to dinner with her, as long as I chose the place. I wanted it to be on my territory, not hers.

I picked Cole up and we headed to Koreatown, a place that many of Sierra’s monsters were afraid of because they were silly little weaklings who believed what their mothers told them. My mother had also told me to not go to Koreatown on my own, but she’d never been, so how would she know? The news was full of lies and, anyway, the food was great.

Everybody wanted something in Koreatown, and nobody was pretending they didn’t. It wasn’t really attractive, but it felt satisfyingly urban to me. The streets were wide and treeless; everything that wasn’t an apartment building was a strip mall, and everything that wasn’t a strip mall was made out of concrete. There were more walls tagged with graffiti than not. Not the feel-good graffiti of Venice, either. It was all gang tags and well-done murals about ugly things. One of my favorites was a mural of wolves at a kill. There was no blood, though — just butterflies. That felt like Koreatown to me. It came at L.A.’s prettiness all real and brutal, but in attacking Los Angeles, it just became part of the prettiness. That was the hungry magic of Los Angeles. It defied all comers and turned them all into yet more Los Angeles.

I parked the SUV, swiped a credit card at the meter, and in we went on foot. On our way to the restaurant, a bunch of cute Latino guys on the opposite street corner hooted. I thought it was directed at me until one of them flipped Cole the bird and shouted “NARKOTIKA!” to make sure Cole knew it was personal.

Cole, wired and hectic from whatever had happened during his shoot today, looked over his shoulder at them. For a moment I was afraid he was going to do something that got him stabbed, but he just flashed a peace sign at them. Then he turned away, despite their shouted replies. Done with them. Just, done.

The restaurant, Yuzu, was a Japanese place located in an apocalyptic shopping mall on the edge of Koreatown. It was four half-abandoned, dimly lit levels connected by ancient escalators. Every store that was still open had signs in Korean out front.

I liked coming here because the food was good, but also because it felt like a place that you couldn’t just use the Internet to find. You had to use something real. And you had to actually and truly not give a damn about what other people told you.

We rode an escalator up. I was wearing a lace top, and Cole’s hand had snuck under the edge of it to rest on my bare lower back. I returned the favor. His back felt smooth and cool beneath his PROUD TO BE CANADIAN T-shirt. He was distracted, though. His eyes were narrowed as his gaze flicked from the stores to me. A little muscle moved in his jaw.

“What?” I asked. “Just say it.”

He said, “I think I’ve been here before.”

“Think? Seems pretty memorable to me.”

“I might not have been in a remembering mood.”

Date: 2015-12-11; view: 556