“Your wife is here plus you’re a little blotto.” She reached for a black and orange hand towel and wiped my forehead.
“When has that ever stopped us?” I asked “sadly.”
“From what?” she asked with mock outrage, but then smiled lasciviously.
I hunched over the sink and Hoovered up both lines with a straw and then immediately turned around and pressed into her, the guitar dividing us. When I kissed her mouth, it opened with no resistance and we fell against a wall. I swung the guitar over my shoulder and kept pushing up against her, an erection pulsing in my jeans, while she kept pretending to push me away, but not really. Somewhere during all of this my sombrero fell off.
“You’re so hot I can’t keep my hands off you,” I panted. “Have you ever played doctor?”
She laughed and broke away. “Look, this isn’t gonna happen here,” and then, studying my head, “Did you do something to your hair?”
I kissed her on the mouth again. And she responded even more urgently this time. We were suddenly interrupted by my ringing cell phone. I ignored it. We kept kissing but I already felt the pangs of disappointment—there was no chance anything more was going to happen in this bathroom tonight—and the phone kept vibrating in my back pocket until I had to answer it.
Aimee finally pushed me away. “Okay—that’s enough.”
“For now,” I said in my sexiest voice, though it came out sounding merely ominous. My arm still around her, I held the phone to my ear with my free hand.
“Yo?” I said, checking the incoming number.
“It’s me.” It was Jay but I could barely hear him.
“Where are you?” I whined. “Jesus, Jay, you are one lost bastard.”
“What do you mean, where am I?” he asked.
“You sound like you’re at some kind of party.” I paused. “Don’t tell me that many people showed up at your goddamn reading.”
“Well, open the door and you’ll see where I am” was his reply.
“Open which door?”
“The one you’re behind, moron.”
“Oh.” I turned to Aimee. “It’s the Jayster.”
“Why don’t you just let me out first,” Aimee suggested, hurrying toward the mirror to make sure everything was in place.
But I opened the door, high and not caring, and Jay stood there, his hair fashionably tousled, wearing black slacks and an orange Helmut Lang button-down.
“Ah, I thought I’d find you in a bathroom.” And then Jay turned his gaze on Aimee and said, after looking her over appreciatively, “It’s where he can usually be located.”
“I have a weak bladder.” I shrugged and bent down to retrieve my sombrero.
“And you also have”—Jay reached over and touched my nose as I stood up—“what I am and am not hoping is baby powder above your upper lip.”
I leaned toward the bathroom mirror and wiped off the residue of coke, then placed the straw hat back onto my head at what I thought was a raffish angle.
“So creative yet so destructive, I know, I know,” Jay said, causing Aimee to crack up.
“Jay McInerney, Aimee Light.” I leaned closer to the mirror and checked my nose again.
“I’m a big fan—” Aimee started.
“Hey, watch it.” I scowled. “Aimee’s a student at the college and she’s doing her thesis on me.”
“So that explains . . . this?” Jay said, gesturing at the scene in the bathroom.
Aimee looked away nervously and said, “Nice to meet you, but I’ve gotta go.”
“Want a bump?” I asked Jay, blocking Aimee’s exit.
“Look, I’ve really gotta go,” Aimee said more insistently and squeezed past me, and then I took one last look in the mirror and followed, closing the bathroom door behind us. The three of us, outside in the hall, were suddenly approached by a very tall and sexy cat holding a tray of nachos. I slung the guitar back across my chest, almost hitting her with the neck but she ducked in time. Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” was now pumping through the house.
“Meow,” Jay said, and took a chip dripping with cheese.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Aimee muttered.
I nodded, watching as she moved back to where her friend was still chatting up the werewolf. “Hey,” I called out. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.” And I continued to stare until it became apparent she was not going to look back.
Knocking me out of my reverie, Jay gestured at the cat with the nachos. “I take it the thought of food is the furthest thing from your mind?”
“Want a bump?” I whispered into his ear involuntarily.
“Even though you’re sounding like a parrot, there is really no other reason to be here.” He looked around the darkened living room as a man dressed as Anna Nicole Smith pushed past us to use the bathroom. “But is there someplace more private?”
“Follow me,” I said, and when I noticed him taking another nacho I snapped, “And stop flirting with the help.”
But we were trapped. Jay and I were huddled on the periphery of the party, and I was strategizing how to get to my office without Jayne seeing us; back inside, she was introducing David Duchovny to the Allens, our neighbors and truly tiresome bores, and my plans had become increasingly urgent since I desperately needed another line—the garage, I suddenly realized, the garage—when I felt someone tugging at my guitar. I looked down: it was Sarah. “Daddy?” she said, her face a frown of concern. She was wearing a little T-shirt with the word BABE on it.
“And who is this?” Jay asked sweetly, kneeling beside her.
“Daddy,” Sarah said again, ignoring him.
“She calls you ‘Daddy’?” Jay asked, sounding worried.
“We’re working on it,” I said. “Honey, what is it?”
I noticed Marta on the outskirts of the living room, craning her neck.
“Daddy, Terby’s mad,” Sarah said, pouting.
Terby was the bird doll I had bought Sarah in August for her birthday. It was a monstrous-looking but very popular toy that she’d wanted badly yet the thing was so misconceived and grotesque—black and crimson feathers, bulging eyes, a sharp yellow beak with which it continuously gurgled—that both Jayne and I balked at buying her one until Sarah’s pleas drowned out all reasoning. Since the awful thing was sold out everywhere I’d resorted to using Kentucky Pete—who was very adept at obtaining contraband—to secure one that according to him had been smuggled in from Mexico.
“Terby’s mad,” Sarah whined again.
“Well, calm him down,” I said, glancing around. “Bring him up some nachos. Maybe he’s hungry.”
“Terby says it’s too loud and Terby’s mad.” Her arms were crossed in a parody of an upset child.
“Okay, baby, we’ll take care of it.” I stood on my tiptoes and waved at Marta, then pointed down and mouthed, She’s here. Relieved, Marta started pushing toward us through the mass of bodies.
And suddenly Sarah was surrounded. Adorable children, I’d begun to notice, had that effect on people. Put them in a room full of adults and they were always the star attraction. Girls from my workshop and some of the cat-woman caterers were now leaning in and asking her questions in baby-doll voices, and Sarah soon seemed to forget all about Terby as I slowly pulled McInerney away. The cute little BABE basked in everybody’s attention even as “Don’t Fear the Reaper” roared through the house—an unsettling moment, but also my chance to escape.
As I led Jay down a long hallway toward the door that opened into the garage, he said, “You took care of that so well.”
“Jay, she’s six years old and thinks her bird doll’s alive,” I said, exasperated. “Now, do you want me to stand there and deal with that, or do you want to shut up and do a line with me?”
“You really don’t know how to do this, do you?”
“Do what? Throw a kick-ass party?”
“No. Be married. Be the dad.”
“Well, being married’s okay—but the dad thing’s a lit
tle tougher,” I said. “ ‘Daddy, can I have some juice?’ ‘How about some water, honey?’ ‘Daddy?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Can I have some juice?’ ‘How about some water instead, honey?’ ‘Daddy, can I have some juice?’ ‘Okay, honey, you want some juice?’ ‘No, it’s okay, I’ll just have some water.’ It’s like some fucking Beckett play that we’re rehearsing constantly.”
Jay just stared at me, grim-faced.
“Hey, but I bought a book,” I said flippantly. “Fatherhood for Dummies, and it is helping immensely. If only my father—”
“Okay, I can see what sort of evening this is turning into.”
“Hey, how was the reading?” I asked, switching gears.
“I like your little town” was his noncommittal answer, and I realized that the reading had probably been a bust. Not high, I would have wanted to pursue this, but wasted I did not.
I opened the door and ushered Jay into the garage and then peered back down the hallway to see if we’d been followed. I closed and locked the door and flicked on the fluorescent lights. The four-car garage contained my Porsche, Jayne’s Range Rover and a motorcycle I’d just purchased with unexpected Swedish royalties. And, I just noticed, a miserable golden retriever that lay waiting for us in the corner, curled up against Robby’s bike. But Jay aroused so little interest that Victor barely looked up.
“Ignore that dog,” I told him.
“Ah yes, your intimacy problems with animals. I forgot.”
“Hey, I dated Patty O’Brien for three months.” And then: “Ready for a little acción?”
“Indeed.” Jay rubbed his hands together eagerly.
“I have brought us some very pure Bolivian Marching Powder,” I said, rummaging through my pockets.
“Ooh—the Devil’s Dandruff.”
I quickly located the stash and handed Jay a packet. He opened it, inspected the coke and then put it down on the hood of the Porsche and started rolling a twenty into a tight green straw.
After I did two huge bumps from my own gram I wanted to show off my new bike.
“Hey, Jayster—check it out. The Yamaha Y2F-RI. A hundred and fifty-two horsepower. Top speed: a hairsbreadth under a hundred and seventy miles per hour,” I purred.
“How much?”
“Only ten grand.”
“Well spent. What happened to the Ducati?”
“Had to sell it. Jayne thought it was giving Robby bad ideas. And my argument that the kid doesn’t care about anything proved totally useless.”
“Like father, like—”
“Start panting with eagerness and just do the fucking coke.”
Jay did a bump and then paused, grimacing. A moment passed.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Actually, this baking powder is cut with way too much laxative.”
“Oops, wrong stuff.” I took the heavily cut junk from Jay, refolded the packet and handed him a proper gram.
“Where’s your guy, your dealer?” he asked, still grimacing, licking his lips.
“Um, back at the college. Why?” I asked. “And please don’t take a dump in our garage.”
“So your refund for that shit is unlikely?” he asked, opening the fresh packet. “Suck-ah!”
“That crap’s for wastoids who can’t tell the difference—I just gave you the real stuff.”
“You’re so cheap,” he muttered. He did two bumps and flung his head back and then smiled slowly and said, “Now, that’s much better.”
“Anything for a bud.”
“So, really, how is married life?” he asked, lighting a Marlboro and easing into coke chat. “The wife, the kids, the posh suburbs?”
“Yeah, the tragedy’s complete, huh?” I laughed hollowly.
“No, really.” Jay seemed mildly interested.
“Marriage is great,” I said, opening my own packet again. “Unlimited sex. Laughs. Oh yeah, and continuous companionship. I think I’ve got this down to a science.”
“And the ubiquitous student in the bathroom?”
“Just part of the package here at Casa Ellis.” I did another bump and then bummed a cigarette.
“No, seriously—who is she?” he asked, lighting it. “I hear today’s college women are ‘prodigious.’ ”
“Prodigious? Is that really what you heard?”
“Well, I read it in a magazine. It was something I wanted to believe.”
“The Jayster. Always a dreamer.”
“I am so relieved. I knew the whole suburban scene was a great idea for you. By the way,” he said, gesturing at a plastic skeleton hanging from a rafter, “is this how the house normally looks?”
“Yeah, Jayne loves it.”
He paused. “And you’re still sleeping on the couch?”
“It’s a guest bedroom and it’s just a phase—but, wait, how did you know?”
He just inhaled on his cigarette, debating whether to tell me something.
“Jay?” I asked. “Why do you think I’m sleeping in the guest bedroom?”
“Helen told me that Jayne said something about you having bad dreams.”
Relieved to have an out, I said, “I’m not having any dreams at all.”
Jay’s expression led me to believe that this was not all he’d been told.
“Look, we’re in couples counseling,” I admitted. “It helps.”
Jay took this in. “You’re in couples counseling.” He considered this as I nodded. “After three months of marriage? That does not bode well, my friend.”
“Hey, earth to Jayster! We’ve known each other for almost twelve years, man. It’s not like we met last July and just decided to elope.” I paused. “And how in the hell did you know I’m sleeping in the guest room?”
“Um, Bretster, Jayne called up Helen.” He stopped, did another bump. “Just thought I’d warn you.”
“Oh, Jesus, why would Jayne call up your wife?” I tried to toss off this question casually but shuddered with coke-induced paranoia instead.
“She’s worried that you’re using again, and I guess”—Jay made a gesture—“she’s wrong . . . right?”
“Haven’t we outgrown all this tired irony? Weren’t we supposed to give up acting twenty-two forever?”
“Well, you’re wearing a marijuana T-shirt at your own Halloween party, where you just were making out with a coed in the bathroom, so the answer to that, my friend, is a definite nope.”
Suddenly the dog had enough and started barking for us to vacate the garage.
“On that note,” I said. “We’re heading back to the party.”
We reentered the labyrinth and weaving through the darkness I felt twitchy. The rooms seemed even more crowded than before, and outside people were swimming in the pool. Realizing that a lot of kids from the college had crashed I started worrying about what Jayne was making of all this. The hallways were so jammed that Jay and I had to walk through the kitchen to get to the living room for drinks and just then Joe Walsh’s familiar opening riffs to “Life’s Been Good” blasted me into a manic moment of air jamming. Jay looked suitably amused. The sweet aroma of pot began announcing itself in the living room. My heartbeat had doubled because of the cocaine, and I had acquired a new crystalline focus and wanted everyone to be friends. That’s when I noticed Robby wandering around in a Kid Rock T-shirt and baggy jeans so I grabbed him roughly by the neck and pulled him toward us. “I bet it took a lot outta you, huh? Coming down all them stairs?” Robby shrugged, and I introduced him to Jay and then handed them both margaritas, which Robby took so reluctantly that I had to playfully smack him around, urging him to drink it. Robby and Jay started having the kind of inane conversations eleven-year-olds have with people approaching fifty. Robby had taken his usual stance when talking to an adult: You mean nothing to me. I noticed he was gripping a baseball designed to look like the moon.
And then more tugging on my guitar: Sarah again.
I rolled my eyes and muttered a curse under my breath. I looked down and sighed: she was weari
ng tiny white hot pants.
“These are the kids,” I told Jay, gesturing at Robby and Sarah. “Her look is glam, and pink is very in on six-year-olds this season. Robby’s wearing white hip-hop and is now officially a tween.”
“A tween?” Jay asked, then leaned toward me and whispered, “Wait, that’s not like a gay thing, is it?”
“No, it’s a tween,” I explained. “You know, someone who isn’t a child or a teenager.”
“Jesus,” Jay muttered. “They’ve thought of everything, haven’t they?”
Our conversation had not deterred Sarah.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, sweetie? Why aren’t you up in bed? Where’s Marta?”
“Terby’s still mad.”
“Well, who’s Terby mad at?”
“Terby scratched me.” She held out her arm, and I squinted in the purple darkness but couldn’t see anything. This was exasperating.
“Robby—take your sister back upstairs. You know she needs her usual twelve hours and it’s getting late. It is now officially bedtime.”
“Then can I come back down?” he asked.
“No, you cannot,” I said, noticing that half his margarita was gone. “Where’s your friend?”
“Ashton took a Zyprexa and then fell asleep,” Robby said blankly.
“Well, I suggest you take one too, buddy, because tomorrow’s a school day.”
“It’s just Halloween. Nothing’s going on.”
“Hey, I said it’s bedtime, buster. Jeez, kids demand so much attention.”
“Daddy!” Sarah shouted again.
“Honey—you’ve got to get in bed.”
“But Terby’s flying.”
“Okay, well, you’ve got to put him to bed too.”
Robby rolled his eyes anxiously and kept sipping from the margarita. Something got stuck in his teeth and he pulled a green spider out of his mouth and studied it as if it meant something.
“Terby’s angry,” Sarah whined, pulling on my guitar until I knelt down at her level.
“I know, honey,” I said soothingly. “Terby sounds like he’s a big mess.”
“He’s on the ceiling.”
“Let’s get Mommy. She’ll get him down.”
“But he’s on the ceiling.”