Since that summer, I have remembered my grandmother in a number of ways. I remember playing cards with her and sitting on her lap in airplanes, and the way she slowly turned away from my grandfather at one of my grandfather’s parties at one of his hotels when he tried to kiss her. And I remember her staying at the Bel Air Hotel and giving me pink and green mints, and at La Scala, late at night, sipping red wine, and humming “On the Sunny Side of the Street” to herself.
I find myself standing at the gates of my elementary school. I don’t remember the grass and flowers, bougainvillea I think, being there when I attended; and the asphalt that was near the administration building has been replaced by trees and the dead trees that used to hang limply over the fence near the security booth are not dead anymore; the entire parking lot has been repaved smoothly with new, black asphalt. I also don’t remember a big yellow sign that reads: “Warning. Keep Out. Guard Dogs On Duty” which hangs from the entrance gate, which is visible from my car, parked in the street outside the school. Since classes are over for the day, I decide to walk through the school.
I walk to the gate and then stop for a moment before entering, almost turning back. But I don’t. I step past the gate, thinking that this is the first afternoon in a long time that I’ve come back and walked through the school. I watch three children climb across a jungle gym placed near the entrance gates and I spot two teachers I had in first or second grade, but I don’t say anything to them. Instead, I look through the window of a classroom, where a little girl is painting a picture of the city. From where I stand, I can hear the Glee Club practicing in the room next to where the little girl paints, singing songs I forgot existed, like “Itsy Bitsy Spider” and “Little White Duck.”
I used to pass the school often. Everytime I drove my sisters to their school, I would always make sure to drive past and I would catch sight of small children getting onto yellow buses with black trim and teachers laughing to each other in the parking lot before classes. I don’t think that anyone else who went to the school drives by or gets out and looks around, since I’ve never seen anyone I remember. One day I saw a boy I had gone to the school with, maybe first grade, standing by the fence, alone, fingers gripping the steel wire and staring off into the distance and I told myself that the guy must live close by or something and that was why he was standing alone, like me.
I light a cigarette and sit down on a bench and notice two pay phones and remember when there used to be no pay phones. Some mothers pick their children up from school and the children catch sight of them and run across the yard and into their arms and the sight of the children running across the asphalt makes me feel peaceful; it makes me not want to get up off the bench. But I find myself walking into an old bungalow and I’m positive that this was where my third-grade classroom was located. The bungalow is in the process of being torn down. Next to the abandoned bungalow lies the old cafeteria, and it’s empty and also in the process of being torn down. The paint on both buildings is faded everywhere and peeling off in huge patches of pale green.
I go to another bungalow and the door’s open and I walk in. The day’s homework is written on the blackboard and I read it carefully and then walk to the lockers but can’t find mine. I can’t remember which one it was. I go into the boy’s bathroom and squeeze a soap dispenser. I pick up a yellowed magazine in the auditorium and strike a few notes on a piano. I had played the piano, the same piano, at a Christmas recital in second grade and I strike a few more chords from the song I played and they ring out through the empty auditorium and echo. I panic for some reason and leave the room. Two boys are playing handball outside. A game I forgot existed. I walk away from the school without looking back and get into my car and drive away.
I meet Julian that same day in an old rundown arcade on Westwood Boulevard. He’s playing Space Invaders and I come up and stand next to him. Julian looks tired and talks slowly and I ask him where he’s been and he says around and I ask him for the money and tell him that I’m leaving soon. Julian says that there are some problems, but if I come with him to this guy’s place, he can give me the money.
“Who is this guy?” I ask him.
“This guy is …” Julian waits and blows away an entire row of Space Invaders. “This guy is some guy I know. He’ll give you your money.” Julian loses a warrior, mutters something.
“Why don’t you get it from him? And then bring it to me?” I tell him.
Julian looks up from the game and stares at me.
“Wait a minute,” he says, and leaves the arcade. When he comes back, he tells me that if I want the money, I have to come with him, now.
“I really don’t want to.”
“See ya later, Clay,” Julian says.
“Wait …”
“What’s wrong? You wanna come or not? You want your money or not?”
“Why do we have to do it this way?”
“Because,” is all Julian says.
“Is there any other way we can work this out?”
Pause.
“Julian?”
“Do you want your money or not?”
“Julian.”
“Do you want your money or not, Clay?”
“Yeah.”
“Then come on, let’s go.”
We leave the arcade.
Finn’s apartment is on Wilshire Boulevard, not too far away from Rip’s penthouse. Julian says he’s known Finn for six, maybe seven months, but from the look on Julian’s face I get the feeling that he’s been going to Finn’s apartment a lot longer than that, for too long. The parking attendant knows his car and lets him park it in the Loading Zone Only section. Julian waves at the doorman sitting on a couch. To get to Finn’s place, we take the elevator and Julian presses P for Penthouse. The elevator’s empty and Julian starts to sing some old Beach Boys song, really loudly, and I lean against the wall of the elevator and take a deep breath as it comes to a stop. I can make out my reflection, blond hair cut too short, a deep tan, sunglasses still on.
We walk through the darkness of the hall to get to Finn’s door and Julian rings the bell. The door’s opened by a boy, maybe fifteen, with bleached-blond hair and the tan, tough looks of most of the surfers at Venice or Malibu. The boy who’s only wearing gray shorts, and who I recognize as the boy who was leaving Rip’s apartment the day Rip was supposed to meet me at Cafe Casino, and he stares at us malevolently as we walk in. I wonder if this is Finn or if Finn is sleeping with this surfer and the thought makes me tense and my stomach falls a little. Julian knows where Finn’s “office” is, where Finn does his business. I start to get suspicious for some reason and nervous. Julian comes to a white door and opens it and the two of us walk into a totally spare, totally white room, complete with floor-to-ceiling windows and mirrors on the ceiling and this feeling of vertigo washes over me and I almost have to catch my balance. I notice that I can see my father’s penthouse in Century City from this room and I get paranoid and start to wonder if my father can see me.
“Hey, hey, hey. It’s my best boy.” Finn’s sitting behind a large desk and is maybe twenty-five, thirty, blond, tan, unremarkable looking. The desk is empty except for a phone and an envelope with Finn’s name on it and two small silver vials. The only other thing sitting on the desk is this glass paperweight with a small fish trapped in it, its eyes staring out helplessly, almost as if it was begging to be freed, and I start to wonder, If the fish is already dead, does it even matter?
“Who’s this?” Finn asks, smiling at me.
“He’s a friend of mine. Name is Clay. Clay, this is Finn.” Julian shrugs, distracted.
Finn checks me out and smiles again and then turns to Julian.
“How did everything go last night?” Finn asks, still smiling.
Julian pauses and then says, “Okay, fine,” and looks down.
“Fine? That’s all? Jason called me today and said that you were fantastic. Really tops.”
“He did?”
“Yeah. Really. He rea
lly digs you.”
I begin to feel weak, walk around the room, search my pocket for a cigarette.
Another pause and then Julian coughs.
“Well, kid, if you’re not too busy today, you’ve got an appointment at four at the Saint Marquis with some business guy from outta town. And then tonight at Eddie’s party, okay?”
Finn stares at Julian and then looks at me.
“You know what?” He starts tapping his fingers on the desk. “You bringing your friend here might be a good thing. Guy at the Saint Marquis wants two guys. One just to watch, of course, but Jan is out at the Colony and might not be back .…”
I look at Finn and then over at Julian.
“No, Finn. He’s a friend,” Julian says. “I owe him money. That’s why I brought him by.”
“Listen, I can wait,” I say, realizing somehow that it’s too late and adrenaline starts to rush through me.
“Why don’t you two guys go?” Finn says, looking me over. “Julian, take your friend.”
“No, Finn. Don’t drag anybody else into this.”
“Listen, Julian,” Finn says, not smiling anymore, enunciating each word clearly. “I said, I think that you and your friend should go to the Saint Marquis at four, all right?” Finn turns to me. “You want your money, right?”
I shake my head, no.
“You don’t?” he asks incredulously.
“Yes. I mean, yes, I … I do,” I say. “Sure.”
Finn turns to Julian and then back at me. “You feel all right?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Just have the shakes.”
“Wanna lude?”
“No thanks.” I look back at the fish.
Finn turns to Julian. “So, how are your parents, Julian?”
“I don’t know.” Julian’s still looking down.
“Yeah, okay … well,” Finn begins. “Okay, why don’t you two go to the hotel and then meet me at The Land’s End and then we’ll go to Eddie’s party and give you your money and your friend his money. Okay, babes? How about that? How does that sound?”
“Where do I meet you?” Julian asks.
“At The Land’s End. Upstairs,” Finn says. “What is this? Is something wrong?”
“No,” Julian says. “When?”
“Nine-thirty?”
“Fine.”
I look over at Julian and the image of sports club after school in fifth grade comes back to me.
“Are you okay, Julie?” Finn looks back at Julian.
“Yeah, I’m just nervous.” Julian’s voice trails off. He’s about to say something, mouth opens. I can hear a plane passing by, overhead. Then an ambulance.
“What is it, babe? Hey, you can tell me.” Finn seems understanding and walks over to Julian and puts his arm around him.
I think Julian’s crying.
“Will you excuse us, please?” Finn asks me politely.
I walk out of the room and close the door behind me, but I can still hear the voices.
“I think that tonight will be my last … my last night. Okay, Finn? I don’t think I can do this anymore. I’m just so sick of feeling so … sad all the time and I can’t … Can’t I do something else for you? Just till I pay you back?” Julian’s voice is all shaky and then it cracks.
“Hey, hey, hey, baby,” Finn croons. “Baby, it’s okay.”
I could leave the penthouse now. Even though Julian drove, I could leave the penthouse. I could call someone to pick me up.
“No, Finn, no, it’s not.”
“Here …”
“Ho, Finn. No way. I don’t want that. I’m through with that.”
“Of course, you are.”
There’s a really long silence and I can only hear a couple of matches being lit and this slapping sound, and after a while, Finn finally speaks up. “Now, you know that you’re my best boy and you know that I care for you. Just like my own kid. Just like my own son …” There’s a pause and then Finn says, “You look thin.”
The surfer brushes past me and enters the room and tells Finn that someone named Manuel is on the phone. The surfer leaves. Julian gets up from Finn’s desk, buttoning his sleeve, and says goodbye to Finn.
“Hey, keep up the Nautilus. Keep up the bod.” Finn winks.
“Sure.”
“See ya later tonight, right, Clay?”
I want to say no, but I have the feeling somehow that I will be seeing him later tonight and I nod and say, “Yeah” and try to sound convincing, like I mean it.
“You’re terrific, you kids. Just fab,” Finn tells us.
I follow Julian across the hallway and as I cross the living room to get to the door, I see the surfer lying in the living room on the floor, his right hand down his pants, eating a bowl of Captain Crunch. He’s alternating between reading the back of the cereal box and watching “The Twilight Zone” on the huge TV screen in the middle of the living room and Rod Serling’s staring at us and tells us that we have just entered The Twilight Zone and though I don’t want to believe it, it’s just so surreal that I know it’s true and I stare at the boy on the living room rug for one last time and then slowly turn away and follow Julian out the door and into the darkness of Finn’s hall. And in the elevator on the way down to Julian’s car, I say, “Why didn’t you tell me the money was for this?” and Julian, his eyes all glassy, sad grin on his face, says, “Who cares? Do you? Do you really care?” and I don’t say anything and realize that I really don’t care and suddenly feel foolish, stupid. I also realize that I’ll go with Julian to the Saint Marquis. That I want to see if things like this can actually happen. And as the elevator descends, passing the second floor, and the first floor, going even farther down, I realize that the money doesn’t matter. That all that does is that I want to see the worst.
The Saint Marquis. Four o’clock. Sunset Boulevard. The sun is huge and burning, an orange monster, as Julian pulls into the parking lot and for some reason he’s passed the hotel twice and I keep asking him why and he keeps asking me if I really want to go through with this and I keep telling him that I do. As’ soon as I step out of the car, I look at the pool and wonder if anybody has drowned in the pool. The Saint Marquis is a hollow hotel; it has a swimming pool in a courtyard surrounded by rooms. There’s a fat man in a lounge chair, his body shining, suntan oil slathered onto it. He stares at the two of us as we walk toward the room Finn told Julian to go to. The man’s staying in room 001. Julian walks up to the door and knocks. The curtains are closed and a face, a shadow, peers out. The door’s opened by a man, forty, forty-five, wearing slacks and a shirt and a tie, who asks, “Yes … what may I do for you?”
“You’re Mr. Erickson, right?”
“Yes … Oh, you must be …” His voice trails off as he looks Julian and me over.
“Is something wrong?” Julian asks.
“No, not at all. Why don’t you two come in?”
“Thanks,” Julian says.
I follow Julian into the room and become unnerved. I hate hotel rooms. My great-grandfather died in one. At the Stardust in Las Vegas. He had been dead two days before anybody found him.
“Would you boys like a drink?” the man asks.
I have a feeling that these men always ask this and though I want one, badly, I look at Julian, who shakes his head and says, “No, thank you, sir.” And I also say, “No, thank you, sir.”
“Why don’t you two boys make yourself comfortable and sit down.”
“Can I take my jacket off?” Julian asks.
“Yes. By all means, son.”
The man begins to make himself a drink.
“Are you in L.A. for long?” Julian asks.
“No, no, just a week, for business.” The man sips his drink.
“What do you do?”
“I’m into real estate, son.”
I look over at Julian and wonder if this man knows my father. I look down and realize that I don’t have anything to say, but I try to think of something; the need to hear my own voice b
egins to get more intense and I keep wondering if my father knows this guy. I try to shake the thought from my head, the idea of this guy maybe coming up to my father at Ma Maison or Trumps, but it stays there, stuck.
Julian speaks up. “Where are you from?”
“Indiana.”
“Oh, really? Where in Indiana?”
“Muncie.”
“Oh. Muncie, Indiana.”
“That’s right.”
There’s a pause and the man shifts his eyes from Julian to me and then back to Julian. He sips his drink.
“Well, which of you young men would like to get up?” The man from Indiana is gripping his glass too tightly and he sets his drink on the bar. Julian stands up.
The man nods, and asks, “Why don’t you take off your tie?”
Julian does.
The man shifts his gaze from Julian over to me, to make sure that I’m watching.
“And your shoes and socks.”
Julian does this also and then looks down.
“And … uh, the rest.”
Julian slips out of his shirt and pants and the man peels back the window shade and looks out onto Sunset Boulevard and then back at Julian.
“Do you like living in L.A.?”
“Yeah. I love L.A.,” Julian says, folding his pants.
The man looks over at me and then says, “Oh no, this won’t do. Why don’t you sit over there, near the window. That’s better.” The man sits me down in an easy chair and positions me nearer the bed and then, satisfied, walks up to Julian and places his hand on Julian’s bare shoulder. His hand drops down to Julian’s jockey shorts and Julian closes his eyes.