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Chapter 31/Page 4 |
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What the fuck? I’ve been driving these streets for years and suddenly nothing’s where it should be. I can see some familiar landmarks, but they’re not sitting where they should. I feel like I’m under water or something. “Where the hell are you going?” Best Friend is reaching up to turn down the radio. “Have you ever been in one of these bars that are the front room of somebody’s house? “Eyew! No.” “I have to go into one. Just to see.” Finally, off in the distance I see it -- a deliciously tacky electric Pabst Blue Ribbon sign hung with care on the front of a bungalow. The place doesn’t even have a name -- the perfect complement to the nameless factories around the corner. It’s more beautiful than I could ever imagine -- worn out red pleather barstools that squeak with every movement, faux walnut Formica covering the bar, and a jukebox with real 45s spinning Lynryd Skynryd, Styx, and Supertramp. The people inside are gorgeous! Women in their thirties who looked fifty, chain smoking Marlboro Lights, laughing hysterically with that dry smoker’s hack at the most unfunny thoughts. The least funny of which was that I am interested in fucking their pot-bellied, dimpled-ass carcass while they cough up Mohawk whiskey-scented furballs on their dirty sheets. Wham, bam - no thank you, ma’am. And the men -- straight off the production line, they park their Dodge Ram pickups outside, cash their paychecks inside, and suck down ten ounces of Schiltz for four bits a throw. I’d never leave a pile of cash on a bar in L.A. These skinny motherfuckers with beer bellies dance a fucked up mating dance in place while the fat asses squeal in unison with the barstools; they play pool for twenty-five cents a game or roll bar dice for shots; they do whatever they want and put off going home to their loveless marriages and products of failed birth control for as long as humanly possible. These are the guys my dad works with. This is where they go at the end of the day while my dad comes straight home, paycheck in hand. I hate my dad for everything he is. But he’s a good man. I going to bring myself to tell my father I that think he is a decent person. Maybe not on this visit, but certainly when the parents come to visit me in California and see that I turned out all right and they can be proud of themselves. “What did you do to her?” “What did I do to who?” I ask. “Were you in Chicago today?” My chest is constricting. I’m busted. “She called me in a panic,” Best Friend says. “I speak to her maybe twice a year and suddenly she’s calling me, practically in tears, to find out what you want with her. Like I’m supposed to know. What went on with you two?” My mouth is dry and the Old Style isn’t doing anything to help the situation. There’s nothing to do but come clean. She deserves it. I need one last deep breath first. “We were sleeping together.” “What?” I’ve never seen her shocked before. “But we were always together,” she says. “Not quite always.” Her face is betraying the lightest bit of hurt. I’m an asshole. “I’m really sorry. It was justÉ” “When did it start?” “Not long after she broke up with your cousin. There was a party at the warehouse and you went off with what’s-his-name who was playing downstairs. You left us alone.” “So you fucked her.” “Not that night. She thought I was hung up on you. It didn’t happen till she was sure that I wanted her.” That probably hurt Best Friend to hear that, but I have to be honest with her. I’ll order another round. We’re not going anywhere for a while. “Was it serious?” I pull out the address book and show her 3a’s “I love you” note. She lets out a protracted sigh. I have no idea what I’m doing. “Did you love her, too?” I can feel my head nodding. “Yes. Very much.” “Why didn’t you take her to California?” She sounds angry at my stupidity. She should -- I was stupid. “She begged me to,” I tell her, “right up to the night before I left.” “So why did you take-” “I don’t know! Why do you think I fucking went to Chicago today? I may have totally fucked up my life -- and hers. I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing.” “That explains why she was acting so weird after you moved.” “What do you mean?” “That’s why we don’t speak anymore. We got into a fight over you.” “Aw, shit.” “She was pissed at you but wouldn’t say why. I stuck up for you.” “I’m sorry.” She’s looking me dead in the eye and speaking so calmly it scares me. “You should have told me.” My gut is twisting into knots from the guilt. If 3a wanted nothing to do with me, the least I can do is try to put her and Best Friend back together, even if it means avoiding the truth one more time. “She wanted to tell you,” I say, “I wouldn’t let her.” “Why not?” “I was afraid of hurting you.” What does that blank expression mean? I need to say something. “I know how stupid that sounds, given the outcome.” “You should have told me.” “We almost did. Remember that New Year’s Eve we all ended up crashing in my bed?” “Uh-huh.” “Well, you did most of the crashing. We stayed up. I was afraid we were going to wake you up. She said we should andÉ” “You should have. I would have been into it.” “Oh! Don’t say that. I have enough regrets as it is. Look, I never wanted to hurt you. I just couldn’t figure out how to tell you. I’m so sorry.” This silence is an eternity. What’s going through her mind? “Me too.” We both sip our drinks for a few silent refractory moments to let the emotional heaving subside. She will have to speak next. I don’t know what to say. “So what are you going to do now?” “What can I do? It’s obvious she doesn’t want anything to do with me. There’s really nothing waiting for me in L.A., but that’s where I live now.” Self-pity is a terrible thing to waste.
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