Black Hole (12 page)

I was just taking a shit in Eric's bathroom.

WHAT are you talking about? Shut up and keep fucking.

No, I was somewhere else.

You're high. Or not high enough. Here, take another hit.

She hands me the marble in a pipe and I hit it. I inhale and hold.

Shower water's hitting me.

I'm in Eric's bathroom.

Fuck, that felt real.

I look over. The bowl is disgustingly full. I reach out and flush.

There's nothing in this shower except for the peppermint Dr. Bronner's. I guess it'll have to do. I might stink too much for this. I need something stronger. Pine-Sol. Something.

I get out of the shower. Eric's waiting for me.

Take these sweats, this shirt, and these socks. I found your shoes and your jacket. Your shirt's gone somewhere. And your socks, well, fuck them. Totally gross. Basically you did a striptease at Tartine while you were blacking out.

Fucking hilarious.

Not really. This isn't the old Mission. This Mission belongs to the techies.

Bullshit.

Face it. They're here. They have money. That's how this country works.

Fuck it. I'm leaving anyway.

Listen. This isn't twenty years ago. You can't get away with anything you want anymore. You can't have a freakout like this. Dude, if I didn't live upstairs, you would've been arrested. And bro, you had a gun in your jacket, and god knows what in your system. They could've 5150'd you. Easily.

I know. Is my stash still there?

Fuck, really? That's what you're concerned about? Are you listening to me at all?

Christ, I just . . . is my stash still there?

No. Keys. And a little gun.

It's a Raven.

I don't care. Fuck. Dude, get your shit together, and get out of here.

Hey, sorry, I didn't mean to . . .

But you did. I'm trying to help you, and it's like you're in a different god damned world.

Sorry . . .

I'm sorry, too. I'm sorry for a lot of things. But it's not the good ol' days anymore, and frankly, I'm not sure that they even were good, ever. But one thing I know is that we're not twenty-one anymore. It's okay to be in our forties. We just have to act like it.

Okay, I'm leaving.

I get my things and wander instinctively toward the front door. As I open the door, Eric stops me and hands me a flyer. Some warehouse party off Third Street.

Show up. I'll put you on the list.

Thanks. I'll get these sweats back . . .

No worries, dude,
he says, waving me off.

I lope down the steps and wander away, in the opposite direction of Tartine.

Where my van should be, it isn't. My mind shuffles. Did I move it? Did I drive it somewhere in a blackout? I don't remember, but hell, that doesn't mean a damn thing. Doesn't mean I did or didn't.

You looking for your van?

The voice startles me.

Over here.

A pile of garbage sticks an arm out and waves.

Yeah. Did you see what happened to it?

Got towed.

Towed?

Towed.

Ah, for the love of fuck.

Hey, got a quarter?

No. Especially not now.

Why?

You know why. They towed my van.

You have pockets.

You talk pretty bold for a pile of garbage.

Fuck you. I prefer refuse-American.

My money. My fucking money was in the van. I can't get the van out of the impound without them finding me, but I can't get to the money unless I do. Is this how they're trying to get me? Take my van and my money and wait for me to show up and then nab me?

Not me. Nope. They're not getting me that easy. No sir. They'll have to try something else. I'm not falling for that trap.

But I need money. I need drugs. I have to work something out. Someone has to front me.

By the time I get to the Tenderloin, I'm coming down again; I still have a hard-on, but it's not like it was.

Big Mike won't answer his buzzer. Calls go to voicemail; texts sit unread. Not good. He has a kitchen full of everything I need, but I can't get in.

There's a Crown Vic parked across the street. Undercover cops are common in the TL, but maybe they're watching Big Mike's place.

I can feel them looking at me, their eyes scanning the back of my neck, trying to look at the hands for telltale tats. I know they're behind that tinted glass checking me out. I have a sense for these things.

I scamper off, duck into the nearest corner store.

A smell hits me. It's a soured-cat-piss smell. The owner has his shirt pulled over his face. Looks helpless against it. I head back toward the beer. I know this smell, personally.

Oso's in the back of the store by the refrigerators.

Something's wrong. The man has lost a lot of weight. There's no way he could lose this much weight in what, a week and a half? His skin hangs loose on him like one of those Chinese fighting dogs. It creeps me out.

What you looking at, fool?
he says with a sneer.

Oso, it's me, Chuck.

Oso squints. He walks toward me. He has a shopping basket filled with TV dinners, four or five ice creams, and a Desert Eagle.

Oh, shit, fool. What the fuck is up?

He smiles, but somehow it looks creepier than before. As he gets closer, I see tiny lumps under his skin.

You've lost some weight.

Funny. I'm smaller and shit. But I don't feel a god damn bit lighter.

You seen Big Mike around?

Nah. That fool is AWOL. Fucking up my business, that's for damn sure.

Aw, fuck.

What's up, fool?

I need something to tide me over. I lost my stash, my cash, and almost my ass.

I got your hookup. Come back to the crib and we'll work it out.

We walk out. Oso throws two twenties on the counter, doesn't stop to be rung up or wait for change.

In the studio, the smell is somehow worse than I remember. It throws me off balance. There's a taste in my throat; I'm afraid to breathe through my mouth, but when I breathe through my nose, it stings and burns. I'm not sure what's happening here. This is beyond rotten food or body odor or cats. This is something inhuman, something wrong, something that shouldn't be. There's some kind of strong ammonia theme that is making it hard for me to keep my eyes open.

Sit down, fool
, Oso says.

I'm afraid to sit anywhere. It's really gross in here. I want to get some shit and leave. I want to go to rehab. I should quit all this shit. Not worth it. Not fucking worth it. I'll sell some drugs, get some money and go to rehab, then get out and get a square job.

I'll go to that rehab down south, Promises, I think it's called, the one where Robert Downey Jr. and Ben Affleck go, where you get clean by a pool, and I'll write a screenplay, and one of them will get it to their people, and then I'll have people waiting for me when I get out.

And I'll meet some nice actress from an old show like
The Facts of Life
or something who's having trouble with pills since her kid died or a car wreck or something, and we'll hit it off and she'll be tired of those Hollywood jerkoffs and want a real down-to-earth guy like me.

I wonder if Fairuza Balk will be there. I'll bet she has a drug problem. Look at those eyes, those crazy bright eyes—I bet you
can see them in the dark like a cat. She's done some shit for sure. Haven't seen her in anything in a long-ass time; maybe she copped a habit and needs help.

We'll hang out when we're out and tell stories about when we were in there about how bad the food was and how fat one of the nurses was and how dumb the other actors were, and we'll laugh like we haven't laughed in so long and she'll say,
You know, I haven't laughed like this in forever
, and I'll say,
Me neither
, and she'll say,
You look really good, you have some color back in your face and you put some meat on you
, and I'll be like,
Thanks, I've been working out, and your skin looks great
, and she'll say,
Thanks
, and there will be this pause where we both try to take drinks of our raw-food juices but they're empty and then we both go to say something then we both stop and then say,
No you go
, at the same time and then we'll laugh and then she'll say,
Have you ever been to the Hollywood Forever Cemetery?
and I'll be like,
No what's that?
even though I know what it is, and she'll say,
It's this cemetery and they show old horror films there and tonight they're showing
Night of the Living Dead
and we should go
, and I'll be like,
Hell yeah
, and we just hang out till then and everything's cool till right when the movie starts and she just fucking gets on me and kisses me and looks at me with those crazy eyes and that's how we fall in love, you know, and
It's weird
, I'll say, and
What?
she will ask,
What's weird?
and I'll say,
We never would've met if we hadn't gotten strung out and that rehab was the best thing that ever happened to me
, and she'll giggle and say,
Me too
, wipe a little tear out of her eye, and make out with me for the rest of the movie.

Chuck?

What?

You here?

Yeah.

Good. I'm going to front you some more of these marbles. Having a hard time moving them with that high retail and all. You move those okay?

Yeah, I know some high rollers.

Okay, I'll give you eight for five.

I need forty grand.

Why?
he says with a laugh.

I'm going to rehab.

Oh, you're going to reeeeeeeehab. La-di-da. Well, it's a good place to meet future customers.

No, really. I'm going to get clean. Get off this hamster wheel.

Yeah right.

Don't get me wrong, I'll keep selling. Just won't pinch off my supply anymore.

Now you're talking. Anything else you need?

Um, a vial of remote, an eightball of coke . . . what about the forty grand?

I can't spare that much shit. You're going to have to sell a hundred wholesale to make forty yourself. You want to branch out maybe? Man, I got a brick of meth I can't do shit with.

Me neither. That market's too weird. I don't want to sell to anyone who likes doing that shit. Fucking tweakers.

Chuck, I've known you a long time, fool. Don't make me regret fronting you all this shit. Fuck, if Big Mike were still around, this wouldn't be happening. But I'm behind. I got bills, too.

I gather up the drugs and head for the door.

Seriously, Chuck, if I don't see you within a week, I'm getting someone to take care of this for me.