Down the Darkest Street (25 page)

“I remember because of the fires that leapt

From the caves of the things that have not happened yet.

When I think of it now they smell to me quite sinister.

I want to go back and die at the drive-in,

Die before strangers can say

‘I hate the rain.’”

—Neko Case, “Red Tide”

Pete looked around the empty room. The Jamaica Motel was a rundown shithole on Calle Ocho, on the westernmost fringes of Little Havana. It was one of many such places on the strip, offering free cable TV and no questions asked. You could rent rooms by the hour, day, week, or month. Pete had paid for the room in cash. The pink paint coating the motel’s exterior had faded to an off-peach shade and the pool had developed a layer of green paste over the water.

The bed smelled of cigarettes and sweat. The TV was on, blaring the Channel 7 news. Pete was sitting on the floor, his body leaning on the nightstand next to the bed, his face looking toward the door, a bottle of cheap vodka in his hand. He’d rented the room that morning. Dave had asked him to leave the night before. “If you’re not going to work, and you’re just going to hide back here and sneak drinks, you have to go.” Pete hadn’t argued. This was what he wanted anyway. To be alone.

He took another long swig from the bottle of Popov vodka. It was cheap and strong. Felt like he was downing acid. The kind of vodka that would kick the hangover in earlier. He was already feeling the first effects. He didn’t even bother going to a bar. Why? Why go somewhere when he could just spend a few twenties and be set for the night? The television said something about the murders and Pete felt a click in his brain, like the sound of someone flipping on a light switch a few rooms away. Something easily ignored, but still there. Better to lie here, alone, in dirty clothes, a week-old beard, and less than a hundred dollars in his pocket. This would be his last stand. This would be his epitaph. Pete Fernandez, a washed-up hack, known for being able to down over a dozen drinks and still drive home, for the innate ability to lead his friends to an early grave, and for an undeserved ego and deluded sense of self-importance. A waste of space. A monster. His memory trailed back to the year before, when he’d run into his father’s old partner on the Miami-Dade police department. What was it Carlos Broche had said? “What would your father think if he saw you now?”

His dad would be glad he was dead. Happy he didn’t have to see his son wash away what was left of his sad life. He let out an empty laugh. The truth hurt. His head throbbed as if in response.

He didn’t even have any music. Nothing. The room was stale and empty and dirty. But what would he listen to? No sad song would make him feel better, much less feel anything. What could Morrissey or Paul Westerberg offer? What trivial advice would Lou Reed have to share? No one knew what he was feeling, and no one ever would. It was his pain. His fault. He deserved this black hole.

He took another drag from the bottle and felt his sadness wash away. Felt the lukewarm liquid invade his mouth and seep into his pores. His vision glazed over. He remembered putting the bottle down and laying his head against the bed frame. Then everything went dark.

***

A new day. More of the same. He tried taking a long shower in the afternoon. His head was a constant ache. His bones hurt. He’d awoken on the floor, what little had been left in the bottle spilt on the cheap carpet. Vomit on his shirt, dried drool caked on his face, and stubble. He wiped at his shirt, as if that would clean off the dirt and bile that was now coating everything around him, in reality and in his head.

He changed into his last clean shirt, from a stack of polos he’d grabbed at a discount store a few days after the explosion. He felt better from the shower, but knew it wouldn’t last. He looked out the cloudy window of his room and saw that the sky stood out in stark contrast to the gray, musky room. The day was bright, orange, neon, and candy-coated. Miami. Even at its worst, it shone the brightest light on the dankest and darkest corners of any street. Pete allowed himself a wry smile as he left the room and walked out of the motel.

He had some cash left in his pocket and called a cab from the lobby. He’d been forced to return the rental, and he didn’t anticipate getting a new car anytime soon. The cab came. He got in and gave the driver directions in a flat monotone. He could smell the wine on his own breath and realized he hadn’t brushed his teeth, nor had he done much of a job when it came to showering. He could tell the cabbie noticed. He didn’t care.

He could hear Willy Chirino coming from the cab stereo as the car wheeled onto Calle Ocho and inched east, toward the 836. Willy was singing about a mysterious woman wearing black socks. After about fifteen minutes, they were in Coral Gables, near the art galleries, glitzy shops, and five-star restaurants of Miracle Mile. He directed the cab to drop him off near Giralda and he paid the driver, leaving a decent if unspectacular tip. He counted the bills in his wallet. Sixty bucks. Enough for a good time at The Bar and possibly a bottle for the rest of the night.

It was close to four in the afternoon. On Friday? Saturday? Pete wasn’t sure until he walked into the dark bar and noticed the day on the television that was showing ESPN sports highlights. Sunday. His hands gripped the bar for support. Had he really lost all sense of time? His tongue ran over the inside of his mouth, picking up the taste of wine and vomit from the night before. Had it ever been this bad before? He didn’t want to answer himself.

He sat down at the bar in his usual spot and looked around for a bartender. Lisa met his eyes from the other end of the bar. She could do little to hide her reaction to Pete. Her shoulders slumped and her mouth went from a grin to a flat, resigned expression. She wiped her hands on a rag and walked over, in no hurry, as if steeling herself for something terrible.

“Hey there,” she said.

“I’ll have a vodka soda. A double, if you can swing it.”

She looked him over in the same way Pete thought she’d scan a homeless guy trying to scam a drink.

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Pete said, trying to smile, but instead coming across with a creepy, distant expression. “Of course I am.”

She shrugged and walked back to the other end of the bar. He watched her as she prepared the drink—a little light on the vodka—and dropped a few straws in it. She brought it over and plopped it down on a coaster. She lingered, watching Pete as he hungrily gulped down part of the drink, like a thirsty sailor on shore leave. He looked up at her.

“Can I keep a tab open?”

The look she gave Pete almost broke his heart. “I’d rather you pay by the drink,” she said. “If that’s cool with you.”

“Never had to do that before.”

“Pete…” she started, her mouth quivering a bit. He’d known Lisa for years; he’d been a regular at The Bar since before he’d moved to New Jersey with Emily. He’d talked to Lisa about going sober. She’d been supportive, even while ribbing him for his weird Mike-photo ritual. She seemed defeated. “You look like shit, man. Are you OK?”

“What do you mean? I feel fine. I’m fine. Can I open a tab?”

“Look, I’ll serve you as long as you can pay and as long as you don’t disrupt my place,” she said, her voice wavering a bit as she reached the end of her sentence. “But you’re not a stranger. This isn’t you anymore. Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

Pete took another long swig from his drink, leaving it about half full before responding. He let the vodka slosh around, the liquor stinging the inside of his mouth, raw from vomiting, his throat burning from the speed with which he drank it down.

“I’m fine,” he lied.

***

The back of the woman’s car smelled of cigarettes and bleach. He felt her breath on his neck as she fiddled with his belt and undid his pants. Her mouth was warm on his. She bit his lips and pushed his body down further onto the back seat of her tiny Sentra. Her name was Michelle, Pete remembered. She’d sidled up next to him around seven o’clock, which was right around drink eight. She worked next door at Randazzo’s. She’d just finished her shift and was looking to relax for a few hours.

He didn’t remember much about what they talked about. Pete complained about the jukebox. Lisa had since left. He remembered watching her talk to the incoming bartender—a burly dude named Carlos—and motion toward Pete. “Watch this guy,” her lips had said, close to his ear. Pete scoffed. He was fine. He’d done nothing but sit at his stool and down his drinks. A few vodka sodas. A shot of Southern Comfort. Had there been a Jager in there? Yes. Some FIU grad students had been celebrating something—an exam? Who the fuck knows. They’d bought him one, yes.

He ran his hands over her body, his senses dull. He felt her warmth on top of him as they connected. Did he put on a condom? He almost laughed at the thought. Why bother?

The sex was quick, uncomfortable, sweaty. Pete felt his soaked shirt sticking to his skin and recoiled at how he smelled. He felt dirty. She continued to shove him around the tiny car’s back seat, cursing under her breath, saying things Pete hoped to never remember. She’d seemed nice at the bar. Right? Or had he imagined that? He’d never see her again.

“You wanna fuck me, right?” she said, her voice low as they moved in a weird, synchronized rhythm. “Then fuck me.”

Pete didn’t respond.

A street lamp turned on. The light flashed into the car and illuminated them for a second before flickering out. Pete saw her, saw himself. Half-naked, sweaty, drunk—in the back of a car, fucking a girl he’d just met. Ten dollars in his pocket and nowhere to go. He’d been drinking alone in a shithole motel for a week and had probably missed Emily’s funeral. The girl he thought he’d marry and be with forever was six feet under, and he was having sex with a stranger in a parking lot. He felt his eyes watering. A sob came out of his mouth. He tried to make it sound like a cough.

“Yo, are you falling asleep on me?” Michelle’s words snapped Pete back to attention. He didn’t think. He grabbed her and moved her off him. She protested.

“The fuck are you doing?” she said. “Did you finish? Fuck, you didn’t even pull out?”

Pete didn’t respond. He felt her closed fists connect to his shoulder and back as he zipped his pants and opened the car door. He walked out, ignoring the yells and curses being flung at him from the car. He stumbled as he walked toward Giralda, covered in sweat, his head pounding, an aching feeling in his hips and no idea what to do.

He felt around in his pockets. His wallet was gone. He didn’t have house keys anymore. He almost missed the scrap of paper that had somehow survived in his back pocket for weeks.

He read the note. Jack’s phone number.

“Do you have a sponsor yet?”
Jack had asked him. It felt like they’d talked years before.

He didn’t have anything, not anymore, he thought. He pulled out his phone. It’d been shut off for days. It took a few moments to power up. The display screamed at him—dozens of texts, missed calls, and voice mails. He ignored them and dialed the number. He’d never bothered to put him in his contacts.

“Hello?” It was Jack.

“Hey.” Pete’s voice came out like a croak.

“Pete? Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” Pete said. He’d managed to put a few blocks between himself and his angry new friend. He was leaning on a lamppost. It was dark. He was in a pseudo-industrial area that consisted of empty parking lots and poorly lit bodegas.

“Where are you? Shit, Pete. I’ve been looking all over for you,” Jack said. “She’s alive, Pete. Your friend—Emily—she’s alive.”

“Alive,” Pete said. The word sounded foreign to him. Over the last few days—clouded by drink and darkness and dirt—he’d managed to create a buffer between himself and the reality: that Emily was dead. Now, finally reaching his bottom, he’d connected with someone who told him otherwise. Alive.

“She’s alive,” Pete said. He pushed a button on his phone, ending the call.

He stumbled over the sidewalk and onto the dark street before he started to sprint, his breathing heavy, his feet propelling him toward the lights of Miracle Mile.

It was around four in the morning when Kathy picked him up, standing outside the closed Barnes & Noble on Miracle Mile, the lights a bit dimmer than when he first made the call. The pristine sidewalks and high-end outlets made Pete feel even grimier. It was a five-minute drive for Kathy from her apartment, but the wait felt like hours.

Kathy had just found out about Emily, too. They agreed it didn’t make sense for Pete to show up at the hospital smelling like a gin mill and looking half-dead. He showered at her place and changed into some spare clothes she had. He didn’t ask who they belonged to. He tried calling Rick but got his voice mail. He thought to leave a message but wasn’t sure what he’d say.

Kathy didn’t ask him where he’d been. She didn’t seem to care. Her kindness was there, but distant and mechanical, as if she’d had too many experiences like this—where someone she cared for made a terrible mistake and spiraled back into bad, old, and dangerous habits. The silence was fine by Pete. He was still processing the shame and embarrassment that coated him in the absence of a buzz or hangover.