John Belushi Is Dead (18 page)

“Fine,” he said, sniffing loudly and wiping his nose with his finger. “Smell you later, I guess.”

And then he took off.

As I walked up the path I heard the phone ringing inside the house. I scrambled for my keys and the ringing stopped, but as I put my key in the door, it started up again, shrill and insistent. I raced inside and picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Who's this?” the voice asked, and at first I didn't recognize it.

“This is Hilda. Who is this?”

“Hilda? It's Jake. Jake Gilmore. We met the other day. I'm Hank's neighbor.”

“I remember.”

“So I made an impression on you? Nice.”

“What do you want?” I snapped, in no mood for his games. My encounter with Benji had left me exhausted, but what Jake said next immediately got my adrenaline running.

“I'm calling about Hank.”

“Why? What's wrong?” I heard something crash in the background and Hank's voice, angry and distressed. He yelled something that I couldn't make out, and then there was another crash. “What was that?”

“He's tearing the place up,” Jake said. “The neighbors are threatening to call the cops. I found some sedatives the hospital sent home with him but he refuses to take them. Can you just come over, please? Seriously, if they call the cops, his ass is getting hauled out of here, and I don't have money for bail, you dig?”

I heard something crash again in the background and an angry woman's voice yelling something I couldn't make out.

“How about you go inside and mind your own business?” Jake yelled back.

“Okay, I'm coming,” I said, then I hung up and called a cab.

The cab ride felt like it took forever, and by the time I finally got there my fingernails were bitten down to the quick. I raced up the concrete stairs to Hank's place. Jake was outside the front door, arguing with an old woman who was shouting in another language. Jake had obviously given up trying to explain the situation to her because now he just stood there, arms folded like he was a bodyguard, rolling his eyes.

“Lady, this is his daughter,” he lied to the woman when he saw me, but it didn't matter because she wasn't listening. The other neighbors were standing in their doorways watching the madness with curiosity: a housewife in a bathrobe, a little boy in a diaper and Spider-Man T-shirt. “She's going to take care of everything. Isn't that right, Hilda?”

I walked past Jake and went straight into the apartment. The place was wrecked. The couch was toppled over and bottles lay broken on the floor. In the kitchen the cupboard doors were open, the contents strewn out across the linoleum. Hank was nowhere to be seen.

“Okay, everybody,” I heard Jake yelling outside. “There is nothing to see here. Please return to your respective places of residence. We thank you for your understanding during this difficult time.” He backed inside and closed the door.

“Where is he?” I asked, out of breath.

“In there.” He pointed to the bathroom. “He's put something against the door. He's been in there an hour.”

“Hank Anderson!” I yelled, giving the bathroom door a hard knock with my fist. “What the hell is going on in there?”

No answer.

“Hank?” I yelled again. “You're not doing yourself in, are you?”

Jake said, “Maybe we should kick the door down.”

“Don't you touch my goddamn door!” Hank yelled back. “I told you to get out of here!”

“Open the door!” I yelled.

“No! They're trying to kill me!”

“Who's trying to kill you?”

“The doctors. Everybody. Everybody knows what I did. They want to poison me!”

“Hank, come out here. No one is trying to kill you.”

“You all want me dead!”

“Hank, I'm your friend, and so is Jake. We're concerned about you.”

“
He's
not. He's a spy. He wants me dead.”

“That's ridiculous,” Jake said through the door. “I was just bringing up some frozen quesadillas.”

“Hank, Jake is not a spy,” I said. “Do you think a spy would be caught dead wearing neon sneakers?”

“Hey! These sneakers cost me three hundred bucks!” Jake protested.

Hank opened the door a crack. “I'm not taking the pills,” he said.

“Fine,” I said. “Don't take them. If you want to keep feeling like shit, that's up to you. But you can't stay in the bathroom forever.”

Slowly the door opened. Hank looked terrible. He hadn't
shaved and he smelled like he hadn't showered since returning from the hospital. He was wearing a ratty old blue dressing gown with holes in it. He blinked his eyes like an animal emerging from a long hibernation. He looked us both up and down, pulling his robe tightly around him. I looked into the bathroom behind him. The mirror was shattered, and glass was glistening across the floor and sink. A wastebasket lay on the floor, trash strewn everywhere. He'd used the wastebasket to break the mirror.

“Come on, Hank,” I said. “Let's get you into bed.”

He shuffled out into the living room, defeated. I turned to Jake.

“Give me a minute,” I said, and before he could answer I walked into the bedroom with Hank, closing the door behind us.

Hank slid into bed, exhausted. I closed the blinds, turned off the lamps, and pulled the sheet up around him.

“That was a hell of a show you just gave us,” I said, trying to sound strong. “You want to tell me what's going on?”

Hank rolled over like a petulant child, turning his back to me.

“You're lucky no one called the cops,” I said. “It came damn close.”

He grumbled into the wall. I looked around the room. There was nothing personal in it, no books or photos or pictures. Just the bare essentials: furniture, clothes on the floor, lamps.

“Hank, I know you're not crazy,” I said.

“It would be better if I was,” he muttered.

“Is this my fault? Maybe we shouldn't have gone out. You know, to the movie. I didn't know it would upset you.”

“It's got nothing to do with you,” he roared back, suddenly strong again. I heard footsteps outside.

“Hilda!” Jake yelled, knocking on the door. “You cool in there?”

“We're fine,” I yelled back, but we weren't. Nothing was fine. I looked at Hank's back. I was suddenly overcome with the urge to embrace him, to lie down, wrap my arms around his body, and fall into a deep sleep. Instead I walked out of the bedroom and closed the door, figuring the best possible thing Hank could do now was sleep. Jake was standing in the middle of the living room, neon sneakers dazzling amid the chaos. We looked at each other.

“You know, those sneakers really are ridiculous,” I said, and couldn't help giggling.

Jake looked down at his feet. “You really don't like them?” he said, sounding a little crushed. “I thought they were cool.”

“Maybe in the eighties,” I said. “But then again, what do I know? I'm just a dumb kid who goes to high school, remember?”

“Hey, don't be like that. I'm sorry. You actually did really great.”

“I did?”

Jake started collecting bottles from the floor and throwing them under his arm. “Sure you did. Did you see anyone else out there taking control of the situation? You should be a hostage negotiator.”

I went into the kitchen and found some plastic shopping bags along with a dustpan and broom. Together we tidied the room, sweeping up glass fragments and returning furniture to its rightful place.

“You don't have to do this,” I said as we collected the trash from the bathroom and turned the wastebasket the right way up.

“Hell, I'd look for any reason not to have to go downstairs and
work,” he said. “The studio's riding my ass for these scenes and I'm as blocked as John Candy's colon.”

“What a colorful image.”

“After we finish cleaning up, do you think you might want to, I don't know, grab a coffee with me?”

I shook my head. “Look, I appreciate you making an effort, Jake, really I do. But I've had a really crappy day and I'm really tired. Anyway, coffee didn't work out too well for us last time.”

“I know. We got off on the wrong foot, that's all. Come on. I owe you. My treat. I know if I don't get a break,
I'll
be the one going batshit crazy.”

I dropped the garbage bag at my side. I was too keyed up to go home now, and anyway, there was part of me that didn't want to be anywhere Benji could find me at the moment, at least until he calmed down. “Okay,” I relented. “But no more Beverly Hills coffee shops. I get to choose.”

He smiled. “You get to choose,” he agreed. “But I get to pay.”

“No arguments there.”

“Then let's get out of here,” he said, opening the door for me. “This place has some bad juju.”

W
E DROVE DOWN
S
UNSET
to the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, a low-key hangout for actors and bloggers with a fireplace outside that was always filled with cigarette butts. Jake ordered a long black for himself, and a large mocha Ice Blended with whipped cream and a chocolate brownie for me. As we sat by the fire in the dark I dipped the brownie in the whipped cream and licked it.

“Slow down,” he said. “I don't know the Heimlich Maneuver, and I've had enough excitement for one day, thank you.”

His phone started to ring. He looked at the screen to see who it was, then pressed the Ignore button.

“Girlfriend?” I asked, surprised to find my stomach had dipped a little.

“Nah. Just some crazy chick. She's an actress who thinks that by banging the screenwriter she's gonna get a part in the movie. Boy, does she have it ass backward.”

“How long have you been together?”

He leaned forward and ran a finger through the cream in my
iced mocha, put it in his mouth, and sucked. “She's not my girlfriend,” he said, finger still in his mouth. “I just don't have time for a girlfriend. I'm too busy—I've got my career, my crazy neighbor to take care of, his crazy goth girlfriend.”

“I'm not a goth, and I believe I was the one who diffused the situation today, so I don't need taking care of, either.”

“Anyway, I don't like actresses,” he said dismissively. “They're soulless.”

“That's a bit extreme,” I said.

Jake wiped his finger on his jeans, which had fashionable holes in all the right places. “Here, give me your hand.”

He leaned in close and took my fingers in his.

“You feel this?”

I felt the color rising in my cheeks and swiveled in my seat to see if anyone was watching. Jake's hands felt warm and soft, as if he'd never done a hard day's work in his life. My heart quickened.

“This,” Jake said, delicately running his fingers along the back of my hand, “is more warmth than I ever experienced with that actress who just called, and we dated for six months.”

I snatched my hand back, embarrassed.

“Hey, slow down,” he said. “Chill out. You take things too seriously. These are the best years of our lives.”

“So everyone keeps saying.”

He took a sip of his coffee, ran a finger along his bottom lip. “So. What are you going to do when you leave school?”

I shrugged. “Don't know.”

“Really? But you're graduating next year. How can you not know what you're gonna do?”

“Some of us don't have it all figured out like you do.” I scowled.

“Well, what are your hobbies?”

“Dead celebrities, but I don't think there's much of a career in that. I don't know.” I shrugged, overwhelmed by the immensity of the decision. “Maybe I could work in a bookstore or something.”

“What do your parents want you to do? I'm sure they've got an opinion.”

“My parents died,” I said, bracing myself for the inevitable reaction such a statement usually brings, but to my absolute surprise Jack barely raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, that's right,” he said, snapping his fingers as if suddenly remembering. “Car accident.”

“How did you know that?” I said, taken aback to say the least. I was positive I hadn't told him this before, and was sure I would remember if I had.

“You told me,” he said, not missing a beat. “When we had coffee in Beverly Hills.”

I shook my head. “I don't think I did.”

He shrugged. “Maybe Hank told me. Maybe I guessed. It figures, really.”

“What does?”

“Hmm? Oh, just the fact that so many people die in car crashes. Do you ever think about the fact that we're all driving around in really big chunks of metal at ridiculous speeds? I'm surprised we don't crash into one another more.”

I decided that Hank must have told Jake, as there was no other way he could have known. I was a little disappointed but decided to give Hank the benefit of the doubt. He hadn't been the same since hitting his head in the shower. He probably blurted it out before he had any idea what he was saying. He probably didn't even remember saying it. At least that's what I hoped.

“I agree,” I said. “I'm never going to get my license, but then I might have to move to a city with better public transportation, like San Francisco.”

“Because of the car accident? Come on, Hilda. Just because your parents crashed doesn't mean you will. Anyway, is that why you're into all this death stuff? Because your parents died?”

“No,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Why is everyone an armchair psychologist?”

“But it's pretty obvious, don't you think? Normal girls aren't into the types of thing you are.”

“Normal girls? That's right, normal girls are into bulimia and getting date raped. That's much healthier.”

“You've gotta admit it's a strange hobby. Most people spend their lives avoiding the topic of death. It's not something most people like to be reminded about.”