The Grand Tour (14 page)

Vance put the book down and, for the hundredth time in the last thirty minutes, scanned his surroundings for the girl. He sat on a bench beside a small playground at the apex of San Ysidro Park—in the daylight it was not a magic garden, just a city park where people walked their dogs, took their children to play, or, like him, sat reading in patches of sunlight. Below him was a sloping expanse of green, bordered on each side by rows of trees and to the south by a row of interlocking Spanish colonial apartments in pastel colors that reminded him of Easter candy. In the distance, the buildings of downtown pressed up against the horizon; an expanse of gray rainclouds issued from over the skyline. They had a quilted, overstuffed look and provided a sense of three-dimensional depth that prevented the vista from looking like a mediocre landscape painting.

He'd come here today, as he had yesterday, with the dim idea that he might see the girl again—as though, through some primitive magic of repetition, she might be summoned. Now, as yesterday, he felt how silly this was, yet still he'd come. Partly this was owing to a simple need to get out of the hotel in which Stan, who remained seemingly unconvinced of the necessity of this arrangement, had punitively booked him: a place in Oakland called the Jack London Inn—an actual roach motel; every morning, a new one paraded across the stained carpet as though, like mints on the pillow or ballpoint pens, it was compliments of the hotel. He'd hurried out into the bright chill, anxious to escape the room, and his own presence in it—after two days, the hotel room had been contaminated, practically irradiated, by his anxious, futile longing.

Mainly, though, he just wanted to see her again. He pulled out his phone and brought up the number, saved under
Girl.
Four one five eight seven seven three two one nine. He'd brought it up a hundred times before and not called. What would he say? He wasn't looking for a good time; he didn't like to party. Calling her would make something official, transactional, between them, and he didn't want that. But he wanted to see her, he craved the girl. Something inside him he hadn't even known was there before needed her.
You ever think that maybe you're someone in need?
Richard had said. Well, yes, he did think that. He needed lots of things. He needed the girl and needed her to need him; and if he could provide her the help she so clearly needed, she would need him, help him back. On a certain level, he found this energetic little tautology suspect—in fact, suspected himself of substituting “help” for another four-letter word. Call me if you change your mind, she'd said, the taste of her mouth still fresh in his.

He'd writhed for two days with the memory of that kiss. It wasn't his first kiss—there had been a peck from a mortified blonde, dared by her giggling friends in eighth-grade gym class, and another kiss two years later from one of his brother's girlfriends, who'd gotten drunk one night at their house and laid one on him as he'd lain on the sofa reading
Of Mice and Men
—but it was his first real kiss. Why, at nineteen, was it his first real kiss? The feelings the girl had sparked in him included an uncontrollable, punishing bout of self-analysis, played out in his head and in the hotel room over the last thirty-six hours. The girl had known he was a virgin—it was obvious. This morning, as he'd brushed his teeth and gotten dressed, he'd avoided looking at himself in the mirror, though he knew what was there. A bunch of long bones loosely slung together, a dusting of acne on the back and stooped shoulders, his mother's small eyes peering out over his father's mouth—which could generously be described as “rabbity”—and a schoolboy's cap of flyaway brown hair perched atop it all like a nervous bird waiting to take flight. He was ugly, ungainly, unsure of himself. But then, both of his friends in high school had been ugly, too, and they had still gotten laid somehow. “Somehow” was, he knew, that they went to parties he wouldn't go to and grimly stood against the wall nursing their Steel Reserves. The difference was, then, that they wanted it.

He had wanted it, too, but not with the callow girls in his high school, and not any of the girls he'd met his lone month in college either. He had wanted Emma Bovary and Anna Karenina and Becky Sharp and Jane Eyre and Cathy and even poor, stupid Tess. Since he was a child—since his father left and then his mother started bringing home strange men who condescended to him or who chucked him under the chin or who told him to stop being weird and get the fuck out of the living room or, worst of all, men who simply ignored him entirely—he'd built a fortress around himself made out of books. The thing about books was that they were better than real life. Much better. By the time he was fifteen, he'd fallen in love and had his heart broken countless times, sitting on the couch, watching over the pages as his poor mother went through the real thing. Friday night, she would stand in front of a mirror by the front door of their apartment, clutching her purse in one hand, applying hopeful lipstick with the other and smacking her lips, telling him there was dinner in the oven for him and John, that she might be late. The next day he would find her watching the living room TV in a fog of penitent self-hatred, her face screwed up and her eyes like black pennies. Vance would make them lunch—a can of chicken noodle soup and a peanut butter sandwich, both split in two—and eat his meal at the kitchen table, watching the back of her head across the room while he read, the edge of the plate holding down the pages.

He had gotten taller since then, and read more books, but he hadn't changed. He hadn't wanted to, had never wanted to join that great rush of feeling and calamitous need. And now, he did. The night before, he'd dreamed he was lowering his tiny vessel into an enormous river. The water was black, and the current was horribly strong, but from bank to bank it was choked with other boats of all types and sizes: canoes like his, also yachts, catamarans, speedboats, houseboats, even a regal steamboat with figures in formal dress waltzing on its yellow-lit ballroom deck. Why, he wondered, thinking for the hundredth time about the car hitting her and her small, crumpled body rising as though lifted by invisible wires; the glint in her bright eyes as she'd looked at him; the funny sweet smell or taste, he wasn't sure which, that emanated from her as they'd kissed. Why now, why her? This line of questioning always ended with a shrug, a tug, and a shudder, another damp tissue thrown in the plastic trash under the sink. For better or worse, he thought—and probably for worse—you are joining the human race.

The breeze picked up, gently rustling a nearby palm grove and bringing Vance back to himself. A small child on the roundabout behind him shrieked in a language he couldn't understand. He thought how he'd be picking Richard up in the morning, how he wouldn't see her again, and before he had time to talk himself out of it, he was calling her. He got up and paced, protectively holding the phone away from his ear. It rang and rang, and each ring lasted forever—not an eternity but, say, a year or so. Finally, the voicemail picked up, a monotone male voice saying,
You know what to do.
Vance hung up, embarrassed at himself—the amount of time and energy he'd spent obsessing over a wrong number, probably given as a joke.

The long, complex interlude of recrimination and self-hatred that followed was interrupted by the ringing phone. He dropped it in surprise, and it skittered, vibrating, under the bench. He retrieved it and answered on his knees. “Who is this?” said the girl. Her voice sounded blurry, distracted, like he'd woken her up from sleep, even though she was the one calling him.

“Vance.”

“Who's Vance.”

“We met the other day. I gave you money, you gave me this number.”

There was a pause, as she processed this information. “Oh, yeah.”

“The voicemail was a guy, that's why I didn't leave a message.”

“Okay, what's up?”

“I don't know.”

“You want something?”

“I don't know.”

She laughed. “Okay. Where are you, man?”

He tried to describe where he was—the bus route and streets he'd taken, the park and houses opposite. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “San Ysidro. I'm pretty close to there.”

Ten minutes later, she was in the field below him, unmistakable with her incendiary hair. She wore a black sweater and dirty jeans tucked into black combat boots, and she seemed to be unsteadily looking around, her motion roughly describing an off-balance circle. She gently spiraled in the direction of the westward tree line. Vance walked down the hill and approached her from the side. “Hi,” he said.

“Oh, yeah,” she said again, looking up at him with unfocused eyes, as though she'd already forgotten who she was meeting, which maybe she had. He didn't know much about drugs, but he knew she was on them. And she was filthy. Not just her clothes—her hair was half matted and sprouting incipient dreadlocks, her arms were smudged with dirt, her fingernails were long and comprehensively grouted with black grime. The welt on the side of her face had scabbed over, but it was red and swollen, with wispy red streaks that reached out toward her ear, her cheek. It was infected—he knew this because his mother had had a similar livid wound on her leg once, which hadn't gotten clean, since she wasn't taking showers at that point.

“That needs disinfecting,” he said.

“What?”

“Come on.” He held her arm and guided her toward the path, and though she made a face, she followed, oddly compliant. Winding silently with her through the trees, he indulged himself in a third-person perspective of the two of them, a homely little narrative in which the hero finds and saves the girl. He was not unaware of the problems with this point of view, of its triteness and simplicity, but somehow his awareness did nothing to dispel the pleasure of it.

They walked under the iron trellis, braided with ivy, and out of the park. As they crossed the street, a homeless man screaming into a phone booth vaporized the romantic mise-en-scène. The girl began pulling away from him like a bored, petulant child, but after only a minute of further walking, a CVS materialized. Vance told her to wait outside, went in, and grabbed gauze and peroxide and Neosporin and bandages and was standing in the check-out line before realizing he should have brought her in with him, that when he emerged she would almost certainly be gone. But she was still there, seemingly entranced by a white sectional sofa in the neighboring storefront window, or perhaps it was her own image. Like a dog looking into water, wondering at the strange aqua-dog staring up at it, a flicker of recognition passed over her face, then was gone. He led her to a bench and cleaned her wound with the peroxide. The clean place was a full shade lighter than the surrounding dirty skin. He smeared the Neosporin on it, then covered the whole area with gauze and several bandages. She was looking at him with the light in her eyes that he'd seen before.

“You need to keep it clean.”

“My hero,” she said. He knew it was sarcastic, but his dumb heart swelled regardless.

He put the supplies in the bag, and she took it from him, with a smile of vacant gratitude. She pushed up from the bench and walked unsteadily away, but she looked back twice to see if he would follow. He followed. Her small form was childish at a glance, but her hips swayed along an adult fulcrum. They walked two blocks single file in this manner until she reached an unbused sidewalk café table and sat. He sat down across from her. An older couple sat at the other outside table, talking over their eggs and toast with the luxuriant boredom of the long married. The girl picked up and bit into a half-eaten chocolate scone on the table and poured leftover coffee from a carafe into dirty white cups.

She said, “What's your name again, man?”

“Vance.”

“Hi, Vance.”

“Hi.” He took a sip from the lip-stained cup, despite not liking coffee and being something of a germophobe. She was including him in something conspiratorial and precious. “Where are you from,” he said.

“Visalia,” she said, and didn't seem to be joking.

“Where's that?”

“Like, halfway between here and LA. Nowhere.”

She continued tearing into the remaining food on the table, and Vance realized she was starving, then realized he was starving, too. He hadn't eaten since returning to Oakland yesterday evening, where he'd bought a dinner of jerky and chips from the gas station next to the Jack London Inn. He took a piece of scone from the plate and ate it, then took another. She cleaned the plates, then they drank their cold coffee in silence, as if copying the couple next to them. A waitress wearing a white button-up and black bow tie came out to clear their table; they could see her reenter the café and talk to the vague figure of a tall, bald man who glowered at them through the window. The girl quickly got up and, again, Vance followed, with the sense he was being tested somehow. A block later she cut left onto Vista. Here, she entered a movie theater called the Star Star Cinema. If someone was meant to be taking tickets, they were nowhere to be seen. The lobby was dirty and empty, with peeling wallpaper and handbills strewn everywhere. They pushed into the small, darkened theater and stood in the back.

The room they were in smelled damp and comprehensively bleached. Rustling and shifting sounds close by alerted Vance to the presence of other, unseen people. He felt the back of a seat in front of him, the itchy tweed of theater upholstery. Overhead, the projector whumped on and, to the tune of
Also Sprach Zarathustra,
a man's glistering penis pushed up from the bottom of the screen in ultra slow motion. It kept moving up and up, slowly widening at the base as the shaft grew longer and longer. It reminded Vance of
Star Wars
when the camera pans along the Imperial cruiser for a seeming eternity. He could feel the girl gauging his reaction, and for that reason he stood where he was, watching the screen. It wasn't as though he hadn't seen these things before online, and as his eyes adjusted, he wondered if the handful of men gazing up at the screen, rapt, had ever heard of the Internet. But the few times he'd watched porn before, he'd been depressed by it. Because it was depressing—he didn't see how everyone didn't find it so. Or maybe like his high school buddies going to parties, drinking bad beer, and getting jostled by people dancing to lousy music, they did find it depressing but worth it, nonetheless.