Eleven Twenty-Three (13 page)

“I think I’m going to remember that for your
epitaph, Layne,” my best friend laughs, patting my shoulder.

“I’m pretty sure my father has already taken
that one.”

I make eye contact with Tara, who holds her
chocolate gingerly before finally nibbling on hers as well. I mouth
an “I love you” to her and then swallow the rest of mine. It tastes
slightly metallic, as if I were digesting tiny robots. Tara
continues to chew. The room around us becomes cloudy with our
collective future cancer, and I glance at my watch, knowing that by
11:30 or so, my entire world will disappear.

By 11:23, it starts to hit me. As if some
higher force sweeps through Lilly’s End to notify the world of my
descent, I hear police and ambulance sirens outside and once or
twice, shrill screams and yelling from the neighbors. I even
discern a single gunshot from somewhere far away. My stomach rolls
over and for twenty seconds I am sure I will throw up. Tara’s
momentarily pained facial expression indicates the same. It’s not
the mushrooms, though. It’s something else. I don’t know what it
is.

After a couple of minutes the nausea passes.
The sirens stop. Nothing.

The living room is cold and vacuous. There
are brown panel walls and a rug with muted sepia tones beneath my
feet. The coffee table is littered with issues of
Fate
,
empty Snapple bottles, ashtrays, ash, remote controls, the empty
case for the album
Ryuzetsuran
, and a chipped forest green
pipe that Hajime bought in Copenhagen. Smoke and the rising crest
of the hallucinogenic wave distorts my vision, and everything is
streaked with blurred tears and melting color. I hear noises all
around me that sound like indecipherable monologues from God.

Mark and Mitsuko leave just as the
conversation gets weird and sporadic. On her way out, Mitsuko
offers a quick cold glance in my direction, the same expression she
had the last night I slept with her. The psilocybin tells me the
truth: Mitsuko is a perfect example of what assimilation destroys
in the transfer.

It takes a few minutes for the five of us to
adjust to our new world. Finally, Jasmine and Michael go into the
empty guestroom with the Ouija board and candles and Jasmine tells
us to meet her there in five minutes. Hajime puts a CD into the DVD
player and shortly thereafter we are listening to some mix that
includes Aphex Twin, mid-period Radiohead, Air, Derek R. Audette,
Boards of Canada, and two ambient house tracks by some artist none
of us can ever remember the name of.

“I wonder if Singularity will feel something
like this,” Hajime says.

“What is Singularity?”

“Look it up on Wikipedia, Tara.”

I clear my throat.

“Just before an earthquake or other natural
disaster, cockroaches pour from the walls of apartment buildings,
dogs and cats start freaking out, and fish can sometimes actually
will
themselves into dying.”

“Layne, um, you’re a depressing tripper,”
Hajime says.

“It’s one of his nights,” Tara explains. “He
confessed to me earlier that he wanted to design dreams as a
kid.”

“Really? I wanted to design
jeans
,”
Hajime says. “Am I gay?”

“Let’s say things that hold no place in the
conversation and see what comes out,” Tara suggests, trying to
suppress a fit of laughter.

“I don’t know if I can handle tripping with
you two tonight,” Hajime sighs.

“How have the animals been acting here,
Hajime?”

“If they started the revolt, I didn’t notice,
Layne. Why? Are you expecting an earthquake sometime soon, like
that tremor we had last year?”

“I’m not sure
what
I’m expecting,” I
mutter, noticing that the curtains are wet and swaying on their own
accord. What looks like a tiny gray girl peeks out at me from
behind them and I recoil in horror. She waves and slides into the
lace. “But I’m definitely expecting
something
. And
soon.”

Easing down into the middle of the couch just
as Hajime switches off the living room lamps and turns on the blue
and pink and green neon light he saves for occasions like this one,
I find an open pack of cigarettes that someone left behind on the
coffee table, probably Mark, and I snatch one up and light it,
thanking God for small favors. I can hear the embers envelop the
paper, and smell the pungent aroma of the ignited tobacco. It
occurs to me that I can hear and smell
everything
.

“September 2006 was supposed to be the end of
the world,” my best friend says, his pupils totally dilated and his
face dripping pink and ultramarine.

“Who said that?” I ask, gulping. “The
animals
?”

“The House of Yahweh.”

“The Jews?” Tara coughs.

“No, Tara, not the Jews. The House of Yahweh
is a doomsday cult in Abilene, Texas. They said that a nuclear war
was going to erupt in September last year. It didn’t happen. But
they assured everyone it
did
, and that we just didn’t notice
it.”

“Maybe it did then,” I murmur, watching the
pattern on Hajime’s couch swirl and expand and turn into a blue
ocean of translucent flora.

“The world ends every year or so, if that’s
the case,” Tara murmurs. “It seems like someone is always
sputtering doomsday predictions from some bizarre cause or
another.”

Hajime hands me the ashtray and I suddenly
find myself shaking, wishing the room would burst into flames,
melt, and then slide away like water over ancient flat rocks. I
place the tray on my lap and concentrate on the lit cigarette,
which somehow represents my past. Hajime begins laughing to himself
and peers down between his own legs at the space between the couch
cushions. Tara runs two fingers lazily across my thigh, whispering
something to the floor. I inhale on my cigarette and regret
this.

“Do you guys want to contact the dead?”
Jasmine calls out from the other room.

“You know
I
do,” Hajime replies,
slowly getting up and standing totally still for almost a full
minute before heading down the hallway. “You guys coming?”

“We’ll be there in a sec,” Tara says, and we
are left alone and twisted in the living room.

I think of a night in the French Concession
during a weekend trip to Shanghai. We were in a club called Red,
and things were getting heavy. There were too many fat Americans
and pretentious Brits and hateful Germans surrounding us, and I was
feeling sick and my stomach was cramping up and the waitress kept
bringing me over-priced bottles of
La Fin Du Monde
. The
poorly received Taiwanese cover band kept cranking out tune after
predictable tune, and a curly-haired Belgian was dancing
ridiculously with the long fingernail girl that Tara and I had
watched him pick up thirty minutes earlier. There were young
businessmen
everywhere
, drinking martinis and screwdrivers
and vinegary wine. And they were carrying briefcases. They were
all
carrying briefcases—

“What is your trip like?” Tara whispers,
giggling. “Mine is…blue and deep and pleasant and reminds me of a
ride at Epcot, for some reason. Jasmine was right: the chocolates
are mild. That’s a good thing, I think.”

“I’m…remembering China,” I say. “I’m thinking
of that night in Shanghai.”

“What night, Sunshine?”

“Just some night. Everything was loud.”

“Shanghai is a loud city,” she says. “Do you
want to play with Jasmine’s Parker Brothers toy in there?”

“The Spirit Board? I think I’ll pass for now.
But go ahead, sweetie. I’ll be in there in a few minutes. I just
want to stay here and…listen to this song.”

“Who is this playing right now?” she asks,
concentrating on the ethereal drum and bass music emitting from the
speakers flanking both sides of Hajime’s television. The TV is
pulsating; it breathes. Tara sways lightly to the beat. “Is this
the Chemical Brothers?”

“No way. Aphex Twin.”

“What song? I like it. This must be one of
his lucid dream-inspired songs, because his music usually kind of
scares me.”

“I’m not sure. It’s some number. Point two,
one…something or other. Everything…everything is some number, it
seems.
God
is a number. He’s an equation we just can’t break
down. So is the Devil, for that matter.”

“Sunshine,” she whispers in my ear, which
somehow turns into a powerful and sensual ultimatum, “I’m going
into the other room. Will you be okay out here?”

“As long as you guys promise not to contact
my grandmother or my dad, I’ll be just fine.”

“So you
won’t
be okay out here,
then?”

“I’ll be introspective out here,” I reply,
but when I look over at her, she is already floating like a
post-millennium ghost from the room and down the hall, which
stretches out into the darkness much like it did in my pre-flight
dream.

Time passes. The music in the room evolves
from “Avril 14
^th
” to a remix of “Zeros and Ones,” and
there is no beat to either save those I haphazardly create in my
head. The dim neon light slashes through the murk and dances across
the popcorn ceiling. I keep swallowing, feeling nauseous and yet
totally fine with the idea of throwing up.

I think of my father meeting God. God
resembles a wavering shadow sharply contrasted against the baby
blue and white hues that surround them. My father smiles his best
business smile. He shakes hands with the Shadow of the Almighty. He
explains that all of his sins were either incidental or the
products of a surface-obsessed society. God nods, forgives him.
This is not Heaven where they meet.

The last night I saw him—my father, not
God—was just before Olivia Glatz wrecked everything. He swung by
Lilly’s End after visiting the grandparents in New Smyrna, and
asked to meet me for dinner. He wanted to discuss the future and
eat Godzilla rolls from a sushi bar he used to take my mother
before he left her.

I picked at a slab of ahi tuna that, in my
memory, was most definitely alive and still survives inside my
stomach to this day. I didn’t make eye contact when my father
brought up Tara and me getting married. I didn’t say much as he
explained at length why he thought I should consider moving to
Oregon and making more money as a teacher there. I even kept quiet
as he prattled on about how great Cindy’s cooking was, or how happy
she made him, or their anniversary spent in Seattle and the
beautiful paper flowers he bought her from a Vietnamese street
vendor.

It wasn’t until he mentioned my mother, about
how much of a wreck she was and how he couldn’t understand how I
didn’t see that she clearly needed help, that I lost it.

“
She
needs help, Dad?” I choked.
“You’re saying that my mother, your ex-wife, needs professional
help?”

“I understand how great a woman she is, son.
I really do. I’m just saying that I worry about her. The way she’s
all locked up inside that apartment and doesn’t associate with
hardly anyone—it’s just not healthy.”

“I might react the same way if I were
her.”

My father dropped the roll he had been
holding precariously with a pair of shaky chopsticks.

“People get divorced, Layne,” my father
explained as if I were five and he were an underpaid guidance
counselor. “It’s just the way things are. But they also have to
move on.”

“You left her for a twenty-two year-old
bimbo,” I spat. “So don’t blame her if she has a difficult time
with it, you bastard.”

My father smacked the sticks against the
plate and narrowed his eyes.

“Now listen to me, you ungrateful little
shit—”

“No, Dad, you listen to
me
,” I
interrupted loudly, arousing the interest of several other
customers. “I’m done with this. I am sick and tired of these
conversations where you vilify my mother and talk up some fucking
child you were sleazy enough to leave her for. I am goddamned sick
of it. And I am also pretty much sick of the Christmas cards, the
birthday afterthoughts, and especially these sporadic once-a-year
meetings with you in places you used to take Mom before you screwed
everything up.”

“Look,” he said, embarrassed, “I’m sorry for
what I said about your mother. Okay? I’m sorry. But don’t talk to
me like that, Layne. I’m still your dad, whether you and her
acknowledge it or not, and I want to be a part of your life.”

“It was never
her
that had a problem
acknowledging anything. It was me. You understand? It was
me
.”

“I want to be a part of your life, Layne,” he
repeated.

“Well,
Paul
, I don’t want to be a part
of yours. Mom might be cut off from the world and she might be a
drunken mess and she might be pretty much ready to give up and die,
but even with all of that shit to contend with, I still choose her
over you. Do you understand me? I don’t want to see you or hear
your opinion of her ever again. And believe me when I say, I am
serious
.”

My father’s deep brown eyes welled up. It was
the first time I’d ever seen this happen. He clumsily reached into
his coat pocket and retrieved his wallet. He plucked fifty dollars
out and placed it so gently across the white tablecloth that, for
some odd reason, I felt compelled to cry. Instead, I just
swallowed. I swallowed everything.

“Will—will this cover dinner, you think?” he
asked, his voice breaking up.

“If it doesn’t,” I said, staring at his eyes,
“I can cover the rest.”

My father nodded and began to stand up. He
pushed his chair in and took two steps back.

“Maybe we can talk again later,” he said.
“Maybe we can talk when we’ve both calmed down and I’m back in
Portland.”

“Yeah,” I nodded, not facing him. “When you
get back to Portland…”

“Son, I just—you know—”