Concrete Underground (2010) (22 page)

"I think quantum theory would beg to differ with you," I replied, stopping to turn towards her. "But I get what you're saying. It's just... don't look down too harshly on people for believing in the thing that comes most easily. I think sometimes we need to hang onto a few convenient illusions just to keep ourselves going. I mean, not to be a dick or anything, but have you taken a look in the mirror? You're married to a murderous thug with a black hole where his conscience should be."

Fuck. Did I just say that?

Violet, miraculously, did not slap me. She did not scream. But she did bite back.

"That's true. But then are you any better? Pining after some girl you just met despite the fact that she's decidedly unavailable. Somehow convincing yourself that, despite her murderous thug of a husband, you're sure she's really just a sweet and innocent girl at heart, and it's got to be some mistake that she ended up with him. Holding out hope that one day she'll realize what she wants is a nice, sensitive guy she can take home to mommy, and then somehow that'll lead her to the arrogant, self-absorbed, misogynistic asshole with a chip on his shoulder and severe issues with his own masculinity who's been nipping at her heels."

"Touche," I said with a grin and took a step closer to her. Then I slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her in closer to me.

"You can't be serious," she protested, smirking, as I pressed my body into hers.

"Dead serious. And you've got me all wrong," I replied. "What I'm really thinking is, 'If this chick is fucked-up in the head enough to hang around with that unstable psychopath, then
this
unstable psychopath is going to be right up her alley."

She raised her head to meet my gaze, our lips hovering mere inches apart. "As if you're ever gonna get 'up my alley' now. You're ugly as sin now."

She pulled back from me, and her gloriously full, gorgeous lips curled into a triumphant grin. Then she turned and walked away.

"Oh come on, there's got to be some chance," I called out after her while laughing boisterously. "Not even a little?"

"Not even if you paid me," she called back, her words echoing loudly through the night.

24. Didn't This Already Happen?

When I went to pick up Columbine for the party, I noted with some relief that while Violet's Volvo was parked out front, Anthony's Escalade was nowhere in sight.

I rang the doorbell, and Violet answered in a long black widow's-peaked wig and a Vampira costume that looked like she was mere seconds from falling out of.

"Nice costume," she said.

"I'm not wearing one," I replied.

"Yeah, I noticed."

I grinned and pointed to her chest. "If you're not careful, soon you won't be either."

"Don't worry," she laughed. "The girls are glued securely into place."

"That's a shame," I said as she led me in.

"Col's in her room getting ready, first door on the right. I was thinking we could all drive together."

I grunted in agreement before making my way down the hallway and knocking on Columbine's door.

"Come in."

I went inside and found her sitting in front of a vanity, putting her makeup on. She was wearing a glittery green tube dress.

"Oh, no, no, no," she declared as soon as she saw my refection in her mirror. "You are not getting away with not wearing a costume."

"This is my costume," I protested while taking a seat on her bed, next to a blonde up-do wig and a pair of sequined fairy wings. Then I kicked out my leg and pointed to the red Chuck Taylor All-Star on my foot. "Look."

Columbine laughed, but then shook her head and gave me an emphatic thumbs-down.

"He'll love it, though."

"Of course he will," she agreed and stood up. "Help me get those on."

I held up the wings while she slipped her arms through the straps and secured them to her back. Then she added the wig.

"Maybe I should have been Peter Pan," I said.

"That would have definitely been fitting."

As soon as we returned to the living room, Violet poked her head in from her workshop and waved us over.

"Hey, I have something for you to wear as a costume."

We walked down the steps to find her standing in the middle of the room, holding something hidden behind her back.

"So I tried to think up the perfect costume for you," she said. "And there was one thing that you desperately need to improve your look." She whipped her hands out to show what she was holding, "A mask."

"Thanks, that is really helpful for my self-esteem," I said as I took the mask from her and felt the cold, heavy gunmetal. It was just like the one in my dream - grotesque with boils and a long crooked nose. Two motley ribbons hung off either side.

I put it on, and Violet circled around behind me to tie the ribbons.

"Look at it this way," Columbine chimed in helpfully, "It'd be worse if people saw your face and thought that you were already wearing a mask. Like you were supposed to be a gross
Night of the Living Dead
guy or something."

Violet brought over a hand held mirror for me to see how it looked. It was uncanny how closely it resembled my dream. I let out a faint laugh, which sounded tiny and mechanical as it reverberated within the mask, making me think of a clanking old film projector.

"You made this?" I asked.

"Yeah, a while ago. It's just something I had lying around."

I scanned the workshop to survey the array of tools and supplies she had assembled - paints and canvases, big chunks of clay for sculpting, metalworking tools, a mini oven, sheet metal, a half-mannequin with latex prosthetics added to its face like movie makeup, a big spice rack loaded up with various corrosive chemicals for god-knows-what. She even had a couple tubs set up with pulp and water; it looked like she was making her own paper by hand.

"You certainly keep busy," I said.

Just then, we heard a car pull up outside, and a few seconds later Saint Anthony appeared at the door. He was wearing what I supposed was a Minotaur costume comprised of two giant metal horns sprouting from his head and a thick brass ring hanging from the cartilage between his nostrils. He was bare-chested, showing off his sacred heart tattoo, in only a very form-fitting pair of leather shorts and knee-high boots.

"Are we ready to go?" he asked the three of us .

"Chomping at the bit," I replied.

---

I clearly remembered arriving at the party in Anthony's Escalade. Things became fuzzy after that.

We pulled up in front of a huge white art deco behemoth. I recognized it right away; I had often seen it from afar, most often from the Light Rail Green Line that ran along the elevated median of Highway 77. I had always assumed it was a Mormon Temple or something.

"What is this place?" I asked.

"It's the Highwater Building," Columbine explained. "This is where they meet."

We got out and turned the car over to the valet, then proceeded up a massive white marble staircase to a set of three large, church-like arched double doors.

The doors opened into an expansive foyer decorated in golds and reds. Directly ahead of us was a set of three short steps at least 10 yards wide that lead up to a large entryway framed on either side by giant red curtains that had been pulled open to reveal the ballroom. The architecture was very Gaudi-esque with wavy lines and arches, giving it a very skeletal feeling, as if entering into the carcass of a great Leviathan. Most of the floor and even patches on the walls were covered with mosaics of broken tile.

On either side of us was a set of stairways that lead up to a mezzanine, which had three identically-shaped closed doors - one red, one white, and one black.

The four of us made our way into the ballroom, which was was already jam-packed with people in costumes ranging from the ornate to the playful to the risque. In the center of the room stood a raised platform with a jazz trio consisting of piano, acoustic guitar, and upright bass, each member dressed in white, playing instrumental standards. A team of servers zipped around and between the throngs of revelers, each dressed in a tuxedo and a featureless gunmetal mask, exactly like the one my interrogator had worn.

I flagged down one of the servers with a tray of wine glasses and, after being assured they were complimentary, snagged four. Violet and Anthony each accepted one, Columbine declined hers, and I drained the remaining two in about three seconds flat.

"So I take it you're not on the clock tonight," Violet said.

"On the contrary, this is how I do my best work," I replied.

Anthony butted between us, putting one hand on my shoulder and cupping Violet's ass with the other. "So what first, then? Mingle, grab something to eat, or head straight to the dance floor?"

"Bathroom," Columbine said resolutely.

"Well let's go then," Anthony replied and started walking, keeping his hand firmly gripped on his wife's perfect ass.

Columbine slipped her arm around mine and motioned for us to follow behind them.

"We all have to go to the bathroom together?" I asked, genuinely confused.

She just chuckled. "Don't be so provincial."

---

Columbine inhaled forcefully through her nose as she swept her head over the length of the toilet tank lid.

"God damn, that's smooth!" she exclaimed as she whipped herself back upright.

"Don't blaspheme," Anthony said and poured some more of the white powder onto the little hand-sized mirror perched atop the toilet tank.

Columbine handed me the short plastic straw. Anthony finished sculpting the lines, and I stepped up and took my bump.

"Jesus Christ, yuppies and coke, does it get any more cliched?" I asked before passing the straw over to Violet.

"I said don't fucking blaspheme," Anthony repeated.

"You know, I can never tell if you're trying to be funny when you say that."

---

After leaving the bathroom, we headed over to the
hors d'oeuvres
table. The other three began picking over the sundry offerings, but I didn't feel much like eating. Then Anthony and Violet started feeding each other little puff pastries and
brie en croute
, and that just killed my appetite even more
.

On stage, the trio had moved past instrumentals and onto vocal songs. They were in the middle of a song I recognized but couldn't quite place. It had a jaunty, staccato guitar rhythm, over which the piano player crooned in a scratchy, whiskey-drenched voice:

Pray for you, pray for me, sing it like a song,

Life is short, but by the grace of God, the night is long.

"Fuck, who sings this song?" I asked of no one in particular.

"That guy does," Columbine replied, pointing up at the pianist.

Violet erupted into uncontrollable giggles, and Col and I simultaneously turned to see that she had spilled some caviar onto her cleavage and that Anthony had playfully leaned in to lick it off.

"Didn't this already happen?" Columbine whispered.

I grabbed two glasses of wine and pounded them both in quick succession.

"I take it you're not on the clock tonight," Violet said.

"This is how I do my best work," I muttered gruffly in response.

"Didn't this already happen?" Columbine repeated and giggled softly.

She was right, there was something familiar about this moment, but I couldn't quite place it. My head started spinning, and everything felt fragmented.

I held up my empty glass and looked inside.

"Jesus, is someone putting something in my wine? I don't think cocaine is supposed to do this," I mumbled as I staggered away from the other three.

---

I ended up back in the bathroom. Saint Anthony had given me a little plastic bag of my own. I wasn't really sure when that had happened. But at any rate, I had it now, and I was digging the white powder out with the key from the Porsche and sniffing it straight out of the grooves.

"I tell you," I said to the man in the next stall, "the profession just hasn't been the same since Thompson offed himself. He was the last of the titans. No one has any balls anymore. I mean, 'embedded journalist' - what the fuck is that?"

I reached into my pockets to dig out my cigarettes, but fumbled the pack and dropped it into the toilet. "Motherfucker!" I shouted.

The man in the next stall kept our conversation going, unfazed by my outburst, "The problem is that there's nothing hidden anymore, so there's nothing real to report. Everything's out in the open. People still cheat, steal, backstab, and even kill to get ahead, but now they'll do it live on prime time network TV. Everybody ODed on scandal - Watergate, Iran-Contra, blow jobs in the oval office - it's too hard to maintain such a high level of outrage indefinitely. Eventually fatigue sets in and it becomes easier just to look the other way, so long as I'm not personally hurt by it. Nothing's shocking."

"Shit, you're right," I said, taking another bump off my key. "What am I doing with my life? I'm stuck in a dead profession. I've got to get out of this bathroom and make something of myself."

---

I wandered back to the band's platform, hoping to find Columbine and the others, but they weren't there. I decided to light up a cigarette while I waited for them to come back.

"Wait, did this already happen? Was this before I dropped them in the toilet?" I mumbled to no one in particular, my lit smoke bouncing up and down between my lips. A waiter in a gunmetal mask walked up and asked me to put the smoke out. I tossed it into one of the glasses on his tray, then grabbed two others off it and pounded them both in quick succession.

The lights dimmed, and a spotlight fell upon the platform, illuminating a woman with voluminous blonde hair and tight, red sequined dress clinging to her tall, lithe frame.

The piano began the introduction to "Superstar" by the Carpenters. Then the rest of the band joined in, and the woman began to sing.

And then I realized she wasn't a woman.