Dog Soldiers (30 page)

Hit the road, Jack. And don
’
t you come back no more.

Dreams.

In the end there were not many things worth wanting — for the serious man, the samurai. But there were some. In the end, if the serious man is still bound to illusion, he selects the worthiest illusion and takes a stand. The illusion might be of waiting for one woman to come under his hands. Of being with h
er and shivering in the same mo
ment.

If I walk away from this, he thought, I
’
ll be an old man — all ghosts and hangovers and mellow recollections. Fuck it, he thought, follow the blood. This is the one. This is the one to ride till it crashes.

He watched the afternoon traffic, southbound.

Go anyway!

Thinking it made him smile. Good Zen. Zen was for old men.

There was a rust-colored slat fence connecting the walls of the bungalows, separating the patio from the beach. A stilted walkway led through a gate to the sand. Hicks walked toward the surf with his head down, to keep the blown grains from his eyes. For a while he stood on the soft sand, watching the waves break and the sandpipers scatter under them. He got cold very quickly.

To warm himself, he turned toward the ocean and began the motions of t
’
ai chi. His thrusts at the ocean wind felt feeble and uncertain. His body was slack, and as he grew colder and more tired, he felt the force of his will diminish.

Not a chance. There was not a chance.

She was some junkie
’
s nod, a snare, a fool catcher.

It was folly. It was losing.

He planted a foot in the wind
’
s teeth and shouted.

On our left, he thought, fucking L.A. On our right, the wind. The exercise is called riding it till it crashes.

As he passed over the walkway leading to the court, he saw some gliders being towed above Point Mugu, and he stopped to watch them for a while. He was sweating; the
t
’
ai chi
had made him feel better after all.

The choice was made, and there was nothing to be had from chickenshit speculation. The roshis were right:
the mind is a monkey
.

Marge woke up as soon as he closed the door. She had lodged herself in the space between the edge of the mattress and the wall.

“
O.K.,
”
Hicks said.
“
Let
’
s get high.
”

She sat up with her hand shading her eyes.

“
Is that a joke?
”

He had taken the plast
ic-wrapped package from the air
line bag and set it on a chair.
“
No, it ain
’
t a joke.
”

He set a sheet of white writing paper across the telephone book and lifted a white dab from the package with a picture postcard of Marine World. She watched him raise the post card and shake the powder onto the sheet, flicking it with his finger to dislodge the first flakes. White on white.

“
We
’
ll need some works for you if you
’
re gonna be a righteous junkie. Maybe Eddie Peace bring us some.
”

He made a funnel from the back of a matchbook, took Marge by her damp and tremorous hand and led her to the desk.

He pared away a tiny mound of the stuff with the card board funnel and eased it onto the postcard
’
s glossy blue sky.

“
I don
’
t know much about dilaudid so I don
’
t know what your tolerance is. Scoff it like coke and see if you get off.
”

He moved the bag from the chair; Marge sat down and looked at the postcard.

“
It
’
s scary,
”
she said.

“
Don
’
t talk about it.
”

She crouched over the stuff like a child and drew it into her nostril. Afterward she straightened up so quickly he was afraid she would pass out. She shook her head and sniffed.

He made a second little mound for her.

“
Go ahead. Hit the other one.
”

She hit the other one, and then sat stock-still; tears ran from her closed eyes. Slowly, she bent forward and rested her forehead against the desk. Hicks moved the phone book out of her way.

In a few minutes, she sat up again and turned to him.

She was smiling. She put her arms around his waist; her tears and runny nose wet his shirt. He bent down to her; she rested her head on his shoulder. The tension drained from her in small sobs.

“
Better than a week in the country, right?
”

Holding to him, she stood up and he helped her to the
bed. She lay across it, arching her back, stretching her
arms and legs toward its four corners.

“
It
’
s a lot better than a week in the country,
”
she said.

She began to laugh.
“
It
’
s better than dilaudid. It
’
s good.
”

She rolled over and hugged herself.

“
Right in the head!
”
She made her hand into a pistol and fired into her temple.
“
Right in the head.
”

He sat down on the bed with her. The glow had come back to her skin, the grace and suppleness of her body flowed again. The light came back, her eyes
’
fire. Hicks marveled. It made him happy.

“
It does funny little things inside you. It floats inside you. It
’
s incredible.
”

“
People use it instead of sex.
”

“
But it
’
s just gross how nice it is,
”
Marge said happily.

Hicks touched her breast.

“
Walking with the King. Big H. If God made anything better he never let on. I know all those songs, my sweet.
”

Marge sat up in the bed, looking in wonder at the sky outside the window, as blue and regular as the sky over Marine World.

“
I see how it works. You have it or you don
’
t. You have it — everything
’
s O.K. You don
’
t, everything
’
s shit. It
’
s yes or no. On or off. Stop or go.
”

“
Write a poem about it,
”
Hicks said.

She stood up and went back to the desk. She turned to him with a glance of quick mischief.
“
Please, sir — can I have some more?
”

He made a gesture of abundance.

She set about separating another high from the dope on the sheet of paper.

“
This one is for jollity,
”
she said.
“
Purely recreational.
”

He checked the size of the dose and let her wail.

“
It
’
s its own poem,
”
she said, when the lift came.
“
Very serious elegant poem.
”

“
It
’
s just like everything else,
”
Hicks said.

She found one of his cigarettes by the backpack and lit it.

He had never seen her smoke before. For a long time she stood looking out at the beach. Hicks watched her, wishing that she would speak to him again — but she was silent now, smiling, blowing smoke at the picture window.

“
Remember the night we ran the freaks out?
”
Hic
ks
asked her.
“
We made it after. You remember?
”

She turned her lofty empty smile on him and he felt, again, a dart of loneliness.

“
I remember everything. With absolute clarity. Since you walked in on me.
”
Her elbow slid from the windowsill where she had been resting
it and she almost lost her bal
ance.
“
Every twitch. Every bead of sweat. Every shiver. Believe me.
”

“
What can I do,
”
Hicks said.
“
I gotta believe you.
”

“
I
’
m just a little slip of a thing,
”
Marge said,
“
but I
’
m all primary process. I live the examined life. Not one funny little thing gets by me.
”

He got up and went to the desk where the leavings of Marge
’
s measure lay across the Los Angeles telephone book.

“
You would have come in handy. Where you been?
”

“
I
’
ve been maintaining an establishment. That
’
s where I
’
ve been.
”

The matchbook cover Marge had used was wet. He ripped off another one.

“
You talking about your old man? That
’
s an establish
ment?
”

Marge let herself slide do
wn to the floor beneath the win
dow.

“
Don
’
t you put my old man down,
”
she said.
“
My old man is a subtle fella. He
’
s a can of worms.
”

Hicks sniffed his dope and shook his head violently.

“
The next fucking time he calls me a psychopath — I
’
m gonna tell him you said that.
”

He sat waiting to go off; in a moment he was in the bathroom vomiting bourbon residue from the bottom of his guts. When the vomiting stopped, he brushed his teeth.

Back in the bedroom, he surmised that he was high. The room was all easy lines and soft light, his steps were cushioned. He turned on the television set but he could not get it to work. There were some nice color bands, so he watched those for a while and then turned it off.

“
Did you think I left you?
”
Marge asked him.
“
Is that why you did up?
”

Hicks shrugged.

“
Just for old times
’
sake.
”

He lay down on the bed
beside her and watched dust col
umns spin before the window.

“
Yes, it
’
s easy,
”
he said, laughing foolishly.
“
Yes, it
’
s good.
”

“
It is good, isn
’
t it?
”
Marge said.
“
I mean high quality.
”

“
So they tell me.
”
He leaned into the pillows and breathed deeply.
“
This is a different ball game,
”
he said.

Marge was staring at the ceiling with an expression like
reverence.

“
It really had me there,
”
she said.
“
I had cramps. My
nose wouldn
’
t stop running. I was genuinely sick.
”

“
Maybe it was all in your head.
”

“
Not all of it.
”

He moved closer to her and put his hand under the back of her neck.
“
What a goof you are! Don
’
t brag about it. It
’
s not such a tough condition. It
’
s not what you want.
”