Hanging Loose (5 page)

Our destination turned out to be high on a hill. A couple of very large guys in black at the entrance checked if we were on the list. Sandy was. I was “plus one.” I was moving up in the world.

The house was grand in a too-much-money-not-enough-taste fashion. The architecture was fine by itself, but it was furnished in an expensively gaudy style. Fortunately the lights were low, and most of the furnishing was obscured by the gaggle of beautiful people. I felt painfully out of place, but Sandy looped her arm around mine and dragged me into the thick of it with the confidence of someone who knew what they wanted out of life.

She introduced me to some people whose names and faces I forgot the moment they turned their backs. I’m sure it was mutual. I drank something reddish and deceptively sweet, and after only two, my face started to feel numb. I lost Sandy somewhere in the multitude. The last time I saw her, she’d been charming someone not quite so beautiful. He had to be someone important, then.

I drifted from room to room. Music played. I snagged another drink—different color this time, less sweet, just as potent. I stood at the edge of small groups, pretending I was somehow part of their conversations. I moved on. At the edge of the swimming pool, someone offered me a joint. I accepted it and took deep, greedy drags. I started to relax, convinced that at least I was blending in. As the effects of the weed sneaked up on me, sights and sounds fused into a nebulous whole. The floor to ceiling fish tank beckoned me. All those colorful tropical fish were having their own little party in there. All they were missing were tiny cocktail glasses. I was mesmerized.

“There you are!” Someone grabbed my elbow and spun me around. It was Sandy. She was with a guy so good-looking, he had to be an actor.

“I want you to meet my friend, Mark. Mark Stevens, Nathan West.” Sandy introduced us. We shook. I muttered the usual “call me Nate.” Mark smiled and nodded.

“Mark and I were together in that CSI episode. Remember it?” Sandy twittered on.

Of course I remembered. Sandy was in it for five seconds total—playing a corpse—but I watched the whole episode in a show of support, and the repeat too.

“Mark played that beat cop. Wasn’t he fantastic?” She squeezed my arm in warning, and I bobbed my head, doing my best to concur. I didn’t recall him at all. Not that I recalled much beyond my own name at that moment. I did my best to contribute to the conversation, though, especially since Sandy was making an effort to draw me in, and I didn’t want to disappoint.

In the end I managed to ask a few well-aimed questions that steered Mark to the subject of the pilot he was shooting for one of the alphabet-soup networks. He was anxious whether it would get picked up. I hung on his every word with all the air of rapt attention. Luckily it was something I did well even when I was three sheets to the wind.

We moved around the room in search of more booze, and somehow in the process we lost Sandy again. I was in no state to keep track of her. The buzz of the crowd melded with the one in my head. When I found myself pushed into a dark corner, I had only enough presence of mind to set my glass on the nearest horizontal surface. I found fingers scrabbling at the front of my jeans and a warm, alcohol-soaked tongue tackling mine. I went rigid for a second, but my initial shock was washed away by a surge of desire. I grabbed his ass with both hands, fingers digging in and pulled our hips together. He groaned into my mouth. Wherever he touched me, my skin tingled. He nipped along my neck, and he slipped his hands under my T-shirt. I rubbed my crotch against his and quietly moaned into his neck.

“Who’s Jez?” Mark asked, leaning back a fraction.

“What?” I said dizzily.

“You were saying his name. Never mind. I’ll be him for you.”

I pulled back, finally able to focus a little. I looked at Mark’s perfect teeth, perfect eyebrows, perfect cheekbones, and lust-filled eyes—that were just the wrong shade of blue. Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit.

He looked great, and he looked all wrong.

“I’m sorry.” I mumbled apologies and clumsily disentangled our limbs. “I can’t… Just can’t. Sorry.”

Mark looked put out and baffled, and even through the haze of my considerable buzz, I felt like an ass.

“The pilot will be a hit,” I blurted out. I didn’t know where that had come from, just that I wanted to say something to make it up to him, and at the moment I said it, I even believed it. I beat a hasty retreat out of the house.

* * *

The fresh air sobered me a little, but not nearly enough. When I moved my head, the lights left cool trails. I amused myself with that for a little while, till I realized I really couldn’t go back inside to find Sandy and pressure her to get me home. After some deliberation, I decided I could just wait for her in the car, but I couldn’t find it. Not only could I not find anything mint green anywhere, but the spot where I remembered we’d parked—as much as I could remember anything—was conspicuously empty. I commanded my two conscious brain cells to come up with a plan.
Aha! The gorillas at the gate
! With alarm, I realized that said brain cells were attempting to channel Sam Spade.

I ambled down to the gate to question the “gorillas” about Sandy. The errant brain cells assured me that I looked and sounded just like Bogie in
The Maltese Falcon.

“Now listen up”—I tilted up my imaginary hat—“because I won’t repeat myself. Did you see a dame in a small green convertible leave?”

The two guys, each as big as a door, exchanged a grin.

“Hot blonde in a Bug?” one of them asked.

“Yeah, that’s the one, buster. So where is she?”

“I don’t think I have to tell you anything,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. Judging from the snickering of the other gorilla, they were both having a good time at my expense.

“Now think again, and think fast!” I said at my menacing best. My delivery was slightly undermined by my slurring.

The heavy I’d been conversing with was having a hard time staying in character too. “She left hot on the tails of a Jag. Your girlfriend?”

I shook my head. “That’s just swell. She was my ride home.” The spirit of Bogie abandoned me.

I was screwed. Maybe I could sleep under the azaleas and figure out how to get home once I had more functioning brain matter. Did azaleas even grow in California?

“Tough break, kid. Why don’t you call someone to pick you up?”

My brain cells had a conference. I dug out my phone and dialed Sandy. No answer. A third brain cell regained consciousness and had a brilliant idea. I dialed Jez. He answered at the second ring. I began to explain my predicament, but halfway through, I realized I had no idea where I was, geographically speaking. I was describing the view when the more charitable of the heavies took the phone away from me and gave Jez the address. The conversation went on a little longer, and I had the distinct impression it was about me—especially the “completely wasted” part.

“Yeah, we’ll look after him. See you soon, Jez.” He hung up and tossed the phone back to me. I fumbled.

They parked me against a palm tree and told me to stay put. I was bored. I remembered the sole joint I’d tucked into my pocket before leaving home, and dug it out. It was battered, but still in one piece. I had no light. I detached myself from the tree to ask one of my minders. By the time Jez arrived, the three of us were best pals. Joe and Mike were really nice guys once you got to know them.

* * *

Jez pulled up in the Impala, top down, and nodded to the guys, who nodded back like they knew him. Jez knew how to arrive in style. I just swayed in place, returning his scowl with a grin. I couldn’t help it; he was an Edward Hopper painting come alive. I climbed into the car, still grinning. Jez’s scowl softened, and then he just shook his head. We snaked down to a road that wound its way across the hills. We had glimpses of the Valley and the coastal side at alternate turns. We were up high, and LA lay below us like a shimmering alien landscape.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“Mulholland Drive.”

We descended into the lights. Most of the alcohol had burned out of my system, but the weed was still going strong. We took the surface streets—Jez avoided the freeways whenever he could. He had told me they were a perfect way to get from point A to point B without seeing anything in between. Jez preferred the sights. The lights, the people, even the sounds gave me a dizzy sense of déjà vu. I felt like we were inside a movie, something foreign, European—French New Wave, most likely. But we didn’t look the part. For one thing, Jez was too blond.

“What?” he asked. “You’re staring at me funny.”

“We’re in the wrong movie,” I confessed.

“You’re a nut, you know,” Jez said with warmth in his voice.

Hmm. Maybe we were in a Fellini movie… That could totally work. Anything could happen in a Fellini film. It wouldn’t hurt to be dressed a bit swankier, though.

“You’d look good in a white suit, maybe with a fedora,” I declared.

Jez cast a searching look in my direction. “You live a lot in your head, don’t you? It must be interesting in there.”

“Nah, mostly just lonely.” Damn it. I tended to be too honest when high. He looked at me again but said nothing.

At the next red light, I reached out to tuck his blond tresses behind his ear. I ran my thumb along its perfect shell. I couldn’t help myself; its fine curve compelled me. Jez tilted his head into my palm for a moment. Then he sighed and turned away. The light changed, we were moving, and the wind kicked his locks free. I fell asleep.

* * *

I saw Sandy the next day as my shift ended.

I accosted her. “You left me stranded there alone!”

“What are you talking about? You were tonsils deep in Mark last time I saw you.”

“That’s not the point!” I retorted, feeling the heat rise in my face at the recall.

“He’s a nice guy and just broke up with his boyfriend. After you two hit it off, I was sure you’d go home with him.”

I was flabbergasted. “You…you took me there to fix me up?”

“Why not? You just mope around all the time. What was the harm?”

“I’m not…”

“You’re not what?” Sandy put her hands on her hips and stared me down.

I was stumped for a moment, because I wasn’t sure where I was going with that sentence either.

“I’m not moping!” I stormed off rather than admit defeat.

Chapter Six

It was weeks after the party fiasco. I was at work when the ringing of my phone startled me. Not many people ever called. Roger on occasion, or Sandy, but they were both there; no reason to call. Jez sometimes called me from his trips, but he wasn’t on the road at the moment. The screen displayed
unknown number
. I answered with a cautious “hello.”

“Nate, honey!”

“Mom?”

I didn’t expect my family to call. My father and I communicated through polite Christmas cards since he’d been stationed in Germany. I gave them my number, but only my mother ever called, and our conversations were so full of awkward, unfillable silences that we’d both given up on them after a while. Neither of us had picked up the phone for months, and I wasn’t expecting a call before Christmas. Even now she called only because she had to.

“Honey, your dad passed away. I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” I uttered, because I simply didn’t know what to say. “How?”

“It was a heart attack. They told me it was very quick.”

Didn’t you have to have a heart for that? No, that was a spiteful thing to think, I chided myself.

“What about the funeral?”

“Ah, that’s just it; he’s already buried. Helga saw to it.”

Not long after my father had been stationed in Germany, he’d married a local woman. We knew the bare minimum of her, only what he let us in on in his infrequent and brief letters.

“One less thing to worry about, then, right?”

“Oh, Nate…” She sniffled.

“It’s all right, Mom. How’s Ellie?” I asked, not because I cared much how my stepsister—the little princess—was doing, but to steer her away from a conversation I wasn’t ready to have. It worked.

Mom babbled for a little while, finishing off with hints of how my job with “Uncle” Albert would be waiting if I decided to return to Indiana. I told her I’d think about it. We both knew I was lying.

Roger let me cut out early when I told him about the news. I didn’t go home. I needed time to think. I needed a drink. I found one of those bars off the beaten track where the locals hang out. It was still a colorful crowd, but blissfully tourist free. There were no TVs hanging from the wall either, but there was a jukebox in the corner. I got change for a five and shoved it all into the machine till I lined up every last classic rock song I could find plus a few country western ones for good measure. They made me think of my childhood and, inevitably, my father.

* * *

It was hours later when I stumbled home. The house was dark and quiet, but Jez’s door was open; an inviting yellow glow spilled out into the hallway. I wandered in and found him propped up on the bed, reading. I hovered at the foot of the bed. Either me or the room was lightly swaying. He laid the book on his chest and surveyed my unstable condition with amused curiosity. The neediness I felt must have shown through my drunken daze, because he wordlessly scooted to one side of the bed, leaving the other side temptingly open. I crawled up next to him and flopped onto my back. I was in that state when your brain’s still minding the HQ, but the lines of communication to the various body parts are compromised.

“You’re drunk,” he said.

I grunted in agreement; long explanations weren’t necessary. He sighed and put the book facedown on the night table. I shuffled a little closer. He was warm, and it so felt good. My head sort of rolled onto his shoulder—it needed support. I closed my eyes but snapped them open again when the room tilted and started to slowly spin, nauseating me. I fixed my stare at the ceiling instead.

“My father died,” I confided to the ceiling fan. It was indifferent.

“I’m sorry,” Jez said, his voice full of misplaced compassion.