Identical (19 page)

thing. Why should she know

love when I don’t? When I can’t?

She’s only got a few years

at best. Why should they be warmed

by love when my own coming

decades are doomed to frigidity?

Greta’s beau shares the dinner

table with a half-dozen old

women, but he sees only her.

And she sees only him, despite

the banter and pleasantries exchanged

all around and between them.

I can’t help but watch through eyes

tinged green. Then Greta laughs,

from the heart, like she has laughed

with me, only sweeter. And suddenly

I am ashamed. No, horrified, at myself.

How could I think that way?

Like looking inside myself

and finding a stranger,

someone not only vicious

but downright

evil.

How odd, to suddenly

glimpse a facet of me

I didn’t know existed.

I guess it really

isn’t

all that unusual to surprise

oneself with an ugly bit

of ego. But was this

unsuspected piece of me

born

at the same instant I was?

Or was it spawned some

time between that moment

and now? I know, I know

it’s

a question with no answer,

undeserving of introspection.

But was this hideous thing

conceived, or was it

created?

It’s my world, the only one

I’ve got. Might as well make

the best of it, right? Might as

well have a little fun while

I’m here. Or a lot of fun.

Might be dead tomorrow.

I’d call Mick, but he’s out

of dope, and anyway, he’s

an irritating prick. Stupid,

too, all ranting about how

he’s going to sue the sheriff’s

department for stealing stash.

I told him to shut up and think

about it, and hopefully he’s

doing exactly that about now.

I do know a few other people

who might have some bud.

But the one who comes first

and foremost to mind is Ty.

He gave me his number,

for the next time you

find your mouth watering

for a hot red lollipop…

Yeah, he’s totally disgusting.

Why do I like men that way?

He answers his phone first ring,

and he isn’t busy at the moment.

Lucky, lucky me. It’s a school

night, and I might very well hear

about not coming straight home, but

hey, if I go straight home, I won’t

be going out tonight. No-brainer.

I wait for him at a little convenience

store, and about the time I grow

impatient, a sheriff’s sedan cruises

by, reminding me I do not want to

be caught in the backseat of a car

in a compromising position. Turns

out that’s not a problem. Ty whips

into the parking lot, in a blue BMW

Z4 convertible. Top down. No back-

seat. We won’t be smoking or making

out in this stunning little car.

He smiles at the look on my face.

Get in. How ’bout we take a little spin?

In five point six seconds,
says

Ty. Seemed faster to me. I love

the way acceleration presses me

back against my seat. But what’s

really interesting is that Ty can afford

this car at all. Might as well just ask.

“So what do you do, anyway?

Or are your parents loaded?”

He smiles and settles the car

into an easy cruise mode.

Actually, my parents
are

loaded. More ways than one.

I really look at him for the first

time. Handsome face, chiseled,

strong. Works-out-in-the-gym

body. Dark, longish hair, tied back.

Simple black T-shirt and Levis,

though clean, totally belie the Beamer.

And what exactly did he mean

by
more ways than one?

Might as well just ask. “Your

parents get high? Do they deal?”

Nah, they don’t deal. They indulge

plenty, though. See, my dad is

Chumash. When the casino was built,

he made—how best to put this?—more

than a tidy little sum on the deal.

He and my mom now own quite an

operation out Foxen Canyon Road.

Cattle. Horses. Young vineyard.

Who would have guessed?

Certainly not me, not even

after our little private party

up there on Figueroa. Still…

“So how about you? What do you do?

Do you live with your parents?”

A bunch more questions pop

into my head, bubbling over

like champagne, but the answers

to those two might answer the rest.

Shit, yeah. In a guest house,

actually. Once our vines mature,

I’ll play vintner. Right now,

I’m apprenticing at another winery.

Several questions answered indeed.

Finally I notice we have in fact

been driving along Foxen Canyon

Road. Ty slows the BMW and we

turn up a long driveway through

rows and rows of immature grapes.

We make a left before reaching

the rather overbearing main house.

Finally Ty crunches to a stop

in the gravel.
Here we are. Home

sweet home. Hope you’re up

for fun and games.

Begins with tall Jack Daniel’s

and Cokes. As he mixes them,

I wander around the “guest house,”

thinking half the country would

flip if they could live in a home

like this. Two oversize bedrooms.

Two bathrooms, one with a Jacuzzi

tub. Beautiful kitchen, open to

the leather-and-brass living room.

With a flick of a switch, Ty lights

the gas fireplace, which throws

a gentle gleam across the hardwood

floor. He gestures toward the rich

burgundy leather sofa and goes

into the bedroom. Blink of an eye,

back he comes, holding a big wooden

box. He sits close, opens the hand-

carved oak, reveals the cache inside.

My uncle has connections you

wouldn’t believe,
says Ty.

He pulls out a baggie, a quarter

full of some crumbly brown substance.

When he cracks the bag, the perfume

that escapes smells like heaven.

Opiated hash. Ever tried it?

I shake my head no, but Ty

is quick to remedy that, filling

a small pipe bowl with a miniature

ball of opium-laced hashish.

He takes the first toke, and now

heaven’s on fire, and smoking.

Still holding his hit, Ty cautions

around it,
Little tokes, now.

Don’t want to cough this stuff out.

Hold it as long as you can.

Slowly I inhale a taste sweeter

than any before. Greedy me

wants more, but I remember

his warning. The smoke expands

in my lungs, and I’m glad I didn’t

take more. I hold it until I just have

to let go. When I finally do,

my head is tingling all over.

Ty looks at me, measuring.

Having fun yet? ’Course you are.

And sweetheart, this is just the start.

We’ve still got games to play.

Don’t even begin until we’re well

into the fun. Drinking. Smoking.

Feeling the creep of the poppy,

all along my spine, skull to tailbone.

I know the high is mostly hash,

not so different from regular

cannabis (though even tastier).

But the opium topper provides

a whole new set of rushes. Body

rushes, like little shivers. Head

rushes, like turning in circles,

round and round, don’t fall down.

Shall we move the party

into the bedroom?
Ty reaches

over, kisses me. Hard. Harder.

My heart screams in my chest.

His teeth rake my bottom

lip, move down over my chin,

down my neck. Not too hard.

Not really. But hard enough.

Should I have worn garlic

and a silver cross? I laugh

out loud at the thought, and

I realize how fucked up I am.