The Tragic Age (8 page)

The movie is finally over and we join the masses heading to the parking lot. Exit polls will later tell us, in case we're not sure, that the two hours with the Three Stooges has been time well spent. This is bad news because it will probably encourage the movie studio to make yet another sequel. Frankly they'd do better to make and market propofol, which is an operating room anesthetic. Both put you to sleep but propofal erases the memories.

It seems obvious from the way Deliza is draped around Twom she has no intention of letting the evening end anytime soon. This is sadly derailed when her girlfriends approach to tell her that Paco of the seated face was a no-show and they need rides home. Deliza looks totally pissed but apparently she has no choice. She piles her raven-haired
hermanas
into a four-door Mercedes sedan that looks half street rocket, blows Twom a heavy-eyed kiss, and leaves. Ephraim, sorry to say, has already been picked up by his mother, who has totally humiliated everyone by screaming across the parking lot like an impatient Cruella de Vil nailing a Dalmatian—

“Ephraaaaim! Now!”

Five minutes later Twom, Gretchen, and I are in the old Cadillac, driving down High School High Boulevard. Twom keeps glancing in the rearview mirror as if waiting for me to jump Gretchen's bones full bore.

“Don't mind me!” He whistles tunelessly to himself. “Not even here. Wheaka-wheaka-wheak!” He pretends he's rolling up a screen between the front and back seats so as to give us privacy. It's a great thing to do because it's really discomforting.

“You're looking discomforted,” I say to Gretchen.
Actually I don't say this.
But I encourage it by trying to look discomforted myself.

“Anybody want to go to In-N-Out Burger?” Twom says. Antibiotic-laden, hormone-injected beef. Great idea.

“I'm a vegetarian,” Gretchen says.

The evening is now as good as over. But just as I'm about to suggest we call it a night and go home, Twom begins to sing. “In and Out! In and Out! That's what a first date's! All about!” Needless to say he makes it sound like fucking.

Gretchen doesn't so much as giggle.

She belly-laughs. “Stop,” she says in a way that lets you know he shouldn't. She doesn't mind the innuendo, she thinks it's funny, thinks Twom is funny. And it hits me all at once that the reason she thinks it's funny is because it
is
. Twom is. He's been relaxed and funny all evening long. Gretchen is having a good time.
Has
been having a good time. The only one who's not, who hasn't been, who has been uncomfortable and nervous and so assumes everyone else is, is me. It is I who am the stooge.

Whoo-whoo-whoo-whoo-whoo!

That's when the siren goes off.

Twom pulls over. The police car, its lights flashing, pulls to the curb behind us. A policeman approaches and asks for a license and registration. Twom hands him a ticket stub from the AMC12. “This car belong to you?” asks the cop. You can tell he already knows the answer.

“It's my grandmother's,” says Twom.

“Your grandmother has reported it as stolen.”

“My grandmother can't find her teeth most mornings.”

“She says your driver's license was suspended.”

“That doesn't mean I don't know how to
drive,
dude.”

The policeman tells all of us to get out of the car and we do. Twom is asked to assume the position. This means putting his hands on the hood of the car and spreading his legs. The policeman pats him down.

“Touch me there, you'll have to marry me,” says Twom.

“I love smart guys,” says the policeman.

“You must hate looking in the mirror,” says Twom.

The policeman turns to Gretchen and me. He's not too old, maybe in his twenties. He's big, with buzzed blond hair. He looks like he wears his aviator sunglasses to bed at night.

“I hope
you two
have identification.”

Gretchen quickly hands him her driver's license. He looks at it. He hands it back to her. You can tell by the way he does it, he thinks he's hot shit and she should think so too. I hand him my picture ID.

“What's this?”

“It's called a library card?”

Twom laughs like that's the funniest thing he's ever heard. “No wonder he doesn't know what it is!”

The policeman handcuffs him. If he's concerned, Twom doesn't show it. “See you, Little Red!” he says, all smiles, as he's pushed into the back of the police car.

The policeman closes the door and, adjusting his belt, turns back to us. His holstered gun looks like a block of metal on his hip. Like the Taylors', I'm pretty sure it's a Glock.

“You two need a ride?” he says, sounding bored now at the prospect.

“She's called her dad,” I say.

“Let's be careful who we drive with next time,” he says.

“You mean her dad?” I say.

The policeman gives me a look. He shakes his head at Gretchen as if he pities who she's stuck with. He turns and gets in the cruiser. His partner already has it started up and the two of them pull away. In the backseat Twom looks like he's whistling again.

And then they're gone.

The only thing that could make the evening more of a disaster now would be getting mugged, which is sort of what happens next.

Gretchen has turned, moved to the car, and is resting now against the rear bumper. I join her. We sit there for a while in silence.

“You know, I've been asking around,” Gretchen says, not really looking at me.

“About what?” I say.

“You,” Gretchen says softly.

“Really. What have you found out?” I'm not so much curious as I am alarmed.

“People don't know what to make of you. Some people think you're kind of cool. Most of them aren't sure. A couple of girls think you're going to come to school someday and shoot people.”

“I'm not,” I say.

“I know,” says Gretchen. “Still … I feel like I should worry about you, Billy.”

I know that her eyes are green and in the light of the street lamp I can see, or maybe it's just that I can imagine, a single tear running down her cheek.

It's just not fair.

Norepinephrine, phenylhydrazine, and dopamine, which act like amphetamines, hit my brain's pleasure center like a locomotive. My pupils dilate. My heart pumps faster. The chemical oxytocin floods my body, creating intense feelings of caring, attraction, and warmth. Physical contact produces endorphins and continued high doses of oxytocin. These chemicals are all natural opiates that create a druglike dependency.

Translation?

I am so screwed.

I lean toward her. Closing her eyes, Gretchen leans ever so slightly toward me. I kiss her. Her lips are the softest thing I've ever felt. I lean into her and her body presses against me. I gasp and almost pull away as her fingertips caress my right cheek.

“Sorry,” says Gretchen quickly.

“No,” I say. “It's okay.”

And it is. Her touch is delicate and beneath it, as if under a special wavelength of light, I feel my cheek taking on vivid hues. We kiss again. Her tongue touches my lips—

And then a car horn blares and blows the moment right out of the water. We move away from each other, startled. We squint at the headlights of the van as it pulls up and then moves to the side of us. The passenger-side window glides down.

“Let's go, you two!” calls Gretchen's dad. He sounds like a cheerful friar who's come to deliver a chastity belt.

I wonder if Gretchen's going to get into the front but she doesn't. She climbs into the backseat with me. As we pull away, I turn and look over my shoulder. The Caddy looks like a tired beggar, alone under the streetlight. I wonder if anyone thought to lock it.

Even though he's been pulled out of his house at, like, ten-thirty at night, and even though he's seen me lip-locked with his daughter, Dr. Quinn doesn't seem especially upset. “Well. Other than the police, did you two have a pleasant evening?” He glances in the rearview to see if anyone is smiling at his joke. Or maybe, like Twom, he's waiting to see if I'm going to jump his “Little Red.”

“Dad,” Gretchen says. Which is a polite way of saying, Please don't embarrass me any more than you already have. At least Dr. Quinn doesn't have the radio going. You just know that, like Gordon, he's the kind of guy who likes classic rock and listening to Boston or Steely Dan or, even worse, Aerosmith, something I can't handle under the best of circumstances, let alone tonight.

“Boy, I feel like a regular chauffeur here,” Dr. Quinn says now, all cheerful about it.

Again, it's one of those things that parents say when they want to let you know that they, too, were once young and went through all the same crap you're going through, and because they did, they can relate. And it's the last thing you want to hear because if they were once just like you, that means someday you're going to be just like them.

Just another thing to look forward to.

When they drop me off, Gretchen gets out of the car with me. “Call me, okay?” she says.

“I will.” I even repeat it. “I will.”

Gretchen gets in the front next to her dad. As they motor off, she opens the window, leans out to look back at me and waves. Before I can catch myself, I wave back. I don't so much as move until well after they're gone.

 

21

The vial of Ambien CR is on the second shelf of the cupboard to the left of the bathroom sink.

Ambien, like all sleep medications, is addictive and can cause memory loss and withdrawal symptoms. Prolonged use can also cause changes in behavior such as risk taking and decreased inhibitions.

I unscrew the safety lid and drop a couple of them into my hand. The pills are 6.25 milligrams and are round and a pinkish orange. I flush them down the toilet so that if she checks, Mom will think I'm using them.

It's when I'm in the bedroom undressing that I'm aware of someone coming out of the closet behind me. I look into the bureau mirror and I catch a glimpse of a hospital gown and an enormous syringe.

“This is going to hurt,” Dorie says. She thrusts the needle into the base of my spine and I scream.

I jerk up in bed, flailing at the sheets.

Fact.

Dreams are neurons firing from the brain stem while the brain is undergoing memory consolidation during sleep. A recurring dream is a dream that is experienced repeatedly over a long period of time.

You'd think I'd recognize this one by now. You'd think I'd be able to remind myself what it is while I'm in the middle of it. But I'm not. I never have been. And now, like always, the room seems to be inhabited by shadows and barely concealed horrors. A sheet of sandpaper drags across my brain. It hits me that maybe the date with Gretchen was a dream as well.

I get out of bed and I begin pulling on clothes.

In the kitchen I drag open the drawer where the keys are. I head for the door. I think I might be crying.

Outside, I start to run. I don't know why. I've just got to get away from the house where Dorie's ghost still lives and constantly reminds me that I failed her. With nowhere else to go, I run up and across the street to the Taylors' empty morgue of a house. As I pass it, I kick the newspaper into the bushes.

I enter and shut the door behind me. I turn off the security alarm. The outside floods make it just light enough inside for me to see. I stand there, shivering in the air-conditioning. It takes a while but the fear finally begins to fade.

I make my way through the living room and up the stairs of the Taylors' house. I'm so tired, I can hardly put one foot in front of the other.

I enter the Taylors' bedroom. I look around. I look at the bed. I move to the bed. I touch the bed. It's soft. The house is quiet. I sit on the bed. And then I lie down on the bed. I can rest here. For some unexplainable reason, there are no nightmares in this house, and if there are, they're not mine. Dorie won't come here. It's safe here. I'm not sure when my eyes close. All I know is that I sleep.

 

22

When I wake up, the Taylors' dachshund is stupidly staring me in the face. He whimpers, shimmies on his belly across the bed and licks me on the lips. It hits me he's probably used to kissing Mrs. Taylor in the morning, maybe slipping her a little tongue, and the thought is so gross, it makes me roughly push him away.

It's at that very moment I hear the sound of the front door opening downstairs. I realize I forgot to reset the security system. I hear voices.

“Of all the goddamn…” says Mr. Taylor.

“Stop. Linda just must have forgotten,” Mrs. Taylor says.

I hear them move into the living room, Mr. Taylor grumbling as he goes.

“Hey, it's just me!” I call. “Your neighbor, Billy Kinsey! I accidentally spent the night!”

I say absolutely no such thing.

My teenage brain goes into panic mode. Logic goes totally out the window. I desperately look around the room for any kind of help.

“Animals,” intones the Taylors' dachshund, making itself comfortable on the bed, “respond to threats in different ways. Most will try to escape when threatened.”

I get up and move to the sliding doors that face out onto the deck. The jump from the deck down to the poolside pavement is too much and I'm afraid to risk opening the doors anyway. I can hear the Taylors' luggage clunking as they start up the stairs.

“Maybe it was the maid,” says Mrs. Taylor.

“Fucking idiot,” says Mr. Taylor. I'm not sure if he's talking about Mom, Mrs. Taylor, or the maid. Maybe all three. Maybe women in general.

“Failing a means of escape,” the Taylors' dachshund now tells me, “most animals will seek refuge. We will attempt to blend into our surroundings.”