Less Than Zero Page 2

  “Jesus, you’re weird. Been up in fucking New Hampshire too long,” he mutters. “No fucking chili.”

  I don’t say anything and notice that the walls have been painted a very bright, almost painful yellow and under the glare of the fluorescent lights, they seem to glow. Joan Jett and the Blackhearts are on the jukebox singing “Crimson and Clover.” I stare at the walls and listen to the words. “Crimson and clover, over and over and over and over …” I suddenly get thirsty, but I don’t want to go up to the counter and order anything because there’s this fat, sad-faced Japanese girl taking orders and this security guard leaning against another yellow wall in back, eyeing everyone suspiciously, and Trent is still staring at my Fatburger with this amazed look on his face and there’s this guy in a red shirt with long stringy hair, pretending to be playing the guitar and mouthing the words to the song in the booth next to ours and he starts to shake his head and his mouth opens. “Crimson and clover, over and over and over … Crimson and clo-oh-ver …”

  It’s two in the morning and hot and we’re at the Edge in the back room and Trent is trying on my sunglasses and I tell him that I want to leave. Trent tells me that we’ll leave soon, a couple of minutes maybe. The music from the dance floor seems too loud and I tense up every time the music stops and another song comes on. I lean back against the brick wall and notice that there are two boys embracing in a darkened corner. Trent senses I’m tense and says, “What do you want me to do? You wanna lude, is that it?” He pulls out a Pez dispenser and pulls Daffy Duck’s head back. I don’t say anything, just keep staring at the Pez dispenser and then he puts it away and cranes his neck. “Is that Muriel?”

  “No, that girl’s black.”

  “Oh … you’re right.”

  Pause.

  “It’s not a girl.”

  I wonder how Trent can mistake a black teenage boy, not anorexic, for Muriel, but then I see that the black boy is wearing a dress. I look at Trent and tell him again that I have to leave.

  “Yeah, we all have to leave,” he says. “You said that already.”

  And so I stare at my shoes and Trent finds something to say. “You’re too much.” I keep staring at my shoes, tempted to ask him to let me see the Pez dispenser.

  Trent says, “Oh shit, find Blair, let’s go, let’s leave.”

  I don’t want to go back into the main room, but I realize you have to go through the main room to get back to the outside. I spot Daniel, who’s talking to this really pretty tan girl who’s wearing a Heaven cut-off T-shirt and a black-and-white miniskirt and I whisper to him that we’re leaving and he gives me this look and says, “Don’t give me any shit.” I finally yank his arm and tell him he’s really drunk and he says no kidding. He kisses the girl on the cheek and follows us toward the door, where Blair’s standing, talking to some guy from U.S.C.

  “Are we leaving?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, wondering where she’s been.

  We walk out into the hot night and Blair asks, “Well, did we have a good time?” and nobody answers and she looks down.

  Trent and Daniel are standing by Trent’s BMW and Trent’s pulling the Cliff Notes to As I Lay Dying out of his glove compartment and hands them to Blair. We say goodbye and make sure Daniel can get into his car. Trent says that maybe one of us should drive Daniel home but then agrees that it would be too much of a hassle to drive him home and then drive him back tomorrow. And I drive Blair back to her house in Beverly Hills and she fingers the Cliff Notes but doesn’t say anything except when she tries to rub the stamp off her hand and she says, “Fuck it. I wish they didn’t have to stamp my hand in black. It never comes off.” And then she mentions that even though I was gone for four months, I never called her. I tell her I’m sorry and turn off Hollywood Boulevard because it’s too brightly lit and take Sunset and then drive onto her street and then to her driveway. We kiss and she notices that I’ve been gripping the steering wheel too hard and she looks at my fists and says, “Your hands are red,” then gets out of the car.

  We have been in Beverly Hills shopping most of the late morning and early afternoon. My mother and my two sisters and me. My mother has spent most of this time probably at Neiman-Marcus, and my sisters have gone to Jerry Magnin and have used our father’s charge account to buy him and me something and then to MGA and Camp Beverly Hills and Privilege to buy themselves something. I sit at the bar at La Scala Boutique for most of this time, bored out of my mind, smoking, drinking red wine. Finally, my mother drives up in her Mercedes and parks the car in front of La Scala and waits for me. I get up and leave some money on the counter and get in the car and lean my head up against the headrest.

  “She’s going out with the biggest babe,” one of my sisters is saying.

  “Where does he go to school?” the other one asks, interested.

  “Harvard.”

  “What grade is he in?”

  “Ninth. One year above her.”

  “I heard their house is for sale,” my mother says.

  “I wonder if he’s for sale,” the older of my two sisters, who I think is fifteen, mumbles, and both of them giggle from the backseat.

  A truck with video games strapped in the back passes by and my sisters are driven into some sort of frenzy.

  “Follow that video game!” one of them commands.

  “Mom, do you think if I asked Dad he’d get me Galaga for Christmas?” the other one asks, brushing her short blond hair. I think she’s thirteen, maybe.

  “What is a Galaga?” my mother asks.

  “A video game,” one of them says.

  “You have Atari though,” my mother says.

  “Atari’s cheap,” she says, handing the brush to my other sister, who also has blond hair.

  “I don’t know,” my mother says, adjusting her sunglasses, opening the sunroof. “I’m having dinner with him tonight.”

  “That’s encouraging,” the older sister says sarcastically.

  “Where would we put it though?” one of them asks.

  “Put what?” my mother asks back.

  “Galaga! Galaga!” my sisters scream.

  “In Clay’s room, I suppose,” my mother says.

  I shake my head.

  “Bullshit! No way,” one of them yells. “Clay can’t have Galaga in his room. He always locks his door.”

  “Yeah, Clay, that really pisses me off,” one of them says, a real edge in her voice.

  “Why do you lock your door anyway, Clay?”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Why do you lock your door, Clay?” one of them, I don’t know which one, asks again.

  I still don’t say anything. I consider grabbing one of the bags from MGA or Camp Beverly Hills or a box of shoes from Privilege and flinging them out the window.

  “Mom, tell him to answer me. Why do you lock your door, Clay?”

  I turn around. “Because you both stole a quarter gram of cocaine from me the last time I left my door open. That’s why.”

  My sisters don’t say anything. “Teenage Enema Nurses in Bondage” by a group called Killer Pussy comes on the radio, and my mother asks if we have to listen to this and my sisters tell her to turn it up, and no one says anything else until the song’s over. When we get home, my younger sister finally tells me, out by the pool, “That’s bullshit. I can get my own cocaine.”

  The psychiatrist I see during the four weeks I’m back is young and has a beard and drives a 450 SL and has a house in Malibu. I’ll sit in his office in Westwood with the shades drawn and my sunglasses on, smoking a cigarette, sometimes cloves, just to irritate him, sometimes crying. Sometimes I’ll yell at him and he’ll yell back. I tell him that I have these bizarre sexual fantasies and his interest will increase noticeably. I’ll start to laugh for no reason and then feel sick. I lie to him sometimes. He’ll tell me about his mistress and the repairs being done on the house in Tahoe and I’ll shut my eyes and light another cigarette, gritting my teeth. Sometimes I just get up and le
ave.

  I’m sitting in Du-par’s in Studio City, waiting for Blair and Alana and Kim. They had called me and asked me to go to a movie with them, but I’d taken some Valium and had fallen asleep earlier that afternoon, and I couldn’t get ready in time to meet them at the movie. So I told them I’d meet them at Du-par’s. I’m sitting at a booth near a large window, and I ask the waitress for a cup of coffee, but she doesn’t bring me anything, and she’s already started to wipe the table next to mine and taken another table’s order. But it’s just as well that she doesn’t bring me anything since my hands are shaking pretty badly. I light a cigarette and notice the big Christmas display above the main counter. A plastic, neon-lit Santa Claus is holding a three-foot-long Styrofoam candy cane and there are all these large green and red boxes leaning against it and I wonder if there’s anything in the boxes. Eyes suddenly focus in on the eyes of a small, dark, intense-looking guy wearing a Universal Studios T-shirt sitting two booths across from me. He’s staring at me and I look down and take a drag, a deep one, off the cigarette. The man keeps staring at me and all I can think is either he doesn’t see me or I’m not here. I don’t know why I think that. People are afraid to merge. Wonder if he’s for sale.

  Blair suddenly kisses me on the cheek and sits down along with Alana and Kim. Blair tells me that Muriel was hospitalized for anorexia today. “She passed out in film class. So they took her to Cedars-Sinai which is not exactly the closest hospital to U.S.C.,” Blair says in a rush, lighting a cigarette. Kim is wearing pink sunglasses and she also lights one and then Alana asks for one.

  “You are coming to Kim’s party, Clay? Aren’t you?” Alana asks.

  “Oh yes, Clay. You’ve totally got to,” Kim says.

  “When is it?” I ask, knowing that Kim always throws these parties, once a week or something like that.

  “Sometime near the end of next week,” she tells me, though I realize that probably means tomorrow.

  “I don’t know who to go with,” Alana says suddenly. “Oh, God, I don’t know who the fuck to go with.” She pauses. “I just realized that.”

  “What about Cliff? Weren’t you going with Cliff?” asks Blair.

  “I’m going with Cliff,” Kim says, looking at Blair.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Blair says.

  “Well, if you’re going with Cliff, I’ll go with Warren,” Alana says.

  “But I thought you were going out with Warren,” Kim says to Blair.

  I glance over at Blair.

  “I was, but I’m not ‘going-out’ with Warren,” Blair says, missing a beat.

  “You were not. You fucked. You didn’t ‘go-out,’ ” Alana says.

  “Whatever, whatever,” Blair says, flipping through her menu, glancing over at me, then away.

  “Did you sleep with Warren?” Kim asks Alana.

  Alana looks at Blair and then at Kim and then at me and says, “No. I didn’t.” She looks back at Blair and then at Kim again. “Did you?”

  “No, but I thought Cliff was sleeping with Warren,” Kim says, confused for a moment.

  “That might be true, but I thought Cliff was sleeping with that creepy Valley-turned-Punk, Didi Hellman,” says Blair.

  “Oh, that is not true. Who told you that?” Alana wants to know.

  I realize for an instant that I might have slept with Didi Hellman. I also realize that I might have slept with Warren also. I don’t say anything. They probably already know.

  “Didi did,” says Blair. “Didn’t she tell you that?”

  “No,” Kim says. “She didn’t.”

  “Me either,” Alana says.

  “Well, she told me,” Blair says.

  “Oh, what does she know? She lives in Calabasas for God’s sakes,” Alana moans.

  Blair thinks about it for a moment and then says slowly, evenly, “If Cliff slept with Didi, then he must have slept with … Raoul.”

  “Who’s Raoul?” Alana and Kim ask at the same time.

  I open my menu and pretend to read it, wondering if I slept with Raoul. Name seems familiar.

  “Didi’s other boyfriend. She was always getting into these disgusting threesomes. They were ridiculous,” Blair says, closing her menu.

  “Didi is ridiculous,” says Alana.

  “Raoul is black, isn’t he?” Kim asks after a while.

  I haven’t slept with Raoul.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Because I think I met him at a backstage party at The Roxy once.”

  “I thought he O.D.’d.”

  “No, no. He’s really cute. He’s like the best-looking black guy I think I’ve ever seen,” Blair says.

  Alana and Kim nod in agreement. I close my menu.

  “But isn’t he gay though?” Kim asks, looking concerned.

  “Who? Cliff?” Blair asks.

  “No. Raoul.”

  “He’s bi. Bi,” Blair says, and then, not too sure, “I think.”

  “I don’t think he ever slept with Didi,” says Alana.

  “Well, I really don’t either,” Blair says.

  “Then why did she go out with him?”

  “She thought it was chic to have a black boyfriend,” Blair says, by now bored with the subject.

  “What a sleaze,” Alana says, shivering in mock disgust.

  The three of them stop talking and then Kim says, “I had no idea Cliff slept with Raoul.”

  “Cliff has slept with everyone,” Alana says, and rolls her eyes up, and Kim and Blair laugh. Blair looks at me and I try to smile and then the waitress comes and takes our order.

  As I predicted, Kim’s party is tonight. I follow Trent to the party. Trent’s wearing a tie when he comes to my house and he tells me to wear one and so I put a red one on. When we stop at Santo Pietro’s to get something to eat before the party, Trent catches his reflection in one of the windows and grimaces and takes his tie off and tells me to take mine off, which is just as well since no one at the party is wearing one.

  At the house in Holmby Hills I talk to a lot of people who tell me about shopping for suits at Fred Segal and buying tickets for concerts and I hear Trent telling everyone about how much fun he’s having at the fraternity he joined at U.C.L.A. I also talk to Pierce, some friend from high school, and apologize for not calling him when I got in and he tells me that it doesn’t matter and that I look pale and that someone stole the new BMW his father bought him as a graduation present. Julian is at the party and he doesn’t look as fucked up as Alana said: still tan, hair still blond and short, maybe a little too thin, but otherwise looks good. Julian tells Trent that he’s sorry he missed him at Carney’s the other night and that he’s been really busy and I’m standing next to Trent, who has just finished his third gin and tonic, and hear him say, “That’s just really fucking irresponsible of you,” and I turn away, wondering if I should ask Julian what he wanted when he called and left the message, but when our eyes meet and we’re about to say hello, he looks away and walks into the living room. Blair dances over to me, singing the words to “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?” probably stoned out of her mind, and she says that I look happy and that I look good and she hands me a box from Jerry Magnin and whispers “Merry Christmas, you fox,” in my ear, and kisses me.

  I open the box. It’s a scarf. I thank her and tell her that it’s really nice. She tells me to put it on and see if it fits and I tell her that scarves usually fit all people. But she insists and I put the scarf on and she smiles and murmurs “Perfect” and goes back to the bar to get a drink. I stand alone with the scarf wrapped around my neck in the corner of the living room and then spot Rip, my dealer, and am totally relieved.

  Rip’s wearing this thick, bulky white outfit he probably bought at Parachute, and an expensive black fedora, and Trent asks Rip, as he makes his way toward me, if he’s been going parachuting. “Going Parachuting? Get it?” Trent says, giggling. Rip just stares at Trent until Trent stops giggling. Julian comes back into the room and I’m about to go over and say hello, b
ut Rip grabs the scarf around my neck and pulls me into an empty room. I notice that there’s no furniture in the room and begin to wonder why; then Rip hits me lightly on the shoulder and laughs.

  “How the fuck have you been?”

  “Great,” I say. “Why is there no furniture in here?”

  “Kim’s moving,” he says. “Thanks for returning my phone call, you dick.”

  I know that Rip hasn’t tried to call me, but I say, “Sorry, I’ve only been back like four days and … I don’t know … But I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Well, here I am. What can I do for you, dude?”

  “What have you got?”

  “What did you take up there?” Rip asks, not really interested in answering me. He takes two small folded envelopes out of his pocket.

  “Well, an art course and a writing course and this music course—”

  “Music course?” Rip interrupts, pretending to get excited. “Did you write any music?”

  “Well, yeah, a little.” I reach into my back pocket for my wallet.

  “Hey, I got some lyrics. Write some music. We’ll make millions.”

  “Millions of what?”

  “Are you going back?” Rip asks, not missing a beat.

  I don’t say anything, just stare at the half gram he’s poured onto a small hand mirror.

  “Or are you gonna stay … and play … in L.A.” Rip laughs and lights a cigarette. With a razor he cuts the pile into four big lines and then he hands me a rolled up twenty and I lean down and do a line.

  “Where?” I ask, lifting my head up, sniffing loudly.

  “Jesus,” Rip says, leaning down. “To school, you jerk.”

  “I don’t know. I suppose so.”

  “You suppose so.” He does both his lines, huge, long lines, and then hands me the twenty.

  “Yeah,” I shrug, leaning back down.

  “Cute scarf. Real cute. Guess Blair still likes you,” Rip smiles.

  “I guess,” I say, doing the other long line.

  “You guess, you guess,” Rip laughs.