Less Than Zero Page 4

  Rip’s supposed to meet me at Cafe Casino in Westwood, and he hasn’t shown up yet. There’s nothing to do in Westwood. It’s too hot to walk around and I’ve seen all the movies, some even twice, and so I sit under the umbrellas at Cafe Casino and drink Perrier and grapefruit juice and watch the cars roll by in the heat. Light a cigarette and stare at the Perrier bottle. Two girls, sixteen, seventeen, both with short hair, sit at the table next to mine and I keep looking over at both of them and they both flirt back; one’s peeling an orange and the other’s sipping an espresso. The one who’s peeling an orange asks the other if she should put a maroon streak through her hair. The girl with the espresso takes a sip and tells her no. The other girl asks about other colors, about anthracite. The girl with the espresso takes another sip and thinks about this for a minute and then tells her no, that it should be red, and if not red, then violet, but definitely not maroon or anthracite. I look over at her and she looks at me and then I look at the Perrier bottle. The girl with the espresso pauses a couple of seconds and then asks, “What’s anthracite?”

  A black Porsche with tinted windows pulls up in front of Cafe Casino and Julian gets out. He sees me and, though it looks like he doesn’t want to, comes over. His hand falls on my shoulder and I shake his other hand.

  “Julian,” I say. “How’ve you been?”

  “Hey, Clay,” he says. “What’s going on? How long have you been back?”

  “Just like five days,” I say. Just five days.

  “What are you doing?” he asks. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m waiting for Rip.”

  Julian looks really tired and kind of weak, but I tell him he looks great and he says that I do too, even though I need to get a tan.

  “Hey, listen,” he starts. “I’m sorry about not meeting you and Trent at Carney’s that night and freaking out at the party. It’s just like, I’ve been strung out for like the past four days, and I just, like, forgot … I haven’t even been home .…” He slaps his forehead. “Oh man, my mother must be freaking out.” He pauses, doesn’t smile. “I’m just so sick of dealing with people.” He looks past me. “Oh shit, I don’t know.”

  I look over at the black Porsche and try to see past the tinted windows and begin to wonder if there’s anyone else in the car. Julian starts playing with his keys.

  “Do you want something, man?” he asks. “I mean, I like you and if you need anything, just come see me, okay?”

  “Thanks. I don’t need anything, not really.” I stop and feel kind of sad. “Jesus, Julian, how have you been? We’ve got to get together or something. I haven’t seen you in a long time.” I stop. “I’ve missed you.”

  Julian stops playing with his keys and looks away from me. “I’ve been all right. How was … oh shit, where were you, Vermont?”

  “No, New Hampshire.”

  “Oh yeah. How was it?”

  “Okay. Heard you dropped out of U.S.C.”

  “Oh yeah. Couldn’t deal with it. It’s so totally bogus. Maybe next year, you know?”

  “Yeah …” I say. “Have you talked to Trent?”

  “Oh man, if I want to see him, I’ll see him.”

  There’s another pause, this time longer.

  “What have you been doing?” I finally ask.

  “What?”

  “Where have you been? What’ve you been doing?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been around. Went to that Tom Petty concert at the … Forum. He sang that song, oh, you know, that song we always used to listen to .…” Julian closes his eyes and tries to remember the song. “Oh, shit, you know .…” He begins to hum and then sing the words. “Straight into darkness, we went straight into darkness, out over that line, yeah straight into darkness, straight into night.…”

  The two girls look over at us. I look at the Perrier bottle, a little embarrassed, and say, “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Love that song,” he says.

  “Yeah, so did I,” I say. “What else you been up to?”

  “No good,” he laughs. “Oh, I don’t know. Just been hanging out.”

  “You called me and left a message, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “What did you want?”

  “Oh forget it, nothing too important.”

  “Come on, what is it?”

  “I said forget it, Clay.”

  He takes off his sunglasses and squints and his eyes look blank, and the only thing I can think of to say is, “How was the concert?”

  “What?” He starts to bite his nails.

  “The concert. How was it?”

  He’s staring off somewhere else. The two girls get up and leave.

  “It was a bummer, man. A real fuckin’ bummer,” he finally says, and then walks away. “Later.”

  “Yeah, later,” I say, and look back at the Porsche and get the feeling that there’s someone else in it.

  Rip never shows up at Cafe Casino and he calls me up, later, around three and tells me to come over to the apartment on Wilshire. Spin, his roommate, is sunbathing nude on the balcony and Devo’s on the stereo. I walk into Rip’s bedroom and he’s still in bed, nude, and there’s a mirror on the nightstand, next to the bed, and he’s cutting a line of coke. And he tells me to come in, sit down, check the view out. I walk over to the window and he gestures at the mirror and asks if I want any coke and I tell him I don’t think so, not now.

  A very young guy, probably sixteen, maybe fifteen, really tan, comes out of the bathroom and he’s zipping up his jeans and buckling his belt. He sits on the side of the bed and puts on his boots, which seem too big for him. This kid has really short, spiked blond hair and a Fear T-shirt on and a black leather bracelet strapped to one of his wrists. Rip doesn’t say anything to him and I pretend that the kid isn’t there. He stands up and stares at Rip and then leaves.

  From where I’m sitting, I watch as Spin gets up and walks into the kitchen, still nude, and starts to squeeze grapefruits into a large glass container. He calls to Rip, from the kitchen, “Did you make reservations wth Cliff at Morton’s?”

  “Yeah, babes,” Rip calls back, before doing the coke.

  I’m beginning to wonder why Rip has called me over, why he couldn’t meet me someplace else. There’s an old, expensively framed poster of The Beach Boys hanging over Rip’s bed and I stare at it trying to remember which one died, while Rip does three more lines. Rip throws his head back and shakes it and sniffs loudly. He then looks at me and wants to know what I was doing at the Cafe Casino in Westwood when he clearly remembers telling me to meet him at the Cafe Casino in Beverly Hills. I tell him that I’m pretty sure he said to meet at the Cafe Casino in Westwood.

  Rip says, “No, not quite,” and then, “Anyway it doesn’t matter.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “What do you need?”

  I pull my wallet out and get the feeling that Rip never showed up at the Cafe Casino in Beverly Hills either.

  Trent’s on the phone in his room, trying to score some coke from a dealer who lives in Malibu since he hasn’t been able to get in touch with Julian. After talking to the guy for like twenty minutes he hangs the phone up and looks at me. I shrug and light a cigarette. The telephone keeps ringing and Trent keeps telling me that he’ll go see a movie, any movie, with me in Westwood since something like nine new films opened Friday. Trent sighs and then answers the phone. It’s the new dealer. The phone call is not good. Trent hangs up and I mention that maybe we should leave, see a four o’clock show. Trent tells me that maybe I should go with Daniel or Rip or one of my “faggot friends.”

  “Daniel’s not a faggot,” I say, bored, turning the channel on the television.

  “Everyone thinks he is.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like Blair.”

  “Well, he isn’t.”

  “Try telling that to Blair.”

  “I’m not going out with Blair anymore. That is over, Trent,” I tell him, trying to sound steady.r />
  “I don’t think she thinks so,” Trent says, lying back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

  Finally, I ask, “Why do you even care?”

  “Maybe I don’t,” he sighs.

  Trent changes the subject and tells me I should go with him to a party someone’s having for some new group at The Roxy. I ask who’s giving it and he tells me he’s not too sure.

  “What group is it for?” I ask.

  “Some new group.”

  “Which new group?”

  “I don’t know, Clay.”

  The dog begins to bark loudly from downstairs.

  “Maybe,” I tell him. “Daniel’s having a party tonight.”

  “Oh great,” he says sarcastically. “A fag party.”

  The phone rings again. “Screw you,” I say.

  “Jesus!” Trent yells, sitting up, grabbing the telephone and screaming into it, “I don’t even want your lousy, fucking coke!” He pauses for a moment and then says, “Yeah, I’ll be right down.” He hangs the phone up and looks at me.

  “Who was it?”

  “My mother. She’s calling from downstairs.”

  We walk downstairs. The maid’s sitting in the living room, with this dazed look on her face, watching MTV. Trent tells me that she doesn’t like to clean the house when anybody’s home. “She’s always stoned anyway. Mom feels guilty since her family was killed in El Salvador, but I think she’ll fire her sooner or later.” Trent walks over to the maid and she looks up nervously and smiles. Trent tries some of his Spanish but can’t communicate with her. She just looks at him blankly and tries to nod and smile. Trent turns around and says, “Yep, stoned again.”

  In the kitchen, Trent’s mother is smoking a cigarette and finishing a Tab before she goes off to some fashion show in Century City. Trent takes a pitcher of orange juice out of the refrigerator and pours himself a glass, asks if I want one. I tell him no. He looks at his mother and takes a swallow. No one says anything for something like two minutes, not until Trent’s mother says, “Goodbye.” Trent doesn’t say anything except, “Do you want to go to The Roxy tonight or what, Clay?”

  “I don’t think so,” I tell him, wondering what his mother wanted.

  “Yeah? You don’t.”

  “I think I’m going to Daniel’s party.”

  “Great,” he says.

  I’m about to ask him if he wants to go to a movie, but the phone rings from upstairs and Trent runs out of the kitchen to answer it. I walk back to the living room and stare out the window and watch as Trent’s mother gets into her car and drives off. The maid from El Salvador stands up and slowly walks to the bathroom and I can hear her laughing, then retching and then laughing again. Trent comes into the living room looking pissed off and sits in front of the TV; phone call probably wasn’t too good.

  “I think your maid is sick or something,” I mention.

  Trent looks over at the bathroom and says, “Is she freaking out again?”

  I sit on another couch. “I guess.”

  “Mom’s going to fire her soon enough.” He takes a swallow of the orange juice he’s still holding and stares at MTV.

  I stare out the window.

  “I don’t want to do anything,” he finally says.

  I decide that I don’t want to go to the movies either and I wonder who I should go with to Daniel’s party. Maybe Blair.

  “Wanna watch Alien?” Trent asks, eyes closed, feet on the glass coffee table. “Now that would freak her out completely.”

  I decide to bring Blair to Daniel’s party. I drive to her house in Beverly Hills and she’s wearing a pink hat and a blue miniskirt and yellow gloves and sunglasses and she tells me that at Fred Segal today someone told her that she should be in a band. And she mentions something about starting one, maybe something a little New Wave. I smile and say that sounds like a good idea, not sure if she’s being sarcastic, and I grip the steering wheel a little tighter.

  I hardly know anyone at the party and I finally find Daniel sitting, drunk and alone, by the pool, wearing black jeans and a white Specials T-shirt and sunglasses. I sit down next to him while Blair gets us drinks. I’m not sure if Daniel’s staring into the water or if he’s just passed out, but he finally speaks up and says, “Hello, Clay.”

  “Hi, Daniel.”

  “Having a good time?” he asks real slowly, turning to face me.

  “I just got here.”

  “Oh.” He pauses for a minute. “Who’d you come with?”

  “Blair. She’s getting a drink.” I take off my sunglasses and look at his bandaged hand. “I think she thinks that we’re lovers.”

  Daniel leaves his sunglasses on and nods and doesn’t smile.

  I put my sunglasses back on.

  Daniel turns back to the pool.

  “Where are your parents?” I ask.

  “My parents?”

  “Yeah.”

  “In Japan, I think.”

  “What are they doing there?”

  “Shopping.”

  I nod.

  “They might be in Aspen,” he says. “Does it make any difference?”

  Blair comes over with a gin and tonic in one hand and a beer in the other and she hands me the beer and lights a cigarette and says, “Don’t talk to that guy in the blue and red Polo shirt. He’s a total narc,” and then, “Are my sunglasses crooked?”

  “No,” I tell her, and she smiles and then puts her hand on my leg and whispers into my ear, “I don’t know anyone here. Let’s leave. Now.” She glances over at Daniel. “Is he alive?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What?” Daniel turns to look at us. “Hi, Blair.”

  “Hi, Daniel,” Blair says.

  “We’re leaving,” I tell him, kind of excited by Blair’s whisper and the gloved hand on my thigh.

  “Why?”

  “Why? Well, because …” My voice trails off.

  “But you just got here.”

  “But we really have to go.” I don’t want to stay that much either and maybe going over to Blair’s house seems like a good idea.

  “Stick around.” Daniel tries to lift himself from the chaise longue but can’t.

  “Why?” I ask.

  This confuses him, I guess, because he doesn’t say anything.

  Blair looks over at me.

  “Just to be here,” he says.

  “Blair isn’t feeling well,” I tell him.

  “But I wanted you to meet Carleton and Cecil. They were supposed to be here but their limo broke down in the Palisades and …” Daniel sighs and looks back into the pool.

  “Sorry, dude,” I say, getting up. “We’ll have lunch.”

  “Carleton goes to AFI.”

  “Well, Blair really doesn’t … She wants to go. Now.”

  Blair nods her head and coughs.

  “Maybe I’ll drop by later,” I tell him, feeling guilty about leaving so soon; feeling guilty about going to Blair’s house.

  “No, you won’t.” Daniel sits back down and sighs again.

  Blair’s getting really anxious and says to me, “Listen, I’m really not too crazy about arguing over this all fucking night. Let’s go, Clay.” She finishes the rest of the gin and tonic.

  “See, Daniel, we’re leaving, okay?” I say, “Bye.”

  Daniel tells me that he’ll call me tomorrow. “Let’s have lunch or something.”

  “Great,” I say, without a whole lot of enthusiasm. “Lunch.”

  Once in the car, Blair says, “Let’s go somewhere. Hurry.”

  I’m thinking to myself, Why don’t you just say it. “Where?” I ask.

  She stalls, names a club.

  “I left my wallet at home,” I lie.

  “I have a pass there,” she says, knowing I lied.

  “I really don’t want to.”

  She turns the volume on the radio up and hums along with the song for a minute and I’m thinking that I should just drive to her house. I keep driving, not sure where to
go. We stop at a coffee shop in Beverly Hills and afterwards, when we get back in the car, I ask, “Where do you want to go, Blair?”

  “I want to go …” she stops. “To my house.”

  I’m lying in Blair’s bed. There are all these stuffed animals on the floor and at the foot of the bed and when I roll over onto my back, I feel something hard and covered with fur and I reach under myself and it’s this stuffed black cat. I drop it on the floor and then get up and take a shower. After I’ve toweled my hair dry, I wrap the towel around my waist and walk back into her room, start to dress. Blair’s smoking a cigarette and watching MTV, the sound turned down low.

  “Will you call me before Christmas?” she asks.

  “Maybe.” I pull on my vest, wondering why I even came here in the first place.

  “You’ve still got my number, don’t you?” She reaches for a pad and begins to write it down.

  “Yeah, Blair. I’ve got your number. I’ll get in touch.”

  I button up my jeans and turn to leave.

  “Clay?”

  “Yeah, Blair.”

  “If I don’t see you before Christmas,” she stops. “Have a good one.”

  I look at her a moment. “Hey, you too.”

  She picks up the stuffed black cat and strokes its head.

  I step out the door and start to close it.

  “Clay?” she whispers loudly.

  I stop but don’t turn around. “Yeah?”