Less Than Zero Read online

  Light a cigarette and turn on MTV and turn off the sound. An hour passes, Blair keeps talking, tells me that she still likes me and that we should get together again and that just because we haven’t seen each other for four months is no reason to break up. I tell her we have been together, I mention last night. She says you know what I mean and I start to dread sitting in the room, listening to her talk. I look over at the clock. It’s almost three. I tell her I can’t remember what our relationship was like and I try to steer the conversation away to other topics, about movies or concerts or what she’s been doing all day, or what I’ve been doing tonight. When I get off the phone with her, it’s almost dawn, Christmas Day.

  It’s Christmas morning and I’m high on coke, and one of my sisters has given me this pretty expensive leather-bound datebook, the pages are big and white and the dates elegantly printed on top of them, in gold and silver lettering. I thank her and kiss her and all that and she smiles and pours herself another glass of champagne. I tried to keep a datebook one summer, but it didn’t work out. I’d get confused and write down things just to write them down and I came to this realization that I didn’t do enough things to keep a datebook. I know that I won’t use this one and I’ll probably take it back to New Hampshire with me and it’ll just lie on my desk for three or four months, unused, blank. My mother watches us, sitting on the edge of the couch in the living room, sipping champagne. My sisters open their gifts casually, indifferent. My father looks neat and hard and is writing out checks for my sisters and me and I wonder why he couldn’t have written them out before, but I forget about it and look out the window; at the hot wind blowing through the yard. The water in the pool ripples.

  It’s a really sunny, warm Friday after Christmas and I decide I need to work on my tan so I go with a bunch of people, Blair and Alana and Kim and Rip and Griffin, to the beach club. I get to the club before anyone else does and while the attendant parks my car, I sit on a bench and wait for them, staring out at the expanse of sand that meets the water, where the land ends. Disappear here. I stare out at the ocean until Griffin drives up in his Porsche. Griffin knows the parking attendant and they talk for a couple of minutes. Rip drives up soon after in his new Mercedes and also seems to know the attendant and when I introduce Rip to Griffin they laugh and tell me that they know each other and I wonder if they’ve slept together and I get really dizzy and have to sit down on the bench. Alana and Kim and Blair drive up in someone’s convertible Cadillac.

  “We just had lunch at the country club,” Blair says, turning the radio down. “Kim got lost.”

  “I did not,” Kim says.

  “So she didn’t believe I remembered where it was and we had to stop at this gas station to ask for directions and Kim asks this guy who works there for his phone number.”

  “He was gorgeous,” Kim exclaims.

  “So what? He pumps gas,” Blair shrieks, getting out of the car, looking great in a one-piece. “Are you ready for this? His name is Moose.”

  “I don’t care what his name is. He is totally gorgeous,” Kim says again.

  On the beach, Griffin has smuggled rum and Coke in and we’re drinking what’s left of it. Rip practically takes his bathing suit off so his tan line’ll be exposed. I don’t put enough tanning oil on my legs or chest. Alana has brought a portable tape-deck and keeps playing the same INXS song, over and over; talk of the new Psychedelic Furs album goes around; Blair tells everyone that Muriel just got out of Cedars-Sinai; Alana mentions that she called Julian up to ask him if he wanted to come but there wasn’t anyone home. Everyone eventually stops talking and concentrates on what sun is left. Some Blondie song comes on and Blair and Kim ask Alana to turn it up. Griffin and I get up to go to the locker room. Deborah Harry is asking, “Where is my wave?”

  “What’s wrong?” Griffin asks, staring at himself in the mirror once we’re in the men’s room.

  “I’m just tense,” I tell him, splashing water on my face.

  “Things’ll be okay,” Griffin says.

  And there, back on the beach, in the sun, staring out into the Pacific, it seems really possible to believe Griffin. But I get sunburned and when I stop at Gelson’s for some cigarettes and a bottle of Perrier, I find a lizard in the front seat. The checkout clerk is talking about murder statistics and he looks at me for some reason and asks if I’m feeling okay. I don’t say anything, just walk quickly out of the market. When I get home, I take a shower, turn on the stereo and that night I can’t get to sleep; the sunburn’s uncomfortable, and MTV’s giving me a headache and I take some Nembutal Griffin slipped me in the parking lot at the beach club.

  I get up late the next morning to the blare of Duran Duran coming from my mother’s room. The door’s open and my sisters are lying on the large bed, wearing bathing suits, leafing through old issues of GQ, watching some porno film on the Betamax with the sound turned off. I sit down on the bed, also in my bathing suit, and they tell me that Mom went out to lunch and that the maid went shopping and I watch about ten minutes of the movie, wondering whose it is—my mom’s? sisters’? Christmas present from a friend? the person with the Ferrari? mine? One of my sisters says that she hates it when they show the guy coming and I walk downstairs, out to the pool, do my laps.

  When I was fifteen and first learned how to drive, in Palm Springs, I’d take my father’s car while my parents were asleep and my sisters and I would drive around the desert, in the middle of the night, Fleetwood Mac or Eagles on, loud, top down, hot winds blowing, making the palm trees bend, silent. And one night my sisters and I took the car out and it was a night where there wasn’t any moon and the wind was strong, and someone had just dropped me off from a party that hadn’t been too fun. The McDonald’s we were going to stop at was closed due to some power outage caused by the winds and I was tired and my sisters were fighting and I was on the way back home when I saw what I thought was a bonfire from about a mile down the highway, but as I drove closer I saw that it wasn’t a bonfire but a Toyota parked at this strange, crooked angle, its hood open, flames pouring out of the engine. The front windshield was smashed open and a Mexican woman was sitting on the curb, on the side of the highway, crying. There were two or three kids, Mexican also, standing behind her, staring at the fire, gaping at the rising flames, and I was wondering why there were no other cars out to stop or help. My sisters stopped fighting and told me to stop the car so that they could watch. I had an urge to stop, but I didn’t. I slowed down, and then drove quickly away and pushed back in the tape my sisters had taken out when they first saw the flames, and turned it up, loud, and drove through every red light until I got back to our house.

  I don’t know why the fire bothered me, but it did, and I had these visions of a child, not yet dead, lying across the flames, burning. Maybe some kid, thrown through the windshield and who’d fallen onto the engine, and I asked my sisters if they thought they saw a kid burning, melting, on the engine and they said no, did you?, neato, and I checked the papers the next day to make sure there hadn’t been one. And later that same night I sat out by the pool, thinking about it until I finally fell asleep, but not before the power went out due to the wind and the pool went black.

  And I remember that at that time I started collecting all these newspaper clippings; one about some twelve-year-old kid who accidentally shot his brother in Chino; another about a guy in Indio who nailed his kid to a wall, or a door, I can’t remember, and then shot him, point-blank in the face, and one about a fire at a home for the elderly that killed twenty and one about a housewife who while driving her children home from school flew off this eighty-foot embankment near San Diego, instantly killing herself and the three kids and one about a man who calmly and purposefully ran over his ex-wife somewhere near Reno, paralyzing her below the neck. I collected a lot of clippings during that time because, I guess, there were a lot to be collected.

  It’s a Saturday night and on some Saturday nights when there’s not a party to go to and no concerts around
town and everyone’s seen all the movies, most people stay at home and invite friends over and talk on the phone. Sometimes someone will drop by and talk and have a drink and then get back into his car and drive over to somebody else’s house. On some Saturday nights there’ll be three or four people who drive from one house to another. Who drive from about ten on Saturday night until just before dawn the next morning. Trent stops by and tells me about how “a couple of hysterical J.A.P.’s” in Bel Air have seen what they called some kind of monster, talk of a werewolf. One of their friends has supposedly disappeared. There’s a search party in Bel Air tonight and they’ve found nothing except—and now Trent grins—the body of a mutilated dog. The “J.A.P.’s,” who Trent says are “really out of their heads,” went to spend the night at a friend’s house in Encino. Trent says that the J.A.P.’s probably drank too much Tab, had some kind of allergic reaction. Maybe, I say, but the story makes me uneasy. After Trent leaves I try to call Julian, but there’s no answer and I wonder where he could be and after I hang the phone up, I’m pretty sure I can hear someone screaming in the house next to us, down the canyon, and I close my window. I can also hear the dog barking out in back and KROQ is playing old Doors songs and War of the Worlds is on channel thirteen and I switch it to some religious program where this preacher is yelling “Let God use you. God wants to use you. Lie back and let him use you, use you.” “Lie back,” he keeps chanting. “Use you, use you.” I’m drinking gin and melted ice in bed and imagine that I can hear someone breaking in. But Daniel says, over the phone, that it’s probably my sisters getting something to drink. It’s hard to believe Daniel tonight; on the news I hear there were four people beaten to death in the hills last night and I stay up most of the night, looking out the window, staring into the backyard, looking for werewolves.

  At Kim’s new house, in the hills overlooking Sunset, the gates are open but there don’t seem to be too many cars around. After Blair and I walk up to the door and ring the doorbell, it takes a long time for anybody to open it. Kim finally does, wearing tight faded jeans, high black leather boots, white T-shirt, smoking a joint. She takes a hit off it before hugging both of us and saying “Happy New Year,” then leads us into a high-ceilinged entrance room and tells us she just moved in three days ago and that “Mom’s in England with Milo” and that they haven’t had time to furnish it yet. But the floors are carpeted, she tells us, and says that it’s a good thing and I don’t ask her why she thinks it’s a good thing. She tells us that the house is pretty old, that the guy who owned it before was a Nazi. On the patios, there are these huge pots holding small trees with swastikas painted on them. “They’re called Nazi pots,” Kim says.

  We follow her downstairs to where there are only about twelve or thirteen people. Kim tells us that Fear’s supposed to play tonight. She introduces Blair and me to Spit, who’s a friend of the drummer’s, and Spit has really pale skin, paler than Muriel’s, and short greasy hair and a skull earring and dark circles under his eyes, but Spit’s mad and after saying hi, tells Kim that she has to do something about Muriel.

  “Why?” Kim asks, inhaling on the joint.

  “Because the bitch said I looked dead,” Spit says, eyes wide.

  “Oh, Spit,” Kim says.

  “She says that I smell like a dead animal.”

  “Come on, Spit, forget it,” Kim says.

  “You know I don’t keep dead animals in my room anymore.” He looks over at Muriel, who’s at the end of the long bar, laughing, holding a glass of punch.

  “Oh, she’s wonderful, Spit,” Kim says. “She’s just been taking sixty milligrams of lithium a day. She’s just tired.” Kim turns to Blair and me. “Her mother just bought her a fifty-five-thousand-dollar Porsche.” Then she looks back at Spit. “Can you believe it?”

  Spit says he can’t and that he’s going to try to forget about it and decide what albums to play and Kim tells him, “Go ahead,” and then before he goes over to the stereo, “Listen, Spit, don’t get Muriel down. Just keep quiet. She just left Cedars-Sinai and once she gets drunk, she’s fine. She’s just a little strung out.”

  Spit ignores this and holds up an old Oingo Boingo record.

  “Can I play this or not?”

  “Why don’t you save that for later?”

  “Listen, Kim-ber-ly, I’m getting bored,” he says, teeth gritted.

  Kim pulls a joint out of her back pocket and hands it to him.

  “Just cool it, Spit.”

  Spit says thanks and then sits down on the couch next to the fireplace, with the huge replica of the American flag draped over it, and stares at the joint a long time before he lights it.

  “Well, you two look fabulous,” Kim says.

  “So do you,” Blair tells her. I nod. I’m tired and a little stoned and didn’t really want to come, but Blair actually came over to my house earlier and we went swimming and then to bed and Kim called up.

  “Is Alana coming?” Blair asks.

  “No, can’t make it.” Kim shakes her head, taking another hit off the joint. “Going to the Springs.”

  “What about Julian?” Blair asks.

  “Nope. Too busy fucking Beverly Hills lawyers for money,” Kim sighs, then laughs.

  I’m about to ask her what she meant by that when suddenly someone calls out her name and Kim says, “Oh, shit, the liquor guy just arrived” and walks off and I look out past the big lighted pool, out over Hollywood; blanket of lights under a neon purple sky and Blair asks me if I’m okay and I say sure.

  Some young guy, eighteen or nineteen, brings in a large cardboard box and sets it on the bar and Kim signs something and tips him and he says, “Happy New Year, dudes” and leaves. Kim takes a bottle of champagne out of the box, opens it expertly and calls out, “Everybody take a bottle. It’s Perrier-Jouet. It’s chilled.”

  “You convinced me, you rat.” Muriel runs over and hugs Kim and Kim gives her a bottle.

  “Is Spit pissed at me or something? All I said was that he looked dead,” Muriel says, opening her bottle. “Hiya, Blair, hi, Clay.”

  “He’s just on edge,” Kim says. “Wind’s weird or something.”

  “He’s such a moron. He tells me that, ‘Well, I used to do well in school before they kicked me out.’ Huh? What in the fuck does that mean?” Muriel asks. “Besides, the idiot uses a blowtorch to freebase.”

  Kim shrugs and takes another swallow.

  “Muriel, you look wonderful,” Blair says.

  “Oh, Blair, you look gorgeous, as usual,” Muriel says, taking a swallow. “And oh my God, Clay, you must give me that vest.”

  I look down while opening my bottle. The vest is just a gray-and-white argyle, one of the triangles dark red.

  “It looks as if you got stabbed or something. Please let me wear it,” Muriel pleads, touching the vest.

  I smile and look at her and then realize that she’s totally serious and I’m too tired to say no so I pull it off and hand it to her and she puts it on, laughing. “I’ll give it back, I’ll give it back, don’t worry.”

  There’s this really irritating photographer in the room and he keeps taking pictures of everybody. He’ll walk up to someone and point the camera in their face and then take two or three pictures and he comes up to me and the flash blinds me for a second and I take another swallow from the champagne bottle. Kim starts to light candles all over the room and Spit puts on an X album and someone starts to pin balloons up to one of the bare walls and the balloons, only half blown up, just hang there, limply. The door that leads out to the pool and veranda is open and also has a couple of balloons pinned on it and we walk outside, over to the pool.

  “What’s your mom doing?” Blair asks. “Is she going out with Tom anymore?”

  “Where did you hear that? The Inquirer?” Kim laughs.

  “No. I saw a picture of them in the Hollywood Reporter.”

  “She’s in England with Milo, I told you,” Kim says as we get closer to the lighted water. “At least that’s
what I read in Variety.”

  “How about you?” Blair asks, starting to smile. “Who are you seeing?”

  “Moi?” Kim laughs and then mentions some famous young actor I think we went to school with; can’t remember.

  “Yeah, I heard about that. Just wanted you to verify.”

  “It’s true.”

  “He wasn’t at your Christmas party,” Blair says.

  “He wasn’t?” Kim looks worried. “Are you sure?”

  “He wasn’t,” Blair says. “Did you see him, Clay?”

  “No, I didn’t see him,” I tell her, not remembering.

  “That’s weird,” Kim says. “Must have been on location.”

  “How is he?”

  “He’s nice, he’s really nice.”

  “What about Dimitri?”

  “Oh, so what,” Kim says.

  “Does he know?” Blair asks.

  “Probably. I’m not sure.”

  “Do you think he’s upset?”

  “Listen, Jeff is a fling. I like Dimitri.”

  Dimitri’s sitting on a chair by the pool playing a guitar and is really tan and has short blond hair and he just sits in the chaise longue playing these strange, eerie chords and then starts to play this one riff over and over again and Kim just looks at him and doesn’t say anything. The phone rings from inside and Muriel calls out, waving her hands, “It’s for you, Kim.”

  Kim walks back inside and I’m about to ask Blair if she wants to go but Spit, still smoking the joint, comes over with some surfer to Dimitri and says, “Heston has some great acid,” and the surfer with Spit looks at Blair and winks and then she pats my ass and lights a cigarette. “Where’s Kim?” Spit asks when he doesn’t get an answer from Dimitri, who just stares into the pool, strumming the guitar. He then looks over at the four of us standing around him and for a minute it looks like he’s going to say something. But he doesn’t, just sighs and looks back at the water.