Usuality Read online

  “Garrett?”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re staring at me. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Then why are you staring at me?”

  Garrett took a minute to find the right words. “You ever have the kind of day where everything is...I don’t know the word for it. Topsy turvy?”

  “That might be the single gayest thing you’ve ever said. No. In the entire history of the world nobody’s ever felt that way before.”

  Garrett looked away. She was being sarcastic, but maybe she was right. Maybe he was making too big a deal out of everything. The bus depot across the street caught his eye. He could hop one and ride it out of town then and there, give everything the chance to blow over. That was the way scandals always worked. Everybody got their panties in a bunch one moment and the next day it was on to new business and all was forgotten. Nobody would take the trouble to come after him if he disappeared properly. Not over some stupid photos.

  But that didn’t change the fact that they might try to get at the photos through Reagan. She’d never go for getting on a bus and riding off into the sunset with him, not with Nick in the picture. She was too loyal. And he couldn’t simply abandon her.

  “Rea,” he began.

  “Would you get in, already?”

  Garrett shook his head, his mind suddenly made up. “I’m not interested in crawling on hands and knees to your fiancé for help. He’s an asshole, Reagan. Way more of an asshole than I am, and I think deep down you know it.”

  He was fully aware that he might be burning bridges with the only person left in the city who gave a damn what happened to him, but it had been a long time coming and he was glad he’d said his piece.

  He waited, stifling the urge to backpedal and apologize.

  Finally, Reagan sighed, and the relief Garrett felt made him realize just how not okay with losing her he really was.

  “That part you said about you both being assholes?” said Ju’an. “I agree.”

  “I was serious,” Reagan told Garrett. “We’re not going to involve Nick. We’ll sort this out, you and me together.”

  “Ju’an won’t kick me out again?”

  “Get in,” said Reagan. “Or, so help me, I’ll kick you out myself.”

  XV: A FOUR-STAR PICKLE

  The SUV rumbled up the ramp toward the Bay Bridge. Ju’an had cranked the heat on with the windows down, and as they flew by the other cars Garrett idly studied their occupants. Other people and their problems had never much interested him, but now he found himself wondering. What was it the hunched-over man in the baseball cap was preoccupied with, and what about the woman in the yellow sweater, daydreaming and barely paying attention to the road. It felt like waking up. He couldn’t do anything about their problems, but neither could he seem to do anything about his own. It was something they had in common, travelling down the same road together to God knew what destination. Although they, at least, were actually behind the wheel.

  Being on the road at night reminded Garrett of life in Los Angeles. So many things reminded him of life there, but being on the road at night, or at dusk, or in the wee hours of the morning, that always made his thoughts turn southward. The sprawl of it, with oases of fame and fortune scattered everywhere, all of it connected by great sweeping rivers of asphalt. It seemed like so much more life happened there in a day than anywhere else. Networking could take off with the blur of taillights on a time lapse freeway. The sheer number of people worth connecting with, concentrated into a such a relatively small geographical area, was staggering. The feel of the place, the way the air smelled and the sun shone, was unique. Maybe it was the smog that made everything seem viewed through sunglasses, a little more darkly vivid, a little more intense, a lot more fake. But everything had potential. Everybody had potential. Life happened faster, and money happened faster, too. Success and obscurity, two sides of the same coin, one that could flip at any moment. Life in L. A. was like casino gambling. If the table was hot, everybody won. If it wasn’t, if you were playing with your last dollar, you kept up appearances the same as if you had an entire bankroll in your pocket. Because if anybody suspected that you didn’t belong, that you might cool the table, then you didn’t have a prayer of making it back to the top.

  Garrett missed it. He’d held out down there for as long as he could. Yet he could never escape the feeling that if he’d just been able to hang on a few days longer, it would have made all the difference in the world and his luck would have changed.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Away from here. You don’t want to go see Nick, I’m hip. I care for that shit-bird like I care for ass cancer, no offense Miss Reagan. But you people got to go someplace, so that’s where I’m taking you.”

  “Seriously, where are we going?”

  “O-Town.” Ju’an’s dreads whipped around as he checked over his shoulder midway through changing lanes.

  “Oakland?” Garrett scowled. “Who in their right mind would want to go to Oakland?”

  “Hold on, let me count the ways I don’t give a shit what you think.”

  “But why Oakland?” insisted Garrett.

  “I got a cousin who works at a Comfort Inn there. His boss Pickle is good people. He’ll hook you up.”

  Garrett gripped his seatbelt as Ju’an once again changed lanes like a crazed slalom racer.

  “Reagan, you actually trust this guy?” he said loudly. He was tired of Ju’an bossing them around, jealous of the deference Reagan gave to their driver’s opinion.

  “Cousin Tito got a situation,” said Ju’an. “Tito’s girl—”

  “I trust him,” said Reagan. “I’ve known him for years. He was Nick’s best driver.”

  “—Says he cheatin’ on her but he ain’t. Pickle’s got him working double shifts, and the rest of the time he’s with me—”

  “Well, I haven’t known him for years and I don’t trust him.”

  “—And all kinda shit go down, but no pussy. Now don’t get me wrong. I’m all about the pussy, but—

  “Trust me, Garrett.” Reagan reached out and took Garrett’s hand. “Not him. Me. Trust me.”

  “—Tito’s not the type. I try to talk some sense into his happy ass, tell him that bitch be trippin’, but he won’t—”

  “I trust you.”

  “—I said, but he won’t—”

  “Ju’an?”

  “Goddammit!” Ju’an slammed his hands down on the wheel. The SUV jerked but then steadied. “I am trying. To tell. A story,” he said, enunciating harshly.

  “Can we trust your friend Pickle?”

  “Trust Pickle?” Ju’an started laughing. “Oh, hell no! That motherfucker smoke so much weed his grandchildren still wake up stoned. But Pickle, he’ll hook you up. And he ain’t got no love for the po-lice, either.”

  “I hope you know how much we appreciate this,” said Reagan.

  Ju’an twisted his neck like his collar had suddenly become too tight. “Yeah, well,” was all he said.

  Reagan settled back in her seat and took up her phone. “What’s the address?”

  Ju’an was all bluster once more. “I look like a goddamn Yellow Pages to you? You look it up, I just know how to get there.”

  Reagan’s fingers danced. “The Comfort Inn by the airport?”

  “Yeah.”

  Garrett rolled his eyes. “A Comfort Inn? We aren’t that desperate, are we?”

  It was supposed to be a joke, and Reagan knew it was supposed to be a joke, but instead of laughing she tossed her phone onto the floor at her feet in frustration. She took a deep breath. If she hadn’t insisted on Garrett delivering that telegram, none of this would have happened. Who was really at fault, she wondered, the blind man who tripped and fell on the knife he was holding, or the person who had handed him that knife in the first place?

  Reagan held her hand out. “Give me Silverman’s phone.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Just
give it to me.”

  Garrett looked for a minute like he was going to flat out refuse. Then he visibly deflated. He handed over the phone and Reagan set to work on the screen with her thumbs. She waited a moment to be certain, checked her own phone for verification.

  Then she tossed Silverman’s phone out the open window.

  Garrett winced, imagining the device shattering into a million pieces behind them. “Just trust you? Really?”

  “Yes, really. I saved the pics to my email. Whoever is after it could have tracked the GPS. They can do that these days, you know. We’re safe now.”

  “You call this safe?”

  “Safer than before.”

  Garrett sighed. “You’ve got some low expectations for what safe entails. Did Nick tell you it was okay to do that?”

  Reagan crossed her arms and stared out the window. Garrett knew it had been the wrong thing to say, but he waited a minute anyway to see if she would relent. When she didn’t, he slumped down in his seat, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. He was suddenly very tired. The vibration of the road lulled him, pulling him into a fitful half-sleep, and before he knew it they had arrived.

  XVI: SOME KIND OF MESS

  The motel lot was narrow and the motel itself was horseshoe shaped, sandwiched in the middle of a block with two pawn shops, a liquor store called Phat Mike’s, and an apartment complex that looked as if the apocalypse had come and gone, the grime of centuries accumulating in the corners of its window panes.

  “They used to shoot Blaxploitation pictures there,” said Ju’an. “Now it makes Pickle’s dump look upscale. They wanted to use it as a set today, they’d need to call the film Notsofly, or maybe Disco Grandfather.” He forgot himself and grinned into the rearview, but immediately scowled when he saw Garrett looking back at him.

  “Black Geezer?” offered Garrett, who was familiar with the genre thanks to auditioning for a bit part in a Tarantino-wannabe picture that hadn’t panned out.

  “Black Geezer? Screw you with an orangutan’s dick, you racist motherfucker. You think I like driving people around for a living? Don’t you shit all over my dreams. Blaxploitation’s gonna make a comeback, and when it does Ju’an’s gonna be the Motherfucking Monarch of Soul. I make a few films here and there to keep in practice, but that shit’s gonna be dope. You’ll see. New Wave Blaxploitation. Shot, chopped, scored, and floored by yours truly. What!”

  They drove into the motel’s lot. Ju’an parked slantwise across two handicapped spaces in front of the main office.

  “You forgot to hang some red flags out and put up the neon sign saying We’re Here.”

  “You’re welcome,” growled Ju’an. He got out, slammed his door, and a moment later Reagan followed, leaving Garrett alone in the back seat.

  “Fuck it,” said Garrett to nobody in particular. It wasn’t his fault the truth hurt.

  Inside the office, an aging hippie in overalls grinned at them from behind the small television that sat on his desk.

  “Hey, you lovebirds want a room?”

  Ju’an held out his hand for a fist bump. “Whaddup, Pickle?”

  Pickle frowned. “Do I know you, man?”

  “You know my cousin Tito.”

  “Oh, that’s right, man. I remember. Wait, didn’t I fire him?”

  “Naw, you’re thinking of Iggy.”

  Pickle laughed. “Iggy,” he said. He leaned back in his chair. “I’m Pickle, but my friends call me Nacho. Hey, wait, no they don’t. That’s weird, I must be thinking of somebody else.”

  “We need a room,” said Reagan.

  Pickle yawned. He scratched his beard. “Hey, I wish I could help you out, man, but I’m all booked up.”

  Garrett glanced out at the empty parking lot.

  “What are you talking about?” said Reagan.

  Pickle grinned. “What are you talking about, man?”

  Reagan reached across the counter and grabbed Pickle by the straps of his overalls.

  “Don’t. Argue. With. The pregnant lady,” she said, as if holding onto overall straps with a crazy look in one’s eye was simply what one did at motels on a weeknight.

  When she let go, the gray-haired hippie giggled. “You’re pregnant? I thought you were just really hot.” He looked at Garrett. “Hey, congrats.”

  Garrett said, “She’s not—I’m not the...”

  He stopped, expecting Reagan to jump in and finish the sentence for him, but she didn’t and he was left hanging.

  “Smooth,” said Ju’an.

  Reagan scowled but Garrett didn’t notice. It was so typical of him, oblivious whenever it counted the most not to be. He’d been oblivious in high school, oblivious again when she’d signed him on as a client years later. She’d tried to act surprised when he showed up in her office looking to reconnect, but of course she’d already known he was in town. Word got around the professional grapevine. Unsigned talent didn’t remain anonymous in The City for very long.

  “Hey, are you sure I know your cousin Tito?”

  Ju’an fumed. “Don’t mess with me, Pickle. It’s past beer o’clock. I’m tired. I didn’t eat my fucking wheaties this morning, so stop wasting my goddamn time. Give them the special room, the honeymoon suite.”

  “Okay, man.”

  As close to lucid as Garrett figured he ever got, the old stoner hunted up a key behind the counter and then read them the rules from a small laminated card. “No smoking in the rooms, no foul language in the rooms, no food in the rooms, no lewd behavior in the rooms, no loud noises in the rooms past seven o’clock, no gunfire in the rooms. That’s about it, man. Oh, there’s a basket with complimentary condoms in it. And the maid puts these little mints on the pillow in the morning. I sometimes follow her around to try and get some, but she doesn’t speak very good English. Cash or credit?” he asked Reagan.

  She glanced at Ju’an for help.

  “You got a friends-and-family discount for me?” he told Pickle, making it sound not-at-all like a question.

  “I don’t think so,” said Pickle. “Hang on, let me check.” He stared blankly into space. Then he shook his head and smiled. “No, I’d know about it if we did. I have friends, man.”

  Ju’an looked put out. “That’s cold, not hooking a brother up. I bet you got some kind of Other White People discount, I guess.”

  Pickle looked up. “What? Oh, sure, man.”

  Ju’an’s jaw dropped.

  Between them, Garrett and Reagan had enough cash for the discounted room rate. Ju’an caught Reagan’s frown as she closed her wallet on the few lonely bills that remained. “I thought Nick hooked you up.”

  “We aren’t married yet,” said Reagan, dodging the question. She palmed their key and led the way out the door, leaving Pickle to return to the magazine he had laid out rolling papers and a bag of weed on while he waited for their receipt to print.

  “This is some kind of mess you got yourselves into,” said Ju’an.

  Reagan hitched her purse a little higher on her shoulder.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Ju’an continued, “you ain’t gonna find me sticking around to see how it all plays out.”

  “We’ll be okay,” said Reagan. She stepped up and hugged him. The embrace was unexpected and over before he could react. “Thank you,” she said.

  Ju’an looked uncomfortable. “You should cut this loser loose before it’s too late.”

  “I’m standing right here,” said Garrett.

  “I know, that’s why I said it. Don’t you have a mother you could go stay with, bake muffins together and shit?” he asked Reagan.

  “We’ll be fine,” she repeated.

  “Yeah. Okay, well. You need anything, don’t call.”

  XVII: FULL CUSTODY

  The room’s carpet smelled like some kind of industrial cleaner. Mismatched furniture looked like it had been salvaged from an old folks’ home and used none too gently before that. Over on the combination counter and kitchenette, as promised, there were c
ondoms in the basket next to the coffee maker. People who trust their fate to complimentary condoms, Garrett thought, shaking his head.

  “You’re right,” Reagan said. “It’s a shithole.”

  “I didn’t say anything.” He sat on the edge of the bed. The king size mattress sagged. “What now?”

  Reagan sat next to him, feeling the bed bounce in a way that said a single good orgasm from its next occupant would be the death of it. “I should probably let Nick know where we are.”

  “You know just the right thing to say.”

  Garrett pictured Nick’s too-white teeth and cat-that-ate-the-canary grin. Reagan was too smart to fall for somebody so fake. Was it the money? Reagan wasn’t that kind of woman, Garrett was sure of it. She wanted to be successful in her own right. People like Reagan and Garrett didn’t accept charity, and neither did they whore themselves out just to move up the ladder of socioeconomic success (his present situation with Marin notwithstanding).

  “What do you care?,” said Reagan. “Won’t what’s-her-name, Karin be worried about you?”

  It was a petulant thing to say. Reagan hated how that slut brought out her bitchy side. It wasn’t as if having to deal with the Marins of the world was a new thing for her. She knew the kind of woman Marin was, knew why men were so drawn to her. Women like her moved to the rhythm of their own sexuality, wherever it might lead and no matter what the consequences. You’d see them on the actual dance floor too, pulsating, swaying, eyes closed and bathed in a private spotlight only they could see, but there was more to it than that. It was an attitude born from the confidence that they were worth it, that there would always be another poor sap in line willing to pay the cover charge if their current fling couldn’t keep up. They were the kind of women who would leave parties with a different group of people than they came with, who wore men’s shirts in the kitchen the morning after desperate, mattress-clutchingly-good sex, and who believed that promiscuity equated to maturity. It was exciting to be with somebody like that, Reagan knew. It wasn’t love, it was like riding a wave, but while you were on the crest you felt like you were on top of the world. Or at least on top of someone loathed by other women, women who fancied they had more self-respect than to enjoy sex as much as men did, women who refused to be caught up and taken along by something that they doled out judiciously and to their greatest advantage. The irony that women like Marin could control men far more effortlessly with their wanton, liberal sensuality was not lost on Reagan. She didn’t consider herself part of either camp, the Marins or the prudes. She liked sex, but she still believed in love, too.