Fade Into You Read online

  “Puta, move it!” He shoves me down the lava-rock-sided stairs toward the empty parking lot.

  “Who was that?”

  “Who cares.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “Just get in,” he says shoving his keys into his new old hatchback. He leans across the seat and pops my lock. “I want some fucking Noodle Planet.”

  “Is it all-night?”

  “Think so.”

  “Who was that girl?”

  “She goes to PHS, she hangs out.”

  “With who?”

  “Oh my god. With me and Mikey and Arturo and Bennie. Chill out. She’s into skaters. She’s nice.”

  “She didn’t look nice. She looked naked.”

  “Come on Nikki, chill.”

  “How many girls have you slept with?”

  “I don’t know, like ten. Maybe more, I don’t know.”

  “So I have to leave a party because you just fucked your good friend, Naked Girl?”

  “She started crying. Cut me a break.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t want to see a girl cry.”

  “Oh my god. So you run out? You don’t even like, talk to her? Was she a virgin?”

  “Jesus, I don’t know. Look, you wanna stay? Cos you can find your own way home from Whittier. It’s okay by me.”

  “Can you even drive? You look drunk.”

  “I’m always drunk.”

  I don’t say anything and look out the window as the car rumbles to life. He backs out and pulls into the wide street.

  “That party was bogus anyway,” he snorts. Oh Jesus, he’s high.

  “I fail to see how that party was bogus. Jessica’s not even here yet. It’s only eleven.”

  “Ugh, Jessica is the last person I want to see. Come on, let’s go.”

  “You mind-voodooed another girl into catching the scabies. You’re such a slave to the vagine, I swear.”

  “It just sucked is all.”

  “You’re such an elevator operator.”

  “Oh yeah?” he says, pulling onto Whittier Boulevard. “And what kind of wild time were you having on the floor, listening to me bone?”

  “You just masturbate inside them.”

  “She called me gorgeous. No one’s called me that before.”

  “Oh geez. Get over yourself.” I look out the window as we pull onto the 57 and the giant cement soundproof walls rise around us. The small blue, green, pink 1960s stucco homes that line the freeway, old beaters, and broken rusted swing sets in yellow yards, fade below. A copper rolls onto the freeway behind us and I see Dan look nervously in the rearview mirror and swallow. “Relax, we’re kids. He’s not after us.”

  “Oh, isn’t he?”

  The cop picks up and zooms past. His lights switch on and his siren bleats. He speeds into the distance, toward some primer fitted seventies Chevelle.

  “See? He’s only working the holmes trail tonight.”

  Dan pushes the lighter in. “Hey, dame uno,” and wiggles his fingers for a cigarette. I lean down and unzip the front pocket of his backpack and grab two.

  “Promise me you’ll never buy rollies.”

  “Maybe I should.” The lighter pops and he sparks up. “Maybe then you wouldn’t bum me dry all the time.” I roll my eyes. “Tell me, Nik.” He takes a drag and blows it sideways out of his mouth, like some sexy black-and-white Rudolph Valentino. “Do you think I’m good-looking?”

  I shift nervously in my seat and let out a little whatever-dude snort.

  “No really. I’m curious.”

  “Come on, you just had sex with some blond chick,” I say, taking my own drag. I look out the window and then back at him. He’s still looking at me, waiting for an answer.

  “No really, I want to know.”

  “Jesus, that girl’s warm burger wasn’t warm enough? Your dick cheese is probably mutating on her as we speak and you need your friends to kiss it, too?”

  “Why can’t you answer me?”

  “Why’s it important?”

  “It’s not. I’m just curious.”

  “What schizophrenic told you you were worthless and priceless at the same time?”

  “My mother.”

  “Fine. Do you think I’m pretty?”

  “Sure. You’re cute. Real cute.”

  “Huh.” The Miller brewery is on our right and I look out the window, the smell of the duck farm behind us sending poo stench in through the AC vents. The warm smell of hops makes my stomach turn.

  “God it’s just so stupid I don’t know why you need me to tell you. I mean, obviously. Duh. Helen Keller could like, tell you that.” I blow smoke out the rolled-down window and cross my free arm over my chest. “You’re such an asshole.” He leans forward and turns on the radio. It’s Alice in Chains. Layne Staley is all, Can’t kill the rooster. Who even is the goddamn rooster to begin with? I never know. “What is this dorky song even about?” I say finally, stubbing my smoke out in the ashtray.

  “His dad.”

  “What?”

  “The song. His dad was in Vietnam. His dad is Rooster.”

  I’m quiet, watch as the lights of Duarte and East Pasadena start to show themselves in the distance. The new-fangled, old-fashioned, resort-style Spaghetti Factory, where the hardworking Azusa Mexican moms and pops bring their kids on special dinner nights, has a line of cars trying to get into the parking lot. “Well it’s a solid jam. I’ll give it that.”

  He laughs. “You’re so weird.”

  “You’re so weird.”

  “Why are you so dick hungry for Mike Pinedo? He’s gay, you know that, right?”

  “Of course I know that. I’m not stupid. And I’m not dick hungry for anyone.”

  “Sure you are.”

  “This conversation is officially prehistoric.”

  “Come on, you moon all over him.”

  “When are you watching me moon over people?”

  “So what then, you’re just never having sex?”

  “Jesus. I don’t know. Yeah. One day.”

  “Don’t you think about it?”

  I turn and swing in his direction, lay a fat one on his thigh. He pulls his face into an outraged grimace. “Fuck you.”

  “Fuck you, leave me alone,” I say.

  “I just don’t get what your deal is.”

  “Look, not everyone has that adorable nihilism you pass around like AIDS. Okay? I care about shit.”

  “It’s a piece of skin.”

  “It’s a membrane.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You’re a fucking idiot. You don’t even get it.”

  “Yeah, that’s the point. I don’t.”

  “So then what? You want us to fuck? Is that it?” I feel all the blood rush into my cheeks and look out the window as the city buildings and hotels roll by. The mall. The bright lights of commerce. Oh to be inside the mall, the sweet, sweet mall. I feel myself aging in fast-forward like a 1950s life-science film documenting animal decay. Carrion. Carry me. Or maybe that one about the atomic bomb. Chewing and snapping gum, stoned, the world exploding from a projector screen onto a smudged chalkboard. Black-and-white mushroom cloud of foxhole faith. Jesus help us all. Father, Mother, keep us safe. In the blink of an X-ray eye it’s gone. Good I don’t give a shit. I had a paper due next week anyway. Seriously, who fucking cares? BLOW IT UP.

  I’ve said it now, said the thing he was waiting for. Like a detective playing cat and mouse, changing the subject, shooting the shit. He teased it out of me, tricked me into his evil submission just to prove that I’m not as special as I put on. I’m not immune to his DNA, no matter how much I pretend otherwise. He wanted to let me know that he knew. It’s all a game to him. I’m like everyone else, under his dirty thumb.

  He laughs. “You and me, fuck? Yeah. You wish.”

  ×

  Sarah leans in, the biggest shit-eating grin plastered across her face, and gives me a nudge in the ribs. “What?” I whine, shooing
her away.

  “Dude, dude,” she mumbles, giggling, “you faded?”

  “Yeah,” I nod, “trying to be.” I push her arm and she sits forward and punches the wooden theater seats in front of us.

  “Stop it!” I say, and pull her back. “Lie down!”

  “Man!” she yells. A young couple sitting up front turns and looks at us.

  “Come on,” I say, irritated, “shut up.” Except for the couple, the Laserium is pretty empty, two or three kids, probably also ditching, slouch alone in the corners of the theater, most likely masturbating or getting high. Sarah shakes her head, reaches under her butt and pulls out a pack of smokes, “Here.” I take one and she lights us up. The couple up front is smoking a joint.

  “It smells like a skunk’s asshole,” I say.

  “Hey, man, check it out!” She points with her cigarette at the rainbow swirl above us, like I can’t see, like I don’t have the same psychedelic trip happening right in front of me. The end of her cigarette glows red and I pull her arm down. Being with Sarah feels familiar and comfortable, especially after the last semester of trailing behind Chelo.

  “Don’t! You’ll get us in trouble.”

  “Pfft, shit, like he cares, that dude’s stoneder than we are,” she says referring to the laserist. Each show is live and performed by some leftover, baked Floyd-head from Van Nuys, flicking buttons and levers and magic at our ojos.

  “Whatever, we don’t have to like go flaunting it in his face, he could call the cops.”

  “You are so tripped out!” she sputters, nodding her head vigorously to the “Brain Damage” riff. She air drums the seats in front and I pull her back down. “Man, you’re like cheesy Up in Smoke tripped out right now. His name’s Raaaaalph!” she says quoting the movie and waving her tongue all over the place.

  And that’s too much, that’s it for me and I crack up, kicking the seat in front and covering my mouth to keep it all stuffed inside. I look over at her and she’s playing little invisible drumsticks, twisting her face all up into a Nick Mason grimace and then on cue with the music puts the sticks down, picks up an invisible mic and opens her mouth, seamlessly transforming into David Gilmour as the song transitions into “Eclipse,” All that you eat and everyone you meet, all that you slight and everyone you fight. All that is now, all that is gone, all that’s to come and everything under the sun is in tune but the sun is eclipsed by the mooooooooooon.

  I squeal, tears running down my face, pound my feet on the floor, and Sarah just rolls back and forth like she’s in pain, holding on to her sides. I see one of the boys sitting alone on the other end of the theater sit up nervously. “Look, look,” I wheeze, pointing at him. “He zipped his fly!” Sarah pounds her feet and squeals. The boy stands quickly and walks toward the theater exit. A rush of light floods long cracks that run across the room and over the light show, making it ripple, escaping back into the outdoors when the door swings shut.

  “Girls,” says the laserist’s deep voice, “girls, that’s enough.”

  “Oh shit!” Sarah grabs my hand and we bolt up, jumping over wooden seats and stumbling as we hurry. We tear and heave, running toward the double doors and explode into the lobby. I trip, laughing, Sarah already halfway toward the exit. I stand up and run after her even though at this point it doesn’t matter, the observatory is empty, even the information booth is abandoned. I pause in the rotunda and look up at the sky murals, faded and water stained like some LA interpretation of the Sistine Chapel—the hand of man touching the hand of science, the stars and moon, the blue night sky waiting in the distance, but man, man pushes on. I look down at the huge gold swinging pendulum measuring the earth’s gravitational pull. Back and forth. There is a Styrofoam fast food cup sitting at the bottom. Sarah appears in the entrance of the observatory, leans against the giant green copper door and looks at me, “Come on,” she says, trying to catch her breath, “let’s go.”

  In the lawn out front we lie on our backs. Behind us the Hollywood sign, in front the old, beautiful art deco masterpiece, to the right, a bust of James Dean and an honorary plaque placed for him, to celebrate the fight scene in Rebel Without a Cause that was filmed right here. I think about Natalie Wood floating to the bottom of the ocean, hands above her head, neck back like some Hollywood Ophelia. I tug at the grass as my high subsides. I feel sleepy and warm; to the left, the horizon; everything. “It’s so beautiful,” I whisper.

  “What?” asks Sarah, grabbing handfuls of grass and letting them blow behind us in the wind.

  “The building, it’s old. A famous architect built it, I forget his name.”

  Sarah sits up and squints at the building, its white and copper green domes. “How do you know?” She tilts her head and takes it in.

  “My dad told me.” I sit up, too. “Hey, do you have more smokes?”

  “Sure.” She pulls them out and we light up. “Lookit, it’s that guy from inside.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. Where do you think he goes?”

  “Eww, who cares? He was yanking it in the planetarium.”

  Sarah shrugs and exhales. “Meh.”

  “You know, dork butt, it isn’t actually 1977, Jerry Garcia isn’t like, sitting over there waiting for you to like, I don’t know, talk to him. That’s probably some Nirvana nutsack who smells bad.”

  “Since when don’t you like Nirvana?”

  “Like forever, they’re sexist and stuff.”

  Sarah rolls her eyes. “Did Consuelo Medina tell you that?”

  “No. I’m allowed to not like Nirvana on my own.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot, Consuelo is punk rock. Jessica Silverman told you Nirvana sucks. So, what, are you like a riot grrrl now? You’re like, three years too late, by the way.” She stubs out her cigarette and stands.

  “You’re the second stupid person to point that out to me this week. I know when riot grrrl happened, okay?”

  “God, stupid?! Are you serious? You just called me stupid? When did you become such a nasty jerk? Like, how can you talk to me like that?”

  “Geez, I’m sorry.” But she’s already heading across the lawn. “Where are you going?” I call, jumping to my feet.

  “To fuck Jerry.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “And you’re a virgin. Take the bus home without me. Love you!”

  “Wait, really?” I say, jogging to catch up. “I thought we were going to Oki Dog!” She turns around and smiles, waves and blows a kiss then kneels in front of Jerry, who on closer inspection, is not that bad looking, if you like a seventies stoner type of eighteen-year-old dude. I stop and look behind me. “Well, shit, thanks!” I shout, but they’re talking already and he’s getting up and she’s flipping her hair and laughing. It’s like some stupid after-school special with Scott Baio, like Stoned or something. “Ugh, seriously!?” I call one more time, to myself and I guess no one. I check my watch, three thirty, turn around and start the walk back down the hill toward Los Feliz and Western.

  ×

  Elizabeth Taylor holds a small bouquet and nods, smiling, she says, “Gracias, gracias.” Rock stands back looking sort of mortified and embarrassed, “Leslie,” he admonishes, trying not to assert too strong a hand over his new, lovely, enthusiastic bride. But Elizabeth doesn’t hear him; well, she does, but she doesn’t care and marches on in all her philanthropic glory. In all her beauty and openhearted goodness. “What are your names?” she asks the two chubby Mexicans, mother and daughter, clothed in beige, earth-colored cotton work skirts. They nod cautiously at her eager kindness. They glance at one another and then at Rock. “Lupe,” answers the mother, holding Elizabeth’s suitcase. “Beta,” answers Lupe’s daughter.

  “Lupe? Beta?” asks Elizabeth, still feeling generous.

  “Sí, señora,” they chirp in unison, nodding and kow-towing like Marlon Brando in The Teahouse of August Moon.

  “Gracias, Lupe,” offers Elizabeth, still not finished. She gives a final grateful nod, practic
ally a bow, and they scurry away. Rock’s eyes almost pop out of his head.

  “Don’t be so nice to the Mexicans,” clucks Rock, “they’re, like, savages and stuff.”

  “I wasn’t aware graciousness was out of practice,” she answers back. “I’m still me.”

  “You’re my wife, woman,” he says, trying to put a blanket on her fire.

  “I still have a mind,” she answers, shaking her head.

  I mean, really Rock. It’s Elizabeth for god’s sake. All your other damsels will pretend you weren’t a homo after you die. Will tell newspapers it was a bad blood transfusion. They’ll mitigate the real tragedy, the silent killer in desperate need of attention and offer an MGM explanation. Your precious Doris Day, who even in the end felt she had to protect you from your own awful hedonism, kept your secret to the grave. She understood you just couldn’t help yourself. Right. Only Elizabeth will stand up in front of Ronald Reagan, her middle finger extended and say, Yeah? So what? So the hell what? And who here doesn’t like to fuck?

  Oh Lupe, you sad brown-eyed-cow thing. I wish I could go back in time and dump a bucket of ice water on George Stevens’s head. But now, here, where you are trapped forever on celluloid, I love you with a fiery passion and wonder who you were in real life, the way I wonder how many extras in silent films lie dead inside their caskets at Hollywood Forever and how many are laying flowers there instead.

  Mom walks out of the bathroom, putting earrings on and scans the room for a wayward sneaker. I burp teriyaki and suck the last of my Oki Orange Bang and shake the cup for remnants. She has to work today even though it’s her day off. The wedding she designed the night before was postponed till this evening and now all the arrangements have wilted. “How many times can you watch that thing?” she asks, shaking her head.