Live Fast Die Hot (29 page)

Denny and Chelsea spent the next day floating in the pool and trying not to eat. It was almost dusk when they finally broke down and shared a plate of jungle noodles, hearts of palm drizzled with olive oil and lemon.

“I told you guys you should have eaten something. I've been eating all day.” I offered Denny a half-eaten bag of almonds.

“Don't do it, Denny! Everything we eat is going to get vomited back up,” Chelsea said, looking at Frieda for confirmation.

“But I'm so weak!” Denny caved and took three nuts.

“Just one hour more,” Frieda said empathetically.

After sunset, we changed into comfortable, easy-to-remove clothes and headed up a vividly green hill toward a large wooden yurt high above the lodge. My heart started racing the way it did when I knew I was about to do any kind of drug. Part of me wanted to run away. The other part of me wanted to charge faster up the hill.

“I'm freaking out. I think I'm gonna have diarrhea before this even starts.” I tucked myself under Chelsea's arms and tried to slow my breathing. Molly held a lantern out in front of us as the camera crew filmed our ascent.

When we entered the yurt, the rest of the crew was waiting. A small video village hid in the shadows as Frieda walked me toward the light. The center of the yurt was round and stark, save for three mattresses, three large buckets, and a tiny Peruvian man smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. His resting bitch face seemed to contain a sliver of sadness. He sized us up and down and started singing. The cameras were trained on our faces as we tried to keep calm and not burst out laughing. The shaman first handed each of us a cigarette, then, once we were finished smoking, pulled out a water bottle that looked like it had been scavenged from under the seat of my car. The repurposed Arrowhead bottle was filled with a murky brown liquid that the shaman had cooked earlier that day. First, he walked toward Denny and poured a shot glass worth of liquid into a cup. Denny, clearly the honor roll student in school, respectfully accepted his cup and drank it. Next, the shaman approached me with a similarly filled cup. Looking down at the turbid water, I panicked.

“Um, I feel like this is a lot for me. I'm sort of a lightweight. I don't really drink much,” I said to Frieda, who was sitting off to the side. Frieda translated what I'd said to the shaman, who grunted something back. I could already tell he hated me.

“He says that he isn't giving you a lot,” Frieda explained.

“This looks like more than you gave Denny,” I said.

“It may not look like it, but we weigh less than Denny,” Chelsea interjected. Growing impatient, the shaman told Frieda that I could drink as much as I felt like having. I took one last lucid look around the room before tilting my head back and gulping it (or most of it) down. When it came time for Chelsea to drink, she didn't hesitate for a moment, just slammed the shot like she was at a beach bar in Tulum.

After we'd drunk, the shaman, also under the influence of the drug, continued singing and spitting into the surrounding darkness. None of us felt anything for the first ten minutes. Chelsea and I giggled and whispered while Denny lay on his back and tried to focus. By the fifteen-minute mark, it was clear we'd lost Denny. I looked over at his clammy white body as he fought to keep from throwing up. “Are you feeling anything?” I asked.

“Umm…yeah,” he confirmed.

“Is it good? What does it feel like?” His body language already told me everything I needed to know.

“I wouldn't mind for it to be over,” he said, then leaned over his bucket and heaved.

“Of course this happens to me. I knew I wasn't going to feel anything,” Chelsea complained to the camera. “Jenny? Do you feel it?”

“Maybe? I don't know,” I said, like a girl who doesn't know if she'd ever had an orgasm.

Minutes later, I knew exactly what I was feeling. The room started to buzz as I dizzily stood and stumbled to the bathroom. Frieda followed, steering me toward a row of toilet stalls, each with nothing more than a curtain separating it from the rest of the room. The second I sat down, liquid exploded out of me, of the kind that sounds more like you're peeing than shitting. Just when I thought it was over, it would start again. It was joined by vomiting. For the next ten minutes I did nothing more than sit on the toilet, shitting and puking at the same time.

“
SHWAAAASHHHWAA SHWASHWA
,” the shaman exclaimed, walking toward me and spitting at what Frieda told me were evil demons trying to attach themselves to my body, or, more specifically, to my butt. Freida took out a large glass bottle of something called Agua de Florida, a cheap cologne-like water that smelled of camphor, gin, and poverty. She doused me with the tonic like a salesgirl at Dillard's, assuring me that it would help quell my sickness. The shaman then cut in front of Frieda and started beating me over the head with a wand of leaves, shouting and
SHWAAAASHHHWAASHWAAA
-ing into my hair.

Once he'd stopped, I heard nothing but a zapping sound coming from above. I tried to look up, but I was too nauseated. Then, suddenly, a giant beetle with what looked like a feather Mohawk fell into my lap and onto the floor. Hanging my head over a bucket, I caught a glimpse of the creature again in my peripheral vision. He had at least eight legs and seemed to be waving at me with all of them.

“Okay, I'm officially fucked up,” I whispered to Frieda, who sat beside me, holding my hand and offering wet wipes.

Once there was nothing in me left to purge, I weakly walked back to my mattress.

“You okay?” Chelsea asked, still annoyingly sober.

“I'm so fucked, you guys.” I looked over at Denny, who seemed to be in the middle of the worst nightmare of his life.

“I don't think Denny's having the best time. He may have been the wrong choice for this trip,” Chelsea said, half empathetic, half trying to contain her giggles. She moved over to my mattress and spooned me lovingly.

My mind drifted into space.

First there was just blackness. Then a symbol spun toward me. I realized it was the Four Seasons' symbol. “Whatever you do, never tell anyone you hallucinated the Four Seasons' symbol,” I cautioned myself quietly. Next I saw the more classic “unicorn” vision, followed by a series of moving pictures. I was transported back to my father's home at Gainey Ranch, where I'd spent so many days playing in the pool with my sister; our half brother, Brad; and various nannies. I stayed in the vision long enough to make sure none of the nannies molested us, then moved on to the next location. I was scrolling through my life like it was an iTunes music library. With each vision I'd have an accompanying epiphany, things that sound trite to repeat but carried such monumental weight at the time, like “Nothing matters besides the people you love,” “Your husband is an incredible man,” and “One day I'm gonna cut my hair into a super-chic silver bob.”

Cradled in Chelsea's arms, my mind drifted to Sid. I pictured us doing a synchronized ice-dancing routine in which I spun his meaty little body over my shoulders like the tiniest Ukrainian figure skater of all time. We skated hand in hand, doing double axels and flying sit-spins as the Olympic arena leaped to its feet with sobbing applause. Then it was just the two of us—Sid and me. Holding my leg with both hands, he looked at me and, without saying anything, said everything. My chest heaved and I broke into hysterics. Molly came running out to make sure I was okay, as Chelsea rocked me back and forth, trying to help me calm down.

“
SHWAAASSHHHWWAAASHWA
,” the shaman continued.

“Don't be sad, Jenny. Nothing bad is happening,” Chelsea and Molly insisted.

The thing was, I wasn't sad. I was overcome. Sid continued to hold my gaze, communicating the simplest message, and yet the thing I most needed to hear.

“He loves me,” I wept, like I was a contestant who'd just been proposed to on
The Bachelor.
“He already loves me. Because I'm his mom and I'll always be his mom.”

It seemed so obvious that I couldn't believe it hadn't occurred to me sooner. While I was busy trying to curate my image, to scale mountains, slay dragons, and generally do anything to combat my feelings of unworthiness—Sid already saw me as a hero. I was afraid of pain—of feeling it or causing it. But Sid was my pain, because he was my heart, torn from my body, running loose in the world. I'd thought that if I looked hard enough, I'd find a conclusion that would make the fear subside. I desperately wanted to reach a point where I could say, “I was afraid and now I'm not.” But what I was slowly coming to understand, what I think all mothers eventually have to accept, was that I'd always be afraid. Because, though I'd spent the majority of my life resisting it, I was now truly open.

To be honest, it didn't feel great. But it felt better than being closed.

I got back to L.A. a few days later, convinced I'd never do drugs again (for at least the next two months). Jason must have recognized something inside me had shifted a little. When we got to the hotel that night and I collapsed into bed, I noticed he used fewer pillows to build the wall that usually separated us while we slept. Maybe he was sensing a newfound—something. Vulnerability? I couldn't say for sure. All I know is that when I described my trip—the yurt, the shaman, the shit-puking, and finally the visions—it felt as though I was letting him into a part of me I'd never let him access. It was as though having Sid was forcing me to love Jason better, harder, and more.

Frankly, it was fucking exhausting.

As I spoke, I could see a knowing smile creep on Jason's lips, like a grandfather in a Werther's Original commercial. He stayed mostly silent until I was done, then took me in his arms. We stayed that way for a long while, longer than I previously would have been able to tolerate, and then even longer than that. Until what was uncomfortable seemed strangely okay.

Finally he spoke.

“So how drug-free do you have to be before we can make another one?”

Writing about someone in a book acknowledgments is kind of like inviting them to your wedding. By the time this book comes out, I'll probably hate a lot of you. But here's a short list of people I currently care about.

Sid, who I am certain will one day do this all better than me. I love you so much it literally makes me wanna throw up. I promise to always listen, to always be there, to give you every piece of me you ask for. I am honored to be your mother. And I can't wait to know the person you become.

Jason, this is all your fault. Thank you for changing my life. You are my best friend and my eternal muse.

My mother, Peggy, who succeeded in doing it better than her mom. I am so grateful to both you and Dad for your ambition, your kindness, and your athletic bods.

Jhoni, I think I might have been waiting my whole life to find a friend and mentor as supportive as you. You make me want to be a better woman to all women. Well, not all. Just the cute ones. Thank you for teaching me how to tell better stories.

Chelsea, you are one of the cute ones! Thank you for your fearlessness, your friendship, and your loyalty.

Yaniv, I couldn't have done this without you and I wouldn't have done this without you. (Unless somebody offered me a shit ton of money.)

Joe Veltre, thank you for making Yaniv pay me more money.

Jami Kandel, thank you for helming the ship.

At Doubleday, Bill Thomas, Todd Doughty, Margo Shickmanter, Emily Mahon.

Other people who matter: Elizabeth Brown, Missy Malkin, Lynn Fimberg, Jennifer Craig, Joanna Colonna, Deborah Feingold, Bradley Irion, Gita Bass, Dan Maurio, Diablo Cody, Molly Burke, Ramon Walls-Gumball, Brian Walls-Gumball, Jen Lancaster, Melody Young, Nick and Amey Zinkin, Ladurée Soho, FIKA Tribeca, Allyson Ostrowski, Busy Philipps, Dori Zuckerman, Dan Driscoll, Tifawt Belaid, Lauren Tabach Bank, Allison Stoltz, Samantha Mollen, Chiara Biggs, Elvie Buller, and always Gina, Harry, and the incomparable Mr. Teets.

Jenny put Mr. Teets down on March
14
,
2016
. He ate bacon three hours before. Despite her frustrations in Chapter
8
, not a second goes by that she doesn't wish he was still in her arms silently judging her every move.