Our Town (26 page)

She’d been onstage for upward of six minutes, staring straight up, and she hadn’t said a word. But her castmates and director watched intently. Her unusual intensity made them think that the pause was a part of her method.

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*

Dylan works in a bar. Twenty-seven now, he still shaves his head. There’s a girl he likes there. A pretty girl, named Clementine. He’s a barback, she’s a hostess. Greets people as they come in. One Friday night, Dylan’s shift ended at 3:30
A.M.
They didn’t need him anymore, they said. You can go. But he hadn’t eaten dinner, so he sat at a table alone and ate a salad and bread and olive oil and drank two large beers and a whiskey with his pain medicine. He’d fallen, once, carrying boxes moving, and he’d been prescribed pain medication, to manage his pain. A large bottle of Vicodin. With refills. And it was easy, too.
LA doctors. By this point he’d begun to take two before he arrived at work—two during—and then two more when he got off. Symmetry was very important to him, you know. He was always counting. And he drank when he got off because he needed to swallow his job. And he needed to forget—he didn’t care for being talked down to—and he didn’t know how else to do so. He always had one too many. Maybe a few. On top of everything else, especially. The combinations were what usually did him in.

When he was done, he left. He opened the door to the bar’s staff exit. But before he punched his clock-out card.

Time In: 3:58
PM

Time Out: 4:33
AM

He stepped out into the dark, and the September rain stuck in his nostrils as he sucked in, and he snapped awake, but then took another step, and he noticed the coming light. Anxious, exhausted, with whiskey still in his mouth, he tingled with opiated joy. He took four tonight, because two times two is four, and that made sense, and this was that sort of night, and so this was what he needed. The sun loomed just below the horizon, but the early Sunday streets were still muddled with leftovers from the night before—mostly the ones who were still high and were, therefore, out of cigarettes. Dylan stepped on an empty, licked-clean-dry plastic bag—square, a half-inch wide and thick—and it stuck to his wet, black boot as he made his way toward home. He didn’t have a car. He’d totaled his last one. Before that, DUIs. He tried to zip his green bomber tighter, but it was already full closed. These days he walked home. He lived close enough. But he didn’t have an umbrella. His jacket began to soak through, and his pants and his feet were getting swampy. He needed a cab tonight. He just needed to get home. He needed something warm. His bed, maybe. Maybe more. He pulled his hood over his head.

He walked down the dark street. Only one streetlight—an oddity in LA, but Dyl did this on purpose. He knew those streets well. He knew
where reality cracked through the shiny, sunny, snow-globe sheen that facelifts, and hiking, and auditions provide. That tummy tucks, and chardonnay, and perfect weather do. That Thai massages, and Catalina, and Jacuzzis let you have. And sunblock, and rhinoplasty, and surfing let you be. He knew how to look past that—past those people. Through them, he saw the fringes of the world, and he found comfort there. Drugs helped with this. Often made people ugly. Just last year he’d lost his first tooth to meth. The fringe—the heroin addicts splitting their sandwich with their dogs, the waiters that gave up on acting—the moment when they realize that they’ll be refilling water glasses forever, and how that often pairs well with them losing their hair—and the misery that’s the rest of it. A misery you could eat off their cracking chins. And the musicians that became roadies, and the car guys that worked at the Valero. The father with nine kids, seven moms, and a factory job. The after-college kids waiting for the bars to wake up at seven, up all night doing cocaine—the blues in their eyes too blue, the whites in their eyes too long. These people made him comfortable. These people didn’t just live. These people felt, and made him feel. The fringe was his family. And he didn’t put parameters on his family—he let them be them. He knew they’d fuck up, and so he could count on them for that. They were reliable, and his love for them existed without condition. They were all he ever wanted—scumming was all he ever wanted—and they only wanted him. Everyone else is just too sunny. Too sunny to find anything to do. Everyone else’s sandals—how can a man wear sandals?—and tans, and hair—you’re supposed to fry out your hair—got in the way of their hustle. They walked too slow, and drove too slow. Freeways. Too slow. They lived. That’s it. They didn’t even know what hustle meant. They could never survive here. They could never survive with us. Why the fuck are you next to us? He hated them. And they hated him, too—or perhaps, more aptly, didn’t notice him—which is why he lived here, with his kin—guala—and does, until this is finally over.

And now he walks there, past the one streetlight, the only one that worked. He walked past two bars—Homer’s and Mac the Knife! They
were closing up so their lights were lit on high, and their staff was drunk and high and smiling. A few had their shirts off. Past the bars was a green-painted apartment stoop. Curled up to its right was a local homeless, Butch. Butch used to come into the bar and ask for soup. He’d salute the manager and say he was a veteran of two foreign wars. He’d say we owed him. But the manager said they weren’t allowed to feed him. For legal reasons, or company policy. At least that’s how Dylan understood it. The manager was hard to hear. Or hard to understand, actually. Dylan walked past Butch and noticed a rusty syringe near Butch’s feet, which hung out past the stoop. With his wet leather boot, Dylan kicked it out of his way into a drain grate—Butch seemed to have had enough—and then kept walking.

He waited for the crossing light to change from red to green. His pants were now soaked through. And his underwear was making him chafe. And his toes were wet. And he hated it.

He thought maybe he’d call the hostess when he got home. They’d already fucked. Maybe she could come over. She had light hair, too. They could be together and sleep close and then wake up early in the morning. They could wake up face-to-face. Even though he was tired from working. But he had the day off tomorrow, and maybe she was free, too. And they could go to brunch. They’d have Bloody Marys. He knew a place. And hold hands as they walked back home. And then they could have dinner. And more drinks. And maybe she’d stay again. And again and again. And then he’d be happy.

He reached Santa Monica Boulevard, entirely wet through, and the light turned green. He walked halfway across the street—Santa Monica has four lanes, with a tree line down a center island, parting them, and benches for people to sit on—but, really, who wants to sit in the middle of the street? Dylan, tonight, didn’t want to be alone. He was hurt, and his hurt made him scared, and his scared made him feel, and he felt lonely. Dylan liked to be alone—or he told himself that—’cause he grew up alone. He wandered about the house, then the school. Then the city, then the world, and he just wanted to feel better. Eventually he just wanted to feel. His dad paid for his lawyers if he got arrested,
when he got arrested. And for acting classes—he wouldn’t go, but he thought the idea might make Dad happy. The “creative” career path tends to lower expectations. And Mom left, but she did that even when she was around. And then Clover. Fuck Clover. But he didn’t have to be alone tonight. He’d be home in ten minutes. He could change and get into something comfortable. And he’d wait for Clementine. He’d be nervous. So he’d drink some more. Maybe take some more. But when she got there he’d be okay. When she got there he’d be okay.

He saw the orange light flash, and he looked left, then right, like Mama always taught him, so then he kept walking.

But, as he stepped off the one-foot cement ledge, just as the light finally turned, he heard tires squealing to his right, trying to grip the wet, grease-soaked pavement. The car attempted to beat the light but failed. The driver obviously wanted to get home quickly, too. He must have been antsy. Something important must be waiting for him. Maybe he had a long night. Maybe he had a pretty girlfriend.

HE LAY ON
the ground staring up at the sky, blinking repeatedly to get the rain sting from his pupils. His body shook with fear as he sucked in breath. He was soaked in adrenaline. Oh yeah, and drugs. He was suddenly warm. He could feel the heat in his belly, and it crawled out into his hands and then his fingers. His knees and then his toes. His neck and his shoulders. But it was the hottest in his cracked ribs. He pulled his arm out from under him and held it above his eyes. He could move his thumb and index finger. His
fuck you
finger and his pointer. His pinky, even. But not his wrist. He blinked more. He pulled his hand in closer. Pieces of glass and spit and pavement stuck to his palm. He pulled his other arm out and tried to brush the debris off but it was dug in. He stared and stared. It was hot in his eyes now. And not just from the rain sting. He stared more and kept his arm steady. To see if it was okay and because it blocked the rain. He heard a door open to his right. A black car had stopped in front of him, with its red hazard lights flashing like a lighthouse. Cars and trucks still flew by in the other lanes around him, but his lane was blocked. He heard honking
and confusion. He turned toward the car and his face fell in a puddle. His neck cracked and his head was heavy. At the bottom of the puddle he saw one of his teeth. A molar.

Then a waifish man stepped out from his black sedan and walked toward the front of his car.

“Oh my God,” he yelled. “Baby, get out here.”

A bleached-bobbed blonde in a mini and red shoes joined him and they both put their hands to their mouths. The car’s hood was dented, flat through, and the brittle windshield was splintered. Spider-webbed, but still connected to its frame.

The driver leaned in on his girlfriend. He looked at Dylan and then at his car and then at her. “What should we do?” he whispered. But Dylan heard.

“I don’t know,” she said. They both stood still as the rain continued drip drip dropping.

“Should we just go?” he responded nervously.

“No. Go see if he’s okay.” She shook her head. Then stopped. “I mean, he’s awake, right? I saw him moving. I think he’s okay. I bet he’s okay.”

“Fine,” he sighed. “Get back in the car.”

“You know I didn’t . . .”

“Just get back in the fucking car, okay? Jesus.”

She wandered back to the passenger seat and slammed the door behind her.

The driver stood and stared awhile longer, staring at his windshield. Then at Dylan. Then the hood. It began to rain harder. And then even harder still. Finally, the driver walked toward Dylan. He stepped steady, in reproach. He put his hands on his knees and leaned over. He tried to stand steady. But his equilibrium was certainly—most certainly—compromised, to say the least.

“You all right, man?”

Dylan hadn’t tried moving his legs yet. So he tried. He kicked his right foot. Then lifted his left ankle. He leaned up on his spine and pulled his neck out of the puddle. His hair was dirt-water soaked through.

“I think so,” Dylan said. He grabbed his knees and pulled himself forward and hugged himself. The driver got behind him and pushed him up. And Dylan stood, but his legs were shaky and he felt unsure, so he stumbled toward the car and leaned against the rattled Saab. And, from the LED light inside the interior, Dylan looked at the driver. For the first time. He saw his skinny suit and his skinny tie. His straightened, jet-blacked hair. The tear penned under his eye, most certainly based on his penchant for new romanticism when he felt down. He saw the steel-silver earrings in his ears and the tattoos across his knuckles.
SELF-MADE.
He saw his gaunt and pockmarked face and his running eyeliner. And his thin chin and thin nose and sideburns. Jewish looking, too. A
band guy
, Dylan thought. A
fucking band guy
. Dylan grabbed his stomach and leaned forward. The driver held him up. With his head down, Dylan saw his pointy shoes.

“You sure you’re all right, man?”

He leaned forward and Dylan smelled his breath. He stunk like gin. He stunk like tonic.

“Yeah,” Dylan replied, trying to right himself. His ribs and wrist and face still pulsing. But nothing hurt. Everything was glowing. Like he was high. Which he’d forgot he was. Dylan breathed and breathed and then tried walking.

“Are you positive? Can I at least give you a ride home?”

“No, no,” Dylan said, and fell forward. “I wanna try and walk.”

Dylan tumbled toward a payphone. But he didn’t have any quarters. He pulled three dollars from his soiled pocket, and he got twelve coins from a twenty-four-hour deli. The Indian behind the counter handed him the quarters slowly. Before he fell back in the booth, he saw the Saab drive away, the driver’s head out his driver’s-side window like a thirsty sheepdog. Dylan leaned next to the black plastic phone box and onto the silver poles that held it up. He thought of the numbers he knew by heart. He pushed the stiff, silver wire to the side and then picked up the handset. He inserted a quarter and dialed. A voice monotoned that it cost another. Area code’s too far away.

His mom didn’t answer. Voice mail. Ten quarters. He called again. She didn’t answer. Voice mail. Eight. And again. She didn’t answer. Voice mail. Six. Again. Didn’t answer. Again voice mail. Four. So he tried his dad. More local. But he didn’t answer either. Three. And voice mail. And again. Two. And again, voice mail. Even his sister, and they didn’t talk, but he didn’t have enough to make it cross-country. But it ate his money anyway. One left. One. It was too late. He didn’t blame them. But he didn’t know anyone else’s number. He leaned back on the silver phone booth. A piece of pink gum stuck to his back. He reached back and pulled it off and then slunk down to his knees. Maybe he could just try to find a cab home. But what if he wasn’t okay? It was hard to tell, really. He noticed a soaking-wet, overused advertisement.
Dudes with a Van Movers: We’re cheap cuz we’re just like you.
He checked the coin return slot for any extra change. There wasn’t any.