Sunset City (4 page)

W
hen I woke dressed in yesterday's clothes, it was eight o'clock already. I was late for my shift. The café had called three times. I dressed quickly and made it there by eight thirty.

“I'm sorry,” I said to Andrew, the manager, who was steaming a pitcher of soy milk.

“Jesus, Charlotte. You were scheduled for two hours ago. Did you even brush your hair?”

I started to respond but he'd already turned to a waiting customer.

“I've got a meeting,” he said to me. “Take over. We can talk about this later.”

In the next hour and a half I dropped two drinks and accidentally gave three people regular instead of decaf. I spilled the bottle of vanilla syrup onto the black mat, which meant I'd have to spend my break washing the mat and the floor so it wouldn't draw ants. My coworker Jessie suggested that I work the register instead. I shook my head. I knew if I had to make eye contact with anyone I would cry. Around eleven I had
time to drag the mat to the floor drain in the back and hose it down. I covered Jessie's break up front, and sucked down an espresso and half a cigarette before the lunch rush. At two my shift ended. My whole body felt sore and sticky, and my head throbbed. I drove home.

I took the whiskey bottle down from the top of the fridge. A pill of dust clung to the bottle, drifted to the floor. I had a brief vision in which I saw myself bring a chair to the kitchen, stand on it, and wipe the refrigerator with a rag and soapy water. I was too exhausted to do it.

I ran a bath and took the whiskey bottle into the tub. Hot water inched up the sides of my breasts, rising with each exhale. I lay not thinking, heat radiating through me, pumping into the heart and out, to my limbs, my fingertips. I sipped the whiskey. Let me stay like this, I thought—clean. It was almost a prayer, but to no one. The water covered me, and the temperature reached equilibrium, making my whole body blank and warm. There was nothing, now, to feel or do.

I thought about the dust on top of the fridge, and other dust that I couldn't see—fan blades, window frames. I imagined I could hear it gathering, a tiny army collecting its troops. When my mom was alive the house was always dusty, a mess everywhere, especially around her favorite chair. On bad days she might accidentally knock over a glass of Diet Coke and not even clean it up. Right now I could relate. I got out of the bath, wrapped a towel around my head, and fell into bed, exhausted. I suppose I was drunk, though I couldn't tell. A bird and a squirrel fought on a maple branch outside my window. They shrieked and chattered. I let sleep overtake me, glad for it.

I dreamt of Danielle. We were in a school bathroom together and she tried to show me how to shoot heroin into a
vein on my forehead because that was how you were supposed to do it with this needle shaped like a knife. It was a new kind of needle that was safer and more effective. I had to look in the mirror while I did it. In the dream I got high and thought, Oh! Finally
.

I woke in early evening, groaning, and staggered to the bathroom to throw up. I wished I could sleep backwards. To last week, last year, four years ago. Danielle and I should have skipped town, moved to Austin or Portland, someplace better. But Danielle, she'd been with Joey. She wouldn't have gone with me anyway. Now it was too late. She was dead, Danielle was dead. I felt so tired.

I brushed my teeth, dressed in a miniskirt and high-heeled sandals with ankle straps. I fixed my makeup and hair and drove to the bar. I needed to be around people and think about something else. Maybe someone would be kind to me.

The leftover happy-hour crowd mingled with the kids stopping in for their first drink. I took a seat at the bar. A man in office clothes tried to hit on this girl in a green dress. She giggled, clearly embarrassed. I ordered a Manhattan. A few minutes later they were kissing sloppily. What did he say to her, I wondered.

A guy edged between me and the next barstool.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he said.

I studied him. He was cute, in a fratty way, his boy-band hair gelled into place. I didn't mind having someone to talk to. I smiled.

“Okay,” I said.

“I'm Peter,” he said.

“I'm Eliza,” I lied. What did it matter?

“I love the name Eliza,” he said.

“Me, too,” I said.

“You like this song?”

“I guess.” I hadn't been paying attention to the music.

“Dance with me,” he said.

“Maybe later,” I said. Nobody danced in this bar. Who was this guy?

I thought of Danielle before her arrest. When she first started stripping she danced constantly. Even high, she couldn't sit still. She would dance across the room to switch on a lamp.

The boy, Peter, gestured to the bartender for a round.

“So,” he said. “Are you in fashion?”

“Sorry?”

“That's what my friend and I thought. Either that or a singer, a performer of some type. Are you like a singer?”

“I work at a hospital,” I lied.

“Wow, I would never have guessed.” To his credit he didn't look disappointed.

“I'm in school,” he said. “I'm a business major. I'll be graduating this summer.”

“That's great,” I said, not caring.

“Let's go sit on the couch.”

That prospect held little appeal. The couch was made of an extremely porous material soaked nightly in smoke and sweat and beer. Peter took my arm, and I saw the matter had been decided. I gathered my cigarettes, my lighter, my new drink. It seemed I would not be able to manage my sprawl of small possessions. The couch enveloped us.

I felt okay. I felt better. Later, I felt great. I didn't need Michael, I could do okay on my own. I was drunk enough not to care about anything outside the press of bodies around me and the pressure of his hand. In the middle of these people I was in a private space. Peter was making it all right. I could hand
myself over, and the world could be happy and he would want me and I would be okay.

The sun was setting, another lovely pollution-stained sky. I gazed out the window while he nuzzled my neck. As I watched, the electric colors filled the world so full I was afraid it might burst. Reds, oranges. I longed to be part of it. I was inside a dark bar with someone's hand on my leg when I should have been in the sunset. In the sky. But there I was on the couch, helpless, dazzled.

I raised my eyes to the TV above the window, which played a commercial for shower cleaner. Animated scrub brushes sped over blue tile, leaving sparkles in their wake. Peter's hand raised goose bumps along my arms. He proposed a toast and we clinked glass to bottle. I smiled, glad to exist in this window of possibility, before it got usurped by waste and disappointment. The mix of chemicals in my blood danced and settled, danced and settled. Pink streaks glowed on the surfaces in the room. All the bad that happened in the world gave urgency to their beauty. Soon the sunset colors vanished, and it was dark and smelly where I was. I made an effort to focus on the boy. He was talking about his new apartment. I tried to participate.

“Where do you live again?” I asked.

“Meyerland.”

“Outside the Loop?” I said.

“Not far outside. It gets free Wi-Fi.”

He was boring, but I didn't mind, because his attention was interesting.

“We need another drink,” I said, and stood.

He went to the bar, more crowded now, and I moved closer to the television. A closed caption
Law & Order
gave way to
the local news: a Hispanic girl with big eyes took turns looking cheerful and serious. I tried to read her lips but I could only read her eyes. They were empty and anxious despite the emotions moving across the rest of her face. The picture jumped to a River Oaks street, broad and landscaped, and a flash of Sally's face. The Hispanic girl came on again and then another set of commercials. The boy installed a fresh drink in my hand and I sipped it and waited through cat food and sitcom ads until the news came on again. The screen went to Sally, standing in her backyard. Her face was made up, with tears carefully placed, flattering her features. She looked like Danielle. Almost young. A somber-faced handsome reporter was holding a microphone. Captions ran at the bottom of the screen: “gruesome slaying.”

I'd spent countless nights in that backyard, swimming in the pool, smoking weed on the lounge chairs. It was odd to see it on TV, with the volume muted. I watched, glad it had turned into a TV show. That meant I could turn it off.

“Eliza. Eliza.”

I'd forgotten I was Eliza. The boy had been trying to get my attention. His friend was there, too.

“Eliza, hey. We're gonna go outside for a minute. Come on, come with us.”

I gulped my drink and set it on the bar. Outside we huddled between a Suburban and an Escalade. The size of the cars was screwing with my perspective. I felt like a fiberglass statue, realistic but hollow, smaller than life. I took one hit off the bowl and held it, and when I tried to light a cigarette I couldn't even get it to my mouth.

“What is this shit?” I asked them. Both boys giggled.

“Good, right?” his friend said.

The event of him speaking packaged itself and retreated forever. I hadn't heard him so much as just knew what he had said. It was like I just
knew
. Amazing.

“It's California shit. The Mexi-schwag around here gives me a headache. I can't smoke it anymore. Look at this—” I understood he wanted to show me something. “See the crystals, the way it reflects? Pure THC.”

“Oh,” I said. “You're very proud.”

“Dude, don't hold it like that! People might see.”

This must have been Peter speaking. I couldn't see him but I could determine his rough location, from the lack of negative space. I felt clever for the way I was keeping track. It wasn't easy trying to hear through the space separating us. I got the cigarette lit and immediately the parking lot pitched and lurched. I couldn't hear the two boys anymore, I lost them. I couldn't find the cars. I couldn't find the TV anywhere, and this made me very, very sad.

Broken glass in the asphalt under my hands shone here and there, like the crystals in the bud. I crouched near a weedy fence, dandelion leaves jagged at the base of the chain link. I hooked my fingers through the links and pulled myself up.

I was pleased to see the door to the bar not too far away. I knew I could get there if I concentrated. I felt very cold. Was it cold? What month was it? Wasn't it spring? I approached the door, but got scared of going in. The next second I forgot that, and opened the door. I couldn't see very well and I wondered if my contacts had fallen out. I found a stool at the bar and leaned against it, undignified. I tried to hold still and not smile.

“Charlotte. What can I get you?” Eric, the bartender: what an amazing coincidence, to see him again.

“Hi!” I said.

“Are you doing all right, kid? What do you need?”

I considered his questions and answered truthfully. “I don't know,” I said.

He nodded and left and I forgot about him. He suddenly appeared again with a glass of water and a bag of Fritos. He left them on the bar in front of me. I attacked the bag of chips. I heard Michael laugh behind me. I loved Michael's laugh. I turned towards the sound, smiling. That's how stoned I was: I heard Michael and smiled. Then I remembered, and I saw him in a group of people at a table near the pinball machine. His fingers entwined in a mass of orange hair attached to
her,
Sonja. I dropped the Fritos on the bar and walked over to their table.

“Hi, Sonja,” I said. My voice sounded strange and bright, chirpy.

They both looked up.

“Charlotte,” Michael said. “What do you want?”

“I'm not talking to you,” I said. “I wanted to say hi to your new girlfriend, that's all.”

“Hi,” Sonja said. “It's nice to meet you.”

“Is it?” I said. “Is it nice?”

“Come on, Charlotte, don't do this,” Michael said. “We're trying to have a drink, okay?”

“Fuck you,” I said, not looking at him. “You don't get to talk to me anymore. Leave us alone.”

“Charlotte, I'm really sorry,” Sonja said. “I know this must be very hard for you. I never intended for any of it to happen.”

“Sorry for what?” I said. “What are you sorry for? Specifically.”

“Um . . .”

“Charlotte, leave her alone.”

“Look, she's afraid to say why. Or ashamed. Are you ashamed
of yourself, Sonja? You're so pretty. No wonder he wants to fuck you.”

I reached out and stroked her long hair. She flinched at my touch.

“You must have missed him when we were together,” I said.

“I guess.”

She looked terrified. I was glad.

“You know he's a liar, though, right?” I said.

“Charlotte, come on, stop it.”

“No, Michael, she should know this. I mean, she might not be smart enough to put it together. Isn't that what you used to say about her? That she was too naïve? You couldn't stand always having to protect her and explain things to her? She was like a child? It made him impatient,” I said to her. “He told me all about why he dumped you.”

“I think we should leave,” she said to Michael.

“Wait,” I said. “I thought you should keep in mind that for a month—an entire month—he was fucking both of us and I had no idea. He's very good at keeping secrets, aren't you, Michael? Doesn't it make you wonder what he's not telling you?”

Michael stood up. “Okay, that's enough,” he said. He stepped between us. “We're leaving. Go back to your table or whatever. Leave her alone.”

He put his hand on my arm, trying to steer me away from her. Under his hand my nerve endings bunched in protest.

“Don't touch me,” I said.

“Charlotte, quit yelling,” Michael said. Still, he took his hand away. Sonja was standing up now, too, holding her purse and edging away from us. She looked stricken and pale.