Beige (2 page)

He’s still babbling away as we walk up the steps to his apartment.

“And see, we’re on Sunset Boulevard, so there’s plenty for you to do without having a car, ’cause Los Angeles is mostly a car town. You need a car here. Not like in Montréal.”

He tries to say Mun-tree-ul, like a native, and fails.

The Rat unlocks the door to his apartment, stands in the middle of the living room, and spreads his arms out wide.

“Welcome to your temporary home sweet home!” he says.

And then he smiles big and proud.

I take in the view. Model airplanes hang from the ceiling. Colorful, bawdy rock posters cover the walls. The shelves are stacked with too many CDs, too many vinyl records, too many books, and too many DVDs. A full drum kit is squashed into a closet in the corner of the room with foam and egg cartons covering the inside of the closet door. Junk is piled on the floor, on the coffee table, next to the coffee table, and underneath the coffee table, which sits in front of the shabby couch covered by a rag of a knit blanket. I recognize the blanket as one of my mother’s knitting projects. Her knitting style is unmistakable. Tiny, complicated patterns — even, perfect, clean. Good yarn. Classy color combinations.

I feel a pang in my chest. I’m already missing her. It’s only been one day.

This place is a mess, and it reeks of stale cigarettes poorly masked by room deodorizer. I can’t imagine the rest of the apartment looks or smells any better. I want to say,
You could have cleaned up. You knew I was coming.

But I don’t. I don’t say a word. I’m polite. I can’t help it. The Rat takes off his cowboy hat and throws it on the couch and then rubs his bald head.

“You know, I really meant to straighten up,” he says, busily trying to rearrange the mess, like cleaning up now is going to change my first impression. “I just got bogged down with practice. Suck is going to play a secret show on the Fourth of July, and we’ve been working really hard so we, you know, don’t suck. And you know how time just kind of gets away from you? I mean, I kept thinking I had more time, and now suddenly here you are!”

And right there, right that second, my whole heart sinks. Living on the moon with no oxygen would have been easy. Living in a tent in the jungle with no running water and bugs the size of small dogs would have been easy. Living in a cave during the Lower Paleolithic Era, clubbing my own food for dinner while dodging woolly mammoths, would have been easy.

Two and a half weeks of this mess with him, without her, seems impossible.

For some people, clutter is OK. They can live amid chaos, but not me. For me, piles of things on top of things scattered on things equals me not being able to think straight. A mess actually hurts me. Physically.

I know one thing for sure. This is going to be the worst two and a half weeks of my life.

“Excuse me,” I say. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Down the hall,” The Rat says.

When I open the door, I think I’ve made a mistake at first because it doesn’t look like a bathroom. It looks like a construction site. There’s a ladder leaning against a peeling wall. A bare lightbulb hangs dangerously low from the ceiling. There’s a bathtub that once was white but is now caked with yellow lime. The separate shower has a constant drip that I can’t turn off, no matter how hard I try. The hand towel has a hole in it. Thankfully, the toilet seems relatively clean. I use the last few squares of toilet paper.

I go to wash my hands. Even the soap is dirty.

I begin to cry.

I am still on East Coast time because it is six a.m. according to the clock next to me on the bedside table. I had opened my eyes hoping maybe I’d wake up in a tent in Peru, but no. Bad news. I’m still in L.A.

The first thing I see is that my room is not dingy, which is something I did not notice last night. It has a fresh coat of lavender paint, cheery funky curtains on the windows, and colorful transparent fabrics stapled to the ceiling with rope lights blinking on and off underneath. It looks like The Rat went through a lot of trouble to make my room look cool. But it’s for the wrong girl. It’s not very
me.
I don’t want funky. I want modern. Clean lines. Spare furniture. Neutral colors. Like my room back home.

I turn my face to the window, and from where I lie on the bed, I can see the Hollywood sign. The Hollywood sign is a big disappointment. Surprise! It’s totally tiny and boring. They completely misrepresent it in movies. I guess, like most things, it gets too many close-ups so you can’t see the whole picture.

It has stopped raining, and the sun streams into the room, forming a yellow square on the painted black wood floor. In that square is a big fat cat sleeping with a paw half over its face like a little drama queen.

The Rat has unpacked my guitar and put it on a guitar stand with a Post-it note on it that says, “All tuned and ready to go!”

Ahhhhh . . . Like I know what do with it. Like I even care. I flick my eyes over to my suitcases in the corner by the door. I know I should unpack, but I won’t.

I am not going to stay here in Los Angeles. I cannot stay here. I cannot live with The Rat. Not even for just over two weeks. Not even for one day. I am going to go to Peru and stay with my mother as she scours the Andes for Incan treasures.

I sit on the edge of the bed. In my head, I get up and I grab my bags and go down to the corner very quietly. Can you hail a cab from the street in Los Angeles, like in Montréal? Or do you have to call one, like when I visit Grand-maman at the old age home? I don’t care. Somehow, I hail a cab. I use the fifty U.S. dollars that Grand-maman slipped me. It’s totally enough. I arrive at the airport and I use the emergency credit card and I buy a ticket nonstop to Lima. In my mind, I do it. In my mind, my feet are moving. In my mind, I am that kind of girl.

The cat meows.

I’m gripping the edge of the bed.

I pick my phone up and text-message my mom. She says I can send text messages anywhere in the world. Even Peru. If I’m going to leave, I’m going to have to do it the right way.

Hunger forces me to go and explore, so I find the kitchen. The big fat cat, whose name is Sid Vicious according to his collar, follows me, nipping at my feet, hoping for food. He keeps purring and rubbing up against me. He doesn’t live up to his name at all. He’s a total softy.

“Don’t get too attached to me, Big Guy. I know I’m lovable, but I’m not staying,” I say.

I find a basket of fruit hanging over the sink, and after sifting through it, I find one banana that doesn’t look too bruised. At least by eating a banana, I don’t have to touch any of the dishes, which all seem to be dirty anyway and piled up in the sink. I see something brown and fuzzy floating in one of the cups, and I gag. I can’t sit at the table, because there’s a half-done model airplane kit spread out on it. I can’t sit in this kitchen. It’s making me freak out. I open the sliding door that leads onto a tiny balcony and notice that it looks onto a courtyard where a perfectly turquoise-blue swimming pool stares up at me.

Where is the beach? Isn’t Los Angeles supposed to be some kind of paradise? Does every single place in Los Angeles have a pool? That’s what I saw from the airplane. Tiny blue pools everywhere. Why would you swim in a pool where there is a beach not that far away?

I start daydreaming. I’m swimming in Peru, maybe at a water hole, with a waterfall. Or in a river, with fish nibbling at my toes. Wherever the water would be, I am having the time of my life. Who knows what could happen in Peru? I might even skinny-dip. I might just be that daring. I take swim breaks after assisting Mom on her dig. I’m a real help to Mom on the excavation. She tells me how she just can’t do her PhD thesis without me. It really is a godsend that I ran away to Peru. She’s not mad at all. She’s happy about it. After all, we’re a team.

A splash shakes me back to the reality of The Rat’s stinky apartment.

A boy is in the pool swimming, doing laps. After a few turns of the length, he changes strokes. I watch him for another five minutes, until he stops and pulls himself out. From here, he looks older than me. From here, he looks like a model. He’s wearing a Speedo and I can see everything, even from up here on the balcony.

Sid Vicious, who is sitting with me on the balcony, meows. The boy looks up at me.

You are beautiful,
I think.
Let’s get lost. Let’s run away from this place.
I throw my leg over the balcony and I climb down the grate. I go right up to him. I say,
Hello. My name is Katy and I am your destiny.

Only not really. Instead I look away, worried that the boy caught me staring, hoping he can’t tell all the way from down there that I think he’s cute, like somehow he can read my mind. I know he can’t. My wild thoughts are mine, safe inside of me.

I hope he lives here. I want to ask The Rat but I can’t because he doesn’t get out of bed until eleven a.m. I hear his movement in the kitchen and the distinct sound of the coffee grinder grinding beans.

I enter and The Rat is standing there in a pair of worn-thin boxers.

Don’t you own a robe? Don’t you remember there is a daughter in the house now?

I clear my throat, politely.

The Rat turns and looks at me like he doesn’t remember who I am and what the hell I’m doing in his dirty kitchen, then his face turns as red as one of the poppies he has tattooed on his left arm.

“Make coffee.” He points. “I’ll put my pants on.”

He pads out of the room as I take care of the coffee. I am used to the procedure. It makes me comfortable. I always make the coffee for Mom. It’s calming. For a quick moment, pouring the water and measuring the grounds feels like home.

As Mom always says,
Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.

But it was just for a moment. I know full well I am
not
home.

After The Rat has had four cups of strong coffee, he seems ready to talk.

“So,” he says. “What should we do?”

“I dunno,” I say.

There is nothing I want to do in Los Angeles. Not one thing. Except leave. I’m ready to go. I’m still packed. Just drive me to the airport.

“I cleared my schedule so we could spend a little one-on-one time,” he says, dragging on a cigarette. “No band practice. No rock shows. Nada. Just me and you all weekend.”

He exhales the smoke in my direction. I cough. He doesn’t get the hint.

“Those are bad for you, you know.”

I’m just saying. In Canada the cigarette packs are emblazoned with pictures of blackened hearts and lungs. Rotten gums. Tiny deformed babies. It shows you how smoking makes you disgusting. The Rat is disgusting.

“Well, I quit the big things, Katy,” he says.

He’s talking about Heroin and Alcohol. Those are the big things. His big bad habits, the thing he and Mom had in common. Who started first? I wonder who got who hooked? I only know who quit first.

Mom, because she had a reason.

Me.

“I figure I’ll keep the caffeine and the nicotine,” The Rat says. “A man’s got to have
some
vices.”

That makes no sense. I want to ask why. And isn’t living in squalor vice enough? Never mind. I won’t be here long enough for it to be a problem. It’s his funeral. I won’t be here long enough to care.

“I’ll smoke on the balcony while you’re here,” The Rat says. “How about that?”

I’m confused. Do I have to answer? That action just seems logical to me. Smoke outside.

“Will you excuse me?” I say. “I think I’ll go check my e-mail.”

“When you’re done, let’s have breakfast.”

“I already ate,” I say, even though all I had was a banana.

“Well, I didn’t,” The Rat says. “And I’m starving. If you want, I could whip something up here. But usually I go out for breakfast.”

I get it. I bet he doesn’t cook. I bet he just uses the microwave and heats up chicken potpies. I’m sure that The Rat’s idea of cooking is gross bachelor frozen dinners or a can of soup, which is not my style. Mom is a good cook. She even made my baby food herself, and we always eat organic everything.

Tabernac!
I am going to starve here in Los Angeles. I just know it. I’ll have scurvy or rickets by the end of my visit.

“Just so you know, Mom and I eat only organic,” I say, and I shrug. “I don’t really eat canned food.”

“Neither do I,” says The Rat.

Well, what’s all this?
I want to say. I imagine that I get up and I open the pantry door and display the evidence like I’m on a game show, showing him the shelf of canned food.

“I didn’t know what you like to eat so I didn’t buy anything,” he says. “Other than my earthquake kit, the cupboards are looking pretty Mother Hubbard. We can go to the Farmers Market and get some produce. I have a grill out on the balcony. Do you like grilled food? I love grilled asparagus, even if it makes my pee smell funny. Why
is
that?”

I have to speak quickly or I’m afraid he’ll go on about his pee, and I don’t want to encourage him.