Less Than Zero (10 page)

There’s another long pause. “Yeah? Bummed out?” I ask.

“Let’s go to a movie,” Trent says.

It takes me a little while to say anything because there’s a video on cable of buildings being blown up in slow motion and in black and white.

On the way to the Beverly Center, Trent smokes a joint and mentions that this girl lives around the Beverly Center and that I look a little like her.

“Great,” I say.

“Girls are fucked. Especially this girl. She is so fucked up. On cocaine. On this drug called Preludin, on speed. Jesus.” Trent takes another drag, hands it to me, and then unrolls the window and stares at the sky.

We park and then walk through the empty, bright Beverly Center. All the stores are closed and as we walk up to the top floor, where the movies are playing, the whiteness of the floors and the ceilings and the walls is overpowering and we walk quickly through the empty mall and don’t see one other person until we get to the theaters. There are a couple of people milling around the ticket booth. We buy our tickets and walk down the hall to theater thirteen and Trent and I are the only persons in it and we share another joint inside the small, hollow room.

A
s we walk out of the theater, ninety minutes, maybe two hours later, some girl with pink hair and roller skates slung over her shoulders comes up to Trent.

“Trent, like, oh my God. Isn’t this place a scream?” the girl squeals.

“Hey, Ronnette, what are you doing here?” Trent is completely stoned; fell asleep during the second half of the movie.

“Like hanging around.”

“Hey, Ronnette, this is Clay. Clay, this is Ronnette.”

“Hi, Clay,” she says, flirting. “Hey, you two, what flick did you see?” She opens a piece of Bazooka and pops it into her mouth.

“Um … number thirteen,” Trent says, groggy, eyes red and half closed.

“What was it called?” Ronnette asks.

“I forget,” Trent says, and looks over at me. I forgot too and so I just shrug.

“Hey, Trenty, I need a ride. Did you drive here?” she asks.

“No, well yeah. No, Clay did.”

“Oh, Clay, could you please give me a ride?”

“Sure.”

“Fab. Let me put these on and we’ll go.”

On the way through the mall, a security guard, sitting alone on a white bench, smoking a cigarette, tells Ronnette that there’s no roller skating in the Beverly Center.

“Too much,” Ronnette says, and rolls away.

The security guard just sits there and takes another drag and watches us leave.

Once in my car Ronnette tells us that she just finished singing vocals, actually background vocals, on Bandarasta’s new album.

“But I don’t like Bandarasta. He’s always calling me ‘Halloween’ for some reason. I don’t like to be called ‘Halloween.’ I don’t like it at all.”

I don’t ask who Bandarasta is; instead I ask her if she’s a singer.

“Oh, you could say. I’m a hairdresser, really. See, I got mono and dropped out of Uni and just hung around. I paint, too … oh gosh, that reminds me. I left my art over at Devo’s house. I think they want to use it in a video. Anyway …” She laughs and then stops and blows a bubble and snaps her gum. “What did you ask me, I forgot.”

I notice that Trent’s asleep and I jab him in the stomach.

“I’m up, dude, I’m up.” He sits up and unrolls his window.

“Cla-ay,” Ronnette says. “What did you ask me. I forgot.”

“What do you do?” I ask, irritated, trying to stay awake.

“Oh, I cut everybody’s hair at Flip. Oh, turn this song up. I love this song. They’re gonna be at The Palace on Friday.”

“Trent, wake up, asshole,” I say loudly over the music.

“I’m up, dude, I’m up. Eyes are just tired.”

“Open them,” I tell him.

He opens them and looks around the car. “Hair looks good,” he tells Ronnette.

“Did it myself. I had this dream, see, where I saw the whole world melt. I was standing on La Cienega and from there I could see the whole world and it was melting and it was just so strong and realistic like. And so I thought, Well, if this dream comes true, how can I stop it, you know?”

I’m nodding my head.

“How can I change things, you know? So I thought if I, like pierced my ear or something, like alter my physical image, dye my hair, the world wouldn’t melt. So I dyed my hair and this pink lasts. I like it. It lasts. I don’t think the world is gonna melt anymore.”

I’m not too reassured by her tone and I can’t believe I’m actually nodding my head, but I pull up to Danny’s Okie Dog on Santa Monica and she trips as she climbs out of the small back seat of the Mercedes and lies on the sidewalk and laughs as I drive away. I ask Trent where he met her. We pass the billboard on Sunset. Disappear Here. Wonder if he’s for sale.

“Just around,” he says. “Wanna joint?”

N
ext day I stop by Julian’s house in Bel Air with the money in a green envelope. He’s lying on his bed in a wet bathing suit watching MTV. It’s dark in the room, the only light coming from the black and white images on the television.

“I brought the money,” I tell him.

“Great,” he says.

I move over to his bed and put down the money.

“You don’t have to count it. It’s all there.”

“Thanks, Clay.”

“What is it really for, Julian?”

Julian watches the video until it’s over and then turns away and says, “Why?”

“Because that’s a lot of money.”

“Then why did you give it to me?” he asks, running his hand over his smooth, tan chest.

“Because you’re a friend?” It comes out sounding like a question. I look down.

“Right,” Julian says, his eyes going back to the television.

Another video flashes on.

Julian falls asleep.

I leave.

R
ip calls me up and tells me that we should meet at La Scala Boutique, have a little lunch, a little chopped salad, discuss a little business. I drive to La Scala and find a parking space in back and sit there and listen to the rest of a song on the radio. A couple behind me in a dark-blue Jaguar think that I’m leaving, but I don’t wave them on. I sit there a little longer and the couple in the Jaguar finally honk their horn and drive off. I get
out of the car and walk into the restaurant and sit at the bar and order a glass of red wine. After I finish it, I order a second and by the time Rip arrives, I’ve had three glasses.

“Hey, babe, how’s it going?”

I stare at the glass. “Did you bring it?”

“Hey, babe.” The tone changes. “I asked you how it’s going. Are you gonna answer me, or, like, what’s the story?”

“I’m great, Rip. Just great.”

“That’s terrific. That’s all I wanted to hear. Finish the wine and we’ll get a booth, okay?”

“Okay.”

“You look good.”

“Thanks,” I say, and finish the wine and leave a ten on the bar.

“Great tan,” he tells me as we sit down.

“Did you bring it?” I ask.

“Cool down …” Rip says, looking at the menu. “It’s getting hot. Real hot. Like last summer.”

“Yeah.”

An old woman, holding an umbrella, falls to her knees on the other side of the street.

“Remember last summer?” he’s asking me.

“Not really.”

There are people standing over the old woman and an ambulance comes, but most of the people in La Scala don’t seem to notice.

“Yeah, sure you do.”

L
ast summer. Things I remember about last summer. Hanging out at clubs: The Wire, Nowhere Club, Land’s End, the Edge. An Albino in Canter’s around three in the morning. Huge green skull leering at drivers from a billboard on Sunset, hooded, holding a pyx, bony fingers beckoning. Saw a transvestite wearing a halter top in line at some movie. Saw a lot of transvestites that summer. Dinner at Morton’s with Blair when she told me not to go to New Hampshire. I saw a midget get into a Corvette. Went to a Go-Go’s concert with Julian. Party at Kim’s on a hot Sunday afternoon. B-525 on the stereo. Gazpacho, chili from Chasen’s, hamburgers, banana daiquiri’s, Double Rainbow ice cream. Two English boys lounging by the pool who tell me about how much they like working at Fred Segal. All the English boys I met that summer worked at Fred Segal. Thin French boy, who Blair slept with, smoking a joint, feet in the jacuzzi. Big black Rotweiller bites at the water and swims laps. Rip carries a plastic eyeball in his mouth. I keep staring past the palm trees, watching the skies
.

S
omeone is supposed to be playing at The Palace tonight, but Blair’s drunk and Kim spots Lene hanging out in front and the two of them groan and Blair turns the car around. Someone named Angel was supposed to
go with us tonight, but earlier today she got caught in the drain of her jacuzzi and almost drowned. Kim says that The Garage reopened somewhere on La Brea and Blair drives to La Brea and then down La Brea and then up and then down once more and she can’t find it. Blair laughs and says, “This is ridiculous,” and pushes in some Spandau Ballet tape and turns the volume up.

“Let’s just go to the fucking Edge,” Kim yells.

Blair begins to laugh and then says, “Oh, all right.”

“What do you think, Clay? Should we go to the Edge?” Kim asks.

I’m sitting in the back seat drunk and I shrug, and when we get to the Edge, I drink two more drinks.

The DJ at the Edge tonight isn’t wearing a shirt and his nipples are pierced and he wears a leather cowboy hat and between songs he keeps mumbling “Hip-Hip-Hooray.” Kim tells me that the DJ obviously cannot decide whether he’s butch or New Wave. Blair introduces me to one of her friends, Christie, who’s on this new TV show on ABC. Christie is with Lindsay, who’s tall and looks a lot like Matt Dillon. Lindsay and I walk upstairs to the restroom and do some coke in one of the stalls. Above the sink, on the mirror, someone’s written in big black letters “Gloom Rules.”

After we leave the restroom, Lindsay and I sit at the bar upstairs and he tells me that there’s not too much going on anywhere in the city. I nod, watch the large strobe light blink off and on, flashing across the big dance floor. Lindsay lights my cigarette and begins to talk, but the music’s loud and I can’t hear a lot of what he’s saying. Some surfer bumps into me and then smiles and asks for
a light. Lindsay gives the boy a light and smiles back. Lindsay then begins to talk about how he hasn’t met anyone for the past four months who’s over nineteen. “Blows your mind away, huh?” he screams, over the sound of the music.

Lindsay gets up and says that he spots his dealer and has to go talk to her. I sit at the bar alone and light another cigarette, order another drink. There’s a fat girl also sitting alone at the near empty bar, trying to talk to the bartender, who, like the DJ, is also shirtless and dancing by himself, behind the bar, to the music that’s pouring out of the club’s sound system. The fat girl has a lot of makeup on and she’s sipping a Tab with a straw and wearing purple Calvin Klein jeans and matching cowboy boots. The bartender isn’t listening to her and I have this image of her, sitting alone in a room somewhere in the city, waiting for a phone to ring. The fat girl orders another Tab. From downstairs the music stops and the DJ announces that there’ll be a miniskirt beach party at The Florentine Gardens in two weeks.

“It’s really … lively tonight,” the fat girl tells the bartender.

“Where?” the bartender asks.

The girl looks down, embarrassed for a moment, and pays for her drink and I can barely hear her mumble, “Somewhere,” and she gets up and buttons the top button on her jeans and leaves the bar and sometime, later that night, I realize I’m going to be home for two more weeks.

T
he psychiatrist I see tells me that he has a new idea for a screenplay. Instead of listening, I sling a leg over the arm of the huge black leather chair in the posh office and light another cigarette, a clove. This guy goes on and on and after every couple of sentences he runs his fingers through his beard and looks at me. I have my sunglasses on and he isn’t too sure if I’m looking at him. I am. The psychiatrist talks some more and soon it really doesn’t matter what he says. He pauses and asks me if I would like to help him write it. I tell him that I’m not interested. The psychiatrist says something like, “You know, Clay, that you and I have been talking about how you should become more active and not so passive and I think it would be a good idea if you would help me write this. At least a treatment.”

I mumble something, blow some of the clove smoke toward him and look out the window.

I
park my car in front of Trent’s new apartment, a few blocks from U.C.L.A. in Westwood, the apartment he lives in when he has classes. Rip answers the door since he’s now Trent’s dealer, since Trent hasn’t been able to find Julian.

“Guess who’s here?” Rip asks me.

“Who?”

“Guess.”

“Who?”

“Guess.”

“Tell me, Rip.”

“He’s young, he’s rich, he’s available, he’s Iranian.” Rip pushes me into the living room. “Here’s Atiff.”

Atiff, who I haven’t seen since graduation, is sitting on the couch wearing Gucci loafers and an expensive Italian suit. He’s a freshman at U.S.C. and drives a black 380 SL.

“Ah, Clay, how are you, my friend?” Atiff gets up from the couch and shakes my hand.

“Okay. How about you?”

“Oh, very good, very good. I just got back from Rome.”

Rip walks out of the living room and into Trent’s room and turns MTV on and the sound up.

“Where’s Trent?” I ask, wondering where the bar is.

“In the shower,” Atiff says. “You look great. How was New Hampshire?”

“It was okay,” I say, and smile at Trent’s roommate, Chris, who’s sitting at the table in the kitchen, on the phone. He smiles back and gets up and starts pacing nervously around the kitchen. Atiff is talking about clubs in Venice and how he lost a piece of Louis Vuitton luggage in Florence. He lights a thin Italian cigarette. “I got back two nights ago because I was told classes start soon. I am not sure when they do, but I hear that it is rather soon.” He pauses. “Did you go to Sandra’s party at Spago last night? No? It wasn’t very good.”

I’m nodding and looking over at Chris, who gets off the phone and yells, “Shit.”