passed without any psychotic ravings. I convinced myself with every passing peaceful moment that things were getting better, that the worst was over. In that, I was pants-shittingly wrong.
“Well?” I asked. “How are you doin’? Any better?”
“I saw things. Tonight. Both before and after I . . .” He trailed off, sucked on his cigarette instead.
“Okay,” I said. “Back up. You don’t know the name of the drug?”
“Robert called it ‘soy sauce.’ But I’m thinking now that was just a nickname and that it wasn’t, you know, actual soy sauce.”
Robert? Oh, of course. Robert, the Fake Magical Jamaican from the party. I would be finding Robert, I decided. I would be having a word with him.
“Robert?” I asked. “What’s his last name?”
“Marley.”
Of course.
“That’s the only name he gave you?”
“Yeah. I didn’t want to pry.”
“And he gave you the—”
My cell phone chirped. I ignored it. Who could possibly be calling at this hour? Tina, crying, wanting to get back together a sixth time because she’s at home and lonely? Jennifer Lopez, deciding she was wrong to have brushed me off at the party and wanting to play a game of Hide the Cocktail Wiener?
“Yes. He did,” answered John. “We were drunk, in the One Ball parking lot, after close. We were passing around a joint; Head and Nate Wilkes crushed up some kind of pills between spoons and snorted it. There was . . . other stuff. Anyway. We drank some more.”
Beepbeepbeep BEEP, BEEP . . .
“And then the Jamaican guy pulls out the sauce. ‘It be openin’ doors to other worlds, mon,’ he says. We made him do it first, saw that he didn’t die. It seemed to make him pretty happy and then—Dave, the guy—I know I didn’t really see this—but the guy shrunk himself, made himself three feet tall. We all laughed our asses off, then he was back to normal again.”
“And you still tried that shit?”
“Are you kidding? How could I not?”
The phone sang its electronic ditty again.
“Did anybody else do it?”
“Are you gonna get that?”
“You avoid my question one more time and I will come over this table and punch you in the face. Look into my eyes. You know I mean it. I’m tired of your—”
“It’s not that easy, Dave. Everything’s mixed up, like if somebody made you watch ten movies at once and then made you write an essay on ’em. That stuff . . . Dave, I’m remembering things that haven’t happened ye—I mean, that didn’t happen. Even right now, all that stuff from Vegas. Did we go to Las Vegas? You and me?”
The phone chirped a third time. Or fourth, I lost count.
“No, John. We’ve never been in our lives, either one of us. Are you the only one who took the sauce?”
“I don’t know, that’s what I’m tryin’ to say. We went to Robert’s place, but Head and the guys didn’t come. I think they got nervous when they saw a needle come out. There were some kids around, the party kind of landed there, at Robert’s trailer. Now please, please, please get your phone or turn it off. That damned song you got in there is driving me up a wall.”
“Wait, wait, wait. You took something that scared Head ? The guy who did the stuff that killed River Phoenix just to prove he was the better man?”
“Dave . . .”
“All right, all right.”
I pulled out the phone, flipped it open, slapped it to my head.
“Yeah.”
“David? It’s me.”
Ah, that feeling again. That chill of unreality, my belly full of coffee turning to liquid nitrogen.
The voice was John’s.
No question about it. The man who was sitting across from me, smoking quietly without a phone anywhere near his head, had called me.
I glanced at John, said into the phone, “Is this a recording?”
“What? No. I don’t know if we’ve talked tonight, but we don’t have much time. I think I called you and told you to come here. If so, don’t do it. If I haven’t called, then obviously you should still stay
“Well?” I asked. “How are you doin’? Any better?”
“I saw things. Tonight. Both before and after I . . .” He trailed off, sucked on his cigarette instead.
“Okay,” I said. “Back up. You don’t know the name of the drug?”
“Robert called it ‘soy sauce.’ But I’m thinking now that was just a nickname and that it wasn’t, you know, actual soy sauce.”
Robert? Oh, of course. Robert, the Fake Magical Jamaican from the party. I would be finding Robert, I decided. I would be having a word with him.
“Robert?” I asked. “What’s his last name?”
“Marley.”
Of course.
“That’s the only name he gave you?”
“Yeah. I didn’t want to pry.”
“And he gave you the—”
My cell phone chirped. I ignored it. Who could possibly be calling at this hour? Tina, crying, wanting to get back together a sixth time because she’s at home and lonely? Jennifer Lopez, deciding she was wrong to have brushed me off at the party and wanting to play a game of Hide the Cocktail Wiener?
“Yes. He did,” answered John. “We were drunk, in the One Ball parking lot, after close. We were passing around a joint; Head and Nate Wilkes crushed up some kind of pills between spoons and snorted it. There was . . . other stuff. Anyway. We drank some more.”
Beepbeepbeep BEEP, BEEP . . .
“And then the Jamaican guy pulls out the sauce. ‘It be openin’ doors to other worlds, mon,’ he says. We made him do it first, saw that he didn’t die. It seemed to make him pretty happy and then—Dave, the guy—I know I didn’t really see this—but the guy shrunk himself, made himself three feet tall. We all laughed our asses off, then he was back to normal again.”
“And you still tried that shit?”
“Are you kidding? How could I not?”
The phone sang its electronic ditty again.
“Did anybody else do it?”
“Are you gonna get that?”
“You avoid my question one more time and I will come over this table and punch you in the face. Look into my eyes. You know I mean it. I’m tired of your—”
“It’s not that easy, Dave. Everything’s mixed up, like if somebody made you watch ten movies at once and then made you write an essay on ’em. That stuff . . . Dave, I’m remembering things that haven’t happened ye—I mean, that didn’t happen. Even right now, all that stuff from Vegas. Did we go to Las Vegas? You and me?”
The phone chirped a third time. Or fourth, I lost count.
“No, John. We’ve never been in our lives, either one of us. Are you the only one who took the sauce?”
“I don’t know, that’s what I’m tryin’ to say. We went to Robert’s place, but Head and the guys didn’t come. I think they got nervous when they saw a needle come out. There were some kids around, the party kind of landed there, at Robert’s trailer. Now please, please, please get your phone or turn it off. That damned song you got in there is driving me up a wall.”
“Wait, wait, wait. You took something that scared Head ? The guy who did the stuff that killed River Phoenix just to prove he was the better man?”
“Dave . . .”
“All right, all right.”
I pulled out the phone, flipped it open, slapped it to my head.
“Yeah.”
“David? It’s me.”
Ah, that feeling again. That chill of unreality, my belly full of coffee turning to liquid nitrogen.
The voice was John’s.
No question about it. The man who was sitting across from me, smoking quietly without a phone anywhere near his head, had called me.
I glanced at John, said into the phone, “Is this a recording?”
“What? No. I don’t know if we’ve talked tonight, but we don’t have much time. I think I called you and told you to come here. If so, don’t do it. If I haven’t called, then obviously you should still stay
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