Blazed (14 page)

She finished her glass of wine, then walked out of the room, and two hours later, I found her passed out on her bed, clutching her ballerina dress, a recording of one of her recitals playing on her TV.

As I'm paying for the vinyl, I ask the girl checking me out where I can get a decent taco. She tells me about this place Zona Rosa just a block down from the store.

I tell her thanks, and then my phone starts ringing. It's Dominique and like that, I've got what feels like a thousand butterflies dancing around my stomach.

“Well, there he is,” she starts. “It's so crazy, cos I thought you might've died or something.”

“Nah,” I go. “You can't kill something like this.”

She laughs and says, “I figured if I was annoying enough, you'd at least have to call me to tell me to stop it. But you wanna kick it now, so that's even better.”

“Right. I'm sorry about all of that. It just took me by surprise.”

“What's that?”

“You wanting to hang out with me.”

“Why is that surprising?”

“Cos you're really pretty and you're older, I think, and you know I'm leaving soon.”

“Maybe that's why it's so perfect.”

“Maybe. I was just surprised. It was really nice to talk to you, and then getting those texts . . . It's hard for me to handle that kind of stuff.”

“Well, I'm glad you came around.”

“Me too,” I say, a little shocked to hear these words coming out of my mouth and how good it feels to say them.

“I've got band practice tonight,” she says. “But what are you doing tomorrow, like, after three?”

“Seeing you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yup.”

“Good,” she goes. “Well why don't you meet me at my work around three and we'll go from there.”

“Sure.”

“I work at the Squat and Gobble in the Castro. Just type it into your phone and it'll tell you exactly how to get there from wherever you're at.”

“Perfect.”

“How you liking San Francisco so far?”

“It's cool. This is my first time out on my own, and I'm holding six amazing records in my hands and about to eat a taco. So pretty all right, I guess. Plus, Kristen is really cool.”

“I love your stepsister, man. She's got this city dialed in too, so if you need anything, you should call her. She knows everyone and everyone loves her.”

“I got that feeling too.”

“She's a good person to know. Her clothes are amazing.”

“Indeed,” I say.

“So tomorrow at three, Jaime. And don't be late.”

“Never. I'm stoked.”

“Fuck yeah,” Dominique says. “I think you'll like hanging out with me too. We'll have fun.”

She hangs up, and I order a carnitas soft taco to go and Coca-Cola in a bottle.

As excited as I feel right now, I also feel guilty just about smiling, with my mother in the condition she's in and me way out here, so far away from her, shopping for records and staying in a fucking mansion and meeting cool kids. It doesn't seem right. But she's the reason this is happening. It doesn't make me feel any better to think this. But it's true. At least I have that on my side.

I END UP JUST FOLLOWING
haight all the way down. I eat my taco on a stoop right off of Clayton Street, and then I buy a pair of sunglasses and say no, like, eight times to these gnarly street goblins asking if I need buds or if I can spare a buck.

A couple of them even talk some shit to me, but I don't pay it any mind. Like, you smell and you have dreadlocks and you suck at playing music. That's my victory over all of them. Me not being that lame.

I listen to Thee Oh Sees as I walk. They live in San Francisco, and it would be fucking radical to bump into one of them, like Dwyer, and just shake the dude's hand and tell him how awesome his band rips and how much they mean to me.

I walk down this hill. There's babes everywhere. While I'm stopped at this red light, a couple of kids bomb the hill on their skateboards. I need to get a skateboard while I'm here. There's not a better sound in the world than a skateboard grinding on concrete.

I keep moving, and some of this is starting to look familiar from yesterday. I'm in the Lower Haight again, and when
I walk past this hair salon with a bunch of hot chick stylists inside, I look across the street and see Savannah standing in front of my father's gallery, smoking a cigarette.

She's wearing a white sundress, a navy-blue cardigan, and black cowboy boots. Her hair hangs down to her shoulders.

She sees me crossing the street toward her and waves.

I take my earphones out and nod at her. She gives me a hug.

“Jaime,” she says. “What are you doing down here?”

“I don't know,” I say. “I just kept walking from up there and here I am.”

“You got some records.”

“Yeah. So how's the painting going?”

“Great,” she says. “Well at least the preproduction stuff. Wanna come up and check it out? Maybe play a couple of pieces on the piano?”

“Sure,” I say. “I mean, I don't wanna distract you or anything. Keep you from your work.”

“You won't be at all. This will be a nice break. Come on.”

She grabs my hand and squeezes it and leads me inside without letting it go. Her hand feels nice too. It's warm and soft just like I'm sure the rest of her is.

We ascend the winding staircase into the apartment. Probably a hundred or more Polaroids of Savannah are spread out on the floor next to these two large sketch pads.

Savannah picks up a bottle of Heineken and takes a drink. “So this is my disaster right now.”

I set my records down and look over the pictures. Savannah is naked in all of them. She's holding all these different poses with different angles in each picture.

My face turns bright red and I begin sweating. Her body is beautiful. It's sculpted like a statue of some Greek goddess. I notice my fingers slowly bending now as if they're squeezing the milky skin of her body between them.

I look away and step back.

She's standing right next to me now. “What do you think?” she asks.

“It's interesting. I thought you painted, though.”

She grins. “I do, Jaime. This is my style. What I'm known for. I have a bunch of photos taken of me in certain situations, a lot of them nude, compromising situations, and then I paint the picture onto canvas with all these unique and intricate backgrounds I design long before the picture's taken.”

“Who took these pictures?”

“A friend of mine. Do you like them?”

I don't say anything.

Savannah giggles and goes, “It's okay to say yes, Jaime. You shouldn't be embarrassed because you like nude pictures of me. I want you to like them. I want to think you think I'm attractive.”

“Sure then,” I finally say. “I do like them. A lot.”

Savannah finishes her beer and runs a hand down my face. “Good,” she goes. “Do you smoke pot?”

“Ummmm . . .”

“I'm not gonna tell your father if you do, Jaime.”

“That's not it at all. I don't give a fuck what he knows about me, and I don't care if he doesn't like what he knows.”

“There ya go.”

“I just don't smoke that much. Only a couple times in my life, I guess.”

“You wanna get high with me?”

I shrug. “Okay. Yeah. Can I get one of those beers, too?”

“Now that's more like it,” she says. “Put on one of the records you bought.”

“Word.”

So I walk to the record player and select the Beachwood Sparks record and put it on while Savannah opens two more beers and lights a joint.

Savannah leans against the wall now and plants her left foot against it, which hikes the bottom of her dress up to her thighs.

Me, I'm sitting on the piano bench sipping on my Heineken, unable to pull my eyes off this lovely, nice creature who seems to be the furthest thing from a whore or a cunt.

She takes a hit off the jay and tilts her head back as the smoke exhales slowly and thickly from her nostrils and mouth. It's almost perfect. I should be taking a picture of her now. With the way the sunlight is draping half her body and the shade claiming the rest of her, this would be the first picture to say a thousand words to me.

“I'm so sorry,” she says, looking back at me now. “I've been hogging the weed. I do that sometimes, ya know. I forget to pass it to other people.”

“It's fine,” I tell her. “It's your dope.”

“But you're my visitor,” she says, winking.

She pushes herself off the wall and struts over to me, handing me the joint.

I take it from her. When I do, her fingers slide all the way down to my forearm. I look up at her and she's just staring at me.

“What's up?” I go.

“Nothing,” she says, then leans down so that our eyes are even. “You are so fucking handsome.”

I hit the joint. “Thank you.”

“Can I sit down next to you?”

This crap again,
I'm thinking.

“Go ahead,” is what I'm saying.

And Savannah does while I'm taking my second hit. She sits down and scoots right up next to me and I pass the joint back to her.

Our legs are touching, and I've got another fucking boner.

Savannah takes a hit and says, “Can I confess something to you?”

“Ummmm . . . okay.” I take a drink of beer. “Is it crazy?”

“I don't know,” she says.

“What is it?”

“I looked you up last night after you and your father left.”

My heart skips a beat. My chest tightens. I say, “Why would you do that?”

“When I heard you warming up, how you played the scales and the octaves, it drew me in emotionally. This attachment to something formed immediately. Nostalgia just washed all over me like a fucking wave, Jaime. And I was in a trance for a few seconds. That's when your father told me how good you were and that you are some kind of prodigy. Some sort of musical genius.”

“First off,” I tell her, “my father doesn't know shit about me, okay? Fuck him for speaking about me in that manner. And second of all, I'm not a genius. I'm good, but I'm not a genius at all.”

“I came across Tiger Stitches,” she says. “Then I came across your poems and your essays.”

Burying my face in my hands now, I go, “You didn't tell anyone, did you? You haven't said a word to my father, right?”

She shakes her head.

“Good,” I say. “Thank you.”

Savannah takes another hit and passes me the joint. “Your poems,” she goes. Then she grabs my hand and holds it again. “Fucking gorgeous, man. Some of them moved me to tears. The way you put words together and formed those images. Emma and her black hair.
Twin Peaks
and shark
teeth and Mobb fucking Deep. All of it, dude. Every word. I probably watched those videos ten times each. I was so turned on.”

“Wow,” I say. Then, “I don't even know what to say, actually.”

“I hope this next thing doesn't weird you out at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“I watched the videos and I fucked myself with my fingers.”

Seriously, I might blow my load just listening to her talk right now.

And she says, “I've never felt so connected to an orgasm before. After I came, I was covered in sweat and I was exhausted. I didn't even know where I was at first when I opened my eyes. That's the kind of reaction an artist dreams about getting, Jaime. You are an incredible fucking artist and I wish you were four years older.”

“Why?”

“So we could fuck right now.”

“Jesus Christ,” I go. “Savannah.”

“Shhhhh,” she whispers. She puts a finger to my lips. “Don't say anything, Jaime. It's fine. I just thought you should know all of this. I fucking love your work.”

We lock eyes. I'd fuck her right now. Screw the age difference. I want my dick inside of her, even though I wouldn't last longer than thirty seconds.

“You're so beautiful,” she tells me, and then she leans
toward me and puts a hand on the side of my face. “We can kiss, though, yeah.”

I don't say anything. Instead, I put my hand on the back of her neck, and right as our lips are about to touch, her phone starts blowing up.

It's sitting on top of the piano, and I see the name Justin Miles on the screen.

“My father is calling you,” I say, backing up.

“Shit,” she says. “I have to take it.”

“Take it then.”

She grabs the phone and stands up and leaves the room.

My head is so fuzzy now. I'm dizzy. In shock almost. I chug the rest of the beer and then swallow an entire blue.

A few minutes later Savannah comes back into the room and goes, “He just wanted to remind me about dinner tonight. Should be fun.”

I make a face and shrug. “I doubt it. Food will probably be good, though.”

“That's the seventh time he's called me today.”

“Really?”

She nods. “He's texted me at least fifteen times too.”

“Jesus,” I say. “What a weirdo.”

“He's a sweetheart,” Savannah goes.

I shake my head. “Bullshit. It seems like he's obsessed with you.”

“I think he's got a crush, sure.”

“Dude's fucking married. That's horseshit.”

Savannah grabs two more beers and opens them. When she hands me mine, she goes, “You hate him so much. I can tell.”

“I sure do.”

“What happened between you two?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Nothing's ever happened between us. It's what he did to my mother. How he fucking ruined her and drove her insane. Now you wanna talk about a real artist, that was her. That was my mother. One of the best ballet dancers of her generation before my father went and fucked it all up. Just fucked her over and then crushed her after that.”