Blazed (17 page)

“Fuck that band,” Tyler snaps.

“Fuck you,” I snap back. “Jock.”

“Excuse me.”

“I can't believe you hung out with Morgan,” Kristen continues, just glowing now. “I can't believe he's here.”

“Dude's so overrated,” Tyler says.

“You don't know shit,” I say back.

“I'm so excited,” Kristen says. “Ahhhh. Dude's straight up at my family dinner right now. It's the shit.”

“Whatever,” says Tyler. “Who's the babe?”

“That's Savannah,” I go. “She's the artist my father flew to San Francisco.”

Tyler slams a drink and rolls his eyes at Kristen, which she doesn't see. I can't believe she fucks this dude. He's like a wannabe fucking hipster. I can smell the fakeness, the phoniness all over him. Like he's the jock, the goddamn meathead, who used to listen to Linkin Park and Incubus and 50 Cent and then he heard “Float On” by Modest Mouse or watched
Garden State
or read his first issue of
Vice
and saw himself and his best friends represented in, like, seven of the “Don'ts” and was totally embarrassed. So his jeans got skinnier. His “nu metal” CDs got tossed (actually, probably sold to Rasputin or some shit like that). His jackets got smaller and his shoes got brighter and his hands carried shopping bags from used clothing stores and he dropped the “bro” and picked up the “brah.”

He was prolly fifteen or sixteen when this all happened.
So now he's totally cool. He's had four years to memorize the Wikipedia pages of bands and authors and movies. He's had time to tell the same lies over and over and over, so now they're his truth. And he's not in high school anymore, so his past doesn't mean all that much and he's had time to make a new Facebook and Twitter and Tumblr and re-create himself from scratch with links to videos and songs from dope-ass bands and pictures of himself holding tickets to dope shows and him posting links to rad articles from cool magazines and him dressed all hip and selfies of him with some nerdy-looking indie rock kid with black-framed glasses and a gigantic sweater who doesn't know this guy woulda beat the shit out of him after giving him an atomic wedgie just five years earlier and now he's getting coke from him and they're staying up late talking about Coachella and the Violent Femmes and Two Gallants and Nirvana.

I'm surprised that Kristen's been fooled by him.

Savannah's pulled her hair back and up into a fancy ball, making a part on the left side. Two large brown-and-black feathers hang from each ear. She's wearing tight white jeans, a loose beige tank top, a baby-blue Members Only Windbreaker jacket, and a pair of black leather boots that stretch up to her knees.

Everyone at the table stands up to greet her. Me, I'm thinking about how she wished we could fuck.

“There she is,” my father says. I notice he's not smiling, though. He actually looks a little bit put off, which is weird
until I realize he's being like that because he didn't know James would be with Savannah. When he told her to invite anyone she wanted, he probably assumed it would be a girl.

James looks nice too. He's wearing a black peacoat, a gray V-neck sweater with a blue collared shirt underneath that, the collars tucked into the shoulders of his sweater, a pair of tight, shiny dress slacks, and white alligator-skin shoes with pointed toes.

My father gives Savannah a hug. A long hug, complete with a couple of small squeezes and a hand rub.

It's embarrassing. Kristen notices it too. How my father is basically drooling over the young, beautiful artist he paid to come here.

I look over at Leslie. She's smiling, but that smile is fucking fake.

“Who's your friend?” my father asks.

“Justin, this is James Morgan. He's pretty much the only person I know in San Francisco.”

“James,” my father says. “Welcome.”

They shake hands.

“What do you do, James?”

He laughs.

So do I.

Then, after a few seconds, he goes, “Is that for real? Like a real, serious question?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I write a little bit,” he says.

“Great,” says my father. “Another San Francisco writer.”

“Come again?” says James.

“Isn't that the running joke?” my father goes. “Everyone in San Francisco is a writer.”

“Justin,” Savannah says, cutting in, “James has written six books, three of them
New York Times
bestsellers, two of them turned into movies, a couple collections of poems and essays, and he's about to direct his first movie next year.”

Leslie laughs.

It's so awkward now that my face is turning red.

My mother was so right about him. The wannabe. The fake. Like, if she was right about this, then I know he's been lying about all the other stuff. The phone calls and the money and the cards.

“Well, fuck,” my father goes. “That's impressive.”

“It's what I do,” says James. “Thanks for having me, I guess. Do you try and ridicule every guy you're jealous of?”

“What?” my father says.

“Hey,” Savannah goes, turning to James and putting her hands on his shoulders. “It's fine, man. Be cool.”

“Nothing,” James tells my father. “I just got back into town and haven't slept much. Makes me a little cranky.”

“You're fine,” my father goes. “Grab a seat and a glass of wine. We're about ready to order.”

As Savannah says hi to everyone else, my father grabs her and goes, “Sit up here, please. With us.”

He pulls out a chair next to him and across from Leslie.

“Sure,” Savannah goes, and sits down.

But when James tries to sit on the other side of her, my father goes, “Excuse me, James. Those seats are for my friends.”

Kristen leans across the table and goes, “He's wasted.”

“He's an idiot,” I say.

“Right,” she says.

“It's fine,” Savannah tells James. “Just sit by Jaime.”

Leslie looks sick. I'm so ashamed of my father.

James walks around the table and pulls out the chair next to me. “What's up, partner?”

We fist bump.

“Is your father always such a douchebag?”

“I don't know,” I say.

“That's right,” he says.

Pause.

“What a prick, and his wife is right there too,” James continues.

“It's bullshit.”

“Yeah, it is.” James looks at Kristen. “Hi,” he says.

Kristen is glowing. Just staring at him. “Hey,” she says.

“How are you?” James asks.

“Just fine,” she goes. She introduces herself and Tyler to him and then says, “Can I tell you something?”

“It's not gonna be some asshole shit like your father said, is it?”

“Not at all. He's my stepfather, actually.”

“Same thing,” says James. “What's up?”

“You're probably one of my favorite authors ever, dude. And it's an honor to meet you.”

I watch Tyler make a face after she says this.

“Well, thank you,” James says. “Thanks for supporting my art.”

“Art,” Tyler says, not asks.

“Yeah,” says James.

“Oh, come on, man,” Tyler goes. “It used to be art.”

“Tyler,” Savannah snaps. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“Nothing,” Tyler snorts. “I used to read your books. And then you wrote yourself and your book
PieGrinder
into
The Bottle Cap Gang
, and after that, I was over it, man.”

“Why was that such an issue with you, man?”

“The ego you have to have to do that. It's fucking gross, man. Like we all know you wrote
PieGrinder
, but you gotta throw it in another book.”

James downs his glass of wine in one gulp and then says, “If only you knew what you were talking about.”

“I do. I read it, man.”

“Not that I need to ever explain my fucking work to anybody,” James starts. “But that was an inside joke for some friends. When
PieGrinder
came out, all these people I knew, some of them vaguely, came out of the woodwork and began telling everyone that the characters in the book were based on them. That the story was about them and their lives. So
when I dropped that part in
The Bottle Cap Gang
, with that made-up author saying I was an asshole for having hung out for a week to see all this shit go down and then write about it, that was the joke. And the people it was intended for got it. And that's all it was. It was for those fucking people, man.”

Tyler blushes. “Whatever,” he says.

“Yeah,” James goes. “Whatever, brah. Like, some jock wannabe hipster from the Marina thinks he knows some shit about my books. Fuck that. I see right through you, man. Right through you.”

I laugh as this waitress comes up to the table and asks if we're ready to order.

Glancing back at Savannah, my father's sitting, like, six inches from her now with his arm on the back of her chair, while Leslie sits with her arms folded across her chest.

Like, great idea, dude.

Like, some family fucking dinner.

And this is when I realize that I've never had dinner with this many people before.

“COME WITH ME,” KRISTEN SAYS.

I'm standing up, looking at all the plates on the dining table still filled with food.

Everyone's so high on coke that they couldn't eat.

Only James and I ate the majority of what we ordered.

Bathroom trip after bathroom trip after bathroom trip I watched, and at one point, I thought about screaming, “Just dump the shit out on the table, yo, and ask the waitress for eight straws. Everyone knows you're going to the bathroom to do blast or shit because you did blast.”

“Where we going?” I ask Kristen.

“My car,” she says.

“I'm in.”

She gets the keys from the valet and lights a cigarette immediately after we get out of sight.

“Damn, I needed this,” she says, as a cloud of smoke flows from her mouth and nose.

“What a shitshow,” I say.

“Right. Worst idea ever,” says Kristen. “Although having dinner with James Morgan is pretty fucking cool.”

“It's insane,” I say. “I can't believe this is happening.”

“I told you this life is fabulous if you let it be. Besides all the other crap that's happening.”

“I feel bad for your mother,” I say.

“Don't,” says Kristen. “I've seen her pull that shit on your father so many times.”

“That's bullshit,” I go.

“It is what it is. They do it because they can.”

“That's stupid.”

“It happened once, Jaime, ya know. One of them did it first. And once is all you need for the other person to become so jaded and cynical to the point where they decide to do the same thing and perpetuate the situation instead of dissolve it.”

“It's so fucking childish.”

“It is,” says Kristen. “I mean, you think your father and my mother have accepted the role of being adults just because they brought a kid into the world?”

“Obviously not.”

“They're friends more than parents. Your father married my mother when I was nine. He's been hands off my whole life, which is fine by me. I've never needed their hands to guide me. I just do what I do cos I love it. I like school. I love to learn. And I love making clothes and selling that shit. I'm easy.”

“Me too.” I guess.

“I'd hate to see them have to actually parent or give a shit. That's probably a huge reason why I stay so busy. So I
don't have to put them through that grind and watch them be miserable by having to truly care. It all works, ya know. This is the dream scenario that any kid would fucking love to be living.”

“Sure,” I say.

“I'd rather have it like this than watch the two of them fucking fail cos they don't know how to be involved and not be the center of their own universes.”

“Do you really think they don't care at all, though?”

“No. I think they've figured out that pretending to give a shit is just easier than giving a shit, and since I've never complained about it, I think they're actually convinced that pretending is the same thing as being.”

“It's easier.”

“And that's what it's all about, dude.”

“JUST HOLD THE FOIL UP
to the end of the tooter and chase the smoke when it starts peeling off the pill,” I tell Kristen. “It's easy. You're just chasing the dragon until your world becomes glass.”

Kristen flicks the lighter and it starts. I hold the foil for her like a gentleman, and she gets high while Youth Lagoon plays from the speakers.

“Thank you so much,” she says slowly, smiling. Her eyes are iced. “This is so wonderful.”

“I know.”

“Beautiful,” she says.

We end up splitting the pill, and she tells me that I'm coming with her and Tyler after dinner is over. Some rad all-girl rap group Toast is playing a free show at RVCA, which is a store right on the corner of Haight and Ashbury, and it's gonna be sick and Tyler is gonna do a ton of business there. I tell her that sounds cool, and then I ask her why she's with Tyler.

“He's kind of a turd burglar,” I say. “I don't get it.”

She lights a cigarette and grabs my hand. “We've been together two years, Jaime.”

“That's not a reason.”

“Sure it is,” she says. “The longer you're with someone the stronger your bond becomes, even if the surface is getting more and more smudged up.”

“Does he treat you well?”

“I guess so.”

“And that's good enough?”

“I don't know. For right now it seems so, though. Prolly I could find somebody else who would treat me better, but he doesn't treat me bad. He still fucks me all the time and makes me laugh.”