John Belushi Is Dead (30 page)

I turned off the tap and rubbed the black from my face, rubbing most of my makeup away at the same time. I took a deep breath and stepped outside. The party was in full swing. People were standing in the hallway, talking quietly in each other's ears, drinking, kissing. I turned toward Belushi's bedroom. The door was still closed, but behind it I could hear the sound of laughter. I turned the handle and pushed the door, and it creaked open slowly.

On the bed were three guys wearing suits, ties undone, and black sunglasses. One of them rolled over on the bed in quick, jerky movements while the other guys laughed.

“Look at me! I'm Belushi!” he said as he writhed on the bedsheets. He kicked and shook and made heaving noises. “Help me! I'm dying! Don't leave me here! Don't leave me here to die!”

They all started laughing. One of them noticed me standing in the door way, held out a compact mirror, and offered me a rolled-up bill.

“Want some coke?” he asked. I could see the powder sitting on the end of his nose.

“No thanks, I'm on the wagon,” I said, and he shrugged before doing a line while his friends watched.

I closed the door again, suddenly feeling really sick, as if
someone had punched me in the stomach. It was my body trying to tell me I didn't belong there, that I needed to get out, get away. Death was all around me. I stumbled down the hallway and tried to make my way through the partygoers who were dancing to “Louie Louie” in the living room, just like in
Animal House
. I reached the front door and managed to pull it open, when Benji came rushing over.

“Hey, what's going on?” he said, slamming the door closed and standing in front of it. “Where are you going?”

“I'm sorry, Benji. I'm leaving.”

I tried to push past him but he grabbed my arm and twisted it. “Hey!” I almost screamed. “Get your hands off me!”

“Okay, I'm sorry” he said quietly, letting go. “Don't get so crazy. Can't you just stay?”

“This is
not
my kind of scene, Benji. These people are dicks.”

“Don't you want to see the bedroom? Hilda—it's where Belushi died!”

“I've seen enough. These people don't even care about John Belushi. They're just a bunch of poseurs.”

“Oh, so you're the only one here who's not? That's so fucking typical of you, Hilda. Always acting like you're so much better than anyone else. Always acting like you're better than me.”

“I'm going home,” I said, trying to push past him.

“Look, I'm really sorry,” he pleaded, his face softening. “It's just that, everything between us is different now, you know? How about you take a walk with me? We need to talk. We haven't talked in ages.”

I looked at Benji and saw something in him that seemed familiar, like the person I used to know, before everything started to
change. God, how I wanted my old life back. Everything seemed simpler before Hank and Jake. “We should talk,” I agreed. “Let's go outside.”

He smiled, relieved, and took my arm again, gently this time. He led me out the front door and through another gate to the pool area, leaving the party far behind. The pool was deserted. I sat on one of the cabanas and took my heels off, glad to stretch my feet. Benji stood in front of me, swaying a little, a beer bottle in his hand. Away from the party I started to feel a little better. I breathed in the air, savored it in my lungs, savored being alive. I fixed my old friend with a serious look.

“Benji, those people do not care about you. They are not your friends.”

“Oh, and you are?”

“What's that supposed to mean? Of course I'm your friend!”

“Then where have you been?”

I looked at my feet. A blister was starting to form on my toe. “I just needed a break. Time to myself. I'm worried about you. You've been acting weird.”

“
I've
been acting weird? You're the one who's changed, Hilda! I'm the same person I always was! I mean, fuck, we're at Belushi's bungalow, and you don't even care.”

“I just don't think this shit is healthy anymore,” I said. “I mean, look at us. All we ever do is talk about death. I mean, look what it's done to you.”

He froze. “What do you mean, what it's done to
me
?” he sneered.

“Benji, come on. It used to just be visiting cemeteries and jumping over fences, but now,
digging up graves
? Going to the
coroner's office and acting like it's
all a big joke
?” I stammered. “It's gone too far. You're hurting people now.”

“It was always you and me, Hilda! Us against the world!
You left me
.”

Benji's tie had come undone and now hung limply over his chest, a thin hangman's noose waiting for a neck. His eyes were wide and red. In the distance I could hear the sound of the party, a cacophony of sleazy blues music and laughter. Benji just looked at me. The light of a nearby room reflected off the pool's surface and glinted in his eyes. There was nothing in them. Benji's eyes were all inky blackness, and I'd seen that look before. That day so many years ago when Benji had handed the cat over to its owner, emotionless. At first he had been sad, even wept for the poor animal as it lay dying in the road, but once he got his hands on the corpse, something changed, something that had led us to Sid the goldfish, then the LA County Morgue, then here. There was nothing behind those eyes.

Benji was right. Once we had been a team, like Bonnie and Clyde, Sid and Nancy, Kurt and Courtney. I understood why he was angry, but there was nothing that could be done. I had changed. I wanted so desperately to be far away from all of this, all the madness and death. I had my whole life to live and I didn't want to spend it in darkness any longer. I stood, picked up my shoes.

“Enjoy the party,” I said, and began to walk away.

“Hilda.”

“No, Benji. No more. I don't think I can be your friend. Not now. So just leave me alone, okay? Let's just take a break.”

That's when I saw it. Something shiny and long in Benji's hand,
but it wasn't a beer bottle. It was
too
shiny; the light from the lampposts caught the object and reflected off it, like a mirror.

“Benji? What are you doing? What's that?”

Benji put the object lengthwise in his mouth, held it between his teeth. He unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it off, and stood beside the pool naked from the waist up. His body wasn't as I'd remembered. It was as if he'd been in training: his arms looked stronger, showed the tiniest hint of muscle. He dropped his shirt beside him, took the object out of his mouth, and once again held it in his hand, the end pointed toward me.

“You'll get cold,” I said, dazed, too confused to know what I was saying. Suddenly I was feeling the cold all too intensely, but I couldn't take my eyes from the object in his hand, the kitchen knife. I wondered if he'd taken it from the bungalow. I wondered if Belushi had ever used it to cut onions.

Benji looked around him, at the pool, the other hotel rooms, the majesty of the Chateau rising up around him. “Don't you just love this place?” he said. “It's everything I hoped it would be. It's like an enchanted kingdom. And the people, Hilda, the people who have been here, who have lived here.” He looked back over at the bungalow. “Died here.”

Suddenly there was the sound of glass breaking from inside bungalow 3, and someone laughed, loud and sharp, cutting through the silence.

“You're right, Hilda,” Benji continued. “Those people in there, they aren't my friends. But you are. You were always my best friend, more than that. Even when we're apart, we're together. You know?”

“I'll always be your friend, Benji. But I have to go now.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm scared. You're scaring me.”

He stepped forward, knife still pointed toward me. “Don't be scared. It's just me.”

“I have to go. Please.”

He stopped. “You know, we could be like him.”

“Who?”

“Belushi. We could be like all of them. Imagine it, Hilda. Imagine having people remember you, talk about you, visit where you died. You would become a legend.
We
could become legends. Forever.”

I looked around for something to grab, something that would be strong enough that if I swung it I could bring Benji down. But there was nothing, just a few large potted plants that looked too heavy to pick up. “I don't want to be a legend, Benji. I want to live.”

“Do you?”

“Of course I do!”

“Hilda, your parents are dead. Your mom and dad, they left you. Don't you want to be with them? Isn't that what all this is about?”

“No, Benji, I want to live. Please. Don't do this.”

He stepped toward me, and I could see millions of goose bumps appearing along his skin like tiny insect bites. He was right: I did want to see my parents again. But not now. Not like this.

“Hilda, people would talk about us forever,” he said, inching closer. “We could become ghosts. We could do it now, by this pool. We'd be famous.”

I tried to scream, but nothing would come out. The knife came
up, flashed in front of my eyes, and a desperate yelp escaped from my throat.

“No!” I squealed as the blade flashed past. I threw my hand up to my throat. There was no wetness, no blood, just the softness of my own skin. I breathed out. Benji's eyes were wide, manic.

“You don't want this,” he whispered, and put his hand on my throat, softly, lovingly. “I'm sorry. I would never hurt you.”

Tears started to brim in his eyes, and I put my hand on his cheek, still wary of the knife, a knife which was now by his side and could easily be plunged into my stomach. “Everything's going to be okay,” I said, and pulled him in to me, held him, and he held me back, his hands shaking.

“I know,” he said, releasing me, and turned to walk away. He was a few feet away from me, standing by the pool and looking into the water, when he suddenly held out his arm as if he were crucified, lifted the knife, and cut long lines into his flesh.

“No!” I screamed, and raced to him, but the knife came up again, this time in the other hand, and he cut along his other arm, holding it out so the blood could drip off his skin, like water drops on a windowpane.

“Help us!” I screamed. “Somebody, help me!”

A man flew out of his hotel room in a white robe, his wife cowering behind him, and when they saw Benji standing there, his arms red with blood, the woman screamed.

“I'll call nine-one-one!” the man yelled, racing back inside. Benji aimed with the knife again, cut a clean line across his stomach, and a thin trail of blood rose to the surface.

“Stop it!” I screamed, “Just stop it, Benji!”

But Benji wasn't there. His eyes were glazed, rolling back in
his head. The blood was running fast now, making large puddles next to him. Some of it had run off his hand into the pool, making the water turn red. People started to pile out of bungalow 3, then stopped short behind me when they saw what was happening.

“Holy shit!” a guy screamed, almost falling over himself. All the girls behind him started to scream, and Benji just looked around calmly, surveying the chaos he was causing with a quiet look of contemplation. An image flashed in my mind: Sissy Spacek in the movie
Carrie
, standing at the prom, surveying the damage she had caused, pleased with the destruction. Hotel staff started to appear, and the man who had called 911 ran out of his room holding a bundle of bedsheets, tackled Benji from behind, and knocked the knife out of his hand. He pinned him to the ground, grabbed the sheets, and started wrapping them tightly around Benji's arms and chest.

“Holy shit, it's Benji,” someone from the party cried. “That crazy motherfucker.”

Suddenly I heard the wail of an ambulance, as if it had been waiting in the wings, and a moment later three paramedics rushed in with a stretcher and yelled at everyone to get back. I stepped away, blending in to the crowd, watching as they opened Benji's eyes and shone a light into them. The decision was made quickly: they picked up the stretcher and raced him away toward the front of the hotel, and before I could follow, the place was swarming with police officers.

“Okay, nobody's going anywhere,” one of them announced. “We need statements from all of you.”

“I was with him,” I said, stepping forward, bewildered that it was over with so quickly. “He's my friend.”

A police officer wearing a no-nonsense expression pulled me aside. In the chaos they all looked the same in their stiff blue uniforms. The only things distinguishing them were their name badges. “What's the kid's name?” the one called Roberts said.

“Benji. Benji Connor.”

Roberts pulled out a notepad and whistled to one of his colleagues who was talking to a guy from the party still wearing his toga. The officer jogged over. I looked at his name badge. Johnson.

“She was with him when it happened,” Roberts explained to him, then turned back to me. “Did somebody attack you?”

“No,” I said quietly. “He did it to himself.”

“Suicide attempt?” Johnson said.

I slowly shrugged. What exactly was it that had just happened? Johnson persisted.

“Has he tried anything like that before?”

I shook my head, kept my mouth closed. I stared into the distance, at the doors of the hotel through which they had taken him. Roberts studied me, concerned.

“Sweetheart, do you want me to find out where they took him? Want me to take you there?”

I thought for a moment, then shook my head slowly. No.

“Then can you give us the details of his next of kin?”

I gave him Mrs. Connor's cell number. They asked me a few more questions: was I his girlfriend, did we have a fight, had he taken any drugs, all of which I answered no to.