“Real life is not a scene,” Ashley laughed.
“And real girls are not real whores,” Timberlake said. “Sorry, Ashley.”
“No offense taken, dickhead” She smacked Timberlake on the thighs. He made to karate-chop her back.
“I just got a little too rough with her,” I said. “And she wasn’t exactly up for it.”
Timberlake shook his head. “Brutal, man. Very brutal. I can see you doing that, by the way.”
“You guys think I’m a whore?” Ashley said, thoughtfully. She held an unlit cigarette between her index and middle fingers.
“No,” Timberlake said. “Come on, have a sense of humor. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I mean, technically, I am, but like, so what?”
I raised my palms to her. “It’s just a word.”
‘You guys probably think you’re better than me,” Ashley said. She placed her hands on her hips and approached me accusatorily. “Is Liz, like, better than me, because she threw you out of her house for something I let guys do to me every day?”
“No one’s better than anyone,” I said, soothingly.
“So what if I like a rough mouthfucking?”
‘You ... you like it?” I said weakly.
“I love it. Does that make me, as a whore, a less useful member of society? I mean, a belt wrapped around my neck turns me on— should that be made illegal?”
“Would you like to marry me?” I asked, approaching her with tender arms.
She sighed and pushed me away. “Dummy, Pitts is waiting for me.”
“But the belt... wrapping around your neck?”
“He’s your boss,” she said pointedly.
“Yeah,” I grumbled.
Ashley gathered up her smokes and her purse. Her heels made a clicking sound on the tile floor of the kitchen. “Good night, guys.” With poise and grace, she winked at me, then walked up the stairs to her man and their wide-sprawling million-dollar bed.
Timberlake and I shrugged at each other.
“Different set of rules, huh?”
“Different strokes for different folks,” he said, clapping an amiable, bony hand on my shoulder. “And so on and so on.”
I just stared at my shoes, as low as I’d ever been.
“Hey, cheer up! Did I ever tell you that my mom modeled for The Joy of Sex?” Timberlake offered. “Yep, spread-eagled.”
TWENTY-TWO
When September came, the sun was teetering on the edge of summer, so close to falling off, but there was just a little bit of goldenness left. The energy had shifted from the nervous, yellow haze of August to a sweet, rich apple glow. There was a kind of beauty in the air.
They were drinking this thing called Fiorinal. That’s what I remember.
It was a clear liquid, and everyone was sipping at it, everyone being Ashley Moore, Pitts, and Timberlake. It was a late weekend morning, and we had no shoots scheduled for the day, and they were in the kitchen getting loopy, sipping this clear liquid from a cup, swooning and laughing like loons, hugging each other, getting giddy and even smoking cigarettes in the house.
“What in hell is that stuff?” I growled, edging past them to pour a late riser’s bowl of cereal.
“We don’t know!” Ashley Moore said proudly. “Come on! You have to drink some, too!”
“It’s battery acid, we think,” Timberlake said, excited. “Sammool, I want to dance with you!”
“Get your filth away from me,” I said, mustering up the only dignity I had, taking my cereal into the living room, where I could munch it in front of the TV.
“Cheer up, Sam!” Pitts called. “The numbers are up! The gapes came through. It’s time to celebrate! I got us tickets for a punk rock show down in San Bernardino, so get dressed, we’re leaving in an hour.”
“I hate punk rock,” I said, scooping up a spoonful of Grape-Nuts sadly. “Thanks anyway.”
“See?” Ashley Moore said. “Punk rock is bad.”
“You guys are too clueless to understand,” Timberlake said, looking at the end of his cigarette curiously, taking little puffs that never even got close to coming into his lungs. “You had it too easy growing up. Punk rock is the purest expression of musical angst.”
“If Sam doesn’t have to go, then I’m not going, either,” Ashley announced.
“Bad Religion is going to be there,” Pitts said.
“Social Distortion,” echoed Timberlake. 'You two are going to so wind up regretting this. The mosh pit alone is worth the price of admission.”
“I don’t want to be in a mosh pit,” I said. “Mosh pits weren’t made for people like me.”
“What a puss!” Timberlake exclaimed, elatedly. “I never realized what a total puss you were until right this moment.” He took another sip of Fiorinal, screwed up his face, then immediately slumped forward. “Oh, man, this stuff is like taking a crap right in your pants.”
Pitts and Timberlake sped off in the Acura half an hour later. A short while after, Rag Man squired Lady away to a romantic seafood buffet in Santa Monica. “Buttered scallops? No?” And then Ashley Moore and I were home alone.
We trotted down to the pool. Ashley carried a full glass of Fiori-nal in her left hand, jiggling, not quite walking straight in chunky clogs, on her long grasshopper legs.
We laid down towels, preferring those to the deck chairs, and cuddled on the ground, grass bunching underneath the mottled fabric. I hesitantly fingered a scar on her back. “What’s this?”
“Oh,” Ashley said. “I grew two inches in one summer. That’s a stretch mark.”
“You’re tall,” I remarked softly.
“No kiddin’, huh?” She laughed. “Here, drink this.”
I took the Fiorinal from her, but with reluctance. “God, you guys are such terrible influences.” I sipped very hesitantly from the glass, then, surer it wasn’t pure poison, took a deeper draft. “Not so bad.”
“What did I tell you?” Ashley said lazily. She was chewing on her words, just the tiniest bit. Making them stretch in the sun. She lay down heavy on the large, soft towel, content and drugged, like a lean, tawny cat.
I took another small sip of the liquid, swishing it around in my mouth like Listerine before gulping it down. I checked out the blue of the horizon, and ran a hand through my hair. “So this stuff is really supposed to get you high?” I said, dubious.
“Wait on it,” she murmured. “Won’t be long now.”
A heady little buzz started up within the minute. It was a warm crimson flush, unlike any inebriant I was used to. I bit down on my lips and tried to listen to it, nodding, laughing a little bit. Giggling, then. Toppling.
“Seeee,” Ashley said, triumphantly.
“Goodness,” I whispered, my heart beating quickly. “I may have to drink this whole thing.”
Ashley turned over and gave me a scared look. “Don’t, ’kay?”
“I’m just playing around,” I mumbled. I ran a hand along her shoulder blades. “You have nice skin, I can massage you. I like your skin, and I can massage you if you want.”
‘Yeah, okay, Sam,” she said. She took off her bikini top and I ran my hand over her luxurious skin. It curved into every shape I pushed it in. So moist, so silky, so athletic. So alive. So luminescent, so thick with electricity. I trailed down her spine, tickling my fingertips down an ant trail, and found her buttocks and trembling, I began to ever so lightly caress both muscular globes with the palms of my hands and in only moments, I had shivers running up both my forearms, my eyes closing. My heart beat in my head and my blood pounded. My whole mind was like: ass. My brain and my face were just white shivers, shivers and ass.
Ashley turned over lazily. “Whaaaat are you doing?” she laughed.
“Nothing,” I said, kissing her. “I’m just, like, you know, getting to know you.”
Giggling, she came into my grasp. Rolling on the ground, my whole mind was made to feel the weight of her, the heat of her. Her gum breath and her silken hair. Fiorinal let you breathe funny, and when I gathered her into my clutches, cloaked in God’s sweet, gold, white-light night, it felt nothing like pornography; I mean, I wasn’t embittered at all. We were trembling like two kooky fairies.