I think for a moment about what to say next. The fear of the man I’m talking to sinks in further, and I picture myself being driven to the desert and executed.
Click. I hang up.
My heart’s pumping. Questions. No questions. The less he knows about me the better. John’s many terrifying reasons to fear Eddie Nash continue to swirl through my consciousness… kidnapped, tortured, murdered… I can’t seem to stop it. I race back to the room, smoke the rest of the joint, and lie motionless under the blackness of the polyester bedspread and a starless night.
John arrives back at the room early the next morning. He’s in a hurry to pack up and leave. “Fuck this place,” he snaps with contempt, opening his briefcase for a cigarette. I notice him rummaging around for the joint, but he says nothing about it.
“I, I called Eddie like you asked,” I tell him.
“I know, babe. Thank you.” He leans over to peck me on the cheek.
Good. Eddie must have bailed him out, I tell myself, hoping everything’s okay now and his good mood will last.
Heading over the Laurel Canyon pass, John has only one destination in mind—Dona Lola Drive. He parks near the entrance of the cul-de-sac and lowers his voice. “Stay down and don’t let anyone see you.” He checks the contents of his briefcase and covers me up with a blanket he pulls from the backseat. “This might be a while.” He grabs his briefcase and steals a kiss. As if he’s forcing a genie into a bottle, he nervously contains his breathing. “I love you.”
“I love you too, John,” I mumble to his disappearing shape. He makes a quick dash across the street, head turning from side to side, fast, exaggerated, as he scans the neighborhood scene.
“Well, Thor,” I say to the chocolate brown face, “I’m glad I have you.” And we both settle down in a huddled, awkward ball as familiar as the couch in our old living room, to pass the time in slumber.
“Come on. Come on. Scoot over.” John pushes, and I awake with a start. It seems that only a few hours have passed.
“Huh? What? Okay… I gotta pee, John, and so does Thor.”
“Shhh. Stay down till we’re down the road.”
Turning toward the valley on Laurel Canyon, then right on Ventura, we travel about half a mile till John spies the Valley Chalet motel and pulls in. Oh… we’re gonna get another room first. This is good. We usually do a run after leaving Eddie’s, but I’m happy to think I can take a bath and wash some of the grunge off my stiff, aching body. Sadly, I have misread the situation. The time in jail has made John’s already worn and haggard face even more leathered. But there is something else, something terribly more demoralizing. It’s as if a mask covers his face—one of those rubbery, wretched faces people wear on Halloween.
John checks us in and, as usual, inspects the busy street outside. Opening the door of the small room, he waves me in. Grabbing one of the garbage bags and stuffing Thor under my shirt, I scramble in through the open door. The motel is a particularly seedy place with old green shag carpeting, rust stains in the sink and bathtub, and see-through spots on the sheets from years of wear. Everything is bolted down, including the cheap, velveteen Spanish matador pictures on the walls covered in peeling paint.
As always, John immediately places the desk chair under the doorknob of the front door. He strips off his clothes and hops on the bed, snapping open his briefcase. The freebase pipe is lying on its side at the bottom, already assembled. He opens a small film container and taps a few crumbs onto the screen in the bowl. He motions for me to light the end of the Bacardi-laced cotton ball, and I dutifully comply. John pulls in a long, slow draw, holds it in till his face bursts flame red, and plugs up the stem with his thumb. His shoulders slump as he leans back against the headboard.
Sitting on the edge of the cheap cardboard bed, I pull at the invisible nylon threads on the bedspread, anxious for him to share his exhale of the mind-numbing solution. John knows I’m craving the drug. I want to disappear too. I can see the tension in him deflate, like air seeping from a giant blow-up doll. His body relaxes. I reach out and gently touch his leg, a puppy begging for a table scrap.
Finally, after what seems like forever, he leans forward and offers me his lips. They taste of burnt screen and plastic, a taste which means these are the last scrapings of his briefcase; he is out. Why? We just got back from Eddie’s. I try not to think and force myself to search for any bits of altered state to blur my thinking. I suck in another gulp of air, holding my breath for as long as I can manage. It will let me think I am high, have a “buzz” if I can hear ringing in my ears. When I release my lungs, as I suspect, there is no cloud of residue. I’m depressed and don’t want to look up. He’s gonna get mad any minute now. John sits staring at his pipe lying relaxed in his hand, wearing his nakedness like a comfortable suit of clothes. Then he raises his head to look me up and down.
“Get dressed,” he orders sternly.
“What? I am dressed, John.”
“No. Something nice.”
“W, why, John?” I ask, nervous about being part of one of his plans. Is he going to dress me so he can rape me? What kind of perverse sex game is he going to play this time? God, please, I don’t want him to tie me up again, like he’s been doing lately when he shows me how he can hog-tie an animal. It hurts too much. I’m not high enough for that. Please.
“You know…” John’s voice is eerie, like a mortician’s: flat, hard, and cold.
It is late afternoon, I note from the way the light falls orangey yellow through the shabby, faded curtains. My gut sends a wave of cold sweat through my body as understanding falls, my shroud of ignorance lifts, and John’s intention pushes its way into my consciousness. This place… his request… is a reality I have always feared but hoped would never come. Quickly I force the ugly realization out of my mind, and with a terrified hard gulp I will John’s motives away. I sit motionless, silent, wanting time to stand still.
For a few pregnant moments, John tinkers aimlessly with some loose jangling pieces in his briefcase. “What are you waiting for?”
Slowly, I struggle to get up. I don’t want him to get angry—I don’t want to get hit—so I obey and open the plastic bag of clothes. Maybe if I do what he asks he will change his mind. Aimlessly, I pull out jeans and T-shirts and heap them on the floor. “This is all I got, John.”
“That one. That flower top I got you. And those jeans. Put those on.” He flips his thumb menacingly on the pipe as he points to the pile.
The air gets thick and heavy, and the size of the room shrinks and suffocates me. His thumb keeps an angry beat on the glass. Tink, tink, tink…
I steal a glance at his face to check his mood. The blue of his eyes is a bright contrast against the red background, and his nostrils flare like a crazed bull’s. I remember when his face looked like that in the past; it used to mean passion, sweet and strong. Now it is a clear sign of danger, of his impending rage.
Quickly looking away, I do as I am told. With my head held low, I keep a fearful watch from the corner of my eye, hidden by the long dark strands of my hair. With the trash bag emptied, its contents dumped unceremoniously on the floor, I cautiously stand up and sit next to John on the bed.
“Let me see your face,” he tells me, tapping the pipe harder.
Lifting my head obediently, I quiet a sob.
“Quit it!” He curls his lip, shoots a daggerlike glare at me. “You got any makeup in there?” He motions with his head.