Lunar Park - Bret Easton Ellis [137]
He nodded. I looked at him hard while trying to recall phrases I had drunkenly encountered on the Web sites last night.
“Can you . . . clean an infested house?” I finally removed my sunglasses.
Miller flinched and drew in a wince when he saw the side of my face and the extent of its bruising fully revealed. This jangled something in him. This was another blow that would convince.
“You don’t think I’m crazy, do you?” I asked quickly.
“I’m making that decision as we speak,” he said, recovering. “That’s what this initial meeting is all about: trying to figure out if I believe you.”
I had closed my eyes and was talking over him. “I mean, I’m not an unstable individual. I mean, maybe I am but I’m not, like, um, trouble or anything.”
“I’m not so sure about that yet.” Miller sighed, sitting back in the booth and crossing his arms. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
“I don’t know any more.” I helplessly raised my hands.
“Have you ever had a psychotic episode, Mr. Ellis?” Miller asked. “Have you ever been in any kind of delusional state?”
“I . . . I think I’m in one right now.”
“No. This is just fear,” Miller said. He marked something down on the notepad.
Pretend this is an interview, the writer whispered. You’ve done thousands. Just pretend this is another interview. Smile at the journalist. Tell him how nice his shirt is.
I suddenly guessed at what Miller was getting at.
“I had a drinking problem and . . . a problem with drugs and . . . but I don’t think that’s related . . . and . . .”
In that second everything fell apart.
“You know what? Maybe I’ve made a mistake. Maybe it was just some kids who were pulling a prank and I don’t know anymore and I’m a famous man and I’ve had stalkers and maybe someone is actually impersonating this fictional character of mine and maybe all of this—”
Miller interrupted what was becoming a rant by asking, “Are you the only target of these unexplained events?”
“I . . . guess I am . . . I guess I was . . . until last night happened.”
“Is there anything you’ve done to anger these spirits?” He asked this as if he casually wanted the opinion of a book I had recently read, but it implied something sinister to me.
“What are you saying? Do you think this is my fault or something?”
“Mr. Ellis, there’s no fault here,” Miller said with wary patience. “I’m just asking if you have perhaps antagonized—inadvertently in some way—the house itself.” He paused so this could sink in. “Do you think that your presence in this house—which according to you was not infested when you first arrived—has somehow caused the spirits to become angry—”
“Hey, listen, this thing last night, whatever the fuck it was, went after my kids, okay?”
“Mr. Ellis, I’m just saying you cannot antagonize the spirit world and expect them not to react.”
“I’m not antagonizing anyone—they’re antagonizing us.” This admission prodded a newfound nerve. “And the house wasn’t built on an ancient Indian burial ground either, okay? Jesus Christ.” This flash of anger—a release—calmed me down momentarily.
Miller noticed my hand trembling as I lifted the coffee cup to my mouth and then, remembering my lip, I placed it back on its saucer. I was about to start weeping at the pointlessness of this meeting.
“You seem very defensive. You seem angry.” Miller said this without any emotion. “I feel your fear, but I also sense anger and an antagonizing personality.”
“Jesus, you sound like my fucking shrink.”
“Mr. Ellis”—and now Miller leaned in and shattered everything by saying, “I have seen a person turn to ash because of their antagonism.”
My heart stopped, and then resumed beating faster than it had previously when Miller said this. I started crying softly. I put my sunglasses back on. I kept trying to stay calm, but if I believed what he just said I would get sick. The crying was magnified by the silence in the diner. Shame suddenly caused the crying to stop.
“Ash? You’ve seen this?” I grabbed a napkin from a dispenser and blew my nose. “What are you talking about?”
“One was a farmer. One was a lawyer.” Miller paused.