Six Bad Things_ A Novel - Charlie Huston [79]
—OK, spill.
And I do. I start talking, and soon enough, I couldn’t shut up if I wanted to. And I don’t want to. My thoughts crystallize into a lattice of narrative logic and I want nothing but to share it with T. I tell him the whole story, with illustrations and examples drawn from film, literature, popular music, and Greek philosophy, with sidebars on the topics of media politics, Superman vs. Batman, and Schrödinger’s Cat, with references to our shared history and revelations about a secret and mutual admiration, I tell him the whole story in every detail. I have never told the whole story before, not even Tim knows all the things I’m spilling to T.
And now I sit exhausted and sleepless, sucking on my twentieth or thirtieth cigarette of the day, and looking out the window at the sky getting ready to go a brilliant desert blue. And I feel better. I feel better having told the story and having someone else know everything. No matter what else, I feel better.
T goes into the kitchen and comes back with a small brown pill bottle. He shakes three pills into his hand, pops two in his mouth, and offers me one.
—No, no way. I’m never gonna sleep again as it is.
He shakes his head.
—It’s a ’lude.
I look at it. I don’t want to take it. I remember what it’s like to go on a speed jag, pills to get up, pills to get down. I don’t want to take it. But I know in my heart I’ll never sleep without it, and I need sleep now, more than anything in this world I need sleep. I drop it in my mouth.
T nods.
—C’mon.
He starts down the hall. I get up and follow him, and Hitler follows me. T stands in an open doorway at the end of the hall.
—Spare room.
I look inside. There’s a worktable, a computer, masses of paper, and jumbled piles of disks. The walls are covered in thumbtacked rock and anime posters. In one corner is a foam pad covered by a dingy sheet and a rumpled blanket. T jerks his thumb toward the other end of the trailer.
—I’ll be in the master suite. Holler if you need anything.
I stumble to the pad. It’s the most comfortable bed I’ve ever been in, so soft and mushy, just like my skeleton is soft and mushy. Whoa. Here comes the ’lude. T flicks off the light.
—Night.
—Night, T.
He turns to go.
—Hey, T?
—Yeah?
—What now?
He is an angular silhouette in the doorway.
—My dad died.
—Sorry, I didn’t know.
—Cancer got him last year. Just like my mom.
—Sorry.
—Being an orphan sucks. That’s what I’ll miss about Wade, knowing there’s a guy who knows how I feel.
—Yeah.
His silhouette shifts, he looks down the hall.
—So we’re gonna find your buddy and your money and save your mom and dad from the bad guys. OK?
—Yeah. Thanks.
He disappears down the hall, followed by his huge dog. I close my eyes.
—Superstar?
I keep my eyes closed.
—Yeah?
—It’s kind of cool you came to me for help.
—Didn’t have no one else.
I hear him laugh.
—Yeah, well, it’d have to be something like that, wouldn’t it?
I WAKE up to the sound of Hank Williams singing “Mind Your Own Business.” My body is impossibly stiff and sore. The good news is that the needle-sharp pains, nausea, and confusion of the concussion seem to have receded. The bad news is that they have been replaced by a post-speed hangover made up of blunt trauma, general anxiety, and global-sized guilt pangs.
I make it to the bathroom and look inside. T is standing in front of the mirror, combing globs of Murray’s Superior Hair Dressing Pomade into his hair, crafting it into a high pomp. He turns to face me and spreads his arms wide, smiling.
—Morning, superstar! Ready to take a bite out of life?
He slaps me on the arm and I flinch.
—Hell, you need a pick-me-up.
—I need a shower.
He turns back to the mirror and flicks the comb through his hair a couple more times.
—Well, it’s all yours, but I’m telling you