The Informers - Bret Easton Ellis [19]
Tim and I are sitting in the main dining room at the Mauna Kea. The dining room has one wall that is open and I can hear the far-off sounds of waves breaking along the beach. A breeze enters the darkened room, the flame of the candle at our table flickering for a moment. The wind chimes hanging from beams below the ceiling whisper softly. The young Hawaiian boy at the piano on a small, semilit stage next to the dance floor plays “Mack the Knife” while two elderly couples dance awkwardly in the darkness. Tim tries, inconspicuously, to light a cigarette. A woman’s laughter drifts through the large dining room, leaving me, for some reason, clueless.
“Oh, Tim, don’t smoke,” I say, sipping my second Mai Tai.
“We’re in Hawaii for Christ sakes.”
Without saying a word or making any sign of protest, without even glancing at me, he puts the cigarette out in the ashtray, then folds his arms.
“Listen,” I begin, then, stuck, pause.
Tim looks at me. “Uh-huh. Go on.”
“Who”—my mind flops around, falls on something— “do you think is gonna win the Super Bowl this year?”
“I’m not too sure.” He starts to bite his nails.
“You think the Raiders will make it?”
“Raiders have a chance.” He shrugs, looks around the room.
“How’s school?” I ask.
“It’s great. School’s great,” he says, slowly losing his patience.
“How’s Graham?” I ask.
“Graham?” He stares at me.
“Yeah. Graham.”
“Who is Graham?”
“Don’t you have a friend named Graham?”
“No. I don’t.”
“Oh. I thought you did.” I take a large swallow of Mai Tai.
“Graham?” he asks, looking directly at me. “I don’t know anybody named Graham.”
I shrug this time, looking away. There are four fags sitting at the table across from us, one of them a well-known TV actor, and they are all drunk and two of them keep staring admiringly at Tim, who is oblivious. Tim recrosses his legs, bites at another nail.
“How’s your mother?” I ask.
“She’s great,” he says, his foot beginning to shake up and down so fast it’s blurry.
“And Darcy and Melanie?” I ask, grasping at anything. I’ve almost finished the Mai Tai.
“They get kind of irritating,” he says, looking behind me, in a monotone, his face a mask. “All they seem to do is drive down to Häagen-Dazs and flirt with this total geek who works there.”
I chuckle for a moment, unsure if I was supposed to. I get the waiter’s attention and order a third Mai Tai. The waiter brings it quickly and once he lays it down, our silence ends.
“Remember when we used to come here, during the summer?” I ask, trying to ingratiate myself with him.
“Kind of,” he says plainly.
“When was the last time we were all here together?” I wonder out loud.
“I don’t really remember,” he says without thinking.
“I think it was two years ago. In August?” I’m guessing.
“July,” he says.
“That’s right,” I say. “That’s right. It was the weekend of the Fourth.” I laugh. “Remember the time we all went scuba diving and your mother dropped the camera overboard?” I ask, still chuckling.
“All I remember are the fights,” he says dispassionately, staring at me. I stare back for as long as I can, then I have to turn away.
One of the fags whispers something to another fag and they both look over at Tim and laugh.
“Let’s go to the bar,” I suggest, signing the check the waiter must have set down when he brought the third Mai Tai.
“Whatever,” he says, getting up quickly.
I’m pretty drunk now and I’m weaving through a courtyard unevenly, Tim at my side. In the bar, an old Hawaiian woman dressed in a flowered robe, her neck thick with leis, plays “Hawaiian Wedding Song” on a ukelele.