The Informers - Bret Easton Ellis [39]
“Don’t crack up,” William says. “Don’t go to pieces.”
“Everything’s wrecked.”
William gets up from the couch, puts his glass of papaya juice down and carefully walks over to me. He puts a hand on my shoulder, kisses my neck, touches a breast, almost knocking my glass over. I move away to the other side of the room, wiping my face.
“It’s surprising to see you like this,” I manage to say.
“Why?” William asks from across the room.
“Because you’ve never felt anything for anybody.”
“That isn’t true,” he says. “What about you?”
“You were never there. You were never there.” I stop. “You were never … alive.”
“I was … alive,” he says feebly. “Alive?”
“No, you weren’t,” I say. “You know what I mean.”
“What was I, then?” he asks.
“You were just”—I pause, look out over the expanse of white carpet into a massive white kitchen, white chairs on a gleaming tiled floor—“not dead.”
“And, uh, this person you’re with is?” he asks, an edge in his voice.
“I don’t know. He’s”—I stammer—“nice. Nice. Good for me.”
“He’s ‘good’ for you? What is he? A vitamin? What does that mean? He’s good in bed or what?” William raises his arms.
“He can be,” I mutter.
“Well, if you met me when I was fifteen—”
“Nineteen,” I say, cutting him off.
“Jesus Christ, nineteen,” he spits out.
I head for the door, leaving a not unfamiliar scene, and I turn back, once, to look at William and feel a pang of reluctance, which I don’t want to feel. I’m imagining Danny, waiting in a bedroom for me, dialing a phone, calling someone, a phantom. Back at my house, the television is on and so is the Betamax. The bed is unmade. A note on top of it reads, “Sorry—I’ll see you around. Sheldon called and said he had good news. Set the timer for 11 so the show shoud be taped. I’m sorry. So long. P.S. Biff thinks you’re hot,” and below that Biff’s phone numbers. The bag of clothes he kept by the bed is gone. Rewinding the tape, I lie down and watch the eleven o’clock edition.
7
DISCOVERING JAPAN
Heading straight into darkness, staring out the window of a plane at a starless black canvas beyond the window, placing a hand to a window that’s so cold it numbs my fingertips and staring at my hand, I withdraw my hand slowly from the window and Roger makes his way down the darkened aisle.
“Set your watch ahead, man,” Roger says.
“What, man?” I ask.
“Set your watch ahead. There’s a time difference. We’re landing in Tokyo.” Roger stares at me, his smile slipping.
“Tokyo in, um, Japan, okay?” No response, and Roger runs his hand through short blond hair until he’s fingering a ponytail in back, sighing.
“But I … can’t … see … anything, man,” I tell him, slowly pointing to the darkened window.
“That’s because you’re wearing sunglasses, man,” Roger says.
“No, that’s not … it. It’s … real”—I think of the right word— “um … dark,” and then, “… man.”
Roger looks at me for a minute.
“Well, that’s because the windows are, um, tinted,” Roger says carefully. “The windows on this plane are tinted, okay?”
I don’t say anything.
“Do you want some Valium, a ’lude, some gum, what?” Roger offers.
I shake my head, answer, “No … I might OD.”
Roger slowly turns around, makes his way up the aisle toward the front of the jet. Pressing my fingertips, still cold from the window, to my forehead causes my eyes to shut tightly.
Naked, waking up bathed in sweat, on a large bed in a suite in the penthouse of the Tokyo Hilton, sheets rumpled on the floor, a young girl nude and sleeping by my side, her head cradled by my arm, which is numb, and it surprises me how much effort it takes to lift it, finally, my elbow brushing carelessly over the girl’s face. Clumps of Kleenex that I made her eat, stuck to the sides of her cheeks, her chin, dry, fall off. Turning over, away from the girl, is a boy, sixteen, seventeen, maybe younger, Oriental, nude, on the other side of the bed, arms dangling off the edge, the smooth beige lower back covered with fresh red welts. I reach for a phone by the nightstand but there is no nightstand and the phone is on the floor, disconnected, on top