Chapter Eight - Tyler
When I get home, I try to process what just happened.
Let me go through this for a tick.
I show up at a strip club.
I see an angel I’ve been having dreams about riding the pole.
I go into a private room with her.
She tells me not to touch her.
Hours go by, she sucks my cock until I blow in her mouth, I pay out like seven large, and then she kind of talks shit about me and sends me on my way.
It is entirely possible that my life is a little out of balance.
The rest of the week is kinda hazy.
Every time I close my eyes, flashes of her skin against mine, her hands touching me, the feel of her pussy against my fingertips, all come charging in. Which is kind of fucking me up. Because I don’t usually do that—have what are basically fantasies about something that’s already happened. But this, with her—I dunno. I can’t shake it.
So I start taking a Klonopin and chasing it with a shot (or five) of whiskey. (Dr. Eldridge, my shrink, gave me the Klonopin. She said I should take it for anxiety. She didn’t say I should take it with the whiskey, but in my experience mixing any two drugs is usually a pretty good method for relaxation.) And that cocktail helps me sleep. But when I fall asleep, I have THE DREAM. And so then I wake up, sweating. Shaking. And I have to take another Klonopin with a whiskey chaser to calm the fuck down.
The whole thing is super sexy.
I order food. I watch TV. I fuck around on the internet. I find myself Googling random shit like, “Scarlett Pete’s Strip Club Vegas.” You know. Random.
And days go by.
At some point it looks like I punched the wall? I think? Someone did. Because there’s a hole. I wander over to it and place my fist inside. Yep. Musta been me. Perfect fit. Besides, no one else has been here. Have they?
I wander around my place to see if I can find evidence of anyone else having been here. I stare out the window. I think about leaving. I don’t. I ignore the phone. I take anti-anxiety medication. I sleep. I DREAM. I wake up. It starts again.
And days go by.
I should leave. Go out. Fuck some chick. Or two. I don’t wanna. Is that weird? That seems weird. Somehow I know though that if I leave I’ll just drive to that strip club and see if she’s there. And I don’t wanna do that. Or I do, but I’m not gonna. And…
Fuck! What was that? Did someone fire a gun somewhere? No? Sounded like someone fired a gun. Fuck. OK. It wasn’t? Shit. My heart is fucking beating again. Goddamn.
I take a Klonopin. I’m not sure how many I’m supposed to take, but they seem to be helping. Maybe? A little? I dunno. I take a second Klonopin. I chase it with whiskey. I order more food. I think about going to the strip club. I don’t go to the strip club.
I try to sleep. I DREAM. I wake up. And…
Ha!
It is entirely possible that my life is a little out of balance.
But fuck it. I take a K-pin (I don’t know if people call ’em that, but I do) and a chaser.
I sleep.
Maybe I’ll get lucky.
And I won’t wake up.
And I won’t wake up.
And I don’t wake up.
And I don’t wake up.
And I…
Holy shit.
I sleep.
“Oh, my God, what the fuck, dude?”
I wake up. Fuck me.
I have woken up with strangers in my bed a thousand times, but very rarely are they fully dressed men eating a Pop Tart.
“Hey,” says Evan. He’s sitting on the foot of my mattress. (The Pop Tart is Brown Sugar Cinnamon. They’re our favorite. Since we were kids.)
“What the fuck are you doing in my apartment? What’s happening? What time is it? Is everything OK? What the…? Who…? What the fuck, dude?”
At least I’m pretty sure those are the questions I ask. I’m not entirely sure what I say, if I’m being honest. It’s possible I’m having another weird fucking dream. Goddamn Klonopin. Anti-anxiety, my ass.
“Y’know,” he says, standing up, “it takes a lot of balls to ignore my calls and texts for a fuckin’ week and then ask me ‘what the fuck.’ Also, you’re out of Pop Tarts. See ya.”
He throws the foil wrapper on the bed and crumbs spill everywhere. He starts walking out of my bedroom and towards the front door.
“What?” I ask, jumping out of bed to follow. “What are you saying? How did you get in? Where are you going?”
I come up behind him and put my hand on his shoulder to turn him around. Those eyes. I have no idea what his expression is. My guess would be… No. I got nothing.
He counts off his answers to my questions by holding up a finger as he responds to each. “I’m saying, fuck you for making me worry all week. I got in with the key card you gave me, and fuck you for making me worry all week. And I’m going to work because you’re clearly OK and apparently just being a cunt, so fuck you for making me worry all week.”
He starts off again. I stop him again.
“Wait. Wait. I’m… really fucking confused. What day is it?”
He steps back, closes his eyes slowly. Opens them again. Breathes in. Sighs out.
“It’s Friday, but…” He looks me up and down. “But man, I can’t talk to you until you put some clothes on.”
Oh, right. I’m naked. It’s possible I’ve been naked for a few days. The whole thing feels very Apocalypse Now all of a sudden. “OK,” I say, “just hold on. All right? Just hang here for a sec.”
He acquiesces. Nods. As I’m going to put on some pants and a shirt he calls out, “Nice dick, by the way!”
The coffee tastes extra bitter as we sit around my kitchen island and I try to explain what I’ve been doing all week. “… and then somebody punched a hole in my wall, I guess. It’s possible it was me.” I sip the coffee. Evan looks through me, his eyes blacker than the liquid in my cup.
“So this girl. This dancer…”
“Scarlett.”
“Sure… So you and Johansson got freaky, you fell in love, and then when you remembered it was just a business transaction, you… lost your fucking mind? Is that more or less what I’m hearing?” He arches an eyebrow. He can arch both. This time it’s the right one.
“I dunno what you’re hearing, bro. I barely know what the fuck I’m saying.”
There’s a long pause. I sip my coffee. It’s not very good. Then…
“What are you going to do?” That’s Evan.
“About what?” That’s me.
“With the rest of your life, man?”
I take a beat. Then I answer as honestly as I can: “Dunno. If I’m lucky, I may not have to worry about it much longer.”
Evan closes his eyes. He kind of laughs a little. Which I appreciate. I’m funny as fuck. Everybody says so.
“Why did you come home?” It’s weird that he’s never asked me in all these months.
“Where else am I gonna go?”
“You never have to worry about money again. You could go anywhere. You could travel the world—”
“Seen it.” I cut him off. He bows his head and raises his hands.
“Fair enough. But, just, I dunno, man. I love you and I’m glad you’re here—if for no other reason than so that I can keep a fuckin’ eye on you, but…“ He smiles. I smile a little too. Son of a bitch actually means it.
I take a breath. “I dunno, dude. I mean, I kind of do. I’ve tried to, y’know, do good. Y’know? With my life. I really have. But everything and everyone I try to help or get close to just gets blown the fuck to smithereens. No pun intended.”
Evan smiles. I did intend it a little.
I go on, “So whatever. It seems like I just wind up fucking up everything I come near, so rather than go someplace new and leave a smoldering heap of wreckage in my wake, I thought, ‘Well, it’s Vegas, I know it, it’s already a churning cesspool of sin anyway, what’s the worst I can do?’ I mean… this is where I’m from. This place made me. So I feel like it’s the one place that might actually be able to stand up to the battering ram of catastrophe that is Tyler Morgan.”
It feels a little weird to use my inside-my-head voice on the outside in such a vocal way, but shit, it’s Evan.
After a moment he says, “I’m still here.”
“Dude—” I start.
“No, no. You say you’re this amazing force of nature. You blow up everything and everyone you come near. Well… You haven’t blown me up. I’m still here.”
“Whatever. You’re sturdy.” I pause now, debating whether or not I want to say the next thing we both know is coming. “Scotty wasn’t.” (I decide I do want to say it.)
And then Evan stares at me for what feels like five minutes even though it’s probably five seconds.
And finally he says, “Scotty wasn’t your fault.”
And that’s it. That’s all he says. Which is both annoying and perfect. Just like Evan. He stands to leave. This time I let him go.
“OK. I gotta get to work. I’ll call later. Pick up. Or don’t. Do you, bro.”
He pats me on the shoulder. Crosses to the door.
“Hey,” he says, “I know you’re done helping people and are just here to set the town on fire and watch it burn or whatever, but we’re doing the Haunted Firehouse fundraiser thing for Halloween. If you feel like coming by, that’d be cool. There’ll be kids and stuff. You can teach ’em how to… I dunno… be an asshole.”
“Halloween?” I ask.
“I know,” he says. “I know. It’s his Yahrzeit. That’s why you should come.”
“Fuck’s a Yahrzeit?”
“It’s Hebrew. Just means the anniversary of someone’s passing.”
“The Jews have a word for everything.”
“We’re chosen for a reason,” he says. “You’ll come?”
“I’ll think about it,” I say. And then, “Hey. Ev…?” I start.
“Yeah?” He turns around.
There’s a lot I want to say. I want to say, ‘Thank you.’ I want to say ‘I love you, bro.’ I want to say, ‘Dude, I’m fucking scared.’ But instead what comes out is, “Do you really think I have a nice dick?”
He drops his head and smiles. Then, “See you later. If you come next week, you should bring the stripper with you. There’s a big pole in the middle of the room. She’ll feel right at home. Peace.”
He winks at me, closes the door, and I take another sip of bitter coffee.