Porsche, Jayne’s Range Rover and a motorcycle I’d just purchased with unexpected Swedish royalties. And, I just noticed, a miserable golden retriever that lay waiting for us in the corner, curled up against Robby’s bike. But Jay aroused so little interest that Victor barely looked up.
“Ignore that dog,” I told him.
“Ah yes, your intimacy problems with animals. I forgot.”
“Hey, I dated Patty O’Brien for three months.” And then: “Ready for a little
“Indeed.” Jay rubbed his hands together eagerly.
“I have brought us some very pure Bolivian Marching Powder,” I said, rummaging through my pockets.
“Ooh—the Devil’s Dandruff.”
I quickly located the stash and handed Jay a packet. He opened it, inspected the coke and then put it down on the hood of the Porsche and started rolling a twenty into a tight green straw.
After I did two huge bumps from my own gram I wanted to show off my new bike.
“Hey, Jayster—check it out. The Yamaha Y2F-RI. A hundred and fifty-two horsepower. Top speed: a hairsbreadth under a hundred and seventy miles per hour,” I purred.
“How much?”
“Only ten grand.”
“Well spent. What happened to the Ducati?”
“Had to sell it. Jayne thought it was giving Robby bad ideas. And my argument that the kid doesn’t care about anything proved totally useless.”
“Like father, like—”
“Start panting with eagerness and just do the fucking coke.”
Jay did a bump and then paused, grimacing. A moment passed.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Actually, this baking powder is cut with
“Oops, wrong stuff.” I took the heavily cut junk from Jay, refolded the packet and handed him a proper gram.
“Where’s your guy, your dealer?” he asked, still grimacing, licking his lips.
“Um, back at the college. Why?” I asked. “And please don’t take a dump in our garage.”
“So your refund for that shit is unlikely?” he asked, opening the fresh packet. “Suck-ah!”
“That crap’s for wastoids who can’t tell the difference—I just gave you the real stuff.”
“You’re so cheap,” he muttered. He did two bumps and flung his head back and then smiled slowly and said, “Now, that’s much better.”
“Anything for a bud.”
“So, really, how is married life?” he asked, lighting a Marlboro and easing into coke chat. “The wife, the kids, the posh suburbs?”
“Yeah, the tragedy’s complete, huh?” I laughed hollowly.
“No, really.” Jay seemed mildly interested.
“Marriage is great,” I said, opening my own packet again. “Unlimited sex. Laughs. Oh yeah, and continuous companionship. I think I’ve got this down to a science.”
“And the ubiquitous student in the bathroom?”
“Just part of the package here at Casa Ellis.” I did another bump and then bummed a cigarette.
“No, seriously—who is she?” he asked, lighting it. “I hear today’s college women are ‘prodigious.’ ”
“Prodigious? Is that really what you heard?”
“Well, I read it in a magazine. It was something I wanted to believe.”
“The Jayster. Always a dreamer.”
“I am so relieved. I knew the whole suburban scene was a great idea for you. By the way,” he said, gesturing at a plastic skeleton hanging from a rafter, “is this how the house normally looks?”
“Yeah, Jayne loves it.”
He paused. “And you’re still sleeping on the couch?”
“It’s a guest bedroom and it’s just a phase—but, wait, how did you know?”
He just inhaled on his cigarette, debating whether to tell me something.
“Jay?” I asked. “Why do you think I’m sleeping in the guest bedroom?”
“Helen told me that Jayne said something about you having bad dreams.”
Relieved to have an out, I said, “I’m not having any dreams at all.”
Jay’s expression led me to believe that this was not all he’d been told.
“Look, we’re in couples counseling,” I admitted. “It helps.”
Jay took this in. “You’re in couples counseling.” He considered this as I nodded. “After three months of marriage? That does not bode well, my friend.”
“Hey, earth to Jayster! We’ve known each other for almost twelve years, man. It’s not like we met last July and just decided to elope.” I paused. “And how in the hell did you know I’m sleeping in the guest room?”
“Um, Bretster, Jayne called up Helen.” He stopped, did another bump. “Just thought I’d warn you.”
“Oh, Jesus, why would Jayne call up your wife?” I tried to toss off this question casually but shuddered with coke-induced paranoia instead.
“She’s worried that you’re using again, and I guess”—Jay made a gesture—“she’s wrong . . . right?”
“Haven’t we outgrown all this tired irony? Weren’t we supposed to give up acting twenty-two forever?”
“Well, you’re wearing a marijuana T-shirt at your own Halloween party, where you just were making out with a coed in the bathroom, so the answer to that, my friend, is a definite nope.”
Suddenly the dog had enough and started barking for us to vacate the garage.
“On that note,” I said. “We’re heading back to the party.”
We reentered the labyrinth and weaving through the darkness I felt twitchy. The rooms seemed even more crowded than before, and outside people were swimming in the pool. Realizing that a lot of kids from the college had crashed I started worrying about what Jayne was making of all this. The hallways were so jammed that Jay and I had to walk through the kitchen to get to the living room for drinks and just then Joe Walsh’s familiar opening riffs to “Life’s Been Good” blasted me into a manic moment of air jamming. Jay looked suitably amused. The sweet aroma of pot began announcing itself in the living room. My heartbeat had doubled because of the cocaine, and I had acquired a new crystalline focus and wanted everyone to be friends. That’s when I noticed Robby wandering around in a Kid Rock T-shirt and baggy jeans so I grabbed him roughly by the neck and pulled him toward us. “I bet it took a lot outta you, huh? Coming down all them stairs?” Robby shrugged, and I introduced him to Jay and then handed them both margaritas, which Robby took so reluctantly that I had to playfully smack him around, urging him to drink it. Robby and Jay started having the kind of inane conversations eleven-year-olds have with people approaching fifty. Robby had taken his usual stance when talking to an adult: You mean nothing to me. I noticed he was gripping a baseball designed to look like the moon.
And then more tugging on my guitar: Sarah again.
I rolled my eyes and muttered a curse under my breath. I looked down and sighed: she was wearing tiny white hot pants.
“These are the kids,” I told Jay, gesturing at Robby and Sarah. “Her look is glam, and pink is very in on six- year-olds this season. Robby’s wearing white hip-hop and is now officially a tween.”
“A tween?” Jay asked, then leaned toward me and whispered, “Wait, that’s not like a gay thing, is it?”
“No, it’s a tween,” I explained. “You know, someone who isn’t a child or a teenager.”
“Jesus,” Jay muttered. “They’ve thought of everything, haven’t they?”
Our conversation had not deterred Sarah.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, sweetie? Why aren’t you up in bed? Where’s Marta?”
“Terby’s still mad.”
“Well, who’s Terby mad at?”
“Terby scratched me.” She held out her arm, and I squinted in the purple darkness but couldn’t see anything. This was exasperating.
“Robby—take your sister back upstairs. You know she needs her usual twelve hours and it’s getting late. It is
