Down in the Zero

'School for you?'

'Yeah, I guess. College. If I go.'

'Yeah. Well, look, I can't stay that long. Just sitting around here, understand?'

'You said…'

'I said I'd come up here, and I did. Hang out with you a while, and I will. But I don't know where to go with all this. You're not doing any work.'

'Work?'

'Yeah, kid, work. You said you were scared of something— I still don't know what that is.'

'Neither do I…exactly.'

'Your friends died, right?'

'Yes.'

'And you said you thought it could happen to you, right?'

'Yes.'

'And that's it? That's all you fucking know?'

'I…'

'Look, either you know more than you're telling, or you don't know enough. Either get off it, or get on it. Otherwise, I get on out of here, you're gonna be the same as before I came, see?'

'Yeah.' Sulky now. Sullen. I left him that way.

Darkness drops softer in the suburbs— I couldn't feel it coming the way I do in the city. I changed my clothes, walked over to the main house. The kid was sprawled on the floor in front of the big–screen TV in the living room, smoking a joint, flicking the remote rapid–fire, getting off on the images.

I sat down on the couch, pulled the remote out of his hands— it was making me dizzy. The screen image stabilized. CNN. Some twerp was talking. He had an Opie face, but his eyes were weaselly little beads. I hit the volume toggle, listening to the twerp squeak about family values. Lousy little Senator's Son. I had his family, I'd be all for family values too— wasn't for his family, he'd be kissing ass to be assistant manager at McDonald's.

The kid giggled. It wasn't a political statement— he was halfway stoned, blissing.

'Let's go for a ride,' I told him. 'You can show me the sights.'

We walked out to the garage. He started to climb into the Miata. I shook my head. The keys were in the Lexus. I got behind the wheel, fired it up. He got in the passenger side, cranked the seat way back so he was almost reclining.

I backed out, pointed the car's nose toward the street, hit the gas and pulled away. The beige car handled like graphite— quiet and slick.

'Which way?' I asked him.

'To where?'

'Wherever you all hang out.'

He made some vague gesture with his left hand. I turned left at the corner, tracking. The kid turned on the stereo. Too loud. I found the knob, dropped it down. I kept driving, following his hand waves every time there was a corner–choice.

The town wasn't much— a long, wide street with little shops. Service stops for the locals, atmospheric joints for the summer people. The street had no pulse.

When we hit the water, I turned right, following a winding road. Seafood restaurants, couple of one–story tavern–types, some smaller office buildings.

A squad car came toward us at a leisurely speed, too fast for prowling but not in a hurry. The kid toked on his joint, unconcerned.

'What's in there?' I asked him. We were rolling past a freestanding building with a big parking lot full of cars, some of them covered with college–age kids. It looked like an upper–class version of a drive–in hamburger joint.

'The Blue Bottle. A nightclub, like.'

'You ever go there?'

'Sometimes. It's not really down.'

'Where do you hang out, then?'

'Houses, man. In the houses. If you know the circuit, it's always party time.'

In the morning, there was a fat housefly buzzing around on the inside of my window screen. I found a plastic squeeze bottle with a spray top— the kind you use to mist houseplants— and filled it from the tap. I gently misted the fly until it stopped moving. Then I picked it up carefully, opened the window, put it outside on the ledge. I watched, smoking a cigarette. Finally, it shook itself and took off. You can't drown a fly.

I dragged deep on the smoke, playing it in my head. Burke, he wouldn't hurt a fly.

Just kill a kid once in a while.

I got dressed slowly. Last night had been a waste. Driving around, looking at not much of anything. The kid