Six Bad Things

of the Internet boom. He got money from somewhere to get a start-up rolling in Silicon Alley. Well, he was the flavor of the week again, and his company is a big fucking hit, and then the market folded. No criminal charges this time, but he disappears again, except for some gossip column shit about him. Stuff like, “Dylan Lane was MIA for fashion week, but several of his comrade investors were in attendance in hopes of giving a bear hug to the former dot-com darling.” And more of the same. Innuendo about him being a shady character, but no details. Any help?

I flop back on the bed.

– It explains why he talks like an asshole.

T spins the chair around to face me.

– So?

– What?

– What now?

– What now? I’m fucked, that’s what now. I don’t know how to find Tim. I can’t go to the cops without risking Mom and Dad. I don’t have anything to use to cut a deal with Dylan. I have a few days till Sunday to do something, and I don’t know what the fuck to do. You know this town. How do I find Tim?

T shrugs.

– Fucked if I know.

I stare at the ceiling. My heart is jumping and sweat is starting to break out all over my body. I know what this is. It’s panic. A scream has been living in my gut for years, and now it wants out. I don’t have any moves left to keep it down and the Xanax has worn off and it’s going to come out.

T sits next to me on the bed and puts a hand on my shoulder.

– You OK?

I shake my head side to side. The scream is in my chest now. Climbing.

He digs in his pocket and pulls out a pill.

– Here.

I look at it. I don’t want any more drugs. I want to feel this. I deserve to feel this. But I can’t afford to feel it right now. I can’t scream now. If I start now I’ll never stop. It’s in my throat.

T presses the pill against my lips.

– It’s Percocet. It’ll chill you out.

I remember the Percs my doctor gave me after my leg broke, the ones I shared with Wade and Rich and Steve. They killed the pain and made the world balloon off and bob at the end of a string.

I let the pill into my mouth and swallow. It chases the scream back down into my belly, and, almost instantly, long before it can possibly be taking effect, I feel better.

– I don’t know what to do, T.

He picks something up from the floor and hands it to me. It’s one of Tim’s pot boxes.

– I think I know someone who can help us.

T DRIVES us to the North Strip. We park the car, leave Hitler inside, and walk down Fremont Street. A few blocks of Fremont have been converted to a pedestrian mall and covered by a canopy about two stories high, its underside lined with lights. Christmas carols are blaring from a PA system as the lights flash, creating a variety of holiday-themed images that flicker across the canopy. A crowd of tourists fills the mall, their heads dropped back to gape at the spectacle as candy canes, Christmas trees, stockings, and Santa and his reindeer all twinkle overhead. T nudges me and points ahead.

– It gets better inside.

In front of us is a strip club; a huge neon cowgirl in white boots, a bikini, and a cowboy hat hangs above the door. A long line of cowboys waits underneath her to get in.

– No way, T.

He looks at me.

– What?

– We can’t go in there.

– Why not?

– Way too many people.

– So what? They’re all drunk and they’re all dressed like you.

– No.

He reaches inside his jacket, takes out a pair of big black Wayfarer sunglasses, and puts them on my face.

– There. Now you look even more like every other rube in town.

I take the sunglasses off and start to head back to the car. He grabs me.

– Look, man, this place is my office, right? I kick back to the house and they give me the franchise in there to deal speed to the strippers.

– So?

– I have the speed franchise. Someone else handles all the pot.

He shows me the little plastic box Tim’s pot came packaged in.

– And last time I checked, it came in these.

I put the sunglasses back on.

WE JUMP the line. The bouncer gives T a hug and we’re inside. On one side of the bar is a long runway with a pole every few feet. Each pole is being worked by a G-stringed former aerobics instructor who realized she could make ten times as much money by taking her clothes off. Screaming cowboys waving dollar bills in the air fill every square inch of floor space. On the other side of the bar is a row of smaller stages. Each has a single pole and a dancer. Banquettes line the walls, occupied by a rail of cowboys being lap danced in the shadows. At the back of the club is a separate room, Champagne Lounge spelled out in pink neon above the door. Flecks of red and green light spray from a Christmas-colored disco ball and bounce off the mirrored walls that have been flocked with fake snow. T puts his mouth next to my ear so I can hear him over the Divinyls’ “I Touch Myself.”

– Merry Christmas.

The bartender comes over, a woman with dark skin and a pile of curly black hair. She’s in a red tube top and jeans cut so low you can see her hipbones sticking up over the waistband. Anywhere else, she’d have all eyes locked on her. Here, she is seriously overdressed.

– Hey, T, what’s up?

T points at me.

– This guy’s my friend. Keep an eye on him, OK?

She shrugs.

– Sure.

T puts his mouth next to my ear again.

– You hang here, I’m gonna go set something up with the pot franchise.

He squeezes into the mob of denim. I turn back to the bar just as the bartender sets a beer in front of me.

– First one’s on me.

– Ya know, I don’t.

But she’s already gone to take care of the service bar.

I look at the beer.

The Percocet has smoothed the edges of the pain in my leg and ankle. The scream is still there, but has been drawn away into the distance where I can contemplate it without feeling it. I like this. I like feeling like this. Feeling so little.

I look around the club. When was the last time I was around so many people, all crammed together, music blaring, that smell of beer and sweat soaked into the floor and the upholstery? Years.

I look at the beer.

I slide my finger through the drops of condensation on its side.

Drinking this beer would be a bad idea.