I mean, that’s what they say, right?
One day at a goddamn time.
Hell, one fucking second at a time.
It’s Tuesday morning.
Six fifty-five and I-don’t-know-how-many seconds.
All I’ve gotta do is get out of bed.
So I do.
I mean, I sit up, the sheets and blankets falling down around my waist.
My roommate David, who sleeps directly across from me, must’ve gone to the gym or something, ’cause he’s not in his bed. Fucker must’ve been the one who turned off the heat, ’cause I definitely switched it on in the middle of the night, and now it’s freezing.
I mean, goddamn.
I can barely get my clothes on, I’m shivering so bad.
Plus, like I said, basically the only pants I have are a bunch of my soon-to-be ex-girlfriend’s tiny fucking bell-bottoms.
Struggling to get into them is a bitch, but since I’ve dropped, like, fifteen pounds in the last six months, it’s not as bad as it could be.
I swear my body’s been practically eating away at itself—little by little—day by day.
Back when I was sober, man, I’d basically killed myself with exercise.
I mean, every day.
Training for races and triathlons—obsessively biking, swimming, and running.
I was strong, really strong.
To look at me now, I mean, you’d never even know it.
I can’t walk up the hill to the smoke pit without feeling like I’m gonna puke.
I’m pale, white, and sickly.
My arms are scarred to shit.
My skin’s all broken out.
My bones are jagged—protruding sharply down my spine and hips and shoulders.
Anyway, at least this way I can fit into these tight fucking jeans.
So that’s something.
But besides these bell-bottoms, pretty much all the clothes I have with me are Zelda’s—or her famous ex-husband’s—or were given to me by her.
The long-sleeve T-shirt I wear.
The fringed tapestry jacket that looks like a converted throw rug, or something Neil Young might’ve worn on an old album cover.
The Rod Laver Adidas she bought me ’cause she hated my old shoes.
The knit hat she gave me—made by her cousin.
The thick, boxy silver ring from her collection—a symbol of our engagement—worn on my left ring finger, of course.
I put a burned CD into my Discman and secure the headphones.
It’s one of hers. The title is spelled out almost illegibly in her scratchy handwriting, the black Sharpie smudged in places. If I Could Only Remember My Name. David Crosby.
I press Play—walk out into the still, frozen morning.
My breath catches.
I pull the thin jacket tighter around my broken frame.
Coffee and a cigarette—some toast and jam, maybe.
I’ll meet with Melonie—tell her it’s over, that I’m ready to move on.
Stupid cow.
She’ll be so pleased with herself, taking full credit for my sudden transformation—a result of her profound insight—her expert counseling skills—her intricate knowledge of the human psyche—her brilliance—whatever.
I mean, fuck it.
I don’t mind giving her that satisfaction.
’Cause I do need to move on.
It’s the only choice I’ve got.
The song plays loud in my ears.
It’s called “Music Is Love.”
I walk over to the main lodge.
The fire burns hot—light flickering—shadows playing violently across the chairs and tables.
I keep my head down—pour the weak Folgers coffee into a small porcelain cup—add vanilla creamer—stir.
I grab a pack of cinnamon bread, putting a couple of slices in the pop-up toaster, and then start heading out the side door to go smoke.
Jonathan actually bought me a carton of cigarettes when he went out on pass—a carton of my brand—so that was super amazing of him.
I push open the heavy wooden door.
But then a voice calls out, “Hey.”
I turn.
They say self-hatred is a form of narcissism—and obviously Melonie would call me a narcissist—so of course I assume the “hey” is directed at me.
Surprisingly, this time it actually is.
That new girl—Sue Ellen, right?—is sitting up close to the fire, reading the New York Times Arts and Leisure section—obviously.
She’s wearing these kinda deco cat-eye glasses and a striped wool hat.
Her hair is dark and tangled-looking. Her neck cranes back, long and elegant.
I point to myself stupidly.
“Me?”
She laughs.
“Yeah, you. Where’re you from? You look familiar to me.”
I rub some of the sleep out of the corner of my eye.
“I don’t know, uh, LA. I grew up in San Francisco. What about you?”
She cocks her head.
“Charleston, South Carolina, but I’ve been to San Francisco. What’s your name?”
I tell her, but she still can’t seem to place me.
“Huh, weird, I swear you look familiar.”
“Well,” I say, “my mom’s from the South. But, uh, I’ve never been down there. I always figured I’d get lynched or something.”
She sits up real suddenly.
“You know, not everyone in the South is a conservative bigot. And it seems pretty ironic that most Northern liberals I know are just as closed-minded about the South as they always claim we are toward the rest of the world.”
I scratch at the back of my head, kinda just studying her for a minute, watching her heavy eyelids fluttering anxiously, thinking she really is quite beautiful. Her features are delicate—gaunt cheekbones and thick, flushed lips. She hides behind her hair like I do. Her skin is pale, pale white. Her long, slender hands fidget constantly—fingernails bitten down, scabbed and bloody.
My eyes dart up at the bland yellow paint on the walls.
“Okay, okay,” I tell her. “Point taken. Anyway, it’s too early for this shit. I gotta go smoke.”
She jumps up from her seat suddenly, grabbing up her newspaper and things.
“I’ll come with you. And by the way, you got cool style. I’ve been wanting to tell you that.”
I push the door open, holding it while she walks past—inhaling the smell of her.
A feeling of sexuality comes over my body.
My eyes close and open.
I laugh out loud suddenly.
I mean, it’s all so ridiculous—everything spinning around and around and around again.
She walks with her body pressed close to mine.
She asks me, “What are you laughing at?”
And I say, “Nothing.”
Ch.5
When Melonie sees me, she sure as hell ain’t smiling.
She stares very deliberately into my eyes, but I look away, saying something stupid like, “Man, I’m so sorry I’m late.”
She makes a sort of
