Crashed

“A drugged fuckup is a happy fuckup.”

“You weren’t a fuckup,” I said. “You were brilliant. I’ve watched you.”

“That wasn’t me,” she said, putting her feet back on the dash. “That was never me, until the end, when it wasn’t any good any more. That was me. Before, when it was good? The first three or four years? That was Thistle. That was the adorable, irreplaceable Thistle.” She looked out the window again. “The little bitch.”

22

Knife through butter

After that announcement, we sat more or less in silence for another twenty minutes as she rode out the ups and downs of her high. During one of the peaks, she asked a couple of questions about the books I was reading, and I told her a little about my approach to education.

She thought about it for a moment and then said, “Jeez.”

“I saw your journals,” I said. “A lot of them. When I was getting some clothes for you. What do you write about?”

“It’s not really writing,” she said. “It’s circling the drain. It’s one long enormous spiral going down, down, down, and I’m following it around and in, closer to the center, and down, closer to the hole.”

“And what’s the hole?”

“My soul.” She laughed. “Isn’t that dramatic?”

“I guess,” I said. “It’s not very good, but it’s dramatic.”

“It’s not that bad,” she said. “It’s better than that thing I said about what they make girls do for dope. Why’s he stopping?” Thistle pointed at Doc’s car. He had made the turn into the studio driveway and come to a sudden halt. Then he opened the door and climbed out, limping toward us as fast as he could. He got to my window, his face red, and said, “Turn around. Back up. Get her out of here.”

And then from behind him, around the corner, a crowd of people hurtled toward us: mostly drab folks carrying things, and here and there a few members of the on-camera “talent” pool, people with bright clothes, streaked hair, and orange faces.

Thistle said, “Oh, no.” She kicked the dash. “Go, go, go, go.”

And then Doc was elbowed out of the way and people had surrounded the car, hammering on the windows and holding up cameras and shouting questions. There seemed to be only one word: spoken, called, shouted, over and over again by the crowd: “Thistle, Thistle, Thistle,” and every now and then, “Over here, Thistle. Take off the glasses, Thistle. Over here, Thistle.” A blond woman wearing makeup the color of a tequila sunrise slammed a fist on Thistle’s window and said repeatedly, as though it were the modern equivalent of open sesame, “Entertainment World News, Entertainment World News.”

Thistle put both hands over her face, grabbed a breath, and started to scream, a sound high enough and sharp enough to slice a hole in the roof of the car.

“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t give them what they want.” I reached over and put a hand on her arm gently, as flash cameras went off like fireworks. She was shaking violently. I pinched her to get her attention. “You can ruin their day,” I said. “Screw up their pictures. Don’t let them affect you.”

She shook her head, fast, “You don’t know what you’re-”

“They want to see you fuck up. That’s why they’re here. Don’t fuck up. You just behave better than they do. It’s easy. They’ll hate it.”

She went still. “How?”

“Outclass them. Class bewilders the hell out of them.”

“Outclass-”

“You have more class when you’re asleep than these people will have on their wedding day.”

“I have-”

“These people are liver flukes. They’re tapeworms. They have no talent whatsoever. They come at the smell of blood and drink some and then they go back to the studio and spit it up on camera. Are you telling me you can’t outclass this bunch?”

She pulled away the hand over the side of her face closest to me and looked at me, one-eyed. “Take care of me?” she asked.

“I will.”

“Promise? Absolutely promise?” Her teeth were clenched. “If you break it you’ll die?”

“Promise. Now take your hands away from your face and sit back. Relax your face. Don’t look at them. Don’t take off your sunglasses. Don’t even look like you’re listening to me. Don’t give them anything to photograph. They don’t exist. Do you hear me?”

“They’re not here,” she said, putting her hands in her lap again, like a little girl about to receive communion.

“We’re out in the middle of the desert. You don’t see anybody, you don’t hear anybody.”

“You’re sure you haven’t got any pills.”

“Completely sure.” I looked up and saw Eduardo and three of Trey’s black-suited threateners shoving their way toward us, literally picking people up, moving them, and putting them down elsewhere. They were almost to the car. I signaled them over to the driver’s side.

“Slide over here,” I said to Thistle. “These guys are going to bull their way through this, with us behind. You get out with me and stay right next to me. Tight, okay? I’m going to have my arm around you all the way. Don’t look down, like you’re hiding your face. Don’t look at them. Don’t say anything, don’t react, no matter what they say. Just walk with me, head up, face front, with the shades on. Got it?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not sure I can-”

“You can. We can. Come on, I’m a cave man. I can get you through this bunch of city softies. Look at them. They wouldn’t even know how to go to the bathroom outdoors. They’d wipe themselves on poison oak. They’re afraid of bugs. We’ll cut through them like butter.”

“Like b-butter,” she said, stammering slightly. Her lower lip was trembling, and I saw that the hands in her lap were knotted.

“Good. Come on, get over here.”

She slid across the seat, lifting her legs for the console, until she was sitting thigh to thigh with me. The woman with the orange face was fighting her way around the front of the car, her eyes fierce and her teeth bared, as big and white as Chiclets. She was following her cameraman, who was swinging his expensive camera to clear a path.

Eduardo was at the door. He looked at me, eyebrows raised. I held up one finger.

“This is it,” I said to Thistle. “You and me, okay?”

“Okay.” She grabbed a breath and gave me something that was trying to be a smile. “Okay.”

“Here we go.” I nodded at Eduardo and opened the door. The crowd surged forward, but Eduardo and the other three guys formed a semicircle and pushed everyone back so I could get the door all the way open. There was an explosion of noise and a barrage of flashes. Thistle and I slid off the seat and into a standing position beside the car, and Eduardo’s crew started forcing their way through the throng with us practically hanging onto their belts. I had an arm around Thistle’s shoulder, and she was clutching my shirt with both hands.

“Over here, Thistle!”

“Thistle, give me a smile.”

“What about the drugs, Thistle?”

“Is it true you’re broke?”

“Thistle, look, I’ve got some dope.”