T. Boyle - T.C. Boyle Stories II - Volume II

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The next thing he knew, the sun was going down. It balanced there on the flat cobalt palm of the ocean, trembling like the flame of a gas stove, till the water took hold of it and spread it across the surface in even, rippling strokes. The palms turned pink overhead. Birds — or were they bats? — hurled themselves from one shadow to another. Raymond was drunk, deeply, blissfully drunk, the original pair of twelve-packs transubstantiated into short-necked pints of wine, then into liters of Black Cat and finally wine again, out of the gallon jug. Somewhere along the line there had been food — Stagg chili, cold, straight from the can — and there was an interlude during which he sat by the fountain at the foot of the pier while Pal, tricked out in a little blue crepe doll’s dress Sky had dug out of the bottom of a Dumpster, danced and did backflips for the tourists. Now there was the beach, the deep-anchored palm against which he was resting his complicit spine, and the sun drowning itself in color.

The jug came to him, fat and heavy as a bowling ball, and he lifted it to his lips and drank, then passed it on to Sky, who lingered over it before passing it to a tall, mad-haired, slit-eyed guy named Dougie — or was it Droogie? Droogie, yeah. That was it. Like in that old movie, the Kubrick one, and why couldn’t he remember the name of it? Not that it mattered. Not really. Not anymore. All that — movies, books, the knowledge you could wield like a hammer — belonged to another world. Things were more immediate here, more elemental, like where you were going to relieve yourself without getting busted and where the next bottle was coming from.

During the afternoon, he’d spent a fruitful hour removing the left sleeve of his jacket, to give the thing proportion — to make it look as if it were a fashion statement instead of a disaster — but now, as the sun faded, he began to feel a chill at his back and wished he’d left it alone. There was still the problem of where he was going to sleep. It was one thing to sit around and pass a bottle in a circle of like-minded souls, the sun on your face and the sea breeze ruffling the hair at the back of your neck, and another thing altogether to wake up on the sidewalk like some terminal-stage loser with Swiss cheese for a brain.

Droogie — or maybe it was Dougie after all — was going on about the Chumash Casino, how he’d hit a thousand-dollar payoff on a slot machine there one night and booked himself into the bridal suite with a lady and a case of champagne and couldn’t find so much as a nickel in his pocket come morning. Another guy — beard, tattoos, one lens gone from his glasses so it looked as if his eye had been staved in — said that was nothing, he’d scored five g’s at Vegas one time, and then Sky cut in with a question for the group, which had grown to six now, including a woman about thirty who kept picking at the dirty yellow dress she wore over her jeans as if she were trying to break it down into its constituent fibers. Sky wanted to know if anybody felt like a nice pepperoni pizza — or maybe one of those thick-crust Hawaiian jobs, with the pineapple and ham?

Nobody said anything. The jug went round. Finally, from the echoing depths of his inner self, Raymond heard a voice saying, “Yeah, sure. I could go for it.”

“All right, my man,” Sky said, rising up from the cradle of his tree, “you are elected.”

It was all coming from very far off. Raymond didn’t know what was required, didn’t have a clue.

“Come on, man, let’s hump it. I said pizza. Didn’t you hear me? Pizza!”

Then they were making their way through the deep sand above tide line and into the parking lot with its shrouded cars and drifting trash, Pal clicking along behind them. The last pay phone in the world stood at the far end of the lot. Sky dropped two coins into it and gave him his instructions: “Be forceful, be a man who knows what he wants, with his feet up on the padded stool in his condo — and don’t slur. They’ll want a call-back number, but they never call back. Make one up. Or your girlfriend. Use your girlfriend’s number.”

Later, much later, when the fog had settled in like an amphibious skin stretched over everything and the driftwood fire had burned down to coals, Sky pushed himself up from the sand and stretched his arms out in front of him. “Well,” he said, “how about that pizza?” Raymond blinked up at him. The others had wandered off separately, ghosts dissolving in the mist, all except for the woman. At one point, Dougie had bent over her and tugged at her arm as if he were trying to tear a fistful of weeds up out of the ground, but she wasn’t giving an inch and they’d hissed at each other for what seemed like a week before Sky said, “Why don’t you just give it up already,” and Dougie stalked off into the mist. She was sitting beside Raymond now, her lips wet on the neck of the bottle, nothing but dregs and saliva left at this point. “I don’t know if I could eat,” she said.

“Everybody’s got to eat, right, Ray? Am I right?”

Raymond didn’t have an opinion. He wanted to go get another bottle before the stores closed, but his money was gone.

“I don’t know,” the woman said doubtfully.

But Sky roused them, and a moment later they were all three stumbling through the sand to the sidewalk and along the sidewalk to the boulevard, Pal leading the way with his tail thrust up like a banner. It was unnaturally quiet, everything held fast in the grip of the fog. Cars drifted silently by as if towed on a wire, one pulled along after the other, their headlights barely visible. There was a faint music playing somewhere, saxophone and drums, and it came to them in snatches as they walked in the deep shadow of a bank of condos thrown up for the convenience of the tourists. Raymond didn’t know what he was doing or where he was going, and he didn’t care, because Sky was there and Sky was in command. His feet hit the pavement and he tried to keep from lurching into the shrubs that bristled along the high stucco walls of the condos. At one point the woman bumped up against him and he put his arm out to steady her, and in that moment of casual intimacy, he mumbled something along the lines of “You know, I don’t even know what to call you.”

“Her name’s Knitsy,” Sky said over his shoulder. “Because her fingers are always knitting in the air — isn’t that right, Knitsy? I mean, knitting nothing, right?”

Her voice was breathy and shallow, with a sharp rural twang to it. “Sure,” she said, “that’s right.”

“And what’s that rhyme with — ditzy, right?”

“Sure, whatever.”

Raymond wanted to ask her about that, make a joke, but it would have been a cruel joke, and so he kept it to himself. Knitsy. Let her knit, and let the guy with the broken glasses stare out at the world like an ambassador with a pince-nez and let Sky lord it over everybody. What difference did it make? The world was nothing but cruelty and stupidity anyway. And he himself? He was drunk, very drunk. Too drunk to keep walking and too drunk to lie down.

They were away from the beach now, trailing down the alley behind Giulio’s Pizza Kitchen and the One-Stop Travel Shop. Sky motioned for silence, and they hung back in the shadows, whispering — hide-and-seek, that’s what it was, hide-and-seek — while Pal trotted across the pavement to reconnoiter the Dumpster. Reeling, watching the spots swell and explode before his eyes, Raymond felt Knitsy’s cold rough hand snake out and take hold of his own. His heart was thrumming. The fog sifted through the alley, etherized and unreal. Lit by the dull yellow glow of the streetlight on the corner, the dog might have been onstage somewhere, on TV, in a video, going through the repertoire of his tricks, and they watched as he sniffed and squirmed, prancing back and forth, till he finally went up on his hind legs and began to paw at the belly of the Dumpster. And then Sky was there, lifting the metal lid and retrieving the two large pies, still snug in their boxes, one decorated with pepperoni, the other with pineapple and ham.