Richard Lange - Sweet Nothing

They dragged themselves out to the car as soon as the sun bubbled red on the horizon and turned back toward L.A. Tony was still up from the night before. He sold them some shit, and they fixed right then and there, marveling at how fine they suddenly felt. They never discussed the trip as a failure, only joked about what fools they’d been for thinking they could go cold turkey. Vague plans were floated to try to kick again in a month or so, this time with some Xanax or Klonopin to help with the withdrawals, but they always found some reason to put it off.

AWW, DAMN, HERE they come up the drive: Doc’s agent, Doc’s manager, and Doc’s little brother, to serve as muscle. “Shoot me up quick,” Doc demands, thrusting out his arm. Campbell ignores him, more worried about gathering his belongings before he gets the bum’s rush. He’s hurrying up the stairs when they come through the door. Doc yells at them to keep the fuck away and let him be, but Campbell can hear in his voice that he’s ready to get off the roller coaster. Doc’s brother busts in on Campbell as he’s stuffing his clothes into his backpack. “If you’re not out of here in two minutes, I’m calling the cops,” the brother says. When Campbell walks past him, he shoves Campbell toward the stairs, almost knocking him down. “Touch me again, and I’ll sue,” Campbell says. “You’re not suing anybody, you fucking loser,” the brother scoffs. Doc is sitting on the sofa between his manager and his agent. He’s crying like a scared little boy, and his manager is stroking his hair and telling him everything will be fine. His brother stays on Campbell’s tail all the way out to the driveway. Campbell hops into his car and wills it to start on the first try. The rear window shatters as he reaches the street, making him flinch and slam on the brakes. Doc’s brother drops the other rock he’s holding and dares Campbell to make something of it. That very evening Campbell trades the fancy sunglasses for fifty dollars’ worth of junk.

MARYROSE DIES ON Wednesday, and a year — a year! — later Campbell marks the anniversary by returning to Echo Park, which he’s been avoiding since her passing. He’s a month sober, going to meetings, but struggles every day. Martin quit too, Tony’s in jail, and Doc did a very public stint in rehab and emerged a hero. Campbell tosses some potato chips to the ducks, but not one of them has the energy to climb out of the water and waddle up the bank to get them. It’s the third day of a heat wave, and the sun is showing everyone who’s boss. Grass crumbles underfoot, palms hiss overhead, and the forsaken stand in the shadows of telephone poles, waiting for buses that are always late.

Maryrose claimed that the first time she did dope was the first time in her life she felt normal. “Why do you think it’s called a fix?” she said. Campbell didn’t argue; he just liked to see her smile. They’d come down to this bench, eat paletas, and make up songs about the people passing by. She’d laugh herself silly crooning about a fat kid kicking a soccer ball, then collapse breathless into his arms. And that’s when he felt normal for the first time. But who’s going to believe that? Who even wants to hear it? Better to keep those memories to himself, to guard them like a treasure against time, the goddamn drip, drip, drip of days that would wash them away.

IF I HAD MONEY, I’d go to Mexico. Not Tijuana or Ensenada, but farther down, real Mexico. Get my ass out of L.A. There was this guy in the army, Marcos, who was from a little town on the coast called Mazunte. He said you could live pretty good there for practically nothing. Tacos were fifty cents, beers a buck.

“How do they feel about black folks?” I asked him.

“They don’t care about anything but the color of your money,” he said.

I already know how to speak enough Spanish to get by, how to ask for things and order food. Por favor and muchas gracias . The numbers to a hundred.

THE CHINESE FAMILY across the hall are always cooking in their room. I told Papa-san to cut it out, but he just stood there nodding and smiling with his little boy and little girl wrapped around his legs. The next day I saw Mama-san coming up the stairs with another bag of groceries, and this morning the whole floor smells like deep-fried fish heads again. I’m not an unreasonable man. I ignore that there are four of them living in a room meant for two, and I put up with the kids playing in the hall when I’m trying to sleep, but I’m not going to let them torch the building.

I pull on some pants and head downstairs. The elevator is broken, so it’s four flights on foot. The elevator’s always broken, or the toilet, or the sink. Roaches like you wouldn’t believe too. The hotel was built in 1928, and nobody’s done anything to it since. Why should they? There’s just a bunch of poor people living here, Chinamen and wetbacks, dope fiends and drunks. Hell, I’m sure the men with the money are on their knees every night praying this heap falls down so they can collect on the insurance and put up something new.

The first person I see when I hit the lobby — the first person who sees me —is Alan. I call him Youngblood. He’s the boy who sweeps the floors and hoses off the sidewalk.

“Hey, B, morning, B,” he says, bouncing off the couch and coming at me. “Gimme a dollar, man. I’m hungry as a motherfucker.”

I raise my hand to shut him up, walk right past him. I don’t have time for his hustle today.

“They’re cooking up there again,” I say to the man at the desk, yell at him through the bulletproof glass. He’s Chinese too, and every month so are more of the tenants. I know what’s going on, don’t think I don’t.

“Okay, I talk to them,” the man says, barely looking up from his phone.

“It’s a safety hazard,” I say.

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” he says.

“Yeah, yeah, okay to you,” I say. “Next time I’m calling the fire department.”

Youngblood is waiting for me when I finish. He’s so skinny he uses one hand to hold up his jeans when he walks. Got lint in his hair, boogers in the corners of his eyes, and he smells like he hasn’t bathed in a week. That’s what dope’ll do to you.

“Come on, B, slide me a dollar, and I’ll give you this,” he says.

He holds out his hand. There’s a little silver disk in his palm, smaller than a dime.

“What is it?” I say.

“It’s a battery, for a watch.”

“And what am I supposed to do with it?”

“Come on, B, be cool.”

Right then the front door opens, and three dudes come gliding in, the light so bright behind them they look like they’re stepping out of the sun. I know two of them: J Bone, who stays down the hall from me, and his homeboy Dallas. A couple of grown-up crack babies, crazy as hell. The third one, the tall, good-looking kid in the suit and shiny shoes, is a stranger. He has an air about him like he doesn’t belong down here, like he ought to be pulling that suitcase through an airport in Vegas or Miami. He moves and laughs like a high roller, a player, the kind of brother you feel good just standing next to.

He and his boys walk across the lobby, goofing on one another. When they get to the stairs, the player stops and says, “You mean I got to carry my shit up four floors?”

“I’ll get it for you,” J Bone says. “No problem.”

The Chinaman at the desk buzzes them through the gate, and up they go, their boisterousness lingering for a minute like a pretty girl’s perfume.

“Who was that?” I say, mostly to myself.

“That’s J Bone’s cousin,” Youngblood says. “Fresh outta County.”

No, it’s not. It’s trouble. Come looking for me again.