Bret Ellis - Less than zero

The two girls look over at us. I look at the Perrier bottle, a little embarrassed, and say, "Yeah, I remember."

"Love that song," he says.

"Yeah, so did I," I say. "What else you been up to?"

"No good," he laughs. "Oh, I don't know. Just been hanging out."

"You called me and left a message, didn't you?"

"Oh, yeah."

"What did you want?"

"Oh forget it, nothing too important."

"Come on, what is it?"

"I said forget it, Clay."

He takes off his sunglasses and squints and his eyes look blank, and the only thing I can think of to say is, "How was the concert?"

"What?" He starts to bite his nails.

"The concert. How was it?"

He's staring off somewhere else. The two girls get up and leave.

"It was a bummer, man. A real fuckin' bummer," he finally says, and then walks away. "Later."

"Yeah, later," I say, and look back at the Porsche and get the feeling that there's someone else in it.

Rip never shows up at Cafe Casino and he calls me up, later, around three and tells me to come over to the apartment on Wilshire. Spin, his roommate, is sunbathing nude on the balcony and Devo's on the stereo. I walk into Rip's bedroom and he's still in bed, nude, and there's a mirror on the nightstand, next to the bed, and he's cutting a line of coke. And he tells me to come in, sit down, check the view out. I walk over to the window and he gestures at the mirror and asks if I want any coke and I tell him I don't think so, not now.

A very young guy, probably sixteen, maybe fifteen, really tan, comes out of the bathroom and he's zipping up his jeans and buckling his belt. He sits on the side of the bed and puts on his boots, which seem too big for him. This kid has really short, spiked blond hair and a Fear T-shirt on and a black leather bracelet strapped to one of his wrists. Rip doesn't say anything to him and I pretend that the kid isn't there. He stands up and stares at Rip and then leaves.

From where I'm sitting, I watch as Spin gets up and walks into the kitchen, still nude, and starts to squeeze grapefruits into a large glass container. He calls to Rip, from the kitchen, "Did you make reservations with Cliff at Morton's?"

"Yeah, babes," Rip calls back, before doing the coke.

I'm beginning to wonder why Rip has called me over, why he couldn't meet me someplace else. There's an old, expensively framed poster of The Beach Boys hanging over Rip's bed and I stare at it trying to remember which one died, while Rip does three more lines. Rip throws his head back and shakes it and sniffs loudly. He then looks at me and wants to know what I was doing at the Cafe Casino in Westwood when he clearly remembers telling me to meet him at the Cafe Casino in Beverly Hills. I tell him that I'm pretty sure he said to meet at the Cafe Casino in Westwood.

Rip says, "No, not quite," and then, "Anyway it doesn't matter."

"Yeah, I guess."

"What do you need?"

I pull my wallet out and get the feeling that Rip never showed up at the Cafe Casino in Beverly Hills either.

Trent's on the phone in his room, trying to score some coke from a dealer who lives in Malibu since he hasn't been able to get in touch with Julian. After talking to the guy for like twenty minutes he hangs the phone up and looks at me. I shrug and light a cigarette. The telephone keeps ringing and Trent keeps telling me that he'll go see a movie, any movie, with me in Westwood since something like nine new films opened Friday. Trent sighs and then answers the phone. It's the new dealer. The phone call is not good. Trent hangs up and I mention that maybe we should leave, see a four o'clock show. Trent tells me that maybe I should go with Daniel or Rip or one of my "faggot friends."

"Daniel's not a faggot," I say, bored, turning the channel on the television.

"Everyone thinks he is."

"Like who?"

"Like Blair."

"Well, he isn't."

"Try telling that to Blair."

"I'm not going out with Blair anymore. That is over, Trent," I tell him, trying to sound steady.

"I don't think she thinks so," Trent says, lying back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

Finally, I ask, "Why do you even care?"

"Maybe I don't," he sighs.

Trent changes the subject and tells me I should go with him to a party someone's having for some new group at The Roxy. I ask who's giving it and he tells me he's not too sure.

"What group is it for?" I ask.

"Some new group."

"Which new group?"

"I don't know, Clay."

The dog begins to bark loudly from downstairs.

"Maybe," I tell him. "Daniel's having a party tonight."

"Oh great," he says sarcastically. "A fag party."

The phone rings again. "Screw you," I say.

"Jesus!" Trent yells, sitting up, grabbing the telephone and screaming into it, "I don't even want your lousy, fucking coke!" He pauses for a moment and then says, "Yeah, I'll be right down." He hangs the phone up and looks at me.

"Who was it?"

"My mother. She's calling from downstairs."

We walk downstairs. The maid's sitting in the living room, with this dazed look on her face, watching MTV. Trent tells me that she doesn't like to clean the house when anybody's home. "She's always stoned anyway. Mom feels guilty since her family was killed in El Salvador, but I think she'll fire her sooner or later." Trent walks over to the maid and she looks up nervously and smiles. Trent tries some of his Spanish but can't communicate with her. She just looks at him blankly and tries to nod and smile. Trent turns around and says, "Yep, stoned again."

In the kitchen, Trent's mother is smoking a cigarette and finishing a Tab before she goes off to some fashion show in Century City. Trent takes a pitcher of orange juice out of the refrigerator and pours himself a glass, asks if I want one. I tell him no. He looks at his mother and takes a swallow. No one says anything for something like two minutes, not until Trent's mother says, "Goodbye." Trent doesn't say anything except, "Do you want to go to The Roxy tonight or what, Clay?"

"I don't think so," I tell him, wondering what his mother wanted.

"Yeah? You don't."

"I think I'm going to Daniel's party."

"Great," he says.

I'm about to ask him if he wants to go to a movie, but the phone rings from upstairs and Trent runs out of the kitchen to answer it. I walk back to the living room and stare out the window and watch as Trent's mother gets into her car and drives off. The maid from El Salvador stands up and slowly walks to the bathroom and I can hear her laughing, then retching and then laughing again. Trent comes into the living room looking pissed off and sits in front of the TV; phone call probably wasn't too good.

"I think your maid is sick or something," I mention.

Trent looks over at the bathroom and says, "Is she freaking out again?"

I sit on another couch. "I guess."

"Mom's going to fire her soon enough." He takes a swallow of the orange juice he's still holding and stares at MTV.

I stare out the window.

"I don't want to do anything," he finally says.

I decide that I don't want to go to the movies either and I wonder who I should go with to Daniel's party. Maybe Blair.

"Wanna watch Alien ?" Trent asks, eyes closed, feet on the glass coffee table. "Now that would freak her out completely."

I decide to bring Blair to Daniel's party. I drive to her house in Beverly Hills and she's wearing a pink hat and a blue miniskirt and yellow gloves and sunglasses and she tells me that at Fred Segal today someone told her that she should be in a band. And she mentions something about starting one, maybe something a little New Wave. I smile and say that sounds like a good idea, not sure if she's being sarcastic, and I grip the steering wheel a little tighter.

I hardly know anyone at the party and I finally find Daniel sitting, drunk and alone, by the pool, wearing black jeans and a white Specials T-shirt and sunglasses. I sit down next to him while Blair gets us drinks. I'm not sure if Daniel's staring into the water or if he's just passed out, but he finally speaks up and says, "Hello, Clay."