Rip’s wearing this thick, bulky white outfit he probably bought at Parachute, and an expensive black fedora, and Trent asks Rip, as he makes his way toward me, if he’s been going parachuting. “Going Parachuting? Get it?” Trent says, giggling. Rip just stares at Trent until Trent stops giggling. Julian comes back into the room and I’m about to go over and say hello, but Rip grabs the scarf around my neck and pulls me into an empty room. I notice that there’s no furniture in the room and begin to wonder why; then Rip hits me lightly on the shoulder and laughs.
“How the f**k have you been?”
“Great,” I say. “Why is there no furniture in here?”
“Kim’s moving,” he says. “Thanks for returning my phone call, you dick.”
I know that Rip hasn’t tried to call me, but I say, “Sorry, I’ve only been back like four days and … I don’t know … But I’ve been looking for you.”
“Well, here I am. What can I do for you, dude?”
“What have you got?”
“What did you take up there?” Rip asks, not really interested in answering me. He takes two small folded envelopes out of his pocket.
“Well, an art course and a writing course and this music course—”
“Music course?” Rip interrupts, pretending to get excited. “Did you write any music?”
“Well, yeah, a little.” I reach into my back pocket for my wallet.
“Hey, I got some lyrics. Write some music. We’ll make millions.”
“Millions of what?”
“Are you going back?” Rip asks, not missing a beat.
I don’t say anything, just stare at the half gram he’s poured onto a small hand mirror.
“Or are you gonna stay … and play … in L.A.” Rip laughs and lights a cigarette. With a razor he cuts the pile into four big lines and then he hands me a rolled up twenty and I lean down and do a line.
“Where?” I ask, lifting my head up, sniffing loudly.
“Jesus,” Rip says, leaning down. “To school, you jerk.”
“I don’t know. I suppose so.”
“You suppose so.” He does both his lines, huge, long lines, and then hands me the twenty.
“Yeah,” I shrug, leaning back down.
“Cute scarf. Real cute. Guess Blair still likes you,” Rip smiles.
“I guess,” I say, doing the other long line.
“You guess, you guess,” Rip laughs.
I smile and shrug again. “It’s good. How about a gram?”
“Here you go, dude.” He hands me one of the small envelopes.
I give him two fifties and a twenty and he hands me the twenty back and says, “Christmas present, okay?”
“Thanks a lot, Rip.”
“Well, I think you should go back,” he says, pocketing the money. “Don’t f**k off. Don’t be a bum.”
“Like you?” I regret saying this. It comes out wrong.
“Like me, dude,” Rip says, missing a beat.
“I don’t know if I want to,” I begin.
“What do you mean, you don’t know if you want to?”
“I don’t know. Things aren’t that different there.”
Rip is getting restless and I get the feeling that it doesn’t matter a whole lot to Rip whether I stay or go.
“Listen, you’ve got a long vacation, don’t you? A month, right?”
“Yeah. Four weeks.”
“A month, right. Think about it.”
“I’ll do that.”
Rip walks over to the window.
“Are you deejaying anymore?” I ask, lighting a cigarette.
“No way, man.” He runs his finger over the mirror and rubs it over his teeth and gums, then slips the mirror back into his pocket. “The trust is keeping things steady for now. I might go back when I run out. Only problem is, I don’t think it’s ever gonna run out,” he laughs. “I got this totally cool penthouse on Wilshire. It’s fantastic.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. You gotta stop by.”
“I will.”
Rip sits on the windowsill and says, “I think Alana wants to f**k me. What do you think?”
I don’t say anything. I can’t understand why since Rip doesn’t look anything like David Bowie, he’s not left-handed and doesn’t live in the Colony.
“Well, should I f**k her or what?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Sure, why not?”
