“What’s your favorite cereal?”
“Frosted Mini Wheats or something with bran in it.”
“What’s your favorite TV commercial for?”
“Bayer Aspirin.”
“Who did you vote for last election?”
“Reagan.”
“Define the vanishing point.”
“You”—he’s crying—“define it.”
“We’ve already been there,” I tell him. “We’ve already seen it.”
“Who’s … we?” He chokes.
“Legion.”
11
THE FIFTH WHEEL
“Are we gonna kill the kid?” Peter asks, looking jumpy and nervous, rubbing his arms, his eyes wide, a huge belly sticking out beneath a BRYAN METRO T-shirt and he’s sitting in a ripped-up green armchair in front of the TV, watching cartoons.
Mary lays on the mattress in the other room, strung out, wasted, listening to Rick Springfield or some other ass**le on the radio, and I’m feeling pretty sick and trying to roll this joint and I try to pretend that Peter didn’t say anything, but he asks it again.
“I don’t know if you’re asking me or Mary or one of the f**king Flintstones on the f**king TV, man, but don’t ask it again,” I say.
“We gonna kill the kid?” he asks.
I stop trying to roll the joint—the rolling papers are too wet and dissolving all over my fingers—and Mary moans some name. The kid has been tied up in the bathtub for something like four days now and everyone’s a little nervous.
“I’m getting itchy,” Peter says.
“You said it was going to be really easy,” I say. “You said everything was going to be cool. That it was all working out, man.”
“I f**ked up.” He shrugs. “I know it.” He looks away from the cartoons. “And I know you know it.”
“You get a medal, m-man.”
“Mary doesn’t know anything.” Peter sighs. “That girl never knew a damn thing.”
“So you know that I know that you f**ked up in, like, a real big way?” I’m asking. “Huh—is that it?”
He starts laughing. “We gonna kill the kid?” and Mary starts laughing with him and I’m wiping my hands listening to them.
Peter gets hold of me from some dealer I used to work for and he calls for me from Barstow. Peter is in Barstow with an Indian he picked up near a slot machine in Reno. The dealer gives me the number of a hotel out in the desert and I call Peter up and he tells me that he’s coming down to L.A. and that he and the Indian need a place to hang out for a couple of days. I have not seen Peter in three years, since a fire we both started got out of control. I whisper to him, over the phone, “I know you’re f**ked up, dude,” and he says, back over the line, “Yeah, sure, let me come on down.”
“I don’t want you to do what I f**king think you’re going to do,” I say, my face in my hands. “I want you to stay a night and move on.”
“You want to know something?” he asks.
I can’t say anything.
“It’s not going to happen like that,” he says.
Peter and Mary, who isn’t even an Indian, come out to L.A. and they find me in a place out in Van Nuys around midnight and Peter comes in and grabs me and says, “Tommy, dude, how’s it hanging, buddy?” and I stand there shaking and say, “Hi, Peter,” and he’s fat, three hundred, four hundred pounds, and his hair is long and blond and greasy and he’s wearing a green T-shirt, sauce all over his face, marks all up and down his arms, and I get pissed.
“Peter?” I ask. “What the f**k are you doing?”
“Oh, man,” he says. “So what? It’s cool.” His eyes are wide and weird and he’s creeping me out.
“Where’s the chick?” I ask.
“Out in the van,” he says.
I wait and Peter just stands there.
“Out in the van? Is that right?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Peter says. “Out in the van.”
“I guess I’m expecting you to move or something,” I say. “Like, maybe, get the girl?”
He doesn’t. He just stands there.
“The girl’s in the van?” I say.
“That’s right,” he says.
I’m getting pissed. “Why don’t you bring the cunt out here, you fat f**k?”
But he doesn’t.
“Well, man.” I sigh. “Let’s see her.”
