Part 15 (1/2)

Alex frowns and pulls the silver flask out of his leather jacket. She gave it to him for his thirty-fifth birthday, almost three years ago now, back when the money was still something new, and it still felt good to give people expensive things. She screws the cap off, and there's rum inside; she hates rum and Alex knows it. Daria tips the mouth of the flask to her lips and tries to ignore the sugary taste.

Who really gives a s.h.i.+t what it tastes like, anyway, as long as it makes her numb.

”I didn't think you liked rum.”

”f.u.c.k you,” she says, and takes another drink.

”I don't think there's time before the show,” Alex says and smiles, but she doesn't laugh.

”I have a headache. I've had a splitting headache all G.o.dd.a.m.n day long.”

”Do you have your pills?” he asks.

128.

”They make me sick to my stomach.”

”I think that's why you're only supposed to take them with food, love.”

She screws the cap back on the flask and tries to remember the last time she ate-a bite or two of the dry room-service toast Alex ordered her for breakfast, and a handful of salted almonds on the plane from San Francisco. There was Marvin's avocado and cheese sandwich, but she didn't even touch that.

”How long does it take to starve to death?”

”Don't know,” Alex replies. ”I've never tried.”

”I think it takes a really long time. At least a month.”

”Are you hungry, Dar?” he asks hopefully. ”You want to pick something up? I could tell the driver to-”

”No,” she says. ”I was just wondering, that's all. I'll eat something after the show. I promise.”

”I'm gonna hold you to that,” he replies and slips the silver flask back into his jacket. ”Don't you start thinking that I won't.”

Daria rests her head against the window and takes another drag off her cigarette.

”This is where it happened,” she says.

”This is where what happened?”

”Where Keith killed himself. It was down here somewhere. I don't remember the street name. h.e.l.l, I'm not sure if I ever knew the street name.”

”Oh,” Alex says and holds her tighter. His arms feel good around her, safe as houses, and she closes her eyes because she knows there's no danger of falling asleep, no danger of dreams. Her head hurts too much for sleep, her head and her stomach, and, besides, in another five or ten minutes they'll be back at the hotel.

”All I can remember is it was in some alley near Peachtree. He used his pocketknife.”

”I know how it happened,” Alex says, and she feels him pull away an inch or two, his embrace not as certain as it was a moment before.

”He was still alive when the cops found him. Just barely, 129.

but he was still breathing. They said he might have lived, if he hadn't taken the pills.”

And he releases her then, slides across the leather up-holstery to his side of the wide backseat, and Daria opens her eyes. Her cigarette has burned down almost to the filter, and she puts it out in the little ashtray set into the back of the driver's seat, then lights another. Alex isn't looking at her, is busy pretending to watch the traffic, instead. The car crosses a short bridge, and a reflective green sign reads PEACHTREE CREEK. If there's actually a creek down there, Daria can't see it, nothing but impenetrable shadows pooled thick beneath glaring billboard lights.

”Jesus,” she hisses. ”Is everything in this city named after a f.u.c.king peach tree?”

”I couldn't tell you.”

Daria turns and stares at Alex for a minute, a full minute at least, waiting for him to turn towards her, waiting for some sort of explanation for this sudden s.h.i.+ft in his mood, but he keeps his eyes on all the other cars rus.h.i.+ng past outside.

”Are you p.i.s.sed at me about something?” she asks, and he shakes his head, but still doesn't look at her.

”No, I'm not p.i.s.sed at you, Dar. I'll just never understand the irresistible gravity of a.s.sholes.”

”What are you talking about now?”

”a.s.sholes. They suck you in, and you never get away again.”

”You mean Keith?”

”Yeah, I mean Keith. I mean the way he's all you can think about, when the junky son of a b.i.t.c.h has been dead for more than a decade. How many times did you think about Niki today? How many times did you think maybe you should pick up the phone and see if she's okay?”

Daria presses a b.u.t.ton, and her window opens silently, letting in the chilly night air; it feels good against her face, feels clean even though it stinks of carbon monoxide and diesel fumes. The wind whips at her hair, invisible fingers to scrub away the filth that seems to cling to her no matter 130 how often she bathes. She flicks the cigarette out the open window, and the wind s.n.a.t.c.hes it.

”That means a whole h.e.l.l of lot,” she says, ”coming from the man who screws her wife every chance he gets.”

Alex grins and laughs softly and drums the fingers of his right hand impatiently on his knee.

”One day I'm gonna learn to keep me mouth shut,” he says. ”One day, I'm gonna learn not to b.u.t.t heads with you.”

”One day,” she whispers and presses the b.u.t.ton on the door, closing the window again, shutting out the cold wind and the oily, mechanical smells of the autumn night.

WWR: As an artist, what would you say scares you most?

DP: Waking up in the morning. Because I know that one morning, sooner or later, I'm going to open my eyes and all this will have been a dream, and I'll be back there in Birmingham, or maybe Boulder, if I'm lucky, playing for pennies and working in coffeehouses. It'll all be gone, just like that (snaps fingers). And I'll be a failure again. That's what scares me the most.

Back in the hotel room, Daria sits cross-legged in the middle of the bed and listens to the messages that have backed up on her cell phone. A call from Jarod, asking if she'd like to make an appearance at a local nightclub after the show; a message from Lyle, her piano player, saying he was going to have a few drinks with an old friend before the show, but not to worry, he'll make soundcheck on time; a last minute request for an interview; another call from Jarod, to say maybe that particular nightclub wasn't such a good idea after all and he'd get back to her. All the usual c.r.a.p, the sizzling white noise before the storm, and she listens to each in its turn, then presses delete, watching the city through the wide gla.s.s balcony doors, the dizzying maze of buildings and 131.

streets glittering red and green and gold, arctic white and glacier blue.

Alex comes out of the bathroom and sits down on the love seat across from the bed. He yawns once, burps into his hand, then begins flipping through an Atlanta phone book.

”You think we can get some sus.h.i.+ delivered?” he asks, and she shrugs, but doesn't answer.

”I could f.u.c.king kill for spicy tuna rolls and unagi right about now.”

”Call the concierge,” Daria says and deletes a third message from Jarod Parris, telling her he's just learned that Michael Stipe's going to be at the show, and would she rather meet him before or afterwards.

”Those stupid f.u.c.kers never know where to get good sus.h.i.+,” Alex mutters. ”They never even know where to get good pizza.”

”Hey, Jarod says Michael Stipe's going to make the show tonight.”