Part 5 (1/2)
Tom is shaking his head. He takes a step in my direction and leans up against me, his beer breath in my face. ”Just be yourself. Pris likes you the way you are. Don't go pulling any pseudo-psychological stunts on her . . . you might as well try casting a voodoo spell, same f.u.c.king difference. If it happens, it happens. Don't try controlling something that can't be controlled.”
”It might give him an edge,” Heather says.
”He doesn't need an edge,” Tom tells her. ”Pris doesn't like Felix.”
”Then why did she disappear with him?”
”To talk.”
”I think it's more likely she'll make it with Felix just to show you she doesn't need you.”
”Why would she choose Felix?”
”She wouldn't want to use someone she actually likes.”
”Pris doesn't use people,” I blurt at her.
”Everybody uses everybody,” she says to me in a scathing voice.
Aaron jumps to my defense. ”Just because you use people every waking moment of your life doesn't mean everyone else does.”
”You're one to talk, Aaron. Tell me, look me in the eyes and tell me you don't use your clients.”
”I defend them!”
”How much do they pay you?”
”If anyone uses anyone, they use me!”
”How much do they pay you?”
”That has nothing to do with it.”
”I've heard you're one of the highest paid lawyers on that side of the bay. How much do you charge just to defend someone for a drunken driving charge? A simple D.U.I.? How much.”
”Now look, tens of thousands of dollars went into my education----”
”Tell me you don't use people. What about witnesses, Aaron? Look me in the eyes and tell me you don't use them.”
I watch in horror as this evolves into a major argument, and without thinking I raise my beer bottle and fling it straight down at the floor. It doesn't smash like I guess I wanted it to --- the porch is made from pine, which is soft, and the bottle is hard Mexican gla.s.s. It bounces all the way back up and smacks me under the chin, and there's a sharp pain in my mouth as my teeth sink deep into the flesh of my tongue. I stumble backwards, hands to my mouth, and Aaron and Heather continue their argument without a pause. Turning, I walk quickly away, feeling stupid and impotent, pus.h.i.+ng my way between people and skirting walls and making my way to the front door. I'm leaving.
I stand in front of the house for a few seconds, enduring the pain and tasting blood in my mouth, then walk a little ways down to the corner and sit there, my back against a light post. A cable car should be along here any minute; I'll catch it and ride it down to Market Street, where I can catch a BART train across the bay and back to Berkeley. f.u.c.k them, I think, f.u.c.k all those screwy people. I'm a G.o.dd.a.m.ned scientist for crissakes, what am I doing at a party with actresses and dancers and playwrights?
The fog swirls around the street lights and makes a ceiling over the street. The trees seem to grow up into it. After five or ten minutes sitting on the cold cement, leaning against a damp, freezing metal lamp post I find all the warmth has drained out of me, leaving me s.h.i.+vering.
There is no cable car in sight. Absently I pick up a sc.r.a.p of newspaper that is lying in the gutter; its a section of TV listings for last week.
After glancing through it I find I missed War Of The Worlds last Thursday at 9:00 PM. I didn't even know it was on. Oh, I hate TV anyway.
s.h.i.+t.
”Are you okay?” asks a voice. I look up to see Tom standing about two feet away, hands in his jacket pockets.
”No,” I tell him. ”I'm despondent.”
”Would it help if I bought you a wh.o.r.e?”
”No.” I glare at him.
”I just thought I'd ask.”
I hear a bell ringing, and up the street a cable car rumbles over the top of the hill, shrouded in fog. There's hardly anyone aboard it --- no doubt it's the last one of the night.
Tom looks at it too. ”Oh, come on. You're not leaving.”
”Why not?”
”Don't just give up.”
”Why not?”
”Because you'll never know if you had a chance.”
”I don't want a chance.”
”Yes you do.”
”No I don't.”
”Yes you do.”
”No I don't.”
”Come on, stop feeling sorry for yourself. Come back inside. I'll even help you find her.”
I watch the cable car approach, ignoring him. As I watch it, it pa.s.ses by and continues on down the street. It occurs to me only then that I had intended on riding it. ”If you promise to find her and tell her that you're breaking up with her then I'll come back inside.
Otherwise, see you later.”
”I promise.”
”You promise? You'll tell her?”
He nods.
Grunting, I fight my stiff muscles and get to my feet. ”Let her down easy --- she loves you, for G.o.d sakes.”
”I know. But she's a lot tougher than you think.” He doesn't explain further, and within a minute we're back inside the house. The babble of all the voices is a shock after spending ten minutes out in the cold, foggy silence. Tom immediately disappears, off looking for Pris. I spot an empty chair which is relatively secluded from everybody and sit in it, rubbing my sore chin. Leaning back, I close my eyes, letting the world swirl around me. All the noise of the party, the music, the laughter, the babble . . . it ebbs and flows around my alcohol-infused head. The air around me is, at least, warm; occasionally I still give a s.h.i.+ver or two as my body temperature comes back up, but I finally feel comfortable. Time seems to stop for a while, and I watch the random geometrical shapes flas.h.i.+ng around on the inside of my eyelids, feeling lulled. I hang for a while on the edge of drunken sleep, but I hear my name called and I stir. For a moment I think that there's someone else here with the same name, and someone is calling him not me, but then I hear it again from quite close and open my eyes to see Pris standing squarely in front of me, her hair a bit messed, her eyes red, her mouth half open and her upper teeth showing. Her left hand is holding two fingers of her right hand, both hanging in front of her pelvis. The wide-necked sweater she's wearing has slid to one side, exposing a smooth, beautiful shoulder.