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  I dedicate this book, with special thanks, to . . .

  My mother, Diana Sash, who told me to be whatever I wanted and that nobody owed me a thing.

  My agent, Gary Heidt, who kept the faith, then caught his second wind.

  Justin Scherrer, who finally said to me, “Just shut up and name your book exit here already.”

  Nina Asay, who pored over that very first draft again and again and again in the same night, and called me to tell me about it each time she finished.

  And finally my wonderful editor, Jen Weiss, who kept telling me, “This is really good, but not good enough.”

  This is the root of our nature, we hate ourselves and don’t know why . . . This is the root of our nature, we numb ourselves until we die.

  —400 Blows, “The Root of Our Nature”

  Retire now to your tents and to your dreams. Tomorrow we enter the town of my birth. I want to be ready.

  —Jim Morrison

  foreword.

  THIS IS NOT A LOVE STORY.

  These are the words that have been scraped into the ceiling of my tiny, shit-hole room. My boxlike dungeon. My brand-new fucking home.

  Below that,

  There are no happy endings.

  Sometimes I think about who the fuck carved this shit in here. A lot of times, actually. Because I have a lot of time on my hands to think about everything. Around here this is what passes as entertainment.

  You wake up.

  Think.

  You eat.

  Think.

  You shower.

  Think.

  You write some shit down.

  Think.

  This is what my days and nights consist of.

  This is my life.

  My life.

  I can’t wake up and fuck some hot girl anymore and get fucked up on some shit, and it sucks, but I have nobody else to blame except myself. I made all of the decisions that led me to this point, so even if I tried to point a finger, I would only be pointing at myself, and there’s no need for that. Not anymore. I’m well past that shit now.

  But still, I sometimes catch my mind wandering around. Walking backward. I catch myself thinking about the things that have happened and how if I’d just done this or that differently, I might be in a different place right now. Who knows where. Maybe getting loaded in a room and going off to some wicked Lightning Bolt shit. Maybe booze cruising down some highway smoking cigarettes, jamming out to the Replacements. Maybe lying in some bed next to Laura, bodies covered in sweat, holding on to her, Greg Ashley flowing from some nearby stereo.

  Laura.

  I always catch my mind racing back to her, especially to this one night in particular, Christmas night two years ago, when I was home briefly from college.

  This night jumps out because it was the night before I left for my trip to Hawaii, the trip where everything changed and flipped upside down for me. The night when Laura stood across from me and told me not to go. “Stay here the rest of your break and be with me.”

  No way, I told her. I’ve been stoked for this trip since like two months ago.

  “Fine,” she said. “Just go. Leave again. But get me something awesome.”

  What do you mean?

  “Buy me some cool shit from Hawaii.”

  Pulling my shirt off, I crawl into bed and look at the ceiling.

  This is not a love story.

  I look below that.

  There are no happy endings.

  Travis Wayne

  1.

  “YOU LOOK KINDA WEIRD, MAN.”

  How’s that?

  “You almost don’t look like the same Travis,” Chris tells me after picking up a small mirror with two lines of blow on it.

  I take the mirror from his hands. Set it down on the coffee table in front of me, right next to an issue of VICE magazine—the drugs issue—and even though I actually think I know what Chris meant by that, I still ask him:

  What’s that supposed to mean, dude?

  Chris swings his bloodshot, pitch-black-circled eyes over to his roommate and childhood friend of mine, Kyle, then quickly back to me, and says, “You’ve totally lost your edge, man.” He sniffs. Swipes his nose. “Your face looks all worn out and sunken in. You look out of shape. You’re pale. Pale, Trav. You’ve been in the fucking desert for a year and you look pale, man. Unbelievable. I mean, I remember when you came back to the city during Christmas break and you came over here one time in the middle of the night in a fucking limousine, wearing a pair of shades with like three scarves hanging off your neck, a bottle of champagne in your hands, totally name-dropping a couple of the dudes from the Brian Jonestown Massacre that you and Laura were hanging out with after a show. And now look at you, man. You walked off the airplane an hour ago with your shoulders bunched up, looking all timid and shit while you were waiting for your luggage at the bag claim. And no sunglasses. It’s June and you weren’t wearing any sunglasses. Your swagger’s gone. That’s what I mean, man,” he finishes, before dipping two of his fingers in a glass of water and sliding them up his nose real fast.

  “Come on, Chris,” Kyle says. “Don’t be a dick. You should be happy because our rad friend is back from Arizona. I am.”

  Thanks, man, I say.

  Chris rolls his eyes.

  Jamming a blue straw that’s been cut in half up my right nostril, I snort—

  Once.

  Twice.

  Breathe.

  My eyes start watering.

  I go, Do you guys ever feel like you’re locked inside a car that’s moving really fast?

  “What kinda car?” Chris asks.

  Like a fucking red Monte Carlo with a black racing stripe cutting through the middle of it, and there’s some superintense Fantômas shit jolting from the car speakers, like Mike Patton and Buzz Osbourne just completely losing it, but no steering wheel. The car doesn’t have one. And the car is so out of control, right? It’s swerving all over the road, and you’re crying, pounding your fists against the window trying to jump out of it, trying to bail from it, and then all of these people start popping up on the road, like your parents and your sister and your friends, and the car is playing human dodgeball with them. It’s trying not to run anyone over, but it’s not slowing down, either, and then some junkie babe pops up in the middle of the road and the car destroys her, leaving her mangled body in its burnt rubber path, and then it keeps on going and going even though it can’t maintain anything close to the same speed.

  Pause.

  You two ever feel anything like that?

  “I’m a fucking coke dealer,” Kyle says. “All I do is run over junkies. Night after night, again and again.”

  And Chris goes, “Nah. I never feel like that. But if I was in that car, instead of Fantômas blasting, I think I’d be listening to early Faith No More, the Chuck Mosley days. That shit would really blow your mind during a human dodgeball game.”

  “You think you’d have a choice?” Kyle snorts. “The car he’s talking about doesn’t even have a steering wheel, so no way that you’d be able to pick out the music. No way, man.”

  “I’m just saying,” Chris snorts right back. “Early Faith No More would be the better choice to listen to in that particular situation. Don’t you think, Trav?”

  Maybe.

  I lean forward. Wipe a thin line of coke residue off the m
irror with my thumb and rub it back and forth against my gums a bunch of times until my mouth goes numb. Then I light a cigarette.

  “You gonna be all right?” Chris asks me. “You look like your heart’s just been ripped from your chest.”

  Plugging my nostrils with my other hand, I snap my head back and sniff superhard.

  I think I’ll be okay.

  I look at the clock that hangs crooked on the dirty white wall in front of me, just above this black and white poster of PJ Harvey sitting on a bar stool, legs spread, panties showing. It’s five o’clock.

  Shit.

  “What’s up?” asks Kyle.

  I gotta meet my parents for dinner soon. Like in an hour.

  Chris starts laughing.

  The three of us are watching this new Queens of the Stone Age DVD, and when I see Kyle get out of the blue reclining chair he stole from a nursing home recreation room last summer, I say, Yo, Kyle. Will you grab me something to drink?

  “What do you want?” he asks.

  Water.

  And Kyle says, “No problem, dude.”

  Then he walks back into the living room a few moments later in his blue Dickie pants, his white Death from Above T-shirt, his left arm sleeved, his black hair butched with two thin lines shaved into each side of his head, and hands me a warm glass of water.

  I take a drink and light another cigarette and look hard at Chris, who’s wearing a pair of dark blue Levi’s, a plain black T-shirt, and a pair of Vision Wear high-tops, and I ask him when the last time he slept was.

  “This morning. What about you?”

  On the plane ride here.

  Kyle goes, “What happened to your car? What happened to all the shit you took with you to Arizona?”

  I shrug.

  Sold most of it. Fucked my car up like two nights after I got back to school from Hawaii.

  Both of them smile and then I start asking them about what’s been going on since I left. . . .

  Not much.

  What’s new . . . ?

  Not much.

  I ask about everyone I can think of.

  Cliff: Livin’ with his dad. Being a loser. Fuckin Natalie Taylor.

  Michael: Gettin’ wasted. Destroying meatpits. Lurking on Kennedy Street.

  Claire: Being totally hot.

  I swallow a huge glob of spit.

  Laura . . .

  Silence.

  Laura . . .

  Silence.

  Laura . . .

  Nothing.

  Chris starts blushing. He rubs his eyes. Shakes his head slowly from side to side.

  Laura . . .

  “I don’t know,” Kyle finally jumps in. “I don’t see her that much anymore. She pretty much hangs out with different people now. But the last time I saw her at the Glass Castle, she was still looking good, man. She still had that whole Kate Bosworth thing going for her.”

  It’s not a thing, I say. She really looks like that Bosworth chick. Maybe it’s Kate Bosworth who has that whole Laura Kennedy thing going for her.

  “Come on, Trav,” Chris grunts. “Get real. Why do you even care what she’s up to? She probably hates you.”

  I just wanted to know, Chris. What the fuck.

  “What happened to you, anyway?” Kyle asks. “You came back for Christmas, flew to Hawaii, went back to Arizona, and cut everyone off.”

  Things got, ya know, complicated.

  And Chris goes, “Things have always been complicated with you, Trav.”

  Did I do something to you, Chris? Cause you’re being a total dick to me right now.

  Chris shoots a look at Kyle, and Kyle goes, “You pretty much are, man.”

  Facing me again, Chris goes, “No, Trav. You didn’t do anything. You just look different and talk different.”

  Pause.

  He lights a cigarette. “It’s making me a little nervous.”

  Well, your jaw’s sliding around all crazy cause you’re tweaking so hard and that’s kinda freaking me out.

  “I know it is,” Chris says back. “It’s been doing that every time I get high lately. I should probably chew gum when I do this shit.”

  Probably.

  Kyle dumps some more coke onto the mirror.

  Last night I called him and I asked him if he’d pick me up from the airport this afternoon but to not tell anyone that he was, which he didn’t. Except for Chris.

  And he went, “You’re coming back? Do your parents know?”

  Yeah. But they already have plans and can’t pick me up. My dad sounded pretty pissed off.

  “But I thought you wanted to stay out there for the summer,” he said. “Maybe even do some traveling.”

  I need to come back, man.

  “Why?” he wanted to know.

  And I told him:

  Kyle, just pick me up.

  He cuts two more lines then he hands me the mirror.

  One.

  Two.

  Goddamn this is some good shit.

  Breathe.

  And I’m really back.

  • • •

  The restaurant I’m meeting my parents at is called the Red Tie. I’m already a half hour late when Kyle drops me off at the front doors in his ’91 Toyota Camry. He pops the trunk, and he, Chris, and I get out of the car, the Bronx album White Drugs blasting from the car stereo speakers, and we pull out all the shit I brought home with me.

  The two suitcases.

  A garbage bag filled with DVDs and CDs.

  Some posters.

  “What are you gonna do when you’re done eating?” Kyle asks me.

  Go home.

  “What about after that?”

  I’m gonna take some Percocet and crash, baby.

  “Nice,” says Chris, and then I bump fists with both of them and get my things and walk through the tinted doors of the Red Tie. The hostess seems to know who I am right away. She says, “You’re meeting the Lance Wayne party?” and I say, Yeah, and she says, “Travis, right?”

  I nod.

  “Would you like to leave your things up front? We can store them in the coat check room while you dine.”

  I hesitate.

  Sure.

  She motions at this guy, who promptly comes over and takes my things. When he begins to walk away, I shout that I know exactly how many DVDs and CDs are in the garbage bag.

  “I’m sure you do, sir,” he smirks, cocking his head at me. Then he continues walking.

  I turn back to the hostess.

  “Are you ready?” she asks.

  I guess.

  “Right this way then,” she smiles, leading me through the main dining area, up a short flight of stairs, then through a set of doors labeled PRIVATE.

  She stops just short of a large table where my mother, father, and younger sister, Vanessa, are seated, and hands me a menu, and I tell her thank you before taking a seat across from my father, who’s all swagged out in the blue Armani suit my mother and sister bought him for his birthday when we were in LA two years ago.

  “Well you look like crap,” my father immediately snorts. Twisting his wrist to look at his watch, my father, the big real estate GOD, the city’s PERSON OF THE YEAR, he says, “But it’s still nice that you could finally join us.”

  “Lance, don’t,” my mother snaps, in between sips of her red wine. “Let’s have a nice dinner.”

  I don’t say anything.

  I just stare at Lance. Lance with his chiseled and groomed face.

  Lance with his big, successful life.

  Lance, who’s taking a sip of his scotch, staring right back at me.

  I slide my Parliaments out and light one. I’m starting to come down off the coke.

  “How was your flight?” my sister asks.

  Inhale. Exhale.

  Long.

  “Who picked you up from the airport?”

  Kyle.

  “Oh, how is he?” my mother asks, draped in a black Gucci dress.

  He’s fine, Mom.

  �
��That’s nice,” she says. “Have you lost weight? You look like you have. Like you’ve lost a lot.”

  “Oh come on, Scarlett,” my father barks. “Look at the boy. He looks like a shadow of his old self.”

  “Like a total junkie,” my sister smirks. “Totally worse than Casper from that movie Kids.”

  “Who?” my mother asks.

  And I say, I don’t look that bad. Jesus. Give it a break. People still think I look good. Real good.

  There’s a long pause.

  All of us look at each other. We all look around the room. I look at my sister again, and I start thinking that my sister looks a lot older than the last time I saw her.

  “What are you staring at, Travis?” she asks, adjusting the strap on the pink halter dress she’s wearing.

  Nothing.

  My sister rolls her eyes. Runs a hand through her shiny blond hair, parted down the middle.

  Nothing, I say again, whispering it this time, and I flick some ashes into a nearby crystal ashtray.

  From behind me, our cute waitress emerges in a white button-up shirt, a black miniskirt, and a pair of black tights. She has jet-black hair and a she-mullet and looks at my mother and father and says, “Now who’s this handsome gentleman?”

  See, I blurt out, throwing my arms up. Some people think I still look good.

  “Like she knows anything,” my sister snorts.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” my mother smiles. “Maggie, this is our son, Travis.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Maggie tells me.

  My mother sets her empty glass down and goes, “He just flew back from Arizona.”

  “Wow,” Maggie grins. “That’s neat.”

  Yeah.

  I smudge my smoke out and open my menu.

  Neat.

  “Would you like something to drink?” she asks me.

  Whiskey sour. A double.

  My father smiles.

  “Sure,” Maggie says. “I just need to see your ID.”

  I pull out my fake one and hand it to her.

  “Thank you,” she says. “I’ll be right back with that.”

  My sister goes, “I’m gonna tell her you’re really only nineteen.”

  Shut the hell up.

  “I am,” she hisses, sliding the tip of her tongue between her lips. “I’m gonna bust your ass.”