Destroy Read online

  “Why not?”

  “Do I really have to explain it to you?”

  “You don’t like it there?” she says.

  “I’d rather hang backstage at the Family Values Tour and get a golden shower from one of the dreadlocked guitar players in any of the bands who also wears a triple-large T-shirt and baggy jeans.”

  Nina starts laughing, and I go, “I really don’t wanna step foot in that place tonight.”

  “Well, tough luck, James Morgan. That’s where everyone’s meeting at ten.”

  “Great.”

  “And you better be there too, James. I’m not kidding. You better not back out. I better see you tonight.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “You better show your face. Do not back out.”

  “Hey, babe. Don’t boss me. I said I’ll be there. You have my fucking word.”

  “Good,” Nina says.

  “Fine.”

  “Have a good rest of the drive, James.”

  “I will.”

  “Bye, darling.”

  “Destroy, babe.”

  • • •

  It’s eight and raining in San Francisco as I near my apartment on Nineteenth and Valencia Streets above the Luna Park restaurant. And my pad, it’s a pretty fucking nice one. A one bedroom at a thousand a month with a living room and a kitchen and, like, four walk-in closets. I’ve actually been in this place for over a year and really, really dig it because it’s so minimal and manageable.

  My living room walls are painted crimson. My writing desk is on the far end of the living room. There’s also a futon and a coffee table and a record player and a piano and a canoe that some bearded dude and his pretty hot girlfriend brought over after the Melvins played at the Great American Music Hall four months ago.

  I also own an autographed poster of James Spader that hangs with much love and much pride above my computer, along with pictures of me with Izzy Stradlin. And one of me and a Miss Furtado, whom I dated very briefly during the tour I did to promote the paperback release of PieGrinder. I’ve also hung an empty picture frame over a hole in the wall right beside the futon. A hole that was created one evening when I smashed the head of this marker-jockin’, backpack-wearing teenage kid into the wall for throwing up his bullshit initials on my writing desk even after I’d already asked him to put that prepubescent shit away.

  He went, “What are you really gonna do about it?”

  “Smash your fuckin’ skull, dude.”

  • • •

  It takes me quite a while to find a parking spot because there’s all these dickhead supporters of that asshole communist, Cesar Estrada, who’ve taken up almost a block and half to distribute flyers, register bums to vote, and elicit contributions from ramen-noodle-eating kids who just wanna get through the damn poverty circus.

  Finally, I find a spot.

  It’s like three blocks away, and I’m drenched by the time I reach the front gate. When I slide my key into the lock, though, it won’t turn. It won’t let me unlock it. So not cool.

  What the Fuck!?

  Thank god this old lady I’ve chitchatted with a few times in the lobby is walking out. She opens the door and goes, “Why on earth are you standing out here, dear? It’s pouring.”

  “My key isn’t working.”

  “Well, get in out of the rain,” she says, holding the door open so I can drag my suitcase inside.

  “Thanks.”

  I walk to my mailbox and open it: credit card applications . . . fan mail (not supposed to send it here) . . . another noise complaint.

  There’s also a postcard of Italy from this babe I tore up a few times and who I so don’t talk to anymore totally addressed from Denver, and a letter from my old man in Illinois.

  I throw everything into the trash can by the elevator and ride to my third-floor pad.

  As I flip the lights on, the first place my eyes land is the very large stack of notebooks sitting next to my desk.

  It’s like a big smack in the face.

  Like this huge black cloud just hovering above me, reminding me of the continued failure of my lack of writing production. Forty-seven notebooks. Forty-seven times my second novel has been born only to die over and over again by some lame excuse or reason.

  Shaking my head out of this brief funk, I come to the easy and honest realization that I will not have enough time to unpack before I have to leave for Nina’s birthday party, and this stresses me out. I feel like total shit. Like I just ate a huge grease booger from McDonald’s. And I know the only way I’m going to be able to get my ass charged up for the night is by calling my main coke dealer, Ryan, and scoring some shit.

  Ryan answers his phone and tells me it’s cool to stop by but to hurry, because he’s been up since yesterday and is fading kinda hard.

  “Cool, man. Give me a half hour,” I say. Then I open the door to my bedroom closet and slide on this Heroine Sheiks T-shirt I scored from their old manager the last time I was in New York. I put on this gray-and-blue-striped blazer I stole from the back room of 12 Galaxies during a Sugar and Gold, Persephone’s Bees, and Von Iva show. Then I slide on a pair of black boots.

  I look pretty great.

  Destroy.

  • • •

  Ryan lives in the Lower Haight on Steiner. He’s been my dealer for close to three years and has some pretty okay shit and totally cuts me deals because he likes showing up places with me and dropping my name. Which is cool. I don’t mind that shit at all. I mean, if I’m getting two g’s for fifty from anyone, I’ll roll pretty much anywhere with them and let them use me to get whatever kinda scene cred their tiny black heart desires.

  Hell, I even consider the guy a pretty good friend sometimes, even though I’ve totally destroyed the meatpit of his amazingly hot girlfriend, Brandy, numerous times since he introduced me to her at a party on his birthday last year.

  I get to Ryan’s building, and he buzzes me in and meets me at the bottom of the stairs with that blond, Nikki Sixx–looking hairdo, wearing a Ghostface Killah shirt with slits cut into the sides of it, a pair of blue-colored jeans, and purple fingerless gloves.

  “Yo,” he snarls, giving me the rock horns. “What’s happening?”

  “Just got back from Hell-A, dude. Need some juice.”

  “Awesome.”

  I follow him up a flight of stairs and he goes, “By the way, did you get a chance to pass my band’s EP on to anyone while you were down there?”

  Pause.

  “Oh yeah, dude. Of course. I played it at this after-hours party for some A and R people I met from Sony, and they seemed like they were super into it. They kept the CD and wrote down some of the band info I gave them about you guys.”

  Another quick side note: That was a blatantly huge lie.

  “That’s awesome, dude. Thank you so much. You have no idea what that means to us,” Ryan says as we enter his bedroom, which is a fucking sty of PBR cans, half-full forty bottles, and empty cigarette packs.

  This wonderfully pretty girl with black hair pulled tightly to the left, exposing a pale line of her scalp, who’s wearing this tight blue hoodie and a red skirt with black socks pulled to her knees, is smoking a cigarette on the banana-colored couch next to the door.

  “Hey,” I say, nodding.

  “Hey.” She nods back.

  “James Morgan.”

  “Megan,” she says, arching her lips.

  Closing the door behind him, Ryan navigates himself unsteadily across the room and takes his permanent seat at the computer.

  Extending her hand to me, Megan’s like, “It’s very nice to meet you, James.”

  “Pleasure’s all mine.” I smile, then kiss the top of her hand and take a seat next to her on the couch.

  Crossing his legs and lighting a cigarette, Ryan goes, “Megan is Brandy’s new roommate.”

  “Oh, cool. Brandy’s pretty all right,” I say. And an amazing fuck who once let me do her in the ass in the girls’ bathroom of the Hemloc
k Tavern once after we saw Apache play.

  “She’s cool,” Megan says.

  Ryan turns to his computer and puts on this great band, the Homosexuals.

  “Excellent call, man,” I say, sliding my cigarette case out of the inside pocket of my blazer. “I actually listened to this record while I was getting ready.”

  “It’s pretty damn good,” Ryan says, then turns to Megan and goes, “By the way, just so you know, James is a published author, which makes him better than both of us.” He takes a drink from his High Life forty and makes this horrific face as he forces it down his throat. “Seriously,” he coughs, burps. “He really is.”

  Knocking her right knee against my left one, Megan says, “What’d you write?”

  Clearing my throat and lighting a cigarette, I say, “The international bestselling novel PieGrinder, which is also about to become a major motion picture starring Ben Whishaw, Jennifer Connelly, and Beau Garrett.”

  “Holy shit! You wrote that? I love that fucking book! It’s one of my favorite books ever!”

  “Well, thank you, darling. It’s one of mine, too.”

  “And Jennifer Connelly is starring in the movie!” she snorts. “That’s so awesome. I love her.”

  Ryan, who looks really close to vomiting after taking another pull, groans, “Who is she again?”

  “She was in that movie Career Opportunities,” I tell him.

  “Which one was that?” he asks.

  “It’s the one where that guy works as a night janitor at Target and she gets locked in the store with him and they work together as a team to thwart a pair of burglars.”

  “That’s right,” Ryan says. “I liked that one.”

  “Well, she’s been in other stuff,” Megan cuts in.

  “But nothing as good as that,” I shoot back. “That movie kills it.”

  “Fucking Target,” Ryan snaps, throwing the rock horns back up. “Destroy.”

  “Destroy, man.”

  “Well.” Megan grins. “It’s super nice to meet you.” She opens her purse and digs a flyer from it and hands it to me. “My friend Haley is putting on this huge fashion and music showcase on Halloween night at the 2/6 Grindhouse on Seventeenth and Capp. It’s gonna be absolutely brilliant. Amazing bands are gonna play. DJ Guestlist is spinning. You have to come. You just have to. You’re, like, a celebrity, dude.”

  I look at the flyer and take immediate inventory of the bands playing: Lamborghini Dreams. The Cherry Stealers. Tight Black Holes. And Yaked Out, whose lead singer, the beautiful and sexy Bailey Brown, I used to fuck before finding myself in a very brief and completely unhealthy relationship with that girl from the band Danny Jackson’s Purple Stallion.

  “Looks fun,” I tell Megan. “Fuckin’ Lamborghini Dreams rule. They’re so good live.”

  “I know. I’m super into them right now. That one song of theirs, ‘Me and Bill Shatner Backstage,’ is so fucking rad,” she says, then rubs a hand across my thigh, winking at me. “You just have to come, James. You just have to.”

  “I promise, I’ll try my hardest.”

  “That would be great,” she says, after brushing my thigh again.

  And then Ryan goes, “So what are you looking for, man?”

  “Just give me two grams.” I pull fifty dollars out of my wallet and hand it over to him, and he gives me three grams and says, “A little bonus for turning some heads toward my band in LA.”

  “Awesome, dude. I’m gonna do some here.”

  “Go for it.”

  I look at Megan. “Want a line?”

  “Sure.” She smiles, nudging me again with her knee.

  Nudging her back, I ask Ryan if he has a surface I can cut this shit on, and he hands me a mirror and I dump out a good amount. “Ryan, you in?”

  “Nope. I’m going to bed soon.”

  “Dude,” I laugh. “You’re a goddamn coke dealer. It’s Friday night and you’re a coke dealer and you’re going to bed. That’s just not a smart move.”

  “I know it,” he says. “I suck at this job.”

  Picking up the razor blade on the mirror, I carve the pile into three humongous lines, and Megan goes, “Jesus, man. Those are fucking huge.”

  “Well, darling,” I sigh. “That’s how I do this shit. I don’t do tiny lines. I don’t sit around and do fucking key bumps unless I’m in a girls’ bathroom somewhere. I do this shit to get fucked up. Not to get buzzed.”

  “Obviously.”

  I do two lines with the straw I cut in half before I left my apartment. Instant relief. All the bullshit just evaporates. Gone. Nothing fucking matters except the moment I’m in and how much we’re gonna talk about me.

  Handing the mirror to Megan, I say, “So what’s up with the terrorist attack, dudes?”

  “They hate our freedom,” Ryan snorts.

  “What gallery got hit?” I ask.

  Megan finishes off the line and says, “The Larkin-Monroe on Geary and Powell. They were having a tribute to celebrity mannequins or something.”

  “Oh god,” I laugh. “A tribute to that bullshit. So fucking what? I mean, that’s pretty much on a par with shooting up the tour bus of a Kiss cover band.”

  Both Megan and Ryan start laughing, and I light another cigarette. Then Ryan goes, “So how the fuck was LA?”

  “Fuckin’ phenomenal, man. I saw Van Halen play with David Lee Roth.”

  Ryan’s face goes pure white. “No, you didn’t.”

  “I sure did.”

  “Oh, man!” he shouts. “I fucking hate you! You suck! You suck! You suck!”

  And Megan goes, “Dude! Who are you?”

  “I’m James Morgan, baby. Published Author.”

  She shakes her head. “But Van Halen with David Lee Roth. The first show back together. How the fuck did you pull that one off?”

  “I have a ton of connections. Trust me. I know a lot of people.”

  “So how was it?” Ryan asks.

  “Dude, it was so awesome. Third song, ‘Running with the Devil,’ and I got so excited I jumped up and my glass of beer squirted out of my hand and landed on this girl in front of me. She turns around. And I swear it’s that Kate Hudson chick. Looks exactly like her, at least. And I tell her that I’m sorry, and she’s like, ‘We’re watching David Lee Roth play with Van Halen. If that’s the only thing that happens to me, I’ll demand my goddamn money back.’ ”

  “Awesome,” Ryan says, jacking up the rock horns again.

  And I go, “The whole show was so good. Only the hits, dude. There ain’t a new record with the reunion, so they only played the hits. So good.”

  “I officially hate you,” Ryan tells me, hugging himself now and scratching both of his arms.

  My phone starts ringing.

  It’s Nina.

  Sweet, sweet Nina.

  And she’s like, “Where the fuck are you?”

  “I had to make a quick stop. I’ll be there soon.”

  “Fucking amazing,” she says. “It’s so nice to know the habit of your nostrils is more important than I am.”

  “Would you take a chill pill, babe?”

  “A chill pill,” she laughs. “That’s real cute.”

  “I’ll be there soon.”

  “You better.”

  She hangs up and I go, “Shit, I have to get going. It’s Nina’s birthday tonight, and I’m already pretty late.”

  Ryan lights another cigarette and says, “Nina, huh. Have you even banged her yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “Three years I’ve known you, man. Three years you’ve been so into this girl and you still haven’t fucked her yet.”

  “Hey,” I say. “Just ’cause you’re a fucking savage doesn’t mean we all are, man. Sometimes there are more important things to a relationship than fucking.”

  “Like what?” both Ryan and Megan ask at the same time.

  Pause.

  “I don’t know,” I laugh, then stand up and tell Megan that it was super nice meeting her, an
d then she pushes herself to her feet and says, “I’ll walk out with you.”

  “All right. But I gotta take a shit first.”

  “Go for it.” She hands Ryan a small stack of flyers and tells him bye and I’m like, “Later, brah.”

  “Nice slang, hoe.”

  • • •

  Outside, the rain has for the most part let up and turned into a light drizzle. The fog and haze are diluting the normally bright glow of the streetlamps.

  Megan and I are standing just inches apart, face-to-face, and she’s asking me if Nina and I are in some sort of relationship.

  “A friendship,” I tell her.

  “But she’s not like any sort of a girlfriend?”

  “Not at all,” I’m forced to say, even though I wish, I so wish that I could say yes to that question. But I can’t. So instead I’m saying, “I actually fuck my girlfriends.”

  “That’s good to know,” Megan sighs.

  “Is it?”

  “It is.”

  This huge drip slides down the back of my throat, numbing the top of my mouth, as I say, “Do you want to split a cab?”

  “No, I don’t need to. I only live a few blocks away.”

  “That’s right. With Brandy.”

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s pretty cool.”

  “I know. You said that earlier.”

  “That’s right. I did.”

  An awkward pause.

  Until Megan says, “It feels really good out right now. I’m loving this fucking weather. I think I’m actually going to take a walk.”

  “Right, well, it was nice meeting you.”

  I turn around and start walking down Haight to catch a cab when Megan says, “James. Wait.”

  I spin back around. “What’s up?”

  “Do you want my phone number?”

  “Are you kidding me? I’d fucking love it.” I pull my phone out and hand it to her. “Will you put it in for me?” I ask.

  She makes this pouty face and goes, “Do you not remember my name, dude? ’Cause that would be a complete bummer. It would be a total deal breaker.”

  “I remember it just fine. It starts with a, um”—pause . . . I rub my chin slowly and look up toward the sky—“a, um, ya know, it starts with an S.”

  Shaking her head, Megan tries to hand my phone back to me. “Here.”