Like a Dog. Tara Jepsen
see,” I say, fighting off images of the kidnapped lady.
“So what are we doing tonight?” he asks.
“I don’t know, let me think about it.”
“Cool if I use your computer?”
“Yeah. Put on some coffee, okay?”
That night we drive to a bar. We’re both silent, staring off into the foggy night and thinking.
“Wait, how was seeing Oliver?” I ask.
“So good.”
“How did he seem? Like, drug-wise?”
“He’s trying to get it under control, especially with this big opportunity. He had to tell the crew he was going to quit. Which has to be pronto if we’re heading up next week.”
“Do you think he can swing that?”
“Hope so.”
We’re going to meet Irma and Oliver at this bar called The Wreck Room where our friend’s soft rock cover band is playing. I park on Mission Street, and we walk up to the bar. There’s a guy with a very pronounced brow, kind of troglodyte-looking, checking IDs. He stares at my picture, then up at me, then back down, like I would want to scam my way into this crappy bar.
“This you?”
“Yes.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-two.”
“This isn’t you, this looks like your older sister.”
“I don’t even have a sister. Can I go in?”
“This isn’t your sister?” He points at Irma.
“I think you’re just detecting a general gayness among us.”
He waves us inside.
We walk into the bar, which is long and narrow, and impossibly dark. As we get near the back, I see there’s a slightly wider area with tables and chairs, and a small stage. The people in Smooth Nites always look like the ’80s spilled all over them from a giant paint can. I see Donna, the lead singer, who has huge, black crimped hair and a black dress with a billowing white ruffle extending from her right shoulder to her left hip. She looks unstable in the best way. Then there’s Bob, who sings with Donna. He’s in faded pegged jeans and a turquoise tank top with big armholes and a cartoon of a surfer on the front. It says “Totally Tubular!” which I like a lot. The best is how the people of Smooth Nites always give 110% when they’re performing. There is the visual goofballery of their clothes but the music is well played.
I see Irma down the bar, drinking a pint of beer and talking with an older guy in a fedora and a Grateful Dead T-shirt. Not super-old, maybe like mid-fifties. It seems kind of random, but what do I know about her life, really? She’s one of those people who will mention to me that she’s been seeing a girl for six months and it will be the first I’ve heard of it, even though she calls me her best friend and we see each all the time. I don’t mind.
Wait, maybe the fedora guy is the hot tub guy. She told me there’s a man who she meets at The Wreck Room for drinks then goes back to his house to sit in his hot tub. He always has piles of coke and speed sitting out on a table. Anyone is welcome to the hot tub and the drugs, provided they are naked and female. Any kind of female can plop down on his leather couch and have at it. He also has various vintage guitars that Irma can play. He says he loves seeing her small woman fingers on them. What is the feeling when he sees them? Small fingers strumming, little digits pushing the strings down. Woman. Sex. Orgasm. Wanting. Distance. Rejection. Irma told me about this guy a couple months ago, casually, over giant hamburgers made from pure organic beef at Joe Grinds His Own. I had a huge iced tea in front of me and a pile of seemingly never-ending French fries.
“He’s cool,” she said.
“What’s his name?”
“Jared.”
“Oh.”
“He never tries anything with me.”
“Oh. I guess that’s good.”
“Yeah. It’s really good. Because who knows what I would do, I might just do it with him.”
“Really?”
“Sure.”
“What would you get out of it?”
She shrugs her shoulders. “Coke.”
“Why do you keep this stuff secret from me?”
“I’m telling you right now.”
“Yeah, but you’ve been doing it for months.”
“So?”
“How come you never invite me?” I asked this even though I’m so glad I’ve never been part of these nights.
“Really? Why don’t I bring you on my gross drug adventures? God, how horrifying. I never want you to see me that way. I’m an ugly person at four in the morning when there’s not enough cocaine to go around. God. I will never bring you with me.”
I felt satisfied with her explanation, and then kinda lonely. How stupid. How can I feel left out of something I don’t want to be part of?
Peter orders us drinks and pays for them. This seems wildly generous. We walk down to the end of the bar, sliding past people in the narrow space between the barstools and the wall. Irma and Peter hug. Irma is kind of a sister to Pete too. She’s been coming to our family functions and hanging out with Pete the whole time we’ve known each other.
“What up,” I hear behind me, and turn to see Oliver clapping hands with Peter. He turns to me and smiles. “Paloma, what up girl, it’s been a minute.” His eyes are pinpoints in toilet water. High as hell. I wonder if he’s going full speed on dope since he knows he has to quit soon. My uncle used to be like this.
Smooth Nites is about to start, so we stand at the back of the small crowd. Bob and Donna launch into “Always,” that old duet by Atlantic Starr, which I love. I sing with them at the top of my lungs. I’m not the best singer in the world, kind of perpetually flat, but you have to admit that anyone who loves to sing makes up for lack of skill with enthusiasm. It’s the whole principle behind karaoke. I look over at Pete and he has a small smile on his lips, and his arm around Irma. He looks happy. That makes me happy. Something inside me relaxes.
Next they sing the theme song from the movie The Never-Ending Story. Now people all over the room are singing as loud as possible and I run to the front of the stage, popping veins in my face from singing so hard (just saying that for drama, no veins actually burst). After a few exhilarating minutes I walk back to Irma and Peter. Oliver is missing. My tiny bladder kicks in and I head for the bathroom, which miraculously has no line, probably because the band is playing. Just as I’m pushing the door open I notice Oliver in the corner, leaning against the wall and nodding out. I walk over and touch his arm.
“Oliver.” No answer. I shake him lightly. “Ollie, you should probably go home.” His eyes open the smallest bit. He shifts his weight.
“I don’t really have a place right now,” he says.
“Where’ve you been staying?”
“Got kicked out.”
Through a heavy panel of dread I say, “Do you want to stay at my house? You can take my keys and we’ll meet you back there later.” I feel intense panic, but swallow it, and hand him my keys. It would be wrong not to help someone without a place to stay. Especially a sad idiot like this. He pats my shoulder in a totally stupid way, and leaves.
I walk back out onto the floor where they’re playing “Hard Habit to Break” by Chicago. Everyone is singing along loudly and swaying together. After the song ends, Irma and I get more drinks. We end up closing the bar. I dance so hard I think I break my little