Don't Ask: a Novel from Vagabondage Press Coming: July 2012 |  |
The heat catches us by surprise. It’s much too far into fall for there to be triple-digit heat. It turns the entire city nocturnal, no one willing to go out in the sun. I have never seen so many people out after dark before. I mean, it’s L.A., people go out at night, of course, but the dog walkers have waited until after sunset, joggers, even grocery shoppers have switched from doing their business during the day to eight or nine at night. It’s better than feeling like the sun is about three feet from the side of your head every time you step out of the shade.
But even the night hasn’t cooled off much. Without humidity in the air, even a ninety-degree day in L.A. tends to cool off into the sixties at night. The beauty of living in a cultivated desert. But by eight or nine, it doesn’t seem much cooler than during the day. And even well after dark, and it can’t be less than eighty.
Of course, Greg and Brian’s air conditioner is broken. The apartments overloaded it or something like that. Heat always seems to bring black outs with it around here. The system or grid or whatever they call it probably just isn’t used to having everyone try to run their A/C at once. Most people don’t even have an air conditioner in Long Beach.
I lean against part of the jungle gym, watching Greg take a long drag from the cigarette he’s holding. At least I think it’s a cigarette. He didn’t say it was pot. The wind’s blowing so I can’t smell the smoke that’s drifting away, just visible in the lurid orange light all streetlights are seemingly required to give off. On the bench, it’s possible to make out some of Greg’s features. On the ground, I must be completely hidden in the shadows.
The tip of the cigarette glows red-hot again for a second before he breathes out another cloud of smoke. The thought of something hot anywhere near me makes me nauseous. Greg doesn’t seem so bothered. He’s even opted for long sleeves. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was a cutter. There are exactly zero reasons to be wearing long sleeves right now unless you’re covering something, in my opinion. Scars. Track marks. I know he doesn’t have either. Thank God.
I push my hair up off my neck, feeling myself warm up just with the thought of having something more than my tank top on. “We could go to my place, you know.”
“It’s not going to be any cooler downtown.” He flicks the end of the cigarette, ash coming off in a practiced movement.
“No, but I have central A/C,” I say.
He takes his time, bringing the cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply, exhaling in another long, slow stream. “You know that has the right amount of lines.”
I frown, shake my head slightly. “What?”
He motions with his hand holding the cigarette. “On the side of the wall there.”
I turn my head, can just make out the shape of a treble clef, some notes forming a bar of music on the wall fencing off the platform for the slide. I look back at Greg. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“I did.”
I bite down the word “obviously.” “That music degree’s working for you, don’t you know.”
He snorts.
A couple words float over from the group of teenagers that have gathered at the far end of the park. They most definitely have pot. There’s one way into the park: a long curved road coming downhill on one side and then up the next hill leaving the park tucked in a small valley against steeper hills on the other three sides. The houses at the top of the steep hills are too high up to see the park clearly, and you can see car lights coming from either way long before a car arrives, making it easy to watch for cops. Understandably, it’s been a prime place for teenagers and stoners to come for years. Or teenage stoners. It’s amazing the cops don’t patrol it more often.
I think of the empty wine bottle Greg’s thrown somewhere in the bushes, the used condom left somewhere near the parking lot just a little up the hill. Honestly, we’re no better than teenagers tonight ourselves. I half hope that he is smoking pot. Then it would just complete the illegality of the night. It’s like we’re re-enacting high school, drinking wine from a bottle in the park, having sex in the back seat of his Camry…though, honestly, I never actually did either of those things in high school. Maybe we’ve just been out of college long enough that we’ve started regressing.
At least there was air conditioning in his car. It’s too hot at his place, and he refuses to go to mine. Since he wasn’t about to spring for a motel room, it was the next logical choice. And obviously my standards aren’t high enough to find the idea juvenile and/or degrading.
Greg is watching the boys across the park. At least I assume he is, since he’s staring off into the distance. From the bench, he should be able to see that far. He takes a final drag before flicking the cigarette butt away.
Between the parking lot and here, you’d be able to completely retrace our night from the litter. An eco-nut, Greg is not. Left to him, nothing would ever get to a trashcan. And since he’s the one who deals with things like condoms and wine bottles, they’re left out in the open. I’m sure the condom we used is sitting somewhere near the car in the parking lot. Probably just outside the door on his side.
The fleeting picture of a toddler coming across a cigarette butt, a broken bottle, or a used condom crosses my mind. The mother freaking out as he tries to put it in his little mouth. After dark, this park collects those looking for a place to do things they can’t get away with anywhere else. During the day, it’s a park. It’s downright wholesome. I know people who bring their nieces and nephews here. I’ve been here once during the day. It’s a different world. You won’t see someone smoking, dealing, or screwing then.
I watch the cigarette butt glow red for another few seconds before it finally goes out, becoming invisible in the dark other than the wisps of smoke that catch the light now and again before disappearing altogether. I don’t mention the trashcan a couple feet away. Captain Planet got through to me more than it did to Greg, obviously.
And I doubt the thought of children actually playing on this jungle gym even flits through Greg’s brain. CSI would find him in a second with the trail he leaves behind him. Perhaps me, too. He continues to look out across the park.
“Thinking of trying to bum a joint off them?” I finally ask.
“I think they have bubblers,” he says. I have a vague idea what that means. “Don’t have anything to trade them anyway.”
I don’t answer, yawn.
His head moves just enough that I can tell he’s looking at me. “Tired?”
“The heat’s messing with me.” I take out my phone, tilting it away from me so the light won’t hurt my eyes as I check the time. It’s already past one. I have work tomorrow. I should be in bed. In my air-conditioned apartment. I slip my phone back in my purse and look at him. “I think I’ve lost my buzz.”
Greg nods. “We should have gotten another bottle.”
“I don’t know. Some of us have work in the morning. I can’t go in with a hangover again. It isn’t fun being around ringing phones all day when your head feels like it’s going to explode.”
He snorts. “You’re such a lightweight, love.”
“That still surprises you?”
“Come on up off the ground.” Greg motions.
“Maybe you should come down here.” I challenge, hoping he can hear the smile in my voice.
He shrugs, moves down beside me. Ignoring the heat and the lingering smell of smoke, I lean against him, letting him put his arm around me. For a moment, the stoners are quiet, and there’s nothing but silence in a night that’s too hot for much more. It’s moments like this I can almost fool myself into thinking we’re a couple. He’s not as caught up in his own world. He seems to be here, with me, enjoying his time. I might have even gotten him close to another smile.
A mistimed shout from across the park breaks the moment. I ground myself. It doesn’t do either of us any good for me to get wrapped up in fantasies.