Agents of the Internet Apocalypse (21 page)

I handed her a two-dollar tip and started my search for a table when I heard a voice say, “You don't tip at a free bar.”

It was the fidgety man from next to me. He turned around and I saw his agitation was just his efforts to properly cut his cigar.

“I know,” I said. “But bartenders work for tips.”

“Okay,” he said. “But how much is 20 percent of zero?” He lit his cigar and exhaled straight up into the air above him.

I thought I might know this man, especially since he was wearing the kind of slow smile that meant he recognized me. He watched me work through my awkward half knowledge. And nothing about my struggle quickened his pulse or influenced him to relieve my confusion a second sooner than he wanted to.

“Can I offer you a cigar, Mr. Gladstone?” he asked, and then I could see him clearly.

“Hamilton?” I asked.

“There you go,” he said. “But in business, the parties usually make a mutual decision to go by first names.”

“No offense, sir,” I said. “But to tell you the truth, I've forgotten your last name.”

That, of course, wasn't true. I remembered Hamilton and had insisted to Kreigsman that he was real. Now I had my proof, and he offered me the cigar I'd not yet accepted.

“I'm sorry I can't offer you a Cuban,” he said, “but I only have three and I want all of them.”

This time I was the one who laughed, and I accepted the inferior offering gladly. I followed him to a table he'd already commandeered before my entrance.

“So,” he said. “Things are looking up for you since last we met.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Well, you've amassed a movement and, more importantly, you've gone … what do they call it?… paper-viral?'”

“Oh. Most of that was accidental,” I said, and saw him frown almost disapprovingly. Once again, with just the slightest expression, he was able to fill me with shame like few men could. But I didn't want to embarrass myself as I had in New York. I didn't want to brag, and most of all I didn't want to show my hand. He wouldn't respect me if I did and I didn't want to lose that. He was rich, powerful, and successful, but he was the one talking to me.

“I suppose you're just spilling with ideas on how to monetize it?” I said.

“Oh, a few, yes. You're in the right town to get it optioned for a movie.”

“I want to, Hamilton,” I said. “But who could they cast to play a man as sexy as you?” He smiled and patted the skin under his chin with the back of his hand like a fading matinee idol, but he didn't laugh. I was quick to follow. “Also, I didn't write the book for money. I was just holding my head together. You know that. And now it means something more.”

I could see he was about to ask just what it meant, but I was sane. I was sober. He could not dictate now. “What brings you to L.A.?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Money,” he replied, and I had to remember that only the incredibly rich are not deeply embarrassed by the transparent pursuit of wealth.

“Sure,” I said, “but I guess I just didn't see you as a Playboy Mansion kind of guy.”

“Look around. Is that what this is? I'm just spending some time with old friends. And new ones.”

He raised his Scotch to my mimosa. I clinked his glass and looked around.

He was right. I would never know I was at the Playboy Mansion. Of course, nowhere in L.A. seemed real to me. The whole place felt like the paint was still drying.

“This town doesn't have New York's history, huh?” I asked.

“It will,” he smiled. “You just have to give it time.”

I laughed. “I didn't realize you were funny,” I said.

“Oh, thank you.” Hamilton seemed pleased to add my compliment to his collection. “So, what brings you here?”

The question brought a stark reality I hadn't expected. What was I doing here? I could tell Hamilton Tobey got a call, but even Tobey wasn't with me now, and Hamilton was the only person speaking to me at what was purportedly the Playboy Mansion. I'd read my book. I knew this could mean there was an excellent chance I'd suffered a major setback. None of this seemed real on paper. Still, I could feel my chair against my back. I could see the tiny mole resting in the wrinkle by the side of Hamilton's eye. There was a level of detail that didn't feel like delusion. Maybe I was crazy, but maybe I was finally strong enough to accept a larger truth.

“Well, Hamilton, if you'd asked me an hour ago, I don't know what I would have said. But what brought me here? I'm starting to think … it was you.”

“Is it that obvious?” he asked, and clinked my mimosa again. “Oh, this is ridiculous.” He called over to the bartender. “Get this man one of what I'm drinking.” He turned his attention back to me. “Don't worry. It's on Playboy,” he said. “Old friends.”

The bartender brought me a Scotch neat, and after one sip it took all my strength not to reveal that too much had just happened in my mouth. Warmth and science and nature had commingled for the purpose of instructing me that the very best Scotches are orgasms made for men who can no longer come.

Hamilton smiled. “Yes, you're my guest. My plus one, so to speak.”

“You arranged all this for me?” I asked.

“No?” He laughed. “Who the fuck are you? I was just in L.A., visiting friends, and saw you on the news. I thought it would be fun to see you. Also, I enjoyed our section of your book and thought you might miss me.”

“Thank you,” I said, and remembered I had a cigar burning in my hand.

“Seriously, you should sell it. It's not like you couldn't use the money. I would think that's your ticket, no?”

“I didn't come to L.A. for a ticket, Mr. Burke. I came for my wife.”

“Yes, I read that. And how's that going? Deliver your letter?”

He'd got me speaking again. Proving myself, and I didn't like it. I stood up from the table and finished the rest of my Scotch in one tilt, which was a foolish act of defiance, akin to shoving half a filet mignon down your throat.

“You've been very gracious,” I said, “but I'm afraid I have to cut our reunion short.”

“I didn't mean to upset you,” he said.

“Not at all,” I replied. “There are just things I'm looking for, and I won't find them getting drunk with you.”

“Ah, the Internet,” he said.

“That's one.”

“Well then, I won't keep you,” he said. “Happy hunting. This is California, after all. There's gold in them thar hills.”

 

10.

Truth is stranger than fiction. But it has terrible pacing problems. You can wait and wait for something magical to break the confines of your dreams, and it might come. But even if you get to meet the wizard, you never recover all the time you lost waiting.

Things come in bunches after a long nothing because life needs life to happen. Each event carries an energy-seeking cluster that brings things to a boil. Sometimes the water absorbs the warmth of one flame with only the smallest of bubbles losing their grip on the bottom of the pot. And if that's all there is, you might never predict that with just one more candle, the water would thrash and jump the rim, looking for something more than the shape of its surroundings.

There was no way of knowing today would be a day like that. And perhaps I'd hoped to make it
not
happen, believing a contemplated life remained still, like a watched pot. But Romaya came in the morning and she brought a letter. Not my love letter, which still lived unwanted in my jacket pocket, but another letter she received on my behalf. When I opened the door I could see she was eager to be released of its burden. Or at least that's what I thought I was seeing.

“What's wrong?” I asked, but she just handed the letter to me and stepped inside. It seemed the State of New York wanted me to know that in furtherance of its prior correspondence, and due to my failure to attend the mandated psychiatric appointments that were a condition of my disability compensation, all payments had now ceased.

“It's fine,” I said, and put the letter in my pocket.

“What's fine?” she asked. “What will you live on?”

“I'll figure it out,” I said. “Don't worry. I won't try to crash on your couch.”

“Don't be an asshole,” she said. “I'm not worried about that.”

I took a step closer, holding her gently at the wrist. “Wait. Does this mean I can crash on your couch?”

“Oh fuck off.” She pushed me away.

“Y'know, you would have laughed at that once,” I said.

“So?”

“Okay, Babe. You got the job done. Letter delivered. And message received. You don't want me around, so why do you give a fuck about my financial standing?”

Romaya looked confused, but I wasn't sure if it was confusion stemming from the answer or how I could even ask the question.

“We were together over ten years,” she said.

“Yeah, and now we're not. And you want it that way, so … so?”

I knew my argument was logical, but if sounded petty. Maybe more to me than to Romaya, because she was thinking about something else. Something bigger than us.

*   *   *

I sat in the back of the Matrix, and let Jeeves take shotgun. We were headed for the Oakwood Apartments, so Tobey took Santa Monica Boulevard east through West L.A. The apartments were allegedly home to former child actors, porno stars, and at one time, Rick James, but that's just what Tobey told us because he didn't have a blog to spill it on. Other than its location, nothing about the place was important. We weren't going inside.

Tobey crossed Wilshire and I guess we were in Beverly Hills because Tobey said “Beverly Hills” and Jeeves looked around harder than I would have ever expected. Maybe his cynicism had vanished for a moment, but I didn't care. There were galleries I'd never go to and stores I'd never have the money to shop in. What was there to see? I almost enjoyed the fact that we were cruising Beverly Hills in a ten-year-old Matrix, and wondered if the beautiful people would think we didn't belong or wonder if the vehicle belonged to an idiosyncratic celebrity. Of course both options were stupid. We were invisible.

There was a nice stretch of green on the left. A park I guess. A buffer between the street and the large homes beyond it.

“How much to own one of those?” Jeeves asked.

“Not as much as the ones higher up,” Tobey said without even turning his head.

*   *   *

I walked to the couch and offered Romaya a seat beside me. It was all I had, and it occurred to me I actually had more when I was in jail.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “That was shitty. What else is wrong?”

“Where's Tobey?” she asked.

“Asleep for hours, I'm sure,” I said. “He doesn't work Sundays.”

She sat down, and that's when I remembered.

“Oh, shit,” I said. “Is this about Google? I'm sorry I didn't ask. What happened?”

“No,” she said. “I'm still hoping to hear. Called, but they said they're still at the start of the process.”

A few years earlier, I would have pressed her, but not now. Maybe I'd learned something, or maybe I was just tired. I waited from a distance, and it was as if my pulling back made enough space for Romaya to lift her head and look at me.

“I'm pregnant,” she said.

“Pregnant?” I asked. “Is it…”

“Of course it's yours!” she replied.

“Yeah, but just once and…”

“Yeah, nice use of a condom. I probably have a baby and Messiah-groupie crabs.”

I got down on my knees, and put my head to Romaya's stomach. I could feel her flinch slightly. It was too close. Too personal. But she did not stop me.

“You're pregnant,” I said.

“For now.” She was trying to find a tone that would respectfully acknowledge all the miscarriages past without jinxing the present.

“I'll get a job,” I said.

“That's not why I brought you the letter. I can take care of this baby. You need a job for you. I mean, what are you doing?”

“What am I doing?” I asked, getting back to my feet. “Haven't you heard? I'm leading a movement. I'm on the fucking news. Why do you have to make me feel like it's nothing?”

“Yeah, I know. I saw you on the news. Thanks for letting me know you were out of prison, by the way. They take away Facebook and you still find a way to make friends with thousands of people you don't actually know.”

“They're not my friends. They're my followers,” I said.

“Oh, sorry,” she replied. “I should have said Twitter.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do. Instead of getting your own shit together, you're out saving the world.”

“What do you care?” I asked. “I already tried to save you.”

Now Romaya stood too. “I didn't ask you to be my savior.”

“No, that's the point,” I said. “You didn't even have to ask.”

*   *   *

Tobey slammed on the brakes, and whatever staying power they build into Toyotas was burned to dust as we screeched toward a stopped bevy of Benzs, BMWs, and other cars I don't know.

“Jesus Christ,” Jeeves shouted, grabbing the dash. We stopped short of the standstill, but there was clearly an accident ahead.

“Damn it,” Tobey said. “Probably some asshole texting!”

“Really?” I asked. “See a lot of that in the Apocalypse, do ya?”

“Or looking in the mirror, I dunno,” he said. He pulled out to the left and worked his way up until he could turn onto Beverly Drive. “Fuck this noise,” he said. “We'll take Sunset Boulevard.”

*   *   *

Romaya got up and went for the door.

“Please,” I said. “Don't go.”

She turned.

“Can't we try?” I asked. “We have a baby coming. We can do this. I love you.”