Destroy (2 page)

• • •

Deep into my second pack of smokes and a third bottle of water by the time I've broken past the last wave of asshole motorists, the Bronx lyrics
“What's left of California, what's left of Los Angeles . . .”
on repeat in my head, I reach into the console and grab one of the four mix tapes I made two nights before I took this trip. (I'd had a dead-on feeling that even though I'd requested a car with a CD player, I would get stuck in a ride with tape option only. Three times in a row it had happened . . . “I'm sorry, Mr. Morgan, your request isn't showing up in the paperwork.” . . . “Your request was apparently not filed, Mr. Morgan.” . . . “There was a mix-up, Mr. Morgan, and the car you were supposed to get was rented to a beautiful couple from Pensacola. Oh, and by the way, did your cousin really shoot up Kip Winger's studio apartment like you wrote in your novel?” So assuming, and rightfully so, that my request wasn't really going to exist once it left the cusp of my lips, I bought two grams of cocaine and stayed up all night making mix tapes after attempting for the forty-seventh time to push out anything even remotely resembling a foundation for my second book.)

The tape I grab is the second tape I made that night. The title:
Mix Tape #2, The You Can't Touch My Taste Mix
, written very nicely and very straight on the white strip of paper at the top of the tape. And although this is an extremely well-put-together mix (highlights include “I Will Dare” and “Bastards of Young” by the Replacements; “Stagger Lee” by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds; some Neutral Milk Hotel shit; a few killer jams by the Cassettes and Moccasin; a lot of the Duke Spirit; Hank Williams's “Ramblin' Man”; and like a three-song set from Oasis—all of it leading to the blood-boiling climax on side B with the entire GN'R
Lies
album, “Titty Coke Montana's Garage” by Lamborghini Dreams, and a one-song tribute to DMBQ and their late drummer China), I was sort of hoping to pull out
Mix Tape # 4, The Fuck All Your Heroes Mix
: a lot of Three 6 Mafia (who pretty much stand for everything I've ever written); Cage's “Shoot Frank” and “Scenester”; “About a Girl” from Nirvana, some motherfuckin' Al Green; Ice Cube's “Bop Gun” remake; the audio track from that amazing James Brown high on cocaine video on YouTube; “Running with the Devil”; a few tracks from PoPo and Shat; some Mike Patton, Peeping Tom shit; and “Gangsta Lean” by D.R.S. But I didn't pull that one out. I pulled out Tape 2, so I deal with it and light a new cigarette with the one I'm just finishing and pump a fist into the air as I listen to the Replacements sing about scoring with an underage broad.

Cocaine '93, baby.

• • •

My cell phone starts blowing up. Grabbing it from the pocket of my jeans, I pop it open. Nina. My sweet, sweet Nina. A girl I'd consider giving up everything to be with.

Well, maybe.

Actually . . .

Probably not.

“Happy fucking birthday,” I tell her.

“Thank you,” she says.

Sweet, sweet Nina.

“Are you wasted yet?” I ask.

“Not yet, darling. I think I want to actually remember my birthday this year.”

“Why?”

“It would be a nice change of pace, I think.”

“Pussy.”

“Whatever, James. How was the trip?”

“It was pretty okay.”

“Did you have fun?”

“It was LA, baby.”

Pause.

Nina laughs and says, “What'd you do?”

“I don't know.”

“You don't know or you don't remember?”

I take a drag.

• • •

The things I remember about LA are these: Seeing Van fucking Halen with David Lee Roth absolutely shred it at the Forum. This KIND OF A BIG DEAL party I was invited to after the show. A ton of lame dudes there wearing mascara and eye shadow. A Big Business, Bronx, and Priestess show at the Echo. Hanging out briefly with this band, Times New Viking. Going through the entire eight ball I brought down with me on the first night. Kicking it with Miko Lee and Marie Luv and Annette Schwarz and Jenna Haze at some porn producer's house in the Hills. Natalie Portman asking me if I would show her this haiku I was working on at the Viper Room.
Meeting the cast of the movie that's about to go into production based on my novel. Another huge sum of money getting deposited into my bank account because of it. Calling my agent repeatedly from the back of a cab at five in the morning, and him telling me to call him when I'm actually doing something productive, like a second book. This art show. Meeting Rosson Crow at the art show and buying her a drink and almost one of her paintings. Hitting on Cat Power and Joss Stone in the girls' bathroom at the same time. Calling Devendra Banhart a pussy. Me willing to bet two hundred dollars that Guy from Entrance would whip Devendra in this arm-wrestling contest that never materialized after, like, an hour of talking about it. Flicking a cigarette at a couple of the fat, ugly kids in Good Charlotte. There was dinner with an old friend from Illinois. A God's Girl fashion show. And the two cases of champagne and box of beef jerky I brought with me to the fashion show after-hours party.

And into the phone, I'm like, “Yeah, um, I don't know.”

“Figures,” Nina says back. “Did you hear anything at all about the attack?”

“What attack?”

“Somebody firebombed an art gallery near Union Square last night. The police think it was a terrorist attack.”

“Oh god. What isn't a terrorist attack these days? I mean, did anyone die?”

“No.”

“Then honestly, who really gives a shit?”

“Okay,” she sighs. “Fine.”

She goes, “Are you still coming out for my birthday tonight?”

“Obviously. And I have the best present ever for you.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“I can't wait. Everyone's meeting at Delirium around ten.”

“Come again?”

“Everyone's meeting at Delirium around—”

“I heard what you fucking said, Nina.”

“Okay.”

“But Delirium? Really? Why the fuck are you going there? Please don't go there. Please. Pretty, pretty please.”

“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.