Gray (18 page)

Right then and there, on the dirty subterranean platform, as the 11:37 off-peak departs for New Haven, I lose my mind. The water main bursts behind my eyes, and hot, salty tears come pouring down my cheeks, some of them flowing into my mouth, others landing on the filthy platform with a loud
splat!
Tears like I’ve never cried before. My pulse is pounding in my ears, it’s so loud that it drowns out everything else. My legs go out from underneath me, and I am suddenly aware that I am sitting on
the concrete, my knees pulled tight to my chest. People are staring at me, a woman nearly trips over me, and then a police officer grabs my shoulder, shakes me, and asks if I’m all right. It sounds as if he were talking underwater. I nod and wipe the tears from my eyes, tell him that my girlfriend was on that train, that she left and is never coming back. I am probably shouting right now. The officer clearly can’t be bothered to arrest me—probably doesn’t want to do the paperwork or something—so he pulls me to my feet and tells me to go cry somewhere else. I wipe my nose on my bare arm, leaving a long, glistening trail of mucus on my tattoos.

Now I am sitting in the second-floor waiting room, which is also sort of a food court, not to mention a good place for homeless men to masturbate. My head is in my hands, my ears are ringing. I’m not crying anymore, but that’s mostly because I’m utterly, completely
drained
. There’s nothing left inside of me. I am so alone, and so scared—terrified, for the first time in my life—because I’ve glanced behind the curtain, I’ve seen that no one is at the wheel. Not God, not anybody. There is no one left to believe in, nowhere left to go. We are all adrift, we are all lost, with nothing to put us back on course . . . because there
is
no course, there is only emptiness and space, numbers and ratios. That is a terrible way to look at life, but maybe it’s also the most
realistic
. The most scientific. Albert Einstein did not believe in God. Neither did Carl Sagan. But they believed in
numbers
. Numbers are all that matter. God probably does not exist, and if he does, he’s nothing more than an angry, old white man who spends
his days shooting dice with the archangels, rolling sevens and elevens and making airplanes fall out of the sky, taking babies up to heaven for no reason in particular. He would not be the beatific, cloud-inhabiting superbeing we learned about in CCD classes. You would not like God if you met him.

Then again, maybe I am wrong. Maybe God is not a superstition. So I sit there and pray for Him to reveal Himself . . . for Him to show me a sign that He is really up there, that all of this misery is worth it in the end. These are the moments when He is supposed to reveal Himself, after all, when His followers are at their lowest. I pray to Him, beg for an answer. I wish this were easier. I want God in the form of a teen magazine “Is He right for you?” test, where I can turn the magazine upside down and look at all the answers to get the outcome I want, so I can cheat my way to peace of mind. I want it glossy. I want it easy. I’ve always believed in God. I’m just not so sure He believes in me.

It’s like when Her and I used to fight late at night and then for the next six hours I’d watch my cell phone and wait for Her to call. That’s what my belief in God has always been like. It is the most desperate, obsessive relationship I’ve ever had in my life. I want to stalk Him, to sit out on the street in front of where He lives and just know that He exists. I have been more unfaithful in this relationship than I have been to any of my exes. And it hasn’t paid off at all; or maybe it has because I’m not dead. Yet. I open my eyes and look around the waiting room, searching for a ray of light or a dove or something.
A woman is eating a chicken sandwich. A janitor is mopping the floor. A homeless man has his hand down the front of his pants. Then, to my left, there is a child . . . a cherub-faced boy, in overalls, blond hair hanging down over his forehead, his eyes bright blue. A holy infant, so tender and mild, like the ones we used to sing about in church. He is looking at me with curiosity. I stare back at him, not knowing what to do. It occurs to me that I am looking directly into the face of God. I am peering deep into His azure eyes. There is a splendid silence. I lift my hand to Him, as if He were a spring and I am a parched man who has crawled through the desert. I reach for Him, an oasis, an illusion, a glorious thing. Then He starts freaking the fuck out, bawling, and His mother puts down the chicken sandwich and grabs Him by the waist. She lifts His tiny face to hers and coos, “What’s the matter? What’s wrong?” She wipes the tears from His tiny face. He wasn’t God. He was just a little kid. God doesn’t exist.

I wait for them to leave the waiting room, then I wobble to my feet and do the same, head back up into the massive windows and marbled arches of the main terminal. The light is shining down in the most theological way, and I understand that, once upon a time, someone built this entire building as an edifice to God’s glory. I wonder if he or she knew what I know. Probably not. If they did, you can bet they never would’ve stacked two marble blocks together. I walk out onto the street, take a cab back to my hotel, shaken and broken, yet, on
some level,
alive,
or maybe reborn, eyes wide, confident in the knowledge that I will probably never have a more depressing day in my entire life. And if I do, well, then I hope God or whoever strikes me down. I hope the universe pulls my number. Either way, the result will be the same.

I
think
everyone should go crazy at least once in their life. I don’t think you’ve truly lived until you’ve thought about killing yourself. It’s oddly liberating. I’ve called Her and apologized for my actions. Told Her I had gone off the rails a bit, but now I’m doing fine. Really, truly fine. She told me it was okay, and that I can call Her anytime I need to talk. She talks about school and Her job. Her voice is warm and comforting, like a blanket or the gentle hiss of the radiator on a cold morning. She sounded just like my mom. I am making peace with my past. I am moving on. I don’t give a fuck anymore.

The shareholders liked the album. They heard a potential first single. And a second one too. It’s coming out in May, I think. We’re back in Los Angeles now—at least some of us are, Martin went back to Chicago—putting the final touches on the thing, doing overdubs and the like. Glossing it up a bit. I flew back here with no problems, made it all the way across the Great Plains and the Rocky Mountains without a sliver of anxiety medication,
without a single tear. That chapter of my life is over. I’m tired of being afraid, and of being in control. I am officially on autopilot. I am leaving it all up to someone else. I am unchained and ready to live again.

I call my landlord back in Chicago, tell him that I’m going to keep my place there, and I use some of the money from the record advance to pay my rent for the remainder of the year. He sounds surprised to hear my voice, says he’s glad to hear from me. I haven’t been back to the apartment in something like six months, and I may never go there again, but I like the idea of having a space in the city, a hermetically sealed chamber, untouched since I left it so long ago. Cardboard boxes are still in my bedroom. I will probably never unpack them. That’s okay.

I find another place in LA, up in the canyon, an old house with massive windows and a weathered veranda that overlooks the city, and the Disaster moves in with me. We are all alone up there, free to do stupid things, so we smoke tons of pot and get lost in the foothills, dry-mouthed and wandering among the scrub and the sago palms, leaping from rock to rock in the arid heat. At night, we explore with flashlights, twist our ankles in unseen crags, chase off coyotes with shouts and yips. We are like feral children, wild and free, unkempt. Except with drugs. And the handgun that the Disaster bought and now keeps tucked into the top of his jeans. He only shoots bottles at the present, setting them up on boulders and blasting them into oblivion, the sound of the gun echoing around the great walls of rock. He says he’s going to bag a coyote one of these days. One time a jogger yelled at us,
but for the most part we are left to our own devices. It’s not too long before we stop wearing shirts, and the California sun begins to bake our skins. Imagine, a suntan in the middle of March.

We do a run of shows that takes us from west to east, headlining stuff now with a crew and catering and the like. Our very own bus. It’s good to see the kids’ faces again. To hear their voices sing along, not just to the old stuff but the new songs too. Our band is better than it’s ever been before, we are survivors, we have made it through the tunnel and emerged into the light. We are on the cover of a magazine. We shoot a music video, again with a crew and catering and the like. Folding chairs with our names printed on the backs. Friends are texting me from Chicago to tell me they heard our song on the radio. My dad’s clients are asking him if I could sign something for their daughters, since they’re big fans and all. It occurs to me for the first time that I may actually be famous. You can’t tell these kinds of things when you live in Los Angeles because
everyone
is famous out here. But in the Midwest, the Iowas and Ohios of the world, I can no longer go to the grocery store without having kids follow me, call out my name. I am signing autographs in the cereal aisle while the store manager apologizes. If we are out at a restaurant, we are asked to take photos with the waiters, to pose with the bartenders. Kids sit at tables near us, faking that they’re snapping pictures of their friends, but tilting their cameras
just
enough to catch us in the background. Our manager is saying we might have to hire security pretty soon. I just laugh.

But back in LA, I’m just another guy. I can eat my dinners in peace. Only, in the weeks before our album comes out, my face starts turning up at bus stops, in the window of Tower Records, on a billboard down on Sunset. Suddenly, I am not just another guy. I am invited to parties at clubs, then after-parties in penthouses. It’s just as it was all those months ago, when the Disaster and I ran roughshod over the city, only now we are
supposed
to be here. We are invited guests. Well, actually, I am, but the Disaster goes everywhere with me. I am beginning to be able to get us into any event, no matter how long the line outside, no matter how stone-faced the doorman. I have become Mr. +1. You should see my name there on the list . . . right there, yeah. And here’s my friend. He gets in too. Okay? Cool? Thanks, man.

Eventually, we don’t even have to bother with the list. The doormen know me by first name. They know I come with company. They unlatch the velvet rope and let us inside without a moment’s hesitation. I am putting twenties in their pockets. They nod and say stuff like “Good to see you again” or “Have fun tonight.” We usually do. One night we are in a club—a minimal, throbbing place with pure white light emanating from the floor, sort of like the Korova Milk Bar only without naked women for tables—sitting in the back, when the Disaster starts elbowing me. He nods across the room, and I look in the general direction and lock eyes with the most beautiful girl in the entire world—only for a split second, of course, then I avert my stare to the floor. I glance back up again, and she is smiling at me.

“Lookit that, man,” the Disaster whispers in my ear. “She’s lovin’ you.”

It would appear she is. She motions for us to come over and join her table, and the Disaster and I get up and make our way across the dance floor, nodding our heads to the beat, praying not to trip or spill our drinks. Everything is happening in slow motion. She is smiling at me and biting the corner of her lip. One of her friends whispers something to her and she nods and laughs. She covers her mouth with her hand. My heart is racing, I am understandably nervous.

“Hi,” she shouts over the music. “Have a seat.”

Her circle of friends parts and I am suddenly sitting right next to her, my hands nearly in her lap. She leans in close to talk to me, and I can see down her dress a bit, down into the promised land. I can smell her perfume. You can tell it’s expensive. She is poured into something backless or strapless; either way, it’s missing essential parts. And when I say
poured,
I mean more like half a glass—but definitely of something strong. I introduce myself and the Disaster, who is across the table, in between two girls who on any other night, in any other city, would’ve been the center of attention. They are gorgeous, otherworldly. Long necks laced with diamonds. They are slightly annoyed by the Disaster’s presence, sitting upright and rigid, their eyes forward. He looks as if his head were about to explode. He has made it to the top of the mountain.

“I know who you are,” she shouts in my ear. “I’ve seen your picture.”

This is a key moment in all young celebrities’ lives, the instant when they stop wondering and just
know
that they are different from the rest; that the world will stop for them. She figured this out a long time ago. Her skin shines as if it had been buffed with diamonds. Chances are pretty good it actually was. She is not mortal. She is something greater. How do you make small talk with someone like her?

“So . . .” is about all I can muster. “Hi . . .”

There is a pregnant hush around the table, everyone is craning their necks to hear me speak. I clear my throat and don’t know what to say next. The pressure is mounting, my palms are sweating. She has reduced me to a panting, stuttering teenager. I am drowning.

“Relax.” She smiles and touches my arm. “Have a drink.”

She knows exactly what she wants, and she doesn’t have time for games. She has seen and heard it all before. She is not impressed by any of it. Yet, as the night goes on, she seems positively
fascinated
by me, laughing at the stupid jokes I eventually make, leaning into my shoulder. She’s like a cat toying with a mouse, batting me around with her paws, savoring the moments before she sinks her teeth in. The drinks flow, the music blares, the people stare, and suddenly it’s two in the morning and she is asking me what I’m doing now, and if I’d like to come back to her place. She asks this merely as a formality: she knows I’m coming back with her, that we all are, and that we will stay for exactly as long as she wants us to, do anything she asks of us, because she is who she is, and
that’s the way it is. We leave the club, and photographers outside take her picture. They shout her name and ask her questions, but she doesn’t even acknowledge their presence. It is as if they don’t even exist to her, and she would walk
through
them if she could. Her friends form a protective barrier around her, usher her to a waiting SUV. The Disaster and I go with them, eyes wide, dumbfounded. You can see us in the background of some of the pictures. We look ridiculous.