Fourteen
NUMB, MY MIND nearly sober from seeing Jimmi, the sneering voice of my dead brother ranting behind my eyes, I needed escape. Relief. My Chrysler was heading back toward the Prince Carlos when I chose to change directions. To just go.
Years before in New York, as a cabbie, I had discovered driving as an escape. Late at night I’d learned to rescue myself from my depressions by rolling through the empty streets of Manhattan, alone, listening to the humming of the tires, hour after hour. Drifting. Safe. Solutions had come easily. Ideas. Poems.
I needed that again.
Taking the 5 Freeway into the 10, I headed east instead of toward the ocean, San Bernardino—stopping only for two quarts of Stoli at a two a.m. liquor store. Fifty miles later, at the base of the mountains, I caught the off ramp to the 15, up the hill toward Hesperia and Baker and Barstow, in the direction of Death Valley and Las Vegas, the openness of the wide Mojave Desert.
Hours later, deep into the murky hills, my brain felt comfortable. In front of me, a dotted line of headlights extended fifty miles onto the flat desert. A pure black night, stars popping above me like a billion sparks bursting at the same time.
When the rim of the sky began turning pink, I decided to pull off on a dirt road and watch the sun come up, then head back toward L.A.
A few hundred yards into the sand, with the main highway behind me, far enough out of sight, I rolled to a stop then put the car’s windows down to let in the chilled desert air. There was half a bottle of vodka left on the seat. After taking a dozen long hits, I clicked the headlight switch off and killed the engine. I lit a cigarette and smoked it. No ghosts. Only stillness. Not the roof of a house nor the eyes of a face. Nothing. Immense, undisturbed, raw space. Perfect quiet.
I found paper and a pen in my glove compartment. An old order book from my vacuum job. I began a new letter on the back of one of the carbon pages.
‘Jimmi,’ it started, ‘I stole from you tonight. A pair of your panties. I found them on the floor by your bed and stuffed them into my pocket when you weren’t looking. I will never give them back. I will lick them and smell them and keep them in my pocket and never return them. When I die, they will be cremated in my coffin with me. I stole a lipstick from your desk at Orbit too. I’m keeping it. I love you, Jimmi. I can’t help it or stop it. I have not ever felt this way about any woman before. When you breathe, I breathe. When you drink water or wash your hands, I am there with you. I came to you tonight knowing you do not understand or care at all for me. That is why I left you. You are beautiful and you are mine and what has happened between us has left a magic that has changed my life forever. I will love you, Jimmi. Your boy too. Your wonderful son. I love him too. We will be together. Bruno.’
It was dawn. I was okay. I folded the letter up and stuffed it in my pocket with her underpants. Then I closed my eyes.
When I woke up, I was sheathed in sweat, convulsing and twitching. My first impulse was panic. Clearing my vision, I looked around. Great squiggly waves of incinerating heat were out every window, like huge, dancing, transparent snakes hovering above the weird landscape. My head was pounding, and a sour taste began swelling and choking my throat. I reached for my Stoli and took a hit. It didn’t help. Something was wrong. It was a sickness. A terrible demon had taken possession of my guts and flesh.
Reaching for the key to start the Chrysler, pulling my body upright in the seat, I badly scorched my hands on the car’s flame-temperature steering wheel. Wave after wave of the shakes hit. Convulsing, I could only wait for it to pass. Finally, when I could, I twisted the ignition key to the right. The car started.
Now I was shivering. Dizzy. I got the windows up, then clicked on the A/C. Air began coming out—a tepid, weak stream—like blowing at a volcano. But it was something.
When I flipped the car’s chrome shifter down into ‘D’, the wheels