Gray - By Pete Wentz Page 0,47

more breathing or movement, so I swallow a few Ativans and go back to doing whatever distracts me from my loneliness . . . usually this means staring out the window at the action in the hot tubs, or maybe walking down to the vending machines for no particular reason, except that my brain is sort of humming and fuzzy and warm and it’s telling me I need to get some of that California air, to breathe it in and let it cool my system. So I stand outside in my hoodie, drinking a can of soda, my eyes swooshing around in a haze, over to the glimmering taillights on the Hollywood Freeway, across the night to the fences of Universal City, or down to the pitiful Los Angeles River. Behind me are the Hollywood Hills, all pocked and mysterious in the moonlight, and beyond that, the Forest Lawn cemetery, the final resting place of silver-screen stars. Famous ghosts in there. One night I got all freaked out because I thought I heard a coyote over in the bushes, and Jen-with-Two-N’s had told me that tons of them were up here, and that they kill people’s pets at night. I’m thinking of switching meds, for the record. Ativan isn’t doing it for me anymore. Or it’s doing it too well. I’m not sure. Anyway, eventually 5:00 a.m. rolls around again and we do another video chat, I watch Her leave for school, and the process starts all over again. I’d say we spend roughly half the day talking to each other, yet we say absolutely nothing of substance. I am strangely okay with this. We are both nervous. We both see the writing on the wall. We are both choosing to ignore it.

She never flies out to see me because Her mother conveniently gets sick just as finals are over. Her mother looks like a skeleton. She is always sighing and moaning about something, always struggling against someone. She is always the victim. She and I don’t like each other that much. When she goes back into the hospital, that means no visit to Los Angeles, which only further puts a strain on things. Now whenever we talk, she’s usually standing in the hallway of some Chicago hospital and I’m peering out my window at the suntanned silicone of LA. She is reading me pamphlets about Copaxone and Avonex, I am listening with an Ativan on my lips. There are long periods of silence. We are living in alternate universes. I suspect Her mother did this on purpose. She always hated me.

So, with nothing to do and no one to look after, John Miller decides to head West. I have the record label pay for his flight. First class. Fuck them. He lands at LAX and steps out into the smog and sunshine and feels a shudder run up his knotty Southern spine. His quest for adventure has taken him to the end of the continent, to the end of the world. He has reached his spiritual home, his Mecca. Here he will officially become the Disaster. He shows up at Oakwood with a canvas pack slung over his shoulder (a definite improvement over a Hefty bag), tells me he’s arranged to have “the gays from downstairs” watch the apartment while he’s gone. His return flight is booked for two weeks from now, but he’ll change that. His eyes are manic, filled with fire and heritage and a million bad intentions.

“Now,” he drawls, “why don’t you show me whut this town is all about?”

We spend the next week haunting the hipster bars in Silver Lake, the velvet-rope Hollywood spots with one-word names, the terrible Red Bull–and-vodka joints on Sunset. We pass out in the achingly minimal lobbies of hotels, DJs playing down-tempo-chill-out bullshit behind black-lacquered booths. We waste away poolside at the Roosevelt, we get invited to a bungalow party at the Chateau Marmont, where we watch the cast of some primetime make bad decisions. The Disaster swears some sitcom actress made a pass at him, but I didn’t see it. There are pills and powders and pot so strong it makes your head ring, black eyeliner and smeared lipstick. Half-smoked cigarettes slowly expiring in ashtrays. Blurry photographs of kissy-faced model/actresses. Bottles and black light. Endless nights and afterthought days. We have kidnapped Jen-with-Two-N’s, mostly because we need a designated driver, and she is eternally hammering away on her BlackBerry, though after a few days, her hope of rescue begins