Back before I was anyone, back when I was just a kid with a keyboard and a strange last name, this had been my drug.
I was a shapeshifter.
I lay back in my bed with my headphones on and the window open, and as the moon rose and striped over my eyes and car lights made a metronome pattern on the ceiling and the California smells washed over my remade wolf nostrils, I fell into song after song. The chords buoyed and buffered me.
Down below was the crappy world full of insubstantial people, but here in this sound was nothing but perfection.
Later, I woke up and I was wide-awake and my headphones were hot on my ears and I was tired of sleeping and it was too early to get up.
The music that had carried me only hours before now felt too sluggish. I sat there for a few minutes, listening to it anyway.
Part of me knew that if I stayed still long enough, the music would work its sleepy magic on me again.
But the rest of me was awake and gnawing.
I stood up. The closeness of the apartment, the domesticity of it, the four walls of it, pinched like a shoe.
I went outside.
In the cool night air, I was sharply alive, my heartbeat a guillotine.
The stucco house opposite was dark and still as I let myself out of the gate. In the alley behind the house, I stood on the concrete pad and grimaced at the car Baby had secured for me.
In the dim streetlight, I couldn’t tell what it was until I walked around it and stared at the badge, and even then, the fact of its brand meant nothing to me. It was an invisible car from the early 2000s. I unlocked the door and opened it. Inside, the seats were made of cloth the color of orphans’ rags.
I stood outside it, the door hanging open, and dialed my phone. After a long space, Baby’s voice answered, sounding sharper than it had in person. “St. Clair?” Then she corrected: “Cole.”
“This car isn’t going to do,” I said. “No one wants to watch a show about a rock star who drives around in a — what is this?
Saturn. You know, I have seen Saturn, and it is much more impressive than this car. Also, Saturn is yellow, and this car is more like . . . menstrual.”
“Cole, it’s three twenty-three.”
“Twenty-four,” I corrected warmly. “How those minutes fly as we age. I want my Mustang.”
I hadn’t, actually, until I got to the end of the sentence. But now I wanted it in an all-consuming way that was going to ruin easy sleep for days.
“I’m not getting you a Mustang,” Baby said. “I don’t have the budget for that.”
“Don’t be silly. I already have one. It’s in Phoenix, New York.”
In my parents’ garage, next to my old bicycle, covered in dust. Paid for with my advance, driven by no one. “People would watch a show about a rock star in a black Mustang.”
“Three twenty-five,” Baby said.
The image of that car was worming its way into my brain: a solution to all of the problems that unending nights presented.
I wondered if I was willing to call my parents in order to get it.
No. I was not willing.
“I don’t see how I can continue without it, the more I think about it.”
“Three twenty-six.”
“Six twenty-six in Phoenix,” I replied. “And that Mustang looks good in the morning light. Think about it.”
I clicked end. The Saturn was still there. I was still awake.
It was still three twenty-six, although that seemed impossible.
I stood there, trying to think of my next course of action.
Before, I probably would’ve driven to Crenshaw or something to score, not for now, saving it for later, just for something to do, something to stop my insides from gnawing away at me. But now, I’d just been a wolf; I’d just spoken to Isabel; I’d just slept.
I was relieved to feel like it was only a dull muscle ache. A memory. It was okay. I was okay. History of substance abuse. Key word: history.
And Isabel —
I considered calling her, but I was enjoying the fact of her taking my calls too much to risk ruining it with an early morning phone call.
Still three twenty-six. It was never going to be morning.
I dialed another number and waited.
This reply was wary but polite. “Hello?”
“Leon,” I said broadly. “Did I wake you?” I knew I hadn’t.
Leon wasn’t sleeping nights. He wasn’t sleeping days. He was too sad for sleeping. “This is Cole St. Clair. I’m one of the rock stars you were driving around yesterday. Do you remember? I was the most charming of them. With the saxophone track.”
“I — I remember. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to get food, I think. Nothing heavy. Popcorn. Ice cream. Sardines. Something like that. More like the idea of food than anything else.”
Leon took a long time to answer. “And you need car service?”
I picked a fleck of anemic red paint from the fender of the Saturn. “Oh, no, no. I have a car. I thought you might want to come with me.”
An even longer pause. “Mr. St. Clair, is this some sort of prank?”
“Leon,” I replied sternly, “I am always serious. I’m going out to get something. I’m awake. You’re awake. It seems like good sense to be companionable. Follow up and see how you’re liking that track. No pressure. Also, it’s Cole. There’s no Mr. at three twenty-eight a.m. Night is the great equalizer.”
“And this is for real. Not for your show.”
“I hadn’t even considered it. What a thought! But no. Even the cameramen lie sleeping now, Leon.”
I heard a rustling sound, but he didn’t answer. I was depressed by the knowledge that if Leon didn’t agree to go out, I would have to go out by myself. With nothing but the Saturn to remind me of my humanity, I’d surely make poor decisions.
Leon said, “It’ll take twenty minutes for me to get to Venice.”
Chapter Nine
· cole ·
It turned out that Leon, in his spare time, didn’t drive a black Cadillac, but instead a rather pristine and stately Ford Five Hundred. He permitted me to twiddle with the radio knobs as we drove up and down Abbott Kinney looking for something that was open late and wasn’t a bar. A bar would be fine, except I’d be recognized, and seeing people drinking would remind me of how glorious and friendly I got when I drank, and it would all be over.
No, in retrospect, a bar would not be fine.
Leon drove us both a total of two miles to the beachfront.
Climbing out of the car, he said, “Not far now.” He sounded kind, puzzled, bewildered. He wore black slacks and a blue dress shirt, neither of them rumpled. A tasteful watch. He was the sort of man people trusted without thinking about it. He was the sort of man people didn’t think about, period.