Ghost Tour (ch.21)

September 25/26, 1998

Alone in his suite, Reid found a reasonably good six of German beer in the minibar. One would take the edge off, but in his present state of mind, what’s the likelihood he’d stop at one? His last night in LA, drinking alone in a fancy hotel room. That’s how this tour would end.

He closed the fridge, pulled his jacket back on, headed downstairs. Better to be with people.

“How do I get to Silver Lake?” he asked the concierge.

“We’re here,” the concierge explained with a ballpoint pen, circling the cross street on a Discover LA Map.

“No, I mean, if I don’t have a car?”

The concierge stopped drawing.

“You don’t have a car?”

“Can’t I get a cab or something?”

The concierge reached for a business card and hoped for the best.

“This one does LAX, they can probably take you to Silver Lake…did you want me to call for you?”

Reid waited outside twenty minutes, mystified you couldn’t wolf whistle a cab into existence in this town. When one arrived, the cabbie balked at the destination, sure he’d not find a return fare to make the trip worthwhile. Reid sat in the backseat with no intention of getting out, the driver relented and started the meter.

Santa Monica Boulevard was a straight shot, but the Silver Lake neighborhood twisted ever upwards along winding streets. Reid was soon disoriented beyond being able to find his way back.

Lila Parker’s 30s bungalow was aglow with paper lanterns, partygoers spilling onto the front yard, watching Reid with incredulity as he climbed from an airport taxi, out-of-place from the get-go.

It was crowded inside, Reid angled his way through the living room. He didn’t see a single one of his bandmates, or even Lila Parker for that matter. He paused at a food table to give himself a sense of purpose. The gal behind the table wore a starched white apron, hair pulled back like Kristina on such occasions.

“My girlfriend’s a caterer,” Reid confided in her, thinking he had at least one thing in common with someone.

“The kebabs are lamb, the fillo is feta and spinach,” she said. Maybe she hadn’t heard him, it was a little noisy.

“You know where Lila is?” He spoke a little louder.

“Who?”

“It’s her house.”

“I haven’t seen her,” the caterer said.

With one lonely Greek appetizer on a tiny paper plate, he turned to face the party, not sure what he was doing here.

# # #

Lila drove her 74 BMW coupe almost aimlessly around West Hollywood, Jordan sinking into the bucket seat beside her. Rolling slowly down La Brea, she stopped for a light in front of Pink’s, a serpentine line of half-wasted patrons waiting out front for custom hot dogs.

“I was gonna take you here,” she told him. “Chili sauce on our faces. I thought it’d be cute.”

“So let’s do it,” Jordan said.

The light changed. She put it in first and kept driving. She made a right onto Melrose before they could drift too far south.

“We gonna go to the party?” he asked, for maybe the third time.

Lila slowed the car, craned her head. There it was, the billboard she’d been looking for. Her new film had an ensemble cast, no single actor featured more prominently than the others. But, nonetheless, there she was, larger than life.

“We had timed it so perfectly,” she said. “My movie, your record.”

Jordan took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. The BMW smelled like gasoline. Lila had a mechanic in Brentwood she swore by, but no amount of tuning could save it from itself.

“It’s just a small setback,” Jordan said, “we’ll be rolling in a month.”

“I know you will. That’s what I like about you, Jordan.”

“So let’s go to the party.”

Lila calculated the potential damage to her house with an unmonitored party, versus the potential damage to her career with a romantic linkage to a rock musician whose career was tanking.

“Let’s just go back to your hotel,” she said.

# # #

Subs and Rex sat at the hotel bar with Roncho, discussing logistics.

“I priced it out. I was thinking maybe the three of us drive the equipment back in a U-Haul,” Roncho said, “but it’s cheaper to fly and pay the extra baggage.”

“What about the bus,” Subs said.

“Kenny’s driving straight back to Tennessee.”

Rex took a swig of beer. He hadn’t planned on getting back to civilian life this abruptly. He wasn’t even sure he had a place to stay.

“So that’s it, the whole thing?”

“They haven’t cancelled New York yet, Europe either,” Roncho said. “I wouldn’t unpack your bags too quickly.”

“You think Jordan’s gonna find a new drummer by New York?” Subs asked.

“I think Jordan’s mom’ll be playing drums before he gives up another show date.”

Not fifty feet away, in the shadow of a potted palm, Liz sat with Celia, speaking in hushed tones, hoping not to draw the crew’s attention. Celia had persuaded the bartender to find her a chamomile. Liz tried to cheer herself with a Manhattan.

“Well, you said you wanted off this tour,” Celia said.

“Not this way.”

Celia used the spoon to squeeze out the teabag. Liz toyed with the maraschino cherry adorning her drink. She put one end of the toothpick in her mouth, pulled the cherry off with her teeth.

“You’re the best thing in this band,” Celia told her.

Liz smiled at the compliment without taking her eyes off her drink.

“Hell of a way to make a living, I’ll say that.”

Celia couldn’t take her eyes off Liz. The long nights had taken their effect, but the years since college had made her more beautiful than ever. She was growing into her beauty.

“Why don’t you come back with me to San Francisco? You can do anything you want, you know that, don’t you?”

Celia reached across the table and touched Liz’s hair. Her hand fell slowly, tracing the side of Liz’s face.

Liz gave in to a level of comfort the caress provided. But she also knew this was the extent this type of intimacy would ever feel right to her. Which is why Celia’s sun-drenched apartment on Telegraph Hill, with the lovely clawfoot tub, was just not going to work.

“I appreciate the offer,” Liz said.

# # #

He wouldn’t admit it, but half the reason Reid had come to the party was thinking he’d see Evie without having to express interest by calling. This plan obviously wasn’t working. The matchbook Evie had given him in Chicago was now the only number he had in the city of Los Angeles. He found the wall phone in Lila’s kitchen.

Evie saw the caller i.d. and answered.

“What are you doing home?” she said.

“It’s Reid,” he said, cupping his mouth over the receiver to make sure she could could hear him.

“Oh, I thought you were Lila.”

“I’m at her house. There’s like, a party here, aren’t you coming over?”

“Didn’t your band break up or something?” she asked.

Either this was a complete non sequitur, or there was something going on beneath the surface tonight he hadn’t suspected.

“We’re experiencing technical difficulties,” he said, making light of the situation rather than getting into the weeds.

“You guys were so good in Chicago,” Evie said, almost tragically.

Reid was running out of ways to steer the conversation with any degree of subtly.

“So, are you coming to the party?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. No further explanation.

“Well…maybe you can swing by, pick me up?”

“I’m not a taxi, Reid!” she laughed.

“I meant, you know, get a coffee or something.”

“That’s so sweet,” she said, as if he had the understanding of a three year old. “Nice to talk with you, Reid.”

After she hung up, Reid recalled having been advised once to steer clear of actresses. It hadn’t made sense at the time but he was starting to get the picture.

There was a yellow pages on the counter under a stack of take-out menus. He had to try four different companies before he found one that would agree to send a cab.

“It’s gonna be at least an hour,” the dispatcher said.

Jesus, what was he going to do for an hour. He headed toward the front porch, maybe someone would have a cigarette.

“Hey, aren’t you one of the dudes from X-13?”

It was a good looking young guy speaking at him. Actually, everyone at this party was good looking, that was part of what made this whole thing so surreal.

“I am,” Reid said. At least the guy had gotten the band name right.

“So this is, like, your party,” the guy said.

“Something like that.”

“So, do you want to party or not?”

The guy was with a couple of girls. They were smiling. Reid tried not to look too obviously at their hiked-up shirts, taut exposed bellies, permanently tan in a way you just didn’t see back east. If they had only been pasty-skinned goth chicks, it would’ve been so easy to politely decline.

Reid moved barely an inch toward them, and it was like they were gliding after that. The four of them were suddenly in a bedroom, Reid sitting on a double bed next to one of the girls, while the guy cut lines on the dresser.

It was not too late to excuse himself, this was not a good idea. But before he could find the words there was a cosmetic mirror on his lap with four lines on it, holding him fast like a seat belt. If he moved, it would spill everywhere.

The good looking guy extended a rolled up bill. Reid accepted it like an alien object, but knew all too well what to do with it. Before he could think further, he was arched over, vacuuming powder.

He could feel his teeth buzzing immediately. It tasted a little different somehow, but it was sweet, so sweet.

“Have another,” the guy said.

“I thought…” Reid said, trailing off. There were four people, there’d been four lines, basic math.

“You’re the guest of honor,” the guy explained.

Reid still had the rolled bill. He did a second line through his other nostril before passing the bill to the girl sitting next to him.

Leaving the mirror where it was, the girl clutched Reid’s thigh lightly while she bended into his lap to take her turn.

Looking downward at the back of her blonde head almost between his legs, it was incomprehensible how quickly he’d gotten himself into this position. She went for the last line before sitting up, tapping each side of her crinkling nose with an index finger while she sniffed twice audibly, making sure everything stayed up there.

The girl looked at Reid, giggled, gave his arm a squeeze. They were buddies now. The guy took the mirror, cut more lines for the other girl and himself. Reid watched the whole thing almost clinically.

There was apparently enough to Frankenstein one more line together.

“Here, finish it,” the guy said, holding the mirror under Reid’s face.

“I’m okay.”

“Go on,” the guy insisted.

It was about the size of last two lines put together. Reid did it. Everyone was sort of laughing. Reid tried to stand up, then fell back onto the bed.

“Easy cowboy,” the girl next to him said, and helped him back onto his feet. Everyone was definitely laughing now, Reid included. Arms around each other, they moved in a swerving tango from the bedroom into the general party. Then, as easily as he’d fallen into their embrace, his new friends were drifting away from him.

“Enjoy the party,” the guy called out, and they were gone.

Left without training wheels, Reid tried to balance like a newborn fawn, the music having grown louder now that he was in the living room again, surrounded by unfamiliar faces, who were maybe staring at him, maybe not, he couldn’t tell.

A different caterer appeared with a tray of drinks. He had purposeful messy hair. It was like Reid was looking at himself, working that party with Kristina, two weeks or a lifetime ago.

“You look like someone I know,” Reid joked to the guy, who remained stone faced. Reid took whatever was being offered.

He took a sip. Maybe it was Sauvignon Blanc, who the hell could tell. Whatever it was, it went down too easily.

Reid swayed to the music as if dancing, happier than he’d been in weeks. When the room started echoing, visually, he veered toward the kitchen where he set down the empty glass and caught the doorway to keep himself from falling over.

He was enjoying the party, though. He smiled at everyone, wanted to take them in one at a time, have as many random conversations as possible, just let everything blast off gloriously in all directions.

The few who smiled back drifted past, beyond his reach before he could formulate a simple Hello. He closed his eyes and clutched the doorway.

“You okay?”

Reid opened his eyes, just some random guy checking in on him.

“I think I need to go outside,” Reid said.

“Good idea,” the guy agreed, and was gone without offering further assistance.

Catching sight of the front door, Reid calculated his trajectory, banked successfully off a couch, and made it out onto the front porch. A familiar face smiled back. It was the guy who’d gotten him high. Reid leaned into him.

“Was that coke cut with something?” he said, probably louder than was cool.

“That wasn’t coke, that was ketamine,” the guy said. “Have a good one!”

Reid almost tripped down the stairs after him but the guy was gone before Reid could figure out his next question.

He stood out front, unsure how he got here. He could return to the party, but he’d called a cab, hadn’t he? This was the place he needed to be if he intended on catching it. How long ago had he called? One hour? Two hours? He had no sense of time.

He spiraled downward, sat cross-legged on the lawn. He could lie down right here, but then, he would never get up. He needed to stay upright, or he wouldn’t see the cab. How many hours had it been? This cab, he thought, is never going to come.

Laughter trailed off into the night in all directions as various guests quit the party. Reid saw one guy unlocking his car nearby. He jumped to his feet, sensing this might be his only chance.

“Hey, can you gimme a ride?”

The guy looked at Reid like he was off his rocker, he didn’t respond.

“Look, I’ll give you fifty dollars,” Reid said, reaching into his pocket.

“Sorry, no can do,” the guy said, and climbed in quickly.

Who would turn down fifty dollars? No matter, as the guy drove off, Reid figured at least he was heading in the right direction. He broke into a trot, following the taillights until they rounded a bend and disappeared.

By this point Reid could plainly tell he was heading downhill. Instinct told him this would lead back to something resembling a grid system.

From odd angles he caught sight of tall buildings downtown, twinkling with unexpected seductive beauty since he was otherwise cursing this city for vexing him.

As the skyscrapers eventually disappeared beneath a horizon line of palms, the ground leveled out beneath his feet. The residential streets spilled out onto a familiar-looking intersection.

Spying the street sign for Santa Monica Boulevard, he knew he just needed to head due west and he’d get to his hotel eventually. He set a brisk pace and committed to walking. It’s not as if he didn’t have the energy.

The few people he passed on the street were either sleeping on the sidewalk or eyeing him as a potential mark. He kept his head down and stayed focused. The sooner he got to West Hollywood, the sooner he’d be safe in bed.

Someone began walking alongside him. Reid picked up the pace, thinking whoever it was would get the hint. But the guy kept up with him, started mumbling something. Reid figured it was a request for money, the same language in any town.

“Sorry, can’t help you,” Reid said.

“But you can,” the familiar voice said.

Reid turned to face whoever was following him, then froze in his tracks.

It was the ghost from the tour bus.

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