Chapter 35

Jesus stood on his balcony overlooking Highland Ave in uptown New York because there was no chair to sit. The chilly nighttime air of late October bit through his jacket and layers of clothing. He hadn’t acclimated himself yet to the New England climate. The air coming off the freezing Atlantic wasn’t the refreshing Pacific breeze of Baja Leai, it was a wolf, chewing through his armor and sinking its teeth into his skin. Despite the temperature and wind chill, he relished the outside air. Inside, he felt disconnected from the world, trapped inside his own biosphere. He didn’t want the comfort and security of a controlled environment, he wanted to feel the harsh reality of the world, to taste its bite with his skin. It made him feel alive.

Additionally, his landlord forbade him from smoking inside, and he didn’t want to risk losing the home that he and Andrea had worked so hard for. He ran the flame of his lighter over the length of the joint and carefully lit the end. As he began to puff away, his thoughts drifted off into a nighttime daydream.

“You ever thought about jumping?” Asked a voice in his head. He didn’t respond.

“It wouldn’t hurt,” Said the voice.

“Don’t do it,” Said another.

“It’s not worth it,” another.

“What’s the point?” A fourth voice asked. The voices were easy to ignore; they rarely interfered with his day to day life. Jesus smoked to make them go away. After the fourth hit, they began to fade and jumble into white noise.

“This is normal,” He told himself, but deep down he knew that it was not, and as much as he tried to downplay and minimize his symptoms, they would follow him like a lost dog on the streets of Baja Leai.

After he finished the joint, he went back inside and put on a Miles Davis record. He sat down on the sofa and let the sensual, cool, oscillating shades of blue wash over him like the waves of the Pacific beach Andrea and him would smoke on a nightly basis for the time they spent attending Baja Leai University. He left the door open to simulate the Pacific breeze rolling in, but it became cold, so he shut it. As the tired melodramatic saxophone spoke, he imagined the words it was saying and the one who said them. It was a noir story of a cop turned private investigator; it was the sultry voice of a red dress with blonde hair; it was a cool midsummer’s night of card games and cold bars; it was fly fishing at dusk; it was a candle lit risotto dinner; it was the smooth sheen of a black cat; it was the tired song of a forgotten songbird; it was a sleeping baby; a ballet dancer; a Les Paul; a Johnny Slick; a Manhattan, Manhattan, and it was a man in a hat and it was Andrea ringing the doorbell because she forgot her keys again. Jesus answered the door. She was drunk.

“Before … before you say anything, no, I didn’t drive,” She said, stumbling slightly.

“You don’t have a car.”

“And I know it’s four in the morning, but I have good news.”

“And what might that be?”

“Leroy,” Andrea said, and then hiccupped a bit, “Leroy… Leroy is having a party.

“And?”

“And we’re invited.”

” … And?” Jesus said.

“Don’t be such a sour- sourpuss. Leroy throws the grandest parties you can imagine. The- the people, Jesus, the people,” She stumbled into the house, “Have I ever told you I love you,” She said in her sweet baby doll drunk voice.

“Yes, you have, my love. And I love you too,” He said. He kissed her on the forehead, “now go take a shower. You’re a mess.”

She frowned. “You always say that. You’re this, you’re that. Go do this, go do that. I’m a person too, you know.”

“I’m sorry love, I didn’t—”

“Don’t ‘I’m sorry love,’ me,” She said, “Leroy says a real man never tells a woman what to do.

He says that a real man lets her decide for herself what she wants to do.”

“Did he say that now,” Jesus said flatly. This was new territory for him.

“He also said that pot smoking acid dropping junkie hippies have no place in his establishment, so maybe you aren’t invited,” She turned her nose up, “Cocaine is-,” She burped a little, “Cocaine is the drug of the future. You best get on it,” She marched off to the bathroom.

Jesus sat and pondered what she had said. His stoned mind could draw no conclusions other than that it was the ramblings of a drunk, strung out cocktail waitress. He waited until the water turned on, then waited a few more minutes before he entered the bathroom, took off his clothes, slid in the shower with her, and had sex. That was their way of making up after arguments that had become increasingly common. It worked.

In the morning, neither remember or cared about the small argument that night before. It wasn’t until Andrea brought up the party again a few days later that he recalled what happened. The marijuana and alcohol left them both in a convenient daze, where they remembered only what they wanted to remember, when they wanted to remember it.

At work, his newfound status and popularity was curtailed slightly when Chris Waters hired another new writer, a young American college graduate that began writing about the same material as Jesus. Now that The Post had gained a reputation for being, “‘The people’s conscious paper,” a tag line that a reader had submitted in a letter to the editor and was subsequently featured several times, Chris and Dana sought to expand upon the emerging market and concrete themselves as arbiters of the truth. The public’s hearts were fickle and their memories short; it was an easily accomplished goal.

Chris Waters had latched onto the idea with great enthusiasm after seeing the resulting increase in subscriptions after the launch of Jesus’ new column. Dana, however, was more reserved, and hesitant to make changes to the long standing principles that, to him, defined the foundation of The Post’s political stance.

But Jesus didn’t care about any of that. He cared about his position in the company, which was something that, to him, was threatened by Richard Baxter, the new writer. He looked at the new employee with contempt. The security he enjoyed was no longer present. He worked even harder to compensate, now leaving before the sun rose and returning home when it set. On days that Andrea and he both worked, they would only see each other for a couple hours in the early morning time that Jesus treasured, but lately he was beginning to think the unbridled affection he constantly felt from her was a one-way street. Her mood swings had worsened; she seemed constantly irritable or angry at him for one reason or another. He hoped that it was because she was exhausted from long days at Air, but the suspicion that their burning love had been reduced down to a smoldering pile of embers weighted heavy on his mind.

Jesus sat at The Rooster mulling over these thoughts in the early evening hours after work on a cold and rainy November day. The jukebox, something rarely used at the bar, was playing a slow country song.

Who can I trust?

Jesus looked at John fixing a drink for a patron at the bar.

“Leroy says … Leroy says … ” Her words echoed in his ear. He took another drink.

“Leroy says, Leroy says, Leroy says,” sang the childish high-pitched voice in his head.

“I wasn’t there for you,” Said Winston, sitting next to him on the bar.

“I know you weren’t, I know you weren’t…” Jesus said. He took another drink, “I forgive you.

I just wish I knew how to contact you. I need you more now than ever.”

“You can talk to me,” John said, in front of him. Jesus looked, and he was across the bar, still making drinks.

“Leroy says, Leroy says, Leroy says,” She said, like a demented nursery rhyme.

Who can I trust?

“You’re a man now, son,” Said Winston.

“I love you,” Said Andrea.

“You killed me,” Said Rodrigo.

“Want to come to my party?” Said Leroy

Who can I trust?

“It’s tomorrow,” Said Leroy.

“I’ll be there,” Said John.

“I miss you,” Said Miriam.

“She hates you,” Said another voice. Jesus took another drink, trying to drown out the voices.

“Jesus,” Said John.

“Jesus,” Said Winston.

“Jesus,” said another voice.

Who can I trust?

“You okay, Jesus?” John said. Jesus looked around. John was in front of him, and Leroy beside.

“Whadda ya think, buddy?” Leroy asked.

“Tomorrow?” Jesus asked.

“Yes, tomorrow.” Leroy said. It was real this time.

“I’ll be there.” Jesus said.

“Great. Come by after work, whenever that ends up being. Andrea already knows where the apartment is.”

How does she know that?

“Sounds good.” Jesus said. Leroy placed his great ringed hand on Jesus’ shoulder.

“Wouldn’t want you to miss it, my friend.”

I didn’t realize we were friends.

Afterwards, Jesus finished his drink and talked to John about work for half an hour before returning home. Andrea was already gone to work when he arrived.

The next day when he arrived home, Andrea was in the bathroom covering her face in makeup and curling her hair. She wore an open-sleeved dress he had never seen before and a triad of metal bracelets. She was singing to herself, a sure sign that she was in a good mood. Jesus knew that it would be at least another hour and a half before she was ready judging by her stage of preparation; it wasn’t often she made herself this dolled up, but he had seen it enough times to know what to expect.

“Come on honey,” She called, “We’re going to be late.

She’s anxious to get there.

Jesus dressed in his best clothes with a brown sports jacket, and by the time he was dressed, Andrea stood with her makeup done in the bedroom door.

“You look amazing, my love,” he said.

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” She said casually. She bumped her hips to the side and hung on the door frame. He took a step forward.

“We should have some fun before the party starts,” Jesus said.

“Shush, you’ll mess up my makeup,” She said, “Call a taxi and tell me when it arrives. I’ll be in the bathroom.”

When they got into the taxi, it took them to another high-rise uptown complex, the one where Leroy lived. They rode the elevator up and Jesus knocked on the door. A thin, middle aged man of ambiguous ethnicity and a pale, elegant appearance answered the door.

“Welcome, Andrea. Welcome, Jesus. May I take your coats?”

How does he know our names?

The apartment was the same penthouse loft in which Leroy had met Winston some months ago, adorned with stylish, modern furniture and culturally diverse artwork. The room was filled with faces he didn’t recognize. Everyone’s conversations ran together in a low roar. One could only hear laughing and the loudest remarks over the din. Andrea immediately pulled Jesus into a conversation with two older faces, introducing them and impressing their importance upon him. He would meet so many people in this fashion that their names all blurred into one. He simply hung onto Andrea’s arm as she pulled him from island to island through the sea of people, making pleasant conversation and inside jokes with each one. Jesus spotted John and peeled off to talk to him. No sooner than they had shook hands, Leroy arrived, looming a full head taller than Jesus and quite a bit over John.

“Well, if it isn’t my new friend. Glad you could make it,” Leroy said with a grin.

“I hope you do make yourself at home. The bar is over there. If you need anything, tell one of the staff,” And before Jesus could respond, he was gone.

“Some kind of party,” Jesus said, “I feel like everyone is looking at me,” Jesus said.

“Want to get some drinks?” Said John.

“Sure,” Said Jesus.

The two headed over to a makeshift bar where bottles of at least two dozen kinds of liquors had been set out and made available. John carefully picked out two exotic looking bottles and began crafting.

“Andrea seems to know everyone here, but you’re the only person besides Leroy that I know, and I don’t know if I could count him as a friend.”

“Maybe he is, and maybe he isn’t, but I want to tell you something I’ve been meaning to bring up for some time now,” John handed him the drink. It was strong and tasted superb.

“You know that Paul Halman is a very powerful man. He takes care of a lot of people. He took care of me once or twice. That court case they wanted to charge me with assaulting an officer and resisting arrest. Paul knew someone in the district attorney’s office, got it dropped down to disturbing the peace. What I’m saying to you is, whatever happens, we’re going to take care of you. Paul and I know all the best lawyers, cops, and even the godamn judges in town. You’ll be golden as long as you stay with us.”

“Wow, I don’t really know what to say. Thank you, I suppose,” Jesus said.

“You don’t have to thank me. Thank yourself. You’ve been a good friend to us. Now, enjoy the party,” John said.

And he did, once he had a couple drinks. Soon, Jesus was laughing along with the jokes of people whom he had never met. He danced along with strangers to a different tune than the hippies danced to, and he sang the songs everyone knew. After a few hours of debauchery, of the drinks, of the food, of the dancing and conversation, Jesus began to feel exceptionally drunk. People were beginning to leave, but Jesus couldn’t find the door. He couldn’t find Andrea either. The room was spinning, and he was lying face first on a couch. Blackness and sleep engulfed him.

Nothingness, a dream, too confusing to follow. His disoriented mind tried to make sense of the confusing images, but gave up and surrendered himself to rest. Nothingness, and then a sound.

Where am I?

He looked around.

There aren’t any people here.

He heard it again, the sound, this time louder, like the clapping of hands or the turning of a broken fan or washing machine. He staggered to his feet and took a drunken step towards the sound.

There it was again; his inebriated mind tried to make sense of what it might be.

God. I’ve never been this wasted. What was in those drinks?

He took another few off-balance steps towards the door, and almost fell. Focusing on the sound, it seemed to originate from behind the door.

Who can I trust?

An audible moan emitted from the room as Jesus approached in a drugged haze.

This isn’t right.

He reached for the door.

They must have given me something in my drink.

He opened the door to a sight that shook him to his core. Leroy had Andrea bent over the bed, and he was fucking her, his back towards Jesus. This wasn’t a rape. She was enjoying it. Jesus closed the door, mind reeling, trying to make sense with his broken mind of what he had perceived. His only thought was to escape, to move away from the terrible moaning and humping noises, towards the exit.

Where was John?

He stumbled into the elevator and held on as it descended to the bottom level. Later, all he would remember would be leaving Leroy’s apartment, everything would be dark after that. It was the beginning of the end.