I left Dave’s an emotionally overloaded man. There was that relief that comes with getting it all off your chest – sharing, if you’re a group therapy person. There was the fear/paranoia that I was being followed by the car behind me; that if I stopped, the guy in that car would get out, and I would have to meet my maker all slurred speech and red eyes. There was the guilt about dropping all this crap onto Dave, the Wile E. Coyote to my ACME inventions.
I was also horny, anxious, terrified, confused, determined, and tired.
I was a fucking mess.
But my concern for Virginia outweighed everything else. If she had somehow become involved I this, it was because I’d planted her right in the middle of it. Sure, it was unintentional, but most of the time intentions have surprisingly little to do with outcomes. Even Hitler thought his intentions were good, which means they were, but that’s a philosophical debate just itching to get going, and I’m not much one for debate. Besides, that’s not the point. The point is that Hitler meant well in his own fucked-up way, and look how that turned out.
The bottom line is I wanted to see Virginia. She deserved to know what I’d gotten her into.
So I drove around until I was sure I wasn’t being followed, parked on a side street, and cut through a few courtyards and backyards to get out to Carson. I did a quick sweep of the bar, looking for Shoulders while trying to stay hidden behind the spiked hair of all the wicked-cool hipsters crowding the place up. As far as I could tell, the coast was clear. I sat at the end of the bar, my face hidden from the crowd by a Megatouch 3000 Emerald touch-screen thing.
Virginia brought me a drink and an incredibly unpleasant look. “You better tell me what’s going on right fucking now.”
“You’re right. That’s why I’m here, actually.”
“Well fucking start talking, then.” God, how I love women with no desire for nonsense.
I lit a cigarette. For some reason, I hoped it would ease the tension, like the act of someone smoking a cigarette somehow made everything more casual. Yeah, it was a fool’s hope.
“You’re going to have to be pretty open here,” I started. “This is going to sound pretty fucked up. Those meetings I’ve been going to – the people there – they’re cannibals.”
She straightened up, but not out of any sense of panic. This was most definitely an angry move. “Fuck you. I’m being serious.”
“I know you are. So am I.” I sipped my shot, just so I could feel the burn of it. “They eat people. I just found out the other night. The night that girl was at my apartment.”
“Bullshit,” she said. She shook her head and stormed off to pour some drinks. Four shots. Two for a couple guys in baseball hats, two for herself. She took them down like they were full of some magic potion that would fix everything that was going haywire in her head.
I watched her and wished the whiskey really had been magical. I felt horrible knowing it was just booze. She deserved better. I wished I could have given it to her. As it was, I had nothing of any real value.
She came back. “You better be joking.”
I shrugged and shook my head no.
“You’re a sick fucking bastard.” This had no tone. Not even a hint of anger. No lingering scent of her playfully bitter perfume. And she was looking at me, but only because I was what happened to be in front of her. I don’t think she was seeing with her eyes just then, anyhow. I think she was envisioning a good-looking man with painfully hot shoulders strangling her as she slept. Or maybe he was stabbing her. Either way, Virginia had just learned something I’d become quite comfortable with by this point: picturing your own death is not a pleasant thing.
“So then, you’re fucking a cannibal.” The thing about women is you spend your whole life trying to figure out where they’re going to go with this, and just as soon as you think you have it figured out, they go the opposite way. We’ll never agree on what’s important.
“Actually, she’s not a cannibal. It’s sort of a long story.”
“But you are fucking her?” Like an arrow, this girl.
“I fucked her, yes. But that’s not the point.” I took the rest of my shot. “Did you fuck the guy with the shoulders?”
She leaned in. “Of course I did, you prick. And it was good, too.”
“No it wasn’t.”
“And how would you know?”
“You said he wouldn’t be, and I’m willing to bet you’re never wrong about these things.”
“Well, I…”
“It doesn’t matter. You fucking the guy with the shoulders isn’t the point, either. The point is that these people killed Adam. And I think they want to kill me. I just wanted you to know because I have a feeling they’re keeping an eye on me and the people I know.”
She took the empty shot glass and full beer away from me. “I’m never letting you drink in here again, you know. Get out.”
“Listen…”
“No. Get the fuck out.”
And then it happened. I watched it happen. The look that came over her face, and I knew exactly what was happening in her head and in her heart. I’ve felt the way her face looked. I’ve always had trouble with empathy, but I understood this one, and I felt for her.
She looked at me, sad and desperate. “That food – that food that you brought in here…”
“I know,” I said. “I know. I’m so sorry. I’m so very, very sorry. I didn’t know. I swear. I would never have done that on purpose.”
“You,” she said. “Fucking,” she said. “Asshole!”
“I know. Please under –”
“Please what!? Please understand!?” She grabbed the empty shot glass and chucked it at me, but she missed, and her fury hit the wall, shattering and unfulfilled.
“Hey!” I yelled. “Please! Wait!”
But she picked up my beer. I jumped back, anticipating that she would throw it in my face. This would not have been the first time this has happened to me, and it likely won’t be the last. What I did not anticipate, however, was that the glass itself would be flung with its contents. The thing hit me square in the forehead, followed by a shower of beer, like a comet and its trailing debris.
“You fed me a dead person, you son of a bitch! Get the fuck out of my bar!”
I didn’t look, but I didn’t need to. Heads were most certainly turning.
“Virginia, please. You have to –”
“Anyone who punches this asshole on the way out gets a shot!”
The thing about being famous is that the public has a short memory. And they’re fickle. This does not bode well for the celebrity, who is, after all, human, and will inevitably make a mistake big enough to sway public opinion.
Three guys got out of their seats the moment she said it. I knew all of them.
I should have told her it was just another hunk of dead cow.