received a phone call. You have to understand,” the skinny cop
said, “we get these crazy calls all night.” He was still taking his hat off and pushing his hair back, over and over and over.
“There’s no evidence that anything happened. There’s nothing to even lead us to that conclusion. Anyway,” he added, “it looks
to me like she may have hit the highway.”
“She would have told me.”
“How well do you know her?”
“What do you mean?” I rubbed my hands over my face.
“You said she’s your girlfriend, I mean —”
Trip laughed. “He doesn’t even know her last name.”
“Anyone around here you could ask?”
“Why don’t you wait until morning,” the skinny one said, “ask your neighbors. Maybe someone knows something.”
We stood by the door for a long, awkward moment. “You know there’s a show on TV about a guy named Angel who lives in Los Angeles?”
Trip said finally.
I shook my head. “I don’t watch much television.”
“He’s a vampire.”
As they walked down the stairwell, I heard him, Trip, the cop I had been thinking of as the intelligent one, say, “Jesus,
Mike, we meet some weirdos out here, but
that
guy —”
______
I sat down heavily at my desk, the chair squeaking against my weight. I wanted to piece together what remained, what was left
of Angela in memory, but there were only fragments, scraps of dialogue, out-of-focus images. I had confessed so much, traveled
over so much emotional terrain and in such a short amount of time, and now when I considered what I really knew about her,
I realized that she had told me almost nothing. It was all contradictions, prevarications, meaningless chatter. She had no
past, not even a last name. We had been lying on the floor of my apartment, talking, kissing, drinking, eating pills. Her
mouth had been moving, and words had been spilling out of it like rainwater from the mouth of a gargoyle, but what those words
meant was slipping away. I tried to sort out what was true, what was untrue, what had been simple exaggeration, what were
lies. I tried to pin down in memory what practical clues I had to go on, what she really had given me that might be meaningful,
and found myself at a loss.
“Angel?”
Angela had said.
It was the voice of a person calling from inside the deepest ventricle of the blackest heart of an infinitely terrifying universe,
and it was all I had left of her.
From here I could see into the kitchen, all the way to the blue numbers on the coffeemaker. It had become five-thirty-five
in the morning somehow.
I automatically got up to take one of my twice-daily doses of Reality but paused to read the warning label. I had read it
a million times before, of course, but right now, I was trying to notice things, trying desperately to stay alert. This was
the drug I was expected to take every day, once in the morning, once in the evening, the crystal-shaped green pills that came
with no immediate sensation other than a benign loss of imagination. This was the maintenance drug, with side effects that
included “dry mouth, irritability, problems urinating, memory loss.” Lately, I had been missing days. Since Angela had begun
coming over, I had been skipping it because when I took it, nothing ever happened, there was no sensory effect, nothing seemed
to change except that it banished me to a colorless present tense. To be perfectly honest, I’ve always preferred the kind
of drugs that bring a little something extra to the party.
Besides, right now I needed a clear mind. I needed my thoughts. My memory, weakened though it was by years of chemical abuse,
was all I had to go on.
I put the bottle back down and swallowed a half cup of bourbon instead, then went back to sit at the computer again.
At a certain point, I felt the light of the sun curving around the horizon. All the blinds were drawn, yet the apartment was
growing brighter.
That’s because even in the
said, “we get these crazy calls all night.” He was still taking his hat off and pushing his hair back, over and over and over.
“There’s no evidence that anything happened. There’s nothing to even lead us to that conclusion. Anyway,” he added, “it looks
to me like she may have hit the highway.”
“She would have told me.”
“How well do you know her?”
“What do you mean?” I rubbed my hands over my face.
“You said she’s your girlfriend, I mean —”
Trip laughed. “He doesn’t even know her last name.”
“Anyone around here you could ask?”
“Why don’t you wait until morning,” the skinny one said, “ask your neighbors. Maybe someone knows something.”
We stood by the door for a long, awkward moment. “You know there’s a show on TV about a guy named Angel who lives in Los Angeles?”
Trip said finally.
I shook my head. “I don’t watch much television.”
“He’s a vampire.”
As they walked down the stairwell, I heard him, Trip, the cop I had been thinking of as the intelligent one, say, “Jesus,
Mike, we meet some weirdos out here, but
that
guy —”
______
I sat down heavily at my desk, the chair squeaking against my weight. I wanted to piece together what remained, what was left
of Angela in memory, but there were only fragments, scraps of dialogue, out-of-focus images. I had confessed so much, traveled
over so much emotional terrain and in such a short amount of time, and now when I considered what I really knew about her,
I realized that she had told me almost nothing. It was all contradictions, prevarications, meaningless chatter. She had no
past, not even a last name. We had been lying on the floor of my apartment, talking, kissing, drinking, eating pills. Her
mouth had been moving, and words had been spilling out of it like rainwater from the mouth of a gargoyle, but what those words
meant was slipping away. I tried to sort out what was true, what was untrue, what had been simple exaggeration, what were
lies. I tried to pin down in memory what practical clues I had to go on, what she really had given me that might be meaningful,
and found myself at a loss.
“Angel?”
Angela had said.
It was the voice of a person calling from inside the deepest ventricle of the blackest heart of an infinitely terrifying universe,
and it was all I had left of her.
From here I could see into the kitchen, all the way to the blue numbers on the coffeemaker. It had become five-thirty-five
in the morning somehow.
I automatically got up to take one of my twice-daily doses of Reality but paused to read the warning label. I had read it
a million times before, of course, but right now, I was trying to notice things, trying desperately to stay alert. This was
the drug I was expected to take every day, once in the morning, once in the evening, the crystal-shaped green pills that came
with no immediate sensation other than a benign loss of imagination. This was the maintenance drug, with side effects that
included “dry mouth, irritability, problems urinating, memory loss.” Lately, I had been missing days. Since Angela had begun
coming over, I had been skipping it because when I took it, nothing ever happened, there was no sensory effect, nothing seemed
to change except that it banished me to a colorless present tense. To be perfectly honest, I’ve always preferred the kind
of drugs that bring a little something extra to the party.
Besides, right now I needed a clear mind. I needed my thoughts. My memory, weakened though it was by years of chemical abuse,
was all I had to go on.
I put the bottle back down and swallowed a half cup of bourbon instead, then went back to sit at the computer again.
At a certain point, I felt the light of the sun curving around the horizon. All the blinds were drawn, yet the apartment was
growing brighter.
That’s because even in the
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