Dear god.
Please.
5
His dreams were sweaty things full of looming shapes and pointing fingers and the sense of imminent disaster. The context changed from dream to dream—he leaned over the edge of a tall building, he fumbled with the seat belt of a car spinning out of control, he stepped into shadows beneath a bridge where something terrible waited—but the essence was the same. In each of them he was filthy and lost and helpless to prevent tragedy.
The blast of an air horn and the roar of tires woke him, an eighteen-wheeler barreling by. He jerked upright, sure that he had fallen asleep at the wheel again. The sheets were tangled and wet, and the pillow bore a sodden outline of his head.
“Fuck me.”
The alarm clock read 4:17 P.M. He’d slept about five hours. Daniel pushed the curtain aside and looked out at the dreary motel sign and the gas station across the street and the flaming sky beyond. Four o’clock and the sun was setting. These people got screwed.
Weird. You know you don’t belong here, and it’s not a matter of license plates and insurance cards. You just know it’s not home.
Daniel extricated himself from the blankets and padded to the bathroom. Left the light off as he ran cold water and splashed double handfuls on his face and neck.
It was time to acknowledge the facts. Somehow he had forgotten who he was.
So what do you know?
He’d woken on a beach, half-dead, naked. Could he have been drugged or knocked unconscious, taken there against his will? But if someone had done that, why leave the car for him to find?
More likely, he had gone there himself. Judging by the contents of the car, the whiskey and the ephedrine and the profusion of crap, he’d been driving for a while, maybe all the way from California. From sunny Malibu to that dark ocean, that hidden bluff, where he . . .
He . . .
Jesus.
He tried to kill himself.
How else to explain it? No wallet in the car, no clothes on the beach, no cell phone. He must have gone into the ocean. He could picture it, the cold light of dawn barely breaking the horizon. Habit might have made him kick off his shoes, take off his watch, then realize how unnecessary the actions were. Walking into the water, wincing at the shock, the bone-snapping cold of the waves. Walking until he could dive, and then swimming, stripping off his remaining clothing as he went. Past the breakers. His mind in turmoil, desperate to die, fighting to live. Diving deep into the womb-darkness, and opening his mouth to invite it inside—
Flair for the dramatic, Daniel?
He didn’t know anything like that, not really. Maybe he’d just wanted to take a dip. Hell, maybe he wasn’t Daniel Hayes. He couldn’t know any of it for sure.
First things first. A shower. And food. He was starving. If he wanted to be more than an animal, if he wanted to believe that he was still a man even if he wasn’t a whole one, then may as well start with the simple stuff.
In the bathroom he spun the tap to hot, stripped off the boxer briefs and tossed them on the toilet tank, then, while the water warmed, looked at his body in the mirror. His skin was on the pasty end of the spectrum, and though his arms had some definition, his belly had that early-thirties softness. Scratches crisscrossed his shoulders and back. I’ve got a feeling I’ve looked better. He stepped into the shower and let it wash over him.
Afterward, a towel around his waist, he explored his room. There was another canvas on the wall, this one a gray outcropping of rock lashed by black-blue waves. Spray flew high, spatters of white against storm clouds. The scene was intensely lonely, all that fury and foam without a hint of humanity to soften it. The only bright spot was in the sky, a tear in the clouds, small and far away.
Yeah, well, if you were married to that woman, hope would look small and far away to you too.
Daniel picked up the remote control from the nightstand, turned on the TV. Five-forty-eight, not time yet. He flipped until he found CNN, Wolf Blitzer myopically paternal. The Palestinians and the Israelis were still going at it, Darfur was still hell, Russia was still backsliding. Daniel hit mute.
His stomach twisted. God, he was ravenous. Have to do something about that soon. First, though, let’s see if you can get some help.
The telephone was black and battered. He lifted the receiver, punched 411, and was rewarded by a mechanical tone followed by a mechanical voice. “Welcome to Directory Assistance. For English, please press one. Para Español—”
He hit one.
“Please say the city and state.”
“Los Angeles, California.”
“Say the name of the person or business you are—” “Daniel Hayes.”
“One moment please.”
He waited, twisting the cord between his fingers. After a moment, the silence gave way to the muted buzz of a call center and an operator’s bored voice. “Thank you for calling AT&T Directory Assistance calls may be recorded for quality assurance please spell the name you’re looking for.”
“Hayes, H-A-Y-E-S, first name Daniel.”
“Thank you.” The clacking of keys. “I’m sorry sir, that number is unlisted.”
“Listen, it’s an emergency. I absolutely have to talk to, to Daniel.”
“I’m sorry sir, I can’t give out unlisted phone numbers.”
“Could you connect me directly?”
“I’m sorry sir, I can’t do that.”
“Come on,” he said, trying to keep the frustration from his voice, “what’s the worst that could happen if you connect me? I still won’t know the number.”
“I’m sorry sir, I—”
“Can’t do fuck all. Yeah.” He hung up the phone hard enough to jar the bell. Five fifty-eight, almost time. He punched channels until he came to FX, the wrap-up of some cop show. Calling had been a long shot, but he’d been hoping that someone might answer the phone, someone who would recognize his voice. A roommate, a lover, a brother, a wife, someone he could trust to guide him—
Wait a second.
Almost time? For what?
His shoulders tingled like they’d been brushed with feathers. When he checked into the motel, he’d confirmed the room had cable. And earlier, shit, he hadn’t even noticed, but as he’d turned on the TV he’d thought that it wasn’t time yet.
Daniel sat up straight against the cheap headboard. Unmuted the television. Commercials: bad credit, no credit, you could get a loan; a Swiffer made it all worthwhile for a grinning housewife; a Mustang drove at unlikely speeds across abandoned roads.
And then it started.
INT. MAMI’S KITCHEN—DAY
A stylish West Hollywood café at lunchtime. BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE munch organic greens and sip Chablis, attended by WAITRESSES in chic black outfits. At a table by the window EMILY SWEET toys with her silverware. She’s a knockout in a tight T-shirt and designer jeans.