Tap, tap, tap. Fizz, fizz. Crackle.
Friday, it’s noon and Kathi Kannon’s estate is quiet. Benny is outside pretending to water plants. Agnes is in the kitchen, sitting in her dining nook, staring out of the window, daydreaming of I-don’t-know-what, maybe thinking, like I do sometimes, what would I do if this were my home? If I had these resources? If this were my life? What if I won the lottery? Would I live in a place like this? Yep. I’d take time to myself, sure. I’d travel and buy nice clothes, a new car (apologies to my trusty Nissan). I’d put some money away for loved ones. I’d try to invest in arts and theater. I’d have microdermabrasion on my acne scars, try to lose chunks off my love handles, get a trainer to beef up my biceps and thighs so eventually someone will love me. Sitting in that house, sure, I’d love this life to be mine, and isn’t it now, a little?
Kathi is still in her bedroom, resting, from what I’m not sure. Maybe she has full nights, late mornings, secret parties she attends or hosts under moonlight. But there are no signs of a party here today, this morning, last night. No trash. Only sober sunlight and—tap, tap, tap—50 mg of this, 100 mg of that, 20 mg of these. The colors are beautiful: pale blues and peaches and reds. Do they purposefully design pills to look artful, inviting, delicious, bipolar beautiful?
After filling the pill containers, I pull out my laptop to kill time. I’m checking Facebook. I’m checking email. I’m checking OkCupid—just looking; I know no one wants me, not yet, anyway. I’ve only just begun my conversion to a cooler person, after all.
Another hour.
Another hour.
Another hour.
Am I allowed a lunch break? A break from what? I’ve hardly done anything.
Is this the primary job: waiting around while Kathi Kannon sleeps?
But then she emerges, and I jump to attention. She’s dressed, electronic cigarette dangling from her mouth. She’s texting and doesn’t even look up at me. “I’m going out, Cockring.”
“Somewhere fun?” I ask.
“Vegas.”
“You’re driving to Vegas right now?”
“Not Vegas Vegas, just Vegas. I’ll be back soon … ish.”
“Is Vegas a restaurant?”
“It’s nothing and everything,” she says.
“Okay, have fun, I guess. Bye!” I shout as she exits the front door, leaving it wide open behind her. I close the door. I look around. This time of day, in my prior life, I’d be winding down, preparing for rest for the night shift. But this is the new me, trying to live a new life, seeing an unreal amount of sunshine and a change to my face—I’m looking rested, approaching happy.
Another hour.
What if she’s gone the rest of the day? The week? The month? I’m now starving and feeling primal cravings for food. Is this the best job ever? Is this the worst job ever? Do I get a lunch break?
I wander into the kitchen. Agnes is asleep.
I wander to Kathi’s empty bedroom. I make her bed. If Dad could see me now.
I think of the other me, the one who would stress and worry and simply not eat because—what if something happens?! But … Hey, Siri, this is the new me.
Fuck it.
I go to my Nissan.
I drive down Beverly Canyon to the shops of Beverly Hills.
I park at a rusty meter on a sleepy, shady street outside of Mickey Fine, the pharmacy where Michael Jackson got the medications that killed him. It’s where Kathi has her meds filled and is one of the oldest institutions in Beverly Hills; it still has a greasy diner in the back.
I sit at the counter and order a cheeseburger and fries. I’m relishing the moment, teasing my vanity on a lovely afternoon, looking around and wondering what these other people at the diner would think if they knew they were one degree away from Kathi Kannon, that I am the degree, the key, the connection.
The waiter—a rugged man in a paper diner hat—fills my water glass as my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pluck it out and even the caller ID can’t dampen my mood, even a conversation with Dad can’t shake my good vibes, and I accept.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, hoping he can hear the smile on my face. “How’s the kidney?”
“Can you believe I’m not peeing blood?”
I nearly spit out a sip of water. “What?”
“They do all that poking around in there and still my pee is normal. I mean, it’s great, it’s just weird. Fucking doctors. If healthcare is so easy, why is it so expensive?!”
“Yeah, what’s up, Dad?”
“I’m cleaning,” he says.
“Good for you.”
“Want any of this stuff?”
And he succeeds—my smile fades. “What stuff? Mom’s stuff? Why? What’s going on? What are you doing?”
“I have too much junk in here,” he says. “I need space.”
“Space? For what? You have a whole house with no one in it!”
“Maybe I’m sick of it! Maybe I won’t be living here forever!”
“Can’t you start cleaning other parts of the house that don’t involve me? Or Mom’s stuff? Why throw it out? What’s the rush—” I start, but then feel my phone vibrate. I look at the screen. A text from Kathi.
KATHI: Cockring do I need new socks?
“Dad, I think I have to go. Please don’t get rid of anything.”
“Why would you want any of this junk?” he asks.
“Dad—”
My phone buzzes again and I steal a glance.
KATHI: Can e-cigarettes cause a heart attack?
“Dad—”
And again.
KATHI: Is ecstasy safe? I’m bored.
“Yeah, Dad, I definitely have to go!”
KATHI: When was my last physical?
“Do you want any of this shit or can I put it on the burn pile?!” he yells.
KATHI: Why do I take the pink pill the shape of a testicle?
“Burn pile? I don’t know, Dad. I can’t right now. I have to go!” I hang up and stand. Kathi’s texts continue rapid-fire and wholly out of the blue, like her mind is racing a mile a minute, like she’s been buffering her questions for me and is now sending them all at once.
KATHI: Am I friends with Gene Hackman?
KATHI: What’s a chode?
KATHI: Do I like cilantro?
They’re little interruptions and big reminders I don’t quite know her. I don’t quite have all the answers. I’m unable to get her exactly what she needs. Shit!
KATHI: Where is that picture of me with Jean Smart at Greenblatt’s in 2001? Ish. Maybe 2005?
ME: Will try to get answers!
KATHI: I’m home. Where the fuckity r u?
I throw down some cash for uneaten food and jet, no waving to the waiter, no apologies, no time.
ME: Be right there.
KATHI: I have something for you. Where! R! u?!
ME: Lunching.
KATHI: I am a ball of panic that you abandoned me sobbing a fickle flea.
ME: What? Be right there.
KATHI: I need answers cock.
ME: Sorry on my way.
KATHI: We have to talk.
ME: Uh oh. Am I in trouble?
No response.
I dash from the restaurant, jab my key in the ignition, twisting to start the engine, the other keys and Mom’s locket spinning with me in a panic.