"Sure." Gwen watched Jan suck up half a line, then the other half. She wanted more too.
Clint and Curt both did a line, and rolled up some of the powder in another joint. Ben did a line. Gwen eyed the white crystally powder.
"Am I a fool if I do one more?" Not really waiting for an answer, she snorted both remaining lines, and returned the remaining powder to the small clear packet. There was a lot left. The room smelled like dope. Gwen's head exploded. She had to pee. But it was such a hassle. She had so much to get done.
"Hell, I should head back to Vegas tonight."
"Nah, you'll crash hard midway. Stay and work; leave in the morning."
Fucking head rush. Gwen steadied herself and scurried to the restroom. When she returned, all the guys were tossing their stuff together. She saved her file on floppy and sat down at Curt's machine, next to the turntable. Blues Explosion, the Clash, Thelonius Monk, ooh, Count Basie. Something moved behind her. She heard the doors open and close.
An internet connection. She logged on and checked her mail. About 50 mailing list fluff letters. Two from Bob, her supervisor. Three from Mole. He's online at icb.unm.edu. She joined him. She'll pee later.
<*gwendel*> hey hon <*mole*> still in la i see? <*gwendel*> yeah. stressed and loopy. report due tomorrow. <*gwendel*> so i snorted meth today <*mole*> ha ha thats the loopy factor <*mole*> and? <*gwendel*> it is weird <*gwendel*> taking it generally just made me want to take more and more <*gwendel*> i am only now getting a bit jumpy <*gwendel*> but i am like so pumped <*mole*> ha ha yes it does have the "more will be fun" effect <*gwendel*> that is how most things are with me though <*gwendel*> but damn it hurt when i snorted it <*mole*> thats the fun part <*mole*> i um i really like that hurt <*mole*> heh <*gwendel*> hee <*gwendel*> i am not too much a fan of pain. well you know
Footsteps in the hall. Hell, was Jan leaving? Gwen peeked into the hall. No, still there.
<*gwendel*> yeah i guess i dig this <*mole*> right on <*mole*> its fun for up all night <*mole*> good thing ya dont have a *deadline* or anything ;) <*gwendel*> i really need to be back by tomorrow. i wonder if it would be dangerous if i drove back tonite <*mole*> no. it will be fun and safe <*gwendel*> i need to finish what i am working on and then head out <*mole*> see the bad thing about that stuff is... it really *does* make <*mole*> you superior to your normal state. Improved clarity and memory and attention. <*mole*> great for students. much better than coffee <*mole*> thrashes your schedule and all later, but hey. <*gwendel*> i feel just so hyper .. i feel like i gotta do a zillion things <*mole*> yes <*gwendel*> okay, later. i'll call you tomorrow <*mole*> peace out
Gwen stared back at the report. She drank up facts and spilled them onto the screen. She could not get herself to get up and use the bathroom. The world was a 17 inch monitor, a stack of papers, the keyboard and mouse. The turntable whirled and stopped. Voice noises drifted in from the direction of Jan's office. She was still here. Thank goodness. Gwen was grinding this out and did not want to leave.
It was 10:30.
Wind drifted in from somewhere. It was getting cold. Gwen remembered she had not eaten all day. She was not the least bit hungry or tired. She got up and checked in on Jan. They chatted.
It was 11:00.
Gwen trotted to the studio and noticed the hard candy. She took a handful. She noticed the crank. She drew a tiny line and snorted it. She took a plastic wrapper from one of the candies, and poured a line-or-two-size portion of the remaining power into it, and sealed it with scotch tape. Just in case she starts to crash on the freeway, she told herself. How responsible she was. There was a ton left.
She sat back down at her computer, and did not move for two hours. Every now and then a light would flicker and fade in her periphery. She heard steps from the hall. She lit a cigarette. The turntable sounded slow. Then Curt returned.
"You're still here!"
It was 1:00 a.m.
"Um, yeah." Gwen blushed. Where did the time go?
"We're picking up Jan."
"Okay, I am outta here." Gwen searched around for everything. Her glasses, her shades, her gum, her wallet, her filofax, her notepad.
"When are you heading back?"
"Maybe now. It depends if I can sleep or not." Her laptop, her legal pad, her file of documents, her hardcopy, her floppies.
"Cool. Good luck."
"Kay. How was the show?" Her briefcase, her coin purse, her cellular, her cigarettes, her lighter, her car keys. She scanned the floor, the tabletops, the walls, the ceilings.
"It was cool."
"Got everything. Ready."
Jan was waiting, and they skipped out the door.
Downstairs, Clint was at the wheel. "Where's your car, Gwen."
"Right there," she pointed to across the street. "That white Audi." She shook her keys. They struck each other and echoed metallically into the dark alley.
"Great. Drive safely."
"Will do. Thanks guys. I'll be in touch."
"Night Gwen."
"Night!" Her eyes felt cartoonishly wide. She shivered. She squeezed her car alarm, and followed the sound and the blinking lights to the Audi by the curb kitty-corner to the office where she had spent her whole day. Shit, she forgot to pee.
The road felt funny at first, but then she got used to it. She entered the Marina Freeway, turned onto the 10, and headed towards Hollywood, where she had been staying with a close friend the past week. Was that a cop? What is that light?
Exit Fairfax. North to Sunset, East to Orange Grove, North. It was so quiet. Los Angeles is strange.
She suspected she was speeding far more than she thought she was.
Carol's roommate was awake, but Carol had already gone to sleep. "She's feeling ill," he told her. She told him about her day. He listened. He asked if she was driving back that night. She said she had to clean up first and load her car. She was not sure.
Gwen looked at Carol's study, where she had been sleeping. Papers and clothes were strewn everywhere. Dirty laundry sat in a pile. The trash cans were full. Methodically, she packed and stacked, emptied and carried, folded and straightened. An hour later, the guesthouse was spotless. Gwen's eyes ached. The cats were awake.
Maybe I should try to sleep. She changed into a t-shirt and Mole's plaid boxers, and laid down on the bed. The sky was starting to get light. She pondered her day, and what she had to do tomorrow. She visualized naked Mole, pounding her in that camping tent at Joshua Tree when they first started going out. This was always a problem. Uppers made her uncomfortably horny. She had to get back.
It was 5 am.
It was a straight shot from LA to Vegas, across the 10 and up the 15. She put Luscious Jackson in her CD player and played it over and over. About midway home, a cop pulled her over.
It was 8 am.
"Do you have any idea how fast you were going?"
"Um, 80 the fastest, when I was passing that truck?" Gwen gave him her most cheery grin.
"I clocked you at 95, but since you admit 80, I will write you up for that."
Shit. The cop handed her the ticket and sent her on her way. Switch to Patsy Cline. Too slow. Tuscadero. She ached to be home. The road looked the same. No end in sight.
At 11 am, she reached Las Vegas. At 11:30 she entered her driveway. She was back. Her cat was healthy. The iguana looked safe. She played the 10 minute tape from her answering machine, tossing her clothes into the hamper.
A note from Mole. She called him. "No, really, I was fine. Come over tonight."
Gwen plugged in her laptop, and booted up excel and WordPerfect. She connected her modem and called into work. They did not know that she was back yet, and she was not about to tell them. As long as she gets the report in by midnight, she is in the clear.
12 hours. 200 emails. God, what the hell is this? These people suck. She read, piece by piece, on her businesswomen list, and her finance list, and her Entertainment Info list, stupid remarks being made by other list members.
Wow, these people grew minddead in my absence. She flamed back. How empty-headed. "You fuckheads!" What the hell. This flame war was not her fault. She defended herself. Christ. She hated them all.
It was 2 PM. She turned off the modem. This was wrong. She fed the cat. What was that sound? She was still pissed.
She guzzled Tab. It was cold in Vegas. She missed LA. She typed. Her eyes watered.
It was 5 PM.
Her throat ached. She remembered that plastic wrapper in her purse and pondered it. Nah, she didn't need it yet. Mole called. He can't make it until 2 am. She typed. He promised her head. She turned on the stereo. She turned on the TV. Nothing was on. She typed.
It was 8:30. Why wasn't she hungry? Her cat leapt from the couch to the table. Or did it?
She printed out the report and proofed it. She needed some air. She sat on her porch and lit a Merit. The flame from the cigarette weaved and encircled her. It was starting to get dark. She walked around the block. The tree branches reached out to her. She ducked and moved around them. She returned home.
She looked in her cabinet and found a Powerbar. Mocha.
Only the graphs left. This was good. Her windowshades quivered. The hall light vibrated. Her eyes stung.
It was 10:30 PM. What was she forgetting?
She checked her email. More nasty letters. Gwen started to get depressed.
But she was almost done. Footnotes.
Something shimmery moved behind her. Gwen ignored it. She was starting to get tired. Objects moved. But this was good. This was 25 pages. This was done. Gwen pulled it off.
It was 11:30 PM.
Three clones of her striped cat leapt from her suitcase on the floor by the couch, landed on her lazyboy and vanished. She printed the report, put it in the fax machine, and pressed send. A light flickered to her left and behind her. She cut and pasted it to an email and whisked it off to her supervisors.
She turned back on the television. 120 minutes on MTV. She started a long overdue letter to her grandmother. The plants swayed and straightened.
It was 2 am.
"Where is my Gang of Four CD?" Gwen walked into her bedroom, forgot what she was looking for, and noticed the bed, still unmade and dirty from a week ago.
"Gwendolyn, we received the report. It needs some polishing, but will do. We'll send it to word processing."
But Gwen did not hear the message coming through her answering machine. In fact, she did not hear the phone ring, even when Mole called. She lay on her bed, her arms crossed on her chest, her sundress wrinkled, her brown mascara slightly smeared. Three translucent iguanas danced back and forth in the air above her.
The check was in the mail.
Copyright 1996 Rebecca Eisenberg mars@bossanova.com. All rights reserved.