Irrationalia Read online

  “Got the a/c on,” the driver said.

  “I don’t fucking care,” Lena said.

  The driver continued to harangue her with questions from the moment they pulled out of the airport. She hadn’t responded to most of them, pretending to be engrossed in her phone. Well, okay, not pretending. She was really and truly engrossed in her phone.

  Currently, she bemusedly scrolled through a series of nearly panicked sounding text messages from her husband, Trent.

  “Where are you going again?”

  “When are you coming back?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Can I eat the rest of the pie in the refrigerator?”

  Then, inexplicably, a photo of him with his cock in his hand and the caption: “Thinking about you.”

  She didn’t know how long she would be gone but felt like Trent’s genuine concern would last, perhaps, through the night. By tomorrow morning he would have convinced himself the marriage was over and start looking for someone else until she came back. Lena felt like she was partially responsible for this behavior. It was sort of their cycle. They’d been married for eight years and mutually cheated on each other so much she considered it an open marriage. Not that she could really blame Trent for straying. She liked sex, thought about it constantly, but had had exactly one orgasm in her entire life. She knew that bothered Trent. Hurt his pride. And he was ultimately too lazy and they’d been together for too long for him to participate consistently in what she was into.

  “Why do we need all those theatrics?” he’d said on more than one occasion.

  Christ, why was she thinking about this now?

  She was suddenly concerned and embarrassed driver George could see the image on her phone so she flicked it away and brought up the reason she was here—the weird email from Grant Hinton.

  That, in and of itself, was a huge testament to how much she wanted to get away from Trent for the time being. At nearly any other time, if she’d received an email like that, she would have convinced herself Grant’s email account had been hijacked by Russian malware enthusiasts and deleted it mostly unread while thinking she should have probably reported it as spam.

  She’d been sitting in another off-Bourbon Street bar in the French Quarter last night when she’d received it. The bar had great ambience, good food, and amazing drinks. She’d been thinking she’d probably leave it a good review and then thought about how that review would possibly eat away at its quiet, almost alien atmosphere. Well, she thought as she jotted down some notes, for every Lena Burberry review there are a hundred Yelpers ready to tear the place down. It felt like the whole world was out of balance these days.

  When she first saw the name ‘Grant Hinton’ she had a weird feeling. Like the name was familiar to her but, when her brain finally registered why that was, she felt like she shouldn’t have had to think about it. It made her realize how far away she’d come from being creepy little Lena Hurst from Twin Springs, Ohio, how deeply she’d tried to bury that past. The rest of it just left her scratching her head.

  The subject line read: ‘REEYOONYUN’

  The email read as follows:

  HIYALL. GIB U MINE A DRESS N YOUALL CUM SEE ME. MANY IMPORTANTS. GET HERE 14 JULY. NO JOKING. SO MANY FUNS LIKE YUNG TIMES. NEED THISS ALLOTT. U DO TO. TRUSTS.

  Then there was his address that, given the content of the email and especially now coming up on the place, Lena highly doubted the accuracy of, followed by the one line that sealed the deal for her: I THINK I FINDS HIM.

  Just reading those words had knotted a hot ball in the pit of her stomach, a warmth that spread its tendrils down between her legs.

  She clapped her notebook shut and exited the clear light and dense foliage of the bar before she did something she regretted, even if it was for the hundredth time. A guy had been sitting at the bar and glancing back at her the entire evening. She knew she could go home with him. She knew she could get him to bruise her, to make her hurt, maybe even cry. She knew he could beat the ache out of her. She also knew it wouldn’t last. The ache would come back just like it always did. She wondered what she had done to deserve being forced to live her life in a state of palpable longing.

  Driver George stopped at the ornate wrought iron gate that made Lena feel like they were entering a cemetery.

  “Tres chic,” driver George mumbled and Lena could practically hear the subtext beneath that: “Fancy rich assholes.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone actually say that before,” Lena said.

  “She speaks!” George said.

  “Sorry I couldn’t have been more entertaining.”

  “I get all types.”

  “I was kidding,” Lena said. “It’s not my fucking job to entertain you. You’re a grown man. Act like one. This is your job. Not a fucking date. And your vintage cologne or whatever smells like shit.”

  She had to say it. Would have been surprised if he came back with anything and he didn’t. She could hear his throat click as he swallowed. He wiped sweat from the hot dogs stacked at the back of his neck and reached for his bottle of Dasani, twisting off the cap and taking a very audible gulp.

  Could this gate take any longer to open?

  Maybe it wasn’t the correct address.

  How could the Grant she’d gone to high school with—much less the Grant who’d sent her this email—afford a place like this?

  Ah, but there she went again, equating intelligence with money.

  Being married to Trent should have divested her from that kind of thinking. She’d never known anyone to have less common sense, but he was the son of a hedge fund manager, had been given a job in his daddy’s office, and provided them with a life so comfortable it bordered on vulgar. Actually, to the outsider, it probably crossed well into vulgar territory more often than not.

  The gate opened and George pulled the car forward.

  They went around the bend. Lena lowered her head to check her phone and was thrown against her seatbelt as George slammed on the brakes.

  “What the—” George said.

  Lena looked up to see a naked bearded man standing in the middle of the driveway. A swell of excitement surged through her because, for a second, she thought it might be him.

  But she was pretty sure it was just Grant.

  He held a bundle of sticks in his arms. He moved slowly toward the car. His arms and legs were covered in bruises and Lena wondered if he’d been badly beaten.

  He went to the driver’s side window and stood there.

  “Roll it down,” Lena said.

  “I don’t want none of this weird stuff, lady.”

  “Just put it down. You’ll be okay.” She didn’t know if this was true or not. She didn’t know if she’d be okay.

  George rolled the window down.

  Grant leaned down and said, “I got sticks.”

  He then deposited the bundle onto the driver’s lap.

  “What the fuck?” the driver said. “These is fuckin’ thorns!”

  Lena had already opened her door and grabbed her bag.

  “Get the fuck out of the car,” George said.

  She was already out, feeling good, on the brink of laughter.

  She watched as Grant took a couple steps back, George throwing the sticks out of the car and dramatically exclaiming his pain. “Ow! Ouch! Oh fuck!” Grant then turned and began loping up the green hill of overgrown lawn.

  Lena slung her bag over her shoulder and followed him.

  George slammed the car into reverse and backed down the hill, the gears whirring.

  It was petty, she knew, but Lena thought about opening the Uber app to give him a one-star rating and maybe a text review where she would be sure to use the term ‘rapey vibe’ somewhere in it.

  She stuck to the blacktop of the driveway and by the time she got up to the house she found the front door thrown open and Grant nowhere in sight.

  She pulled her phone out to text Trent, “Made it,” and maybe leave t
hat Uber review but she didn’t have any service.

  Figured.

  THREE

  The afternoon sunlight blasted the hotel room, giving it the feel of a terrarium. He must have forgotten to pull the blinds when he came in from the balcony last night. There were two Brazilian girls in the bed with him, dancers for the main act. They were all naked and he supposed they’d done stuff last night but he couldn’t remember any of it. He remembered the balcony because that had been in the sliver of clarity before climbing in between the two already passed out and exhausted women. At least, he hoped they were women. Had to be. Work permits and all that. Apparently fucking the headliner’s employees was the best screening process to make sure everything was above-board. Their warmth had felt good in the chill of the early morning desert air conditioning.

  Christ. Edward Koenig hated Las Vegas.

  Through his twenties he’d toured Europe and Asia and South America, on the bill with one or two other label mates. That had seemed like a richer experience. Now if he wanted to tour Europe—hell, if he wanted to tour anywhere—it had to be as part of a festival with sixty other acts, a mild diversion thrown on stage in front of a multi-branded backdrop for massive crowds of people who needed something to do every weekend. Anything to do. It didn’t matter so long as they could post about it on MyFace. Let music open your mind! (Brought to you by Subaru and Heineken!) It just didn’t feel the same. He liked the dark, sweaty clubs, when the energy was powered by the love of music and, okay, maybe molly and acid and weed and booze and sex and youth and social anomie but, hey, they didn’t need to put it on a twenty-foot banner. It felt pure and organic. Laughable buzzwords these days.

  Now, for people at his level, the big money was in Vegas where he felt like the Wayne Newton of the Aphex Twin generation. Fuck. Not even Wayne Newton. Whatever sad has-been opened for Wayne Newton. And another fuck, he didn’t even know if Aphex Twin could be considered to have a generation. At least not here. It was probably something he’d read on some music blog. No connection to the music world at large. Poor analogy all the way around. He wasn’t a nostalgia act. There was no nostalgia for what he did. Especially not now. It was loud wallpaper. An audible lightshow. A product. Disposable content. The crowds he looked out at every day were not people his age. More like half his age. He couldn’t think about it too much. He should just be happy to be getting paid for what he did. He was tired of hearing that. Tired of telling himself that. He was pretty sure it was killing him quicker than working in a factory or behind some retail counter ever would.

  He wiped the sleep from his eyes with a fingertip. He felt sticky. The whole room felt sticky. He used to wake up in predicaments like this and feel a sense of wrung-out satisfaction. Now he was pretty sure he just felt tired.

  He crawled over the girl on his left and nearly fell onto the floor. He sorted through the phones on the nightstand until he found his, clarity gradually coming back to him. Maybe the clarity hadn’t been caused by the booze and drugs wearing off. It was the email. From Grant Hinton, of all people. There was a name he hadn’t thought about in a couple of decades.

  He checked his email and found links to airline tickets he’d purchased.

  He pulled one of the last three Newports from his pack and stumbled out onto the balcony, still naked because who the fuck really cared?

  The air was searing and he lit the cigarette knowing he wouldn’t finish it because it would feel like ten minutes of sheer torture.

  The ticket was for that afternoon. Actually, if he were to make the flight, he’d have to get a ride within the hour. And he had another show tonight at ten. What did it matter? He could just tell his manager to put any douchebag in a dildo-helmet on the stage. People thought all Edonymous did was push buttons anyway. Why not finally franchise? He knew that wouldn’t work, of course. The business people—the money people—managers, agents, club owners, and the like wanted some type of blood sacrifice from you or else it wasn’t worth their time. Most likely he wouldn’t call anyone. He’d be a no-show. And it certainly wouldn’t be the first time in his career. Although, at his age, it might very well be the last.

  It didn’t matter. Not really.

  He’d made so much money the last six months he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d checked his bank account. Maybe it was time for him to stop and buy a house, set up a studio, become a producer. He wouldn’t be the first person to opt out of the grind.

  One of the girls made her way out to the balcony, startling him from his thoughts enough to make him nearly drop his phone.

  She had a sheet draped around her and held a cigarette up to him.

  “Stole one of these,” she said. “Got a light?”

  Edward handed her the lighter and she collapsed into the faux rattan chair and put her feet up on the railing.

  “Last night was awful,” she said. “That’s why you’re still alone, you know? You haven’t been with anyone long enough to learn anything. Took two of us to make you happy but an army of you couldn’t have made either one of us come.”

  “I want my cigarette back,” he said.

  “The fuck?”

  “You heard me. I want my cigarette back. You’re just being mean.”

  Then he had to stop and think . . . was she? Had she even said anything?

  She flicked the cigarette at him and stood up. “Fine. I don’t want your shitty tiny white dick cigarette anyway.”

  He thought maybe he would call his next song “Dickarette.” None of them had any words so it didn’t really matter what they were called. As long as it had a beat and a fucking drop.

  He watched the girl go back in the room and felt more attachment and longing for her than he had since seeing her at the backstage bar last night. Maybe that was part of his problem. He couldn’t really care about anything until he was afraid of losing it.

  By the time he cleared his head somewhat and made his way back into the room, both girls were gone. Sweat and other body fluids felt baked to his skin and he contemplated taking a shower but now felt an overwhelming sense of urgency. He slipped on a pair of gray slacks, some ridiculously overpriced Stella McCartney loafers, and an old Boards of Canada t-shirt. He randomly grabbed handfuls of his cleanest clothes and shoved them into his duffel bag. When traveling, he usually just shipped everything that wouldn’t fit in the carry-on because he hated going through the extra steps of checking and claiming his bags. He was mostly surprised how well this had worked so far.

  He ordered a car and did a quick check in the mirror and by the time he re-emerged into the blinding light from the comparative dimness of the hotel lobby that car had arrived.

  “The airport.” Edward threw his bag into the back and sat next to the driver. He didn’t know if drivers hated this or not but it made him feel less precious.

  “Sure thing.” The driver was a young woman with an indiscernible accent who couldn’t have been more than two years out of college.

  The sun was harsh. He instinctively reached for his sunglasses and realized he’d left them back in the room. A room he probably wouldn’t be coming back to.

  He stared out the window as they went down the Strip and thought, not for the first time, that Las Vegas was boredom personified. It was where people who had no idea what they wanted to do went. Maybe that was part of its energy. Maybe that was why its energy felt so manufactured.

  He knew what he was doing—focusing intently on the present so he didn’t have to think about the past.

  Something shifted in his gut.

  “Can you pull over for a second?” It was the heat and the sunlight and the cloying fragrance the driver wore.

  She checked her rearview and flipped the turn signal and Edward had opened the door before the car had even come to a complete stop, leaning out and vomiting what little he had in his belly. He stayed bent over until he was sure it was all out, wiping his mouth and flipping the bile from his fingertips. He spit to try and get the taste out of his mouth.

>   He pulled himself back into the car, sweat pouring down his face, his shirt sticking to him.

  “Sorry about that. Just trying to keep it classy.”

  “It could have been a lot worse.” The driver had a kind smile. A nice voice. “Least you made it outside the car.”

  “So where you from?” He felt like he had to say something to her so she didn’t think he was a complete lunatic. Plus the origin of that accent was driving him crazy.

  “A small town in Louisiana. New Orleans is the closest city.”

  New Orleans. That was it. “One thing I’ve found is that no one who lives in Las Vegas is from Vegas.”

  “I think you’re right. What brought you to town?”

  He waved her away. “Stupid shit.”

  He could have told her he was Edonymous. She might have even heard of him but he was still somewhat embarrassed he had to play Vegas for money. By his estimation, he should have been able to hit it big ten years ago and have fucked off into hiding by now.

  “I’m working on my master’s at the college,” she said. “I’m going to get away from here as quickly as possible.”

  “What are you studying?”

  “Foreign policy.”

  “Intense.”

  She smiled and said, “And I don’t think it’s going to get any less so.”

  “No. Probably not.”

  They continued their idle chatter the rest of the way to the airport and Edward was so thankful she’d kept his mind in the present that he tipped her a thousand dollars and scooted away from the car quickly so she didn’t have time to question him about it.

  He found a bar and had a bite to eat before drinking himself into oblivion before boarding the plane.

  He was asleep before take off.

  And didn’t wake up until the plane touched down in Dayton.

  He thought he would feel terrible but he actually felt great, clear-headed and refreshed.

  The excitement of seeing everyone again even eased the dread of being here. Of course, he sometimes made the mistake of confusing dread for excitement. At least that was what one of his therapists had told him.