I don’t know what I expected his apartment to look like, but whatever it was, it wasn’t what I got. The place was bare. As bare as a place could be and still have an inhabitant. The walls were white. The furniture was black. All of it. Couch. Chair. Table. Kitchen counter. A black-and-white existence. A couple of paperbacks next to the bed. I couldn’t make them out, but they had the look of airport books. Thick, cheap and designed for maximum throughput with minimal effort. In the kitchen, on the counter that served for a kitchen, one plate, one glass, one fork, one spoon.
‘Ascetic’ was the word that came to mind. The only thing missing was the crucifix over the bed.
Jake motioned me to the couch, found a bottle of Scotch somewhere, and another glass.
A plastic glass. I laughed, as though this was a very good joke.
Jake handed me my Scotch, sat on the matching black leather armchair, across from me. He seemed strangely sober.
So listen, man, he said, I think we should talk.
Okay, I said. Let’s talk.
Because, he slurred, we got a connection, you and me. We need to explore it.
Oh shit. I guess he hadn’t sobered up as much as I’d thought.
You got any ice? I asked.
Should be some in the freezer, he said.
I got up to get it.
Listen, he called after me, my life hasn’t been easy, you know.
I did not know that, I said, involuntarily adopting the Johnny Carson inflection.
Yeah, he continued, apparently not catching the irony. Things are all fucked up.
I found the ice. The ice tray was black. It made the ice cubes look dirty.
I mean, he said, there’s stuff you don’t even know.
What do any of us know? I asked.
Jesus on a stick, he said, you got a point.
He pulled out a tin box, rolled a joint. Lit it, toked it, handed it to me. I’d had enough of the stuff already, second-hand. It made me stupid. My mind would race in circles. But I didn’t want to seem rude. I took a hit. I handed it back to Jake.
You know, he said, sucking in and holding a major lungful, sometimes you got to ask yourself.
Yeah, I said, thinking, Right, sometimes you do, man, and then thinking, Shit, I hate this shit, I just said to myself that I thought that… what? What did he just say? Whatever. I just said to myself that he was right, and I don’t even know what he said. I hate this shit. Get me out of here before I start thinking I know what he’s talking about.
You got to ask yourself, he continued, as my refried brain picked up the thread, what’s better? You tell the truth, you let it all out, or you don’t. You keep it all in.
Right, I said, wondering if he had some Led Zeppelin.
You got some Led Zeppelin? I asked.
Sure, he said, yeah. All right.
He wandered to the stereo, picked through a pile of CDs scattered randomly on the floor, put one in the player. All of this taking an eternity and a half.
‘Black Dog,’ it was, and I sank into it. Yes, this was what you needed, at times like this. Every note and wail crystal clear and powerful, an echoing orgasm of meaning you knew you’d never remember later but it didn’t matter, right there right then. Damn, this was some good shit he was smoking.
Yeah, he said. The thing of it is, do you know, or don’t you know?
What?
Do you know or don’t you know?
Know what? I asked, searching the swirling notes for the genesis of the question. It seemed like so long ago the conversation had started that I’d need an anthropologist to sort it out.
Shit, man, he said, his voice getting loud and angry, you can’t tell me you don’t know.
Know what? I asked, feeling strangely as though I’d asked the question before.
About the thing that makes me me, he said, that makes you you, that makes the whole thing so fucked up you won’t even open up to it.
Okay, I thought, the fucker’s off the deep end. He’s hallucinating. Sure as hell he isn’t talking to me. And I don’t see anyone else in the room. Maybe there is, though. Someone only he can see.
I don’t know shit, I said, steering it back onto the epistemological plane.
Yeah, he said. And I can’t tell you, either.
He fixed me with an accusing stare.
One day, though, he said.
The guy was having some kind of psychotic episode, drug-induced or not. And I had enough of that at home, thank you very much.
I got the hell out of there.