I haven’t seen Mel since we landed at JFK three days ago. I try a few numbers: Surly Cathie hasn’t seen her, either. Indian John lost track of her the night they saw the Reverend Horton Heat at Mercury Lounge. Directs me to Fart, who I call until his voice mailbox is full. She never replaced her iPhone. Of course.
This is not good. The NPR interview is important. The host of Art Talk, Glynnis Havermeyer—critic, writer, figure-about-town—was keen to meet us after she caught a screening of Nashville Combat at the Angelika. Donnie might have worked for months to get us this interview, harping hard on her connections, plying Glynnis’s assistant, a snotty little reprobate named Fenton. But Glynnis booked us herself. It is an embarrassment of riches.
I turn and spot Mel weaving across Sixth Avenue. When I see the screwy little tilt to her head, my throat ices over with dread. She’s fucked up, maybe a third loosey-goosey. But she’s upright. And spruced: sneakers unscuffed, vest buttoned, a mid-eighties blazer of the Brooks Brothers variety. The shadow of a black eye traces the left side of her face.
“Morning,” I tell her.
She cruises over and spanks me on the ass. The doorman glances up. She winks at him. “Don’t worry, she likes it,” she says. Jabs the elevator button.
“I take it whoever you spent last night with didn’t wake you up for this.”
“She woke me up to bone. I remembered this on my own. What kind of unprofessional dickbag you take me for?” She slings an arm around my neck and jostles me companionably.
“Still no phone?”
“Nope. But what can you do.” She shakes her leg, jingles the change in her pockets, cracks her neck.
I’m developing a talent for getting impressions of Mel’s hangovers via osmosis—variety, intensity, source. It’s like getting something gooey caught in my antennae. This morning, the vibe is hard liquor spiky with something else, something like how I imagine burning batteries must taste. I lean in, smell: low-level rummy with, yes, something sweaty and metallic underneath. I grab her chin, peer into her eyes. Visine’d but too fat around the pupil. Pretty skittery for the here and now.
“What are you on,” I say quietly.
She rolls her eyes. “So suspicious. It’s no bueno, Kisses, the way you’re on my dick all the time.”
“Don’t call me that.”
I debate telling Mel about the box office returns. It’s good news, but I’m beginning to question for whom. I look at her rummage through her pockets, a slight sheen of sweat making her face shimmer, and add up all the good things this summer that just seem to lead to less accountability, not more. An effect I suppose I should have known in theory. But you can know almost anything in theory.
“Did you know Fart’s roommate works for Mad?” Mel says.
“I don’t care.”
“He also enjoys smoking crystal.”
“Jesus Christ, Mel.”
“I know,” she says. “It had been a while, but hot damn. I mean, woo.” She narrows her eyes. Whispers, “Woooo.”
“I can’t believe you.”
“Oh, come on. I smoked it by accident, and then I was like, well, okay. Let’s do this. Let’s ride this gravy train.”
My voice rises before I can catch it. “Who have you been hanging out with?”
“Dude. These guys were strictly amateurs. Lots of Xbox to be played. Nary a Hells Angel to be seen.”
I lay my head against the elevator and moan.
“I’m fine,” she says. “I’m on the downhill slope, man. Perfect time for an interview. I’ll sleep it off this afternoon.”
“Are you telling me you didn’t sleep last night?”
“Disco naps. I’m great, I’m telling you. Let’s do this thing.”
“Just hold it together,” I say, clenching and unclenching my fists. “Please.”
“How about cooling it with the directives, little lady?”
“They might ask about your mom. Did Donnie mention that to you?”
“I got the email,” she says, rolling her eyes. “It’s fine. I got this. Okay?”
The bell dings. The doors slide open. Fenton is waiting. “You’re late,” he hisses.
“No, we’re not.” I point to the clock. “We’re right on time.”
“From my perspective,” he says, “you are unbearably, undeniably late. Now, come on.” He actually snaps his fingers at us as he turns on his heel. “We’ve got to get you two mic’d up.”
“Gonna get you mic’d up,” Mel mutters. She imitates Fenton’s mince for a few steps. “Hey, Fenny, you lost weight?”
“No.”
“You look, I dunno. Smaller.”
“It must just be in your head.” He whips out his phone. We can see over his shoulder there’s nothing there—no new messages, no schedule pop-up. He fucks around with it anyway, thumbs knobbing.