Jack Wakes Up (2 page)

The dark circles under his eyes are gone finally, the payoff of two years of getting a good night’s sleep, running every morning and spending time in the sun. He stands up and looks over his body, patting his ribs like he did when he saw Ralph. He doesn’t look bad, he tells himself, and does his best to try and believe it.

From Sausalito to the bridge, Jack opens up the engine on his light red, almost orange, ’66

Mustang Fastback “K-code” GT. Here on the 101, early on a weekday evening, he can hear the engine roar, feel the torque and the power of the rpm’s as he eats up the hills. He’s replaced almost everything inside the car himself, repainted the body too. It was orange-red when he got it and he’d wanted blue, but something in him couldn’t make the change. Something in him knew that this car was meant to be this color forever, new paint or old and faded. So when he put on the shiny new coat, waxed it, he had to stay with the original color.

He got the car after the movie, when he had money; this was the big thing he’d wanted, the thing he had to have: a ’66 Mustang Fastback that could only survive in the clean California climate—no winter slush or salt to eat through the frame. Now, even without anything in the bank and the mortgage falling apart, he’d give up the house before this car.

Nothing matches the power feel of the Mustang “Hi Po” engine, the looks he gets on the street, or the feeling of knowing exactly what he’s driving, a car so rare that even when they were 17

being produced in 1965, 66 and 67, you only had a one in a hundred shot of getting a “K-code.”

And he’s worked on it enough to know exactly how it runs and what pieces went into it. And the style. This car has more style than anything else on the road for Jack’s money—any amount—the slick line and the rise in the back untouchable. And he’s not trying to compensate for anything, as Victoria once suggested. The Mustang eats hills like they were bumps, a San Francisco must, makes a sound like a jet engine, and does what he wants. The car is Jack’s love, the only friend from L.A. times that’s still around.

In the city, heading downtown, Jack gets looks, especially in and around Union Square, where the traffic slows and the shoppers all look to see who you are. Jack keeps his sunglasses on, tries not to make eye contact with anyone. Whether they’d really recognize him or he just needs to get over his fears, he’s not sure. But a part of him doesn’t want to find out.

Jack pulls up outside the hotel and parks next to a new white Mercedes G-Class, a big boxy number like a cross between a German tank and an SUV. He’d guess this for the Eastern Europeans’ car, but they’re probably driving a rental, one of the sports cars, the convertible Porsche, or an S-class sedan. He sees a new Mustang parked here too, a convertible, but it’s one of the recent releases he’s heard so much about. Supposedly they’re more powerful than his with the same size engine. Forty years later and they must have reengineered it to do something better, because it’ll never look as good as the Fastback. They’ve only made a lighter body, it’s likely, and that’s no great feat with forty years of technology on your side.

Getting out of his car, Jack catches a quick second-glance from the parking attendant—the look Ralph described; people know Jack, recognize him still. As San Francisco goes, mostly sports stars and locals, not that many actors, Jack’s face is one of the few that people remember.

He gives the attendant a five and hits the revolving door without looking back, still holding the keys to his car. If it has to be moved, they can page him.

Inside the lobby Jack looks around, trying to decide what he should do. The place has second story-level ceilings, fancy chandeliers and leather couches all over. A big guy wearing a designer 18

suit stands up from one of the couches on the left side of the lobby. Jack looks around for the bar, and the guy makes his way over, asks if Jack is “Mr. Palimas?”

“No.” Jack shakes his head, taking a good look at the guy: big nose, face like an anvil. He tries to dodge the guy, more from habit than not, but the guy moves faster than Jack expects, cuts him off.

“You are Jack. I am told to wait.” He holds up a small version of Jack’s old headshot, probably clipped from a bad newspaper article. “Ralphie told me to meet you.”

“Oh, Ral phie,” Jack says. “In that case.” He shrugs, holds his hand out for the guy to lead the way.

“I am Michal. Please to come.” The big guy starts toward the elevators.

“Where did you get that?” Jack points to the picture.

“Ralphie has changed our meeting from bar to our suite. It is big.” He turns and shows Jack an awkward toothy smile, as if he got an extra helping of teeth in the attributes line at birth and his mouth did its best to fit them all in. They run together at angles, jammed and overlapping.

“Our suite is big so we can have party.”

A bellman holds the elevator doors open and they enter. As the doors slide closed, Jack sees his reflection and that of the smiling suit. He’s taller than Jack and wider; this guy can carry himself. Plus he’s been lifting more than just the rocks they’ve got where he’s from, and his suit is well cut, expensive.

Jack rubs his face. He leans toward the door and looks at his cheeks: pale and clean from this morning’s shave. A couple dots of dried blood have come out along his jaw since he left the house. His eyes still look tired; he doesn’t like what he sees. Though he’s put on five or ten pounds of muscle in the past two years, his eyes still look deep-set in his face—like he’s using—

as if he needs a couple nights’ sleep, even though it feels like that’s all he’s gotten for the past two years. His skin is pale, freckled, has been since the sixth grade when his mother moved him 19

and his sister up from North Carolina to Boston to get away from his father and the sun. He takes a good look at his brown eyes and runs a hand over his hair. Would I believe me? He wonders.

He turns his neck to the side, leaning his ear to his shoulder, trying to loosen up, get a pop.

In his movie, they gave him a big tattoo from his chest up onto his neck, out the top of his shirt.

People liked that, were disappointed when they found out it wasn’t real. Even when Jack first met Victoria, she ran her fingers around his neck and pulled his collar down.

As the numbers light up above the doors, Jack rolls up his sleeves. They’re going all the way to the top.

The doors open onto a single large room, a two-story suite. White leather furniture fills the middle of the room beneath floor-to-ceiling windows. Jack is used to good views like the one he has up in Sausalito, seeing the Bay, but from here can see into the hills, clear to Alcatraz, Treasure Island, El Cerrito, Berkeley, and down over Alameda and beyond. The other downtown skyscrapers surround them, like seeing the skyline from inside it. Jack recognizes the Trans-America tower but doesn’t know the others by name.

As he and Michal step out of the elevator, three men in suits stand to meet them, one of them wearing an awful green eyesore with wide lapels. Ralph is here, wearing another loud Hawaiian shirt.

Two guys come forward with hands extended, the one with the bad suit, and another, wearing a simple blue suit. Behind him, Jack notices a fifth man standing against the wall, almost blending in, wearing a suit that looks a lot like Michal’s. Michal steps back and takes a position beside the elevator doors, fading back as if he and the other guy have been posted there. They stand with their arms crossed, like sentries on either side of the entrance.

“Shake this man down,” the Czech with the green suit says, doing a funny dance in his legs, mostly, without any movement of his torso or arms.

The others laugh.

“Yes, man. You are the one from this movie.” Green Suit bends his knees and shakes his legs, brings them apart and together. “Shake this down.”

To stop this, Jack takes his arm in a two-handed shake and starts pumping, telling the guy he’s glad to meet him.

“I am Al,” Green Suit says. “It is a very pleasure to meet you.” His suit is soft, some kind of ultra-synthetic fabric, shiny and dull at the same time, with a gold shirt underneath and a dark, wine-colored tie.

“Nice suit,” Jack says, because it’s clear he’s looking.

“You like it.” Al turns to the others. “This is good guy. Style, see. Loud, like the American Rock and Roll.” He laughs, a full on, head-tilted-back-and-mouth-wide-open laugh that you have to go along with. He moves his hands along his sides, showing off the green fabric.

The other two come around and start shaking Jack’s hands, the one guy in a blue suit and the other wearing a deep gray solid. Both of these guys come on reserved like their clothes. “I am David,” the guy shaking his hand says. He has a glass of scotch in one hand, raises it in salute as he says his name. His hair is cut short, in a buzz that’s grown out, or was cut recently by someone who wanted to make him look like a Chia Pet.

“I am Vlade,” the third guy says, taking Jack in a hug. “I have still the good name from our country that I do not change like them.” He looks at Al and makes a funny face, putting his lower lip up toward his moustache, as if he’s smelled something bad. “Al,” he says, with an intentionally flat accent, imitating how Americans must sound to him.

“Yes, sir, this is the man here: Jack Palms,” Ralph says, stepping forward. He has a thick cigar in one hand and a scotch in the other. He sways as he moves. Jack realizes this is why Ralph asked him along: because he’s planning on spending most of his time in the bag.

“Jack Palms,” Al says, “Let us share with you some blow.” More laughs and then Jack watches Al, Ralph and the others retreat to the couches. He can see a glass-top coffee table in 22

the middle all ready to go, with the lines cut and set. Ralph sits down on one of the couches and starts rolling up a twenty.

Jack hesitates. Coke got him going in L.A., made him the rage at the right parties, introduced him to some of the right people, maybe even started his short movie career. But it also led him to H and his life falling apart.

Now he’s spent two years in a place where life seems dull: either because he’s taken too much out of it and he’s evening out, or because he’s got fewer dopamine receptors left to stimulate his pleasure cells—either the karmic or the biological explanation, Jack’s not sure which he prefers. He smells the remnants of the morning’s cigarette on his fingers. Even after the scrubbing, it’s still there, like a trail of where he’s been, a reminder of mistakes he’s made.

Ralph leans close to the table and snorts a line. Ralph who’s never had anything bad happen as far as Jack’s known, Ralph who just keeps going and going and partying. Fucking Ralph.

Jack clenches his teeth. If he can stand here, watch these guys, play roving concierge, maybe he’ll be cured, or at least on his way to getting paid.

David cleans up a line with a fresh-rolled bill.

“Mr. Jack?” Al says, pointing to the table.

“No thanks.” Jack stays near the door, hooks a thumb at the sentries. “Just think of me like I’m these guys: here to work. To help you have the fun.”

The Czechs turn to him. David says, “You do not want to join?”

“You do not enjoy the blow?”

Jack shakes his head. “I’m OK.”

Ralph holds up both hands and says, “Serious downer.” He leans toward the table, covers a nostril, and snorts a line. “Oh, yeah. Motherfucker!” He does another quick one, then lies back on the couch, powder on his upper lip. “Yeah!” he yells.

David’s still looking at Jack, so he shows him three fingers. “Three years now,” Jack says.

David nods.

Vlade stands up and comes over to Jack. He claps his hands, rubs Jack’s shoulder when he gets there. “This is all right. Seriously. It means there is more for us.” He starts laughing. “There is the bar,” he says, pointing to a small white refrigerator under a mirrored wall of glass shelves and cocktail glasses. He gives Jack a slight push. “Help yourself.”

Jack starts to decline, then thinks better of it and goes over. He finds seltzer and ice, a lime, and makes himself a drink. As he turns, he sees David and Al’s heads to the table, Vlade still watching him.

“Cheers, bro.” Jack holds up his glass, just seltzer and ice, and squeezes in the lime.

An hour into drinking and snorting blow in the hotel room and the Czechs are ready to explore the S.F. nightlife. They have a small and dwindling stash of blow that they’ll be done with by morning, that Ralph has assured them can be replenished—and then some—through his connection, a Colombian who is only in town for a short time. If Jack stays, this might actually work out; if he leaves Ralph to run this show drunk and coked up, his guess is it won’t get too far. The Czechs keep pushing Ralph about how much they can get from the Colombian; say they want to stay in the U.S. and deal here, need a nest egg to start off with.

“You don’t know the community we can connect to,” Al keeps saying.

Every time he feels weak, Jack smells his fingers, the tinge of the cigarette smell, and thinks about his imperfection, the feel of the bottom rung that’s not so far behind him. It’s been so long since he worked a job that it actually feels good to be standing still, not partying, to Just Say No, like Nancy Reagan.

And then they start bouncing around the suite, hire a limo to take them around, and Jack has to share in a few laughs along with their bad jokes. But he can endure their coked-up ideas, like Al standing up through the limo’s sunroof, and going to strip clubs will be a lot easier on the eyes than looking at Ralph and his boys.

At Ralph’s suggestion, they head downtown to a place south of Market. “Shit is tight here guys. I fucking know you’ll love this place.”

The bouncers recognize Jack as soon as he steps out of the limo. To his way of looking at it, the stretch draws their attention, so they’re looking closer at who gets out, getting ready to jar the part of their memory that might know Shake ’Em Down.

“Jack Palms,” one of the bouncers says, nodding, shaking Jack’s hand. The guy’s got a good grip, a tight black shirt on that matches the color of his short afro, and a dark leather jacket. He wears nice shoes, shined, a tip that this place might actually be worth spending some time in.