Millennium — Chapter 7

Tyler Avery
Aug 28, 2017 · 9 min read
Photo by Danny Kekspro on Unsplash

From where she lays on the bed, Morgan sees Hank only as a silhouette against city lights. They are in the middle of the downtown Los Angeles skyline, so the views are all obscured by the seven other skyscrapers in the night.

Hank is holding something, turning it over in his hand. Something she can’t see.

What are you holding? She asks quietly, her voice half-muffled by the mound of pillows and blankets.

Hank turns the thing over again, cocking his head slightly as if to look around it to something hidden underneath, perhaps somewhere he’d missed. Finally, he says: My father’s gun.

In the long moment of silence while Morgan considers what this means, Hank turns to face her, the metal of the gun shining only for a second in the iridescent night as he lets it dangle heavily from his hand before dropping it onto an Eames lounge near the window.

What are you going to do? Are you going to… drop out of school?

Hank doesn’t answer. He looks at his Apple watch and then grabs a pack of organic cigarettes and his car keys off the nightstand. We should get going to the party, he finally says.

He walks out of the bedroom, leaving Morgan for a moment. She stares at the gun for what felt for a long time before finally sliding off the bed.

Morgan could tell it was a good party because as they walk through Connor’s house, she only knows a handful of the people there — which is exceptional because Morgan knows almost everybody. They finally find Connor and myself on the back patio smoking a blunt and discussing politics as if we knew anything beyond what their iPhones prescribed us.

Hey, you fucks, Hank says as he approaches us, shaking Connor’s hand like an adult. Hank’s demeanor quickly changes from somber to upbeat and alive. Morgan knows he’s putting on a face for his friends. In the car ride down the canyon, he had barely spoken. He just downshifted like a maniac, taking each turn like a man pushing himself to some limit unknown even to him. There were several times Morgan was sure they were going off the edge, but the engineering of the 911 alone had saved them from certain doom.

Are you boys talking politics again? Morgan says as she slides up beside me, pulling a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of my loose fitting black henley, and taps one out of the box, taps two out of the box, and then lighting them both, hands one to Hank as she blows smoke past my head.

Indeed we are. Like two real gentlemen. Light one of those for me, will you, Morgan?

Light it yourself, Tyler. You guys wouldn’t know your ass from a toilet seat if you didn’t have Siri, she says.

But I wanted to taste your lipstick. What is that, black cherry oh? Oh for orgasm?

You’re a creep, Tyler.

I know, I affirm as I light a cigarette and smile. Hank is staring off at the crowd as if waiting with nervous anticipation for something to happen.

Connor’s phone buzzes on the balcony railing, so he offers the joint up to me, so I take it and smoke the last hit as Connor leans closer to Hank. Hey, buddy, I got a friend bringing some white girls. He’s on his way right now. You copacetic?

Hank seems to consider it for a moment and then says, Yeah, I’m… copacetic.

Cool cool cool. Connor says as his thumbs moved quickly over the glass. You have cash?

Hank nods and goes back to staring off into the party, on another plane of existence entirely. Come sit by me, I say, talking to Morgan, and patting the lounge chair next to me. I pass her the joint as she sits down and she takes a hit, tucking her legs up and swaying them slightly back and forth to seemingly control the cloud of smoke she exhales between them.

How long are you in town? Morgasn asks me.

I dunno.

When are you going back?

I reach over for a bottle of whiskey on the concrete beside me and refill me glass. Before I can answer, Nadine floats up to us in the pool, carefully holding her drink above water, her hair wet from the neck down. She isn’t wearing a swimsuit. In the water, there’s just the shattered reflection of a deep red lace bandeaux and panties breaking the lines of her body in the glowing saltwater. She picks up my sunglasses off the concrete beside my wallet, phone, and keys to Arden’s DB9, and puts them on.

Sup, bitches? Nadine says, sipping her Ketel soda from an orange bendy straw as she leans against the pool’s edge.

I look down at her. Those look better on you.

I know. Nadine smiles. So what I want to know is which of you bad boys is taking home Selena Gomez tonight.

Selena’s not here, Morgan says.

Where is she? I look across the party.

I figured Tyler would be up to the challenge. Another notch on his celebrity belt…

Oh, shut up, I wasn’t going to try to sleep with her. I’ve just never met her, is all.

Maybe try to get her in your so-called movie. Is that ever actually going to happen?

They’re always happening but never going to happen. Maybe I could direct one of her music videos — they are pretty awful.

Make up your mind, Tyler.

I’m an artist, for Chrissakes. I can do whatever I want.

You’re an idiot is what you are.

You know what, Nadine? Give me my sunglasses back.

She stuck his tongue out at him. Relax, homeboy. I was just playing with you.

Oh really? I sit up, take my shirt off, and then unbuckle my pants.

What the hell are you doing? Morgan says from the lounge beside me.

I think it’s quite obvious. I’m doing a Goddamn cannon ball —

And so as everyone is shielding themselves from the forthcoming splash, I leap over Nadine’s head and cannonball right into the fucking pool, splashing everyone within ten feet of the water, to a series of fuck you’s from nearly every primped girl and guy in the area. Even Nadine is soaked being in the pool, and turns, pissed, with water dripping off her head and my Tom Ford wayfarers.

I take back what I said about you being an idiot, Nadine says. You’re an asshole.

I smile, floated on my back, looking up at the black sky above us, when a plastic cup sails through the air and bounces off my chest and then bobs away into the water. It’s some drunk, basic white girl in a spearmint top, white jeans, and wedges, who storms off into the party, partly soaked from my cannonball.

I call after her as she disappears into the crowd, It’s after Labor Day, honey.

Connor’s phone buzzes again. He hits Hank on the shoulder. Let’s do this.

They go off into the party, leaving Morgan lying there smoking the last of the cigarette, without looking back at her, without asking if she wanted to join, and all Morgan can think, in that moment, is how alone she feels at the center of everything.

Tyler follows Connor and a young, Latino kid about their age up into Connor’s bedroom. The kid is thin, but tough-looking, almost like jerky, and looks like he was trying to cover up his nerves as he zips open a weathered Jansport backpack on the bed.

This is Alejandro, Connor is saying as he takes a sip of his drink. He used to go to school with me and Nadine, before you got to Rearden. Think it was freshman year.

What are you doing here? Hank asks. If you went to Rearden, that is. Why are you dealing?

How much do you want? He asks, ignoring Hank’s question.

You want to split an eight ball? Connor asks Hank.

Sure.

Alejandro pulls out a couple of pre-measured-out baggies and holds them in his hand. Two hundred, he says.

Hank pulls out his wallet and counts some twenties. Then he looks at Connor. I’ll get you back, buddy. Hank all but rolls his eyes as he counts out another hundred, basically all of his cash, and hands it to Alejandro in exchange for the drugs.

Great doing business with you, Alejandro says as he zipz up the backpack and shoulders it in one single movement and walks out of the room with Connor trailing him.

Don’t do all of that before I get back, Connor says with a sarcastic smile as he follows Alejandro out and down the stairs.

After they’d gone, Hank opens his hand and stares at the cocaine. The whiteness of it. The weird simplicity of its purpose — to make you feel like a better person. More capable. Confident. Productive. In a way, it is like powdered ego.

He makes the first line smaller than he normally would just to measure the strength and reels afterwards, rubbing his nose and waiting for the high that never comes… because the coke is shit.

Almost in disbelief, he tries another line, bigger this time. And again, he stares at it like it’s the cocaine itself that has betrayed him.

Morgan is lying on the lounge, three vodka sodas deep, listening to Nadine and Tyler laughing in the pool. She’s staring up at the black, starless sky past the shadows of palm trees when she hears the shouting start.

She pushes her way through the party with me and Nadine dripping all over the polished concrete following her until we break through out the front door and onto the yard where we arrive just in time to see Hank land a punch across Alejandro’s bloodied face, sending him tumbling back into the sod. I lurch forward, soaking wet in my fucking boxers, for Chrissakes, and grab Hank to pull him off the kid as Hank reaches for the kid, spit flying from his bruised mouth as he screams every obscenity, every racial slur, he can come up with — even some that didn’t make any sense — demanding his money back, throwing the bags of cocaine at the kid as Connor and I finally get him under control.

Alejandro waiss just sitting there, the collar of his shirt torn, blood dripping down his lip, eyes moving back and forth between Hank and Connor, unsure of what to do.

Are you cool, man? Are you fucking cool? It’s Connor, trying to get Hank to chill the fuck out.

Finally, after like, asking him seventeen times, Hank relaxes. I’m cool. I’m fine, he says. So Connor and I let him go and Hank just sits there staring at Alejandro.

Connor picks up Alejandro’s Jansport and reaches inside, picking out a baggie of coke and opening it. He licks his finger and then dips it inside. All the while, Alejandro is protesting, almost whining, pleading for Connor to relax, saying: What are you doing, man? Come on, man. You don’t need to do that, man. Come on, man. But when Connor tastes the coke, his face sinks, and Alejandro slumped, and Hank smirks, knowing he is vindicated in his violence.

Maybe you better get out of here, Alejandro, Connor says. He’s going to toss the Jansport back to him, but Hank snatches it from him first.

This is ours now, Hank says.

What the fuck? Alejandro says, completely defeated, unable to do nothing. That’s bullshit. I’ll give you your money back, man. Take your money. But leave me my shit, man.

Get outta here, Hank says, standing, all the adrenaline out of his body now. As he starts towards the house, the party sort of follows him, broken up by the end of the excitement, leaving Connor and I with Alejandro for a moment on the lawn. Finally, Connor shakes his head and follows everyone else back into the house, except Morgan. I look at her for a moment and then follow Connor back inside, dripping on the hardwood as I follow everyone down the hallway back to the party.

Alejandro looks up at her. I’m sorry, she says, and then goes back into the house, closing the door on the kid sitting on the lawn — beaten, defeated, ruined.

As Morgan enters, she hears someone yell FREE DRUGS! and by the time she enters, a bunch of them are doing the coke off the coffee table and Hank is leaning against the wall watching them.

Morgan leans up next to Hank and watches the debauchery unfold as Connor cranks the stereo, the party back on in full-swing. Hank’s still holding the backpack, something inside is weighing it down. He reaches inside and feels something.

What is it? Morgan asks.

Hank pulls out a shitty velco fabric wallet, opening it as he says, His wallet.

In the wallet is Alejandro’s license, a debit card, some cash, and a worn photograph of a boy no older than two. Alejandro’s boy.

Morgan watches Hank stare at the photograph of the boy for a long time while the music blasts through the house with the girls doing the cocaine behind them and the liquor flowing for the young and the beautiful and the carefree. But Hank is just staring at the photograph. The photograph of the son.

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