Not that you'd know it, but there's a penthouse, on Central Park West, that's home to more opioid use, and general debauchery, than maybe all of the clubs, and underground brothels in the city combined. Invitation only, those that make it far enough with Jamie -- be that an urge to get between her legs, or otherwise -- most often come out with a version of the same story to tell to other survivors. Knowing her -- the way anyone can -- is something of an endurance challenge itself. Say you were one of them; a guy, or a girl, intent on closing the deal, then you'd be in it for the long haul. There are no quick dalliances with Jamie. All promises -- even those of a purely transactional nature -- are subject to the whims of her, the universe, and any other wrench that might go tumbling down into your machinations.
We share it, the penthouse. Jamie on one half of the space, and I inhabiting the other. We're roommates as much as we're sisters. We're both, in our own way, terrified of being alone once the dust settles, and it's time to sleep, and eat, and bathe, and partake in all of the other trivial, human requirements that don't seem to exist out there, in the wild.
Maybe you're thinking that sounds like a nightmare.
Maybe you've been reading up until this point, and the thought of cohabitating with a creature like her sounds like bedding down in raw meat next to a hungry jungle cat.
The truth is -- and you're free to balk -- that I don't mind the disquiet. I'm largely unbothered by the shouting, and the broken knick-knacks, and the occasional, calamitous fucking that finds a way to pour through what the building manager told us were thrice-baffled walls. I find a way to maneuver around where bodies have collapsed in post-coital slumber. I've even managed to come up with fun, somewhat convincing stories as to why they chose the penthouse's main living space, as opposed to the foot of the bed, or in a kennel, or wherever Jamie sends them after she's gotten hers. I don't care that the fridge is perpetually left open. I've accepted that this -- this place, and this situation, and this level of insanity -- is the way things are. The way I choose to be.
Besides, have you ever watched the sunrise from sixty floors up?
It's worth a few annoyances.
It must be close to dawn, given the lazy, silvery shade of light that's pouring in from floor to ceiling glass, when I hear the first of their stirring.
"Fuck."
I'm on a wrap-around sofa, half curled into the fetal position, somewhere between actual sleep, and the heavy, immobile coma that comes from a night of abating, when I hear another voice join the commotion.
"Oh, fuck. Fuck me. Jesus."
The door to Jamie's bedroom swings open, and there's the sound of feet, pacing in a hurry, crashing into things, moving with the sort of blind, panicked urgency that tells me, whoever they are, they're looking for something.
"Jesus fuck, man. What the fuck are we gonna do?" This from the voice still in Jamie's room.
"Where's..." Comes the reply. Clipped short by another crashing of feet into what I think is the leg of an upholstered chair. There's a curse, more of that quick, nervous searching, and then, "Where's uhh ...shit."
"What!?" I can hear that this other voice is coming closer. Now they're both in the main space of the apartment, and I still haven't moved an inch.
"Her ...fuckin' friend, man. What's her name?"
I sit up.
"What?" I ask. Vacant. Flat. Dead.
He exhales this massive sigh of relief, and moves to the back of the sofa. His tone lower, I can tell by the way his eyes jerk between me, and Jamie's room, that whatever issue they're having, it directly involves her, and I'm the best solution their pair of brains can conjur up.
"She, uh..."
He's fumbling, sweating, and carrying with him an aroma of leftover good-times and the acrid tinge of fear. I don't recognize him, at least not enough to place where he might've latched on last night, but he looks about the type that Jamie typically snares: cute, dumb, and without any of those pesky, moral hangups that'd ruin the night. It never ceases to amaze me how many of them there really are, just waiting for their chance to disappoint.
I'm on my feet before he's even gotten around to telling me what's wrong. Moving, toward Jamie's room, I feel him on my heels, and both of them are flanking me in the doorway. We stand there, the three of us, wordless and still. I can hear the arrhythmic thock, thock, thocking of one of them chewing on, and snapping, their thumb nail.
"She's fucking dead." One of them -- we'll call him Adam -- says.
"Fuck." This from who we'll be referring to as Brad.
"I-I-I," Adam stutters, "I ...I didn't even, like -- fuck, man. She was rippin' all night. How the f--"
"Fuck," says Brad, again.
"I didn't know, man," he's saying, his hand on my shoulder, turning me so that I can see the sincerity on his features. If I had to guess, he's referring to the fact that he'd been, comfortably, sleeping next to what he thinks is a corpse. Or, perhaps, that he didn't know just how difficult this whole affair had been on Jamie. A small part -- the little flicker, that often ends up being right -- tells me he's just lobbing words as they come to him. This is grief, and regret, commiserating with each other the only way they know how.
"So, whadda we do? Like..." This is from Brad. Apparently, when pressed, his vocabulary can grow wings. He must be the brains of the operation.
"We gotta call, uh -- fuck. We gotta call somebody. Isn't there, like, somebody you can call?" It seems like this question is being asked of me. "Like, not the police -- but, like, the police -- but, like, after, like...."
After we clean up the place. After we've flushed what remains of Jamie's stash. After they've hightailed it to wherever it is fucktoys go when they're not in service.
"Yeah. Yeah, right," says Brad. "There's gotta be, like, a hotline, ya know? Like, a number you can call--"
"They're gonna wanna fuckin' know what happened, man." I feel his hand on my shoulder again. "And, like, y-y-y-you'll, like, cover for us."
"She's not dead." I say.
It sounds like there's an attempt to stop me, when I climb up from the foot of Jamie's bed to sit, on knees, beside her. In the defense of Adam, and Brad, this is the worst I've seen her look since we've been chasing an early death. Corpse-white, lips dry, cracked, and slightly agape, eyes caught between open, and shut, she's giving anyone who hasn't danced this number before reasonable cause to assume the worst.
"Jamie." I say, sharply. My vocal chords are still waking up, and it comes out a touch softer than I intended.
Nothing.
"Oh, fuck, man," I hear Brad say from behind me.
I move to straddle her midsection, and try again.
No response. Just glassy eyes, and the greased over, porcelain skin of her face, expressionless.
"Jamie!" I say, louder this time, and tug at her earlobe, hard.
"Mm!" She sounds back, making an attempt to roll away from the sting of pain.
There's a gasp of relief from both Adam, and Brad, as Jamie lifts a wrist, and hand, to lamely slap at where my weight presses against her.
"Jamie, wake up."
"Why?" She asks. Truly, I'm impressed she went for an actual word. Sometimes -- more and more, lately -- I'm reduced to translating grunts, and mumbles when she's like this.
"Jamie! Wake! Up!"
Finally, I see where recognition, and life, spark behind her eyes. She blinks, her throat working in a dry swallow, before she's glaring up at me, probably wondering why I'm sitting on her. I dismount, and lay beside her on the bed, almost forgetting about Adam, and Brad, who are still watching intently from the doorway.
"Bitch," she whispers, rolling onto her side and burying her face into a pillow that's tracked with last night's mascara.
It's quiet for a moment. Long enough to hear Jamie's slow, steady breathing and the sounds of their feet, shuffling.
"So, she's ...okay?" One of them asks. With my eyes closed, and lethargy reaffirming its grip on me, I can't be bothered to figure out which.
"Yes." I say, without elaborating.
"Jesus Christ."
I wish that I could share in the relief they're feeling. If only for a moment.
"One of you needs to go out," I say. "Or ...both of you, I guess it doesn't matter." I find that it's taking more than I would've anticipated to articulate myself. Taking thoughts, and forming them into words, feels like dragging my heels, so I speak slowly, deliberately. The way you might to a child, who can only understand a thing if it's spelled out verbatim. "You need to go to NAVI -- that juice bar, on 83rd. I need you to get a Pink Dream, with," for a moment, it feels like my mind might stall, and I'll be unable to remember the specific string of words necessary for this order. I sigh. "Get a Pink Dream, with the Immuno-Boost. Bring it back here."
"Two." Jamie says in a muffled voice, holding up as many fingers.
"Get two. And bring them back here."
There's no response from either of them. I prop myself on an elbow, and peer to where they're backlit by the rising sun.
"Okay?" I ask.
They nod, almost in unison.
"Don't fuck this up, please." I say, after my head hits the pillow again.
It's not until after they've left that Jamie rolls again, this time to face me. We're close enough on the massive width of the mattress that I can feel her breath on my shoulder. The weight of her forearm lands on my ribs, below my chest; a half-hearted sort of embrace that I feel myself adjusting to accomodate. She curls closer against me. I feel her breathing becoming more steady. More normal.
"He's dead," she says, finally, softly, against my neck.
"I know."
I won't bore you with the details of what happens next. I'm sure -- if it's important to you, and if you must -- there are no shortage of stories where tears are shed, and comfort from a friend is given. There are, undoubtedly, more honest, better-equipped writers out there who can impart just how heartbreaking the sadness, and helplessness of a damaged, lonely soul is.
I did warn you, though.
This isn't that kind of story.
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