The Cloud

26

I try to lift my head but pain and drool keep it pasted it to a pillow. I smell starch and taste glue.

Fighting pain, angered by it, I sit upright. I feel momentarily refreshed, alive, and then intensely dizzy.

Dim gray light comes through the edges of closed curtains covering square windows to my right. A brass-poled lamp stands in the corner. Beneath it, a stiff patterned-cloth recliner is piled with clothes. To my right, on a faux wood nightstand, a square plastic stand holds an advertisement for Roger’s Motel at Ocean Beach. It shows a picture of a motel with a red awning offering “free Wi-Fi” and “free coffee and donuts 7–9.” It instructs: “Dial 0 for the best motel service in San Francisco.” The scuffed and boxy beige landline phone sitting beside it looks like it was bought from a garage sale a generation ago.

My phone sits next to it, looking by comparison like a spacecraft from far in the future.

I look straight ahead, at the bureau with the TV. Behind it, there’s a rectangular mirror with a note written in red lipstick:

back soon.

drink water.

f.

I elongate so I can glance to see myself in the mirror. My right eye is puffy and half-closed, flooded with blood-carrying cells to rebuild the hammer-fist-struck tissue. My elbow aches with distended ligament.

I turn to the side of the bed and I dry heave.

I have no memory of how I got here or when. I’m pretty sure I remember having sex. I called it therapy, and so did Faith.

I slide my feet onto the floor. I stumble to the bathroom, and fumble to extract a paper cup from its sterile paper wrapping. I gulp tepid water, refill and repeat. Even without turning on the light, I can see in the mirror light streaks of red on my chest and arms. Fingernail marks. Faith doesn’t mess around or, rather, she does and with more animation than I might’ve guessed.

I hear buzzing coming from the other room. I wade back through my fog to the bedside, lift and look at the phone resting in the palm of my right hand, notice the screen go briefly out of focus. If I didn’t have a concussion before, I’ve got one now.

A notification tells me I’ve got a voice mail. More brain radiation, I think, as I listen to the message.

“I can tell you more about the juggler thing. Back at the Ramp tonight? Same time.”

It’s cryptic but recognizable. Sandy Vello. The juggler thing. Something having to do with technology and kids.

The motel door swings open. In the doorway stands Faith, breathing hard, her hair wet and flat on her head. She holds a cardboard tray with two coffees and a pastry. I realize my first reaction is not curiosity but hunger.

“Pants,” she says.

“Pastry first, then explain what you mean.”

“Get dressed or you’re going to have to run to the car naked.”

“You’re even kinkier than I remember.”

“He’s coming.” She reaches onto the chair by the door and tosses me a ball of my clothes.

“Who?”

“Let’s go. Now!”