Chapter 3
It was on the couch where Quentin awakened the next morning, shortly after dawn, with the rays of the sun streaming across his face and across the living room table. Garbage and debris were strewn about. The drink that Kjell had thrown across the room had dried into the carpet and left a faint stain that ended against the wall. One of the highball glasses had found second use as an ashtray for the joints that Carson rolled, and next to it was a bag with the rest of his stash, laying invitingly half-open by a package of cigarette papers.
As soon as he'd taken a piss, Quentin did the obvious thing and rolled a joint, to the best of his limited ability. It was of mediocre quality but he was of minimal tolerance, and the sum effect was one of great distortion to his mind. He coughed so loud he feared he might wake up the rest of the apartment, but no one even moved an inch that he could ascertain.
His bed had been appropriated by Carson and Olivia, both of them intertwined, fully clothed, and serenely dispassionate. The most notable thing about the two of them was the manner in which their hair lay completely undisturbed by the betidings of the past twelve hours. Olivia had cropped hair that remained astonishingly in place, while Carson had the flowing locks of an everyman Dicaprio. Of course they had walked right into the building. How could they fail at anything with the absolute sense of certainty that they exuded?
As mystical as the experience of looking at them was, the practical consideration soon arose of what Quentin was to do so long as his bed was occupied. The initial course of action was to slumber again on the couch, but after a brief period it proved impossible to sleep again, and he instead put on his jacket and went outside.
Sitting by the rocks of Lake Michigan, drifting through various degrees of external awareness, ruminating on the expanse of water and the horizon line. The sun rose and the brilliant orange and pink shades streaked above the blue and gray mist. As this scene made its impression upon Quentin a new wave of drowsiness struck and presently he found himself snapping into consciousness an hour or so later. Sitting up and looking around but no one seemed to notice he'd been sleeping.
Next, ambling around the neighborhood, yawning slightly, impressed by the blossoms that were coming out, and slightly chilled from the remnants of the winter air, he began heading back in the general direction of the apartment with a wave of total exhaustion seeping in.
When Quentin woke up a second time it was the middle of the day.
"... and that's when I told Bill that he absolutely has to offer equity for me to even consider it. I mean, dear you know me, I've worked way too long for corporations as a plebeian and it is absolutely time to seize control of my future and Quentin has finally stirred in the living room. Let me go see how he's feeling after that rough night."
As Quentin sat up on the couch, gathering his bearings, Carson quickly walked in from the direction of the kitchen. The air was fragrant and there was obviously something being cooked or baked in the oven. Music was playing from the speakers as well.
"Hello sir. How are you feeling?" Carson asked.
Quentin looked around, and in contrast to the disorderly mess he had seen that morning, the entire living room was now spotless. Even some of the papers and books which had been laying out for weeks were now shelved and arranged in perfect order.
"What the hell happened in here?"
"I took the liberty of cleaning your living room and dining room." Carson explained.
"Yeah it looks great. What the hell made you decide to do that?"
"Anything on the dining room table that looked like solicitations or outright trash I destroyed. There are some other papers stacked neatly in the corner there which might be of some importance. Additionally you can see that the floor is vacuumed. Now to be fair I did worry that it might wake you up to do that but Kjell assured me that you sleep like a thirty-six year old housewife on Ambien when you put your mind to it, and that I need not worry about that whatsoever. I hope you find the place to your satisfaction."
"Thank you."
"I spoke to Kjell about thirty-two minutes ago. He is taking his last exam of the quarter as we speak and he should return within two hours. We have tentative plans as of now to venture out into the world. Specifically to eat the cake that Olivia is making, see a movie, eat dinner, and finally attend a party that Kjell knows about. Our aims are modest for today, for tomorrow we must drive like maniacs if we're to keep our lives on schedule. Does that all sound good?"
Quentin nodded. There was not a paper of a speck of dust remaining on the cheap, battered coffee table. There was a cable news show on the television but nobody was watching.
Quentin's first sense that something was wrong came as their group was waiting in line at the theatre to buy tickets to the matinee. Instead of being stage props he could look at the people in line in front of him, all six of them, and feel the energy of their soul. The woman and the man in their sixties or thereabouts with him wearing jeans and looking wizened, and the experience of decades of American life reverberating through his posture. A man who could remember clearly when Jimmy Carter was President and had probably thought he already was over the hill in life the day that Nixon resigned. A man who went through high school when Duane Eddy or Buddy Holly were the most exciting guys on the radio. What movie would a guy like that even be seeing on a Friday afternoon?
"Hey man, are you present?"
It was Carson again.
"Yeah I think so. That guy in front of us in line is... he's old, man."
"I know buddy."
"That's not what I'm trying to say though. What I mean is, like just look at him. There's just oldness in his clothes. It's coming out of his pores. Just... just oldness, man."
Olivia and Carson smiled.
"Do you know what city you're in?"
"Chicago, Illinois."
"Do you know what day it is?"
"Friday, March 19th, 2004."
"Then you're fine."
"I think I'm dying." Quentin laughed. "Did you guys try to kill me?"
Olivia put her hand on Quentin's shoulder.
"Oh dear, you're not dying --"
"Consider yourself the beneficiary of an experiment." Carson said.
"What Carson is trying to tell you is that you are the victim of so many crimes that he and his girlfriend should rightfully be executed." Kjell added.
"How many fucking times do I have to tell you that I'm not Carson's girlfriend?"
"It's a felony to drug someone without their knowledge. It's certainly a felony to possess the amount of drugs that the two of you have, and the penalties are even more exacerbated when you transport across state lines. Worst of all, you've taken a bright young soul here, Quentin Ross, innocent as Santa Rosa, and corrupted this wonderful life experience with your depraved substance abuse."
"First of all, Olivia knows a guy in Chicago who helped us out yesterday, so we categorically did not transfer anything illegal across state lines, which would have been impossible in any case since we flew here directly from London, England. But more importantly, can we have this conversation at a lower volume? You're scaring Quentin and furthermore there are security guards everywhere." Carson whispered loudly.
It came time to buy their tickets. Carson bought one, followed by Olivia, followed by Kjell. Quentin completely failed to realize what was going on and had to be prodded to the ticket window. Following that, he had no idea what movie it was that they were seeing. Finally, he couldn't find his cash in a timely fashion, to the point that the cashier became visibly annoyed. Carson and Olivia watched on in great amusement.
They sat down in the dark seats well before the movie began. Carson finally elucidated the situation to Quentin's satisfaction.
"Hey buddy. So first of all, I just want to explain the cake we fed you. Let's see, um, how should I put this? Well... the cake was a little more than just cake. Are you familiar with the term 'space cake'? We noticed the third joint that you presumably smoked this morning and thought that we might, as
you would say, offer a pleasant surprise."
"Ok." Quentin said.
"Carson is trying to tell you that we laced the cake with pot and that you're stoned right now." Olivia said.
"I thought something was going on when we stood in line for ten minutes and it felt like twenty minutes, you know?"
"See, he's fine." Carson said, settling back into his seat.
The next thing Quentin knew, he was watching two people converse on a train that was almost empty. The woman had blue hair. And then they were breaking into a house, just because it was there. Surely that had to violate some kind of social norm. Parts of the screen were falling away before his eyes and he found that he wanted nothing more than to drink the glass of lemonade that was clenched in his left hand, long after it was empty. Then Kirsten Dunst was in her underwear. Shortly after that he gave up trying to follow the vagaries of the film and just let thoughts from the visual stimuli drift pass his frontal lobe. People on ice. Bare twigs. Sand. Shouting. And ever that ethereal peace.
"God, what a horrible piece of shit!" Kjell exclaimed as the credits started rolling.
"You know what's horrible Kjell? You as a human being." Olivia said. She walked away briskly before the rest of them stood up.
They caught up with her, and Kjell and Olivia argued the merits of the movie for quite a few minutes as they walked around, first to the lake and later back to the apartment. Quentin gradually regained his senses and his humanity after several hours of intoxication. The critical debate meant nothing to him.
The foursome waited in line at a Spanish restaurant as the evening began and the shadows lengthened in the streets. Failing to make reservations, they were shunted into a corner for about ten minutes where they stood as awkwardly as they could manage. The other diners were forced to squeeze past their group in a rather tenuous manner if they wished to enter or leave through the front door.
A controversy arose from them discussing the reason for the delay in their being seated. A couple of tables appeared to be open and Kjell immediately concluded that their own group was not wanted in the restaurant, due to their youth and their ragged appearance. He announced that they would exact their revenge by imbibing heavily and singing Francoist folk songs. It was only when Olivia mocked him and challenged him to name a single one of the purported songs that the subject was dropped. For his part, Quentin simply assumed that the tables were open because someone had reserved them.
The restaurant itself was quite modern and urban in appearance and made little attempt to mimic the pastiched ambience of Spain itself, aside from a couple of posters and a map of the provinces.
Presently they were seated and paranoia receded to the back of Kjell's imagination. The waitress wasted little time in serving them sangria. It arrived in a large pitcher with the customary smattering of apples and oranges.
"Sangria consists of claret and mixed fruit, and is cut with brandy. The name roughly translates to 'blood' in Spanish." Carson said, taking his first swig of alcohol since they had arrived at the restaurant, but decidedly not his first swig of the afternoon.
Quentin checked his phone multiple times for signs of Marcela's anticipated arrival. He played no part in the ordering of food, other than to assent to the plans of his cohort. The rest of the patrons appeared to be in their mid-twenties at the youngest. Quentin had actually never been to the restaurant as a student. He had only recently turned twenty-one and doubted if a fake would have sufficed for proving his age there before that milestone.
The food arrived for just the four of them. When Marcela did appear it was about halfway through the main course. They were splitting a dish of seafood paella along with sundry other small dishes. Quentin slid over to make room for a fifth person which made the table quite crowded and complicated the arrangement of chairs in the rest of the dining area.
"Hello Quentin!" Marcela said, smiling vibrantly. He immediately stood up and she gave him a kiss on the cheek before she sat down. Once she was situated at the table she looked expectantly at the new visitors, Carson and Olivia, and began to introduce herself.
"How are you? My name is Marcela Rainieri." she said, holding her right hand out to greet them.
"My name is Olivia Dupree, and this is Carson Karlsen. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." came the response, with a soft but formal intonation.
"Indeed, my name is Carson. First of all, it is of paramount importance that you are able to share the joys of food and drink with the rest of us. Of course I'm sure you're welcome to use Quentin's plate since the waitress seems to now be avoiding us, but as for drink you absolutely have to try some of this sangria before it's gone. Quentin, pour your girlfriend the rest of this pitcher and let her see what the rest of us have been enjoying."
Carson concluded this long opening my nudging what was left of the sangria to a position directly in front of Marcela's seat.
"I've been here before, but you are correct. The sangria is very well done." she replied.
"Rainieri. Is that Italian?" Carson asked.
"At one point it was. How did you guess?" she smiled.
"I'm just lucky. When did your ancestors make the long trip to Santiago? And what is the best Chilean fiction to read outside of Isabel Allende?"
"They arrived slightly over one hundred years ago. And you should read anything by Pablo Neruda."
"I'm glad that's settled. Why aren't you coming to Washington with us? The more the better."
"Quentin never asked me." she said. Now everyone began to look in that direction, demanding an explanation with their expressions.
"Well," Quentin said, "I didn't realize I could invite someone. I mean, I thought that there was limited space, and so on. Like Kjell never told me I could invite people."
"That's crazy though. Kjell, we definitely told you that anyone was welcome." Carson sad.
"And that's what I told Quentin."
"No Kjell, you did not tell me that."
"Yes I did."
"When?"
"Three weeks ago, don't you remember?" Kjell protested, holding his hands up in the air.
"I have no idea what you’re talking about." Quentin maintained.
"See? You just forgot. It can happen to anyone. The human brain is notoriously inefficient at transferring short-term impressions into long-term memories."
"Bullshit!" Carson shouted. "You always do this to people. You just make shit up and when they call you out on it you double down. You're lying out of your ass right now!"
"Maybe we should be a little quieter." Olivia said. She was mostly tuning the conversation out of her mind, perhaps from a place of exasperation. For his part, Quentin noticed the hostess and a couple other patrons casting sideways glances at their table.
"It's not very important. I would have to go to Chile no matter what for some interviews." Marcela said. She put her arm around Quentin's side.
Carson ordered an after-dinner coffee and convinced Olivia to as well. And then, as if one hot topic were not enough for the evening, he turned back to Marcela and asked her about the Pinochet era in Chile. After Marcela graciously discussed the topic for a moment, including her own father's recollections, Kjell again interrupted with his own input, which was not entirely solicited.
"In Chile they refer to that era as a golden age, am I wrong?" Kjell said, his voice having increased in volume as the evening progressed.
"No Kjell. That was not a golden age."
"I thought they killed all the socialists and the economy started growing at eight percent a year. I mean, how did your parents do financially?"
"Amigo. Do you maybe want to go outside and get some fresh air?" It was Carson again, and he was uncharacteristically stern this time.
"Look! It's Alessandro." Kjell replied, pointing at the doorway. Sure enough, at that exact moment Alessandro was talking with the hostess and signaling towards their table. Good hospitality could only be stretched so far -- the hostess's smile was decidedly perfunctory.
If squeezing five people around their table was a stretch, the scene reached clownish proportions once Alessandro pulled his own chair in. Had they still been eating, there would not have been room for all of them to have their plates on the table. As it was, Alessandro grabbed a glass of water that someone had ignored and he chugged it down to nothing within a minute.
"Why are you so thirsty all of the sudden?" Kjell asked.
"I'm really fucking stoned right now. I didn't know what I was getting myself into." Alessandro said.
"You too? What is it with the modern world?"
"I had no choice! I had no choice. I was over at Robert Jackson's apartment. He pulled out a bong from his kitchen cabinet and he forced me to rip on it. He said we wasn't going to sell me any weed unless I ripped his bong and held the contents in my lungs for fifteen seconds."
"You're still hanging out with that loser? No wonder I don't fucking talk to you." Kjell said, again not modulating his volume to fit the environment.
"Are you ready for the check now?" the waitress asked as she set Carson's coffee on the table. Carson handed her his debit card directly, over the feigned protestations of everyone. He told them to consider it a show of his appreciation for the hospitality extended to him in Chicago. When the card came back their entire group fled out of the restaurant, to the chagrin of no one left inside.
Later that night, Quentin and Marcela were walking back to her apartment. Marcela had a flight to catch and needed to leave by around six o'clock the next morning.
"Well, Carson was everything you described and more." she said.
"Yeah. He was pretty drunk this evening though. I don't know if he's usually quite that talkative."
"Are you going to let him drive a car? He seems too... he seems like he is not very well grounded."
"It's Kjell's car."
"It's your neck, as they say."
"My neck will be fine. See?"
She kissed his neck gently, then grabbed his hand and held it as they walked the last block. They went through the lobby of her building and got onto the elevator. There was no noise but for the mechanical din of machinery until Marcela broke the silence.
"Olivia is quite... voluptuous." she smiled. "You didn't mention that."
"I'd never seen her in my life until last night."
"Are you sure you'll be able to think straight these next few days? I was a little distracted myself."
"I don't want to talk about Olivia right now." he said.
"So serious." she grinned.
He rearranged a strand of hair that fell over her face, sweeping it behind her ear with gentle rhythm. Before the elevator could make it to Marcela's floor, he leaned in and stole a kiss. She kissed him back and they said no more until they made it to her place.