Jack Wakes Up Read Free Page B

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.

4
    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