Bad Glass

Taylor pushed through the front door, into a brightly lit entryway. “Wipe your feet,” she said, nodding toward the doormat. She shrugged out of her wet hoodie and hung it on a mirror-backed coatrack. Underneath, she was wearing a bloodred turtleneck.

This was the first time I’d seen her without the hood. There was a propane lantern burning on a nearby table, but its brilliant white light couldn’t touch her pitch-black hair; it was so dark, it sucked in light like a black hole, refusing to give back even the slightest glimmer. Strands hung in wet rivulets around her face, dripping water onto her shirt. She glanced into the mirror and pushed the stray hair back behind her head, smoothing it into an elegant wave.

Again, I was struck by her beauty. Her features were angular and sharp; her beauty was strong and intimidating.

And she’d invited me back to her house.

What does that mean? I wondered, setting my bags on the ground and shucking out of my jacket. Convenience? Pity? Something more? I tried not to get my hopes up. Already, Taylor had seen me at my worst: weak, scared, confused.

She picked up the lantern and started back into the house. I grabbed my bags and followed.

The thick scent of pot hit me as soon as we crossed into the living room. After the day I’d had, it was an enticing smell, pungent and warm, a breath of comfort and sleep in the still air. All of the room’s furnishings had been pushed back against the walls, and a half dozen people sat gathered around the lit fireplace. There were four men and two women, their faces bathed in the flickering yellow light. None looked older than thirty.

“Glad to see you got the fire going without me,” Taylor said, setting the lantern down just inside the door. She was greeted with smiles, nods, and a halfhearted grunt. “I was afraid I’d find you all frozen into tiny little cubes.”

One of the men leaned back on his elbows and flashed Taylor a sly little grin. “You know, we got along just fine before you showed up. I myself survived twenty-four years without your help—”

“I still find that hard to believe,” Taylor interrupted, cracking a smile.

“The sun rose and set without you,” the man continued. There was something wrong with his voice; his words were drawn out, stretched into a dreamy singsong lilt. It was a disconcerting effect, and it made me feel uncomfortable. “Governments formed and dissolved without you. Plants sprouted, flowered, and died. The tide rolled in. The tide rolled out.” Still smiling, the man lowered himself onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. I was struck by a moment of déjà vu, and I followed his eyes, making sure there was no fractured body looming up above. “And despite your help, despite all you do, things still fall apart. The world decays. The city falls into chaos.”

“Yeah, Devon,” Taylor said, the smile fading from her lips, her brow scrunching into confused lines. “And morons still bray nonsense.”

“But we appreciate your help,” the man, Devon, continued, ignoring Taylor’s insult. “Really, we do. Working hard. Seeing the good in everybody. Out there gathering up the lost and the helpless.” He gestured in my direction, a languid flick of the wrist. Then he raised a pinkie finger up toward the sky. “Plugging up the dike with your tiny little finger.”

“What’s his problem?” Taylor asked, turning to the other people at the fire.

A girl with short blond hair let out a giggle. “Fuck if we know. He just won’t shut up. I think he found some Quaaludes or something.”

When I looked back at Devon, I saw that his eyes had fallen shut. He was lying on his back with a distant smile on his lips, rocking back and forth. Taylor just shook her head and gestured me toward the fire.

Taylor made introductions.

The girl with the blond hair was Amanda. She’d been studying psychology at Gonzaga. “Big waste of time,” she said with a giggle. “People just don’t make that much sense. End of story.”

The man sitting next to her was Floyd. “Pretty Boy Floyd,” one of the others said with a laugh. That’s what they used to call him, back when he’d been making skateboarding videos. But those days were long past. “Fucked-up knee,” he explained. He rapped his knuckles against his leg and gave his head a bitter little shake. “More metal than bone.” His nose was crooked, and his cheekbones didn’t sit quite right. “I had the bad habit of landing on my face.”

Then there was Mackenzie, a former bookstore clerk with red hair and a thick beard. I had him pegged as the oldest of the bunch, placing him at about thirty. He had a gruff voice, and his laughter was a low bass rumble, subdued and guarded. Maybe it was just the pot, but Mackenzie kept looking around the room, casting nervous glances toward the doors and windows. The smile on his lips didn’t really touch his eyes.