God Hates Us All

“Nate is here. In fucking Korea? Lining the hallway with rose petals?”

“He was outside her room when she arrived,” Devi continues, either divinely indifferent or just oblivious to my mortal suffering. “With his guitar. He has the voice of an angel. And the necklace …”

“There was a necklace?” I turn again to Ray. He looks back at me with a sympathetic cringe, as if he’d just seen me get kicked in the nuts.

“Diamonds,” says Devi.

“Diamonds? As in plural?” My head is starting to spin. I feel like I might vomit.

“From Tiffany’s,” she chirps. “With the blue bag and everything!”

“Where are they now?” One look at Devi, and I can tell I sound as angry as I feel.

“In our suite,” she replies, uncertainty creeping into her voice for the first time.

“The room number?” I ask, sounding even angrier. Devi’s eyes flit nervously toward Ray.

Threat assessment.

“You don’t want to do that,” Ray says, presenting a reassuring hand to my shoulder. I slap it away.

“What. Fucking. Room.”

“I’m afraid I’ve said too much already,” says Devi, clearly frightened by the look in my eyes. I focus on the small handbag she’s now clutching to her chest. Pissed off enough to take on a goddess, I grab the purse out of her hands.

Devi shrieks. Ray looks caught between hugging me and socking me in the jaw. I root quickly through the bag, my hand emerging with her room key.

“Room 24021,” I read aloud off the plastic tag.

Replacing the key, I hand the bag back to her and storm toward the elevator. Or as close to it as I can, before a sumo wrestler stuffed into a security guard’s uniform holds out an arm to block my way and asks to see my room key.

I pat my jacket as if looking for the key. The sumo has clearly seen this one before. “Guests only,” he says.

“Have it your way.” I walk back to the front desk.

“I would like a room,” I tell the clerk.

“So sorry,” she says kindly. “All booked up.”

“Any room.”

“I’m so sorry. Perhaps I can recommend another hotel?”

“Listen,” I say. “I have traveled almost seven thousand miles to see one of your guests.”

“You’re welcome to use the house phone,” she says, her eyes flickering nervously toward the sumo. He begins walking over. I decide to accept the clerk’s invitation to use the house phone.

I dial K.’s room. K’s suite. After seven rings, someone picks up the receiver and — before either of us can say a word — hangs up.

I redial. This time it rings four times before I hear Nate’s voice on the line.

“Whoever this is, fuck off!” he yells. Click.

I dial again. This time nobody picks up. I imagine Nate delighting K. as he rips the cord out of the wall, then jumps into bed to delight her some more.

My head feels like it might explode.

“You okay, buddy?” asks Ray.

“What do you think?”

“Yeah, it’s fucked up, I know. But I tried to warn you that night at the Western. Rock stars are like voodoo masters. I mean, look at Billy Joel. He’s married to Christie Brinkley. Christie Brinkley? Are you shitting me?”

“Thanks, Ray. I feel so much better now.”

“You need a drink.”

“Your invitation still good?”

“I would, but Devi … I don’t know if you made such a good impression.” I spy the exgoddess across the room. She stares back at me with dark fury. I quickly turn away. “Besides,” Ray continues.

“We were just about to get all funky and shit.”

“Lucky you,” I say, meaning it. I look at the clock on my pager. “I guess I can go feel sorry for myself for another seventeen hours.”

“Dr. Ray has another idea. There’s a place down the street. A youth hostel.”

“A youth hostel?”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, man. Youth hostels — this is an established fact — are full of horny sluts. Horny sluts on vacation from their better judgment. A good-looking guy like you gets laid with minimal effort, I mean zero rap, as long as you’re cool with unshaved armpits and a lack of privacy.”

My anger is slipping away, making room for sleep deprivation. “I don’t know about the horny sluts, but I’m definitely pro-nap.”

“There he is,” Ray says, sounding relieved. “A little shuteye, then you’ll bang a slut. I recommend Australians. Find one with a friend and bang them both. Go root a couple of sheilas.”

I pat Ray on the shoulder and exit the hotel. The valet appears immediately. “May I call you a taxi?”

I look up at the sky and see threatening clouds and approaching darkness. A perfect match to my mood.

“Thanks, but I’ll walk.”

I set out down a major thoroughfare that feels like New York, only with enviably wider sidewalks. Per Ray’s directions to the youth hostel, I make a right turn at the first light and wind up, a block later, in a neighborhood with a much more suburban feel. A brightly illuminated 7-Eleven-type store anchors a stone-tiled public square surrounded by tenementstyle buildings. The square itself is occupied by a few dozen Korean men, many in business suits, who gather in three distinct circles.

Each circle has its own bottle of the local hooch, passed with cheery camaraderie from one smiling man to the next.

Not a female in sight, I notice. That explains the smiles.

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