And this is why I do crazy shit like shoot myself in the leg – look at the awesome things you can learn.
I go downtown to the big police station on First Street and loiter outside for ten minutes before I gear up the courage to go in. I’ve got this idea that maybe it could be where my stone is, like in some evidence archive or something. Inside, it’s a combination of chaos and calm. Tons of policemen that look nearly as bored as if they might be working at the DMV, unfazed by the commotion all around them. The noise is deafening, even if you’re not cursed with super hearing. It’s pretty easy to be unnoticed among the colorful clientele out here, but not in other rooms. In other rooms I can see from here it looks like just cops. Maybe if I knew where to look I could try my best impression of a stray hurricane-like wind and get there. But I don’t know where to begin. Where do you keep decades-old evidence? The basement? The attic? A box? A filing cabinet? A plastic bag in a tray? How big would the room have to be, how much stuff must there have been over the years. What if they destroy stuff after a certain point? Burn it all up in an incinerator, or just send it to the dump? If it is in a room somewhere, how many cops are between me and whatever room it’s in. Is there a sign in sheet or a locked door? For that matter, how many Police Stations are in L.A.? I came to the big one, but who says that’s the right one?
The movies don’t cover this part.
I walk out fifteen minutes later, kicking at the sidewalk grooves in frustration and cursing my puny brain, yet again.
I’m never gonna find my damn stone.
°
It turns out I’m selfish and horrible.
Because I haven’t left Clark. In fact we’re more inseparable than ever, and I just keep my head down, as if I can sense nothing. Pretending that I don’t see things that are happening. Pretending I’m just like everyone else. Pretending I didn’t let nine people die so that I could have a “perfect” dinner with Clark. Pretending I haven’t let how ever many other people die since then. I haven’t saved the day or even chased a scream in weeks.
I’m the worst person on earth.
And ironically, being the worst person on earth isn’t even going to be the thing that makes Clark leave me, because he’s finally insisted on seeing my motel room, and when he does he’s going to realize I’m a complete freak and leave me anyway.
My hand shakes as I put the key in the lock and I turn to him with a pleading look.
“Let’s not do this,” I start. “Let’s go to the movies…let’s go to the beach…or Ooh! Coney Island!” I say, making my eyes wide with false excitement and clapping a little. Clark laughs and takes the key from me.
“Enough. We’re seeing this crappy motel room of yours, you’ve tricked me enough times with that Coney Island bit. I’m starting to think you have abducted children in here.” He turns the key and swings the door open wide, shielding his eyes in mock horror. “If there’s anything horrible going on in here, stop it right now!” he yells to the room and I smile despite my teeth chattering in fear. Clark opens his eyes and his mouth drops open. “Jeezus Bonnie…” He walks into the room and looks everything up and down, eyes wide. I shuffle my feet in the hallway, kicking at the doorjamb, afraid to see my own room through his eyes. He starts laughing. “Baby, this is hilarious. It looks like an art installation.” I look up, hopeful, and see him touching a light fixture covered in yellow paint. Seeing the room with him in it doesn’t look as scary as I thought, because he thinks it’s funny, not insane, and so everything has somehow been miraculously saved. He’s saved me from myself once again. I’d painted the entire thing a pale yellow, from linoleum bathroom floor to bedside tables. It’s all the color of buttered toast and the paint cans are still sitting in the closet all sealed up and waiting for a second coat.
“You think so?” I ask, stepping inside timidly.
“It’s awesome.” He reaches out and pulls me into him, staring at the ceiling. “It feels like living in a stick of butter. I feel like I should move in with you and we can be, I don’t know, people in some kind of bizarre, fucked-up fairy tale. The Buttertons of Butterdom. I love it, we’re sleeping here tonight,” he declares. I balk.
“We don’t have to.”
“No, we totally are. I’ve never stayed over with you, all these months. We’re doin’ it.” He pauses suddenly, reconsidering his words. “I mean…staying over, we’re staying here…unless, I mean, unless you don’t want me to…which is, you know, totally fine…” His words are all over the place, like he’s twelve. I want to giggle, but it all feels very serious suddenly. We’ve kind of avoided the sex question all this time. There’s been lots of kissing and touching, and even sleepovers, but it’s all been kind of innocent, chaste even. And I like that, mostly ’cause I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but more and more…well, more and more I think about it – when I’m with him, when I’m not with him, all the time, in fact. And now, it just feels different all of a sudden. He’s being awkward and shy and I feel anything but.