Detritus It was yet another night of feigning interest. Not for Alan, of course, he was at home in this hip tribe. We d been at the party far too long; my patience had run out about three hours ago. I suggested we leave, it was nearing daybreak, and I hadn t eaten in forever. I spent our cab fare on a hit of E, Alan confessed. We ll have to walk. People were winding down all over, lazing over each other in couches, passed out in piles of coats. All night I had smiled at them, laughed at their jokes, nodded knowingly at their insider information of local DJ s. Being Alan s girlfriend was mostly riding the wake of his presence, always arriving just as the swell ended. At most of these parties I felt like a badly placed piece of furniture, something to traverse. No doubt many of these women had slept with Alan already, or wanted to. I wasn t really sure if I liked him or just the idea of him, yet. I looked his way. He was wearing an old man s fur hat, topping off his ratty t-shirt and slim jeans. He is a lazy lover, I think, and now I have to walk home in the freezing cold. Shit.
Alan said our goodbyes as I stormed off onto the porch to smoke our last cigarette. What?! He said, shrugging my way. Nothing would ever be his fault, I could see. I didn t have the energy to argue, suddenly exhausted. I should have taken some drugs, why hadn t I thought of that? Why didn t he buy me any? We started the long trek home in silence. The bridge loomed before us, steel arches yawning; ready to suck us through its teeth with the shrill morning wind. Alan didn t seem to notice the cold as I zipped my jacket up to the top. He was playing a metronome beat on his leg, flicking a thumb out, slapping it down. He once told me he heard music in everything, in the air conditioner, in the footsteps of other people, in the scraping of street sweepers. At the time I thought it was romantic. Maybe it means his head is always full, too busy noticing things to really notice anything of value. I listened now, at the few cars thumping over the cracked pavement, at the wind freezing my ears. Dawn illuminated nothing, it was all grey: the pavement, the sky, the buildings, and the water. I smiled to myself. We had stumbled into a black and white photograph, by accident. Had he noticed? Alan looked my way, thought the smile was for him, and returned it with a relieved gaze. Whatever, I thought. I just want to be home in my bed.
I returned my gaze to the greyness ahead, and that s when I spotted it, a red speck in the wasteland. I walked quickly towards it, partly to warm up and partly to get to it first. It lay on the edge of the concrete ledge, a small zippered bag adorned with butterflies and flowers. There was a stain of some sort on the bottom corner, ink maybe. It looked cheap, like something you d find at the mall in the teenager section. But it was odd, too, it looked so, placed, perfectly balanced between the edges as if measured. It was a deliberate thing, purposeful, this horizontal to the vertical, the sun warming tiny rhinestone wings. Someone must have picked it up, put it here for the owner to find, I thought. I looked over the edge of the bridge, expecting to find more grey boulders and grey debris. There, right fucking there, was the bag s owner. Dead. Obviously dead. Her limbs were twisted at awkward angles, her head smashed on one side, covering the rocks with blood, tons of it. Her hair partially covered her face, like red seaweed. She was older, dressing younger, or maybe younger trying to be older, somehow the clingy dress was all wrong and even though I had only looked for about five seconds I thought I had been looking for hours, taking in her broken stick body. She d been wearing panty hose; there was a massive run up the back
that would be really hard to hide. One pink shoe had flown off about three feet. I d seen those pumps at ALDO. Almost bought them, but decided they were too pink. I pulled my head back and sucked in air, making a shweeeeeeeeeee noise, halfway between a cry and a scream. Alan was about ten feet away, staring at seagulls, and only now looked my way. What s the matter with you? he said, cocky. I slid down the edge of the concrete to watch the cars, watch their wheels, look at anything else but the river of blood, making its way through the rocks to the ocean. I bit my hand on the knuckles, cramming it into my mouth, trying to stop up the noise that kept escaping. Alan trotted over, saw the purse, and looked over the edge. Jesus. Jesus fuck, He muttered under his breath. We have to call the cops. Wait I m still high, I can t call them He crouched down to look me in the eye. His deep brown eyes filled with fear, none of it for her. He handed me his phone. I ll meet you at your house. I have to go before they come. And that was it. He jogged off ahead, looking back once to make the call on the phone hand signal, remarkably similar to the one for hang loose. I stared after him. No are you okay? No should we help her? Just his skinny ass and a trail of invisible fear.
Anger welled inside me, warming me from its heat. My stomach clutched at nothing. I hate him. I hate this town. I hate this greyness and these shitty immature people and she hated all of this so she fucking jumped off a bridge. Why did she have to jump? Why couldn t she have holed up in a tiny, overpriced apartment with a shitty job and a shitty lay and had take out on Saturdays to look forward to, like the rest of us? The cops came and took my name and information, told me I needed to be careful walking here on my own. I nodded. They asked if I could be reached at this number and I said no, that it was a friends phone, my number was X. I looked in her purse. I had to. They asked me if I had and I said no, and if they did any fingerprinting they would find out. But they wouldn t, would they? Chloe M. Starling had lived on Ontario St., forever from here, and she d been three years older than me. We even looked alike. Her blue eyes stared out impassively from the headshot on her license, mousy brown hair limp at her head. Too short bangs, like mine, after I d cut them at home on a whim last weekend. She had almost no cards, no visa, no coffee stamped punch card or grocery store coupons. Just a tiny wallet with some cash (a lot of it, two hundred or so) an expensive
lipstick (metal case) and some Mentos. Minty fresh. And a key, which I took. This didn t tell me anything. Maybe she didn t want anyone to know her, and left her purse for identification, or perhaps she assumed someone else could use the money now. The cop talked to me in the car on the way home but I wasn t listening. I thanked her for the ride and got out to face my apartment block. I went in the foyer and waited for her to leave, pretending to stop at my mailbox. Florescent lights shone on all the tiny metal boxes, framed in peeling acid yellow paint. I waited until the car drove off and went out again. I walked, pushing my hands into my jeans pockets, cold again. I stopped at the bus shelter and counted out my change. Two zones worth, maybe enough. As I waited I recited her address in my head. Cops were there already, probably. I needed to see. See what the problem was, or who it was, or something. I stood shifting my feet back and forth, right left, left right, and remembered Alan s phone as it suddenly blasted out the cantina song from Star Wars. I pulled it out of my jacket pocket and walked over to the drain on the street, chucking it in. I walked back to the metal bench. Maybe she was pushed, I thought, slumping onto the cold seat. Maybe she just
jumped. The bus pulled up with a shrill brake. I got on and sat in the last seats, my face to the sun. The bus pulled out and thumped across the bridge, daybreak restoring the Technicolor.