Kids These Days

Chapter 6: Ronan

When I leave for the airport, I don't say goodbye. Not to Sabrina, who booked a red-eye flight to get me out of the house as soon as possible; not to Elvis and Mickey, who I doubt'll miss me when they're smoking pot and watching old Knicks games. Not even to Jesse, who hasn't spoken a word to me since our fight in the hallway, and probably has his tongue halfway down Margot's throat at tonight's showing of Karate Kid Part III. (He swore he'd see the movie with me, but I'd rather get kicked in the head by William Zabka than be their third wheel.) I leave Manhattan alone, in a cab, listening to America on the radio.

In the desert you can't remember your name. 'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain...

It's a six hour flight from JFK Airport to San Bernardino, then another two hours on the highway to Dusty Valley. I slept through most of the trip. These days, it feels like I can't get enough sleep. Sabrina pressured me to go to her fancy doctor-- who probably got his degree in treating rich Manhattanites with botox allergies and cocaine addictions-- but the pills he prescribed made me spacey and prone to nightmares. The third time I woke up shaking and drenched in my own sweat, I flushed the pills down the toilet, and canceled my follow-up appointment. Now, I keep myself awake with coffee and naps. And cigarettes. Speaking of, I'd kill for a cigarette...

The taxi rolls into a deserted Texaco on the edge of the desert. "I need to stop here and refill the tank," the cabbie tells me. "You can wait if you want, or walk the rest of the way into town. It's about fifteen minutes down the road."

"Walking is fine. I could use a chance to stretch my legs." I pass the cabbie a generous handful of cash and glance at his nametag. "Thanks for the ride, Moe. See you around."

"Hopefully not," he says, flashing me a toothy grin.

I grab my suitcase from the trunk, and the taxi rumbles away in a cloud of dust and fumes, leaving me alone for the first time in months. The first thing I notice is the silence, as if the entire desert is holding its breath. There's no traffic, no pedestrians. No businessman waving down cabs or joggers blasting ZZ Top through their headphones. The desert is all cloudless blue skies and empty swathes of sand-blasted land as far as I can see.

The second thing I notice is the sweat. I've only been walking for a few minutes, and I'm already sweating buckets. I reach for the water bottle in my backpack, then remember I drank it all during the drive. Damn. I never thought I'd miss the New York summer humidity, but anything would be better than this dry heat.

Sweat collects in the corners of my mouth. I lick it away.

Something tells me this is going to be a long walk.

After what feels like an eternity, I arrive at a weather-beaten Super 8. Dusty Valley isn't much to look at, but the hotel is ever more depressing. The exterior is decorated with crumbling stucco and no-loitering signs (as if anyone would want to loiter here) and the swimming pool looks like a breeding ground for algae. It's a far cry from my family's Four Seasons membership. This is the type of hotel people use to have a torrid affair, not spend the summer. My heart sinks in my chest. Maybe Finn gave me the wrong address...

I pick my way through the gravel parking lot, searching for room six. A blonde woman stares at me warily from inside her Mercury Capri. The scent of cigarette smoke floats through an open window, making my gut clench.

The blonde woman calls out, "Whatcha looking for, kid?"

"A tall redhead," I reply hopefully.

She snorts. "Aren't we all."

I open my mouth to clarify, but she's already driving off in the opposite direction.

After a few laps around the parking lot, I finally arrive at room six, wedged between a rusty vending machine and half-potted cactus. I let go of my suitcase and knock loudly.