the Future II.
"When I was in tenth grade, I wanted to kill myself because I had noth-
ing left to live for," he said. " Then I heard that Back to the Future II was open-
ing in twenty-three days. I had a calendar, and I would mark off each day
until I could see the movie. It's the only thing that kept me from killing my-
self."
He paused the movie and lifted the laptop off his stomach. "When I saw
it and heard the opening music, I cried, dude. It was my reason to live. I
know all the props." He held up the DVD box and showed me the cover. "I
touched this car."
I sat down at the foot of his bed. No one wants to be the bearer of bad
news. I picked up the DVD box and looked at it. Mystery enjoyed movies
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like Real Genius and Young Einstein and The Karate Kid. I liked Werner Herzog,
Lars von Trier, and Pixar. It didn't mean I was better than him: It just meant
we were different kinds of nerds.
"Dude," I told him, "your wife is hitting on me."
"I'm not surprised. She hit on Playboy earlier tonight."
"Aren't you going to do anything about it?"
"I don't care. She can do what she wants."
"Well, at least she's not pregnant."
"Get this," he said. "She's such an idiot. That wasn't a pregnancy test at
all. It was an ovulation test. She bought the wrong box at Rite Aid. She took
the test three times and each one was positive. So all she discovered was that
at twenty-three, she's still ovulating."
"Listen, man." I noticed that there were scratches on his arm. "You're
driving her away. If she's hitting on everyone in the house, it's only because
she's trying to get revenge on you. It's rocks versus gold, man. You haven't
been giving her rocks."
"Yeah. She's a brainless alcoholic." He paused, shut his eyes for a mo-
ment, and nodded wistfully. "But that body: Her ass is a 10."
When I left Mystery's room, Katya was no longer in the living room.
Papa's door was open, and she was cuddled next to him on his bed—with
her top off.
I retreated to my room and waited. An hour later, the storm came.
Voices yelled, doors slammed, glass smashed.
There was a knock on my door.
It was Courtney. "Are your roommates always this loud?"
She was one to talk.
I followed Courtney to Herbal's room. Herbal had been sleeping in the
pillow pit while Courtney commandeered his room. Clothes, books, and
cigarette ash were spread across the floor. A candle sat burning at the foot
of the bed, its flame licking just an inch below the comforter. One of her
dresses was draped over a hot, exposed light bulb for mood lighting. And all
four of the house phone books were spread across her bed, with pages torn
out of each. I examined the ripped scraps: They were listings for lawyers.
The noises coming from Mystery's room grew louder.
"Let's see what's going on," she said.
I didn't want to be involved. I didn't want to clean up anyone's mess.
This wasn't my fucking responsibility.
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We walked into Mystery's bathroom. Katya was kneeling on the floor
with her hands clasped around her neck, as if she were choking. Her brother
was leaning over her, holding an asthma inhaler in her mouth. Mystery
stood a few feet away, staring daggers at Katya.
"Should I call an ambulance?" I asked.
"They'll arrest her because she has drugs in her system," Mystery said
contemptuously.
Katya looked up and glared at him.
If she had the presence of mind to glare at Mystery, then she clearly
wasn't dying.
When Katya finally emerged from Mystery's room, her face red and
damp, Courtney took her by the hand and led her to a sofa in the living
room. She sat down next to her, still gripping her hand, and told her about
the abortions she had been through and about the beauty of childbirth. I
looked at the unlikely pair sitting there. Courtney was both Project Holly-
wood's child and its mother.
She was also probably the sanest person in the house. And that was a
scary thought.
The next morning, Courtney burst out of her door at an atypically early
hour. She was wearing an Agent Provocateur nightie.
"What? What's going on?" she asked, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.
"I had a bad dream. I didn't know where I was." She looked around: at me,
at Katya sleeping on the sofa, at Katya's brother and Herbal snoring inches
apart in the pillow pit. "Everyone's nice," she observed with relief. "No one's
mean. Okay."
She returned to her room and shut her door. A few minutes later, a
driver arrived at the house.
"Where's Courtney?" he asked.
"Sleeping," I said.
" She's got a court date in an hour."
He knocked on her door and walked inside. Shortly afterward, a slew of
dresses came tumbling out of Courtney's room, followed by their owner.
"I need to find something to wear to court," she said as she slipped on
various outfits, running in and out of the bathroom to check them in the
mirror. Eventually, she left the house in a strapless black cocktail dress of
Katya's, Herbal's eight-dollar sunglasses, and Robert Greene's The 48 Laws of
Power book tucked under her right arm.
"It's a silly dress because it's a silly case," she told court reporters that day.
While she was gone, we inspected the damage. There were cigarette
burns in Herbal's bedspread, and the wall behind the door was destroyed
from the constant slamming. There were slicks of unidentifiable liquid on
the floor, candles still burning, and clothing flung over every light fixture.
In the kitchen, the refrigerator and cabinet doors all hung open. Two
peanut butter jars and a jelly jar sat on the counter top, with their caps scat-
tered on the floor. Globs of peanut butter dripped from the counter, the
cabinets, and the refrigerator shelves. Rather than open bags of bread using
the twist tie on the end, she had torn the tops of the plastic bags open like
an animal. She didn't give a fuck. She was hungry; she ate. It was another
quality that pickup artists admired: She could go caveman.
When Courtney returned from court, she sat with the house's cabal of
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pickup artists and planned her appearance that evening on The Tonight Show
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