Louie recounts the story
He seemed like a smart kid–
but not really. I watched the way he gnashed his teeth while he was cracking himself up so hard. As a rule, he laughed at his own jokes, which could be downright annoying or just plain adorable. Laughter ran out of his belly like an open stream.
The kid was hopelessly stuck on himself. You got the impression that Lethe Bashar thought himself a minor god in the pantheon of the Greeks. Okay I’ll admit I fed his adolescent ego once in awhile. With low self-esteem myself, I have a tendency to flatter. Take for example the Euro kids who walked around the Inn like sleek models in their underwear. I made them feel like they owned the world, like I’m just here to adore them. Well, Lethe Bashar was definitely not one of them.
He was a bit topsy-turvey in mind and body. Big, unstable head; small, waifish body. He sort of stumbled through the legs of chairs whenever he had to rush off somewhere. You looked into his eyes and saw curlicues and ampersands. Literally, the kid was on another planet half of the time, dreaming under the stars. But he was also lovable and endearing once you got to know him, the way excitable children can be. With all that energy, you just have to admire them. They take off on their willful flights and you just sit back and watch them fall from grace or bump into an unexpected wall. You almost want to praise these innocent, yet stupid creatures.
You know he reminded me of a character in a comic book.
Yes, I read comic books.
I’m not un-educated. Like some people in my family.
The character’s name is Yorick and he hangs upside down in his Brooklyn apartment at the beginning of the story. He’s wearing a straight-jacket; he’s an escape artist.
I’ve been reading comic books ever since I can remember. My father, a Russian immigrant, used to find them under my bed and give me a thrashing for hoarding them. Father had a bison’s neck and thick, stubby immigrant fingers. Those fingers wrapped themselves around my neck more than a couple times, threatening to kill me. Rick, my older brother, was always outside, mixing with the local hoods. That’s how he developed his street smarts and I didn’t. He grew fearsome and I grew day-dreamy, sentimental, and prone to fantasy. Rick got in fist fights and lost himself in gangs. I hid behind illustrated covers and lost myself in the adventures of Tintin.
As I said, Lethe was like this Yorick character. Yorick is the last man on earth; the name of the comic is Y: The Last Man. The world is ending, some plague ravaging the planet, and Yorick’s on a desperate mission to find his girlfriend who lives Down Under.
But the protagonist is a little slow. It takes him awhile to catch onto all the apocalyptic stuff happening around him. And in the meantime, he has to grow up. Like all of us, I suppose.
Lethe just showed up at the Backpacker’s Inn one day, looking confused. He was stoned, I think. Later Tracy, the janitor here, told me that he had invited Lethe to smoke a joint.
I called Lethe over to the bar to have a drink with me. He said he liked Bloody Marys so I ordered him one. Clearly he was looking for a companion. His eyes gave him away, droopy and vacant. When we mixed our spirits, we were like old friends, lost brothers, or something of that nature. Lethe’s manic energy was contagious. Giddiness ran through me for the first time in weeks.
I understand adolescents better than most adults. I give them time to explain themselves, which is all they really need.
He could make me laugh. I mean, really laugh.
I could tell that Lethe imagined every moment of his life–every second–whether he was taking a shit or talking to his mother on the pay phone, like it was being recorded for Timeless Eternity. His belief in himself as the center of the universe was very real, but completely dellusional. He was charming, you know, and I think he should have been an actor. He had a real cinematic flourish, like he’d been training under the giant eye of a camera for years and years. Put simply, he wanted my attention no matter what, and I was glad to give it to him.
Now this movie he imagined his life to be. It was not one of those feel-good movies with syrupy music in the background, but more along the lines a wildly romantic self-made art project. He made himself appear like he was in total control of this production of his. But there was a self-consciousness too (quite obvious to me) which made him a little vulnerable. I think this is what made me want to be his best friend.
Most of my friends are young people. That’s why I come to the Backpacker’s Inn, to meet young people. We get a lot of wandering teens, a lot of wayfarers of the middle-class suburban variety, you know the ones with North Face backpacks and granola bars and scruffy clothing. I’m fond of these aloof tribesmen. I like to hear their stories and share some wine, Bloody Mary’s if they choose. Las Vegas can get lonely if you don’t make friends. And everyone’s a little screwed up here so it doesn’t matter. We’ll accept you whoever you are.
I accepted Lethe even though I could tell he didn’t accept himself. That manic energy was all a front–a supurb defense against the world. He wanted you to think he was important. Not just important. With a princely charm, he insinuated he was marked for greatness, and one day he would be revered by his fellow man, even marveled upon. Of course these things were all in his head. He had done nothing to prove his greatness. And yet, he hinted at these things like they were so many stars above him, twirled by the hands of angels.
The poor wandering soul gave his life so much meaning you felt the weight of it listening to him. More than once I wanted to shake him and say, “Lethe, this book you you’re writing, this project of yours . . . it doesn’t really matter. Nobody knows who you are. There are billions of people in this world!”
Not to mention, he hadn’t even written it yet. He called it the Novel of Life, and the title, I believe, was intended to convey his epic vision.
“I’m not into novels,” I said. “I read comics and that’s about all. But you can tell me your story; I’m open to hearing it.”
My father once found one of my comic books in his car. He used to have 56 Mercury with orange and blue paint on the sides. The car was my father’s prized possession, all he ever talked about night and day, and when he discovered I had brought my comic book into it, he gave me a thrashing. Like most parents during that time, my father saw comics as dirty, unholy, something akin to pornography. He was not a religious man, but comics were “work of the Devil”. That day the old man squeezed my temples together so hard I thought I would never be able to see again. Then he brought his knee up to my forehead. I never left a comic lying around after that.
I didn’t have any problem befriending a lonesome kid who comes into the Inn. Hell, I was a lonesome kid once. I think I ran away from home too. Too many beatings.
We sat by the poolside sipping our drinks and telling stories. That’s what I love about Vegas. You could be sunning out in the crapiest motel and the sun still shines the same, ruby-red. Boy, do I love sipping on a salty drink by the pool.
He tossed the comic I recommended to him aside. “I’m a writer,” he intoned with an air of importance. “That stuff will warp my brains.”
He could be a snob, you know.
“Who told you that,” I said, “Your father?”
“No, I told myself,” he replied curtly. “I’m just not interested, okay? Keep your stupid comic books to yourself.”
Once I saw he wasn’t going to come up to my room to read comics, I decided to give him what he wanted.
Drugs.
All rebellious teenagers love drugs.
Agent 355 never would’ve given Yorick drugs so I felt a bit ashamed. Forgive me father, for I have sinned . . .
I didn’t have any drugs on me, but I told Lethe about the infamous bus stop where a lot of shady drug deals went down. “You can find some drugs down there. Here take my money.”
Later I found out he went to Mammon’s on a lark. Mammon is one of Vegas’ biggest drug lords. Not somebody to butter up for a dime bag. He’s been compared to Pablo Escobar, the Colombian cocaine trafficker. What would cause Lethe to become so single-minded?
I didn’t know what drove him, but I wanted to keep it going. It broke my heart to encourage his bad habits but it also exhilarated me. I’m a forty-five year old man, okay. My life is ho-hum. I come to the Backpacker’s Inn for a little spice. When I met Lethe, the ol’ blood started to boil again.
I suppose I was living vicariously through him.
Things started to get going. He was out in the streets, looking for crack. We were smoking together in my room. We shared my pipe. I didn’t need my comics anymore to have a good time. He came to my room, willingly. With a big, toothy grin on his face, gnashing his little pearls.
We took hits from the pipe until the money was gone.
Occasionally, he’d burst into a manic, drug-induced monologue. I sat back, heavy-lidded, watching him perform in front of the mirror. The Chinese lady was sleeping on the bottom bunk. I don’t think she ever woke up during our midnight parties.
Lethe was my pal, my Yorick. So when he said he wanted coke, naturally I racked my brains to figure out how to get us some.
I wanted to make Lethe happy, that’s all. We were best friends, and just like best friends do what they can for each other, I led Lethe to what he wanted.
