Chapter One: Dirty Laundry

 

It’s 8:31, which means Lucas Holiday is officially late. We were supposed to meet at eight, but I’ve given up the pursuit of punctuality when it comes to our relationship. Recently, I’ve been using a thirty minute “time tax” on our meet-ups. Luke says meet at 5:30, I show up at 6. Luke says brunch reservations at 10:30, I show up at 11. You get the idea. His tardiness doesn’t surprise me, but that doesn’t make it any less irritating. I sit outside Luke’ home, a swanky two story in Malibu Colony and savor the warm breeze blowing through my hair. It’s good to be back.

 

Finally, at 8:41, a black Range Rover rolls into the driveway. The doors open, and out step Luke and two identical heads of blonde hair, broad shoulders, and wide smiles. They’re accompanied by two empty Budweiser cans each.

 

“Zachary,” Luke’ face breaks into an ear to ear grin. “Lovely to see you.”

 

“You didn’t tell me you were bringing Thing 1 and Thing 2,” I chuckle and give him a hug.

 

“Shut the fuck up, Zach,” Thing 1 (birth name Chris Stolls) says to me while also extending his arms for a hug.

 

“Luke that is the biggest abortion of a parking job I’ve ever seen,” he says, gesturing the car that’s parked at a 45 degree angle in the driveway.

 

“Yeah, Luke, you could possibly be the stupidest person Berkeley’s ever let in. Your IQ might be below 90,” Thing 2 (Mark, also Stolls) yells from the doorway.

 

“I’m not stupid. I’m an alcoholic. There’s a difference,” Luke murmurs to me with a smile, kicking a Budweiser can out of the way so he can close the driver’s side door.

 

We enter a very tastefully done foyer filled with pictures of Luke and his mom. Dog toys are scattered across the floor.

 

“Did you see Luke’s latest Instagram caption?” Chris asks me as we move past a living room that many would consider a home theatre into a backyard that many would consider a national park.

 

“No, what was it?”

 

“‘Money is an asset.’”

 

“You’re kidding.”

 

“I’m not kidding.”

 

“Jesus Christ.”

 

“I mean, he’s not wrong,” Mark chimes in, handing me a Pacifico as he joins us at a

table by the pool.

 

“Yeah, but still,” Chris scoffs. “You don’t just…do that.”

 

Money is an asset.

 

“What time did you get in, Zach?” I hear Luke’ voice drift from the kitchen as I watch him size up bottles of margarita and piña colada mix before opting for the former.

 

“Landed at 3, got dinner with the family, took the dog on a walk. Now I’m here.”

 

“How’s Michigan?” He puts the margarita mix down with a small head shake and picks the piña colada mix up.

 

I take a sip of my Pacifico and think for a second.

 

“Cold.”

 

“That sucks.”

 

Chris grabs my attention.

 

“Have you talked to Caroline recently?”

 

“No, why would I?”

 

“I don’t know. You guys were friendly. Prom and stuff.”

 

My mind flashes back to a hazy prom night marked by Caroline drinking almost an entire bottle of Peach Ciroc and a passionately refusing to apologize for throwing up on my shirt.

 

“I don’t know how friendly we are.”

 

“I heard she fucked Miles Teller,” Mark says, studying my reaction closely.

 

“I heard that too,” I respond, careful to keep an even composure.

 

“I heard she’s been acting pretty nuts lately,” Chris chimes in.

 

“I heard that too,” I say, again making sure to keep my face stoic.

 

A few seconds of silence pass.

 

“How’s Luke’s grandpa doing?” I ask once I feel confident the Caroline topic has reached its full potential.

 

Mark glances at Chris for a second before deciding to field the question.

 

“Not great. Luke visited him like a week ago in Arizona. I mean it’s stage four cancer and the guy’s like a hundred years old-”

 

“-he’s 94” Chris interjects.

 

Mark rolls his eyes.

 

“I said he was like a hundred, Chris. Don’t be a dick. Anyway Luke’ mom is super upset about it because she thinks Luke needs a male role model or whatever because of his Dad situation. But Zach, get this: guess what Luke’ inheritance is from his grandfather?”

 

I glance around at a backyard that could have been used to hide Osama bin Laden.

 

“I’m guessing it was a lot.”

 

“Well, I don’t know how much it is, exactly. But I know it’s upwards of five million dollars,” Mark says, his eyes gleaming.

 

“That’s fucking insane,” I mutter, taking another sip of my beer. “What do you even do with that much money when you’re twenty-one?”

 

“I know,” Mark sighs, “I’m jealous too.”

 

Money is an asset.

 

Luke emerges from the kitchen carefully balancing four giant piña coladas. Around fifteen more acquaintances of ours from high school slowly start filing into the backyard and soon the sounds of collegiate boys with no adult oversight begin to ring out throughout Malibu Colony. The smell of marijuana stings my nostrils. As I keep drinking, the faces around me begin to blur into an unrecognizable mass of familiarity. It’s explained to me that we’re going to Dirty Laundry, a speakeasy bar on Hollywood Boulevard that will let our friend Michael in even with his terrible fake ID because Luke knows one of the bouncers. Or because Luke can pay off one of the bouncers. One or the other.

 

Ubers are called for once eleven hits. It turns out Luke does either know or habitually bribe one of the bouncers at this bar because, after a five minute conversation between him and a bald guy in a t shirt two sizes too small, we’re allowed to cut the line and no one’s ID, not even Michael’s, is checked.

 

Dirty Laundry is small, very dark, and reeks of cigarettes. Everybody here is dressed in casual attire that I assume took hours to pick out and hundreds of dollars to procure. There’s a wall filled with black and white pictures of celebrities that people take turns snapping pictures in front of. I go to the bar to order a beer when Luke steps in front of me.

 

“I opened a tab,” he asserts, “Put whatever you want on it.”

 

“Really?” I try to act surprised as if he hasn’t done this half of the times I’ve gone out with him.

 

“Yeah,” Luke pronounces ‘yeah’ like it has seven H’s. “Everything’s on me tonight. All my friends are back.” There’s that ear to ear smile again.

 

“I don’t know what to say. Thanks.”

 

He gives me a hug, and I order a Corona and pay with cash.

 

It’s getting later in the night now, past 12:30, and Luke and I are talking to two blonde girls who go to USC. Or maybe they go to UCLA. I can’t remember. He buys all of us a round of drinks, and one of the girls asks where we go to school. Before I can answer Luke cuts in.

 

“We’re both first years at Columbia Law School.”

 

The girl closer to me is noticeably impressed by that statement. She looks up at me for confirmation, and I can almost see my moral road diverging at a fork in front of me. One of my potential answers is definitely more ethical, but the other is undeniably more fun.

 

“Yeah, I mean the rent in New York is kind of a bummer, but you just can’t beat Columbia’s firm placement,” I say with a grin as Luke tries to suppress a giggle.

 

The night continues on as Luke keeps supplying drinks for our group of four and we regale the girls with tales of our first semester in New York. The girl closer to me (Lauren, Lindsey, Lindsay?) mentions that they live in Beverly Grove, which is only a fifteen minute Uber away. Luke’ eyes light up. He turns to the bartender and asks what the most expensive tequila at the bar is. The man’s eyebrows almost disappear into his hairline.

 

“Don Julio is $30 a shot which I think that’s the most expensive here.”

 

“I’ll take six,” Luke slurs as the girl who is not Lauren/Lindsey/Lindsay claps excitedly.

 

“You want six?” The bartender is in absolute disbelief.

 

“Yeah,” Luke’s ‘yeah’ has about 10 H’s now, “Two for me, one for each of them, and one for you.” He shoots the bartender a smile and a wink.

 

Money is an asset.

 

The bartender pours us the drinks, commenting that Don Julio is really meant for sipping and not for shots. Luke ignores him as he throws his two glasses back in about 45 seconds. The girls follow suit. I try to sip mine, but I can’t taste anything anymore, so I end up downing it as well. I think the bartender is slightly hurt as he slowly sips from his glass.

 

“Wow, that was amazing,” Luke drawls. “How much is a bottle of that?”

 

There go the bartender’s eyebrows again.

 

“I don’t think you want to do that, kid.”

 

“No, come on, I do. How much is it?”

 

“I don’t even think we sell bottles of it.”

 

“I bet you do. Come on. How much?”

 

“$300.”

​

“Deal.”

 

“Luke, what the fuck are you doing?” I whisper, alarmed, as the bartender goes to get the bottle.

 

“It’s good tequila, Zach. I like good tequila. He has some, and I want it so I’m buying it,” he says in a tone of voice resembling that of a kindergarten teacher explaining to a five year old that they can’t eat glue.

 

“It’s three hundred fucking dollars. We’re already drunk. You don’t need it.”

 

“It’s my money. You didn’t have a problem with me spending it when you did your shot.”

 

He closes out the bill and signs for the bottle. He pours another two shots for himself and takes them. Suddenly, he gets up from the bar and staggers toward the front door still clutching his bottle. I leap up after him, and out of the corner of my eye I see two blonde streaks heading toward the entrance indicating that Chris and Mark are doing the same. As I leave Dirty Laundry I see Luke standing alone on Hollywood Boulevard. He looks down at his bottle of Don Julio and takes along pull from it. I wonder what he’s thinking.

 

“Luke?” I call, “Are you ok, man?”

 

He takes another sip, and he looks down at the bottle again. Luke raises the bottle over his head with one hand and spikes the tequila onto the sidewalk. I hear Chris reflexively scream as the bottle hits the pavement. Luke sprints down Hollywood Boulevard with the three of us running after him. Chris gets there first and wrestles him to the ground.

 

“Dude, you’ve got to pull it together,” he hisses.

 

“I’m sorry,” Luke gasps, “I’m sorry.”

 

“You’re not going to run again if I let you go, are you?”

 

“No. I’m sorry.”

 

Chris gets off of him and helps Luke to his feet. As soon as Luke’ legs are under him, he takes off down the street again, and again we give chase. I wonder again what’s going through his head. I wonder what he’s running from. I wonder if he’s thinking of his grandpa, and his dad, and how money is an asset. Mark gets to him first this time, clumsily tackling him to the ground. Luke’s face scrapes against the pavement. He’s crying now.

 

“I’m sorry,” he sobs. His whole body is shaking. Blood is starting to gush from his nose, running down his face and onto the street.

 

“I’m sorry.”