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By the time he was halfway through his third rewatch of Nelson in Naples that day, Michael de Santa found himself questioning what the fuck he was doing with his life.
He sat, slumped, in his living room sofa, glass of whiskey in one hand and the 1968 Vinewood Classic playing on his wide-screen TV, earned with dirty money, upon which a poor depiction of Horatio Nelson mournfully began to soliloquise the inability to get his penis hard anymore. Rhythmically, Michael moved his hand from the bowl of potato chips balancing on a stomach (I’m sure it didn’t stretch that much last week, he thought, each time he hazarded a look at the straining buttons on his white shirt) to his mouth, an unbroken cycle of chewing and moving. The bitter stench of his last Cuban wheezed from the ashtray beside him. The house was empty, save for him; Jimmy and Tracey were no doubt off doing things they were far too young for, and Amanda had gone to Pilates. Or she had taken the children and run. Again. Michael realised he didn’t really care either way.
“One more battle, Horatio! One more battle!” implored the supporting actress in her best imitation of Lady Emma Hamilton, saucy and lithe throughout the entire first half of the film, enough so that Michael found he stared at her ample assets so much he barely noticed Mitch Dexter’s entirely present right arm throughout. Now, though, she gesticulated with her entire limbs, combating her fat suit, her character’s punishment for so many years of lust and greed.
Michael didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the parallels. Instead, he got angry, throwing the bowl of chips across the room and scattering them, like shrapnel, across the expensive plush carpet. He stood, refilled his whiskey glass, and paced with it across the carpet.
Backwards and forwards over the same spot in the living room, he drank, and wondered when exactly it was that his life had become this. When exactly had his existence dissolved into a routine; eating shitting, shaving, and eating chips to old movies alone? When had he stopped fucking women and started whacking off to porn featuring girls younger than his daughter taking it from all sides? When exactly did he stop holding people to ransom and taking banks for all they had, instead accepting days of yes Amanda, no Amanda, three bags full, and cheesy old movies with washed up actors? Two percent on Rotten Tomatoes. Would not recommend.
His life was no longer a thrill. There was no longer a price on his head, a warrant for his arrest. He was unwanted, by the police, his wife, his children.
Only one person truly wanted Michael.
Reaching into the pocket of his suit trousers, he pulled out his mobile phone and thumbed through the contacts, pausing at the entry ‘Trevor Philips’. He hovered over the call button, considering, debating, weighing up the pros and cons of what he could possibly find on the other end. Swiftly, before he could think enough to stop himself, he mashed his thumb against the call button.
Michael held the phone to his ear as it dialled Trevor’s, followed by the usual hollow ringing sounds. Ring, ring. Ring, ring. Ring, ring. He glanced impatiently at the television as the phone rung, just catching sight of Mitch Dexter’s limp penis which bared close resemblance to a sad sea creature. He frowned and turned away just as the polyphonic ringing sounds abruptly plateaued into a loud beep. From the other end of the line came a deep, rumbling belch.
“Hey, Tre—”
“Yo, I’m not here right now,” slurred Trevor’s voice over the phone. Despite himself, Michael felt his chest deflate. “If you’re calling about that incident at the surf and turf place the other week I swear to God I didn’t know they were laxatives. If you’re a super model or have some good stuff or you’re my dad finally trying to find me, then – hold on, hold on.” There was a deep snorting sound. “Huh! Wowzee that hits the fuckin’ spot. Anyway, yeah, leave a message you fuckin’ fuck.”
Trevor’s answerphone message ended with another loud beep.
“Hey, Trevor,” said Michael, feeling awkward and suddenly self-aware of his own voice. “It’s M. Look, I haven’t seen your sorry ass in a while. Come to think of it I haven’t even heard from you in a while. What’s it been, almost a week now?” His brow furrowed. “Just give me a call, yeah? We’ll hook up sometime. Alright, uh. Bye.”
He hung up, frowning. “It’s not like him to not answer his phone,” he considered aloud. “Then again it’s not like that fucker to not call every fucking day.”
Trevor was a less a storm in a bottle than a whirlwind in a glass factory, but the concept was similar; he was uncontrollable, but Michael always knew where to find him. The man not answering his phone was strange. He looked through his message history to find that Trevor’s last had been six days ago: M. Got some cool shit to show you. Come see if ur not a pussy. T. xoxo.
Concern lodged between his ribs like a ping pong ball, cold and foreign. He tapped his phone against his mouth, considering. He knew Trevor was still cut up about the whole nine year disappearing act, but this was not like him. Trevor was the one who would text at four in the morning with I wonder how many beavers you could fit in a cow’s vagina because he was lonely, because he needed human interaction – Michael’s interaction – but he didn’t want to be the one to suggest meeting up for beers because that would mean he had forgiven him. The message was clear – this is your fucking mess now, Houdini. If you want to be on my good side, you need to treat me right.
He shouldered on his suit jacket as, on the television, Horatio Nelson dramatically died in a wild explosion and Emma Hamilton shrieked over his mangled carcass. He drained his whiskey, discarded the glass on the coffee table and picked up his car keys and wallet from the dish that Amanda always moved them to. As he left, he stepped over his discarded potato chips, feeling them crumble and embed into the carpet beneath his feet.
The late afternoon was warm as Michael backed the black Obey Tailgater, growling, out of the garage. Lights blinked in front of his eyes as he adjusted to the bright sunlight. Squinting, he pulled down the sun visor and backed down the driveway and out onto the road, letting the garage door and gate shut remotely behind him.
“Welcome to Los Santos Rock Radio,” said a cool female voice as he clicked the radio into life; “I’m Captain Loggins and you’re on a cruise.”
Sitting back in his seat, Michael pressed a button and the door window automatically wound down, letting in the cool Rockford Hills air. The opening notes of Queen’s ‘Radio Ga Ga’ burst through his surround sound speakers as he drove through the neighbourhood of manicured lawns and pedicured dogs, both owned by snooty fifty-somethings with clipped accents and hefty life insurance plans. He stroked his chin as he drove. It rasped beneath his fingers.
He drove through the Downtown area in lazy summer traffic. Around him, children licked ice creams and kicked footballs dangerously close to the road. Teenagers rollerbladed along the sidewalks and avoided mothers in leopard print leggings who stood prone with their prams, speaking animatedly to other mothers in an arrangement which seemed to intentionally take up the most space possible. All the while, every time he was stuck in idling traffic, Michael checked his phone. Each time he was met with no contact from Trevor.
As the car lay motionless, snarling, at the traffic lights of a particularly busy junction, Michael took his phone from his pocket and rang Trevor’s number. Once again, it rang out, and he was met with a loud burp. Once again, Michael waited for the second loud beep before speaking: “Trevor. Where the fuck are you, asshole? I haven’t seen you for days now. Not that I mind, I mean it’s not like I have anythingmore important to do than drive round San Andreas looking for your sorry fucking ass. Call back when you get this.”
He hung up and threw the phone into the passenger seat. Leaning his elbow on the frame of the open car window, Michael drove one-handed through the Downtown area and into the Strawberry neighbourhood of South Los Santos to the tune of the Steve Miller Band singing ‘Rock’n Me’.
Michael knew that Trevor was a creature of habit. He always had been. He haunted the same places and ate the same foods, kept to the same prostitutes and drug dealers. Michael also knew that Trevor yearned for affection, praise; validation. During jobs - Trevor sweeping like a whirlwind through banks, gun stores, all-night gas stations - Michael constantly felt Trevor’s eyes trained on him, looking for Michael’s laugh or smile or a thumbs-up as he goaded employees and provoked civilians, let out showers of bullets above their heads. He knew a job wasn’t done until he had complimented Trevor as they sped away in their getaway vehicle, sirens in the distance behind them; looked over and assured him that, “You did good in there, buddy, that woman really pissed herself,” or, “I like the fake Semtex. Nice touch.”
Which is why he knew that, if Trevor had been anywhere recently, it would be a – his usual - strip club, where he could pay to be told that he was good enough.
The car quietly pulled into the Vanilla Unicorn parking lot, the neon lights glowing despite the sunny, humid day. It was nearly empty except for two others, a shiny Pagassi Infernus and an old, beaten Dinka Blista. He pulled in next to the Blista, knowing his Tailgater with a thirty-six thousand miles on the clock would look like a scrapheap next to the Infernus.
Michael’s shirt stuck to his back as he exited his car, locking it behind him. The parking lot had the usual smell of sex and overflowing bins. A used condom lay in the empty parking space next to his. He looked round to see two middle-aged women walking on the sidewalk around the strip club, clutching leaflets entitled I’m Perfect, You’re Doomed and Jehovah’s Guide to Not Being a Heathen (For Dummies). They were staring at him over their thin-rimmed spectacles, shaking their heads.
“The fuck are you looking at?” Michael snapped.
“It’s not too late to find the Lord!” declared one, brandishing her leaflets.
“Yeah?” He turned towards the club and shouted over his shoulder, “How about you come look down my pants? You might find the second coming.”
“Ya’ll need Jesus!” crowed the other, her accent thick with a Texan twang.
Flipping them off over his shoulder, Michael passed the bouncer, walking under the neon marquee outside the front door, and entered the club without looking back.
As usual, like every time, the club was dark, a cocktail of red lights, thudding baselines and bare flesh, laced with yet more neon and topped with the unmistakable smell of money. Even if he isn’t here, Michael thought, at least it’s air-conditioned.
“Hey, Sandy,” he said, leaning against the square hole in the wall which the customer services representative sat behind.
“Well, if it isn’t Big M with the big d,” purred Sandy, batting her eyelids. “Haven’t see you round here in a while. It’s been lonely without you.”
Yeah fucking right. One day I’m going to ask how much they pay you to say this shit. “Look, I was wondering if you’d seen Trevor around here lately.”
Her voice was playful. “Are you always so direct, M?” When Michael didn’t reply, giving her a pointed stare, she shook her head. “Not that I can remember,” she said, her voice suddenly much lower. “Not since he got kicked out two weeks ago. You should go ask the girls. Peach isn’t here right now, I know she’s his favourite, but Juliet, Nikki and Cheetah are, so maybe they can help you.”
“Thanks very much, Sandy.”
“Anytime, M,” she replied, voice back to that well-rehearsed girlish lilt.
Following the neon lights, Michael passed the ATM machines and potted plants into the main room. The bar was scarce, the barmaid tapping the keys on her phone with long, fake nails. The tables were just as deserted, as were the chairs around the stripping podium. Atop it, Nikki and Juliet were talking idly, their expressions bored and dancing lacklustre, moving their weight from foot to foot in their six-inch heels and skimpy outfits.
“Hey, Michael,” said Juliet, sweeping her platinum hair, bleached by the lights in streaks of pink and red, over her shoulder.
He nodded in greeting. “How are you girls doing?”
“All the better for seeing you, baby,” said Nikki, twirling seductively around a pole.
“You want a show, M?”
“Nah, don’t make an effort on my account. I was just wondering if either of you have seen Trevor?”
The two girls exchanged a look, dark eyes meeting light. “That would be confidential information, Mr. De Santa,” said Nikki.
He knew if Trevor were here he’d have the outline of a gun in his trouser pocket, and it would be a case of tell me what you know or I’ll see how many bullets I have to put in one of you before the other talks. Heaving a sigh, he pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “Will a fifty make you forget your morals?”
“Sure.”
“Each.”
“Each?” Michael eyed them incredulously. “I remember a time a pros— exotic dancer was forty dollars, buy one get one free. What changed?”
“Business is slow, Mr. De Santa.”
“No prizes for guessing why,” he muttered, laying two fifties on the platform. He waited until the two women had stooped down, picked up their respective notes and folded them discreetly into their bras. “Well?”
“I haven’t seen him,” said Nikki, “have you?”
“I’m pretty sure I did,” replied Juliet, smiling. “Maybe last week. Pretty sure he got a dance from Cheetah.”
“You should try Cheetah,” summarised Nikki. “She’s in a private room right now.”
Thanks for nothing, Michael thought, giving them his most charming smile and back tracking over the well-trodden carpet. He ascended the small set of stairs and pushed through the curtain, ignoring the bouncer who ignored him back in favour of his sudoku.
On the other side, he crossed over to the first private room, its curtain open. Inside sat a middle-aged man, his hair greying and his suit crisp and black. He was sweating so much that his glasses were slipping down his nose. There was no doubt in Michael’s mind that he was the owner of the Infernus outside.
“Ooh, yeah, baby,” cooed Cheetah, rubbing her hands over her bare breasts. “You like that, huh?”
“Psst, Cheetah,” said Michael, peering around the curtain. “You have a moment?”
She turned, spreading her legs and bending over in front of her spectator. “Little busy right now, M. Can it wait?”
“I just need to ask something.”
“Wh-who’s this?” gasped the man. “This is my time.”
“He’ll be gone in a minute, Jeremy.”
“But –”
“Yeah, I’ll be gone in a minute, Jeremy. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”
“What do you want, Michael?”
Jeremy sighed, exasperated. “Can a man have no—?”
“I need to know if you’ve seen Trevor.”
“Yeah, he was in here on Tuesday. Six days ago. I gave him a dance and he was telling me about this awesome ice he’s hooked himself up with, and he was telling me that I should come back to Sandy Shores with him. But you know me, M. I don’t do home calls.” She turned towards Jeremy, hands on her knees, spreading them in front of him, and said over her shoulder, “It just complicates things, y’know?”
“Are you done yet?” Jeremy demanded, “or do you want to sit on my lap too?”
“Fuck you, Jeremy.”
“Hey, you—”
Cheetah’s held the back of Jeremy’s head, drawing him into her ample breasts. “Are you done, M?”
Michael watched the twitching form of Jeremy with a sneer, fairly sure if he looked to the man’s trousers there would be a wet spot spreading across his crotch. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Cheetah. I owe you one.”
He turned on heel and left the club, taking his phone out to ring Trevor again. He didn’t even hold it to his ear, watching the screen as it rang out without being answered. As it beeped to Trevor’s answerphone message, Michael hung up.
Squinting against the bright sunlight and neon lights, his wallet a hundred dollars lighter, Michael felt the familiar prickles of irritation as he crossed over to his car, which evolved like a mutating virus as he approached and saw the long white scratch tearing through the black paint job. He touched the mark the key had left, delicately, as if worried he may hurt his car’s wound. Under the windscreen wiper he found an I’m Perfect, You’re Doomed leaflet with the words ‘Have fun with your eternity in Hell, fucker :)’ scrawled across it.
“Oh, fucking great. As if my day could get any fucking better,” snarled Michael, screwing up the leaflet and throwing it onto the floor. He held out his arms, shouting across the parking lot, “How come you didn’t fucking stop them?”
The bouncer shrugged. “Not my place to get involved.”
Michael opened his mouth to retort, caught sight of the man’s flexed muscles and thought better of it. He got into the car and it grumbled to life to the tune of Huey Lewis’s ‘The Power of Love’.
Knuckles white on the steering wheel, Michael sped out of the parking lot and through the streets towards Palomino Freeway. Around him, traffic lights and liquor stores blurred past, an impressionist painting of lights and colours and sounds. He was giving himself a splitting headache from gritting his teeth so hard, stabbing behind his eyes, but he had no intention of relaxing his jaw.
What an asshole, Michael snarled to himself, what a first-class prick. I mean what the fuck? Why does everything have to be about him? Why does he have to make me go out of my fucking way to make sure he’s alright?
With one hand on the steering wheel he opened the glove compartment, took out a Redwood cigarette and fit it between his lips. He lit it with a Zippo lighter engraved with his name, a birthday present from Amanda; the kind of gift for a man who already has everything, Michael remembered thinking bitterly as he opened it. He agitatedly blew smoke out of the car window and, turning onto the freeway, reached for the radio and turned it up to drown out his thoughts: “Don’t need money, don’t take fame. Don’t need no credit card to—”
I mean, what a massive dick. Is this my punishment? Is this my atonement for what I did? I have to drive around the fucking city hunting down his sorry ass when he won’t answer his fucking phone? What an asshole. I bet that fucking meth he got was shit and he’s spent the last week shooting possums and coyotes because he’s fucking sulking.
He turned the radio up again. His seat began to shake.
Fucking asshole.
Both sides of the freeway were bordered by tall, lush hills and the lines of pylons which ran parallel to the traffic. The cool summer air, scented with the smell of plants and petrol, whipped in through the open window. Michael stayed in the fast lane, his foot firmly down on the accelerator, catching up to cars and watching them fall far behind. He threw the butt of his cigarette from the window. Then he lit another.
The song ended with a jovial jingle and a collection of voices declaring, “You are listening to one-oh-two-point-three, Los Santos Rock Radio.”
“Is your wife getting you down?” came an obnoxiously loud advert. “Keep thinking your kids don’t respect you? Is your boss an asshole? Then don’t delay, call Kenny’s Hired Hitmen today!”
Sneering, Michael turned the radio to WCTR and cruised down the freeway to the sound of Michelle and Lazlow loudly arguing over the availability of extra large condoms to block out his vehement thoughts. As he passed a Karin Asterope, a little girl in the back seat waved to him. Her pigtails reminded him of Tracey when she was young. He ignored her and, engine snarling, sped up the freeway.
Before long the lush hills melted into sparse expanses of sandy rock and Palomino Freeway fused seamlessly into Senora Freeway. Ahead, Mount Chiliad rose up on the horizon, an imposing figure to remind the humans below of the power of a sense of divine proportion. Its edges were hazy in the bright sunlight, like a watercolour painting. The spinning blades of the RON Alternates Wind Farm dotted the hillside like acne. As Michael turned off the Senora Freeway onto Route 68, the radio dissolved into white noise, finding Blaine County Radio’s signal a few seconds later. The crackling crisped into the thudding acid techno beat.
“Far too old for this shit,” Michael muttered, changing the channel.
“And another thing,” came the grating voice of Duane Earl, “who do these women think they are? What gives them the right to think that they can turn us down?”
Passing Thomson Scrapyard on his right, Michael glanced out at the planes which lay prone beyond low wall, its red paint worn and peeling. Their dark interiors resembled gaping mouths, like whales which had been washed up onto the shoreline and abandoned. He took one last drag of his cigarette, held his hand out of the window and flicked it into the scrap yard.
“You can bet it’s the fault of a certain talk show host, not naming no names, who chooses to tell you lies, folks. Lies! Lies, like women have bodily autonomy and women know what they’re doing and” – he adopted a scathing imitation of a Southern American accent – “you can eat all the fried chicken you like and still be beautiful, ya’ll! To hell with that! Ladies, you will only be inseminated if you are pretty, and gentlemen, don’t you let anyone tell your girlfriend that they can be the head of government, or run the country, or play video games, because these are lies. Now, Benjamin, I hope that answers your question on how best to change the alternator on your vehicle. Next caller!”
He followed the single sandy road through the Grand Senora Desert as the radio host continued his barrage, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. Passing over the rail tracks, an old sign welcomed him to Sandy Shores as though it was some sort of retreat, a remote seaside home from home, rather than the junkie-infested trailer park that it was. Ignoring the lazy-eyed, slack-jawed faces turned towards his car, Michael drove around followed the roads and pulled to a stop on Zancudo Avenue, dust billowing around the tyres.
Trevor’s trailer sat like a fat woman behind its wire mesh fence, quiet and unassuming. It looked completely normal; the usual bullet holes in the side, rust smeared over the sides like skid marks, old tyres and condom wrappers in the front yard. He angled back in his seat and looked into the garage, seeing the back end of Trevor’s red Bodhi sticking out, haphazardly parked.
As he stepped out of the car, Michael felt a small lump form in his throat. He was expecting Trevor throwing grenades from his porch, or standing on top with no trousers on, rifle in hand. He had expected to be met with deranged laughter and explosions, and the quiet made him more uncomfortable than a bullet through the air ever would. He approached the gate in the surrounded fence and a sudden image of Trevor, dead in a ditch somewhere, naked and battered, flooded his vision. He clenched his fists, annoyed at his own ridiculous fantasies, and ascended the steps onto Trevor’s porch.
When he knocked on the trailer door the sound bounced hollowly on the other side. He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to look unconcerned for when Trevor opened the door. He waited ten seconds. Then twenty. He knocked again, the lump in his throat growing; Trevor was always at the door on the first knock, no matter what he was doing. He had opened the door naked, dripping wet from a shower before, or covered in dirt with blood in his nails and eyebrows, or biting chunks out of a large slab of rare meat which Michael never inquiring the origins of for fear of quickly regretting ever asking.
He pressed his ear against the door and heard nothing from inside. Again came an image of Trevor, drenched in dried blood, lying on his bed with a bullet through his chest. He forced the image aside as he tested the door handle and, finding it gave without resistance, pushed open the door.
Looking into the dark hovel of the trailer, Michael was met by a wall of stench which nearly sent him reeling backwards, an amalgamation of raw sewage and old food, beer and sweat and something unidentifiable but long dead. He looked in and saw the only sources of light were a bare bulb from a table lamp on the opposite side, the dull glow of the bathroom light and the sunlight which poured through the open door, the curtains having been drawn on every window.
Underneath the carpet of pizza boxes and empty liquor bottles, the linoleum floors were thick with mud and splotches of dark liquid which Michael speculated was either car oil or long-dried blood. The small kitchen was a mess of Chinese food cartons and cigarette butts. Michael was sure he heard some sort of small creature rummaging about in the pile of overflowing garbage bags in the corner. Above him the ceiling fan was spinning, but it hung lopsided and only had one blade, the other three having been jaggedly snapped off. The place was a collage of squalor, set to the backdrop of the ghastly leafy wallpaper.
Below the bright Benedict sign which balanced precariously on the edge of the fridge, Trevor sat on his thread-bare sofa. He looked almost peaceful, or as peaceful as Michael had ever seen the gathering storm that was Trevor Philips. His head was leant backwards, resting against the wall behind, knees spread apart in his grubby sweatpants. His shirt was old and stained, the short sleeves revealing the skin on his arms, bright white scars and thick dark hair upon a patchwork of tan lines and uneven skin tones. The glow from the neon above him bathed his face in a greenish glow, highlighting the thinning patches in his hair, the dark circles under his closed eyes.
“Trevor. What the fuck, man?” Michael knocked loudly on the trailer wall, sure that he would suddenly jolt awake, and they’d have a beer each and laugh about it soon.
Trevor remained motionless.
Kicking empty food cartons and a porn magazine which boasted a ‘Pre-op Double-Spread Special’ aside, Michael approached. “Trevor, what’re you—?” He halted, feeling his stomach drop through the flimsy trailer floor and rest in the dust beneath.
Closer, from the light streaming through the open door, Michael could see Trevor’s upturned arm. His eyes roamed from the elastic band at his bicep to the track marks in his skin, chewing into his veins like insect bites, red and festering. A needle lay discarded at his side.
“What the fuck?” Michael breathed. He felt numb, cold; and then, like the hit of a potent drug, the anger kicked in. He crossed to Trevor and grabbed his grubby shirt, full of holes and stains. “What the fuck did you do?! What the fuck did you do, Trevor?!”
Trevor’s head rolled lifelessly during Michael’s fusillade.
“Fuck.” Releasing Trevor’s shirt, Michael backed way, looking at the vague imitation of a human shape slumped where his friend should have been sitting, laughing. “Fuck!” He rubbed his hands over his cheeks, hid his face, ran them up through his short, coarse hair. “Fuck. What the fuck do I do? What the fuck do I do?”
His hands felt numb, like he was wearing thick gloves, as he pulled his phone from his pocket and clumsily dialled 911. It rang twice before there was the sound of a receiver clicking. A clipped female voice spoke: “You’ve reached 911. Please state the nature of your emergency.”
“Yeah, my name is Michael de Santa. My friend, Trevor Philips, I think he’s overdosed on meth. He’s unconscious, he— he fucking won’t wake up.” Absently, without even thinking about it, Michael slid his arms out of his suit jacket and draped it across Trevor like a blanket. Or a fucking funeral shroud. Fuck!
“What’s the address?”
He turned away, looking out to the car wash on the opposite side of the road. Someone outside was whistling ‘Yankee Doodle’. “Sandy Shores, Zancudo Avenue. It’s the trailer across from the back of Sandy’s Car Wash.”
“We will have an ambulance with you as soon as possible.”
“How soon is that? I mean, I don’t fucking know what to do.”
“Please calm down, sir. It won’t be more than a few minutes. In the mean time make sure that the patient is away from noise, light and heat. Make sure he is in a position so that nothing is obstructing his breathing and, if he begins to have a fit, do not restrain him. If he wakes up, reassure him that help will be there soon.”
If he wakes up. He hung up.
“C’mon, T. C’mon,” Michael said. Gingerly, making sure there were no more needles around, he approached the sofa.
Trevor’s face was flushed and sweaty, the film of perspiration glowing a toxic shade of green in the neon light. His veins stood out bright, swollen, against the rigid muscles of his pale arms. Placing two fingers against his neck, Michael thought he could feel a pulse, shallow and far too erratic for a steady heartbeat, but he couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t just feeling his own fingertips trembling against Trevor’s skin. Desperate for a sign of life, he grabbed Trevor’s head between his hands, the coarse stubble scratching his palms.
“Come on, Trevor,” he whispered. He heard his voice cracking. “What the fuck did you do, Trevor? What the fuck did you—?”
Without warning, Trevor’s eyes suddenly sprang open and he coughed violently enough to wrack his entire body. Vomit poured from his mouth, dark and thick, pooling down his shirt and settling on Michael’s jacket.
“Jesus fuck!” Michael yelled, leaping back. Relief washed over him like he had been plunged into a bath of ice, but the anger, white-hot, coursed through him like blood. “What the fuck have you fucking done, Trevor?!”
Trevor’s eyes rolled in his head, searching. His dilated pupils made his entire iris look almost black, two empty chasms seeking Michael’s face; Michael suppressed a shiver as they found him. He watched as Trevor blinked slowly, the eyes finding him again.
“Michael,” he gasped.
It was all Michael could do to restrain himself from punching him. He shook his head, trying to ignore the fetid smell of his vomit. “You fucking asshole, Trevor. You fucking selfish, greedy asshole. What the fuck did you fucking take?”
Trevor coughed, spluttered.
“Was it that fucking ice?”
He nodded.
“What you’ve been on a fucking six day binge? What the fuck, Trevor?” Agitated, not trusting himself to not do something violent, he paced the length of the trailer in long strides. Trevor’s eyes, bloodshot and sunken, followed him like those of a chastised dog. Michael saw his arms jerk sporadically.
What the fuck do I do?
“The ambulance is on its way, T,” Michael said in a way he hoped sounded reassuring. “They’re going to take care of you. But they’re going to want to know what you’ve taken.”
Trevor pointed to the opposite end of the sofa, and Michael saw a clear zip lock bag. Holding it by the corner, he lifted up the inconspicuous little bag; a few tiny shards settled at the bottom, the inside coated with the white residue. This fucking thing must have been full. “Was this your crystal?”
Trevor nodded.
“How much of this fucking stuff did you inject?”
When he tried to reply, only a sound, a grating rasp, escaped Trevor’s throat. He raised his right hand, pointing his index finger out and moving it around in a circle. It was a private gesture, one that only they knew, created back in the early days – the simple days – when they were robbing a small business. A pointed look meant ‘how much should I steal?’, and the twirling of a finger meant—
“All of it?! You fucking injected all of this fucking meth? Trevor, there must have been at least fifteen grams in here.”
Trevor opened his mouth to speak but only a grating rasp came from his throat. He raised his trembling arm and pointed to the sink.
Taking the hint, Michael moved to the kitchen area and, ignoring the rustling garbage bags, turned on the tap. It gurgled and spewed out thick dark liquid which closely resembled diarrhoea.
“There’s no water, T.”
The voice which answered was little more than the ragged breath of an alcoholic ghost: “Beer.”
Michael turned his attention to the countertops and, amid the overturned empty bottles, found one still upright, half-empty. He picked it up and, looking inside it, saw two cigarette butts floating on top, as well as what looked like a slice of pepperoni. Wrinkling his nose, Michael passed the bottle of stale beer to Trevor.
Adam’s apple bobbing, Trevor gulped it down hungrily, cigarette butts, pepperoni and all. When the bottle was drained he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and let his arm fall back to the sofa, the bottle slipping through his weak fingers and lying on its side on the floor. “There hasn’t been any water for weeks now,” he said, the words scraping up his throat like finger nails digging into his windpipe and forcefully lifting them out.
“You okay, T?”
“Never fucking better, Mikey.” His head rolled limply as he looked around his trailer. “Where the fuck am I, M?”
“T, it’s your trailer.” To his friend’s blank expression, he added, “This is where you live.”
“Ah.” He took in a deep, ragged breath and winced, clutching his chest. “That would explain a lot.”
“I’m just gonna…” Hands still trembling, Michael pulled his phone from his pocket and pressed redial.
After two rings, the same voice as before answered with, “You’ve reached 911, please state the nature of your emergency.”
“It’s Michael de Santa on Zancudo Avenue. Where’s that ambulance?”
“According to the GPS, it’ll be around seven minutes, Mr. De Santa.”
“What the fuck? There’s a fucking medical centre across the fucking road.”
“Please don’t take that tone with me, sir. I contacted Sandy Shores Medical Centre and they specifically said if the call was in regards to Trevor Philips then I should do something very unprofessional with your call. So instead I had to request the nearest ambulance from the Central Los Santos Medical Centre.”
“Why the fuck won’t they take Trevor?”
“I’m afraid that’s confidential, sir.”
“Just tell them to hurry the fuck up, yeah?”
“Please don’t take that tone w—”
Michael hung up and threw his phone angrily across the room, wishing he hadn’t when it landed in a pile of dirty socks and soiled underwear. “What the fuck did you do at the Sandy Shores hospital to make them hate you so much?” he asked as he went to retrieve it.
Trevor choked out a laugh. “It’s probably because of the time when I covered myself in flour and rubbed myself up against the head doc and told him it was anthrax. Or when I threw an avocado in and shouted everyone to get the fuck down because it was a bomb. Or it may have been the time I went in dressed as Sue Murry and took a shit in their waiting room.”
“You asshole. We always agreed not to piss off doctors, remember?”
“We agreed on a lot of things, Michael.”
“Really? Are we really going to fucking do this now? We’ve fucking been over this.”
Trevor laughed.
Michael scowled, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Look, can we fucking just— would you fucking stop laughing?”
But Trevor didn’t stop, gasping for breath as the mirth left him in deep, loud barks. There were tears in his eyes.
“T, what the fuck are you…?”
The whole flimsy sofa rattled as Trevor’s entire body began to shake, limbs twitching and jerking. Michael could see the online of every rigid muscle. Lips pulling back, Michael saw Trevor’s yellowing teeth tightly clenched. His eyes rolled back into his head and a thick white cloud of froth coated his lips.
“No. No, no, no.” Michael felt the urge to hold him down but remembered the instructions to not restrain him. Instead he moved forwards to push away the debris at Trevor’s feet, making sure his jerking legs didn’t smash a bottle. “If you can hear me, Trevor, help is on the way. They’ll be here soon, man.” Using a porn magazine, he batted the syringe away from the sofa and it rolled into the kitchen. “You just need to hold on until then.”
Trevor took in a deep, rattling breath, jerking in his seat. It was almost ten seconds before Michael realised he showed no sign to breathe it out again. He heard a gurgling sound in Trevor’s throat.
His voice was little more than a whisper: “No. No, not again.” Suddenly he was terrified, numb with panic that he hadn’t felt since he was a child, since he found his mother beside a bottle of brandy and empty bottle of sleeping pills. “No, don’t you fucking do this to me. Don’t you fucking dare.” He sat beside Trevor, wary of any more needles poking out of the seat cushions, and touched his sweaty, trembling face. “I’m no good at this shit, but I’m here, T. You’re too fucking stubborn to die.”
Trevor’s mouth fell open as he let out his breath and drew in another gulp of air.
Thank fuck for that.
Gradually, over a minute which felt like hours, Trevor’s breathing established something that resembled a pattern, laboured but consistent. His body stopped trembling, leaving him prone, twitching frequently, in his seat. He was blinking, breathing shallowly, but Michael was suddenly scared of how much of him there was left to save.
Taking the sleeve of his suit jacket, still draped across Trevor’s stomach, Michael wiped the froth from his mouth with it. "Don't go where I can't follow, you fucking asshole."
Trevor laughed, a weak sound. "You got that from the fuckin' Lord of the Flies. Always knew you were a fuckin' pussy."
"It's Lord of the Rings, you fucking shit stain. And shut the fuck up before they're your last fucking words, you fucking train wreck."
"May well be."
A tight, cold knot coiled up in Michael’s stomach. He felt the stinging behind his eyes. "No, don't you fucking dare. Don't you dare give up on me, you fucking rim job.”
“Who the fuck are you to say that, asshole?” Trevor spluttered. He wiped his hand down his front as though trying to get the vomit off his shirt, succeeding only in rubbing it in. Michael saw bits cling to his hand. “You gave up on me for nine fucking years, you self-righteous little prick. I can give up on you as much as I damn well please.”
“What the fuck, T?” Michael laughed incredulously. “Do we have to do this now?”
“You know what, Mikey?” Trevor’s voice was weak, but Michael heard that familiar acid in the way he said his name. “You’re don’t give a shit about me. You’re only still here because you’re scared it’s your fuckin’ fault that I injected all that fuckin’ meth. You’re just coverin’ your ass, like fuckin’ always. So if I die you can sit at home with your cheap wife and expensive wine and tell yourself that you did all you could to help me, rather than live with the guilt that maybe I did this because of you. But I’ll tell you now, Mikey… Mikey, Mikey, Mikey…” His head slumped to the side. His eyes were open but glazed, the side of his mouth pressed open as his cheek lay against his shoulder. “This was for me, Mikey.” A line of saliva trailed thickly from his mouth and onto his shoulder. “This wasn’t for you.”
Couldn’t bear to let me have that satisfaction, huh?
“Don’t go where I can’t follow,” Trevor whispered vehemently, so low that Michael could barely hear it. “You fuckin’ did though, didn’t you?”
Michael shook his head, standing up. He rubbed his hand over his mouth, turning back to Trevor. “No, you know what? I’ve had it with this. I’m sorry I left you for nine years. I’m sorry I made a bad decision which, at the time, involved keeping my family safe. Do you think I wanted to? There wasn’t a fucking day that went by that I didn’t wonder how you were doing. I missed you every. Fucking. Day. No, don’t fucking speak. Just shut the fuck up and listen.”
He heard sirens coming closer.
“Do you know how fucked up it makes you to force down brandy and laugh at your neighbour’s golf jokes like you enjoy it? Like you’re one of them? Like fuck do you, because you’ve never been in a situation where you’ve had to be anything but the fucking meat sack that you are.”
Sirens wailed and tyres screeched as the ambulance came to a halt outside Trevor’s front door.
“I needed you then, I need you now, and you'd better fucking hold on, you piece of shit."
Trevor squinted up at him. His breathing was shallow and ragged, beads of sweat dripping over his haggard cheek bones and into the thick stubble around his mouth. The medics burst in, shouting, and he was sure that Trevor’s trembling lips formed into the words, “I’m sorry,” moments before he lost consciousness.
Michael decided that if Trevor could possibly look any more pathetic and broken than that final moment, he never wanted to see it.
“We’ll take over now,” said a female medic, touching Michael on the shoulder. “What’s his name?”
“Trevor Philips.”
She pointed to the zip lock on the sofa. “Is this what Mr. Philips has taken?”
Michael felt himself nod, and another medic put it into a large clear bag.
“You have your own vehicle?”
Another numb nod.
“Please follow us to the hospital.”
Barely three minutes later, Trevor was stretchered from the trailer, strapped down and clutching Michael’s jacket.
The rest of the night blurred by in ambulance sirens and questions, bright hallways which smelt of disinfectant, sitting in the A&E waiting room with his head in his hands, and more questions, the same questions: how long have you known Mr. Philips? would you like some water? what has he taken? does Mr. Philips have a history of drug use? does he have a next of kin? would you like a coffee? do you know where he got the meth? how long have you known Mr. Philips?
At six a.m., a young doctor with dark circles under her eyes approached him. “Mr. Philips’s condition is stable. We’re going to be keeping him in for a couple of days. You can’t see him yet, but we have your contact details, and we will get in touch in a few days.”
He drove home through the empty streets in a stupor, crumpling onto the living room sofa and falling asleep without even closing the front door. The menu screen of Nelson in Naples was playing to itself on the TV.
***
In the days that followed, Trevor was all ventilation aids and life support, his life imitated in the lines of IV drips and heart monitors. He was toxicity levels and bar graphs, test results and blood pressure. He was measurements of hypertension, hypotension, hyperthermia, metabolises and electrolytes. He was now a percentage illustrating number of methamphetamine addictions which lead to an overdose, and he was defined by the quantitative likelihood of him making it through the night.
He had become everything he never wanted to be in life: a series of numbers and big words, just like everyone else.
Amanda returned home with the children and didn’t speak to Michael, and Michael didn’t speak to her. He drank his way through hospital phone calls who said that Trevor’s condition could change at any moment and, when Amanda asked what it was about, he replied every time with, “You wouldn’t care even if I told you.” On the fourth day of Trevor’s hospitalisation, he hired a Puerto Rican named Fabian to clean Trevor’s trailer with a warning to take thick gloves and to not move anything from where he found it. He added an extra fifty dollars and told him to keep quiet about whatever he found in there.
When the hospital rang on the afternoon of the seventh day, he was still dripping wet from a shower, one towel around his waist and another bunched up around his neck. He checked the caller ID and, recognising the number, answered briskly with, “De Santa.”
“Mr. De Santa, this is Judy Gulliver. I am the head nurse of ward 16B at Los Santos Medical Centre. I am calling to in regards to your friend, Mr. Philips.”
Michael felt his stomach tighten at her overly-formal tone. “Yes?”
“As you are aware, he has undergone a number of tests, and I am pleased to inform you that they have all come back, generally, positively.”
“Fuck. Holy fuck. Really? He’s okay?”
“Yes, Mr. De Santa,” said Judy, sounding disapproving. “Mr. Philips has reacted well to medication and has made a swift recovery. It is believed that he will— excuse me, I— please be quiet— yes, it is, I— no, you cannot Mr. Philips! Please get back into bed n— no, you cannot have the phone, please return to—”
There was the sound of a scuffle, a phone forcibly passed from one hand to another.
“Townley!” declared Trevor’s voice. “How the fuck are you?”
“A hell of a lot better than you, you junkie fuck. How are they treating you in there?”
“It’s like a fucking nuthouse, man. Food tastes like ass. They tried to get a member of the psychiatry team to evaluate me, but she didn’t last long. Ha! Upside is there’s one medical student here who is so hungry for some crème de la Trevor.”
“Silver linings and all that.”
“Yeah, yeah. I hear you. Look, they’re gonna let me out this afternoon. Come meet me, yeah? I’ll be at the Up-n-Atom Burger place a couple of blocks from the hospital at three. Fuck knows I could do with some real fucking food. Gotta go because Big Nurse Debs is about to restrain me. Be there or be square.” He made a kissing noise down the phone and the line went dead.
“About time you cracked a fucking smile,” said Amanda from her dressing table.
Michael kissed his wife for the first time in months, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, and stepped out of the car in the gaudy red-and-yellow parking lot of Up-n-Atom Burger at quarter to three.
Up-n-Atom was like every other burger place he’d ever been in: a long counter with bored-looking employees piling trays high with food, floor covered with cheap tiles and plastic tables with gum underneath, worn booths which sagged under the obese men. He sat at an empty booth between two families, his phone on the table in case the hospital called, feeling out of place. Before long, he walked up to the food service counter, feeling like he should at least buy something. He was met by a server with lime green hair, chewing on a piece of gum.
“What can I get for you, hon?” She blew a pink bubble, let it pop and carried on chewing.
“A strawberry jumbo shake, please.”
“That it?”
“For now, yeah,” he said, slapping a ten-dollar bill on the counter. “Keep the change.”
By the time Michael had sat back down with his shake, Trevor still hadn’t arrived. When he checked his watch at gone forty-three minutes past, he began to wonder if he should go down to the hospital to see if something had happened. As he tapped his fingers on the table, wondering what to do, the restaurant door opened, and in came the man, familiar and dishevelled.
The first thing Michael noticed was that Trevor had his dark grey suit jacket over his shoulders which, like his clothes, looked like the hospital had washed and pressed it. The second thing he noticed was that Trevor’s trousers looked bulky, the bottoms held close to his legs with elastic bands. The third thing was that he was leaning on crutches.
Shocked, not knowing what to do, Michael felt himself slide out of the booth and stand up.
“Hey Mikey,” Trevor said. His voice was soft, his eyes diverted and focusing on nothing in particular. His smile was lopsided.
Michael found his eyes fixated on the crutches. “Holy shit, man,” he heard himself say. “Are you like… are you...?” He motioned to them, not knowing what to say.
“What? Do you—?” Trevor lifted his mouth incredulously, raising both crutches from the floor. “Of course I’m fuckin’ not. You think a bit of meth is gonna cripple me? Fuck that.”
“Then why the fuck are you using them? And why the fuck have you got them?”
“Because they don’t just let you walk out with these fucking things, y’know? You need to make it look like you need them.” He leant them against the table and slid into the booth. “There’s a kid a few trailers down with spina bifida. One of his crutches broke and his ma’s not round much, so I thought I’d get him some new ones while I could.”
Michael shook his head, sitting back down opposite Trevor. “You’re fucking crazy.”
“So they tell me. Look, man,” Trevor said, suddenly looking sheepish. “I haven’t had time to go back to my place yet, and… well, it’s not like I could have grabbed my wallet on the way out, y’know?”
Michael nodded. “Don’t worry, T. I’ve got you covered. What do you want?”
“The Triple Burger, with extra bacon. And French fries. And a strawberry shake. And maybe a chili dog. Just tell them to keep that fucking mustard off.”
Michael slid back out of the booth and, within ten minutes, their table was covered in food, oozing with grease and sauce.
“Well slap my dick and call me mommy,” Trevor grinned, mouth full of burger and shake. “Never thought I’d taste anything this good again.”
“I still can’t believe you stole a pair of fucking crutches,” said Michael, tucking into his own, much smaller burger.
“Well it’s not like the hospital needs all of them, is it? I’m helping them out by taking some off their hands.” He lowered his voice. “And that’s not all. Check out these bad boys.” He grinned.
Michael knew that grin. It was the grin of a child looking for admiration and praise from his parents, even though the only thing he had done to compliment was a mural of mud and shit on their bedroom wall.
Sure enough, Trevor glanced hastily over his shoulder before pulling on the waistband of his tracksuit trousers and sliding his hand down inside. He briefly rummaged around, still grinning to an extent that made Michael feel uncomfortable, and pulled out a white bottle with ADDERALL pasted across the front.
Forehead creasing as his eyebrows raised, Michael’s replied with, “You had me waiting here so you could get some ADHD medicine?”
“Are you kidding? You pound enough of these babies up and snort them and it’s like you’re fuckin’ Rain Man. Blowhard Lucy will pay through the teeth for these. Not that she has any,” he sniggered.
“And I guess you’re helping the hospital out by taking those off their hands too?”
“Of course,” he said, sliding the bottle back under his waistband. “I’m your regular good Samaritan, Mikey.”
Shaking his head, Michael watched Trevor wolf down his lunch, looking like an excited child. Grease ran down his chin, sauce coating his fingers. He sucked it off hungrily.
“How are you feeling, T?”
“Fantastic. This burger’s fucking amazing.”
“I mean it, Trevor.”
Trevor’s dark eyes met Michael’s green. They fixed on each other, neither blinking.
Trevor was the first to break. He picked up his chili dog, picking at the bread. “I’m fine, M. I just had a bit of a slip, that’s all. I’m clean now. I’ve got none of that ice left anyway. I’ll stick to the usual shit. Hey, wanna see how much of this I can fit in my mouth?” He parted his jaw as wide as he could and forced the foot-long sausage and bread combo in.
Michael shook his head. He spoke quietly. “You fucking scared me, you know?”
“Mmph,” Trevor grunted, clearly annoyed that his comedic ploy hadn’t paid off. Rather than try to reply, he set to chewing the six inches of chili dog he had fit inside his mouth and bitten off.
Swirling his strawberry shake, Michael surveyed his oldest friend, mouth full of food, crutches for a kid by his side and trousers full of amphetamines. It suddenly hit him that he could have let Trevor die. He could quite easily have left the trailer, let Trevor choke on his own vomit.
He could imagine it. He would attend the funeral alone, save for the few prostitutes and meth heads who he could pay to join him, just so it wouldn’t seem so fucking empty. Then he’d go home, drink a glass of whiskey, have Amanda tell him how terrible the news was as she sucked down her gin in the kitchen and didn’t even bother to look at him as she spoke. He would be free of the cannibal, the tornado, the feral beast. Trevor Philips.
But then who would need you, you washed-up saggy old bastard?
“Fucking hell, Townley, crack a fucking smile,” Trevor muttered, bits of sausage flying out of his mouth as he spoke. “You look like you’ve seen a fucking ghost.”
“Sorry, T. I’m just thinking.”
Trevor laughed and reached for his milkshake. “When has that ever fucking helped you before?”
Michael knew then that he could never escape Trevor and, if he was honest with himself, he knew he would never want to. When his wife was complaining, and his kids were disappointments, and therapy wasn’t working, he had Trevor. No one else knew him - his flaws, his inconsistencies – and accepted him like Trevor did. Trevor was get-rich-quick-schemes and dirty talk and master plans and every thrill which kept him from wallowing in self-pity. Together they were symbiotic and toxic and they could neither live with nor without each other.
Michael knew then that, after nine years of being terrified that Trevor would find him, he was now terrified of losing him again.
“Mm,” said Trevor. He picked the lapel of Michael’s jacket, still around his shoulders. “You want this back, man?” A trail of burger relish slipped down Trevor’s hand and fell onto the paper plate below.
Michael shook his head. “Nah, that’s alright, man,” he said. “You keep it.”