Every Last Fear(56)

Pipe Layers looked like Hollywood’s idea of a small-town tavern. It had a long, over-varnished bar with several locals drooping on stools, staring at themselves in the tarnished mirror: weathered farmers, line-workers from the irrigation plant, some saggy-faced old-timers, a barfly. But at the high-top tables and booths, the crowd was younger. Stylish couples—carpetbaggers who worked in white-collar jobs at Adair Irrigation—and casually dressed men and women in their twenties, playing darts and pool.

All of them seemed to stop and stare when Matt entered the establishment. It reminded him of Mexico when the jungle went suddenly quiet: creatures going still from the presence of something that didn’t belong. A threat. The silence lasted only a beat, and the din of the bar returned.

“I have a surprise for you,” Ganesh said.

Matt narrowed his eyes.

From the back of the place came a procession of familiar faces. Kala led the group, looking glamorous as always. Next, Woo-jin towering over her, followed by Sofia in her green military jacket. Curtis, probably the only black guy in the entire bar, was last in line. An inconspicuous group they were not. Ganesh had mobilized the Island of Misfit Toys from Rubin Hall. And they’d dropped everything to be here for Matt. He tried to contain the emotion swelling his chest.

“You didn’t need to come,” Matt said as he hugged Kala, then Sofia. He bumped fists with Woo-jin, who wasn’t one for hugs, and pulled Curtis into a shoulder embrace.

The group convened at two tall high-top tables. Ganesh and Woo-jin headed to the bar to get some pitchers.

As usual, all male eyes were on Kala. She was used to it, Matt supposed. The subtle and not so subtle glances, leering from older men who knew better.

“Look, an old jukebox,” Sofia said. She grabbed Kala by the arm. “We’ll be right back.”

The girls walked confidently through the crowd and leaned over the smudged glass of the jukebox, pointing and giggling. The crunchy opening riff to “Highway to Hell” by AC/DC soon filled the bar. Matt got a lump in his throat listening to one of his father’s favorite bands.

“You okay?” Curtis asked.

“It’s surreal. Being back here.” He looked over at the jukebox again. Two men were talking with the girls. Sofia laughed at something one of them said. Kala paid them no mind, her standard MO.

“When did you all get here?” Matt said. “I mean, how’d you beat me here?”

“Ganesh sent a group text this morning,” Curtis said. “He’d bought everyone tickets and booked a block of rooms.”

Some say the rich are different. In many ways Ganesh was not. He was actually pretty normal by NYU standards: a bright kid living in a crappy apartment, who spent a lot of time smoking weed and trying to hook up with girls. But he was different. Beyond his eccentricities, Ganesh was uncompromising. A concert they all wanted to see sold out? He’d hire the musician to play at a private party. His friends couldn’t afford spring break? He’d charter a plane and rent a beach house. Hamilton tickets? Easy. Reservations at the Polo Bar? No problem. Ganesh didn’t care about material things. He valued experiences and friendship. Money was always available, an afterthought, a means to an end. The rich were indeed different.

Curtis pondered Matt at length. “Are you sure you’re okay? If you want to talk, want to get out of here, we can—”

“No,” Matt said. “Seeing you, having us all together like normal, it’s exactly what I needed.”

The girls found their way back. “Where the fuck are those drinks?” Kala said. She looked over to the bar.

“Were those guys bothering you?” Matt asked.

“We live in New York. I think we’ll be fine, Dad,” she replied.

Matt smiled. He preferred edge to pity any day of the week.

Laughing, Sofia said, “Their names were Stormy and Lightning. They told me their brother’s name is Thunder. I shit you not.”

Ganesh and Woo-jin finally arrived, each carrying a pitcher. Woo-jin also held a glass of water for Curtis.

And it wasn’t long before Sofia was nattering on about politics and the latest Twitter outrage, the guys talking sports, and, of course, Matt and Kala launching into a fierce debate about the best film directors. It was like they were at Purple Haze on a typical Friday night.

“M. Night Shyamalan doesn’t hold a candle to Jordan Peele,” Kala said.

Matt grunted. “I’ll give you that Peele revitalized the horror genre. Made it smart, weaving in social commentary. But I’ve got three words for you: The Sixth Sense.”

“I’ve got three for you: The Last Airbender. Horrible. And Peele doesn’t arrogantly give himself cameos in his own films.”

“It’s just fashionable to hate on M. Night.”

“You saying my views are just fashionable?” Kala held his stare as she took a gulp of beer. Her pretty eyes twinkled when she was angry.

“Yo, lighten up,” Ganesh said. “I want this stupid debate settled by the time I get back with another round.” He headed to the bar.

Kala seemed to realize she was, well, being Kala. Matt could’ve hugged her for it.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should’ve—”

He reached across the table and put his hand on hers. “If your views are ever fashionable, it’s because you started the fashion.”