L. I. E. by David Hollander

Author:David Hollander
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
ISBN: 9780375506413
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2001-01-16T00:00:00+00:00

As any student of basic chemistry will tell you, there are two ways to induce the condensation of a gaseous element to its liquid state: lower the temperature, or increase the pressure. A concurrence of these phenomena is catalyzing atmospheric change in the Zephyr, and Ben feels more like he’s drowning than suffocating, as the exhaust liquifies further, a bath of toxic ecstasy and mourning.

Feeling very tired now, not quite remembering how it is that he got here, or why, Ben looks over at Matt, through a swirling pool of gray that grows thicker with each moment, like the inertial gathering of storm clouds, Matt’s form itself seeming to waver slightly, the lambent shimmy of an oasis.

“Matt,” he says, thinking, Get a goddamn grip on yourself! You’re not gonna die! “Matt, man. C’mon, let’s get outta the car. Let’s just get outta the fucking car.” His voice sounds slower in his own ears, distorted, the wavelengths struggling just as wavelengths do when released underwater, but Matt only sits there wavering, hands on the steering wheel, a cigarette still clenched between two knuckles, still lit, lending to this sulfurous stew its own chemistry of tar and nicotine and whatever else they put in a Camel, chocolate and alcohol and caffeine, any and all flavors of mildly addictive natural and/or industrial agents. Staring straight ahead, into a windshield that offers no visibility, just a plane to contain these drifting compounds, Matt repeats what has apparently become the mantra of this ritual, his graceful litany of tact and showmanship:

“Get the fuck out, Ben.” Really, he makes it sound like a good idea. His voice is so wonderfully sleepy. Ben wants to grab his arm, to rouse him, but he’s tired, too, tired beyond belief and slowly forgetting why he wants to leave the Zephyr, why he shouldn’t just pass into slumber. He’s stumped when he tries to focus. The smoke no longer has any odor, acclimation is now total. Even the sound of the engine has died off, just a bit of white noise, a rhythmic patter like summer rain. Ben feels his lungs stretching for something that is no longer present, accepting the substitute molecules grudgingly. No, he’s not breathing well. Neither is Matt. Ben can hear them, in fleeting instances of clarity, can hear them both wheezing.

It’s Matt’s family who will find them, Ben realizes. Matthew Sr., most likely, coming home from a business trip that he’s taken to points east. He is the owner of a small swimming pool maintenance company in Babylon, but he’s been thinking of reestablishing his home base in the Hamptons, where the wealthy will pay more because the wealthy always will, in dim-witted arrogance. Or Matt’s mother, Rachel, who for all Ben knows is sleeping right now, upstairs, more than likely under the influence of alcohol and/or one of several other depressants masquerading as antidepressants, Valium, Xanax, Vicadin. As bad as this is for Matt, this imminent discovery and disposal, Ben realizes that these people

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