The Road Trip Rewind

Chapter 12 - Rocco

Chapter 12

Rocco

Thursday, December 30, 1999

“Oh my god, she saw me. I mean, I saw me?” Bea shakes her head; her whole body is shaking. I put my hands on her shoulders to help steady her, guiding her to the edges of the crowd for more privacy. “We made eye contact.”

“I think you’re good,” I say, even if there’s no way either of us could be sure. This whole holiday party venture might be our best idea yet, or just as easily the worst. “They’re already heading back inside. See?” I tilt my head toward our youthful counterparts, just beyond the glass doors now. Walking into a gymnasium-sized living room. “Holding hands, smiling, giggling. It’s hard to look away from them, isn’t it? Their energy together. It reminds me of last night. This morning, too. The way you looked at me in the hotel room, the way she’s looking at him tonight.”

Dammit, mouth. Too much. I’m wise enough to shut my lips, but still, my brain won’t stop whirring—is that how I look at Bea now, too? Like I’ve managed to find the most magical woman in the room? Against all foreseeable odds?

Bea stiffens beneath my hands and takes a step to the side, shrugging my arms off. “Well, Rocco, I’m glad you’ve had that flash of hindsight. Because it’s not easy for me to see them, so giddy like that. Considering the next day is New Year’s Eve.”

Ah yes, the icy chill returns. Understandably, after my word vomit. But at least I helped to distract from her anxieties about being spotted. A semi-win.

“I’m sorry, that would have worked better as an inner monologue. It slipped out. Because it’s just . . . so strange and unsettling to see us in the flesh, I’m not sure how to properly organize my thoughts. The first time was such a shock, I couldn’t take it all the way in. Tonight, though, feels so crystal clear. Showing me just how good it felt at the time. You . . . you really did make me happy.”

Before Bea can dish up additional feedback, we hear a SNAP! from somewhere near the perimeter of the backyard, partitioned off by a bunch of arborvitaes and other dense shrubbery. Quicky followed by another snap, louder than the first. Maybe hanging out in the backyard was a bad idea.

“This is the hills!” Bea whisper-screams. “That could be a mountain lion stalking us!”

“Let’s think rationally,” I say, hopefully sounding calmer than I feel, for her sake. Both our sakes, really, because we don’t want to cause a scene. “That is a giant fortress of thick, wild bush.”

“Ugh, you said bush,” she says, straight lipped, obviously fighting to not crack a grin.

Bea needs to pick a mood and stick with it; I need some fountain champagne to help cope with these emotional spins. She no longer seems scared, at least, but more inquisitive, squinting into the foliage. There’s another round then, louder still and closer: snaps, crinkling leaves, scratches. Bea reverts back to scared mode, latching tightly onto my shoulders from behind.

Another burst of rustling leaves, and the sounds take on a new twist: some good old-fashioned expletives.

So—not a mountain lion.

“Fucking bullshit, you think you can keep me out of this damn party? Ha! Ow. You old dirty bush, piece of shit spiky branches . . .”

That voice.

So familiar.

He lets out another string of profanity, and the pieces click.

Tom Richards. My manager.

Which means: We’ve got to bounce.

Immediately.

“Look at this man,” Bea says, cackling now. “Coming through that towering wall of bush. Probably easier than getting into the Playboy mansion.” She’s really letting the pervy jokes fly, maybe a stress decompression—though, now that I think about it, she did have a healthy appetite for Beavis and Butt-Head back in the day. She’s probably the only woman I’ve ever dated who would watch with me.

But it’s also easy for her to joke because she has no idea we’re about to commit the gravest sin of time travel: talking directly to our past—who also still happens to be in our present. He’s been my manager since I was ten years old.

He’s going to know. How could he not?

I lean back to whisper in her ear and that smell of hers catches me. I allow myself one quick breath, then collect myself. “That’s Tom,” I hiss. “Tom Richards.”

We see snippets of him then—tan skin and dark curls, gold cufflinks beaming against a white-and-black–checkered suit. He’d be hard to miss with that look.

Without a word, Bea grabs my hand and pulls me in close—for a kiss.

Just like that, and we’re full-on making out in the backyard of this Hollywood Hills mansion. Her thigh hitching up to my waist, my fingers pressing firmly down into her warm skin, Bea kissing me like I’m the most delicious treat at the party. Every inch of me is on fire; this might be a drill, but someone’s got to tell that to my body. My brain can’t find the shut-down switch, and hell if I care.

There’s no slowdown as Tom emerges fully from thebushes. Bea’s determined to play the good old-fashioned “leave us alone, we’re making out” game, and I’m all too happy to play along for as much time as necessary. The whole night if need be.

“Can you believe those guys at the door?” Tom says, laughing. He’s standing right next to us now. Trying to have a conversation, like Bea’s tongue isn’t currently doing a slow glide against mine. We press ahead, ignoring him, but, like a fly, he’s both unabashed and unconcerned with the concept of personal space. He also reeks of booze.

Drunk Tom? Boston Tom, as he used to say, here in the flesh? Tom was a prolific drinker in the ’90s, our early days of working together. He almost got divorced over it—almost lost Debbie, his kids, half his millions, everything—before he sobered up and redeemed himself over time. This must have been one of his last blowout nights, if I’m doing the math right.

“They have no idea who I am and what backyard knowledge I got. Just a couple quick lefts, ha, and a few rights. If you think I look bad, you should see the back of those hedges.” He laughs, coughs, wipes his face with his mostly untattered sport coat. I say mostly because his back has a large rip down the center, making mid-back coattails. Adam Ant would have been proud. And knowing Tom’s tastes, this suit was big money.

Bea cannot hold it together anymore, the kiss losing momentum—his persistent chatter has got the best of her. She releases slowly, her tongue doing one light farewell run over my bottom lip before she pulls back. Goddamn. I want to taste her again, return the favor, but she’s already out of range. Busy side-eying Tom.

Tom seems to be in full brownout drunk mode, though, so I’m not sure he’s noticed any of Bea’s performance.

Me though? I noticed everything.

I can’t stop noticing.

“You can’t imagine the trouble I’ve had getting here,” he continues, unfazed. “And I don’t even want to be; I just have to get out of the house, you know? Me and my wife aren’t all cozied up like you two lovebirds, not these days, anyway. Plus, I left my wallet in the cab that brought me here. Stupid pockets of this stupid jacket are too shallow!” His firewater breath lingers in the December air. It’s amazing he’s even conjuring sentences at this point, to be honest, given that smell. I’d be impressed if it weren’t so sad. I’m glad Boston Tom was about to make his exit.

“I don’t even wanna be here, you know? Did I say that already? Blah blah. You two seem like you could care less. Lip smacking and grabbing ass out here. My wife and I used to be like that, if you can believe it.”

“Shit, Tom, have some manners,” Bea says, coolly. And then her eyes go wide, the realization hitting that she just said his name out loud. A name we shouldn’t know, given we’re total strangers.

We both hold our breath, waiting for the fallout.

But no. No fallout. “Yeah, I hear that a lot these days. Sorry ’bout that. Really.” He’s quiet for a beat, and then I watch him fully check out. A quick fade from brown to blackout mode in the blink of his hollowed eyes. The lights are still on, dimly, but nobody’s home.

“We appreciate the apology.” I try to subtly steer him toward a nearby garden bench because he’s starting to sway. A slow semi-rhythmic lilt from side to side.

“I mean,” he says, blinking back for a moment, “I’ve snuck into my fair share of backyards, mostly for affair stuff. Never these days. Just during marriage number one.” He chuckles. “Numero uno.” More laughter. “I used to love that game. Uno. So fun. My kids love it, too.” He starts mumbling more incoherently, something about Pizzeria Uno.

I’m uncertain about this interaction in terms of overall risk—the potential for it to change the great order of our lives. First for my old delivery pal, and now my manager? The former seems fairly innocuous. Hopefully. The latter, though, is pushing it too close to my true timeline. Oh right, and there’s my friendly future neighbor. Can’t forget him.

Regardless of the risk, I have to help. I couldn’t forgive myself if this back-party entrance took him too far off the rails.

What if this was the night that he stopped drinking? I can only imagine what a mess he would’ve caused inside the actual party. Maybe there’s a reason I never knew he made it here, not just because I was caught up on Trixie.

We’ve got to get him home.

Bea clears her throat, gives a pointed nod in Tom’s direction. She seems to be on the same page, no words needed, as she takes an arm and starts slowly escorting Tom back toward the house. I mean, he’s clearly very drunk, with an exceptional case of the wobbles. You don’t have to know him to recognize how far gone he is. But still, it’s empathetic of her, and I’m gladder than ever that we’re in this together. Whatever this turns out to be.

I latch on to his other arm so we’re flanking him.

“Hey there hey,” he sings out. “Woo-hoo-hoo! Am I floating?”

He is kind of floating I suppose, since we’re mostly carrying him at this point. He’s trying to use his legs, but to very little avail.

“I appreciate this, but if I’m not out for another ninety minutes or so, my wife will be awake still, and I won’t be able to go inside. We’re, eh, keeping a bit of distance. Mutual. Kind of. Not really. I miss her. So much. Anyway! Just leave me. I’ll sit here. Safe as a pea in its pod.” With that, Tom goes limp and plops straight down. Right where the grass meets the backyard pavers, a prime foot-traffic zone. Making a scene, or at least very nearly so.

“No, nope. C’mon, Tommy boy,” Bea says, grabbing for his arms and tugging him upright again. “There are better places to sit, like the back seat of my Jetta.”

“The back seat of a car sounds nice. But no, thank you. I don’t do that to Debbie. Not ever. No offense, you’re a perfectly love—”

“Alright there,” I say, cutting him off as I take over one arm from Bea, propping it on my shoulder. “Into the car of your new platonic friend we go. Though we commend your morals, we do.”

Just as I say this, I see me: Rocco of ’99. Looking out from inside, on the other side of the window, the glow of the party. Staring at his massively inebriated manager. Then . . . at us. First me. Then Bea.

I—he—looks embarrassed. Concerned. Uncertain. It’s subtle maybe, but I could pick up any trace of emotion at any distance; it’s my own face, after all. And I’ve spent my whole life studying it on screens.

I don’t remember this happening that night, though. No recollection of Tom at the party whatsoever. I’m pretty sure he even talked about it after the fact—how he missed his shot to schmooze with Spielberg on my behalf. Maybe he never made it past the lobby and was too blitzed to remember where his night ended. Hell, I was pretty blitzed, too, thanks to those fountain bubbles. My memory might be unreliable.

Whatever happened, though, it doesn’t matter now because on this timeline, Tom is here. And so is ’99 Rocco. And me, the vintage model.

’99 Rocco looks at me again. Eyes lingering this time.

I use my hand not holding up Tom to brush other Rocco off, hopefully a universal “we got this” wave, and then pretend I’m guzzling a bottle. Tongue hanging out for emphasis, tilting my head toward Tom. ’99 Rocco seems reassured enough by our involvement—makes his night easier, anyway—as he waves and disappears back into the swell of the party.

Damn.

Was that another potential ripple?

How many dominoes are we knocking over tonight?

Even one could be too many.

“I shrugged the old me off,” I say quietly to Bea.

“I saw. At least you wouldn’t have recognized yourself. Not in this lighting and with that platinum blonde, right?” Her voice swings up at the end.

“Right,” I say, because it’s the only answer that will keep us both forging ahead.

“Can we get to that platonic back seat? My legs feel . . . a little funny.” Tom has reached the faulty voice modulation portion of his drunkenness, as he’s suddenly yelling loudly enough for other outdoor guests to hear.

Too many faces turn our way.

“You got it, Tom, let’s get you into the chariot.”

I nod to Bea to push forward. She takes a few steps, eyes fixed on the pavers, and starts picking up speed as we make our way back to the patio doors. I have to hustle to keep up. She must still do yoga because her core works like a beast. I remember that now—she was obsessed with yoga in the ’90s. My mom had been, too—still is—and I’d accidentally mentioned Bea to her once in passing. I didn’t do that usually, didn’t let those two sides of my life ever collide. Not until Piper, and well—after that epic collision, I went straight back to impenetrable boundaries.

We speed walk through the house, literally rubbing elbows, shoulders, hips with the crush of guests packed inside its walls, not stopping for a breath until we’re back outside. The guys working the door are busy talking to what looks like a posse of runway models and don’t even bat an eye in our direction. Home free. We maneuver Tom down the long driveway, toward the old Jetta that sits behind the rest of the pack.

Finally—we’re there, the end of the line. Standing next to our silver time machine.

Bea yanks open the back door and pushes Tom inside. “Seat belt, please,” she says, still hovering over him. “We want to get you home in one piece. Even if its bourbon-aged and beer-battered.” She laughs at her own joke, a shriller sound than usual.

I watch over her shoulder as Tom tries to click the seat belt together, missing the hole each time.

Bea takes a step back, bumping up against me. I put my hand on her waist to steady her, a reflex. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were so damn close.”

“Nothing to be sorry about.”

She swats gently at my hand, but she’s smiling when she turns to face me. “Would you like to help Tom? I’m not going anywhere near his crotch.”

“Sure, not a problem.” I lean in and reach over him, taking the straps from his hands with no resistance. I would predict that, like a baby, he’ll be out cold within the next few minutes, rocked to sleep by the moving car.

“I hope he doesn’t puke in Delilah,” Bea says, loudly enough for Tom to partly reanimate.

“I never puke! Just don’t . . . just don’t take me home ‘til midnight. Please.” His motor skills are slowing down, but the pain in his voice is still clear as glass, broken shards of it. It hurts to hear it. He goes silent then. Eyes drooping, head lolling against the seat. He didn’t give us his address, but I know where he lives; I’ve been there a hundred times. He’s hopefully too drunk to realize that omission, though.

I turn back to Bea. “Could I please drive Delilah again? I know where we’re going, and it will certainly be before midnight.”

She squints at me for a beat, then hands me the keys. “You be careful with my girl.”

“Always.” I give a solemn nod and open the driver’s side door. “You hungry? There’s an In-N-Out burger close to here. The wait in the drive-thru should burn some time.”

She settles into the passenger seat and deliberates for a moment. “Fine, yes. It’s not like we got to enjoy any fancy hors d’oeuvres. Or any fountain champagne. What a waste of such an excessive party.”

“Excellent. Tom, you hungry?”

No response. Sound asleep before we even start the car. I’ll take that as a maybe? A little late-night sober-up food could be good for him.

I turn the key and head out. Good riddance to this failed party experiment. Where any of it leaves us? Impossible to say. But if anything could help right now, it’s a delicious burger that transcends any and all timelines.

The short drive to In-N-Out is silent. I keep glancing at Bea, and her furrowed brow that tells me she’s busily analyzing every potential misstep of the evening. I wish I could reassure her, but anything I say would be a lie.

When we arrive, the car line is long as predicted, and Tom’s still out. It’s—I glance at the clock on the dash—barely eleven.

“Combo number one?” I turn to Bea, who’s frowning up at the menu.

“Full disclosure, I’m a Jack in the Box girl. Never really liked In-N-Out. Unpopular opinion, I know. But their fries just . . . don’t do it for me?”

“C’mon! The burger might be the star, but the fries are also perfection! They’re so fresh!” Too heavy on the evangelizing, maybe, but I’m desperate to turn this night into more of a positive. For myself, but even more so for her.

And really, the fries are pretty damn fresh. Way better than Jack in the Box.

“Okay, okay. I’m hungry, so I’ll eat. Even the fries, alright? No need to get all worked up. You would think you’re a paid sponsor or something.”

“I’d happily be their poster boy.”

“Not surprising. Weren’t you in WWF wrestling doll commercials as a tween? You clearly have no shame.”

I grin. “Damn, that burns.”

Twenty minutes later, two of the three combo number ones—the Double-Double combo—have been consumed in the parking lot. Washed down with icy-cold fountain Cokes. All era Roccos would approve of this meal. I might do those Michelin-starred restaurant reviews on my social media, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a humbler meal. No matter how much loot is in my bank account, I know who I am at heart. And that’s a man who loves a good In-N-Out burger. Bea didn’t say much as we ate, but she finished her meal—fries included—and I take her lack of criticism as high praise. A necessary victory, considering the rest of the night feels like straight-up failure.

“I think we should drop Tom off and let him eat his InN-Out in the driveway,” Bea says, climbing back into her seat after disposing of our trash. “All this time with him is making me more anxious.”

“Yeah, we can do that. He’s got a nice garden bench out front.” As I go to pull out of the parking lot, I forget about the speedbump, and Delilah takes a solid bounce up and down. Enough of a jolt to both illicit a stern look from Bea and to wake up Tom. He stirs in the back, mumbling something I can’t make out.

“Welcome back,” I say, handing over his food. He fumbles the bag, some stray fries dropping onto the floor behind the console.

Bea visibly grits her teeth. “Tom, could you please pick those up? I don’t normally eat in my car. I try to keep her immaculate.”

“Sure, and by ‘immaculate,’ you mean littering ripped magazine pages on the floor?”

I turn back to watch as Tom picks up a scrap of paper with his free hand. A glossy page, my thirtysomething face grinning out from the top.

The vandalized tabloid page.

Fuck.

Mega fuck.

Tom stares down at it, squinting, looking slightly cross-eyed. He’s silent for a beat, and I hope he’s too drunk to string letters together. Please, dear god, Boston Tom.

But then: “Hey, I represent Rocco! Who drew all over him? And speaking of Rocco . . .” He squints at me in the rearview mirror.

Bea and I exchange panicked glances. In a moment of clear impulse, she reaches back to grab the page, but instead knocks against the food bag in his other hand. The remaining fries scatter everywhere. An explosion of greasy potato sticks.

Tom lets out a loud belly laugh. “Ooh, I’m so sorry you dirtied your car even more! Good thing I’m more of a Jack in the Box guy. I really don’t like these fries anyway.” Bea and Tom—maybe they could have bonded over that, under very different circumstances.

He takes the burger out of the bag, unwrapping it and taking a massive bite, and then begins picking up stray fries from the seat. Shoveling some into his mouth, despite his proclamation. I glance back as often as I can without getting us into another crash—I certainly don’t want to flip ahead again in time with old Tom in the back seat—trying to track the page. I finally catch sight of it on the seat next to him, no longer seeming to be of interest. For now, at least. He’s too busy being a wiseass, making a show of picking up each fry one by one, counting as he goes—skipping every few numbers. God, I do not miss Boston Tom. He would have been long since fired by now if he hadn’t gotten it together.

I catch Bea looking back at the page, too, trying to be subtle. Not wanting to do anything to put it back on his radar. We nod at one another in understanding.

By the time he’s finished counting fries, mostly inaccurately, we’re pulling up to his absurdly giant house, a three-story Tudor. Porch lights on, the rest of the place dark. Tom could hang out and finish his food, piss in the bushes, and basically camp outside for the night before anyone would find him. No one seems to be waiting up.

“Seventy-three. There, all cleaned up. Immaculate! And I’m not too proud to take this garbage with me. To eat. You were sweet enough to drive a slightly tipsy stranger home.” The slur on those s’s is a mockery of the words “slightly tipsy.”

“I know you said midnight, but you can hang outside until you’re ready to go into your own home. Sober up, make your wife happy.” I reach back and pat his shoulder.

“Fair enough. Thanks again for the ride, and sorry if I’ve been a bit of an ass. I’m gonna work on it, okay?” He pushes the door open and steps out of Delilah, hands clutching his remaining bounty of food, torn jacket tails flapping.

“Hope my back seat was lux enough for you!” Bea calls out as he nudges the door shut with his backside. He hobbles forward about ten feet, then drops down to sit right in the middle of his massive circular driveway. I back out the way we came in.

We’re quiet for a little while. It’s hard to find the right words. Probably because there aren’t any.

“Holy shit, what was this night?” I finally ask, letting out the deep breath I’ve been holding for what feels like hours.

“If we get back to the future, I’m positive we did something regrettable. Granted he was sloppy drunk and distracted by mediocre fries, but still. I’m trying to remember everything the article said—just how bizarrely prophetic it would seem to him. I need to read it again.”

Bea turns to grab the page from the back seat, but . . .

It’s not there.

My view is limited through the mirror, but it’s definitely not where he last left it.

“Where the hell is it?” She unbuckles herself and crawls into the back seat—despite our rapidly moving vehicle—scrounging around on the floor.

A moment passes, the road in front of me a blur, before Bea is next to me again.

“It’s gone,” she says quietly. “He must have taken it.”

I make a U-turn without needing to question it; drive straight back to Tom’s, neither of us saying a word.

But when we pull up the drive, he’s gone. The outside lights are off.

Ringing the doorbell would only make a scene. Ensure that this whole night becomes much more memorable, for Debbie, too, and anyone else who’s around. More sober people with properly functioning brain cells.

My chest constricts; it’s impossible to breathe. As I pull back out of the drive, I roll my window down for fresh air. It doesn’t help. “Maybe he tossed it into his In-N-Out bag without meaning to?” I grab at anything, desperate. “And he’ll throw it out after he eats, forget he ever met us? Forget all about tonight? He was as drunk as I’ve ever seen him, and I saw him drunk a lot in those days. He once peed in the fountain at the Paramount lot. On a dare. But he dared himself, so.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” Bea says, but she doesn’t sound convinced.

I’m not convinced either. This night together has been pretty damn unforgettable.

Our timeline might be well and truly screwed up.

Forever.