I woke to the constant ring of my phone. It had to be Winston. Only Winston's ring could be so annoying that it would give me a migraine from deep inside unconsciousness. Reaching across, my arm dead from
sleeping on it, I answered. There was no point avoiding his call, he'd just ring and ring and ring until the tone or the vibration sent me crazy.
'No I don't have it, yes I know what day it is, no I don't have a date when I can give you it, yes I'm taking it seriously and finally I'm not wearing anything because you've woke me. Now what's your answers?' I asked.
'The movie's dead, Doug.' his voice cold and impersonal. 'I just called to tell you to stop writing.'
'Dead, what do you mean dead?'
'You've fingers right? I've seen you scratching your ass with them, turn on your TV.'
'What channel?' I asked searching for the remote.
'It doesn't matter baby,' he replied 'it's on every fucking channel.'
He hung up. I found the remote under the vacant pillow beside me and flicked the screen to life. Massacre at an amusement park outside of Rhode Island, thirteen dead, shooter in custody.
'Good morning America.' I said, flopping back down.
When I finally climbed out of bed I had the fear that comes with knowing someone is going to ask you for money back that you no longer have. Calling to the front desk I ask one of the kids if there's anything for me. I had sent a short story called The Greatest Cock That Ever Lived to a few magazines and was desperately hoping that my Mencken was out there somewhere. Standing by the front desk, the
California sunshine spitting through the blinds at me I watched as the young girl delved face first into the pigeon holes for the never materialising mail. I slipped behind my aviators, making it in America is a hard fight and the bruises of the last round were beginning to take their toll.
'Got one.' she sang bouncing up, waving an odd shaped envelope in my face.
The good news was that I knew it wasn't a rejection slip, but it wasn't a cheque either so I was still going to have to try and make bank to get Winston off my ass. Slicing through the lip of the envelope with my finger I plucked the card from its jacket. An invitation, a wedding invitation.
A free meal.
But I'd need a suit.
There's always a catch.
I read the invite:
JONATHAN & MARY-LOU DE SILVA
WOULD LIKE TO INVITE YOU PLUS A GUEST TO CELEBRATE
THE WEDDING OF THEIR DAUGHTER
SARAH DE SILVA
TO
MR. DONALD GALLIGAN
AT THE RANCH AT THE LITTLE HILLS
PLEASANTON, CA
'Good news?' she asked.
'Wedding invite.'
'Oh I love weddings.' all but swooning.
I looked her up and down, she was pretty, blonde, the tennis type.
'What age are you?'
'Twenty-one.'
'You want to go to a wedding?'
'I have a boyfriend.'
'Ok, but he can't come.'
She laughed, I thanked her for my mail before tucking my phone into my back pocket and stepping on to the dusty blonde floor of the world. My hand lingered over the bin attached to a lamp post but my fingers refused to release the purple ribbon-clad piece of card.
Billie would be there. Maybe driving the Mexico to Pleasanton wouldn't be the chore it could be after all.
That evening I had a book reading at a coffee shop on Melrose. I took the Mexico and not believing in its reliability ended up at the bean store twenty minutes earlier than I should have. Waiting around outside I smoked a cigarette and watched as nobody entered the building. A book reading in a god-damn coffee shop was like shooting fish in a barrel. Who didn't like java in this city? This, the city that is always going somewhere else, selling something else, doing it bigger than anywhere else; supercharged on Columbian until their stomachs rotted away. No big deal, the latest fad diet meant you didn't have to use it anyway.
Stepping inside I approached an obviously tired but chemically enthusiastic barista.
'I'm Doug Morgan, I'm here for the reading.'
'Ok,' she said 'if you want to take a seat we're just waiting on the author.'
'And the audience, I am the author.' I explained.
'Right, sorry. There's a few people at the back.'
Reluctantly, I made my way to the rear of the coffee shop. This wasn't a vocation, this was death by mockery. Four people sat, arms crossed, frowns stitched. If they had been on a parole panel I would have been fucked and sent back to G wing before I could utter a syllable. My face burned red as I remembered a reading I had attended in Bookfinders, Belfast. The author was shy, reclusive even and could
barely make eye contact. He pulled a good audience though, that's what happens when you know people and don't just prop up some lumber next to a pump with them. He started reading, someone called out speak up and he shook in his seat, erupted into tears and rocked
himself for twenty minutes while we all picked a spot on the ceiling to concentrate on. But he still pulled an audience.
'Hello.' I said. One woman smiled, the rest turned to their spots on the ceiling. 'Look, I don't have to do this. How about we head over to the Snake Pit and grab a beer?'
No takers.
'Or I could read.'
'Are you going to read from your book?' asked the woman. She was kind, I figured her for a plant.
'Yeah, but I thought I'd maybe start with a short story if that's ok?'
She smiled and two of the others gave me their attention as the coffee grinder kicked in causing me to have to wait for it to stop so they could hear me. I took a seat behind my small fort of Inebriated Adventures books.
'This one is called The Trouble with Jimmy,' I said clearing my throat 'Jimmy had a short fat dick that fell out whenever they fucked…'
'Oh for goodness sake!' barked one of the audience, she got up and left with the person next to her.
I read on.
***
Johnny turned up with two friends bringing the numbers up to double digits by the end of the reading, real respectable. Even though one of the audience members really hated the book they still bought a signed copy and the coffee shop still agreed to stock it. I sat signing while Johnny and his gal pals watched on, he was whispering something to one of them.
'I didn't like it.' chirped the student in front of me.
'Thanks.'
'I find sensual satisfaction weakens imagination.'
'And judgment, how's yours by the way?'
'Imagination?' she queried, shifting her weight and tucking my book under her arm.
'Judgment.' I clarified.
'Good enough to know I should end this conversation.' she said with a smile.
'Shame to waste a good Albert Camus quote off.'
'Maybe I'll give it a second read.'
'Sure,' I nodded signing for the person behind her 'and let me know what you think of it.'
'And how will I do that?'
'The guys here have my number.' I replied as she finally moved on.
I watched as she left, eventually I had signed books for all ten people wanting one and had to go about loading the rest of them into the back seat of the Mexico while Johnny worked his magic with the redhead, Matilda. Her caramel skinned friend stood awkwardly by the side of the car while Tilda got fingered in an alley no more than ten feet from her as the clouds over Los Angeles threatened to be in a mood with the citizens lingering in the open air below. Eventually the awkwardness broke, and she spoke.
'You need to cut that shit out. You shouldn't drink while reading, especially if you're driving and you should stick to the material. Some of those shorts you read were positively indecent.'
'That's how babies are made, and you are?'
'Niamh.'
'I'm Doug.'
'Yes, I know. Johnny told me all about you. You shouldn't call that girl.'
'And why not?' I asked finally clearing the sidewalk of low life literature.
'Because if she likes your book she'll tell two people, if she hates your book she'll tell ten people but if you fuck her and bail she'll tell everyone.'
'You seem clued in.'
'I should be clued in. I'm an agent, Johnny brought me here to meet you. He thinks I'd bring the best out of you.'
'So, what should I do now?'
'How about you buy me a drink while they finish up, standing around waiting for them is making me feel all teenage and angsty again.'
'Well we wouldn't want teenage or angsty now would we? Are you ok with the Snake Pit? It's the only bar around here I like.'
'Lead the way.'
I stepped out on to Melrose, the road was clear but for a few dilly-dallying cars on their way home or somewhere else. Pedestrians aren't worth the shit on your shoe in Los Angeles, many a motorist have sped up when they've seen me j-walking. The ones who don't aren't necessarily good citizens, just proud of their no claims bonus. Guiding
Niamh across the street she tucked her curly woollen hair behind her ears as the wind licked at us. A block from the bookstore I opened the cavernous door to the Snake Pit and was hit with a rush of black leather nostalgia. So many good times, so much love and vomit.
A waitress greeted us as we entered, chewing gum as she pulled a notepad from her apron. She inquired whether we're here for food or drink. 'Because we're done with food for the night.' she added.
'It's alright,' called the bartender 'that one doesn't eat much. Long-time Irish.'
'Been working at working baby,' I replied 'set us up a tab. I'll have a Guinness and a shot.'
'Same.' said Niamh as we slid into one of the booths, our drinks materialising moments later.
'So does Elsa still work here?' Niamh asked me.
She took a drink of her Guinness. I took a drink of mine and we both wore white moustaches.
'There is no Elsa, Elsa I made up.'
'Oh,' her face soft as a sponge 'is it wrong that I'm sad about that?'
'Not at all, try this one.' I passed her my shot and she took a nip of it.
'Nice. Let me ask you a question…'
'A solid nine inches. I could probably gain an inch or two if I did crunches but who has the time, right?!'
'No it wasn't that.' her face reddened, she made for a pretty sight.
'Awkward!' I sang taking another drink.
'Is Kelly real?'
I nodded 'Kelly's real.'
'And Billie?'
'She's real too, living the cold air life on the Eastside,' I throw up a gang sign, the clientele look around and life has reversed again 'She's back for her brother's wedding soon.'
'Are you going? Won't that be awkward?'
'No,' my tone was almost dreamy 'she's a cool chick. We worked well together but she had jobs coming her way back East. That pace of life after Venice is too much for me. We'll pick up somewhere when I see her at the hitching ceremony.'
'So I was thinking, and I've decided that I'm going to be your agent.'
'I don't need an agent to take twelve percent of nothing, at the minute I'm keeping all one hundred percent. Why would I want to give that up?'
'That's quite good, you should keep that one for a book. I'd only take eight percent though.' she said smiling, her dark eyes dancing in the setting sun as the bar door opened.
'Eight percent of nothing is still nothing. Thanks though. What I really need though is a date… for the wedding. You want to be my wedding date, Niamh?'
'I can't, I have a boyfriend.' she said twirling her hair.
'That's what the kid said too.'
'You chatting up kids? You writers are deviants.'
'You don't know the half of it.'
'Give me a week,' she bartered 'one week and if I don't book you anything…'
'Fine. Be my date, come on. I'll buy you drinks and won't pass second base since you've got a boyfriend. Ok, maybe a little past second base but not too much.'
She laughed and drained down her Guinness. Two more were set in front of us, I told the waitress to grab one herself and remembered why I like this bar so much. Attentive yet a little dangerous, the darkness kept the DSL tourist crowd out.
'Ok I'll go to your wedding with you. It's a business date though.'
'So what about you? Tell me something about Niamh.'
'Not a lot to tell. Cali-born and bred, Valley girl…'
'Dirty!'
'Excuse me?'
'Sorry, not you.' I said placing my hand on hers. 'I meant to say that all Valley girls are dirty.'
She laughed and called me a prick.
'Love books… obviously, have two cats and a dog. This is hard…'
'A boyfriend.' I helped between sips.
'Yes… I've just realised I might work too much… oh! And I like my men eleven inches or more, sorry!' her smile was teasing and not at all sorry.
'Horse-people! Though you've got me seriously considering crunches.' my stick thickened just thinking about it.
The Pit door opened again casting what little light moody Hell.A had to offer as a waterlogged Johnny and Matilda ran in. Johnny's poster boy haircut was soaked to his skull, a grin of satisfaction painted across his tanned face. He ordered two drinks on my tab (prick) and slipped into the booth alongside us.
***
The drinks made everyone sloppy. I dug into my pocket and emptied what I had on the bar. Big Raymond counted through it, took what was due and pushed the remainder back towards me. He was a class act. I cut a tip from the pile and dropped it in the cup with the handwritten sign that read:
TIPPERS MAKE BETTER LOVERS
And hoped that Niamh saw it and made note. He might have had two inches on me, but I like to use the tongue – nothing beats the tongue. Johnny held the door open as Matilda and Niamh slipped outside, the clouds sat as little as ten feet from the pavement and were spilling over
everywhere; washing clean the City of Fallen Angels. I offered my jacket to my agent for her head. She took it reluctantly before demanding that I take some green for the bar tab.
'Don't worry about him,' quipped Johnny 'he's got a fat stack at home.'
'Not just at home, Cupcakes.' I replied with a smirk.
'He's writing another movie.'
'Movie?!' said Matilda perking up. She looked the actress type.
The realisation sat on her face that maybe she had finger-banged the wrong friend.
'Another movie. Are you holding out on me, Douglas? What's the movie?' quizzed Niamh.
'It's not happening now.' I suddenly remembered the money I owed to Winston and wished they'd offer to give me money for the bill again.
'And the other one?'
We crossed the road back towards the Mexico and I told Niamh all about Swasucka. Black Nazis in the Valley, a multi-racial Hitler reborn from a spunk cocktail and the grizzly old Exploitation stuntman turned actor I had befriended at first before accidentally slipping him a
drink that sent him plummeting from a twenty-year wagon ride into the arms of the delinquent hooch mother. The nights of drunken mayhem, the fist fights and tears and vomiting and blood and ulcers and broken glass embedded in the soles of feet from him breaking beer bottles on
the floor and the tattoo:
GO CELTS!
In the small hours, when the previous day was dead and the new one was young and full of promise and potential I'd write and rewrite pages and George would talk of his one and only sired child. His daughter, his alcoholic daughter back east dying of liver failure, dying because it was
the second one she had burned through and the doctors weren't willing to see if the third time was the charm. Not when they could stitch it into someone else and make a difference. George would drink, drink and toast Tanya. I'd drink too and console him with plans of heading east, east to Oskaloosa, east to Tanya and then further east to Billie.
With each drink the journey would become a little more real. We'd wrap George's scenes, pack up the Mexico and head out into the world.
I'd write on the road and fax back what came out of me every night in time for the following day's production. We'd stop in Las Vegas for the night, a dangerous proposition but what choice do you have when you're chasing the sun?
The next morning we would wake, George would hear nothing of it. He'd rush to the bathroom and sick up everywhere. He was a willing drunk but his body could no longer keep up with the soul's demand for quiet.
The four of us were at my car, I offered them a ride but Niamh had her own wheels in a car park around the block but she wanted to know more.
'So then what happened?' asked Niamh hitting me on the chest.
'Nothing happened. We made the movie, George went back to Phoenix.'
'Tell her.' said Johnny putting in his two cents.
'Tell me what?'
'Tell her what he did!'
'What did he do?'
'It's nothing. Have a good night ladies, stay away from strange men bearing candy.'
I popped the door of my silver box and watched in the night, and the dark, and the rain as Niamh, my agent, glided down Melrose into the nothingness of the evening. Into tomorrow.