'Douglas, it's Winston and it's deadline day. Answer your
muthafucking phone… unless you're super busy on the last page of my script otherwise… you know…'
'Douglas, still no sign of the script. I know you're technological regardless of that piece of shit you write on, email me through what you've got and if you need another day or two we can sort that…'
'I'm going to come down to that little chink house and ram my big black cock up your winker if you don't answer your fucking phone!'
Hanging up on the payphone I punched in Winston's number, it only rang once before he answered. The mouthpiece on Winston's end was white hot with worry and rage. I could almost smell the burning plastic seeping through the audio hole as I stood watching the line for
ice cream at Santa Monica Pier.
'Script, what script?' I said as innocently as I could muster.
'You're fucking with me ain't you?'
'Bro Dante I can honestly say, hand on heart,' placing my hand on my trouser bulge 'I have no idea what you're talking about.'
'Don't fuck with me, Douglas. I'm from the streets. I. Will.
Fuck. You. Up!'
'Streets? What streets?' I poked 'I've seen your record collection muthafucka, the only Ice-T you know comes with a little straw at the polo club.'
'Answer one question, do you have my script ready or not?'
'A nice little boy in tight shorts came this morning.'
'Enough about your love life.'
'Funny.' I lapped at my ice cream 'Fed-Ex should be dropping it at your ungrateful feet any minute now.'
'Thank you.' his relief palpable and genuine.
I hung up, finished my ice cream and headed across the block to Lincoln where Niamh was patiently waiting on me. Like all good parties and bad events I could hear it before I could see it. Fiddly-dee music and the high octave chatter of the wannabe noticed and wannabe loved
resonated in the low-rise evening sky. I could have turned tail and fled
back to the motel if I hadn't caught her eye. The dark chocolate soul of her iris warmed my heart, called me in and beamed with a motherly pride. Maybe she was surprised I had actually showed, maybe she had gotten a bump before leaving the house – only God and her gal pals would truly know. Sparking a cigarette at the doorstep I offered her one but she declined, it was her day to attempt to break the nicotine cycle. Finished off I crushed it out under my boot, slipped free from my hoody and allowed her to take my arm. She guided me into the heavily wooded Irish-land theme park; with its shamrocks, wall mounted fiddles and murals of St. Patrick – his eyes following you around the room; shaming on you for what you've become.
'The staff are all Irish,' Niamh boasted 'does that make you homesick?'
'Not really, Ireland is a ghost land. A corpse with a decent
reflection.' I ordered two Guinness from a fellow Paddyland parolee and handed one her way. Clinking glasses she asked what I meant by ghost land. Her eyes scanned me for signs of emotional honesty, for hints of what? Hints of trauma? Kelly?
'You see the news recently?' I asked in response.
'I did, yeah…'
'America thinks it invented terror, death… horror! But it didn't. The Irish invented death, you guys just figured out how to mass produce it cheap so everyone can have it.'
'Cheery.'
'I thought so.'
'So why do you stick around?' she poked.
'Because you guys invented sunshine, and five hour sports events and the idea that everyone gets what they deserve with enough elbow grease. Now I'm not saying I'm naïve enough to fucking believe that but I believe in the idea. All Ireland ever gave the world is five Nobel Laureates and hyphenated heritage.'
'I understand,' said Niamh placing her hand on my arm 'it's ok.
Let me introduce you to some people, yeah?'
'Should I lead with the death and horror stuff?' I asked.
'No, no, let's keep that for after the elephant impression.'
***
Two rums and my shoulders had lowered. It was the kind of crowd I dreaded being around and not solely because of their conversation. A large part of me knew deep inside that if they got too close to me, spent too much time with me, they would smell it off me and out me as a faker, a fraud. As someone who simply does not belong in their circle. For everything I said about Winston and his movies it was an
environment I felt comfortable with, a league I could play in. This was different, this was first day at school, this was fresher's week at University surrounded with career driven students, this was Kelly's circle. The kind of events that brought out her best and had me clinging to the parameter like some brittle boned octogenarian on an ice rink. She'd guide me through the conversations, step in when the dead air was getting awkward, take my hand and reassure me that everything was as it should be.
My mind was in flight, urging my body to follow suit and get the hell out of there. Get away from the nouvelle aristocrats of California.
Niamh saw it in me, linking my arm before I got skittish and bucked my way out of there as if I was a frightened bronco.
'Let me introduce you to someone I think you'll like.' she smiled.
Guiding me through the masses, and clinking glasses she
contorted round waiters and posers; across the supremely polished floor towards a stocky old man with closely cropped grey hair wearing an American GI leather jacket circa 1947 as he nursed a Scotch and water alongside a look I know only too well; a look that says get this fucker
away from me.
'Harlan,' beamed Niamh, full of prized shit 'lovely to see you again.'
'And you my dear. You look even more beautiful than the last time I saw you. How's your father?'
'Incredibly difficult.'
'Age doesn't get us all.' he replied.
'No, no it most certainly does not. Harlan this is my new client, a very promising young Irish writer by the name of Douglas Morgan.'
I found that my hand had naturally extended itself. He took it in his, which was soft, softer than his face implied it should be.
'Good meeting you, Douglas.'
'Doug, please.'
'Sure.'
'Harlan is…'
'I know who Harlan Faher is. Your dad was an incredible writer.' I replied. Niamh gives me the look; like I had asked him do you've any naked pictures of your wife? No. Would you like to buy some? He smiled and I continued 'You are too, of course, I really enjoyed The Male Pattern. It had a pair of ten ton balls on it.'
'Thanks,' he laughed 'where'd you find this guy?'
'Reading West Angelians dirty short stories in a coffee shop.'
'Really?'
'Well I'd been told if I did it one more time outside the
Kindergarten they were going to have to show me why they call it The Pokey.'
'I've been there.' he said with a slug of his drink angling himself away from the person he was talking to prior to our arrival.
'Reading dirty short stories outside Kindergarten?'
'The Pokey.'
'I think I'm going to leave you boys to it for a bit.' Niamh sighed, drifting off into the background.
Placing a guiding arm on my shoulder Harlan turned us both towards the patio. I tapped out two cigarettes, palming him one as we embraced the sound of the ocean and the cold touch of the night sky.
Harlan Faher was the embodiment of the American dream. His grandfather, having travelled across from Germany in the early part of the twentieth century, went to his grave without being able to speak a lick of English; though not before raising Arlo Faher, one of the greatest American writers of not only his but any generation. Harlan grew up
easy. An easy life in an easy land where money, opportunity and second chances came easier than a hooker with five clits. As a child of affluence he lived the life of a spoilt teen, drinking and snorting and fucking because it came easy. It was only when Arlo died and he turned his hands towards the typer that anyone discovered the Faher apple, though a little rotten, hadn't fallen far from anywhere. The man
had Lit oozing out of him. Even if output was something of Hallmark occasion.
'So you are Niamh's new up-and-comer, huh?'
'I wouldn't go that far.'
'What have you written?'
'A few dirty stories. Two crappy movies and a novel.'
'You made it all the way up to a novel.' he praised without coming across as patronising. Skilful.
'I'll send you a copy, the paper it's printed on is really good for rolling blunts.'
He laughed, choking down his cigarette and smacking me on the back.
'So what are you working on?'
'What are you doing here kid?'
Looking around me I wasn't too sure what he meant. Did he smell it off me?
'What?'
'You hear any of the diarrhoea being dribbled out in there?
They're all clowns, clowns selling dreams made of the shit of their dead ancestors and then there's you… you know how many of those jackals would have bothered to ask what am I working on? How many of them would have tried palming me a copy of their shitting manuscript before I could get a hello out?'
I took two tumblers from a tray being floated around by a waiter and hand one to Faher. 'So what the fuck are you doing here?'
'My publicist thinks it's a good idea to be visibly helping the next generation of young talent,' he put young talent between his two nodding index fingers 'that way I can sell three books next year and rank in amongst the vampires, and werewolves, and all that shit…'
I was tongue-tip close to telling him about WEREBEARS! but then stopped. There was no need to have him think bad of me. Not yet anyway, not while I was sober, fully dressed and nothing was on fire.
'So how can I help you?' Faher smiled.
'What? Can't a guy share a complimentary drink and shoot the shit anymore?'
'Not when Niamh is your agent, kid. Her old man was mine for many years. We stand around chummy, chummy, talking trash about this great writer, and that great writer and which one of these barmaids we'd like to finger blast and you know what happens when she finally pulls you away?'
I throw up both shoulders, my mind still pleased at his use of finger blast in relatively polite conversation.
'She asks well, what did you guys talk about? And when you have to blow smoke up her ass she's going to make your life a living hell… and she should, you should be struggling with self-promotion…'
'I am…'
'Struggling, but still selling out enough to make the connections. So I'll ask again, what can I do for you?'
'Mr. Faher,' a hipster all but whispered 'we're ready to get started. If you wouldn't mind giving the opening…'
'Of course, of course. You,' he barked, stabbing a large finger into my chest 'you're not off the hook yeah. Don't go too far, yeah?!'
He made his way to the stage, pushing and shoving and growling and spitting. As old, and pushy and combative as I expected him to be. As I'd hoped he'd be. Silencing the room of clinking glasses simply by stepping out in front of the microphone Harlan reached into his jacket, plucked out a pair of circular glasses (for effect) and leaning in close
enough for the Pacific coast audience to hear the whiskey off his breath; he began.
***
I listened to two readings before I slipped back to the terrace and the comforting hum of the sea and the scent of American tobacco. With enough time Niamh would have me convinced that I could take to the stage at one of these shindigs and read aloud from Inebriated Advenutres or from one of my short stories like Ultra-Belfast or A Short
Story for Creationists. Christ, the thought of it. All those eyes, those voices chilled and silenced. The projection of my own tongue as I attempted to unshackle my armour and stand before a group of strangers, naked, vulnerable, free from fear and welcoming ridicule. It was no different from Alcoholics Anonymous, no different from Narcotics Anonymous, no different from Sex Addicts or Gamblers
Anonymous. Dreamers Anonymous. I started to hate them. To judge each and every one of them, the hopefuls, the ambitious, the self-publicists', grandstanding, intellectual gloryholers who couldn't walk through a Seven-Eleven without bragging that they did it better than any before them. I hated them because I couldn't do that, because
their presence showed up just how badly I didn't fit in.
Finishing my drink I left a tip for the waitress and slipped across the room. Catching sight of Niamh I dropped my head and made a beeline for the door, I'd left my hoodie with the clerk but it was ok. I'd get it later, tomorrow, maybe the day after, or maybe never. Outside I sparked a Red and glided to the sidewalk. My life in Los Angeles was like a relationship with a ten. Even in the worst of times, even when deep down you knew it wasn't working out, even then – you hung in there. Clinging on to the buck for dear life. Who would give that up?
Give up a ten, give up Los Angeles. I lingered on the sidewalk as though an abyss was just beyond those stone pavement slabs. One more step would doom me, one more movement would commit me to failure. To working in a motel and living off occasional paycheques and to knowing for sure than my welcome in the City of Angels had been
rescinded. I dithered, unsure for the first time in a while about everything. His voice called out relieving me of the burden of decision.
'You skipping out already?'
'Was thinking about grabbing a beer.' I confessed.
'And you're not one bit worried about what Niamh will do to you?'
'Not if you skip out too.'
The smile sold it. With a look over his shoulder Harlan Faher, the second generation, twice divorced cornerstone of American literature had had enough of the scene.
And then we were off. Off into the night, into the noir to explore and mistake and regret in ways that can only be done by the ocean.