|
 Next was “Wifey.” Jimmy was never a good shot.
His first two pulls nailed the wind chimes and an old oaken
barrel of budding marijuana plants. The third was out of
the park, though, sending the missus ass over tea kettle,
belly-flopping into the sauna.
The boss? Jack In The Box ketchup packets exploding in
the Fortune mag pin-striped business shirt. The tie unhinged
from its gold moorings and fluttered like the stars n’ stripes
in Fallouja. Shards of skull, almost like dandruff, dizzy
like flies and resting on the tranquil surface of the now
reddening pool.
There’s silence, like a pile of leaves in a gutter.
Jowly gravel throat ‘Goodfellas’-type humor crumples
the picture … “Hey, Chico, say goo-bye to my lil’
fren'."
Exit stage left.
A day later, the neon goes out on the sign on the Hollywoodland Motel on Ventura
in Studio City. As Burroughs put it, I arise, “coughing and hacking mucus
in the junk-sick dawn.” Basic motor skills at a Thorazine pace, reach to
the phone. Smoky morning light further short circuits nervous fingers. Run with
me, Lucifer.
“Operator. I don’t know the number, but get Johnnie Cochran
on the line. This is an emergency.”
To quote Auden, thoughts of my own mortality roll like distant thunder at
a picnic.
The Albion Bistro on upscale Ventura Blvd in Sherman Oaks, CA. Michael Milken
lives here, so did the late Steve Allen, even the “Ford Lady,” Lindsay
Wagner … all in all, a nice address. Across the linen-draped table with
French salt shakers standing like chrome dildos, sits the best mouthpiece in
the City of the Angels … “If the glove fits, I’m gonna sell
your daughter to Nigerian white slave traders.”
“Hey, John, how we doin’? The reason I called you was I’m
in a bit of a jam. To make a long story short … I took historically
independent action on someone who did me wrong. You know I worked at NHRA?
You know the clientele or at least the public perception of it. From what
I heard, me and 17 or 18 staffers were laid off due to so-described economic
woes. Banks were shutting down the loan window.
"According to some close associates, and despite the publically projected
financial troubles, this boss wrote himself up an $86,000
raise that year. The greedy bastards wrecked my life; I was
forced to turn to crime. Serious life-with-no-parole business.
I realize what happened was a tad extreme, but what can I
say? To make sure the integrity of the game is maintained,
debts have to be paid, one way or another. A cool $53,000
of that was my salary dancing for those buggers. How can I
smoke this up? I need my ass saved in a big, big way.”
“Chris, you’re going into the face of some huge odds, but
lemme see what I can do. I will call you later on. I will say this, compared
to O.J., you’re similar to Don Knotts trying to go 10 rounds with
Bernard Hopkins. Ciao brother.”
Great. I can see it clearly. Killer punk drag race reporter is fitted
for a strait jacket. Screw it, use the Bruce Springsteen logic. “This
gun’s for hire even if we’re dancing in the dark.”
After that, we adjourned to the Studio Suite, pounded down five banana
daiquiris, and hit Le Sex Shoppe and Liquor World with the booty being
a sack full of Triple X tapes, a quart of Austin Nichols Wild Turkey, and
a bindle of Mother of Pearl from the hills above Lake Titicaca in Bolivia.
Shot-in-the-dark guess, it was two days later. I was stoned asleep, ten
pounds lighter, and badly in need of Right Guard fumigation.
Then the house lights explode to life.
My mother’s face is the first thing I see.
“Chris, you realize you have been sleeping in the front yard. My
god, what will the neighbors think? What’s wrong? What are you doing?
Do you need a doctor? This is not the way normal people act."
“Oh Jesus, reality. Time to pull it together. Where am I? Where’s
my car? What am I saying?"
|
