Welcome To Hell.A.

by Stephens, L.

  CHAPTER 3: JUST TRYING TO GET A CHECK

  “D-Dubs!” came the chorus as D-Dubs walked into the barbershop.

  The barbershop was large. It looked old-school with its black and white tiled floors and 1950’s-style barber chairs, but it was all a façade. The shop was nothing more than a factory, a way to charge fifty bucks for a fade instead of the usual twenty. Barber stations ran along both sides of the room, each fitted with all the latest shave technology and sterilizing equipment. Every station was a hive of activity with barbers both male and female cutting the hair of twenty-something cool kids. D-Dubs gave a head nod to the workers and found a spot to stand out of the way. To keep himself occupied while he waited, he did his usual thing of looking around at the sports memorabilia placed high on the wall. Fucking fake bullshit, D-Dubs thought. Fucking fool places it all out of reach so no one could take a closer look. He had seen the two man-mountains standing at the end of the row of barber stations when he walked in, but he hadn’t acknowledged them. There was no doubt they could beat the shit of him, but he’d take an eyeball or an ear for their trouble. They were Big Ron’s bodyguards, and they didn’t like anyone, including Big Ron. D-Dubs didn’t blame them for that.

  Big Ron finally emerged from the back room and glided towards D-Dubs. He was tall and slight. His long dreadlocks were pulled back in a ponytail, but he let a few strands fall down the sides of his face to help frame it. He had a scraggly goatee that was lopsided and unkempt. He really didn’t seem like a guy who owned a barbershop; he looked more like the guy that swept up hair and ran errands.

  “Time to take a break,” Big Ron said as he walked towards D-Dubs. “I’ll text you when I want you back.”

  The man-mountains got up without a nod or an acknowledgement and walked into the room Big Ron had just come from. D-Dubs wasn’t sure why Big Ron had made this move. He was definitely a lot more vulnerable now with his goons out of sight.

  As Big Ron approached, D-Dubs forced himself not to laugh. The only thing faker than Kobe Bryant’s signature on the Lakers jersey hanging on the wall, was Big Ron’s Yeezy Boost 350 V2s in the Beluga 2.0 colorway. First of all, this mother fucker couldn’t afford to get Nick Young’s signature, let alone Kobe’s. Secondly, the Yeezy’s were obviously fake as fuck. The knitted material was saggy and the ribbing on the sole was far too wide to be legit. Big Ron was disrespecting Fairfax by even setting foot in the vicinity with them.

  “D-Dubs!” Big Ron said putting his hand out.

  “What’s up, boss?” D-Dubs answered as he took Big Ron’s hand and brought him in close for a bro hug.

  Big Ron was tall, but D-Dubs at six-foot-five had a couple inches on him, not to mention another fifty pounds of muscle. The hug had gone past the length of a casual hug, and it was getting awkward, so D-Dubs gave Big Ron a soft pound on his back to let him know that their clinch had come to an end.

  “Take a seat, brother,” Big Ron said.

  “I’m good,” D-Dubs said with a slight head nod.

  “I said, take a seat,” Big Ron insisted as he walked towards the only empty barber station. “You look like you need a trim, son.”

  D-Dubs was as bald as the day he was born but he didn’t argue. He just headed towards the barber’s chair next to where Big Ron was standing, trying to look menacing, and took a seat.

  “I thought so,” Big Ron murmured as he started arranging all the equipment. “I heard you ran into some trouble last night.”

  “No trouble,” D-Dubs replied evenly. “There was a bit of a slowdown, but we got past it.”

  “Shit, that’s not what I heard,” Big Ron said out the side of his mouth as he swung the barber’s cape around D-Dubs. “I heard you had to smack.”

  “Well, that’s my job, right?” D-Dubs said, keeping his gaze into the mirror at himself, not at Big Ron. “If I don’t give them a reason once in a while, I’ll have to give them one every time.”

  “That’s true, baby,” Big Ron conceded with a smile as he picked up the long straight razor from the tray. “But goddamnit, mother fucker, you upset the apple cart!”

  D-Dubs didn’t flinch as Big Ron brought the razor swiftly to his neck, stopping millimeters from his main artery.

  “Boy, I tell you when to tighten the screws,” Big Ron commanded. “I tell you when to take a shit. You don’t fucking run you. I fucking run you.”

  D-Dubs didn’t say anything. He just kept looking at himself in the mirror like he was watching TV. He knew Big Ron was all talk, which was only compounded more with the stupid southern accent he used. Everyone knew he grew up in Barstow. He was as fake as the sneakers he pranced around in. Big Ron wasn’t a gangster; he was just some loser who worked for some folks, who knew some folks, who knew some folks. D-Dubs could see Big Ron was getting mad that he wasn’t getting the reaction he wanted but D-Dubs didn’t give a fuck. He wasn’t placating him, even if it meant a sliced artery.

  “Always forget why I keep you around,” Big Ron sneered as he put the straight razor down. “You always have nothing to say, and you always are ready to die.”

  Once again, D-Dubs didn’t say anything, he just kept staring in to the mirror. His eyes were beginning to hurt because that was about fifth time he had stopped himself from rolling his eyes at the ridiculous bullshit coming from Big Ron.

  “What, you think I’m gonna give you a shave, mother fucker?” Big Ron snapped pulling the cape off of D-Dubs. “Get the fuck out that seat.”

  D-Dubs stood up slowly. He wanted Big Ron to see his size, to be reminded of what exactly he brought to the table.

  “I left your money on the seat,” D-Dubs said as he started walking to the door.

  “Keep your phone on,” Big Ron called after him. “Might need you later.”

  The afternoon sunlight glistened off the dark complexion of his head as he stepped out of the barbershop and onto Fairfax. He didn’t really know why Big Ron had subjected him to the dog and pony show in front of his staff and the cool-kid customers, but he did know one thing: that would be the last time he did anything for Big Ron or set foot in that barbershop. Uneasiness was growing inside him. It curled and looped, forming a tight knot in the pit of his stomach, but it had nothing to do with Big Ron.

  CHAPTER 4: REFLECTIONS

  Jake used the hair dryer like a magic wand to remove the steam that had settled on the mirror during his shower. He paused when he saw that the lines were still carved into the condensation, the sharp lines that were like a dagger in his heart, the lines that came together to make a message. Usually, the message never appeared, as he never showered with the door closed, but Melissa was still there and no matter how many fingers he had put in her asshole, he wasn’t going to shit in front of her. The message was simple and somewhat generic. That’s all it needed to be. It wasn’t meant to be a life-changing mantra or a love letter to last the years, just a sweet reminder he wasn’t alone.

  As sad stories go, this was up there with the best. It had happened over a year ago, shortly after he had broken up with the only girl he ever considered making it permanent with. Just like with Melissa, there had been some girl who didn’t get the memo and had lingered, even though the sexual interaction had been completed and there was nothing more to say or fuck. He took his time attempting to wash the miserable sex and alcohol off himself. He wanted to give the lingerer more opportunity to get the fuck out of his life. By the time he had finished, the steam was dense and humid, and Jake soaked it in. As he stood in front of the basin something caught his attention in the fogged-up mirror. It was just a bunch of vague symbols at first, but as he tilted his head to look at it from another angle, his eyes widened, and it felt like something hit him hard in the sternum, making him double over in pain. The message stood out like a Catholic priest at a child abuse survivors meeting, tormenting him, reminding him that he was still, and forever would be, a piece of shit.

  A year later, he was looking at it again, still a prisoner to a sex guest lingering outside, refusing t
o leave, refusing to get the memo. The message was scrawled in neat capital letters across the top of the mirror above his blurry reflection and completed with an exclamation point that had a little heart instead of the dot. The message read:

  THINKING OF YOU!

  It was simple, sweet and soul-crushing, a reminder of how things could have been. Jake didn’t like simple and sweet. He was kind of lame like that, and a feeling of rage boiled inside of him, quickly filling the empty void of his chest, right where his heart should be. Impulsively, he grabbed a hand towel from the rack and wiped off the message like a petulant child, not stopping until he had wiped off all the condensation, revealing himself standing in front of the mirror, alone.

  With the mirror clear of fog and painful messages, he rubbed the side of his torso with his hand and gazed at himself. A rumble came from his stomach, and Jake realized he hadn’t eaten in twelve hours, maybe more. The last thing he remembered eating was that bacon-wrapped hot dog outside of the bar the previous night.

  “Eating is cheating.” Jake whispered to himself.

  Distant memories of D-Dubs came to mind. They were the words that preceded every bender, every party and every night there was alcohol in the apartment they used to share. He gave himself a shameful nod of approval. He was looking pretty shredded, and his abs looked like the proverbial six-pack of beer. Thanks to the sex, his chest was puffed up nicely too. Jake stood a touch under six feet and carried an athletic-looking body, not through exercise or a gym routine. He was just blessed with some strong white trash genetics and a very small appetite. You could picture Brad Pitt’s character in Snatch, the body anyway. He was no Brad Pitt in the face department. In the face he was more like a poor man’s Michael Pitt who was in truth a poor man’s Leonardo DiCaprio. Like the pikey in Snatch, Jake had tattoos that covered and helped define his already lean physique. His largest and most obvious tattoo was across his chest. It was weird, which made it unique: a depiction of a postcard, circa 1950s, that he had found in his grandparents’ attic when he was young. The tattoo artist had taken some liberties but it was close enough. It showed a small desert island complete with palm trees and a skeleton sitting in a deck chair with the words “Always On Vacation” curving over the top. Jake had never been to Hawaii, a tropical isle or even Mexico, but the postcard had this strange ability to make him feel relaxed and at peace when he held it and most of all when he looked at it. Years of carrying it around in his pocket and moving it between his fingers had worn it out so he finally came up with the idea to tattoo it on his chest, so he would have it forever. As with all of Jake’s great ideas he didn’t think this one through either. He didn’t realize he could only look at it in the mirror, and when he did it was reversed in the reflection, but he still found himself caressing his chest when he was anxious. #NoRagrets

  Jake opened the bathroom door slowly and peeked out into his bedroom and scanned it, doing his best Terminator impression.

  “Hello?” Jake asked hoping he wouldn’t get a response.

  There was no answer, but Jake didn’t want to get his hopes up just yet. He threw the towel on the bathroom floor and did the glory walk across the room, noticing that Melissa, his ever-endearing sex guest, had made the bed.

  “I knew she was a good little hooker,” Jake muttered as he put some boxers on.

  His head snapped to the bedside table slash couple of crates before he mentally had even realized why. To his relief, his phone and his money clip were still there, but he still felt stupid for leaving them unattended with a sex guest in close proximity. #AmateurHour

  He swiftly grabbed his money clip and was not surprised to find that she had taken all the large bills, but thankfully she had left his credit cards and I.D. as they were definitely the biggest hassle to replace.

  “Bad hooker!” Jake scolded as he slowly shook his head.

  The money wasn’t an issue. It would have been two hundred maximum—easy come, easy go—but he just hoped beyond hope she was the pro that he assumed she was and had gotten the fuck out of his place as soon as she swiped his cash. There was no way in hell he wanted to deal with that train wreck.

  @KillingJake feel like shit, excess partying combined with brutal memories and poor decisions has got me all doom and gloom #SuckItUpMary

  CHAPTER 5: DON’T CALL US,WE’LL CALL YOU

  Judge your success by what you had to give up in order to get it.

  ― Dalai Lama XIV

  The casting assistant met Sarah on the other side of the door with a big smile and a handshake. Sarah’s smile was friendly. She knew him. She had met him a dozen times before and always in this situation.

  “Good to see you!” Sarah said through her smile.

  “Right this way, Sarah!” The casting assistant ushered her to her mark.

  Sarah grimaced as she made her way to the center of the room. Even though she had a great memory and was able to memorize detailed scripts in minutes, for some reason she had never successfully remembered his name. He was just an assistant, but like the receptionist he had the ear of the casting director and even the smallest of negative comments could scuttle a superb audition. She lived in terror of ever bumping into him at a West Hollywood bar or at the Halloween parade. Not that she knew for sure he was gay, but she was willing to put money on it. Regardless of his sexual orientation, she really needed to remedy the situation. One day he was going to get pissed that she hadn’t remembered his name and intentionally forget to record her audition.

  He took his position behind a video camera that was on a tripod as Sarah stood before a long table. In the center of the table sat Pamela Ballantyne. She was pushing sixty, thin as a rake, and her long gray hair fell in front of her in a neat braid. Pamela was a legend in the industry, very kind and astute, and she had cast Sarah in her first commercial when she was eight years old and had continued to help her career throughout her teens.

  “Hello, Sarah. Good to see you again,” Pamela said as she looked at Sarah through her oversized glasses. “How’s your mother?”

  “Hi, Pam!” Sarah said, smiling at Pamela like an old aunt. “She’s fine, loving life in Florida.”

  Sarah assumed this, since she hadn’t talked to her mother in a while. They weren’t quite estranged, but their phone calls required a birthday or a holiday so they didn’t descend into a screaming match. It was the stereotypical child star slash stage mom, love-hate relationship waiting for a Lifetime-channel-style deathbed reconciliation.

  “That’s good to hear, please do say hi, for me,” Pamela responded with a nod of her head.

  “Will do,” Sarah said sweetly.

  Pamela knew Sarah and her mother weren’t on good terms, but she wasn’t being a bitch by bringing her up. She was just showing the man sitting next to her that this was a person she knew so well that she also knew her mother.

  “This is Marcus.” Pamela waved a weedy arm to her right. “He’s one of the producers of the show. He wanted to sit in on casting.”

  The producer was younger than usual, around thirty-five, and a little overweight. Sarah assumed it was his first real producing role, so he was trying to soak up the experience or have sex with a young starlet, either or.

  “Nice to meet you,” Sarah said with a small bow of her head.

  Marcus didn’t respond. He just gave her a small smile, and Sarah could tell he was imagining her gyrating on top of him as he fondled her breasts.

  “You got your sides?” Pamela said, cutting into the silence before it got awkward.

  “I’m good!” Sarah replied, running her hand through her hair.

  “Off book…” Pamela grinned. “Impressive.”

  Sarah smiled. Truth be told it wasn’t much of a part. Her character didn’t even have a name yet, but there was a moment or two where she could show she really had the goods.

  When her long-suffering agent had sent her the breakdown for the role it read, “Young mom of two teenagers. She is beautiful and nurturing.” Technically, it wasn�
�t exactly a role for a middle-aged woman, but at twenty-nine, Sarah thought she was a few years away from having to go out for that sort of stuff. The last casting call breakdown she went out for was “Chelsea, 25, fit, happy girl, loves wearing miniskirts.” So it hit her hard, and she had cried in her car for a good ten minutes. After the sobbing had ended and the tears had been wiped away, Sarah accepted that all great comebacks started somewhere, and she started aging herself up with the makeup kit that she had pulled from the glove box.

  “My reader is sick today, Sarah,” Pamela said looking up from the script. “So, you’ll have to settle for little old me.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Sarah said with a smile.

  Pamela returned her smile and added a sly wink.

  “Whenever you’re ready, dear,” Pamela whispered with a slight head nod.

  “I’m Sarah Dale, I’m repped by Gary Langston of the Infinite Trust Agency,” Sarah said looking into the lens of the camera.

  “Mom comes into the room carrying a tray with a large jug of juice and empty glasses,” Pamela said blandly.

  “I thought Harold was joining us for dinner?” Sarah asked with a sweet voice.

  “Hi, Mrs. Jones!” Pamela sang loudly.

  Sarah did a double take, as if she had seen something in her peripheral vision.

  “Harold gets up from the floor and back in his seat. Chase smiles,” Pamela said back in her bland voice.

  “Oh, there you are, Harold,” Sarah said with surprise, ending the sentence a couple octaves lower than where she started.

  “Mom looks towards Franky as she places the glasses around the table,” Pamela said.

  “So how you enjoying life at the Jones’ so far, Franky?” Sarah said with an air of seductiveness, showing she was sexy but still motherly.

  “It’s fun here! This is going to be great!” Pamela said enthusiastically.

  Sarah nodded excitedly.