86'd

by Dan Fante

  Che-Che noticed me checking my mirror then looked back and saw them too. “Now what?” she snarled. “These dickheads won’t leave me alone. Menica!”

  “I think we’ll be okay,” I said. “My company does a lot of concerts. I’ve been through this before.”

  With that I punched the gas pedal, crossing the double line on Wilshire and speeding past the three stopped cars ahead of me waiting for the light. Then I swung a quick right on a side street. Reeves Drive.

  I pulled over in front of a little residential hotel that was just off the corner—a hangout I knew about that catered to out-of-work studio musicians—called the Saint Paul.

  “Look, Che-Che,” I said, pointing at the hotel, “I’ve got an idea. I know this place. There’s a lobby inside. If you get out here and give me about half an hour to get rid of these guys, we can swing back to pick you up.”

  The beautiful girl sighed. “Sure. Whatever. Fuck it. Just be back here in half an hour.”

  When the two cars finally caught up with my stretch Che-Che was safe in the hotel and J.C. and I were two blocks away.

  On Roxbury Drive off Olympic I pulled over at the big park, slid all the limo’s tinted windows down, then parked in a blue handicapped space.

  Getting out, I opened the door for Grandma and Tahuti. The guys in the two cars slowed down and drove past. They could see that Che-Che was not in the car. After a few minutes of J.C. sunning herself on a bench with black fatso, the paparazzi lost interest and drove off.

  When we eventually got back to J.C.’s bungalow on Crescent Heights, it was four o’clock. Grandma and Che-Che had eaten lunch at Jimmy’s in Century City while I’d watched Tahuti snore and read two chapters from my book. Then we dropped the beautiful model at the Beverly Hills Hotel.

  This time my customer allowed me to open the car door for her and help out by carrying her handbag up the walkway.

  At the bungalow entrance the old lady was smiling. “Well, it’s been quite a day,” she said. “Honestly, I’m exhausted.”

  “You’re home and everything’s okay,” I said. “I hope you’ll call us again—when you need a ride in an old Pontiac.”

  J.C. wasn’t used to giving compliments. She had to look down at Tahuti for inspiration before she could squeeze one out. “You’re a decent man, Bruno. A good man. Marcella and I are both grateful,” she whispered.

  “Ten-four, J.C.,” I said.

  “And I’d work on my excessive misuse of your native tongue if I were you.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  Then she unlocked her door and set her cat inside. After turning back she opened her purse and handed me four one hundred dollar bills. “Here. This is for you—for your trouble.”

  I looked at the money. “That’s a big tip.”

  “Ten-four,” she said, grinning. “And as my stunning granddaughter might say, ‘You earned it. Big-time.’”

  I began to turn away but I wanted to ask a favor—so I faced her again. I wasn’t sure how to do it. The words refused form in my mouth. “I…I,” I said. “Would you mind…if…very much…”

  The blue-gray eyes fixed on me. “Speak up, Dante, for the love of God. I’m eighty-seven. I haven’t got that much time left on the planet.”

  “Well, would you mind reading some of my stuff—a few stories?” I blurted. “I know it’s a big favor to ask, but…”

  J.C. was beaming. “A man was starving in Capri,” she quoted. “He moved his eyes and looked at me…”

  “I know that one too,” I shot back, amazed at myself. “I felt his gaze, I heard his moan, and knew his hunger as my own.”

  “Not bad, Mr. Dante. You’ve read Millay. You may send me your work, or bring it. I will read what you’ve written…and give you an honest literary assessment.”

  “I’ll drop it by tomorrow. Thanks, J.C.”

  No reply. The door slammed and she was gone. Inside to the darkness with her mystic Tahuti. This ancient publisher and poet with a great mind and a short fuse.

  twelve

  I hate banks. And lines. I get uncomfortable and impatient anywhere there’s a queue and not enough help behind the counter, especially at the bank.

  It had been an okay morning so far and on my drive down Sunset Boulevard I’d been thinking about my new customer, J. C. Smart, and our meeting and also about her beautiful granddaughter, Che-Che. The idea came: Maybe I’d try writing some poetry again. It had always been a welcome distraction. For years in New York I’d carried a notebook and a pen around with me and jotted down lines that might later become a poem. Maybe I’d try doing that again.

  For some reason most L.A. banks never have enough tellers and no matter how long the line gets, or who’s running the branch, the suits behind the rail, sitting at the desks, apparently never look up or give a rat’s ass how long their customers are logjammed.

  Wells Fargo Bank is at Sunset and Vine streets in Hollywood. My habit, on instructions from David Koffman, was to deposit all the checks and cash from the previous weekend’s work on Monday morning. Sometimes, some days, I’d need to go twice after the mail arrived in the afternoon if we were short on payroll. I’d come to hate the process.

  This particular Monday I also needed to cash my check to pay back the advance I’d taken from the cash box.

  As I entered the moneyshrine there were eleven people in the line in front of me with only three tellers to service them. Then one of the tellers mysteriously—spontaneously—slapped her “Next Teller Please” sign up and went away. Nine-fifteen on Monday fucking morning and the guy awards himself with a break while a line full of people are kept waiting. My brain went crazy.

  Jimmy suggested that I tell these flimflam cocksuckers, in the loudest voice possible, about how arrogant this abortion clinic they called a bank was. His voice was so loud that I had to tell him audibly to shut-the-fuck-up. The guy in front of me turned and shot me a look, then saw my eyes and wisely began to mind his own business.

  My deposit and check-cashing took a total of thirty-one minutes. My sanity was gone.

  On the way back to the office I got into a yelling beef with a motorcycle needlehead on a Harley who’d cut me off in front of Hollywood High, so to soothe myself a stop at the Liquor Mart on La Brea Avenue was inevitable.

  I picked up six cheapo champagne bottles to replenish the office fridge and also purchased three pints of Hiram Walker for my personal relief and comfort.

  By the time I reached the office I was four fingers down on pint one and had dropped two vikes to further take the edge off. My sanity was returning.

  Three drivers were in the chauffeur’s room reading newspapers and watching Dr. Phil while Portia yapped away on the phone with another driver, oozing hyper-anxiety.

  I went upstairs, closed the door, and turned on my computer. I was still fuming about the bank. I needed to write something. It didn’t matter what. Then the idea came: a love note to Wells Fargo Bank. Here it is:

  Wells Fargo Bank

  6320 Sunset Boulevard

  Hollywood, CA 90028

  Attn: Mr. Ignacio Jones

  Branch Vice President

  Dear Ignacio:

  We have never met but I am pleased—no, proud—to announce that I am a longtime Wells Fargo Bank financial patron. Fact is I have been stuffing my paychecks into your bank on and off for around five years. Ha-ha. So I guess that makes me an A-1 client. I am also a citizen of the United States of America and though I have never personally spilled blood for my government, let me assure you that I hold the cause of freedom as a sacred trust and a highly elevated big deal. I say God bless America to myself at least five times every day. No kidding.

  But here’s the reason for my letter: As I said, I use your bank a lot, especially on Mondays, and it was during this morning’s visit that something especially stimulating caught my attention. So much so that I wanted to take time out from my daily schedule and write you a letter. Fact is, Ignacio, my helmet’s off to you and the marketing g
uys at Wells Fargo Bank, Hollywood Branch, because after waiting in line the normal thirty-five-plus minutes to transact my banal business snot, when I actually did get face-to-face with one of your clerks and handed that human my deposit, your trained, grinning operative looked me dead in the eye, then asked, “Have you heard of Well’s Fargo Bank’s new ATM Rewards Program?”

  Wow! Talk about impressive! I mean, even before I could start to conduct my own banking, your rep had me right by the short hair delivering a full two minute sales pitch.

  Yes indeed. A walking, talking, real-life banking commercial! I was rendered speechless. I actually had the sensation that the teller’s boot was right there on my neck the whole time. It made me wonder; I’d even be willing to bet that you and the crack marketing dudes at Wells Fargo often become aroused while you brainstorm new ways to present financial promotions to your captive and squirming clientele.

  As I sit here at my desk I can close my eyes and visualize you standing at the conference room table dramatizing an all-important new sales spiel to your team of salivating operatives—then bending one of the younger trainees over a nearby typing table—his slacks and skivvies down around his ankles—while you deliver the full measure of your insight to the pink-cheeked fellow one mighty stroke at a time.

  Anyway, I know you’re busy. All I can say is: God bless America and God bless the banking industry.

  Sincerely,

  Bruno Dante

  thirteen

  The sex thing with Portia continued and I was becoming more crazy and edgy and angry with myself. The brutal mind attacks and the messages of stupidity and self-judgment were relentless. It was far worse in the morning after a night of booze. Jimmy’s voice screaming at me: “Coward! Fool! You screwed that skinny, crippled bitch again! You’re using her. You’re a pussy. A needy cheesedick. You can’t manage this company. Koffman knows it and Portia will know it soon too and even your drivers think you’re a nutjob. Just wait. This’ll cost you. I promise. You’re on your way over the fucking edge!”

  We were having sex three or four nights a week but I had to be buzzed to do it so the drinking and madness had risen back to an unmanageable level. Though the woman grated on me with her high-flung, know-it-all snootiness and nonstop mouth, like an addicted fool I continued the affair, getting drunk and pulling her into the chauffeur’s room or up to my bed, or leaning her over an office chair to hammer her from behind, or demanding that she suck me off.

  The only thing that made it bearable was that when Portia got drunk too she could be funny, imitating different English accents and telling me crazy tales about the paramedic company in New York and plastic surgery doctors and her philandering cop ex-husband and his friends harassing the transvestite hookers in SoHo.

  My daily writing became my only escape from Jimmy’s voice in my mind. I was now writing first thing in the morning at six a.m. no matter what—an hour to two hours—and had managed to produce ten decent stories. None of which I showed to Portia. In my experience the best time for a writer to write is when he is completely fresh with no distractions. I’d tried it again and again and there was no possible way I could concentrate later in the day if I’d been drinking. This nonsense about writers who are boozers and conceive their best work while half-jacked is simply crap. No writer can write drunk. It’s impossible.

  Finally, one night alone in my room, after sex with Portia downstairs, I did something insane. I’d decided that I wanted to clean my gun. The thing had belonged to my father and I kept it in a shoe box in my drawer, an old S&W .38 Police Special he’d had for twenty-five years. Pop had taken it in lieu of a poker debt.

  I knew it was loaded because I always kept it loaded. I’m not sure what possessed me but I fired it at my bedroom mirror. Twice. The bullets passed through the wall and one ended up in my bathroom sink and the other lodged in a can of shaving cream on the shelf. The noise of the explosions rendered me immediately sober.

  A minute later Portia was up the stairs and banging on my door in a panic. I lied and said that the gun had gone off by mistake. She knew this was crap and it took me over an hour to calm her down until finally I opened her shirt and began rubbing her tits, telling her how smart she was and how much I trusted her. She demanded that I give her the gun to throw away.

  “You know you can be a very frightening person when you drink,” she whispered. “You’re a dangerous man. I see a kind of madness in your eyes.”

  “That was my father’s gun. It’s a memento.”

  “Was he like you when he drank? Was he this way?”

  “Not really. But he was no pushover. He was filled with rage and long periods of silence. But when he drank too much he usually got mellow.”

  “Did you love him?”

  “No, I worshipped him. Look, I said I was sorry.”

  “You should seek help.”

  “I’ve tried—nothing works. I’m afraid that I’m crazy. I’m afraid I might just kill myself some night.”

  “Commit yourself to therapy. You can go to a clinic. Hollywood is rife with free programs and therapeutic facilities. I overcame my issue with bulimia. If I can do it you can too.”

  “Great. What about the hundred pieces of nicotine gum you chew every day? You’re a crackhead for that shit.”

  “Think progress—not perfection. I’m in deadly earnest. You need help.”

  “I hate those brain-sucking assholes. They’re crazier than their patients. Read the statistics some time. I hate that shit.”

  “Promise me. Give me your word that you’ll at least consider it.”

  “Okay. I’ll give it some thought.”

  Then we screwed—her on top, moaning, pounding up and down, her ass bones digging into my thighs. After that we fell asleep. By noon the next day the incident was put to rest.

  A couple of days later I made the decision to turn the day-today management of Dav-Ko over to Portia, giving her the title of office manager. She liked the business end and her new authority and I knew she’d be good at it. I had arrived at the point that I didn’t care about my job and dreaded being stuck alone in the office with her all day.

  In the last month we’d added three more cars and two more drivers so I assigned myself the task of training the guys and buying their chauffeur uniforms and showing them the best routes to the airport and downtown. Busy work.

  When the one-week training period was over I decided to begin driving more of our clients in the afternoon and evening, forcing sobriety on myself, absenting myself from the office.

  In response, because she sensed me pulling away, Portia made the decision to hire a new night dispatcher: tit for tat. The kid was Joshua Wright, a twenty-nine-year-old black guy, a part-time actor and an ex-corporate bookkeeper with a master’s degree in theater. Portia interviewed Joshua twice then wanted me to talk to him too. I approved him right away because he was smart and had showed up to both meetings dressed in spiffy sports jackets with a shirt and tie and because he sounded like the Channel 4 guy on the TV news when he talked. Her plan was to have Joshua dispatch and do our company books in his evening downtime. Over the phone to New York David Koffman rubber-stamped the hire because we were saving money, covering two gigs with one employee.

  On his first night of work Joshua arrived driven by his fiancée, a pretty, sexy college girl from USC dental school, Katie Sanders. A white girl. He introduced us and then announced that they would be married the next spring. I was hoping that now I’d be off the hook and for once everything might be okay at Dav-Ko.

  One of the clients whom I began driving regularly was Ronny Stedman, a film producer and a true Hollywood asshole. Ronny was originally from Australia but had been raised in L.A. from the age of ten. Now, at twenty-eight, he had made three films and had recently formed his own movie production company. His famous gay uncle Robert owned Adelaide Records and Adelaide Films. He’d passed on a few mil to Ronny to give the kid a running start in L.A. Ronny loved our stocked-bar limos and made up excuses to
rent our cars two or three nights a week to hang out with his pretty singer-actress girlfriend, Carol.

  When I drove them together they’d hit the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel or Sammy’s in Century City or Matteo’s in Westwood. Carol was a big baseball fan and when the Dodgers were in town the couple never missed a game. She was a former Texas beauty queen and a hot number, ten years older than Ronny. If they’d been partying late and had visited her coke dealer in Westwood on the way home to his Los Feliz condo, the center passenger partition would go up and she’d jump him right in the car. I like that. I liked her. She was funny and pushy and oversexed and refused to take any shit from her asshole boyfriend.

  There were some nights when Ronny would go gambling alone at Hollywood Park Casino or one of the clubs in Gardena. I’d sit in the parking lot smoking cigarettes, reading a book, or jotting short story notes in my binder. Portia had instructions from me to only ring my cell phone in an emergency. Stedman didn’t know that I was Dav-Ko’s main guy in L.A. and I wanted to keep it that way.

  He continued to request me to drive him primarily because I kept my mouth shut. I wasn’t a wannabe anything, not an actor and not an aspiring director and I didn’t need a job in film production and I wasn’t one of the hundred people a day trying to get over on him or his uncle.

  When, a couple of weeks later, he began a new film, I became his driver on a twelve-hour-per-day basis, shuttling assistants back and forth from the production office and running local errands. I was determined to stay busy and stay away from Portia and my boozing. I drank only a pint of Jim Beam while I worked, stretching the jug out as long as I could, plus a few wine coolers mixed in with my normal Xanax and Vicodin regimen to keep the edge off. I put in three days straight and had logged thirty-two hours behind the wheel.