Chump Change
Page 15
I carried Rocco back out to the reception area and lay him on the counter. “How much do I owe you?” I asked.
Wong tallied it up. “Ninety-eight dollar.”
“Fuck.”
I gave him a hundred dollar bill and he dispensed my change from a thick wad in his pocket. Then he gave me the vial of Feldene and another bottle with an eyedropper built in. It had a white cap. “What’s this one?” I asked.
Wong spoke tenderly, in a whisper: “Strong sedative. Dog sleep, not wake up. Give to animal when medicine not working to stop pain.”
I held the vial up. There was only a quarter-inch of liquid at the bottom. I attempted to hand it back, but old Doctor Wong put his hand on my shoulder. “All things that live, must also pass from life. This not bad thing. God’s way.”
I didn’t want Rocco to finish his life on the back seat of my car surrounded by hack fiction, cigarette butts and empty potato chip bags. I wanted him to die at Jonathan Dante’s home in Malibu. He’d lived his life near the smell of his master and the things that were familiar—on the carpet in the old man’s den where he would snooze while my father banged away on his typewriter hour after hour, where the sweetness of the ocean’s sound and the taste of the salted air would remind him of a happier life.
I headed west on Wilshire Boulevard toward Santa Monica and the Coast Highway, looking for an open liquor store. First, I needed a drink to get level. Rocco was lying half-conscious next to me on the seat, his thick head on my thigh, breathing heavily and doped up to mask his pain. I knew he was dying.
As I drove, my knees began shaking. Slightly at first, but I knew that my discomfort would soon be acute. It had been ten hours since my last drink and my body was beginning to withdraw, abetted by a mind that was panicked about the dog.
I’d told myself and Morgan Berkhardt that I would taper off or quit entirely. I would, later. At present, my insides were in my throat, my hands were rattling, and I had to grip the steering wheel to inhibit the on-coming tremors. I made a commitment to myself to buy only a half-pint and no more. Just enough to take the edge off.
The first liquor store I stopped at on Wilshire was crowded. Because it was Friday, Christmas Eve—a half workday before a holiday weekend—everyone was stocking up. I was afraid to leave Rocco alone for the time it would take to go in, stand in line, buy my bottle, and return. He could easily die, and I would not have been there to comfort him.
I watched the progress of the line at the cash register, through the window of the store, waiting for it to dissipate. It didn’t. There was only one slow cashier for a long line of customers.
I decided to continue on and attempt to make it the twenty miles to the Malibu Pier Liquor Store hoping that my body might hold together long enough because there would be smaller crowds in Malibu. I backed the Dart out and drove away.
I’d completely miscalculated. Within ten minutes, my body revolted and the muscles in my stomach knotted. Unable to postpone my need for a drink, I pulled into the first liquor store at Pacific Coast Highway and Santa Monica Canyon.
The parking lot was full. I didn’t care. I double parked and maneuvered Rocco’s head off my lap as gently as I could and went in. The first display had a quart bottle of Jack Daniels’ in a Christmas-wrapped box. I grabbed it up and stepped quickly in line, holding the package to my chest to subdue the tremors.
I waited. Five back from the counter. Then four. Then two.
The last guy in front of me had a payroll check. Six hundred and change. He was buying a newspaper and chewing gum and a People magazine. Purchases totaling less than four bucks.
I waited. Shaking. The store clerk counted out the guy’s cash. They knew each other and exchanged pleasantries while my sanity oozed from begging pores and drenched my shirt.
“One hundred…so you’re off until New Years? Lucky bastard.”
…“Right”
“Not me, I’ll be back in first thing Monday morning. Two hundred. Two fifty. Three. Four. Unfortunately, this ain’t a union liquor store. Ha-ha. Are tens and twenties okay?”
“Sure. No Problem.”
“…five hundred. Six hundred. Ten. Twenty. One. And thirty-two cents.”
It was over. The guy scooped his cash up off the counter, picked up his bag and moved on.
I stepped up. Self-conscious. There were ten customers behind me and my shaking was obvious. The guy to my immediate rear nudged forward carrying two twelve-packs. Pushing. I ignored it and set the gift box of Jack Daniels’ in front of the clerk who keyed the register. “That’s $21.95,” he announced.
I managed to wedge my fist into my pants and get my hundred dollar bill. My fingers fished it out, because there was nothing else in the pocket. I dumped the wadded bill on the glass counter. My voice was a stutter. “Ha-here.”
He picked the bill up and flattened it out. “Nothing smaller?”
“That’s…it.”
The register drawer popped open and he shook his head then pushed my purchase to the side. “Sorry,” he said. “No change,” and handed me back my hundred…“Next!”
My body was screaming a clear drink or die message. I grabbed several magazines, a fist-full of candy bars and a flash-light with a lifetime battery charger off the counter, then pushed them all toward the clerk.
I wanted to speak, but I was panicked. Somehow no words would come from my mouth, only gasps and an odd throat-clicking sound a terrorized animal makes. To force a noise from inside, I had to slam my fist down on his glass counter—it crushed a Snickers’ candy bar.
“Fuck next!” I blurted. “I’ll take this other stuff too. Now!”
It angered the counter man. He surveyed the items. “That’s still not enough!” he snapped. “C’mon, move it, you’re holding up the line.”
Behind me I could hear Twelve Packs mumbling impatiently. “Wait,” I said, turning and grabbing the beer out of the guy’s moist, fat, piggy hands and setting the cans on the counter. “I’ll take this too…and this…” The lady behind him had two bottles of good wine. I grabbed those and put them on the glass as well. “I’m paying for their stuff too! I’m Santa Claus! What about now?” I insisted.
He rang the stuff up. “Eighty-two twenty. That’s enough. You made it.” He took my bill and counted out the rest of my change in singles.
As he began bagging, I saw him studying me, taking his time. When everything was packaged separately, he pushed my bag across the counter to me. “Well, Santa,” he jeered, mocking my shakes, “now that you’ve stocked up on your medicine, it looks like tonight’s going to be a one-man Christmas party.”
Outside in the parking lot, I lay the bag containing the quart of Jack Daniels’ on the roof of the Dart while I fumbled my key into the lock and quickly checked Rocco through the window. He was okay. His chest continued moving up and down, heralding respiration.
I opened the car door and grabbed the lip of the paper bag, misjudging my grasp as I hefted it from the roof. My hand slipped and the gift box inside separated itself and scooted down the side of the car glass, bouncing against the asphalt pavement with a thud.
When I bent down, a brown whiskey puddle was already forming beneath the bottom of the box.
I got in the car and wrapped my hands under my arm pits, which were immediately soaked again from a blast of sweat.
I had to decide; there was still money in my pocket. I could go back in again, get in line and wait, or I could stop further on toward Malibu. Going on would save seeing the clerk’s gloating sneer when I ordered another bottle. But that didn’t matter. I would have gone back in but Rocco eased his snout on top of my thigh, making me afraid of jarring him by my sliding out again across the seat.
Instead, I reached in the brown bag and found a Snickers.
Tearing the paper off with my teeth, I pushed the candy bar from the bottom until half of it was in my mouth. Then the other half.
The sugar blast helped. Inside my guts the clawing, drowning, screaming rat calmed
slightly.
I pulled another Snickers out of the bag and gobbled that too. In a minute, enough of the edge was off that I felt like I could continue on up the highway and not have to go back in again and brave the cocky sneer of the clerk. Able to guide the key into the ignition, I started the Dart.
It took me four more Snickers to make it to Sunset and the Coast Highway. Eating and ripping the wrappers off with one hand, I drove with the other. The shaking was bad, but not out of control. I’d set my will on getting Rocco home to Point Dume, making sure that he died in my father’s house. It was six more miles from Sunset to the Malibu Pier liquor store. There were two candy bars left. I told myself that I could make it and ripped one open with my mouth.
As I drove, I tried to eat as slowly as possible. The heat and moisture from my body had the candy melting fast, but I kept the wrapper on and squeezed my fist from the bottom of the bar, forcing the contents to ooze past my lips. The first one went fast. I tried to conserve the second. I waited as long as I could, and when my stomach would begin to knot, I’d take a bite.
At Topanga Canyon, Rocco started groaning loudly, and I had to pull over. His breathing had become hard and uneven. I slid across the seat and lifted his head fully on my lap. As I stroked him, I felt his body stiffen with pain. He was dying.
I got out the eyedropper and the medicine. Without letting go of the Snickers, I used my free hand to hold the bottle, while I dipped the eyedropper in.
His head was tilted up and I shoved the point of the tube into the corner of his mouth, squirting in the pain killer. I did it a few times until he swallowed.
Then he startled me by opening his mouth. A smudge of chocolate from my fingers had clung to his dry nose, and, slowly, a wide, pink tongue came out and reached up to lick off the brown goo. I set the bottle down and held up the hand with the melted candy. Out came the tongue again as I squeezed up the Snickers. It was half-hearted, but he did it several times. Then we took turns. A bite for me, a lick for him.
I had the thought that since my chocolate had worked for Rocco, that maybe his medicine would work on me. So I took a hit from the bottle. A small one. It was hideous shit. Nonalcoholic.
When the last Snickers was gone, I slid back behind the wheel keeping his head on my lap. The candy wrapper was next to his nose.
I watched him as I drove. He’d quit licking.
When I reached the Malibu Pier liquor store I could tell that they were busy too. I had to drive to the end of the lot to find a space.
I tried, but was unable to leave the car. Afraid to move Rocco’s head from my leg. He was emitting a noise that sounded like dry strangling and stroking his body seemed to be the only thing that would comfort him. I kept it up.
A long time passed. Five minutes. People came and went from the store carrying brown paper bags and liquor boxes. Some of the bags were wide and thick for beer, some tall for whiskey and wine.
Two guys came out with small single bags, pint size. The brown paper was twisted at the top. Short dogs. Small wine bottles. My drink.
They got in a flashy 4-wheel pick-up two spaces down. It had big tires and a roll bar and spotlights on the roof. I watched through the window of the car between us, as the guy behind the wheel folded the paper down around the neck of his shortie, then unscrewed the cap and took a hit. It made me shake and my stomach cramp in pain.
The truck backed out and left the lot.
People that I’d seen going in were now coming out. I could wait no more. I had parked too close to the car on my left, so I lifted Rocco’s head and maneuvered myself out from under him, sliding across the seat to the passenger side. I did it as gently as I could, but I noticed that it changed his breathing to short gasps. They scared me. As I listened, they seemed to be further and further apart.
I was trapped. Unable to get out or even slide back behind the wheel. His breathing was so faint, I knew he was on the verge of death. As delicately as possible, I hiked his head back up on my leg and waited.
More time passed. I smoked cigarettes and stroked his head. He was still breathing.
To keep my mind off myself, I took the idea I’d started outside the vet’s office from the glove compartment and tried concentrating on making it into a poem.
The lines fell in effortlessly. A poem about L.A. Here’s what I wrote:
The long palms work their way
down Bundy Drive
Swaying in the warm December wind
A chorus line of skinny hookers
nodding willfully
at the on-coming traffic
Blowing kisses at Santa Monica Boulevard
Their crooked heels, unwashed arms,
and the heavy odor of the street
now hold no promises, no pleasures,
L.A.’s innocence is gone forever
I saw it once though
caught a glimpse
even said hi
waving out the back window of my parents’ Plymouth
But it had already been bought and sold
and was much too much in a hurry
to stop
and say goodbye
When I was done I read it over a few times. It wasn’t a bad poem. Then I thought about Jonathan Dante. It was for him that I’d written it. I promised myself that I’d write more and they’d be for him too.
When I reached down to pat the old dog on my lap, I realized that he was gone. Quietly, as I wrote, he had stopped breathing.
I sat in the car for a long time holding Rocco in my arms. Weeping. When I finally quit my shaking was better.
In a few hours it would be midnight and I would have gone a full day on my own without a drink. And one day could mean two. If I stayed off the booze, I knew I’d be able to write again.
I started the Dart and headed north up the Coast Highway. There was a blueness to the ocean I had never noticed before.
Acknowledgments
SPECIAL THANKS go to Al and Judy Berlinksi at Sun Dog Press who published the first edition of Chump Change in the United States more than ten years ago. Sun Dog has also published two of my other books. Small press in America is a brutal business and these two people have stuck by me and flung their money at the Gods. Any success this novel achieves is in large measure due to their refusal to quit on me and because of their commitment to new American fiction. Thank you, Al. Thank you, Judy.
ALSO BY DAN FANTE
FICTION
86’d
Mooch
Spitting Off Tall Buildings
Short Dog: Cab Driver Stories from the L.A. Streets
POETRY
A Gin-Pissing-Raw-Meat-Dual-Carburetor-V8-Son-of-a-Bitch
from Los Angeles: Collected Poems, 1983-2002
Kissed by a Fat Waitress: New Poems
DRAMA
Don Giovanni: A Play
The Boiler Room: A Play
Copyright
Chump Change was first published in France by Pavillons under the title Les Anges N’ont Rien Dans les Poches.
First U.K. edition of this book was published in 1999 by Rebel Inc., an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.
First U.S. edition of this book was published in 1998 by Sun Dog Press.
P.S.™ is a trademark of HarperCollins Publishers.
CHUMP CHANGE. Copyright © 1998 by Dan Fante.
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EPub Edition © OCTOBER 2009 ISBN: 978-0-061-95929-5
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FIRST HARPER PERENNIAL EDITION PUBLISHED 2009.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
09 10 11 12 13 ID/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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