Until the Last Dog Dies

by Robert Guffey

  “We demand walrus litigation!” I declared, swinging the door open. I thought I might unbalance them momentarily with snatches of surreal political slogans. “Don’t tread on my mimetic avalanche! Lobster beard! Cancerous nightgown! Never mind the orangutan!” While they were still bobbing and weaving from this ruthless assault we managed to slip into the hall. We ran for the stairs and didn’t stop running until we were far away from that terrible, claustrophobic scene.

  On the sidewalk below, once we had enough time to think about what had just happened, we began laughing non-stop for a full five minutes.

  “So … I guess it’s safe to assume that they’re infected?” Heather said, which only caused her to giggle some more.

  I thought to myself, The sad thing of it is some people don’t even need a virus. They’re just born like that. “C’mon,” I said, “let’s get out of here before those incubi decide to pursue us into the streets.” I began walking toward the car.

  “Wait a second,” Heather said, still trying to catch her breath, “I don’t understand, whatever happened to me talking to Danny?”

  I just waved my hand in the air. Nothing needed to be said. The gesture said it all.

  Just let him be.

  CHAPTER 6

  How to Get Rid of Telemarketers

  (September 25, 2014)

  The phone woke me up out of a deep sleep. It wasn’t yet fully light outside. I glanced at the clock beside my bed: six o’clock on the dot. Who the hell was calling this early?

  “Hello?” I said groggily.

  “Is this Elliot Greeley?”

  “Uh, yeah. I think.”

  “Hello, my name is Judy and I’m taking a survey for San Francisco State University.” Oh, joy. My old alma mater. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Despite this answer she just continued onward like a mindless automaton. I began to suspect that she was, in reality, a very clever pre-recorded message with long silences placed strategically in between her questions. What the purpose of this blatant act of psychological warfare would be, I had no idea. Perhaps it was just a bureaucratic plot to drive non-compliant outsiders like me over the edge of sanity, a quite precarious edge upon which I teeter back and forth almost every day anyway. They knew it would just take a slight push to send me on a one-way trip, with no hope of return, down the slippery slope of total boundary dissolution and reality breakdown… .

  But the bastards wouldn’t get me that easy. I decided to turn the tables on them. I’d keep them on their toes. After all, psychological warfare is a two-way street. It’d be a good idea to copy that last sentence and tack it onto your refrigerator. I’ve learned the value of that maxim during these past few years.

  “What was your favorite experience at SFSU?” she asked.

  I didn’t even have to think about it. “Leaving.”

  “Have you used any of SFSU’s facilities since completing your studies?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was that?”

  “The bathroom.”

  “I see. Uh, well, Mr. Greeley, have you ever considered donating money to SFSU in order to help students who are poor and unfortunate and have no ability to pay the exorbitant admission fees necessary to gain access to the learning facilities and opportunities open to other members of the population far more fortunate in terms of monetary security?”

  I was so tired I think I blacked out for a couple of seconds. I didn’t even know what the hell she was saying. I was certain it made sense in an alternate dimension closely aligned with our own, some Bizarro world where it was commonplace for female-sounding simulacra to verbally harass exhausted professional comedic linguistic technicians at six o’clock in the morning for no other reason than the sheer sadistic pleasure of it.

  After an extended moment of silence, during which I was simply attempting to prod my synapses into firing in a proper fashion once again, I at least managed to form the following words: “So, when do you get off work?”

  Now it was her turn to be quiet for a few moments. “Uh … why?”

  “You want to go out to dinner? You’ll have to pay, of course.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Forget it, I withdraw the offer. I have better things to do than to go to the horse races. I mean, Santa Anita’s a drag this time of year. All those old fuckers with their smelly black cigars, and all that yelling? Who needs it?”

  The simulacrum seemed confused. Maybe the computer would explode while trying to unscramble the message it perceived to be hidden deep within my words, tucked away within the syllables themselves. “Uh … I was wondering if you wanted to donate a hundred dollars in four installments of twenty-five dollars, or fifty dollars in five installments of ten dollars?”

  “How about six installments of zero dollars?”

  “What, don’t you have any money?”

  “Of course not. Why do you think I have to go all the way to the damn campus to take a piss?” Seconds later I was left speaking to a dial tone. Jesus, I thought, maybe she wasn’t a computer after all.

  Well, I couldn’t bring myself to hate her too much. Sometimes I took telemarketing jobs myself in between gigs just so I could pay the rent on time. Eating tends to be difficult when you make … oh, about five bucks per show.

  Which may or may not be an exaggeration. Trust me, I knew a hell of a lot of comedians who were making way less than that. God, I never wanted to be forced into a mind-deadening job like that ever again. It was so painful reading from those fucking computer scripts. But it was even more painful having to listen to them… .

  I cradled the receiver and glanced at the clock. It was 6:16. I was too wired to go back to sleep. I switched on the TV and lay there staring at the screen, not really paying attention to it. My mind was on the strangeness of the previous day. After Heather and I had left Danny’s apartment, I’d asked if she wanted to go to Ye Rustic Inn for a drink. She told me she had to go home and pack; she had a plane to catch later in the afternoon. Her agent had booked her for six nights at the Holy City Asylum, a nightclub that was a hot spot for alternative standup comedy in San Francisco. Heather’s (and Danny’s) agent happened to be mine as well, a fifty-something farrago of personality disorders named Marsha Ruskind. I’d heard she’d fallen on some hard times a few years ago, something having to do with a hardcore drug addiction, and she was just now building up a stable of clients again after all her old clients—many of whom had since gone on to fame and fortune, mostly due to Marsha’s efforts— had abandoned her at her lowest point. Marsha was eager to reestablish her presence in the business. One advantage of having an agent as desperate as you was that you knew she’d devote every second of the day to improving your career; your success, by extension, would be her success. This wasn’t the case at the larger, more prestigious agencies where you could easily get lost within the more obscure corridors of the labyrinth.

  Before leaving for the airport Heather had said that Marsha might have a gig for me; she’d mentioned something about it over the phone Tuesday night. Heather said Marsha might call me about it early this morning, but I didn’t think she’d meant 6:22 a.m.

  The phone rang. Of course, I thought it was that SFSU automaton calling back for another round.

  “Look, you bitch,” I yelled, ripping the receiver off the cradle, “I already went into debt going to your damn school for four years and now you want to rob me again? Fuck you! Sit on a harpoon and spin on it, you Lovecraftian mass of protoplasmic evil!”

  After a moment of silence I heard: “Been smoking that devil weed again, Greeley?”

  Marsha. “Oh, it’s you.”

  “That’s right, the bringer of good tidings.”

  “Is that so? Is that what They told you to say?”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “I think you know: the guys behind the curtain, the ones pulling the strings, the Controllers, the shadowy cabal who ordered you and their crazy mechanical harlo
t into calling me back to back at six o’clock in the morning just to disrupt my beauty sleep and make me cranky. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you—particularly if you had something to hide.”

  “It’s hard to argue with your logic.”

  “I’m glad you finally admitted it. Now can I go back to not sleeping, please?”

  “No, you have to hear about this now.”

  Affecting a thick Southern accent, I replied, “Now, don’t give me none of your crazy bullshit, Jew girl. I’ll kick your big sweet ass from here to Texarkana, where George Aitch Dubya Bush and those evil retarded sons of his bury young boys in the sand just for the fun of it, where Aryans are real men who behead defenseless colored hitchhikers with machetes and chainsaws to impress the Lodge Brothers on initiation night at A&M University, where steers are queers and queers are steers and the skies are not cloudy all day.” I sang that last part. “Ain’t that right, Bubba?”

  “I hate to interrupt your impromptu monologue, but I’ve got a chance for you to make some real money for a change. You want to hear about it or not?”

  I dropped the accent. “Money, did you say? Why didn’t you mention that in the first place? Proceed.”

  “I got a call today from Gerald Bloom, an old agent friend of mine. We go way back. Turns out he’s representing this weird … I don’t know, punk band, crabcore band, whatever they’re calling it these days. Doesn’t matter. That’s not the point. The point is they’re big fans of yours and they want you to open for them. And I know how you love weird stuff.”

  I shook my head back and forth. I couldn’t believe it. “Aw, c’mon, how many times have I told you? No more fucking bands.”

  “Now, wait a second—”

  “It’s death, total death. You don’t know what it’s like.”

  “So you had one bad experience, so what?”

  “So what? That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one who has to go out there and face an auditorium packed full of screaming teenagers expecting tits ‘n ass covered with tattoos— not to mention laser beams, gel lights and propane explosions. Instead they get some skinny bastard telling peripatetic stories about suicide? What do you think’s going to happen? It’s a volatile situation, Marsha. I almost got my head blown off by some kid with a stolen .44 and a serious lack of appreciation for the art of the spoken word.”

  “Okay, so maybe you and heavy metal don’t mix—”

  “No, no, scratch that. How about me and a singer and two guitars and a bass and a drum don’t mix. The problem’s much more general, you see.”

  “I’m telling you, these guys are fans of yours.”

  “So what? That doesn’t mean their fans are going to be fans of mine.”

  “Gerald tells me your attitudes mesh. Anyone interested in them will be interested in you.”

  I sighed. She was a single-minded, stubborn, lying pimp. That’s partly why I liked her, of course. “Who are these guys?” I said, just to give Marsha some false hope that I would actually agree to this madness.

  “Doktor Delgado’s All-American Genocidal Warfare Against The Sick And The Stupid.”

  “Excuse me? That’s their name? How the hell do they fit that on the marquee?”

  “Most of the times they don’t. They’re still enjoying cult status, you see, but they’ve got a loyal following that’s growing day by day.”

  “So Gerald Bloom tells you.”

  “I know the man, Gerald doesn’t lie. The band’s got a unique sensibility he says. Real existential, like you. They’re the only band in history made up of musicians who are all dying of terminal illnesses.”

  “Ah, real cheerful. That won’t be a tough room to crack.”

  “Twisted, huh? Right up your alley.”

  “Great. So do you wake up in the morning intent on finding new ways to challenge my patience?”

  “Elliot, listen, this is a way for you to get some big money, some exposure outside of those art museums you insist on playing at. Are you going to be a dilettante for the rest of your life or do you want to break out and earn enough money to buy more than Saltine crackers for dinner?”

  I stared at the TV screen. Bugs Bunny was chasing Yosemite Sam around a tree, or perhaps it was the other way around; it was hard to tell. At that moment, for some reason, I realized I was licked. Why fight Marsha and San Francisco State University and Danny and Yosemite Sam and the Neo-Gothic Hipster Peanut Gallery and the CDC and the Mormons and Elijah Mohammad and Doktor Delgado’s All-American Genocidal Warfare Against The Sick And The Stupid all at the same time? It was useless. They would win in the end, they always did. The whole of human history was on their side. “So when’s this gig?” I asked.

  I could sense Marsha beaming through the phone. “Next Friday night at ten at The Brink in Hermosa Beach. You go on for twenty minutes, then you leave. What’s so difficult about that?”

  “Think they might throw a bullet-proof vest into the package?”

  “Hey, they just might. That could be funny. You want me to ask?”

  “Forget it. I prefer to live dangerously.”

  “I hear you, my brother. So you want me to call and confirm?”

  I sighed again. “Might as well.” Just as Marsha was about to hang up I said, “Hold on a second, I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Yeah?” She sounded worried. She’d had bad experiences in the past with people wanting to ask her questions, people like IRS agents and stiffed drug dealers.

  “Did you help Danny sign a development deal with HBO?”

  “Didn’t he mention it to you?”

  “No, not until a couple of days ago.”

  “Oh. I thought he would’ve mentioned it to you sooner.”

  “Well, he didn’t.” Silence, for a moment. “You think Danny’s changed a bit since the deal?”

  “Changed? What do you mean?”

  “Don’t you think he’s been acting more erratic?”

  “I don’t think so. Of course, I haven’t talked to him much in the past week. Why?”

  “Have you, uh, heard about this plague on TV?”

  Marsha laughed. “Plague? There’s no plague. That’s just some hoax cooked up in the White House to get our minds off the collapsing economy. It’s like that David Mamet movie. What was it? Wag the Dog.”

  “That’s kind of like what Danny said.”

  “There, you see?”

  “But haven’t you noticed people acting stranger lately?”

  “Excuse me, I make a living by sucking parasitically off the earnings of people who do things like blow up condoms with their nose and impersonate Bela Lugosi on speed. How the hell would I notice if people were acting stranger or not?”

  “You’ve got me there.”

  “Say … did something happen between you and Danny?”

  “I guess you could say that. He almost ripped my throat out at Prospero’s.”

  “Danny? I can’t believe it. What did you say to him?”

  “Why does everybody say that? I didn’t say anything to him. He just started yelling at me for no god damn reason. Twice now he’s accused me of trying to ride his coattails, whatever the hell that means. Meanwhile, he’s flubbing his lines on stage at Paste-Pot Pete’s! I had to cover for him, but for some reason he doesn’t see it. He thinks it was the other way around! It’s hard to gauge why he’s acting this way. It could be because of the HBO deal, it could be because Griffin’s pumping up his ego, it could be this plague thing, it could be—” I stopped myself before I said “the drugs.” There was no reason Marsha had to know that, at least not yet. I didn’t want to rat the guy out. I just lapsed into silence.

  “Hell, this isn’t right,” Marsha said. “You’re two of the funniest guys I know. Man, when you did that Muppets on 9/11 routine at the Cyclops I almost fell on the floor. That was the first day I met you two, r
emember?”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Well, it’s not right that you two are fighting. Did Abbott and Costello ever fight?”

  “All the time. They hated each other.”

  “Okay, so that’s a bad example. Forget that. What about Lucy and Ethel?”

  “They hated each other too.”

  “They were sluts anyway. Screw ’em. I don’t want to hear about these dead comedians anymore, I’m talkin’ about you and Danny here. That’s what’s important.”

  “You’re the one who brought them up.”

  “Listen to me, you’ve got to focus for a second. You and Danny have an incredible chemistry on stage, a real kismet—”

  “Doesn’t kismet mean fate?”

  “Let’s not get bogged down in semantics. I don’t want to see what you and Danny have together just die on the vine.”

  “Assuming that’s true, how come you struck a deal with HBO for Danny but not me?”

  “Ah, I was wondering when we were getting around to that. I think now we’re getting to the heart of the problem between you and Danny, aren’t we?”

  “Absolutely not. I’m telling you, that has nothing at all to do with it. I’m just curious.”

  “The answer’s simple: They didn’t ask for you. Listen, there’s no reason to be jealous—”

  “I’m not jealous, I don’t care.”

  “These deals happen all the time. Usually they expire without a sitcom or anything else coming out of it except some quick, easy money. I’m hoping to at least secure a half-hour HBO special for Danny, but even that’s up in the air. Don’t be frustrated, Elliot, you’re talented too. Your time will come.”

  “I’m not frustrated. Who says I’m fucking frustrated?”

  “All right, all right, you’re not frustrated. Nevertheless, I’d advise you to calm down and take a deep breath. While you’re doing that I’ll call Gerald and confirm the gig with Doktor Delgado’s etc. etc., then right after that I’m going to call Danny and—”