Until the Last Dog Dies

by Robert Guffey

  “Lock your door!” I said to Danny.

  He didn’t bother. “I’m pretty sure this is the one,” he said, slipping a key into the ignition. The sound of that engine starting up was probably the most beautiful, angelic sound to ever bounce off my ear drums. We peeled out into the street with Mike’s dad running along beside us, cursing our mothers and calling us bastards and faggots and even more horrible things. His kind words sparked a wave of nostalgia. For a moment I thought I was back in high school.

  Mike’s dad tried his best to keep up, but within a few seconds we had left him in the dust. I peered over my shoulder and watched him shrink into the distance.

  A blanket of uneasy silence fell over the car, but only for a brief time. A weak smile appeared on Danny’s face as he said, “Now wasn’t that pleasant. We’ll have to do it again sometime.”

  Any witty rejoinder that might have followed had been knocked out of my skull long ago. “How long have you been doing it?” I said.

  He maintained that weak smile. “Doing what?”

  “The heroin.”

  He shrugged. “Not long. This is only my third time.” “Only? Don’t you know what heroin does? Haven’t you seen the ads? ‘This is your brain. This is your brain on drugs.’ It fries eggs, Danny, it fries eggs!”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s what they said about marijuana. You smoked that a couple of three or four times, right?”

  “It’s hardly the same thing.”

  “We’ll see.”

  I sighed and slumped down in my seat. It felt as if the world were going mad and I was the only one who was even aware of it.

  “Are you pissed at me?” Danny said.

  “Yes.”

  “Does this mean you don’t want to see Destroy All Monsters?” “No.”

  “No you want to see it, or no you don’t want to see it?”

  “No I want to see it.”

  “Good. I think we’ll just make it. We might miss the opening credits, but that’s okay.”

  I didn’t say anything for the rest of the ride. I strapped on my seat belt and hoped Danny wouldn’t nod out on the 405.

  CHAPTER 9

  Squid Sitting

  (October 2-3, 2014)

  I had been looking forward to goofing on the movie with Danny, like we used to do while staying up late at night watching stupid sci-fi movies like Angry Red Planet and Samson vs. the Vampire Women on cable, but fifteen minutes into the film Danny nodded out. Throughout the evening he continued to fade in and out of consciousness, his head bouncing back and forth as if his neck were made of rubber, his eyelids fluttering like dying insects. Once in awhile he would become very alert and sit straight up; over the course of the next few minutes he would then slump down ever so slowly and nod out all over again. At times he would be as lucid and communicative as anybody else; nevertheless I knew it was useless to talk to him. I had known plenty of heroin addicts back in high school and sooner or later you realized that anything you said to them while they were high was lost in the ether twelve hours later. You might as well talk to the air. I was so pissed off I said nothing to him the rest of the evening.

  After the movie I took the keys from Danny and drove him to his apartment building. Upon arriving he apologized over and over again for what happened at Mike’s place (as if that’s what I was angry about!), then staggered up those claustrophobia-inducing stairs and disappeared into the shadows within the building. To be honest I was glad to be away from him. From a shit-stained phone booth down the street I called for a cab, though I could ill-afford such a luxury. I paid the driver with part of the $35 I’d gotten for my piss.

  Within an hour I was back home in bed, wide awake, staring at the ceiling. I was a nervous wreck—not because of Danny, but because of the gig tomorrow night. I still didn’t know what I was going to do. I knew my standard act wouldn’t go over too well, not in such a crazy setting. I needed a gritty, realistic story to start off the show—some darkly humorous vignette that a bunch of teenage misfits could relate to.

  Then it struck me. Why not tell them what had happened to us tonight at Mike’s house? It was perfect: fucked-up and weird enough to be funny, if told in the right way, and just realistic enough to be believed. Hell, why shouldn’t they believe it? It was true! (Then again, throughout my career I’d noticed that the truest stories were the ones nobody ever believed. This was a universal law, the reason for which no comedian could ever hope to understand.)

  I leaped out of bed, dashed over to my desk, whipped out a notebook and began jotting down the story as I might tell it on stage. Often I would get up and relate parts of the story to the mirror first,—wishing Heather was in town so I could try it out on her instead—then transcribe the monologue onto paper. This sudden burst of creativity sparked a string of other ideas, all of which I worked on well past the witching hour and into the wee hours of the morning.

  I think I fell asleep at the desk; the next thing I knew daylight was pouring in through the windows, my cheek was pressed up against the desktop, a stream of saliva was trickling out of my mouth, and some bastard was knocking on my door with ten jackhammers and refused to let up for even a second. I shot up out of my straight-back chair and glanced at the clock. It was 4:30 p.m. Jesus Christ, I’d have to be at the club soon. Of course, the heathens at the door didn’t care about that. They just kept pounding away.

  “All right, all right,” I said, “I’m coming!” I swung the door open and yelled, “Now what the hell do you—?” I cut myself off in mid-sentence when I saw none other than Brothers Lund-berg and Fleetwood standing in the doorway holding out copies of the Book of Mormon. Their ties were different, though just as snappy as before.

  Brother Lundberg did a little double take before his eyes widened in recognition. “Ah, Elliot!” He seemed very happy to see me again. His brow wrinkled. “You don’t live in two apartments, do you?”

  “No. This, uh … this is just a friend’s place. I’m watching their pet squid for them while they’re away.”

  “Their pet what?”

  “It’s a squid. Named Cuddles. It’s a real bitch taking the thing for a walk but it’s fun watching it play with the neighbor’s poodles.”

  Lundberg and Fleetwood glanced at each other sideways. Fleetwood cleared his voice and said, “Do you know when your friends will be back?”

  “They won’t be coming back. They went on a euthanasia cruise.”

  “A what?”

  “Nothing, forget it, it’s very difficult to talk about. My friends are dying of various terminal illnesses at once. I-I’m sorry—”

  “Oh no, we’re sorry,” Lundberg said. He grabbed Fleetwood by the elbow and began leading him away. “We’ll leave you with your grief.”

  “Thank you for understanding,” I said.

  Fleetwood pulled away from Lundberg and handed me his copy of the Book of Mormon. “Maybe this will help you in your sadness.”

  “Thank you,” I said, reaching out to grab the book. Before I could do so, however, Lundberg pushed Fleetwood’s hand downwards, then turned to me and smiled. “Excuse me,” he said. He grabbed Fleetwood’s sleeve and guided him toward the opposite side of the hall where he began whispering into his ear. By craning my neck I could just barely make out the words: “What do you think you’re doing? You’re aware of The Elders’ directive. A free book is not to be given out until after the second lecture.”

  Fleetwood stared at the ground and shrugged. “I’m sorry. I just thought—”

  “Your job isn’t to think, it’s to follow the Word of God. Now c’mon.” Lundberg marched back over to the door, shook my hand, and said he was looking forward to delivering his second lecture to me on Sunday morning.

  “Oh, so am I,” I said. “You can’t possibly know how much I’m looking forward to it.”

  I waved and closed the door, listening for a moment while they visited my neighbor’s apartment. Lundberg managed to get out two words before my neighbor told them to fuck off a
nd slammed the door in their faces. My neighbor’s approach wasn’t subtle, but effective nonetheless. Sometimes I wished I could deal with the world that way. I just didn’t have the heart to be that upfront with people; instead I stood around insulting them without them knowing it, which was far more time-consuming. Heather was the exact opposite; she was sort of like my neighbor, but worse. She would insult you into the dirt, insult you again just in case you hadn’t noticed, then slam the door in your face. If that didn’t work she’d kill you. She was as tough as titanium, and I envied that strength. Brothers Lund-berg and Fleetwood would no doubt have a far different reaction. I hoped Heather would be back from San Francisco in time to meet them. The effect of my little prank would be even more gratifying if the Mormons decided to drop in only a few seconds after Heather had returned from a jet-lag-inducing red-eye flight through the turbulent winds of El Niño, a crowded airport packed full of annoying tourists, and four lanes of weekend traffic on the 405. The result might very well be the ruptured remains of a couple of Mormon medulla oblongatas splattered all over the walls of a certain junk-cluttered North Hollywood apartment.

  At the moment, however, I had far more important things to worry about than a pair of (soon to be) dead Mormons. I had a gig to get to with only a half-remembered routine in my head. I took a quick shower, grabbed some relatively clean clothes off the floor, pulled them on while somehow consuming a bowl of banana nut cereal with two pieces of buttered toast, stuffed my wallet into my back pocket, then sped out the door, keeping my eye out for wandering bands of radioactive Mormons armed with sling shots and tire irons and even more awful things.

  CHAPTER 10

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

  (October 3, 2014)

  It was a long ride from Hollywood to Hermosa Beach. I used the time to practice my act in my head over and over again. This was difficult, what with drunken old men ranting in the back seats, pregnant teenage girls yakking to each other while their children ran wild, black gangstas blaring ghetto blasters the size of Volvos, and a bus driver with a penchant for running red lights. Not only that, I could feel that familiar horde of butterflies beginning to flutter their little wings within my stomach. My nervousness would continue to grow over the next few hours, then peak right before I went on stage. I’d learned long ago how to deal with it. I would imagine that I wasn’t actually Elliot Greeley; in reality I was a convicted murderer strapped into an electric chair, waiting for the throw of a switch that would end my life forever, wishing that I was actually a struggling standup comedian sitting on a smelly, noisy bus on his way to a gig—a standup comedian whose biggest worry in life was dealing with stage fright. I would imagine the scenario so vividly that I would soon feel the coldness of the steel arm rests beneath my hands, the wires attached to my head, the rubber underwear wrapped around my crotch. My heart would start beating faster and faster as I imagined a calloused hand gripping the switch and… . Compared to this grim scenario, telling a few jokes to a club full of punk kids didn’t seem all that distressing.

  I arrived at The Brink just before 8:00. Since I didn’t have to go on until 10:00, this might appear a bit premature. I know Heather would think so; she could jump into a spotlight blindfolded and deliver a good show. I needed somewhat more security than that. When I was faced with a new stage—this was my first gig at The Brink—I wanted to make sure I had more than enough time to scope out the place and get used to the idea of being up there in front of all those people.

  Eddie Milstein, the owner of the club, greeted me backstage. While shaking his hand it was difficult to ignore the distinct odor of beer on his breath. He was a dumpy, middle-aged man with a dark black moustache and mismatched smoke-gray hair ringing a bald pate. To me he looked more like an undercover cop than the owner of a club. In my paranoia I actually found myself considering this possibility. After all, it would be a good cover, wouldn’t it? Once I got an idea like that into my head it was hard to shake. I remained wary of the man throughout the evening.

  Eddie informed me that the band hadn’t shown up yet, and probably wouldn’t until the last possible second, just soon enough to complain about not having enough time to tune up. The first ten minutes of the show would consist of them tuning up on stage while their fans screamed and danced just as much as if the real songs were being played. Eddie said most of the fans couldn’t tell the difference, nor did they care.

  Eddie said, “They just want a good excuse to jump around and beat each other up, and who can blame them? Sometimes I like to leap into that mosh pit and crack a couple of heads together myself. You need to go a little crazy once in awhile, know what I mean?”

  I said that I did, though it was hard for me to imagine this weird fat dude holding his own with hundreds of teenage speed freaks.

  Eddie glanced at his watch and said, “I hope they remember to show up. I went out of my way to promote this gig, paid a shitload in advertising, more than I usually do, all because Gerry Bloom’s a personal friend of mine and he says these kids are the next big thing. He’s never steered me wrong once, so what can I do, eh? He’s the one who turned me onto you, you know.”

  “Wait a second, I thought the band requested me. I’d heard they were fans of mine.”

  Eddie waved his hand. “Aw, that’s just Bloom greasing you up. He was desperate and needed an opening act quick. Originally he wanted The Sno-Cones, but they were finishing a tour in Canada and couldn’t make it down here in time. I tried to tell him comedians don’t mix well with rock bands, but he never listens to me. When he makes up his mind he sticks like gum to the bottom of your shoe until you give in. So what could I do?” He threw his hands in the air. “I gave in.”

  I could feel the color draining out of my face. “Does anyone in the band know who I am?”

  “Oh, sure, Ogo does. He’s the one who told Bloom to go see you down at that club there in West Hollywood, what is it, Sneaky Pete’s or something—?” He snapped his fingers.

  “Paste-Pot Pete’s.”

  “That’s it! Ogo’s caught your act there a few times. He says you’re funny sorta, but he’s got a pretty damn weird sense of humor anyway. I think he’s a pedophile.”

  “Am I supposed to know who Ogo is?”

  “He’s the bass player. He’s a real clown. You’d probably like him.”

  “Yeah, it’s funny, just the other day I was talking to my agent and I said, ‘You know what? We really need to add some more pedophiles to my fan base. That should help my standing at the networks. Maybe if you throw in a couple of transvestites and serial murderers too, my star will really begin to take off.’”

  Eddie stared at me with blank, unreadable eyes, then nodded and said, “Yep, you and Ogo should get along well together.”

  This comment propelled me toward the exit. “I’m going for a walk,” I said, “I need to get some fresh air.”

  “Don’t stray too far!” Eddie called after me. “I’d rather you didn’t fall into the ocean before your performance. Afterwards you can do whatever the hell you want, of course.”

  The Brink was located near the Hermosa Beach pier. This being summer, the sun was just now setting. Portions of the twilight sky were as red as blood. I strolled down the sidewalk, breathing in the salt-laced air blown in on a strong gust of wind from the Pacific, which I could see rolling away from me, flat, fiery orange and infinite, only one block away. Beachside condos were woven into the panorama, preventing a totally unobstructed view, but I didn’t mind. This was good enough. I could just make out a scattered group of tiny white dots, which I took to be sailboats, slicing through the waves like giant knives. For a moment I fantasized swimming out to one of those boats— even though I couldn’t swim—and climbing aboard, sailing the hell away, leaving Doktor Delgado’s All-American Genocidal Warfare Against The Sick And The Stupid far, far behind me. But this, of course, was impossible. I was locked in, and all I could hope for was that the audience would
have more of a sense of humor than Eddie Milstein.

  After strolling around for about a half-hour, I paused by a newspaper machine outside a bong shop and did a double take when I saw the headline on the front page of the L.A. Times: “Newly Discovered ‘Humor Virus’ Feared To Be Incurable.” The paper had even included a sidebar to the story, the headline of which read, “Ironically, Most Americans Think ‘Humor Virus’ Is A Joke.” I dug a handful of quarters out of my pocket, bought the paper, and read it on the way back to the club. The scientists claimed the virus was growing more and more destructive, and as it did so its victims grew less and less aware of the problem; the stronger the virus, the more complacent its victims. The colored pie graph to the right of the article indicated that most Americans believed the CDC had made up the disease just to have something to occupy their time.

  On my way back to the club I saw something that made me stop in my tracks: another piece of “graffiti,” one so sophisticated it just had to have been created by the same artist who’d painted that giant talking dog on the front of the Starbucks across from Heather’s apartment. This particular image, a breathtakingly detailed mural, had been sprayed on the side of The Easy Reader building. (The Easy Reader was a local newspaper given away for free, really nothing more than a bunch of puff pieces wrapped in ads.) The mural depicted a giant mouse with its butt and tail facing the viewer. You could just barely see its head turning toward the right, its whiskers overlapping a closed window. The mouse was surrounded by a trail of purple sparkles. Rising out of its black lips was a wispy word balloon that contained the following message: “I was along this way, and thought I’d drop in!” There was a definite hint of intelligence in the rodent’s beady black eyes.

  Whoever was responsible for this stuff should’ve been receiving a whole lotta remuneration for his efforts. Instead, two little Hispanic dudes were sloppily painting over the mural with white paint. I walked away, shaking my head in disgust.