Until the Last Dog Dies

by Robert Guffey

  I turned to Ogo and said, “This is your lead singer?” “Yeah, but don’t worry. We’ll just give him some speed and he’ll be in fine shape for his performance.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “Of course, but what else can we do? We’ve got to go on.”

  “I thought he promised to stop doing this shit,” Jesse said as he leaned the equipment against the wall.

  “He did,” Esthra said, easing Mike down on an upturned crate. “Last time when he was kicking he promised me he was never going to touch the shit again. I don’t even know how he got ahold of it. Some fucking idiot must’ve given it to him.”

  Jesse shook his head in frustration. “If I could find the guy who gave it to him I’d—!” He slammed his fist into his palm.

  “Uh, maybe I should leave you guys alone with him,” I said, backing away toward the exit.

  Ogo said, “Aw, don’t go. I’ve been wanting the two of you to meet each other for awhile now. Believe it or not you think very much alike.”

  Mike slumped down on the crate, his legs spread out wide, his head tilted back against the wall, his mouth hanging open as if he were mentally retarded. It was difficult to interpret Ogo’s words as a compliment.

  Noticing the disfavor in my face Ogo added, “I mean when he’s lucid, of course.”

  Esthra leaned down and stared into Mike’s drooping eyes. “I think he’s coming out of it now.”

  “How can you tell?” I asked.

  Mike’s whole body snapped forward suddenly, as I’ve often done during a dream of falling. He glanced around as if trying to figure out where he was.

  “Are you all right?” Esthra said, caressing his swollen cheek.

  Mike slapped her hand away. “Don’t touch me! Are you trying to hurt me or something?”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at the floor, shrinking into herself like an abused child. She was the exact opposite of the self-assured woman I’d seen only a few minutes before.

  “Think you can perform?” Jesse asked.

  “Perform?” Mike uttered the word as if wondering what it meant. “I don’t know… .” The sentence just trailed off. Mike seemed to be nodding out again.

  “Maybe we should get you to the little boys’ room,” Ogo said. “It’s definitely time for some medication.” He held up his bag o’ tricks, indicating that the “medicine” was inside.

  “It looks like he’s had too much medication already,” I said.

  At the sound of my voice Mike’s head swivelled toward me in a jerky, rubbery motion. He peered at me through half-closed, Mr. Magoo eyes. “Wh-who are you?”

  “He’s our opening act,” Ogo said. “I’m sure I’ve mentioned him to you. His name’s Elliot Greeley. He’s a brilliant comedian.”

  “H-have I seen you before?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve been on a couple of cable talk shows. Maybe you saw me there.”

  “He doesn’t have cable,” Jesse said.

  “So maybe he was at a friend’s house. How should I know?” I felt sweat breaking out on my forehead.

  “I’m sure it doesn’t matter,” Ogo said, reaching his hand out to Mike. “C’mon, let’s go find that bathroom.”

  Esthra moved between Mike and Ogo. “I think Elliot’s right,” she said. “Maybe he’s got too much shit in his body already. If you give him speed too, who knows what could happen? He might die.”

  Ogo said, “Excuse me, do I have to remind you that he’s dying already?”

  “But why speed up the process? I don’t like it. We should be trying to cure him, not make him worse.”

  Mike laughed and rose from the crate on quaking legs. It seemed as if he almost toppled forward a couple of times. His blank, stoic expression transformed into a disgusted sneer. “Why do you even bother to act like you care about me? When you’re around other people you do such a good job of pretending like you’re so in love with me. If you’re so in love with me why do you fuck every man, woman or child you can get your hands on when I’m not looking? Hell, you don’t even care if I’m looking. You’d fuck a dog in front of me if you thought you’d get off on it.” He cast a hateful gaze at Jesse. Jesse wavered and glanced away.

  Over the course of Mike’s diatribe Esthra’s lower lip began to tremble. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, her fingernails digging into her shoulders. At one point she whispered, “That’s not true,” as tears began to trickle down her cheeks.

  Mike lunged forward and grabbed her wrist, ripping her hand away from her shoulder. “Stop crying! You have no fucking right to cry, no right to criticize what god damn drugs I take! You think I’d have to do this shit if it weren’t for you?”

  Jesse took a step toward them. “Mike, let her go.”

  Mike just looked at Jesse and laughed with what seemed like utter disgust. Then his eyelids began to droop. He released Esthra’s wrist, weaved back and forth slightly. His eyes became blank and glassy again. He began to topple forward. Esthra and Jesse moved to catch him, but he caught himself at the last second. At least he almost did. He fell backwards onto the crate, slamming his head against the wall with a painful-sounding crack, then resumed his comatose position.

  Eddie strolled in from the stage area, saw Mike propped up on the crate like a corpse, and said, “What the hell is this?” He walked over to Mike.

  “Oh, he’s just resting a bit,” Ogo said.

  “Resting?” Eddie picked up Mike’s hand, then released it. The hand dropped like a stone. “You call this resting? I call it unconscious. Oh, shit.” He lowered his face into his hands, shook his head back and forth. “This is the last time I do a favor for Gerald Bloom, the very last time.”

  Ogo said, “Look, all he needs is his medicine, then everything will be fine.”

  Eddie shoved his index finger into Ogo’s face, his fingertip almost touching the clown’s bulbous nose. “You give him whatever you have to, I don’t care. Just make sure he’s lucid enough by 10:20 to walk out there on that stage and deliver the fucking goods, you got that?”

  Ogo nodded quickly, wide-eyed, then turned to Jesse. “C’mon, help me get him into the bathroom.” Ogo grabbed one arm while Jesse grabbed the other, then they lifted Mike from the crate. “Uh, where is the bathroom?” Ogo asked.

  Eddie gestured toward the hall to his left by jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. As the mismatched pair dragged Mike away Eddie turned to me and said, “If that freak’s not fully conscious by 10:20 your act may have to go on a bit longer than we’d planned. Don’t worry, I’ll make it worth your while. Is that all right with you?”

  “Well, I don’t know. My act is sort of timed to last exactly twenty minutes.”

  “But you must have more material than that, right?” “Well, of course—”

  “Fantastic! I’ll be standing at the side of the stage right here. If you see me give the wrap-up sign at twenty, you can finish up and haul ass off stage. If not, keep on going. It doesn’t even matter if you’re funny, just fill up time.” I didn’t find this statement very heartening, but I nodded anyway. “Fantastic, fantastic! You’re a life saver, m’man.” Eddie gave me a little tap against the shoulder, then followed Ogo and Jesse down the hall.

  Now I didn’t know what the hell to do. My whole act was based on an encounter I’d had with some strange heroin addict named Mike who happened to be the lead singer of the fucking band! Could I disguise the names so the rest of the band wouldn’t know who I was talking about? No, that was impossible. The truth of the situation was a hell of a lot funnier. Unfortunately, the truth might get me rent in two by a Gulf War vet. Maybe I would be lucky and Jesse would think it was funny. After all, I wasn’t the one who gave him the heroin, it was Danny. Of course, I sat around and did nothing to stop it, but so what? What am I, the Thought Police? I’m going to tell people what they can and can’t do with their own bodies? Oh, dear. Now I was getting a headache. What was I going to do? W
ould I have to make up a whole new act within forty minutes? The butterflies in my stomach were fluttering up a tsunami.

  I snapped out of my worry-filled reverie and glanced about the room, realizing that everyone had left except for Esthra. She was standing very still, her arms crossed over her chest as if she were trying to hold herself in, her eyes crimson and glassy. We locked eyes for a second, then she glanced down at the floor, too embarrassed to look at me. She lowered herself onto the crate that Mike had been sitting on, folded her hands between her knees, and stared off into space.

  “I hope band practice is somewhat less exciting,” I said. She didn’t respond. Perhaps she wanted me to go away, I couldn’t be sure. “Does he always treat you like that?”

  She remained quiet for a long time. I was just about to walk away, the silence having become far too unbearable, when she said, “No, not always. Hardly ever. It’s just the drugs.”

  “Does heroin make him act that way?”

  She laughed a little. “I think he did more than heroin. A speedball, probably.” I didn’t know what that was, but acted like I did. She continued, “I’m not what he said, you know. I’m not a whore. Do I look like a whore to you?”

  I was a bit taken aback by the question. I just shook my head no.

  “Why did he call me that then?”

  “Well, I don’t remember him using that word in particular.” “Everything but. I’ve never cheated on him, never.” She slammed her fist on her bare knee each time she said the word “never.”

  She looked like she was about to start crying again. “I believe you,” I said, hoping to prevent this.

  “Do you really?” She looked up at me and smiled. Her smile was wide and bright, so wide it seemed to fill her entire face, so bright it was hard to imagine anyone wanting to harm her. The perfection of her face was offset only by the crimson streaks staining her eyes.

  I nodded yes.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You’re about the only one who does.” She laughed sadly. “Then again, you don’t even know me. If you knew me you’d hate me as much as Mike does.”

  “How do you know he hates you? You said yourself it was the drugs making him act like that. Maybe he didn’t know what he was saying.”

  She shook her head. “Mike doesn’t need drugs to hate me.”

  I didn’t know what to say. When I don’t know what to say the first words that pop into my mind are often the most inappropriate ones you could possibly imagine. For example, what I wanted to say was, “Would you like to go out to dinner tomorrow night?” but somehow I knew that wouldn’t go over too well at that particular moment.

  Eventually she said, “What time is it?”

  I glanced at my watch. “Just about 9:30.”

  “Jesus, we have to get set up.” She looked around as if expecting roadies to emerge from the walls. She threw her arms in the air. “Am I supposed to do this all by myself?”

  “I’ll go find Eddie,” I said, hoping to calm her down before she started freaking out again. “I’m sure he has people to help you.” Part of me just wanted to get out of there before I said something stupid.

  “Wait a second,” she said. I stopped and turned. “Please don’t listen to Eddie. It does matter if you’re funny. Don’t just fill up time. I think I really need to laugh now more than ever.”

  I shrugged. “I’ll do the best I can. I don’t guarantee anything.”

  She waved her hand. “Oh, I know you won’t let me down. Ogo says you’re one of the funniest comedians he’s ever seen.”

  I wanted to say, “Well, that means a lot coming from a cancer-ridden clown who plays bass in an obscure punk band,” but bit my tongue. I think I mumbled something like “Thank you” and shuffled away in search of Eddie. Now I felt really bad. My damsel in distress requests a simple little laugh, and instead I’m planning on insulting her boyfriend. “Hey, honey, here’s a real belly laugh for you: Your boyfriend’s a junkie fag who regularly gets the shit kicked out of him by his father, ho ho!” Yeah, that was sure to win her over.

  Whoever said comedy was easy? I’d like to find the fucker and pop him in the nose.

  CHAPTER 11

  Keep the Ravioli in Orbit

  (October 3, 2014)

  Eddie strolled out on stage at ten o’clock on the dot and introduced me to a giant room filled with wild teenagers. I was so nervous I thought I might stumble and fall on my face before I even reached center stage. Part of my nervousness stemmed from the fact that I had decided to follow through with my original game plan. What else could I do?

  Hanging on the wall behind me were a series of American flags of various colors—magenta, orange, black and blue, pink paisley, etc.—with dripping, messy stripes that merged into one another like wet paint. Set up in front of the flags were the drums, the keyboards, and the upright bass. The last time I had checked, which was only a couple of minutes before, Mike was still comatose in the bathroom. I was beginning to think that I would not only have to go over the standard twenty-minute mark, I’d have to do the whole god damn show. However, Esthra had assured me she could sing the songs if Mike wasn’t able to go on, though she preferred not to. She didn’t know if her voice was strong enough to carry a whole show, but if worse came to worse she said it would have to do.

  The lights above the stage were the brightest fuckin’ lights I’d ever seen. Apparently Eddie had decided to shoot a video of the band’s performance which required the most intense illumination this side of the sun itself. I couldn’t imagine how the band could play under them for more than a few minutes. I could already feel myself beginning to sweat. The lights were shining directly into my eyes. I couldn’t see a damn thing. I found myself squinting as if I was at the beach. All I could hear was the incessant shouting. Of course, I couldn’t start my act until these stupid bastards decided to calm down. I raised my hands, then lowered them slowly, trying to clue them in on the fact that it was time to begin the show. For a long time I couldn’t figure out what the hell it was they were screaming. At first it sounded like “Extra! Extra!” but that made no sense. Then I realized they were shouting Esthra’s name.

  I said, “Excuse me, I’m only going to say this once, shut the fuck up or I’m going to have to kick all your asses at once.”

  Suddenly a beer bottle erupted out of the brightness and whizzed past my ear, slamming into one of the cymbals behind me, creating an interesting musical sound for a single moment. I said, “Hey, the next beer bottle better be a Heineken or I’m leaving!”

  A Heineken arced over my head and smashed into something behind me, I don’t know what, sending little glass shards skittering across the stage. I was just about to abandon ship, narrowly avoiding two more bottles and a full Coca-Cola can, when Esthra came striding out onto stage. She had taken off her trench coat, showing more skin than not. The beer bottles stopped flying, but the shouting grew louder. She grabbed my mike from me and said, “Greetings, you wasted little shitheads!” Just when I thought the screams couldn’t get any more ear-shattering they would rise another decibel. “Listen up,” she continued, “I want you to give my friend here the utmost respect. If you conduct yourselves like the cultured, urbane gentlemen I know you truly are, perhaps I’ll give you a special little treat later on.” She wrapped one leg around the mike stand, drew the microphone toward her, and ran her tongue slowly around the head of the mike. The crowd erupted into cheers. She wrapped her bright red lips around the mike, then shoved it deep into her mouth. Moist, intimate sounds echoed through the club. She tipped her head back and eased the mike all the way down her throat. It was the most amazing spectacle I’d ever witnessed. My gag reflex kicked in just by watching it. I actually had to glance away for a second for fear that I might whoop my cookies all over the stage. Meanwhile, the crowd’s animalistic grunts had reached an orgasmic high.

  At last Esthra pulled the microphone out of her mouth and said, “Okay, you sloth-browed troglodytes, now just kick back and get ready to laugh y
our ass off for the next twenty minutes and if you don’t I ain’t comin’ back and neither is the rest of the band so as the man says, ‘Shut the fuck up!’”

  She tossed the mike back to me, flashed me one of her Esthra-bright smiles, then turned widdershins and marched away to the hoots and hollers of the crowd, who continued to chant her name until she disappeared backstage. To my surprise, they then calmed down like kids in a little country school house and waited politely for me to speak. The silence almost knocked me back on my feet.

  “Now how the hell do I follow that up?” I said. “Uh, let me tell you a little story about how I first met Mr. Michael Aster.” Someone cheered at the mention of his name, then I proceeded to lay out the whole scenario, beginning with the simple intent to see the Godzilla flick and going straight through watching Danny shoot up for the first time, the selling of my urine, the assault of Mike’s berserk father, my and Danny’s panicked retreat out the window, all the way up to meeting the band backstage and my indecisive turmoil over whether or not to tell the story at all. The pitiful absurdity of the story had the crowd in stitches. I think hearing about their aloof, unapproachable, badass icon being involved in a domestic dispute as violent and silly as the situations they themselves were probably involved in on a day-to-day basis made the story even funnier.

  The story took a little over twenty minutes to tell. I filled up the rest of the time with a lot of my standard jokes, though I mixed in some brand new ones too. Near the end of the set I realized I was actually enjoying myself. In front of these twisted punks I could get away with some of my favorite, sickest, least appreciated jokes, jokes I could never hope to get away with even at the most underground of alternative comedy clubs. For example, I told them about my idea for a game show I planned to pitch to Fox Television. It was called Celebrity Date Rape. You could pick a normal, everyday shlub out of the studio audience to go out on a date with Bono or Sean Penn or Kylie Jenner or some other quasi-star like that. At some point during the date the contestant could rape the celebrity, in full view of the television audience, and as a reward the celebrity could have money sent to his or her favorite charity. The sick fuckers ate that one up like candy. Hell, I tried pulling that crap at The Land of Laughs in Oakland one night and almost got tossed off the stage.