I entered the kitchen and set the meal down on the counter. The place was a mess. The garbage bag was stuffed with so many empty beer cans that they had spilled over onto the floor. I considered placing some of the cans back into the trash when I heard a phone ringing; it seemed to be nearby. I pushed aside a pile of crushed Heineken cans on the counter to find a light blue phone lying there waiting to be answered.
I picked up the receiver and said, “Hello? Oswald residence.” A mechanical woman asked me if I would accept a collect phone call from L.A. County Jail. I said yes, then pressed 1.
A couple of seconds later I heard a Latino-sounding voice say, “You a fag?”
I paused for a moment before I said, “Rob?” (Or was it some other felon entirely?)
I suddenly realized I had never mailed the money order or the free copy of the Book of Mormon I had promised Rob.
“Hey, you a fag?” the voice repeated.
Had Danny scrawled his own number on the wall of the jail? In the past I might have engaged Rob (or whoever the hell it was) in a conversation just to learn the answer to that question, but now it didn’t seem worth it somehow. I hung up and left the kitchen.
Danny’s father was dry humping Griffin on the couch. He seemed to be enjoying it. So was she. The Peanut Gallery couldn’t have cared less. In the past I would’ve stuck around just to find out how this situation had arisen. Now I didn’t even have the energy. I don’t think anyone even noticed me leave.
I closed the door behind me and started to head back down the stairs. Something stopped me, however, drew me upwards to the roof.
I was amazed at how peaceful it was up there. I stood three stories above the street, one foot resting on the ledge, staring down at all the people walking back and forth on the trash-strewn sidewalk below. Pigeons surrounded me, cooing and pecking at the tiny pebbles that littered the rooftop. Perhaps they were searching for something to eat. Hell, I thought, I should’ve brought them the birthday meal.
I glanced around me, trying to view the place as Danny had viewed it on those nights so long ago when he used to sneak up here and practice his routines for the stars. At the moment, of course, it was the middle of the afternoon, but nevertheless I could imagine the full moon and the stars and the cool night wind blowing against Danny’s back. Behind me was a small bungalow that housed two washing machines and a dryer. Through the open doorway I noticed cigarette butts littering the bare concrete floor. I could almost see Danny sitting there in front of the washing machine at midnight, watching his clothes spin around and around, biting his fingernails as he nervously whispered the new routine he’d try out at Prospero’s the following night.
I turned to the pigeons and told them some of my old standard jokes, the ones that used to draw big laughs. I could no longer remember why I’d been so fond of them. I felt like a ninety year old man flipping through a tattered photo album of old girlfriends, wondering why he’d wasted so much of his lifetime chasing after so many worthless women. I tried out three of the jokes, but the pigeons simply looked at me with blank stares and said, “Coo?” I knew exactly how they felt.
I took one last look around, scoping out the taller buildings that surrounded me, spotting one or two unfamiliar faces staring down at yours truly with idle curiosity, then headed back toward the stairs.
Part of me missed Danny so much it hurt, burned deep down inside me, while another part of me never wanted to see him again. The sole personality trait we’d ever shared was a sick sense of humor that the rest of the universe didn’t understand. Somehow the situation had reversed; Danny and I had been left out of the loop while the rest of the universe seemed privy to an esoteric punchline neither of us could ever comprehend. If given the choice, I think I would’ve elected to remain out of the loop.
May 27th was a day of coincidences. Seeing Griffin made me think of Esthra. As I climbed back into Heather’s car I wondered what she and the rest of the band were doing now that Mike was in jail. I’d read in the L.A. Record that the prison had granted Mike the right to record a CD behind bars, but I’d heard nothing more about it for a couple of months.
Imagine my shock when I turned on the car radio to hear the DJ announcing a brand new song by Doktor Delgado’s All-American Genocidal Warfare Against The Sick And The Stupid live from within the hallowed halls of some local prison. I turned up the volume to hear Mike say, “This is a song I wrote a few weeks ago. It’s called ‘Not Fit to Survive.’ It’s a song about … well, I don’t know … just being alive, I guess. You know, it’s kind of like about … well … aw, fuck it. Just listen.” Feedback rolled out of the speakers like waves of pure anger, followed immediately by Mike’s voice, a voice that came across as tortured and serious and yet sarcastic and playful at the same exact time.
I’m not a Catholic priest with my cock up some boy’s hole I’m not a Hollywood whore with my lips around a Senator’s pole I’m not a cop with a baton and a burning cross
I’m not a journalist with the Pentagon for a boss
I’m not fit to survive
Not fit to survive
I’m not fit to survive
Not fit to survive
I’m not a President with a fat Swiss bank account
I’m not a white serial killer with human heads to mount
I’m not a Gulf War vet with a medal and a melting face
I’m not a scientist trying to destroy the human race
I’m not a school teacher with a ruler and a gun
I’m not a comedian with another idiotic pun
I’m not a CIA agent selling crack to teens
I’m not a writer with a bestseller on the screen
I’m not fit to survive
Not fit to survive
I’m not fit to survive
Not fit to survive
I’m not a psychiatrist shoving Prozac Pez down kids’ throats
I’m not a politician rigging all your damn votes
I’m not a doctor handing out toxic pills
I’m not a pharmacist with a prescription to kill
I’m not a librarian who doesn’t read books
I’m not a sedated wife who puts out and cooks
I’m not a rock star who can snort and sing
I’m not a coked-up pilot in a flying wing
I’m not fit to survive
Not fit to survive
I’m not fit to survive
Not fit to survive
I’m not a poet with a pretty little rhyme
I’m not a machine that can tell the exact time
I’m not a landlord who spits in your food
I’m not a colonel on Paxil and ludes
I’m not a terrorist planning a revolution
I’m not a biologist into human evolution
I’m not a televangelist with a tainted soul
I’m not a chemist into population control
I’m not fit to survive
Not fit to survive
I’m not fit to survive
Not fit to survive
I’m not fit to survive
Not fit to survive
I’m not fit to survive
Not fit to survive
As Mike’s mind-warping guitar solo drew the song to a close I wondered if that line about “a comedian with an idiotic pun” was about me. If so I found it rather strange. After all, I was never a big fan of puns and I was no longer a comedian. Perhaps I wasn’t fit to survive either then.
Perhaps.
I switched off the radio before the next song could begin. Right then a line from an old Lou Reed song floated up out of the recesses of my memory. How did it go exactly? Oh, yeah. “Some people are like human Tuinals.”
I drove the rest of the way home without music. Sometimes silence is better.
CHAPTER 23
The Only Known Cure for Premature Ejaculation
(May 30, 2015)
Heather and I were cuddled up in bed watching television. This was Saturday, our day of
f. The news happened to be on. We saw stories about the latest terrorist alert in Los Angeles, troop movements in Afghanistan, nuclear weapons in North Korea, the gang-related murders of innocent children in South Central, hate crimes inspired by religious demagogues in expensive suits. It all seemed rather familiar to me. One story stood out above the rest. It was a local story about an old naked man who had hobbled into a bank in North Hollywood in an attempt to rob it, armed only with a bamboo cane and a cigarette lighter. Believing the lighter to be a gun, the security guards shot him twice in the head. He died before he even hit the ground. Strangely, his entire body had been covered in a clear viscous liquid that remained unidentified.
The old man’s name was not known.
CHAPTER 24
Page 69
(June 7, 2015)
A brief article in the L.A. Weekly reported that someone in Los Feliz had been sneaking into bookstores at night and tearing out page 69 of almost every book in stock.
CHAPTER 25
The End of the World
(July 1, 2015)
On the way to work I happened to see a homeless man standing on a street corner. He had a long gray beard and a tattered robe, giving him the appearance of a down and out Moses. In his dirt-caked hands was a large cardboard sign that read “The Apocalypse Is Nigh!” I just stood there staring at him for a second, wondering if the man would recognize The End when it really came.
That night, this is what I wrote in my journal:
Nothing seems funny to me anymore. It’s hard for my old fans and colleagues to accept this. Many of them actually think I’m playing some kind of elaborate Andy Kaufman trick on them, that I’m still performing comedy in disguise, planning a future comeback that will somehow propel me into fame and fortune. The harder I try to convince them this isn’t true the more they believe it. As you might imagine, this can grow rather annoying. After hours of contemplation I’ve decided there’s only one solution to this problem: stop talking to my old fans and colleagues. Of course, this might fuel the myth even more but I don’t care. I don’t need their attention. If they want to accept me for what I’ve become, fine. If not, they can just leave me alone. As a very wise man once said, “There’s more important things in life than trying to impress people, on or off a stage.”
I haven’t laughed in a very long time. Occasionally I feel as if I should regret this, though I’m not sure why. Most of the time … most of the time I don’t think I would have it any other way.
Looking back on it, the Apocalypse might’ve been the best thing that ever happened to me.
To all of us.
CHAPTER 26
A Clown at Midnight
(August 23, 2015)
My scrapbook continued to grow. In Pasadena, CA someone had been dressing up like a clown—a colorful, happy happy Bozo-type clown, not like Ogo at all—and peeping into people’s bedroom windows at midnight, then running away in a pair of floppy crimson shoes. The culprit was still at large.
What kind of disturbed mind would dream up such an unnerving prank?
This question bothered me for months.
CHAPTER 27
A Peaceful Day
(December 26, 2015)
It was the day after Christmas, around four in the afternoon. I’d just heard the news about Karen. Marsha called and told me. I didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what to say. Heather hugged me and started crying, real heaving sobs. Jesus, she’d hated Karen more than anyone else. Nonetheless, she was another piece of our past now dead. A suicide. Apparently the jokes wouldn’t come anymore. She was left alone with her own reflection, and probably didn’t like what she saw.
I had to be alone. I just had to be. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be with Heather at that moment, it was just … I really don’t know how to explain it.
I decided to take a walk, to clear my head. The air was crisp and fresh, unusual for Los Angeles. Winds from the ocean had blown the smog farther north, removing the grayish curtain that obscured the distant mountain peaks for most of the year. There were few cars on the road. Everything was quiet. One of those rare, peaceful moments. The only other person on the sidewalk was a little boy crouched behind a nicely clipped hedge, playing with a brand new toy rifle. With one eye closed he was aiming it at invisible enemies, yelling “Pow! Pow!” Probably got it for Christmas, I thought. I glanced to my left to stare at an elaborate Christmas display someone had constructed on their lawn out of scrap wood and metal: a stylized sculpture of Santa Claus riding the back of a dolphin. I recalled walking by here the previous year, thinking, Only in California. At the time the decoration had struck me as … odd. Noteworthy somehow. Why?
I faced forward once again. I was almost upon the boy. He was only a few feet away now, staring down the barrel of the toy rifle while his finger idly caressed the trigger. I wondered if the thing shot bee-bees. He might poke his eye out if he wasn’t careful. Then there was an explosion. A fountain of wet redness sprayed out of the back of his head, which shattered into shapeless fragments. The rest of the body crumpled onto the sidewalk. The rifle dropped onto the manicured lawn with barely a sound.
I stood there staring at the madness for what must have been only a few seconds. No one came out of the surrounding houses. The neighborhood was still very quiet. The boy and I were alone. I kept walking, skirting a wide arc around the body. I shoved my hands deep into my jacket pockets and kept my eyes locked on the ground.
When I got home I crawled into bed with Heather. Tears still stained her eyes. I snuggled against her back. I gripped her tightly around the waist. She wanted to talk about the virus. I insisted on changing the subject. In the distance, I could hear sirens.
“I wonder what happened,” Heather said.
“I don’t know,” I said, almost believing my own deception. “Maybe some kind of an accident. I hope nobody’s gotten hurt.
“It’s hard to imagine,” I said after a few moments of silence, “anything going wrong on a peaceful day like this.”
I never told her what had happened. Never told her what I had witnessed.
CHAPTER 28
Radiation
(January 7, 2016)
Someone wearing a faux radiation suit slowly walked the perimeter of a Mobil Oil Refinery one morning with a Geiger counter in hand, causing panic to spread throughout a four-mile radius of the refinery. Neither the impostor nor the radiation suit were ever found.
CHAPTER 29
Insect Eyes
(January 18, 2016)
I was walking down the street on my way home from work late one night when I saw someone spray painting the outside of a Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf.
I think I saw the mural before I saw the person spray painting the mural. Your eyes could do nothing but linger on that expertly rendered image. Though half-finished, it was impressive. It depicted a cockroach with the head of Uncle Sam crucified to a cross that had been planted into a dirt mound. Safety pins held his tiny wiggling legs in place. Next to the mound was an unfinished black sneaker, oversized, perhaps added to indicate how small the insect really was. In the circle on the side of the sneaker, where the company logo would normally go, was a sloppy black anarchist symbol.
I overcame my initial surprise pretty quickly and managed to shout, “Hey, listen, you can’t just deface pri—!”
The painter spun around. It was some young girl, maybe sixteen, dressed in a wine-colored corduroy jacket, a black tank top, torn blue jeans, black sneakers with the laces flapping loose. Her face went white, but not as white as the fresh spray paint making up the rim of the giant sneaker; it looked like her sneaker. Her skin was naturally dark. She could’ve been Arabic, though I wasn’t certain. Details. I needed to remember details. She tore off down the street at a fast clip. The clattering sound of a metal spray can hitting the cement echoed between the buildings.
“Hey, wait!” I said, but she just kept running. She disappeared around a corner within seconds.
“Hey,” I said
to the darkness and the silence, “somebody needs to clean up this mess … right?”
I walked over to the fallen spray can. For a moment I had an urge to pick it up, grip the curved metal in the palm of my hand… .
I thought better of it. No. No, better let it lie there, Elliot. The police may need to dust it for fingerprints. This is official evidence.
Then I realized I didn’t even know the girl’s name. How much help could I be? Not much.
Nonetheless, I jogged over to a pay phone across the street (perhaps the last pay phone left in the city), plunked in a few dimes, and asked the police to come right away.
“It’s horrible,” I said, “what some people will do to other people’s property. You know how long it takes to open up a business like this? These bums who aren’t willing to work for a living, why don’t they just keep to themselves instead of ruining everybody else’s lives?”
I glanced over my shoulder at the cockroach. So finely detailed. Such craftsmanship. Why couldn’t a talented person like that find a real job somewhere?
“Why do you think?” said the gravelly voice on the other line. An older woman with a smoker’s cough. “’cause they’re sick in the head. There’re as bad as terrorists.”
“Sick?” I said. “Yeah, that’s it. I think you’re right. They’re ill. Mentally ill.”
“No use worrying about it,” the woman said. “There’s nothing you can do … except give me your exact location.”
I gave it to her slow, so she wouldn’t miss a syllable. I was so happy, so pleased to be of service. All the while I couldn’t stop looking at that cockroach. It seemed to be staring right through me.
I was glad the thing would be gone soon, so I wouldn’t have to see its eyes anymore on the way to work or coming back home.
Those tiny insect eyes… .
CHAPTER 30
Until the Last Dog Dies Page 22