Love Lucky

by Van Quattro

“Okay then…”

  “Yes, we were talking about you.”

  “Oh yeah, who?”

  “Why Ava and I dear boy.”

  “Oh okay. What were you saying?”

  “Well…for one she says she wants you to paint her kitchen ceiling.”

  “Oh yeaaaaaah.” Fuck, I love you God.

  “And we mentioned how you are such an interesting and refreshing young man.”

  “Oh thanks, fab gere.”

  “Fab gere?”

  “George Harrison says that in hard days’ night.”

  “Ah yes. The Beatles.”

  “You like the Beatles?”

  “Yes we all do here, I suppose.”

  “Me too.”

  “We want to throw you a little party and we want to serve American drinks. Ava says tequila. I’ve never had it. Do you like it?”

  “Yes I love it I used to go down to Tijuana to buy the good stuff. I can make marguerites.”

  “Then there it is; we shall have a tequila party in your honor. Just two or three people. Here, Ava wants to talk to you”

  “Hey baby, are you going to call me about my kitchen? I need that done pronto. That color is driving me fucking crazy. I want it to be off white but it is off white, I don’t know what the hell to do, you can help me. I’ll pay you. I just want it to be off white to go with the goddamn trim. Anyway ring me tomorrow honey, we’ll get this taken care of. Don’t call me early though, make it after noon then we can have this damn tequila party for you. Okay. Night. Bye.”

  Oh Yeaaaah, she said something about painting last night. Saved, thank you Jesus.

  I have to find a way to remember this stuff. Maybe carry around a pad and pencil or something. I can make some money working at her house. She is probably richer than hell so I won’t have to give a real cheap price. Yahoo baby, I can probably stay here an extra week or so. And they’re going to have a party for me, a fucking tequila party. Oh, Whammy eat your heart out. If I die right now I will be happy and will have achieved more than anyone in my family. I’ve been onstage in front of people, I have been out of the country, I have almost died over three times, I have met very famous people, and most of all they are going to have a party in my honor. Take that America, this is European scarf-wearing shit. I feel brave.

  Life can sure have some last minute rescues. I do wonder why it sometimes chooses not to bail you out. I always think it’s because of some miserable thing I did or thought, or thought I did, or will do. Oh well… I’m good for now. I wonder who Ava thinks I am more like Hemmingway or Sinatra? I know who I think I’m like.

  I sleep good and late. I hear the rumblings of my bunkmates but snooze on past the rush. It’s noon before I get some coffee and a cucumber and butter sandwich. What the hell, how am I supposed to know it was really fucking cucumbers sliced on white bread with butter, who the hell would ever think of that? I guess it’s good for you or something, but I won’t ever order it again.

  I call Ava and she sounds unsure of the reason. I mention finding an off white for her ceiling and she asks me to come over straight away.

  Sunny days in England are fucking royal, that’s all; blue and white, puffy and clear, vibrant. It demands your attention. It sure gets mine along with a pocket full of posies.

  Ava’s maid Carmen and the blunted German shepherd meet me at the door. As we walk in the dog starts running the rooms like speed racer. It goes up the walls, couches, under furniture and back again at the speed of sound. It’s what I look like when I pretend I’m retarded.

  The radio’s on in the kitchen playing oldies from the sixties and I hear Ava in there talking away. I wonder with who…Mickey Rooney, Howard Hughes?

  I greet her in the kitchen and my knees wiggle. She has on another white open buttoned blouse that reveals woman from the beginning of time. I vision her draped with jewels in the water glowing from the moonlight, and dancing barefoot in the streets of clay. Her dog breaks my spell by crashing into my leg. Her eyes are a bit puffy today but they still flash like a coy leopard.

  “Hello darling.” She’s tenderly pan-frying some steak for the dog that’s spinning like the Tasmanian devil at her ankles.

  “Wow, your dog gets steak?”

  “Everyday almost every meal. So what do you think I should do with this darn ceiling?” I look up study it and get real grateful for people who think they have problems but don’t.

  “Uh…well…what were you thinking of?”

  “Oh I don’t know. Its just so damn boring.” Well the walls are white and the ceiling is white. I mean not white white, just a little off white. I don’t know what to tell her so I just stand here. I’m nervous thinking of how she needs her ceiling painted like I need a reason to feel bad about myself. She don’t and I don’t. I stare at the ceiling importantly pretending to grind my wheels about the color when I’m really thinking about how this ceiling deal is going to fall apart because she doesn’t need it painted and any minute she’s going to realize it and I’ll be heading back to L.A before our tequila party.

  “Well…you could try something with a little blue in it to give it some color…you know, like blue.”

  “Oh no, no blue, there’s this damn off white beige-i.e. Color I have in my head and I haven’t seen it anywhere.”

  “I could get some color chips, if they have them here in England. Do you think they do? They must…right?”

  “Oh honey yeah, I’m sure they do. I don’t want to go through all that bullshit. Lets just pick something. Here get this.” She hands me a magazine and points out a color on the page. I find a paint store only a few minutes from her place. She gives me some cash and I return with her paint and change. Weird, they call paint emulsion here and its all thick like pudding.

  Ava’s place is staring to feel familiar to me and it’s a cool feeling. I mean, I like see her coffee pot and toaster oven, and there are couple crumbs around it. There’s a dirty pan on the stove. I know where her linens belong and what one of her bathrooms looks like. I see her cigarette butts with lipstick marks in fancy ashtrays on the kitchen counter. I want to know her. I want to hear what her ashes and crumbs say.

  They do a pretty good job at the store matching the paint, but it still looks white to me. I put it up. It’s a bit darker than what’s already there.

  The radio station is playing ‘Donna,’ by Richie Valens. He’s going on and on about her, “OOOOOHH DONNA,” when Ava yells from the other room,

  “OH FUCK DONNA. What a pathetic song so whiney. Donna, Donna. You like that song?”

  “No. Not really, not my type.” She walks in the kitchen with a pretty little headshake and smirk. Man, I don’t want her to see me as a painter guy. Not what I want her to identify me as. I want to be the man with the potential to be her greatest influence yet. She will talk of my soulfulness and talent during interviews.

  “Thank God honey. Oooooohhhh Dooooooonnnna, pathetic…you know what song I like? What’s that one about that girl that’s a bartender near the ocean?” She starts humming.

  “Oh yeah that’s ‘Brandy.’”

  “Yeah brandy, that’s the one. ‘Brandy you’re a fine girl,’ oh I adore that song. Do you like that song honey?”

  “Uh yeah, it’s good.” I really think it’s just all right, they used to play it a lot, but I never bought it or anything.

  “So which part of the ceiling is the new paint? I can’t tell.” I point it out. She puts her hand to her chin and does a hip dip, I wait.

  “No, that’s not it. That’s not what I had in mind. Oh, where can I find that color? Maybe I have never seen it but just imagined it?” She gives a hard laugh and looks right at me. “What? Don’t look at me like that honey. You look like Frank. He used to give me that look all the time.” Well dang, when she told me the ceiling wasn’t right all I did was look at her like, ‘okay what’s next?’ It wasn’t mean or anything just sort of a smirk.

  She doesn’t seem mad in fact she’s playful. I’m positive Sinatra is mo
re my style because he’s more of a romantic guy than an adventure dude, like me. Plus, I don’t like killing bulls and all that stuff Hemmingway was in to.

  We decide to leave the ceiling half painted and try to find a better color tomorrow. I finish cleaning up and I’m hoping she’ll offer me a drink, but instead she ushers me out the door like a Fuller brush salesman. Disappointment blows bubbles from my pores all around the room. At least I know I’ll see her tomorrow.

  ‘They say the immigrants steal the hubcaps off respected gentlemen, they say it would be wine and roses if England were for Englishmen again.’ Side two record two of Sandinista. On the bus ride back to my bed place I watch the city lights spread throughout this wonderland. I take off my earphones so they don’t distort my reflection in the bus window. I try to recreate my Frank look to Ava. This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I didn’t even try to look like him, it was natural. It has to be a sign of sorts. Yeah?

  I want a drink to celebrate. Should I take a chance and spend my last quids? You bet baby. Life doesn’t wait for you, you have to grab it by the balls. So I hit the ‘Crack in Butt’ pub. Pour me one matey. I don’t talk to anyone but I feel totally mingled anyway. Sometimes I believe in things in the summertime and they can stick to me like blessing dressing.

  Ava and I do close to the same drill for the next couple of days. She changes the color three times more. It’s fine with me because I get to hang with her. I’m too self conscience to ask her any real questions about her life so I just throw glances that say I might know more than I’m showing and later in in life I’m going to know a hell of a lot more than I do now, so if I’m not that interesting right now, stick around because I will be.

  We are at the end of our third day with a color much similar to the one she started with. She pays me a hundred and fifty pounds. I’m struck speechless. I dream of bars, music and maybe even changing where I live, it’s pretty damn spit bucket around there.

  She says she wants to make me a Pimm’s drink, the way she makes it. Not the way everybody else makes it. Hell yeah, I don’t have to spend my money to start my buzz tonight.

  “They make them all phony, honey. You have to know the right ingredients, and most certainly the right amounts, and I know dammit ‘cause I have made these for kings baby. Now here try this.”

  I love that she said phony.

  It’s a clear drink with some kind of red color floating around in it, like a drop of blood in water. It tastes tangy with a touch of fruitiness, pungent and strong. I dig it.

  “Oh wow this is very good.” I want to guzzle it and get another but I’ll make it last at least four sips, I’m trying to grow up here. She makes herself one and we sit across from each other. She’s wearing a tan skirt that quits at her knees with a paisley blouse. She looks good. I mean for an older woman I guess, but is Ava Gardner ever considered an older woman? Her legs look nice as she crosses them. Not wrinkly or anything. She’s very curvy yet defined, and her breasts look firmer than Tess’s. I mean I don’t know if I’m supposed to look at her like this because she is a movie star and old, but then again who the fuck am I to even think I could fuck the older Venus. But here’s the thing: I do look at her like that, underneath all my trying to seem mysterious, respectful, good looking and entertaining, I wonder what it would be like to have sex with her. Can’t help it.

  Not nasty sex, but just like, older woman, beautiful actress, wealth of knowledge caressing, big breasted, bragging rights over the moon, sex.

  She makes me another Pimm’s and we talk, keeping the conversation very topical -the weather, liking England better than America, stuff like that. Every once in a while I’ll try to sneak in a question about acting or her past, but they’re very vague questions like,

  “Did you go to acting school?” Really lame attempts to get inside her bloodstream.

  “Ha, Ha, honey, no not me. The studios took us right off the streets in those days. I didn’t know a thing. They had people who would work with us, but for the most part we just smiled and walked where they told us.”

  “Who were your favorite actors?”

  “Oh, dear, I don’t know. Ill tell you who I couldn’t stand was that Chuck Heston. He was the most boring son of a bitch I ever met. Just stood there looking like he had to go to the goddamn bathroom all the time. Ha, ha, ha.” She flips her head again, strokes her hair with her hand, and her eyes glaze with a devilish candor that is so fucking beautiful. It makes her look much younger. Our eyes lock and with the help of these strong ass, very tasty drinks, they linger a couple of beats longer than reality. Oh, fuck yeah, she has this lonely look about her and even though I am fucking sure I have nothing near anything to complete her life, or even repair any part of it, I feel compelled to offer her my shallow guidance to a place of solace that will ensure my signature on her heart.

  “Was there someone you loved the most?” I ask. Her face changes from bright to dim. I can hear the limb cracking. I drink the rest of my drink in a final apologetic gulp. When I hit the ground the limb lands on my head, the room politely silent.

  “Oh I loved them all honey.” I’m so glad she already paid me. Fuck.

  “Oh Yeah, that makes sense.”

  “Oh does it?” Now she is cross-examining me, I think.

  “Yeah, I mean sure, like everything’s okay, sorta, right?”

  “You bet baby.”

  “Cool.”

  “Okay then. I am tired honey, all this talk of love has me exhausted. Time you’re on your way. Let’s be in touch. We’ll see you soon. Bye baby.” I’m out. Just like that. I want to take back my life to the point before my birth. Yes, where I am emerged in water and can just slightly hear my dad yelling at my mom.

  I stop at a pub ‘The Pigs Balls,’ or something and get drunk. I don’t want to waste a good buzz gone bad.

  This is probably the last I’ll ever hear from Ava. I mean shit, what the fuck was I thinking. Ill bet she’s never told anyone who she loved the most, except maybe Frank. I’ll bet ya even more he was the one, because if you date Frank Sinatra and he’s not the love of your life…well who the fuck would be? Some extra she picks up on the set for a drunken tumble? Damn, I’m not even as good as some fucking lucky ass stagehand that happens to find Ava on one of her lost nights. And I was in her damn house. Like I said, I don’t even know if I would do it with her but I want to be wanted enough to be in that very awkward situation. I want something to base my future on. Now it’s all blown to shit.

  I move to a place in North London called, Highgate. Only two per room so it’s getting better each time I move. The guy I spoke with sounds Irish or something. It’s way up on the black tube line but that’s cool, I want to be all over the place. I get off the tube to walk around places like St. Johns Wood from the Rolling Stones song, ‘Play with Fire,’ and Hampstead from the Pretenders song, ‘Middle of the Road.’ It seems everywhere is a place about something. I went to Abbey Road Studios, and ‘Willesden Green,’ from the Kinks song. Planning to go to Brixton to see where the ‘Guns of Brixton’ are. If I can find out where Penny lane is I’ll go there as well, but there are so many streets that seem like they could be it. Every song and every word I have visualized is unfolding in my days and nights. ‘I Don’t Wanna Go to Chelsea,’ saw a place called Chelsea on the tube map, for sure I’m going there. I wish, as I always do, that I can find a love, ‘Right as Rain’ to share all this with.

  I go all over the city to keep my mind off Charles and Ava. I find another really cool place called Leicester Square. Lots of people hanging out and some people tell me about the club scene at night. I even buy some really good pot there.

  There’s a couple of pubs near my new home in North London and some of the guys go over and hang out in the evenings. I follow along as the drinking Yank. When I get a buzz going I want music on, I want to relate and emote through that music, and rock and roll is my choice. These guys sing these really deep sounding Irish songs along with the jukebox. They
sway their mugs in the air with the lyrics. It’s such a cool movement I don’t dare interrupt. The songs are jolly for a while then they start playing these angry ones and scream out battle cries against the English. I mean it’s really great to see the camaraderie but they get fucking serious. I mean I like that they have such a passion about this stuff but, I’m really liking the English and feel weird about my allegiances. These guys look like they’re ready to slit throats or throw a bomb now.

  In the morning like clockwork they are nice as children again and sweetly tell me they want me to have some of their haggis casserole tonight.

  “You’ll fookin love it, mate.”

  Four days pass since I’ve seen Ava and I figure I’ll ride out my current drinking binge before I try to contact them again. I figure I need to gather some of my own life right now. It’s not like I told Ava I loved her or anything, shit I don’t know.

  During the day I start going in to central London and walking around looking for construction sites to see if they need extra help. I’m ready to do anything; I like my life here, (except for the rotten haggis pie I had to fucking eat last night) and want to stay. Some dudes with thick cockney accents give me a job and tell me to show up for work tomorrow morning. I’m not going to drink tonight because I want to be ready to make an impression in the a.m.

  I roll over to the sound of my weeny alarm and it’s dark as hell out. I rise, I plug in my earphones and listen to David Bowie’s, ‘Station to Station,’ fucking perfect for my tube ride. It’s like being in the intestines of the night, chugging through to daylight.

  We work in a four story flat in Bayswater. I told them I’m a painter but they say they don’t need a painter right now, so they have me hiking eighty pound bags of cement to the top floor. They are gutting the building so it’s bare bones. The stairwell is dusty and cranky, all skeletal like. I haul the sacks like they’re children being saved from hell. The devil curses my back all day but the bloke bosses are impressed. I hope my zest is earning me steady work.