by Van Quattro
My seat is in the back of the plane, the smoking section. As soon as the landing gear goes up I am opening up some vodka from my purchases. I want to soak in the love I have left behind and how faithful I will be going back to fucking Los Angeles. God I hate that place. I don’t want to go back there, it’s so goddamn fake. I really hate everyone there. They just want the next important thing. They don’t give a shit about anyone. I am sick of every street and alley, the smog filled valleys and all the people that think they are better than me. I’d rather stay in this plane and circle the fucking earth.
Seatbelt sign goes off and my booze pours. I start crying like a fucking baby, silently heaving and dripping in sheets. These are tears from before I was born. This is water from the womb of my sad birth.
One of the pretty stewardesses stops and sits with me.
“Hey, honey you going to be okay?” I can’t even talk, I just weep waves of sorrow and I only slightly wonder if she thinks I am good looking.
“Yeah, I love someone so much and I had to leave them.”
“Well, you’ll get back to them. We go both ways. What happened to your face? Cat scratch you up?”
“Yeah.” I find the center of my storm and quiet down for a moment. She smiles sweetly and gets up to go. There is only one way to reach out to Jill right now, so I’ll write her a letter and hope she can feel my love. I will send it as soon as I land.
This is going to be truthful and I am not going to hold anything back. She deserves the roses of my heart for everything I put her through.
‘Dear Jill, my beautiful queen without a throne. (I like that, and I think she will too, and I really feel that way because she seems so tragically regal). You rule the land of my heart and soul.’ (True and kinda poetic). I am an explorer and must leave, only for a while, but I will return as true as you never knew. (It means I’ll be better than I have ever been and it actually rhymes). I am thinking of you in this metal tube hurling through time and you will be with me every step I take on the awful ground of L.A. You will be my faith, my hope and my desire and I won’t be at peace till I get back to you (That part has me dropping a few more tears and God has them land on the page as a testimony to her. I smear it a little so it will be clear where it landed).
This was a tear, my dear, and it couldn’t be stopped just as my love can’t be stopped. It will live like this stain, forever, like the shroud (I think shroud is the right word. The Jesus thing. Anyway I’m going with it because it sounds powerful and if it is right, all the better). Jill I will be true and can’t wait till I get back to you. Allow me back in to your heart, my Queen. I will walk to your throne then embrace you as if you were the core of love itself. Please forgive me. I will take your pain and bury it in the joyful sands of my love (Man I don’t know where that came from but I’m going with it. Maybe this is the part of me that’s the writer. I kiss the letter and sign off).
I want to be your heartbeat. Love Van.
P.S. Keep the oven warm (I put that in because I am feeling randy about her, plus she will like it, I hope).
I gently put the letter in the top pocket of my shirt and get back to drinking. No one is sitting next to me, which is good because I don’t really want to talk. Words can’t get close to the importance of my mission, plus it probably would be some dumbass American Reagan loving yuppie motherfucker.
I put my headphones on and listen to Bob Dylan’s, ‘Blood on the Tracks,’ and drink till I don’t. ‘You’re a Big Girl Now,’ reminds me of her. I release more slouching quiet tears.
I sleep the Atlantic and wake up around Chicago, the pretty Stewardess tells me. I am all soggy with tears and vodka. She smiles again and I wonder if she would go out with me. I don’t know where we would go, I don’t even have a car. It’s just a thought. I would never ask her because I love Jill, plus I don’t think she would go out with me anyway, but I do love Jill. I need water or a soda so bad, my mouth feels like it’s been sucked out by a vacuum cleaner. I guzzle a seven up.
We cross in to California and my stomach feels like shit. The desert makes me want to throw up. I’m fucking agitated and pissed. I can hear some sweet folks saying happy things and getting very excited about approaching Los Angeles. Yeah well, good for them, I guess. The wasteland we’re over called San Bernardino is a fucking omen, miles of houses that look the same draped in smog and boredom. The land is all brown and trash strewn. Maybe a few boats scattered about belonging to a cop or government worker. They load up their beers and their Bachman Turner Overdrive cassettes and head for the lake where they float around like some proud bloated keepers of American values.
I don’t want to see the streets of Glendale, my family, or any of the fucking fancy cars or hip dive bars. I ‘ve changed and that story isn’t mine anymore. Fuck my older brother and his friends. Every time I used to see them they’d look at me like I was Charles fucking Manson. Then they’d look at my brother as if to say, ‘how did you end up with him in your family?’ Then there’s my dad who feels the same way, like I’m some loser. I don’t even think I want to see him. He wouldn’t know England from Burbank. One of the best compliments he ever paid me was when I slashed my wrist. I was in the bathroom cutting away with a razor, when he talked me in to coming out. When he saw my wounds he punched me in the face breaking his hand. I hit the wall and was knocked out, blood splattered everywhere, and then he got even madder because his clothes got blood on them so he left me lying there while he changed. I was taken to the hospital for stitches and while we were there he got a cast put on his wrist. At least we were able to take care of two things at once. He had to wear it all that summer. One day when he was in the pool and had his arm raised high to keep it dry he laughed and said,
“I’ll tell you what, that son of a bitch has a hard head. You gotta give that to him.” And I laughed with him. I have no idea why. I felt like a dumb shit for doing it.
On the screen there is a commercial for the show, Dallas, and it makes me want to fucking throw something at it. Jill likes to watch it, but I think it’s stupid like most of the T.V. shows. I watch some of, Charlie’s Angels, because I’m in love with the brown haired woman, Jaclyn Smith. But T.V. sucks bad. Then there’s the local news people that try to pretend they’re part of your family. Man, they would not want to be in my family. Ha, it would scare their fucking hair off. Plus, I wouldn’t even let them in. They’re not talking to me with their pretentious smiles and fake serious reporting. Nobody talks about the real shit anyway. Show me a program that deals with equality and fairness and I might stop feeling like a fucking alien in this world. I had a therapist tell me to see the glass half full instead of half empty. Well you know what? Maybe I started with a fucking full glass but people kept draining it. It ended up damn empty, so what am I supposed do I do with that? Why bother? The world has a fucking straw; just fill the glass with booze.
I’m pretty sure I can stay with my older sister for a few weeks; she lives in Burbank with her son who’s ten. She works as a checker for a supermarket and is pretty nice. She’s had nervous breakdowns and gets depressed a lot. Her son is awesome, a very cool kid.
I have a couple of quick drinks before we land smoothly at LAX.
Here we are, land of the phony balonies. I don’t even want to look at people because they are so stuck up. I am so much better than them.
I catch a shuttle in to Burbank. We have to make about a hundred stops dropping people off before I get there.
My sister is home when I arrive. I have some more drinks and start telling her about my trip. She smiles plenty and says, “Wow,” and, “Really?” But I can tell she doesn’t have a clue about the importance of everything. I call Jill because I need to hear her voice, to remind me again that it’s all true.
“Hello,” she says in a wispy sleepy voice.
“Jill.”
“Oh hello my darling.”
“You sleeping?”
“Yes, it’s four in the morning here.”
“Ah man, I
am sorry I forgot.”
“Not a problem. You’re fine then? You made it back all right?”
“Yes I’m good. I miss you so much though. My heart is as heavy as a bag of sand with an anvil in it. I sent you a letter as soon as we landed.”
“I miss you too my dear. Let’s talk soon?”
“Uh, okay. I love you, bye.” She hangs up. I think she’s over me already and I’m about as real as a festering boil to her. I hate it. There are thousands of miles between us and I can’t do a fucking thing. I can’t just go over and make her want me, or try to make her smile, I have to sit here and be freaked out. I can’t even call her back till tomorrow or something.
I unpack a little and find a new book written by Lindsey Anderson. It’s all about the film director John Ford. Lindsey is a big fan of Fords. On the first page is a note,
‘Dear Van, thank you for your appreciation. I hope you enjoy this book’, with his signature. He liked my letter! I set the book next to me on the bed and go to sleep. Man, I never met him but I feel like I know him.
I dream that I met David Bowie and we hung out. He was asking my opinion about some songs he wrote and he loves my ideas so we co write a song called, ‘Leave my Life,’ about a guy who can’t live in the real world any more so he becomes a bird, but the bird falls to earth and becomes a man again only different than before. He sees everything instead of what his brain tells him to. Hell I have no idea what it means but it is was cool anyway.
I wake up and the first thing I do even before cigarettes and coffee is call Jill. She sounds normal, like she still likes me. I tell her I’m counting the hours till I see her again, and she says she is too. It makes me feel great starting my day.
I borrow my sister’s car and go see Whammy. I bring over all my show and tell stuff. He knows who all the people are that I’m talking about and keeps saying,
“NOOOOOOOO WAAAY. See I knew you were supposed to be somebody. I knew you weren’t going to kill yourself that time. See what you would have missed if you did?” And I’m kinda like yeah, and I feel like the kid with the best show and tell ever.
A few days go by and I’m doing pretty good. L.A. is okay if you know you can get the fuck out soon. Time passing doesn’t help much with forgetting about Deirdre. She is still very much in me somewhere but I’m not sure where. I think it’s in a very sad place though.
I stay away from shadowy places and try to keep my heart clean.
It’s four O’clock on a January seventy-degree afternoon and I stare at the telephone trying to get the courage to call Coral Browne. I don’t want to drink because I really want to do something real. All of sudden my fingers catch my brain by surprise and I dial the number. The area code is 214,so it must be Beverly Hills or something. A man answers and he sounds just like him. Just like in the movies, soft, creepy and mysterious, but only friendly.
“Yes, good afternoon. Whom am I speaking with?” I hate it when people say that, especially important people. When I tell them my name they’ll know I’m a nobody and just make an excuse not to talk to me.
“Hi, my name is Van Quattro and I am a friend of Jill Bennett’s in England and she said to give Coral Browne a call when I got back here. So I am.”
“What did you say your name is?”
“Van Quattro.”
“A very unusual and wonderful name, Van. Coral is not in at the moment but I will tell her you called.”
“Okay, that would be great, thank you.” I need to keep him on the phone longer so I can hear his voice some more and have something more cool to tell people.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Van? You sound American, are you American?”
“Yes, but I was just in England for about eight months.”
“Working?”
“Well sort of. I’m an actor and I had some auditions and stuff.” I said I’m an actor again. I have to get used to saying it even if I don’t believe it.
“Well that’s wonderful Van. I’m sure Coral would love to chat with you. I will give her your message as soon as she gets in. It’s been a pleasure chatting with you.”
“Okay you as well.” I want to tell him I loved his movies growing up but I am not one hundred per cent sure it’s him. I mean it sure sounds like him. Oh, What the hell.
“I really like all your movies.”
“Well thank you so much Van. I so enjoyed making them.” IT’S HIM. Ha, Wow, how fucking cool is this?
“Yeah, I’ll bet…Okay then, thanks, bye.”
“Goodbye Van, we will talk to you soon.” Man I am becoming kinda famous here too.
Greg shows his feelings much more than Whammy so it’s very rewarding to tell him all about my adventures. Plus his older sister is married to this guy who thinks he is a writer and has called me a fuck up so wait till he gets a load of all this stuff. Ha.
Fucking time crawls by. I can’t stand it. I want to get back to England but I need more money and I’m still working on the passport thing. I call Jill every day. She says she misses me more than ever. We talk about going on a vacation when I return to her, maybe Greece or Spain or something. I’m like, hell yes. I tell her I’m working hard so I can save up some money. Damn these phone calls to her alone cost three dollars a minute, but I’ll work as much as I can.
I haven’t seen any family other than my sister yet. My older brother works in a radiator shop and on the weekends he and the guys he works with get together to play poker. I give him a call and tell him I want to come by and see him but he acts like he doesn’t want me to. I want to be there when all his numbskull friends are with him because I am so much smarter than these radiator flushing Huey Lewis and the News motherfuckers. He finally says okay.
They’re listening to, ‘Band on the Run.’ I’m wearing the striped pink, green and white shirt with a scarf. There are six of them and they’re drinking fucking Coors, skunk piss beer. My brother stands up when I go to the table to shake his hand but at the last minute I grab his face and give him a kiss on each cheek. Ha. He pushes me away,
“What the fuck are you doing?” his friends are looking at each other in disbelief. “What did you turn into some kind of fag over there?” my brother yells at me. His face is red. I think it’s funny as shit. In an English accent I say,
“Oh, you Americans are so uptight, this is the way everybody in Europe greets each other.” I flip my head back like Ava for some reason. I’m not sure I wanted to do that. I have no idea where all this is coming from, I didn’t plan it.
“That’s’ because they’re all fags over there,” he says. None of his friends are saying a thing, they’re in shock. I grab him and try to kiss him again. He shoves me back harder. “Stop Van or get the fuck out.”
“Oh okay, some day you’ll understand. We are years behind over here.”
He sits down. The card game seems to lose its fun. Good, fuck ‘em. They all look baffled.
“I like Lennon better than McCartney. Jill used to date Lennon and said I was a lot like him.” Nobody says a word and I’m like, fuck you guys you can’t even comment on that? I go to the table and eat some chips and dip in their faces. They sit there. I’m thinking, good, fuck you pricks for all the times you mighta blown me off.
“You know they don’t even play card games in England they consider it crass…yeah, they do a lot of things different.”
“I don’t give a fuck Van. I want you to leave now.”
“What? What did I do? It’s not my fault you guys are uncultured and haven’t been anywhere.” The guys start excusing themselves one by one and head for the door. I wait for one of them to say something because I’ll crush him. I want to fucking hurt someone. I stare them down as they leave waiting for even a raised eyebrow but they go without a twitch. Fucking pussies.
“See what you did? What Van? You have to fuck everything up like always?”
“I didn’t fuck anything up. You guys were fucked up before I got here. They fucking left on their own, I didn’t tell them to
leave. They must not be very good friends I guess.”
“WHY VAN? YOUV’E BEEN AN ASSHOLE SINCE YOU WERE BORN, THAT’S WHY NO ONE WANTS TO BE AROUND YOU.”
“Oh right, I’m the asshole when you treated me like shit? You never cared about me, you only cared about your fucking hairdo and your girlfriends. You didn’t even know I was in Juvey. I was gone most of my teens and you had no fucking clue. So don’t fucking tell me shit about anything. Go fix your fucking hair.”
“You were in Juvey?”
“For almost two years you dick.”
“Why shouldn’t I treat you like shit you fucking scared the shit out of mom. Dad doesn’t want anything to do with you…you and your drugs and weirdness.”
“You hated me before I was weird. You don’t even know me. Fuck you and your stupid Ruffle chips and dips, you think that’s fucking gourmet, it’s such a stupid thing to put on the table. All of you go to hell and take your onion dip with you. Ha, fucking sour cream and onion soup package, how creative. You’ll look up to me someday and I’ll tell everyone of you to kiss my ass, just wait.”
I leave. I walk out. I mean every word. I get in the car and drive away. After two blocks I pull over because I’m crying so fucking hard. Harder than a rainstorm I went through in Texas once. I’m sorry for what just happened but I hate them. Not everything he said was true, I mean I am a fuck up but…Jill said it’s not my fault. She said they did awful things…I don’t know…I still hate them though.
I call Jill every chance I can. I don’t say too much about not liking it here, I just stick to how much I love her and need her. She gives me strength to trudge on.
I find out that unless my dad changes our last name back to the original version, ‘Quattrocchi,’ the Italian embassy won’t recognize a name change and I can’t get my Italian passport. My dad changed it when he was eighteen in New York because it was too ethnic sounding. To change it back would be very simple, all he has to do is sign some papers. He could still use Quattro, but legally it would be changed back to the original. Then I can get my Italian passport. I have all the documents needed, my grandparents’ passports, my mom and dad’s marriage license. Fucking funny man, my mom scratched out the date of their marriage and wrote in a new one that was six months earlier. She did it because she was pregnant with my older sister. I’ve heard rumors that my dad isn’t even her father. She tries to be sneaky but I saw it big time. I had their birth certificates, and my birth certificate, all originals. I tracked all this stuff down and it wasn’t easy. I don’t know, I’m thinking my dad might come around and do this thing. Then I will be totally European. It would be so great. I might like forgive him or something. I mean, who knows, this could be a beginning for us. A bond we can share. He really owes me I think.