Love Lucky

by Van Quattro

  Man it’s a good thing I had that drink ‘cause I probably wouldn'ta survived those slamming’s. I get to where I can walk the waves and I notice my chest is all red. I put my hand up and there is blood all over my face, it's flowing down my body. What the fuck? Jill comes running over to me and tells me I have a large gash in my head. I don’t feel too bad or anything but she says it needs a doctor. We wrap my head in a towel and get a cab to the clinic in town. The place is not too far away, it’s a two story storm beaten wood house with all the windows open and fans spinning like some Tennessee Williams play. We go upstairs and there are three wooden tables for the patients. The guy next to me has a major cut on his thigh that looks like it came from a damn machete and is getting sewn up. We sit and wait. I’m thinking this is the best thing ever; flies are buzzing around, everybody is sweating. Jill tells me how wonderful I looked water skiing and how concerned she is about my head. I tell her it’s nothing and that I probably hit my head on one of the skis. A good looking lady doctor comes in with a cigarette hanging from her mouth. She gives me a numb shot right inside the wound then stitches it up. Ten minutes and it’s done, only fifteen stitches, hell it's nothing. This is the way I like to be: wounded through adventure and adored.

  We only get in one fight during the week, otherwise it's quite enjoyable. We play tennis on clay, eat thousands of camarones, sun and nap. We even go to a disco one night. This is where Jill gets mad at me for dancing alone. What the hell, she doesn’t want to anymore. I'm just getting started and she just dulls out. She calls me a shit and takes a taxi back to the hotel. I stay and party. The place is mostly filled with white people but it's okay, I guess. It's way late so I start to walk back to the hotel. I stop and eat seven tacos at a street stand. People have always said you shouldn't eat at the carts on the road because you have no idea what kind of meat you’ll be munching but it tastes okay to me, plus all the tequila in my stomach should kill any bad shit. I stroll around like some kinda local, a local that would be out at three or four in morning. Shit, it doesn’t seem so dangerous. I'm not really scared but I do walk a bit faster in the dark spots. Habit I guess.

  I feel free. While she sleeps I roam the forbidden streets. This is my new life where I'll take anything on without fear or shame. Bring it on, banditos and friends. I’ll be one man for once, one person to all, the same guy, shameful, speechless and dumb to none. It’s very hard having a different personality for everyone I meet. Jill has taught me who I am. I am as wild and powerful as the lightning flashing at the end of the ocean right now. Nature's display is for me, a sign from God. Every lightning blast I raise my hands to God thanking him. I feel so strong, strong enough to face my life. I wish I had some more tequila for the rest of the walk back.

  And just like that we are back in Burbank. I cancel the reservation for the one night at the hotel before Jill leaves. I tell her they’re full up and she can sleep with me at my sisters. I really need to save some money, and I don't know, maybe I don't feel like I have to impress her anymore or something. I did spend a lot in Mexico, she spent as well, but I am poorer than her.

  The bedroom is so tiny. I'm not exaggerating; it's almost as small as my cell in juvenile hall. We're on this single bed together all crammed in. We chat and breathe all over each other. We don’t say much about the future except that we shall miss each other; nothing about a next visit. I ask her if she really has a man back in London and she simply says, “Indeed I do.” We make love on the small jail cell mattress and it feels like a faint heartfelt encore to our history. Not much room for moving so our bodies rub without there ever being space between us. The closeness feels uncomfortable, intimate and distant at the same time. We slide over each over but we don’t dare make eye contact because it will destroy the little freedom we have right now. We would have to face our shambled reality. I for one don't know what to say about our shredded remains. It feels like some kinda failure but our flesh touching is some kind of perverse medicine. We are like two strained souls with bodies entangled in a sightless, muffled groping of whys and goodbyes.

  I cry at the airport when she gets on the plane. My sense of wanting all to be well in this fucked up world forces me to keep telling her ‘I’ll see you soon.’ I am reassuring her probably to save me. I don’t know. I see she is sad as hell and wants to find dates and plans behind my words but doesn’t say anything. She smiles her, ‘yes darling’ smile and all of a sudden her face is soft and young looking, younger than I have ever seen it. I want to kiss her. I want her to either blame me for fucking up her life, or beg me to come with her and marry her, but she just waves and walks away.

  Driving home this city doesn’t feel as promising as I thought it might. The smog is thick. I can’t even see the sky she flies through. I think of all the things I want to say to her thirteen hours from now when she arrives at our place in London. I wonder if there are any traces of me still left there. If not items, my spirit has to still be there, walking around drunk, indecisive, loving her and torturing her at the same time. Oh, God I want her to feel me. I don’t want to hurt her, ever. She can really piss me off sometimes but even then I felt she would always be around. I feel so alone. Miserable life attacks once again. I haunt me like a collar stain. For me a ray of light is the flash before the explosion. What have I done? Destroyed the thing that’s been the truest in my life? Maybe it isn’t just me, she said she has another person over there. I mean, what the fuck is that about? I never said anything about us breaking up and she has a fucking man. I wonder if she is telling the truth? She started this. I would have stayed with her forever if she didn’t have that other guy.

  My mom is going to say I fucked this up but I didn’t. Plus, she doesn’t know everything that’s going on. She doesn’t realize how hard it is to be with Jill sometimes. Her moods can change in the middle of a conversation and she could start talking about how everything is so fucked up, or she could start making fun of people or hating them. I mean it wasn’t a huge deal but it could get us fighting. And she didn’t always like to do the things I did. My mom just likes her because she’s famous.

  If I feel good about things it means I am an asshole for fucking Jill over. So how long do I have to feel bad? If Jill becomes happy then I’ll be happy. Fuck I’m just trying to live, everything seems so complicated like I have to wait to see how to live my life until I see how other people are going to be.

  My sister asks me,

  “What’s it like to be with someone so much older?” And she’s not asking it to be mean. I don't know? I do think it's a dumb question though. I mean really? I say it’s good because there are no games. Then she asks me if I like Jill’s body and was it weird. I want to stick my head in the fucking, oven.

  “Yeah, it’s just like any other woman's.”

  I borrow her car, get a bottle and go to Whammy’s to get fucked up and listen to records.

  I call Jill and we promise more than we can ever deliver. I think we sound like a couple of strung out people that ran out of drugs.

  I move through the next couple of weeks with a shot of faith and a vodka chaser. I am able to think less about her and focus on my aimless longings for something other than what I am. My life begins to feel yellow like smog. I find my England experience doesn’t mean shit it this turd bowl of a city. I’m not even sure what it means to me anymore. It’s not something I can wear or show anymore so I don’t know what to do with it. Is that it? It’s just gone? It can’t be, I need shit to stay. I mean good shit. The bad stuff is always here.

  Jill and I don't speak too often. Man it’s strange. I don’t think about her very much anymore. It’s been a six months and we’ve only talked twice.

  She calls and tells me her new relationships are with wankers and that I am the best. Then she tells me she wants to die. Her voice gets super low, almost to where I can’t hear it and I wonder if she’s taken something before she called. It feels good being told how special I am, but I feel so hopeless about not being able to do anyth
ing about her sadness. I beg her to talk to someone over there and tell her I can’t do anything for her so far away.

  She ends the conversations with her, “Not to worry,” quote. I mean it makes me feel important that she trusts me with her life, but it’s too much. I don’t know what to do. I follow up with a call in the morning to make sure she’s okay. Her tone is lighter and she says she was just kidding.

  I’ve left something out and when I think about it, (I try not to) it makes me feel like the devil with a dunce cap. I sometimes wonder if she does die, if I will be in her will? I don't feel good about thinking this, so I just figure it in with all the other sick shit I think.

  My life moves forward like a stuck elevator. I join a small acting class with a guy named Roy London. I hate working on scenes in front of people. Even when I’m told what to do I shake like a cornered rat.

  He teaches me the importance of being active in a scene. He tells me I really blow him away with my acting at times.

  Now there are some very pretty girls in this tiny class and one in particular. Her name is Maria and she has me seeing double and stuns me bashful. We do a scene together and start dating. She tells me she thought I was an aloof sexy loner. What the…? I can’t believe my world. She is crazy crazed in bed and is as sexy as a fucking playboy model. Man, I guess England does payoff. I’m convinced if I follow the bouncing ball I’ll have a bunny to play with the rest of my life. But what little sense of me I have earned leaves me like candle in a house fire. I’m sure she’s going to find out I am a worthless piece of shit and dump me. But I love her, bad, and to make sure love stays, my needs are her needs and my wants are…? I guess they are the same as always…love, love, love, a good world, and to be a great actor. But all I do is try to get her not leave me, even though she’s never said anything about splitting.

  I know she’s used to a lot of money because her ex husband is wealthy. And she has big Hollywood directors trying to take her out, and she shops in Beverly Hills. I can’t even afford to park in Beverly Hills. I ride a motorcycle now, so we take her Mercedes when we go out. She has a real nice expensive purse with credit cards and stuff. I like it but it freaks me out a bit. She’s so pretty so I do as I’m asked. Her very best friend Debbie is an airlines stewardess and travels free. She books a trip for the two of them to go to London for a week. Maria doesn’t want to be without me, (yay) so they get me a standby ticket with a fake employee number. They fly ahead of me. I leave the next day. I meet them at their Hotel near Knightsbridge. And baby, I am back in my old element. I am back in England where I am king, where I know streets and pubs and people. I drank on the plane so I’m feeling pretty mashed. They say they want to go shopping, I pass saying I’m tired. The real truth is I don’t have any fucking money to shop, especially the way they like to spend, so I stay behind and go to a pub and get lit. I start thinking of Jill, but just slightly, because I have a new love. I’m not going to call Jill. I don’t want to jinx my new life with old wounds.

  They return in the early evening holding bags of stuff, happy as cheerleaders. We go for dinner. I don’t eat much, I just drink. When we get back to the hotel they start showing me all the clothes and shoes they bought. I’m like, “Oh that’s cool,” or “that’s pretty.” I’m drunk and enjoying their happiness. Then a switch flips in my brain and I see it all for what it really is. Bullshit!

  “Look at you two. You guys are so shallow, really, all you care about is you’re fucking little shoes and halter tops. England is not about that crap. It’s about art or something. Do you know there are people starving in the world? You guys jump around like some spoiled two-year-olds over a lace piece of shit cloth. This world is so fucked up because of crap like this. You want to be an actress? No way. What do you know? You haven’t experienced fuck all. What? You use a hole in your high heals as a substitute for a tragic event in your life? You don’t know what real life is, baby. It’s not some soap opera or half off at fucking Neiman’s. You’ve probably never worked a day in your life. You have rich husbands and important people paying for all this shit, could you afford it on your own? Huh? Ha. Man this world is so fucked up because of people that only care about what fucking brand they wear. Ooooh look at this I got a four-hundred-dollar top for three hundred. You could feed a village in Central America for a week with that. Yeah, you can probably feed them by reselling a pair of your old shoes, see how that works out? Those shoes don’t mean shit to starving people. That dude on the soap opera you know…ask him if you can get a job with him, because that’s where you belong…on a fucking soap. Man I’m done, fuck this shit. You guys can shop all you want. Good luck with real life. I’m too good for you.”

  Maria is weeping. Her friend is frozen with mouth wide open. It’s quiet except for the sound of teardrops hitting cheeks. I start to deflate. My fury and conviction is gone and I am shell-shocked. The words I just spoke run through me like the worst stage of cancer known to man. I cringe like I’ve been dipped in ice water. I just need an excuse but I can’t think of any. I want to crawl under the bed. I want to slit my throat. The room is still silent as hell. I stand up and start to stretch as though I had been exercising.

  “Whoa, so what do you think? It’s a monologue I’ve been working on for class. Did it work?” In the mirror I see I’m as pale as cocaine. Nobody says a word. My life is flashing before me like a ghost ship full of tortured clowns and I’m behind the makeup of every one of them.

  “I think you need to go,” Maria says. Once again I see a damaged wet face of my doing.

  “Where.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maria I think I am really drunk. I don’t know…what did I just say? I don’t even know.”

  “I don’t even want to repeat any of it.”

  “If it was bad I am so sorry. I didn’t mean any of it.” She’s shaking. I want to hold her. I can be so helpful at soothing people through my bombings. In fact, I can love better then. But I can’t move. I chew my heart like taffy and wait.

  “You attacked me, who I am, or who you think I am.”

  “Yeah, well, you do like to shop.” Holy fuck did I just say that? I need to keep my mouth shut and take it.

  “See!” I sit in a chair hang my head and start to cry. The room is on fire; I don’t burn bridges after I cross them. I burn them while I am on them. Debbie speaks.

  “I knew a guy one time that did the same thing, he would get drunk and say all kind of mean stuff and not remember it.”

  “What happened to him?” I ask hoping maybe he’s cured or something.

  “I don’t know. I had to break up with him ‘cause he kept doing it. I’m not sure what happened to him.”

  “Okay that’s it I’m going to stop drinking.”

  “You won’t stop drinking, Van.” Maria says.

  “Yes I will, give me a chance please. That wasn’t me, I love you I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, I swear. At least on purpose.”

  “I don’t even want to look at you right now.”

  “Well I have no where to go. I’ll make a reservation and leave tomorrow.” I sleep on the floor and the night is a third degree burn.

  I wake before them. I’m in a pit of disbelief hoping last night was a dream.

  Maria stirs and sits up. I smile at her and I can see her recognize what happened. The look on her face fucking horrifies me. She looks sad, drained and broken. I look at her like a dog that just shit the room and is promising to clean it up. She falls back to her pillow without a response. Things are done, way done, but I’ll do whatever I have to get her back.

  They get up and have their coffee without including the fucking demon in the room, me. They shower and change, keeping towels tightly wrapped leaving everything to the imagination, a very damn solemn time. Debbie eeks out a sympathetic smile but it damns me even more ‘cause it reminds me of my awful future. I crushed a rose. They leave for the day and don’t say where they're going. I sit on the bed and wonder if they went shopping, wel
l…I’ll bet they did. I can’t go back to L.A. alone because it’s hard enough to be with me when I haven’t royally fucked up, let alone when I’ve committed some kind of murder. God I wish I wasn’t so prone to me.

  I get a wild idea to call Brian and talk to him about it even though I never paid him back and he's probably still mad at me. He'll understand, this is more important than money. I am hurting really fucking bad. I can barely move. His phone rings and rings, not even an answering machine I can throw up on.

  I am desperate and crying. This room holds nothing to take me away. The only other person I can call who might understand is Jill. I haven’t talked to her for some time so it might be a little weird but she always accepts me no matter what, so I'm sure she'll be happy to hear from me.

  It takes me a few times to get her number right, she answers. I’ll bet this will surprise the hell out of her. She won’t have a clue it’s me because whenever we call each other from across the ocean there’s always a delay and a hollow sound on the phone when the call first connects so we would always begin with, “Hello my Darling,” or something like that.