by David Louden
Elsa shepherded me past the stools populated by leather and denim clad bearded regulars and dropped me off in a booth in the corner of the room set me up with a tab and flirted just enough to ensure a decent tip. Three drinks in is when I met Herb and we’ve been inebriated together ever since.
He had never married; the music was his wife, the road his mistress and all that clichéd shit that people spout to you when they’ve had a liver like a pickled onion for more years than you’ve been shitting by yourself. He had experience though; you could see it on each pained contour of his face and with that experience came a certain degree of wisdom, partially diluted by the desert beer and whiskey but wisdom nonetheless. I respected that. That and the fact that he survived touring with The Rolling Stones, The Who and even Turbonegro. That, in my eyes, earned honesty and it was honesty – regardless of how dark and self indulgent it might have sounded.
Jen and Rob were something of an anchor for me, my connection with home. With them gone I found myself drifting, alone, lost in a sea of New World accents and ways. Whether they had realised it or not they had kept me on some sort of path, now I found myself vulnerable to my own thoughts and emotions. I had a mind of what I had intended when I set out from Belfast that cold morning. By the time we had shacked up in Margarita’s house I knew what was living inside me and by the time I stood on that Motel Six balcony, dressed like a slutty Emperor I could see what was in store and knew it was the only release from the pain. It had been haunting me for some time like a snarling relentless black dog, the thing that had forced me to run from all things familiar. Now, sitting in the last resort at 11AM, I was searching for anything that might draw me back. I’d been drowning myself in liquor for as long as I could recall, this wasn’t that impressive. Frequent abusers of alcohol will be able to laugh at the same joke when told it on multiple occasions but it had become the only way to function, the wounds had been left untreated and had become toxic. It was these sentiments I felt Herb deserved to hear during one of our drunken confessionals and my plan…the secret I had been so guarded with around people I had grown to care about. I spilled it all like an eager teen on his first girlfriend’s dress. It was kind of a relief, unburdening myself to the aging symbol of sex, drugs and rock and roll. It allowed me to feel like I could breathe again not to mention that he had the type of personality that would probably get it. He got it; he certainly never tried to talk me out of it. I finished my breakfast, a Guinness and a Marlboro, I didn’t have to even ask anymore as I looked up Elsa had placed another in front of me.
“Same again sugar?”
“You’re an angel!” Said I “Could I get a couple of lunch menus please Elsa? I’m meeting a friend and his new lady partner in an hour.”
It was 12:20PM by the time the door to The Snake Pit opened, firing rays of sunlight through the black interior. Johnny glided in hand-in-hand with Veronica, the girl who grabbed his attention the night I found The Snake Pit. They spent the rest of the night chatting, the early hours watching the sun come up over Runyon Canyon and the next three days in bed. I stick an arm in the air, almost militant in style to signal my location before the love birds float on a dreamy wave of Hallmark emotions through the bar and to my booth.
“Your time keepin’ is shocking! Manners too.” I say dryly “I’ll introduce myself shall I? I’m Jonathan’s friend Doug, you must be Veronica…pleasure to meet you.”
I extend a hand, Veronica reluctantly shakes before sliding into the booth. I could tell by her posture that she wasn’t too sure about a “friend” who’s on his way to happy land by lunchtime and seemingly lives in a bar. I had moved out of the Motel Six in recent days but hadn’t gotten around to providing Johnny with details of my new residency. She seemed more at ease when her beau returned from the bar with a Diet Coke for her and a vodka and Coke that he would swear blind was virginal, but I knew better. She knew his manly embrace, but I knew the man and I could read his poker face well enough to know that he was still putting up a fight against being broken in. “He’ll be house trained soon enough” I thought but for now he’s throwing down some serious guerrilla tactics to ensure a brother isn’t drinking alone. Respectable. Between cuddles and kissy faces Johnny fills me in on what I’ve missed out on as our food arrives. It’s so good it’s almost heavenly; a proper burger can cure most self inflicted ailments.
In recent times Johnny’s crusade for a career had begun to pay off. This was mostly down to the (very hard) work he’d put in with the female representatives of agencies, which made it very awkward to discuss in front of Veronica. One in particular, Heidi Golgina – the representative for a moderately talented writer had managed to get him an audition for a TV pilot which in turn got him a call back. He would have to convince the Executive Producer and Director that he was the man for the job, the role of a Pawnshop owner in a show about a cop who’s given a week to solve and prevent his own murder. The call back was at the end of the week and would provide Johnny with his first working part in months. As I levelled my mountain of curly fries I made the effort to learn all I could about my friends’ new squeeze.
Veronica was half Filipino from Simi Valley; she enjoyed tennis at the weekends and was a practicing veterinary surgeon. I seemed to win some points with her for my knowledge of Filipino exploitation cinema which she had never seen but appreciated the cultural high-five I hung up there. Once her guard was down she was actually good fun, she even managed to loosen enough to decide to take the rest of the afternoon off and partook in a grown up drink once lunch had settled. By 2PM I had walked them both back to Veronica’s car, a black convertible, and wished them a safe ride home. I arranged to meet up with Johnny the following day for a man date and enquired if Veronica had any sisters. She did, I had hoped for a twin, but it turns out lil’ sis has a few more years before she’d be allowed to associate with individuals like myself.
Once back inside The Snake Pit I removed my sunglasses and retook my place at the bar, three stools from the gents toilet had become my spot. True to form Elsa had a Guinness awaiting my return and was in the midst of polishing off an Erdinger herself.
“So they’re your friends, sugar.” She said. I loved how she ended everything with sugar.
“Told you they were real.”
“Herb’s gone home for the day. He ain’t feelin’ too good, you see.”
“Old git ok?”
“Oh sugar that ol’ boy’s got so much wrong in him that one good cold will see him off.” Elsa said worryingly.
“He didn’t say…”
“That’s Herb, he wouldn’t. Speaking of which I couldn’t help but overhear what’s goin’ on with you. You need to talk to someone” she advised “all that guilt and pain and shit ain’t good.”
Her concern was genuine, heartfelt and beautiful. All of a sudden she seemed the most beautiful woman in the world. Leaning across the bar I planted a kiss on her cheek before returning to my drink. She had a point, I could appreciate that. There was definitely a case to be made for talking through your problems with someone that knows how to listen but I had gone beyond that stage. The past year and a half had beaten me, broken me down, saw me cause unnecessary heartache and survive something that there was no bouncing back from. The kamikaze Doug had flicked the safety lever and pounded on that red button. I had sold everything, severed every tie, kissed goodbye to the few remaining family members I cared about and crossed first the Atlantic and then North America to reach the physical and emotional point where I could commit to drinking, snorting and fucking myself into oblivion. I had come to California with ten thousand dollars in my pocket I had every intention of leaving California heels first in a pine case fit for a vagrant. The button was pushed; all that was left was to enjoy the ride.
7
THE FOLLOWING DAY brought Johnny and I back to the familiar stomping ground of Hollywood. He had heard a story from one of his admiring agents that Mickey Rollins was shooting something in one of the back lots behind the Bouleva
rd for NBC. I found the idea of seeing the 80’s heart throb we all modelled ourselves on a tempting prospect and when Johnny offered to pony up for lunch in the Pig and Whistle that pretty much sealed the deal. On any given day there are a number of pilots and features being shot in and around North Hollywood, today’s took place in the alleyways between buildings just off Highland Boulevard. When I was fifteen a Hollywood film came to my neighbourhood to film for two days meaning it effectively shut down normality for forty-eight hours and was talked about for years afterwards. It was interesting to see how in Hollywoodland the effects are reversed, the world ticked along on its axis and the famous faces had to work around those everyday white collar heroes.
We reach the cordoned off area to see a wash of fans and well wishers all queuing respectfully for a glimpse of the Assassin Squad brick shithouse. Three weak pops ring out further down the alley from a prop gun; a tall lean fellow drops to the ground. I note that he’s dressed like a Russian pimp, my recent experiences with Russians being one that was less than pleasurable.
“Let’s go again!” Called the Assistant Director.
As the megaphone enhanced voice rings and echoes through the narrow alley the performers reset themselves for another take. Security, who have been keeping a watchful eye on onlookers, turn their attention momentarily to the car that’s reversing towards the crowd and out of shot. Cable tied to the lamp post I’m leaning against is a blue box. It is the type of box a valet would use to house the keys of some important person’s penile extension. On investigation I find that inside the box sits production passes, throwing one over my neck and palming another to Johnny before Security return their focus to the gathering. We slip under the tape nonchalantly flashing our newly acquired aliases as we go. On the call of action life springs into the black Mercedes which races back towards the alley, one stuntman taking a ride over the bonnet and up and over the roof before taking a dirt nap on a thin blue crash mat. Pop gun fire rains down as extras are killed off mercilessly and gleefully, the Russian pimp emerges from behind a dumpster and fires two shots into the car before he drops to the ground from the third shot. As his body falls from frame we see dressed in jeans, white v-neck and a brown leather jacket, Mickey Rollins.
Our Tokyo-tuned crashing skills at the bar allowed for us to blend into the mix of Hollywood rich and white Mexican working class. It proved to be something of a beneficial exercise as Johnny was able to not only blag his way on screen during the late afternoon but also got the contact telephone numbers of a couple of the producers, one of them was even male and released his digits without the flirtatious charms of the Hollywood Hero. I, on the other hand, spent the afternoon running lines with a cute young extra from Silver Lake called Mimi who had a casting audition for another role the following day. My afternoon would, unfortunately, end earlier than was required to prise a date from the brunette when I was overheard pointing out the weakness of the pilot script, the unnecessary repetition of exposition and most crucially both for the narrative (and any opportunity for me to be able to prise open the top button of Mimi’s sculpted jeans) the lack of development between Rollins’ character and Mimi’s. “That!” I would say “That is what you need to care…it’s sellin’ you short”. Two African American gentlemen in matching blue polo shirts who shared a common silhouette with The Thing for Fantastic Four would, at the behest of the director, escort me off set, under the tape before spitting me from their grasp on the cusp of Hollywood Boulevard. I would spend the afternoon in the dark and narrow confines of the “famous” Powerhouse bar, before scoring some military strength weed off a college kid who had just come off shift at an Irish pub in the neighbourhood and make two trips to Burger King.
I had become one of those people I despised. As a child I was always able to play alone, teenage years would allow the discovery of solo amusement and my adult life was always infinitely less complicated when I was left to my own devices. Now though I was incapable of being alone with my thoughts, I required minding like some special needs infant, “watch him he’s a biter” I chuckled to myself. I was spaced enough that the ability to carry even 30% of a coherent conversation was a Herculean effort. I pulled myself out of the leather booth and headed towards the Egyptian Theatre. The venue with its beautiful themed architecture, love of all things classic, contemporary and historical was a home away from home for a wiped out Irish cinephile and most importantly it would distract me from myself. Purchasing a ticket for their introduced screening of The Naked Street I raided the concession stand. The munchies had completely taken control of my entire being and with my body weight in snacks I bedded into my seat to watch a UCLA professor explain how Anne Bancroft was due to introduce but her passing had meant that we would have to make due with him. The film was in relatively decent condition considering how film preservation had only really become something of an issue long after this celluloid marvel had been passed through some of the fattest hands dark sweaty booths had ever entertained. Snapping on two occasions it provided me with enough time to smoke a cigarette and place a call home. It had been somewhere between one month and two since I had crossed the Americas and though we rarely saw each other, and saw eye to eye even less, I knew my mum would probably be beginning to be frantic at my seemingly impossible disappearance from the face of the Earth. Amazingly she didn’t seem to care about the fact that I had completely failed to factor in the time difference and had woken her from her forty winks.
Releasing me back into the wild the Egyptian shut its gates for the evening. My wallet had shed sufficient weight that closing it over on itself had become a possibility. I hadn’t counted it recently; I didn’t really want to know how much time I had left. Yet even though I had relocated to the Bohemian realm of Venice Beach I found myself walking aimlessly in the direction of Downtown. My thought process was disturbed by the double blast of a car horn, looking round for Johnny or his Filipino lover I failed to see the soft top convertible Audi which housed Don Galligan. The owner of Tokyo whom I had dubbed Don Johnson partially because of the similarity in looks and partially because of my alcohol induced state.
“Don Johnson!” I’d call out.
“You do know that’s not my name right?!”
“You’ll always be Nash Bridges to me.” I retorted
“You need a ride?”
Before he can reach across to open the passenger door I’m stepping in over it and on to the leather seats of the low riding car. An action that I’m sure if repeated would actually make the grown man cry.
“Ok but don’t go assuming just because you’re giving me a ride you’re gonna get the goods for free.” I offer up my best Ricki Lake guest impression with finger snaps which tails off towards the end.
Don Johnson drives like he’s still in the Old West, a trait I admire in a local businessman who could very well be tied down to a family, a sports utility vehicle and an acceptance of the speed limit. Lighting a cigarette I bring him up to speed on my day. Carefully I side step the part of the story that had me taking advantage of his good nature, plying my fake fiancé with his venue’s celebratory alcohol before taking her back to my Motel and riding her like Seabiscuit for three days until she felt the call of the self proclaimed “City in Motion”.
We pull up at a rather innocuous one level building that looks like a mobile care home for the elderly with its faux Edwardian exterior walls and a back lit sign advertising a band called “The Last Great Fuck You Had”. Inside I would discover Spaceland. Don Johnson had obviously clung on to his roots for dear life as he rose up and up in the world.
“It’s a shitty, cheesy club…” he would say “but it’s my shitty cheesy club.”
Inside, the S shaped bar and Dr. Strangelove war-room light fittings, would scream Eric Roberts movie strip-club but the clientele were predominantly students, rockers and the kids that are cool. Not the ones that strive to be cool, there’s no Fonzi 2.0’s but those kids that do their own thing and in being so devil may care are truly cool.
As The Last Great Fuck You Had take the stage the place erupts with cheer, a cheer I happily join as Don Johnson hands me a pint of vodka. He’s sporting the same dickhead grin from that night in Tokyo.
“Here’s to liver failure!” I say, before downing it.
The night would tail off towards oblivion as the band rocked out song after song. Our curved white leather couch would entertain more and more female rockers and wannabe models, all of whom seemed to want at least five minutes of Don Johnson’s attention for one reason or another. At Tokyo I had considered him to be a decent guy, generous indeed but largely another uninteresting proprietor. On this night I saw the true face of God and he looked like Sonny Crockett.
It’s incredibly ordinary talking to a six foot blonde of mixed Norse and Hawaiian descent that’s on the verge of breaking the modelling game in half to call both parts her own. It’s not that she was incredibly ordinary; Heidi was the picture of perfection. Had I not been suffering from a bad case of the whiskey dick I would have found it almost impossible not to pleasure myself at the mere sight of her. The incredibly ordinary thing about talking to someone who’s been chiselled from the most perfect marble is how it reduces you to little more than a bench warmer. You become someone she can catch her breath with until the people she wants to be chatty, flirtatious and interesting with are freed up by the other model slash actresses who are bogarting their attention. I don’t consider myself to be a person who has specific “wooing moves” which I unleash at the correct moment, quite the opposite – I’ve always found that my tourettes-esque conversation style with the fairer sex has been my biggest plus. It certainly allows them to be themselves, but if I were the kind of person who came to a club with some pre-packed moves for the ladies, Heidi had the immunity of a stallion. I would tell Don Johnson later that “I should have at least told her I was the copy boy at L.A Magazine. That deserves at least one finger”.