Lost Angeles

by David Louden

  The Asian Poitier to my Curtis did not have the pleasure of sleeping in the communal pen that housed bikers, drunks and transvestites. I’m guessing the officers took his statement and felt he had skirted close enough to buggery for one night. Takuma’s evening started similarly to our own. It was only when we arrived at The Beauty Bar that the course of events deviated from bathroom sex, ecstasy, homeless fellatio and gunfights in karaoke bars. Drinking in the pink clad beauty bar the Tak Man was approached by a blonde with plastic boobs and a school uniform asking whether he’d like to buy some “X”. Still grasping with the multitudes of slang and jargon the English language has to offer Tak Man politely smiled and nodded. The blonde, who Frank was convinced was called Becky, led Takuma to the oxygen room at the back of the bar and a conversation with two of her male friends. Money changed hands, pills were pocketed and I’m convinced Takuma was unsure as to how he got to this point more than what had just occurred.

  “You want to party?” Asked a tall well grown man who looked like a Hoyt.

  “Yes, let’s party.” Responded Takuma.

  The four revellers swept out of The Beauty Bar as Natasha and I emerged from the bathroom, I hadn’t noticed. Hoyt got the car while Becky and the other man exchanged chit-chat with Takuma on where he was from, what he was doing and how he was finding Los Angeles. Twenty minutes later they were in West Pasadena at a house that looked like a relic from a 1950’s soap opera. Becky poured Takuma a drink, sat him in a seat and rode his lap like the bronco at The Saddle Ranch. Two drinks later and Takuma is rocking an Asian pocket rocket and Becky’s interest has cooled. Slipping out of her Daisy Dukes she announces her intentions to have a shower. Hoyt detaches his face from his bong long enough to mumble something, he then invites Takuma over on to the couch, sandwiching him between the two strangers for a hit from the black glass tube with a silver skull at the base. Two hits from the bong and suddenly they’re watching Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Takuma was just reacquainting himself with the magical world of Hogwarts when, in the blink of an eye, the feature presentation on the 40” flat screen television changed from Harry at the Quidditch World Cup to hardcore gay pornography, Hoyt’s hand was gently resting on Takuma’s leg while the roaming fingers of the other guy was on the cusp of brain.

  Jumping to his feet Takuma rushed from the house to the objections of the two men. He didn’t look back. He began, what would be a four hour walk back and that would only get him as far as Hollywood. Somewhere around the Long Beach Freeway a man in a slicker and an Anaheim Angels baseball cap stepped out from the darkness that framed Takuma during his walk. Pulling a knife he rushes right up into Takuma’s face.

  “Give me your wallet!” He yelled.

  Takuma freezes.

  “Wallet now!”

  I don’t know whether Takuma has a way with people, or whether he stood completely still for the remainder of the altercation; or whether the mugger couldn’t understand our Japanese friend’s accent but eventually, exposed under the orange burn of the street lamps and being witnessed by more and more motorists the mugger gave up and left the scene empty handed. Calling a cab from a liquor store Takuma buys a bottle of tequila before climbing into his yellow chariot and directing him to take him to Venice. The cab pulled up short, he had enough money to get him as far as Santa Monica Pier. He would walk the rest drinking his alcohol and pondering how his night could get so fucked so quickly and then LA’s finest would pull him over and take us both directly to jail.

  As the cell door rattled open and the day shift officer escorted me back to booking to collect my belongings I caught sight of Billie. She had come to pick me up knowing that I would most likely be hung-over, tired and with little patience for the mental illnesses that public transport had to offer. Signing for my phone, wallet and watch the officer speaks.

  “Hopefully that’ll be a lesson to you son.”

  “Let police brutality be a lesson to us all officer.” I respond, feebly masking my smile before finishing on “Free the Venice one!” and brandishing my Black Panther hand.

  Outside of the police station the sun shone bright, the warm desert wind was almost refreshing. I gave Billie a grateful hug, her face was disapproving but her embrace spoke differently.

  “You waited on me!” I quipped.

  “I’m a sucker for an ex-con. You want to get breakfast?”

  “You’ll have to pay, Officer Dibble liberated the last of my walking around money from my wallet.” I took the last three steps in one leap as I landed on the sidewalk.

  “You seem happy.” Billie seemed inquisitive.

  “I’m a freebird Billie.”

  “It was one night!”

  “Nay say all your want Miss Galligan, prison changes a man. The things I had to do to keep this face virginal.”

  “Sounds hot. Tell me more.”

  “Over waffles.” I announce, pointing in the general direction of Arnold’s Waffle House.

  15

  BILLIE SHOULD have been on prescription. I drank less when I was around her, it didn’t feel as necessary. The aching hole in my chest didn’t seem to be as real when her adorable half smile reached her eyes and made my heart flutter.

  I brought her flowers but wondered why as my finger rested on her doorbell, I tell myself it’s thanks for the prison break but I’m not sure. Before there was an opportunity to turn tail and run the door opened and there she was. Tight pink shorts that covered her cheeks, but only just, a white Kansas tee shirt she had turned into a vest with some scissors and a pair of plimsolls. She was sweating, breathless, clearly I’d disturbed her but she didn’t say as much. Billie was pleased to see me, even more pleased to see the bouquet of lilies I presented her with. I had listened, they were her favourite. She doesn’t question my motives, which is a relief as they were unknown to both of us.

  Stepping inside I remove my jacket, placing it over the leather armchair that’s situated in the corner of the room by the window. A book sits on the ledge. She makes us dinner and we chat over a bottle of wine. I had had so many meals with her that I almost hadn’t noticed her hand dropping to her side time after time. Leaning to one side I’m greeted by the muzzle and chewing chops of a familiar face, the old Labrador had finally found a home and was beginning to see the benefits of regular home cooked meals as the cushion around his ribs had built up, no longer making him look like a walking rack of barbeque starters. The mistreated pooch had seen some tough days, living out of bins to the rear of restaurants and fending off rats evident by the frayed edges of his velvet black ears. He was living the sweet life now though; he’d earned it with every night sleeping under the Venice pier. She’d taken him home after our lunch at the Sidewalk Café, bathed him, fed him and christened him a strong name that would match his spirit and character…Alec Baldwin. In that instant I thought of baby mice though I didn’t know why. Her dance company wasn’t looking entirely healthy; the organisers had stopped talking about season programming. They had been whispering in meetings about putting on a half season but that had stopped too. She was now fielding offers.

  “They’re probably going to take me outta LA.” She confessed.

  “Well you tell me where we’re hitching our wagon and I’ll send out our change of address cards.”

  She asks if I’ve contacted her brother’s friend for work. I’m not expecting the question so I haven’t prepared myself to lie. She gives me a hard time as I do the dishes, ignoring her statements that she has a dishwasher for that. We smoke Marlboro and polish off another bottle of wine; I’ve lost count what number that is. Retiring to the large leather reclining couch Billie puts on Don’t Look Now!, my favourite film. She’s clearly been listening too. We open another bottle and settle in for the film; Billie lies against me resting her glass holding hand on my lap.

  Donald Sutherland and Julie Christie are going at it on on-screen, they’re getting dressed, they’re screwing, and they’re getting dressed again. It’s a great scene. There’s a
moment where everything stops. Christie and Sutherland are intertwined on screen and Billie knows what’s to come. No sooner than I’ve thought about it do I realise that our eye contact has extended beyond what would be deemed as comfortable. Taking her glass from her hand I set it on the coffee table in front of us, I run my hand through her hair, it comes to rest at the base on the back of her neck. I pull her in and we kiss. The living room explodes, the release of tension, the sudden burst of energy is exhilarating. Our lips lap one another’s, our tongues battle, she pulls me in close. I run my free hand down her back; it disappears inside the back of shorts as I caress her ass. Her delicate hands are all over my face, then my chest. Billie makes light work of my shirt, my jeans are unbuttoned and descend just enough for her to access my protruding cock which she soon pulls out in the open; in Billie’s field of vision for the second time since I’ve known her. I guide her down on to the couch and tilt her ass upwards. Her shorts come off in one fluid movement and soon her pants are pulled to one side and I taste her. Her pussy is sweet, her lips small and plump, swelling as I lap at them with my tongue. Her hands have coiled around my hair as she pulls me in deeper, deeper still. I’ve a brief realisation that I can’t breathe; it doesn’t bother me at all. I make a last gasp at her sweet lips before I push up. And then I’m inside of her, filling her up; forcing moan after moan to the surface. Her house phone rings once before going to voicemail.

  “It’s Billie, leave a message and I’ll call you back.” Stated her answering machine.

  She giggles with pleasure as I rotate my hips.

  “Billie it’s me. Look call me back babes.”

  She stops. Suddenly every moment of pleasure, every inch of desire is gone. There’s 20lbs of pressure on her and her face displays every ounce. I pull out and tuck myself away, I know it’s over. Quickly Billie gets dressed. She avoids eye contact with me the entire time.

  “I’m sorry. I think you should go.” She said faintly before running up the stairs.

  Don’t Look Now!

  plays on as I put my jacket on, briefly look upstairs before turning and leaving her house.

  16

  BELFAST WAS WHITE. The snow had fallen and lay thick on the cobbled, and misshapen streets of the capital. It lay thick and set hard as ice; bar hopping became an extreme sport that only the athletic and the heavily intoxicated could master.

  Mary had managed to use me perfectly; her fiancé discovered some highly graphic imagery that left him in no illusion that his old lady was packing away some extra meat. He immediately called off their forthcoming nuptials. Her relief was almost evident from space. Now, free from becoming Mrs. Something-or-other there was simply the matter of me. I could tell she wasn’t looking for more than what I could give her, we both saw it. Hell we both felt it, which was why neither of us took it personally. She used me to screw her way out of a marriage she didn’t want but couldn’t verbalise, I used her as a way of getting back at the world. The way I had come to use everything in my life. Now she was free she had little use for me, we were sport fucking and though neither of us wanted to make something semi-permanent out of it neither of us wanted to be the one to call it off. It was as though we were playing chicken with our genitals.

  Countless nights past. I would go out alone, Mary would either show up or text me a picture of her clam with an invitation. My cab would pull up within the hour, we would trash her living room, or bedroom, or bathroom, or break the dining room table and then I would usually leave. We had tried socialising like a normal couple, dinner at restaurants, winter evenings browsing the Continental market but she was a school teacher who liked to go to church on a Saturday morning, I was en route to becoming a high functioning alcoholic who preferred cartoons and a bottle of Sailor Jerry and with no friends in common we often struggled to make interesting chatter.

  Her staff Christmas dinner took her and the rest of the teachers at Sacred Heart to the Empire Music Hall on Botanic Avenue. Turkey and stuffing, roasted and boiled potatoes, cocktail sausages and lashings of gravy all washed down with wine…lots of wine. The texts began some time during dessert. I was playing pool with a friend on the top floor of Lavery’s bar, a street over, so opted to ignore them, but they persisted. Eventually we were both getting texts; his from a girlfriend wondering why it had taken him four hours to go to the shop to get milk and mine wondering why my tongue wasn’t somewhere recently shaved and damp. I walk with him to his house on Fitzwilliam Street before doubling back down University Road, through Lower Crescent on towards Botanic Avenue. A picture message comes through from the Empire’s toilets. I prepare myself for another night of heavy drinking, rough house and ninety minutes sleep before having to carve out a days work.

  As I approach the Metro bar which resides on the corner of Lower Crescent and Botanic, a haunt for the older lady who can show you a thing or two you didn’t know about the world, a couple spill out of the front door. The woman is young, familiar. Her arms clamped to her side, shoulders hunched. You can tell from her walk that she’s frowning. The man, an older man with grey thinning hair and a checked shirt tucked into his expensive jeans is unsteady on his feet.

  “Hey…Hey!” he roars “Don’t you walk away from me!!”

  He’s ignored.

  “Hey!” and now he’s running after her “Don’t you ignore me ya fuckin’ cunt!”

  He grabs her by the arm, almost knocking her to the frozen white ground, and spins her around forcing her up against a car. Out of context, half soaked in Guinness it takes me a moment and then I know the face. Janie. She looks frightened, I’ve never seen her anything other than happy and confident. She catches my eye; recognition sparks a surge of relief.

  “Wait up!” I yell. Slipping and sliding as I attempt to race towards them. Soon I’m there and I slide in between them, forcing him backwards. It’s difficult to look heroic when standing is largely based on luck.

  “You want to take it down a notch.? Maybe apologise to the lady?!” I ask.

  “Mate, do yourself a favour and stay out of this.”

  “You ok?” I direct to Janie.

  She nods.

  As my head rotates back towards the angry man my face meets the end of his fist. The contact is full; it’s heavy and drunken and sends me to the ground. He makes a move to hit me again but Janie grabs his arm giving me enough time to react. I roll a fist as tight as I can get and I fire it upwards, straight up, full speed. It connects with his testicles and halts him completely; a sharp inhale before he gradually clutches his throbbing bag and sinks to his knees. I punch him again, this time as I get to my feet. His cheekbone makes the sound a baseball bat would make against a metal bin and he goes down. Janie wraps an arm around me, then another.

  “You ok Doug?” She asked.

  “Nice company you’re keeping these days Janie. How’s your sister?”

  “Which one?”

  “Funny.”

  “Cunt this fuckface.” Janie says before burying a kick into her fallen manfriend’s crotch.

  She guides me on to Botanic Avenue and into a cab.

  I’d forget about meeting Mary until the next message came through but by this point Janie and I had parked ourselves in The Park Inn Hotel off the Belmont Road in East Belfast. Janie had recently rented a room in the neighbourhood stating that “you just get so much more for your money than in South” though she had seen little of the new home as she had been house-sitting. She was right; she always had been smart and good with money. It was odd how my old haunts were becoming hers. She had begun frequenting Bookfinders during the day, The Globe between classes and The Parlour in the evening. Metro had, seemingly, been his idea as he was a regular and popular with the ladies. I hadn’t asked what she saw in him, but I would. The Park Inn’s bar was nice, tucked away at the back of the Hotel. The large leather booths allowed for an optimum amount of relaxation and they were never overly busy which made it feel as though you had your own bar, always a plus. I order our drinks, Rosé w
ine for Janie, three pints of Guinness and a double Grey Goose for me (so I don’t have to go to the bar again before she’s finished). Janie removes the diamond earrings she’s wearing and drops them into the tips jar. We find the booth furthest from everyone else but with the best line of sight to the bartender and climb in.

  “So you gonna tell me why someone like you was with someone like that?” My concern genuine.

  “He’s my Classics lecturer…big mistake there.” She offers, taking a sip.

  “Never mind. You’ll never get a job out of Classics anyway.”

  “And you? How’re you keeping?”

  I’m surprised. Her concern is genuine too. I don’t know why I thought it would be otherwise.

  “I’m” another text comes through “changing my number it would appear.” I turn my phone off.

  “Bitches be crazy, you know this by now.” Janie offers.

  “Testify!” We clink glasses.

  “Kelly is fine before you ask again.”

  “I wasn’t gonna...” I was.

  “Well she’s grand. She’s living her very boring life with her very boring fiancé and his annoyin…” it dawns on her what she’s said. “I’m sorry. Did you know?”

  “It’s grand…honestly.” It wasn’t.

  “Well yeah they got engaged. Paris. Eiffel Tower. All very predictable.” Janie says showing her support. “I bet he even fucks the same way evvvvery night.”

  I down my Guinness, quickly chased by the Goose.

  “Eiffel Tower. Yeah, figures. Unimaginative fuck.” I blurt out.

  “Dad said something similar.”

  “Really?” That surprised me. I had clearly spent four years misjudging Alan Marley.

  “Oh yeah he fuckin’ hates him.” I couldn’t keep the laughter in as she continued “Rick the Prick is what he’s started calling him.”

  “Brilliant. What brought the patriarch to that delightful rhyme?”