Lost Angeles

by David Louden

  The drugs have my head cloudy; I know the name of the place but not the words to share it.

  “Doug?”

  My head is fuzzy; it feels like I’m listening to a washing machine while under water. I almost strain a muscle trying to focus.

  “Doug!” Billie insists “You still there?”

  “Yeah,” I force out “I’d love to Billie but I can’t…I’m sorry.”

  “Look about what I said.”

  “It’s fine Billie. You were right.”

  “No that’s just it. I’m sorry, I said some horrible shit to you and I’m sorry. You were right about Benoit.”

  “Wait,” my cotton wool brain finally processed what Billie had said “why do you need to go to the hospital?”

  This time it’s Billie’s turn to be silent.

  “Billie what did he do?” My tongue felt big, dry, heavy.

  “It’s fine, we got into it a bit but it’s fine. He hit me.”

  “What?”

  “Oh don’t worry I hit the fucker back but I think I might’ve broken my fuckin’ hand and my lip may need a couple of stitches.”

  “Yeah.” I’m a little confused what we’re talking about…I’ve lost track.

  “Doug!”

  “Yeah.”

  “Doug you sound weird,” I was feeling weird but not too weird to be able to register the concern on Billie’s voice “…are you drunk?”

  “I’m a little fucked up Billie.” I confessed “I’m not going to be able to drive you to the hospital I’m afraid.” My eyes sting from fighting back the desire to cry.

  “No worries I’ll phone my brother.”

  “I’m so, so sorry Billie.”

  “Don’t worry about it Doug.”

  “Just know that ok?”

  “Seriously it’s no big deal. I had no right asking, look I need to see you…before you leave.”

  “Before I…” I’ve lost track again.

  “Yeah. I’ve got a few things I need to discuss with you before you go so can we meet for lunch tomorrow?”

  A lump fills my throat. I don’t know if it’s vomit or tears. I swallow regardless.

  “Tomorrow?” I decide to lie “Sure Billie just gimme a call.”

  “Will do. Look I’m gonna go get my hand fixed and maybe stop Alec Baldwin from chewing the couch in half but I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Goodbye Billie.”

  The empty container rests in the palm of my hand.

  “Get some rest ok?”

  I nod more than answer and hang up leaving Billie in the outside world, where she belongs, and me alone.

  I go to stand but my legs have decided to shut down at some point during my phone conversation. I land heavy smacking my face on the thin carpet covering the concrete floor of the motel bringing the bed sheets, television remote and a fistful of empty bottles with me. The phone I had used to say farewell skids from my hand and across the room. My head is heavy, my right eye has closed, its socket drenched in blood, my tongue feels fat in my mouth. I roll on to my back, my head is sinking. A volcanic eruption comes from within as I spray first the air and then my chest with vomit. I paw at my face uncoordinatedly in an effort to clean the evacuated meal from my face. Even in death I had a degree of vanity, that was surprising or it would have been had I presence of mind. I remember thinking how it would have been nice to see her face one last time when she wasn’t blind pissed at me. The thought evaporated, nobody knows that I’ve swallowed half of the third floor cabinet of St. Mark’s thanks to Paco. “Sorry for standing you up Billie” I thought. My left arm is limp, dead. The rest of me isn’t far behind. I’m half blind from the blood that’s steadily streaming into my eyes, it’s thick – the cut must be deep. I’m sinking deep; I’m beneath the motel foundations at this point. Clearing my eyes I try to push myself up off the floor, my arms are weak and on a couple of attempts I end up eating carpet again. Planting my hands firmly under me I push up. My palm is thick with tacky blood and has jammed itself firmly on the volume button of the remote for the Samsung TV sending it soaring towards the MAX icon. As the volume tops up I reach a semi vertical pose resting on my knees but it doesn’t last. Few things ever do.

  My head is heavy, neck like rubber and I’m effectively without a spine. I collapse again. This time I’m unaware of my surroundings and then William Shatner goes quiet, everything else goes dark and cold.

  I wake the following morning, my throat dry and with a tube in it. I’d learn that I’m in Marina Hospital. The Korean lady upon hearing T.J Hooker emanate from my room was straight down banging on my door and when she got no response from me took it upon herself to go inside and “turn that shit down”. When Room 12 heralded no response she went to her desk to get the master keys and probably a bat. She found me unconscious and called 911. The medics had a little trouble bringing me round. Opening my eyes I see a view of the ocean I had yet to see, it had borders from this height and I had my own room, a first since leaving Belfast. “Things are looking up” I told myself “at least until you get the bill” I countered. I paged the nurse who came immediately. Mandy had child baring hips and an ample chest that would always rest on my nose whenever she reached across me. She would tell me that Mr. Galligan was covering my bill. My right eye was swollen shut and looked like I was smuggling an apple in my face so I didn’t see her immediately.

  “So if you think this means you’re getting outta lunch Mister you’ve got another thing coming.” Billie said with a reassuring smile.

  I felt stupid, vulnerable but I could see in her eyes. She got it.

  “I was just trying to get you into my room.” I reply, my throat dry.

  As the nurse leaves Billie pours a glass of water and places it to my lips. I sip. Several hard swallows help; Billie has pulled an armchair up alongside my bed.

  “So it would appear we’re both a little messed up.” She offered.

  “That’s an interesting story.”

  “One I’m sure we’ll get around to.”

  “I haven’t been entirely honest with you Billie. Clearly! My life’s a little more R-rated than I’ve been letting on.”

  “Oh no I’ve seen your life it’s way beyond R-rated.”

  We laugh, we both need it. The atmosphere in the room is instantly lighter; I could almost fly from my bed.

  “So I believe I’ve got your brother to thank for these sweet digs.”

  “Oh it might be his credit card but it’s all me.” She brags.

  “Well in which case, thank you.”

  “Save it till you’re up and about. You can thank me properly.”

  Billie takes my hand and squeezes gently.

  “This is important.” She said sternly “There’s going to be a doctor calling round to see you. You need to tell him something very specific…”

  Just as Billie laid out the head doctor dropped by to see how crazy or stupid I was and whether I had called Mulligan on my failed suicide attempt. I did exactly what Billie told me. I told the psychiatrist I had miscalculated, that I had been partying and that I returned to my motel to get some much needed sleep. He bought it.

  Wheeling my IV drip to the elevator I stood bare assed in my gown waiting for it to arrive. Quietly I rode the two floors before stalking the corridors looking for cafeteria. Eventually I spot Don Johnson sitting at table by the window. He shook his head when he saw me. Billie’s face lit up, it triggered a grin of equal intensity on my tired and bruised face and – if I’m honest at least a semi which I attempt to mask as I walk across the black and white tiles before planting myself across from the Galligans.

  “The Romeo and Juliet of Venice!” He barked “That’s what the staff around here are calling you two fuckin’ idiots.”

  “I hear,” I said, stealing his jelly with a clawed hand before shoving it in my mouth “I had a five spot on Cheech and Chong, don’t I look foolish!”

  “What the fuck is wrong with you? And my sister? How long’s this shit been going on?
” I could see he had more questions but these were the three he had rated top three.

  “I’m not entirely sure what this is.” I confessed looking at Billie who blushes.

  Don nods “Fair enough Irish. You take care of this one you hear?!” I nod but he’s already turned his attention to his sister “And you! Can you teach him to be slightly less retarded?”

  “I’m all over it Don Johnson.” She said with a smile.

  He’d roll his eyes, clearly exasperated with the both of us. Leaning in he kisses his sister on the cheek before getting up from the table. I stand to meet him and try to serve him up some tongue but he slips past me before slapping me full force on my bare white ass.

  “Put some fuckin’ pants on,” he says as he walks away “some of these good people are in enough pain.”

  Now there’s just the two of us. The hospital radio has been playing some generic boy band nonsense since I stepped into the cafeteria. A few seconds of dead air sit in the ears of the captive audience before Changes begins to play.

  “Just can’t seem to shake that song.” I said with amazement.

  “I’ve always liked it.” Offered Billie.

  Neither of us attempt to make conversation, what else is there to say? We simply sit staring at one another, giggling awkward every once and a while. I hold her hand for a bit.

  I signed my discharge papers, handed my bill to Don Johnson who settles with a faux put upon expression that he had no doubt mastered over the years and took the legally required wheelchair ride to the front doors. Getting into a cab Billie gave the driver her address as I got in. I checked my pockets, seven dollars was all I had to my name. The cab ride was smooth, effortless, we hit zero traffic, each light was green. Billie reached over and took my hand before leaning in and whispering.

  “You weren’t fronting. I know you.” And then kissing me on the cheek.

  We arrived at her house; she paid for the cab as I took the bags from the trunk and held her door open. As she opened the front door I threw the bags inside before lifting her up into my arms and carrying her across the threshold. I set her back down on her feet and she wrapped her arm around my neck and kissed me gently before disappearing into her kitchen. She brewed us some coffee, I removed a photograph of Benoit from the mantelpiece and dropped it in the waste paper bin that housed a nest of blooded tissues. A stain sat on the rich living room carpet from where the dog had pissed in the face of a semi conscious Benoit… “Good old Alec Baldwin”. She came in holding two steaming mugs, handing me one.

  “So what are you gonna do for money?” She asked

  “I don’t know, was thinking maybe I could be a kept man.”

  She shook her head. “No if you’re going to be rattling around the house all day I’m getting you a French maid uniform. Put that ass to work.”

  I took a sip from my coffee before setting it on the spot I had just knocked Benoit’s image from.

  “Now that does sound saucy,” I said as I kissed Billie “if I remember correctly the last time I was here I was kind of in the middle of something but got interrupted.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh I remember now,” proclaimed Billie “that something was me.”

  “So it was!” I beamed like an idiot.

  As Billie wrapped her arm around me and bit my lip I remember wondering about the kind of relationship two badly mangled people could have. It was either going to be the beginning of what my Mexican friends would have called “the passion” or one hell of a friendship, either way my chest no longer hurt and the desire to set the world alight because I could, had quelled…which I took as two good signs. I was dying for a drink but some things resolve themselves easier than others and that would be something that I’m sure the love of a good woman would take care of. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was going to do to make ends meet as our lips parted. A thought occurred to me.

  “Maybe I’ll write a book.”

  ADVICE FROM A DOG

  My phone rang and when I answered it was a man on the other end of the line. He sounded tall, angry and spoke of things that weren’t particularly nice and that were about to happen to me, imminently.

  ‘Wait a fucking minute!’ I shouted ‘Who the fuck is this?!’

  ‘I’m Maria’s brother.’

  Ah right. Things had ended badly with her, she was cock crazed, needy and apparently, willing to set her brother on me. He was in the military but one night over drinks she told me that he wasn’t even a soldier, he was a chef.

  ‘You better watch your fucking back you fucking Irish prick…’

  ‘Don’t you fucking threaten me you cunt, you might be army but we kill army.’ I spat, having never involved myself in the bullshit of my motherland I suddenly found myself more than happy to bask in it. Such a fickle little brat. ‘You want to start some shit be my guest…’

  After a little shouting on each end of the patchy AT&T cellular line I gave him my address, unlocked the door and sat waiting in the living room for the inevitable appearance of the brother. I had never heard of a relationship that ended any way other than badly. It made me wonder why, as a species, we hadn’t died out or figured a way to reproduce asexually. But how we needed the big O, the touch of another, the vanity of being wanted. The clock rounded the hour. I was getting bored so I grabbed a beer from the fridge and took the pug outside for her nightly business. Sniffing around she pee’d in the same spot she had struck that morning, and the previous night, and the previous morning. The once rich green patch of turf scorched to a brown deathly weed.

  Back in the living room I checked my phone, no missed calls, no new messages. Thumbing into the call log I checked the time of the incoming duel. He was late. He had said he was with Maria and was coming straight to me. Chef Boyo should have been with me now, slugs should have been exchanged, a victor announced before the police rolled up and took us both in. Nothing. Impatiently I stuck in a DVD, broke open another beer and rolled myself a joint to silence my tourette-spitting mind. Setting the tip of the rolled paper alight I inhaled deep. I checked the clock. Very late. Getting to my feet I lifted some weights, working my arms, pumping them up for powerful bursts of usage, woke them for work. The army chef invading my abode through modern technology, threatening me, trying to put the fear of God into me, intimidating me in my own living room, the cheek. He’d get his.

  I finished the cigarette.

  No sign of the chef.

  I considered phoning him again, asking him where he was, offering him traffic advice on the best way to get here.

  ‘You don’t want to do that.’ the dog said, looking up at me from under her ruffled fawn wrinkle.

  ‘What do you know about it?’

  ‘I know enough to know that you’re meant to let sleeping dogs lie.’

  ‘How long have you been waiting to say that?’

  ‘A few weeks.’ yawned the pug rolling on to her back stretching all four paws towards the heavens.

  I lit a cigarette and took a hit, the adrenaline had been coursing around my body for, I check the clock, over an hour and a half. Now it was beginning to drip from my finger tips and my eyes suddenly felt sore and misshapen in their sockets. Reaching down to the dog I scratched her behind her black velvet ear making her grumble with contentment.

  ‘You look tired.’

  ‘I am tired.’ I replied, smoking with one hand while petting the dog with the other.

  ‘Don’t you worry about lung cancer?’ she asked.

  ‘If I started worrying I don’t think I’d know where to stop. You know I found a lump in my balls.’

  ‘I thought I smelt that.’

  My heart raced to my throat, my anatomy was threatening to turn me inside out as my pulse shot to over one hundred and fifty and I realised that my dog, my little pug could probably answer the question that’s on my mind.

  ‘Is it, is it cancer?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘You just said I
thought I smelt that.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean it’s cancer.’ she replied chewing on her inside claws.

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘It means you should probably have someone look at it.’

  ‘I don’t have health insurance.’

  ‘Maybe you should try and date yourself a nurse, instead of strippers and bored housewives.’

  I rolled myself another MJ and put it to my lips, grumping to herself the little barrel chested princess got to her feet and click, click, clicked across the room setting herself down by the backdoor. She looked at me sorrowfully with her dark chocolate eyes. Smoking the joint my throat dried and cracked and I stubbed it out before the fear of throat cancer took hold but my head was beginning to swim and soon the idea of the big C echoed through my dome like I’d sunk my head into a bucket.

  ‘Crack a window.’ the pug said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Could you crack a window? I’m small, I can’t take that stink as easily as you can. Do we have any chips?’

  Walking across the room I crack a window, the cool air soothing the small claustrophobic room.

  ‘Why don’t you lock the door, turn that DVD off and go to bed?’

  ‘I don’t want him thinking I’m chicken.’

  ‘How bad can chicken be?’

  ‘Chicken is bad, chicken is as bad as cancer.’

  The dog lapped at her water with her long pink tongue. ‘So what? So you have him come over, you beat him up and send him back to Maria. Give her another reason to hate you.’

  ‘That’s the plan.’ I snort puffing out my chest.

  ‘That’s a terrible plan. After what you did to her the least you can do is take a pounding from him, it’ll make them both feel better.’

  ‘I won’t feel better, and what do you mean after what I did to her?! She tried to cut my throat.’

  ‘She told you she loved you.’

  ‘After two dates.’

  ‘She’s impulsive.’

  ‘She’s nuts.’

  ‘And you’re talking to a dog.’

  Touché, smart little bitch.

  ‘Well you started it.’ I walked to the window, pulling back the blinds and watched as a set of headlights burned brightly in the night sky, drawing closer and closer before turning by the apartment and off into the distance, towards a destination elsewhere. I looked to the clock again, it’s rounded on another hour. I sighed with fatigue as the last of the adrenaline falls from my bones and I’m left listless, limp and a little rejected.