by G J Morgan
G J Morgan has been a Chef, a fashion graduate and now works in finance. His unpublished novella “Miss B Tee” has recently been adapted into a short film. His and Her American Classic are his debut novels.
His
American
Classic
G J Morgan
Copyright © 2018 G J Morgan
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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ISBN 9781789011029
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Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
Thank you to all those at Matador and Troubador Publishing. You made the process of turning stone to diamond far less daunting than I thought it would be.
Thank you to my early readers: Taya Nicholls (my little Romanian pocket rocket/Business partner), Sarah Lawson (my cinema girlfriend) and Gina Hewitt (my lifestyle coach).
Thanks to Phil Burman (Dad number 2) for constantly being my technical support and turning childlike scribbles into a front cover.
Thanks to Paul Burman for being the only person who could relate to the struggles of being a writer and when best to laugh or cry (mostly cry).
Thanks to Barbara Middleton-Chappell for telling me straight and making me realise I’d ran out of excuses not to start writing again.
Thanks and love to Jodi Ellen Malpas for taking time out from being a New York bestselling author and giving me invaluable advice on what to do when the last word has been written (turns out more writing).
Thank you most of all to my wife Krissy, my friends and family, for giving me hours and evenings and mornings and years to type away at my laptop. Without whom the novel would still be an idea on a hotel napkin.
Contents
Part One Tom
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
Part Two Lilly
9
10
11
12
Part Three Tom
13
14
15
16
17
18
Part Four Lilly
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
Part One
Tom
The Valley/Feb/Shot 7
1
“Ladies and gentlemen,boys and girls. Welcome to Hollywood Star Tours. My name is Tom and I’ll be your guide today. How are you all? You all happy? I want to see bigger smiles than that, guys. Come on, days like today don’t come around often. Now straight off the bat I know what you are all probably thinking. Milk-skinned, sunburnt, funny accent. Hardly who you would typically be expecting to be driving you around this beautiful city. And I tell you, it is beautiful, and some of the beauty you’ll see today you will recognize from movies and magazines. But my job today, ladies and gentlemen, is to show you its hidden beauty, its little gems, its secrets. Don’t worry, you’ll get to see your Rodeo Drive and your Hollywood sign, you’ll get your postcard moments, that is a given. But trust me when I say that today you are going to see a hell of a lot more than you were probably expecting. Closer than you could ever imagine to the real thing. So, buckle up those seatbelts, apply those suncreams, get those cameras ready as the next two hours are gonna be jam-packed and I wouldn’t want you to miss a thing.”
It was mid-August, busy season; the boss called us all in for her daily pep talk. It was no room for five people, it wasn’t even a room, it was a cupboard space. Paperwork loomed floor to ceiling, fans surrounded her desk as she rattled a keyboard at speed. Normally either ill, stressed or pissed off, that Thursday morning she was all three.
“Tommy. How did yesterday go?” Not yet looking up from whatever she was reading.
“Went well. No hiccups.”
“Manni is settling in,” she said, as I worked out a reply to neither a question nor a statement.
“Where is Golden boy? Romancing married women again?”
“Day off, smart-ass. He deserves one after nine days straight. Did you hear he got another $100 tip? Got within twenty yards of Aniston over at Runyon Canyon, walking that little white dog of hers.”
“Norman.”
“What?” She looked up.
“Norman. Her dog is called Norman.”
“Who gives a fuck. Where were you when all this was going on? Showing some old fucks where Ginger Rogers used to live. You could do well to take a leaf out of Manni’s book.”
“The guy’s a sex pest. He hits on anything.”
“The guy gets tips.”
“I prefer my way of doing things.”
“Well I don’t, and I don’t reckon the customers do either.”
“I get no complaints.”
“What is it with you Brits?” She fed herself a handful of pills. “You judge a service by whether or not some poor bastard has complained or not. Do you think my business survives based on no hiccups? Do you think I get repeat custom based on no hiccups? I don’t know what to do with you. You work hard, I’ll give you that. People like you. God, I even like you, don’t do me much good, but you’re likeable. But in this job, that ain’t enough to cut it, you hear me?”
“Look. If you want me to flirt more, I’ll do it, just like Manni. I’ll flirt with the old, ugly, women, kids, men. I can flirt with anything if that will keep you off my back.”
“I just want you to wow them. This is America. I know it’s a struggle for you to understand. But we expect pearly whites and razzle-dazzle as standard. We expect and I expect the best. Tourists haven’t travelled across oceans and drove across state lines for ‘no hiccup’ service. They’ve come here to see the dream. Do you understand, you lump?”
“Crystal-clear.”
“I hope so. Back to work. There’s a group of eight outside. Departing in five.”
“I’m on it.”
“Oh, it’s Halle Berry’s birthday today, she’s just been spotted up at Maxfield with her kids. Pattinson is out and about too; seen an hour ago over at Melrose Trading Post. Antiques shopping. Vampires have to eat too, so be on the lookout.”
“And there was me thinking we just show the tourists houses and landmarks.”
“Don’t push my buttons today. This is last-chance saloon for you, boy.”
“As much as it pains me to say this, Pattinson eats over at Surs on North Robertson.”
“Sounds a good place to start. Right, off you go to the mob, look
restless. Remember: teeth and gums.”
“Can’t I be mysterious and aloof?”
“You can be unemployed if your tips get any smaller.”
She laughed, as much as she fought it. That was the trick, I guessed. Keep her smiling.
The rest of the day was pretty standard. Met some nice people, newly-weds, retired folk on vacation, met a few rude ones too, nothing out of the ordinary. I even managed to track down Pattinson, not where I predicted, but I found him, that was the main thing. Gave a couple of Twilight fans the best day of their lives, something signed to take back home. Not that Pattinson was best pleased, though they never were.
Halle Berry. I decided to ignore my boss’s orders on that one, left that to the others to fight and squabble over. Me, I drew the line at mothers and their children blowing out birthday candles. Some moments aren’t to be shared with others, even the ones that tip well.
* * *
At home, I played catch with Molly, not that she caught much, as Cassie set the garden table, waving at next door who were doing the same. Next door was always broiling or singing, they didn’t speak English too good, but always smiled and waved. Their cooking always smelt better than ours too.
We rented in Glendale, far away off the tourist route and our house wasn’t anything camera-worthy. Damp, wallpaper ripped and curled, furniture borrowed or bought cheap, but we tried our utmost to make the best of it. Admittedly, we weren’t the tidiest, and despite our best intentions, over time it became accepted that we lived in a permanent state of tidying, a party that neither me nor Cassie had attended. Every day Cassie would curse at the mass of shoes and boots piled up by the front door, the stack of bills and statements left to pile up in the kitchen unopened. Despite all our combined efforts we never quite kept on top of it. We’d both rather be roller-skating or at some zoo or gallery than be sweeping floors or mowing lawns. That was us, in a house that was ugly but loved.
Cassie served up dinner, as we talked and ate. It was nice, the evening sun less harsh; meant I could come out of the shade finally, we talked about something and nothing. Somehow, over mouthfuls of ice cream, me and Cassie had now fallen out and it was my own fault for bringing it up, not that I thought I had. I just said that we didn’t need a three-bed and could make do with renting a two to save on bills. The conversation escalated quickly, and it was a debate we’d had time and time again: she wanted a second child and I didn’t, least not yet, so it was a disagreement that would not go away and would either end in separation or pregnancy, probably the latter. Molly was between us, eating and humming, so the difference in opinion we kept to angry whispers across the table and then later silent baths and early bedtime for everyone except me.
I decided to go back downstairs; it was early, time to myself was rare. For a few hours I did very little, sank myself in front of the TV, reruns of Seinfeld on NBC. I started to watch an old samurai movie, but I wasn’t in the mood for subtitles and decapitation. So I grabbed the keys off the side, drove off through the street lights west towards Mulholland. Towards a friend and bar I knew would still be awake.
* * *
The friend was Mick and as predicted he was still on his feet. He was all gut, his belly filled most of his work station. He leant back against the array of liquor, his belly nearly touching the cash register. There were glasses to be cleaned and tables to be cleared but this was his bar and his rules. His arms crossed, making his way for a bowl of cold nuts. He worked seven days a week, in his eyes his shift ended about five hours before.
Night hours had always been a constant running battle for me, and America was worse. Cassie, although warm and soft, freely admitted to being a shocking bed companion, and Molly’s bouts of apnoea and wheezing, and the humidity of LA, all contributed to me struggling to get to sleep and even more importantly stay asleep. I’d tried all manner of things, pills, lavender oil, infomercials about award-winning food blenders and new expensive and elaborate ways to get stomach muscles; even tried jazz. Eventually bored by all I’d tried, I started to take myself out of the house.
I’d say a few nights a month, guaranteed, when all else had failed me, I’d take the Jeep out for a drive, off on my own private tour. A silent tour, one without me having to narrate or perform. Up past the Methodist church maybe, Pyramid Lane, east on Sunset possibly, up Porn Valley, (yes exactly what it sounds like). I just drove, chased colours and sights, no real direction or destination; most times I ended up in downtown bars, mixing with the kinds of people you’d expect to see as the rest of the city slept. Bars that looked empty but gave you enough company to feel welcomed and loved. I had friends around the city that I would not dare tell Cassie about. Men with loose sets of principles, people at the bottom end of society, dependants, dependent on welfare, violence and all other manner of vices, but it never scared me off, in fact I found the downtrodden a welcoming bunch.
The Hollywood bars I frequented suited my objective just fine and it made for more interesting conversations. I’d talk with them of course, but I’d listen too; watch Nascar, drink my soda, watch the odd fight or scuffle, nothing the bar staff couldn’t sort out. LA was full of crazy, just depended on how crazy you wanted it and where you drove your car. One way to fight insomnia at least, gave me a smile, made me go home and hug the family a little tighter knowing how others had it.
So far, all the talk at the bar that night had been about Mr Jackson. Around that time, Mr Moonwalk’s death was all over the city and Bel Air was busier than ever in his absence. I’d taken my Jeep up at least six times a day, on Boss’s orders, so the grieving could take photos, pay respects, gasp at the drama unfolding. What a mess, and a mess that would only get messier; it was a hell of a shame. I was born too late to be a real fan but he deserved a better death and showed just what fame could do to someone. Death had only made the fanatics more fanatical and they showed no signs of slowing down. There would be court cases, law suits, a doctor would most probably go to prison, not to mention splitting his estate. A sad state of affairs and it felt wrong to watch, and it felt even worse to be the one paid to show people where to watch it.
I’d been there a good while. Mick had gotten himself a measure of bourbon, the good stuff high up on the top shelf; without prompting he gave me another soda. I must’ve been the only one not drinking. The bar had emptied, the few remaining drinkers sat in their company, men in their own personal space, drinking for their own personal reasons.
“When I die I’m doing it my way.” Feeding himself more nuts, staring at the TV, newsreaders reporting, fans crying. “Just gonna eat and drink myself to a point my body gives up.”
“Sounds like suicide to me, Mick.”
“If it is then I’ve been killing myself since I turned twenty-one,” patting his belly.
“Can you leave the bar to me? Would be a nice gesture.”
“I wouldn’t give it you. I like you too much. This place is a fucking curse. All it has ever given me is debt and a bad heart.”
“Who would you leave it to?”
“No one. Let the city fight over it.”
“You wouldn’t leave it to your kid?”
“He wouldn’t want it. He wants nothing to do with me, let alone some beat-up bar with fucked plumbing and an endless lease.”
“How old were you when you had him?”
“He was born 1989. I’m fifty-two,” as he served a couple of guys a pair of beers.
“You were quite old then.”
“It wasn’t planned.”
“Nor was mine.”
“Yes but at least you love your wife. I hated mine then as much as I do now.”
“I never thought I’d be a dad, especially not a dad at twenty-four. Always thought I’d travel forever. No fixed abode. Answer to none but myself.”
“That’s not a reality; that’s a dream, kiddo. Every man needs a place to nest, a woman to call his own. Some
just take longer than others.”
“I know. I just didn’t think it would happen to me so young. Is this what life’s like? Constant fear of letting someone down. Not doing enough. Chasing money so the bills don’t catch up with you.”
“It’s not all bad. Most men would die for what you got, including me.”
“Are you happy, Mick? Single. Free to roam. Sow your wild oats.”
“Do I look fucking happy? Look at me. I want what you have, Tom. Don’t take it for granted. Don’t waste it.”
“She wants more children.”
“All women want more children.”
“But life is hard having one. I’m piss-poor. It seems ludicrous to have another right now.”
“Money should never be a reason to have or not have children. Unless there is another reason?”
“Like what?”
“Maybe you are with the wrong woman.”
“Maybe.”
“Do you want to be with her?”
“I can’t leave her, Mick. Not with Molly how she is.”
“That wasn’t the question. Is she the right woman?”
“She used to be.”
“And now?”
“I don’t want to make Cassie a single parent. I don’t want to be a single parent. I don’t want Molly to have that life.”
“Is she the right woman? Yes or no?”
I didn’t answer, sipped my drink.
“Well, you won’t find the right woman here that’s for sure and hanging out with dropouts like me isn’t going to help either. Go home and start asking yourself some big questions. It’s too late for such topical conversation.”
“Can I have another soda first?”
“Hell no. I ain’t running no charity. My advice is free, my livelihood isn’t.”
“Thanks, Mick. Thanks for listening.”