by G J Morgan
“Hey, you ain’t the first man to ask a barman for his opinion and you won’t be the last. Now get out of here, King of the Road, before I set the locals on you.”
I decided to take his advice, finished my soda and drove home to my warm wife and bed. I never knew why but I always felt like I’d done something wrong after a night out on my own. My nights were so spontaneous and so filled with neon; a different life than my daytime self, a world away from nappies and cartoons and routine. I always felt in the middle, always felt like half was never enough of either.
Cassie said once that most girlfriends would worry about my new hobby and I agreed. I assured her it was nothing like that, and that wasn’t a lie, my adventures were never that sort. Even though I was torn I wasn’t a bastard, though I’d nearly been one. The other night, few months back, some girl at a bar made a move on me, was quite blunt about it, outright asked me if I fancied hooking up. She was the complete opposite of Cassie, short, curvy, breasts hard not to stare at. Of course, I declined, though I knew a lot of husbands who would’ve jumped at the chance of a one-night stand or potential affair. But that husband wasn’t me.
But I was having an affair, that was for sure. An affair with the city, so whatever time I eventually got home, my hair stinking of smoke, my fingers salty from cashews, I always felt like I’d cheated, like I was lying to everyone, including myself.
* * *
Next morning was like our previous night’s disagreement had never happened. We didn’t have time for apologies, and arguments always resolved themselves as we attempted to get everyone fed and out of the house on time.
I envisaged families who did it better than us. Men who had time for a run round the block, a long shower, before joining his family at a laid table, hot toast, halved grapefruits, his children reading quietly, his wife at the griddle pan, as he read a big newspaper. There would be a lightness about it all, a casual levity.
Already my Friday morning had sucked. Couldn’t find my shades, Cassie couldn’t find the urgent letter I was supposed to post. She asked me if I had money for groceries, I gave her the little change I had in my pocket, knowing it would only be enough for milk and bread. We kissed cheeks at the doorway, daughter in her arm, Hoover in the other. A look to suggest she wished I didn’t have to go, and a smile which made me not want to leave.
The journey to work stuck to its familiar trends, Alt 97 on the radio, Highland Avenue traffic, palms as tall as ladders, blue skies; always blue skies. Despite the endless jams I still loved to drive, top down, music up, just driving in the open air was enough for me. For an Englishmen like me, starved of such weather, just not seeing grey was a minor miracle.
Got to the office, Roger treated me to a quick breakfast burrito, quick machine coffee to beat off the night before, the boss then set us off to work. A new audience, the same old tired lines, my little drum roll, my rousing speech, more celebrity houses, more celebrity spotting.
End of my shift, Boss called me over.
She was letting me go.
I was being fired.
Fed me a yarn about streamlining, efficiencies, unstable financial climate; it stank of industry protocol, this had been practised, this had been Googled and she had done it many times before and despite her saying it wasn’t personal and giving me a hug, her affection was purely for display. Still I listened and she talked, I listened again and she talked some more, culminating in her giving me an envelope full of crumpled cash and a pat on the back. In the Jeep I counted it; although a wad of notes it would barely last a fortnight. Thank God, she said I could work my notice, six weeks to sort my shit out, at least she had the decency to buy me some time.
* * *
Even now I couldn’t quite fathom how it had ever come about, this career. It was always my intention to one day live in America, that was always the plan all along, but it was never my intention to be a tour guide. Guiding strangers around a city I barely knew myself. I was as lost as they were, a tourist just like them. I remember when I first landed the job a couple of years before, I phoned home across the pond. I expected Mum to be a tad underwhelmed by it, the fact that after a half decade of higher education and a year of backpacking, my career had led me to that of a glorified cab driver. But she didn’t say much, for the most part she was surprisingly enthusiastic. Think she was just glad I was employed finally.
Even the night before my first day as a tour guide, I still wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do. Lying on the bed, me and Cassie debated my new career move. She asked me, if I could do anything, what would it be, and we got talking about my options, realistic options. No talk of journalism, movie work, space exploration, just realistic options. She tried to narrow the choices down, fired questions at me.
Do I like to work in a team, prefer to work alone, office job or on my feet? And although it didn’t make my choice any clearer, I could tell she was enjoying the process, so I played along. It went on for a good half hour, until it became silly, asking me if I’d prefer to work with animals or food. She agreed it had turned far-fetched and after, analysing her findings, she concluded that a tour guide ticked all the boxes. We ended up in a play-fight, cushions were thrown by both parties and we did end up making out on the floor of our kitchen. We’d made a mutual decision, I was desperate and underqualified. I had no other choice.
So, I began my new job. Excited at first, but the glitz and glamour didn’t last long. I was, as predicted, a cab driver. I was a back of a head, a baseball cap and a name badge, a curator of the rich and famous, a peeping Tom, literally. It was never a career, it was a rut, a comfortable rut, but a rut that paid the bills.
* * *
After I got fired I drove around for a bit, found somewhere high and quiet. The Hollywood sign looked different that day and forty-five feet was a long way up, and a longer way down. Peg Entwistle sprang to mind.
I think a lot of people in LA were like her, me included. I’d seen them on my daily routes, forgotten actors, sidewalk pop stars, performing to a moving audience. All of us sold the idea of what it might be like to make it in Hollywood. I looked down, the carpet of rich and poor, success and failure, for all to see. There was nothing really in-between in Hollywood and I wasn’t sure exactly what camp I sat in.
Actually, that wasn’t fair. I’d had successes. I fell in love, a lot of guys searched for that their entire lives, I’d class that as a success. Met Cassie on a tour bus funnily enough, still you can’t help where and who you fall in love with and I fell for Cassie and I fell for the city, although I don’t think the city has ever loved me back. Not long after we’d met, we found out she was pregnant; after that things moved fast, deposits were put down on a house, joint accounts were set up, futures were planned. Seven months later, a little earlier than everyone expected, we had little Molly.
She turned two September just gone and I still can’t quite believe she made it. Her start in life was full of headlines, five weeks premature, 3lb 14oz, special care unit. My memories of that time were and still are clouded. Transfers between hospitals, doctors giving us worst-case scenarios, nurses with paperwork, waiting rooms, visitors’ hours. Cassie was discharged after five days, Molly had to wait another twelve days till we could finally bring her home.
Not an ideal start for little Molly. She’d seen more doctors than I’d seen the Beverly Wilshire and from day one she’d either been on a ventilator or in a hospital waiting room. We were assured it wasn’t serious, a side effect of being premature. Still, when you see your firstborn strapped to wires and machinery, the only way we could see it was very serious. And those things weren’t cheap, not that I was putting a price on my daughter, but in the cold light of day healthcare in the grand old United States was a luxury not a right. Money meant medication. Money meant she might reach her next birthday. I’m being dramatic of course, the doctors had always assured us it wasn’t critical, but in my eyes, that was the value of every dollar I e
arned. That’s why I always worked so many long hours, for Molly; worked the hardest I could, just not hard enough.
Times would have to be tough for a while, I thought. I was confident I could find work, I just didn’t know when or what it would pay. In the meantime, I would need to cut back, make a few changes to save a few bucks, though we already lived hand to mouth, not sure what else we could cut back on.
Fuck! The Jeep, I thought. I’d have to give the Jeep back too.
How the hell was I going to get the money for new wheels?
How did this happen? How did I get myself into this mess?
I always thought I was a pretty decent tour guide. The stupid thing was I actually loved being a tour guide for the most part. I didn’t even mind the boss; for all her flaws and despite her firing me, we always got on. She was never built for LA, she was all Vegas, a feisty little pit bull, but I liked her honesty, her laugh that cackled and coughed.
I genuinely enjoyed showing people the city, enjoyed telling them stories, loved how excited they got, like I did when I first arrived. It was only when the job changed for the worse that I started to unknowingly lose interest; when it became a matter of routine. That’s when the boss knew my cards were marked. I’d become disillusioned by it and the boss must’ve seen that and started to look out for reasons to let me go.
I never said I was the model employee. I was a hard worker but yes, sometimes I might have read my LA Weekly in the Roosevelt car park, had the occasional coffee with a couple of superheroes from Grauman’s Theatre sometimes, but I never took advantage of my employer. I just think I’d changed and what was expected of me had changed too. The audience in the back of the Jeep had become hungrier and more aggressive in what they expected from a tour, and from me as a guide. No longer interested in locations or legends, they now wanted reality and were relentless in getting it. They wanted their pound of flesh. Boss called it ‘safari’, and I hated it ever since she coined the phrase, but that was in truth exactly what it was. “The bigger the meat, the bigger the buck.” She actually said this, I’m not even kidding. Mistimed, I remember I sniggered and was given the look I’d become all too familiar with, which was very similar to the look I was given when I was canned.
She even had radios installed, to keep all Jeeps in the loop, and had us all measured up with matching khaki shirts and pants. We looked ridiculous, but the tourists lapped it up, every day more dollars, every day a new hunt. It was laughable but lucrative. But like on safari, waiting for a pride of grazing lions or the emergence of a rare bird by a watering hole, my role had become that of a hunter or stalker. And LA has a lot of watering holes, and a lot of rare birds, and lots of alpha males. And I knew how and where to find them. A socialite’s favourite bookstore on Sunset. The newest heart-throb with a six-pack at a bar, a designer’s local grocery store. I tell you, hang about anywhere with either food, drink or clothes long enough and celebrities will come to graze and socialize. And when they come, our Jeeps are there; mine included. So, the magazines, the internet, became a necessity and the pursuit regrettably addictive. The radio, the gossip, the Jeep, all tools of the trade.
I was going to miss that Jeep. It was the only car I had ever owned and I didn’t even own it, not technically. Most of my significant memories, good and bad, have involved that vehicle one way or another. I even thought Molly was conceived in the back of that Jeep momentarily until Cassie’s journal proved I was out by three days. One late night when Molly was first born, and neither I nor Cassie had any other ideas on how to get her to sleep, I took us all for a drive. Thought the humming engine and bad suspension might help her nod off, when in fact it had the reverse effect and heightened all of her other senses.
Cassie had not been in my Jeep for a long while and on that particular night the city was in good form. I drove a bit, we stopped, I drove a bit more, we stopped. We whispered about our plans for the future, I took her to my favourite houses on Roxbury Drive and restaurants on West Malibu I would love to take her to.
But mostly we talked about Molly, about being prepared for an uncertain future, about worst-case scenarios if her health didn’t improve. We both cried a bit, even me as much as I tried not to. When our daughter eventually did fall asleep, as the sun was coming up over Wattles Garden Park, I asked Cassie to marry me and she said yes. Unprepared, I didn’t have a ring so instead I slipped on an imaginary one, before going to Wendy’s to share a garden salad with literally the last few dollars we had between us. God, I even made her sign a napkin, the terms of the marriage. Meal on the table by six, house tidy, sex every night. Two out of three wasn’t bad I suppose, it was a great day, in every which way it was perfect. The imaginary ring had since become a running joke between Cassie and myself. The longer the wait for the real stone, the bigger the imaginary one became.
“This ring is getting so heavy I may have to take it off,” she always joked, but deep inside it hurt that I couldn’t afford it and I hoped she knew if I’d had the money I’d have been the first person down Rodeo Drive with my wallet. Until that time she was still my wife, just not in the official sense, but in the way that mattered most. She’s always deserved more and there were men out there who would do better than me.
I looked at the sky, looked at my watch. It was time to head home. It was in the traffic I decided not to tell Cassie about today, about me losing my job. I had plenty of time to fix it. Later after dinner and a shower Cassie chatted on the phone, an old friend with a lot to tell, meant a ten-minute chat turned into a lot longer, so instead I updated my CV online, which made for pretty light reading. University then travelling then tour guide. I was hardly qualified for much, but I was a hard worker and willing to do anything as long as it paid. There were plenty of jobs like that in Hollywood. I was sure I could get myself sorted without the need to worry Cassie. She had enough on her plate already and it was a problem I could sort out on my own.
An hour later my CV was done. As I started to pack away the dishes and pans, I could hear Cassie from the other room, laughing, talking fast the way girls do. I overheard her being invited out, someone’s birthday, a chance for a rare night off, but I could already hear Cassie decline, a lie about already having plans, when I knew we had none.
* * *
Over the weekend I tried my best not to panic. Did family stuff, free stuff like walks and baseball, stuff that I knew wouldn’t damage the bank balance. Monday, I sent out my CV, hoped somebody would bite, but no one did. Spent a couple of lunch breaks talking to some big lady across a big desk as she looked for jobs on her computer; she said I’d hear from her but I never did.
More days passed, they felt like weeks. I begged the boss to change her mind, give me another chance, but she’d already hired my replacement. I was screwed, I would’ve spoken to my bank, but I knew the sorry state of my finances. Molly wasn’t great either, had a few bad nights, couldn’t get her breath. Another hospital visit and another big medical bill. Things didn’t look great for her or for us.
I realized I needed help. I decided to ring home.
My cell had no credit so I rang her from a phone booth. She sounded startled, I’d forgotten the time difference, I apologized. Told her I didn’t have many quarters, which was partly true. Gave her the rundown on my situation, she listened, told me what I needed to hear, the ‘everything will be OK’ speech, said she would send money. I told her not to, but she insisted. I wasn’t in a position to refuse, and was man enough to resort to begging if it meant looking after my family.
I’d changed a lot. Before I’d always lived a way of life where I made myself accountable for my own actions, an almost blind stubbornness to refuse a handout, to do things on my own, to be dependent on no one. There were so many times when I was travelling when I knew it would’ve only taken a phone call to Mum and Dad and I’d have had money wired into my account. Koh Chang, Cambodia, I had some rough times where I was reckless with my resources, left
myself vulnerable. There were things I did on that trip I’m not proud of, slept on too many floors, pushed broom, ate meat that made my insides churn. But it was a shit I’d got myself into and a shit I had to climb out of. And I always did.
But my willingness to accept charity all changed with Cassie and Molly. When I became accountable for three and when recklessness affected more than my back and stomach. Still didn’t feel right asking Mum for money, it was money she probably didn’t have herself; she wasn’t wealthy. She wasn’t when Dad was alive, less so now. Made me feel sick I had to ask, well I didn’t even ask, but I rang with that intention in mind, so it was no surprise when her help was offered.
* * *
Another week went by and still no job, working my notice had gone quick, too quick. And the search for new employment, which at first glance had been painless and optimistic, had spiralled into blind panic. End of September and I’d be officially jobless, so I only had a few days left at work till I would have no choice but to tell Cassie the truth.
I’d only had a handful of interviews, most were a complete waste of time. One interview I had to sneak out of the house in my shirt and tie before the girls woke up. I wasn’t expecting much, the interview was over as soon as it began, and I got the impression the position wasn’t mine once they looked me up and down. I had to apply really as one of the girls on the counter had a friend, who knew a friend, who knew of an opening. It was embarrassing actually. I was the oldest in the waiting room by a long shot, and the salary they offered was meant for someone just out of grad school rather than someone with a wife and kid.
The guys took me out too, a farewell lunch. There weren’t many of us, but it was a nice gesture. The Grub girls presented me with a bottle of import beer and a box of Yorkshire Gold. I drank the first and hid the second in the Jeep. As we started to walk back to work I found myself alongside Roger, who was ever keen to offer his words of wisdom, regardless of whether the advice was wanted or required.