by Irvine Welsh
When I got to LA I was pretty beat but still runnin on adrenalin. The shoot went well. I got to be back behind a camera, and I’d forgotten how much I loved that. The concept was simple, the kind of shit that me and a million other would-be filmmakers could pull off with style and panache, without sweat touchin our ass cracks. What we basically did was to parody the car chase along the concrete dried-out LA riverbed in the movie To Live and Die in L. A. We emerged onto the streets outside a hospital and our faggot model jumped out with his heavily pregnant ‘partner’. We finished with the byline: ‘For Little Things That Just Can’t Wait’. None of us was foolin ourselves it was too smart or original, but then again it was an ass-fucking car ad. The big difference was that this time I wasn’t the bitter stiff in some Hollywood bar looking up from his stool at the finished product on-screen, saying how easy that shit was and how the guys who did that stuff were assholes getting paid top dollar for jack. I was the guy doin it. And they cut that damn check in time and whatever anyone said it felt pretty fuckin good.
Back at my Santa Monica rental at night, when I didn’t have Pen on my mind, which wasn’t a whole lot, I kept thinking about Yolanda and her needy hunger. Cravin so much from people but lockin herself away, just incubatin that loneliness. So that when someone did come into her life, her desperation flooded them.
My script, Big Noise, seemed to keep on comin to mind, particularly the character of Julia. She was the reverse of Yolanda. That was her problem, she didn’t seem to need much of anythin from anyone, but was still in everybody’s face. One night, looking out from my balcony toward the Pacific, which was a few blocks away but felt like about twenty miles, I got to thinkin that maybe if Julia was older, faded, less cool, less in control …
Suddenly inspired, I got up, went to the kitchen table and clicked on my laptop, firing up Final Draft. I sat down and I pulverized that goddamn keyboard, scarcely believing those fingers were mine. As a writer I had always been a plodder, a diligent chipper. Now I was blazin, locked into my subconscious, and the pages were flyin out of me. Over those next three nights I bashed out another draft, still buzzin on the adrenalin and plenty of strong, black coffee.
I ain’t too stiff-assed to admit that I was tremblin with excitement when I took my disk down to a local Kinko’s and printed off a hard copy. When I read it I couldn’t believe how good it was but I tried to calm myself down. I know writers have a way of foolin themselves that what they’ve just done is the one. Sure, I figured that I should maybe stick it in a bottom drawer for a few weeks, see how different it read once I got a little distance from it. But for some reason I didn’t, I just read it again and went with that feelin, emailin a copy straight over to Martha.
The next mornin she calls me, her voice uptempo. I’m more excited than ever but I soon hit the earth with a bump. — Sorry, darling, I’m delighted that you’ve finished another draft of Big Noise and I’m happy to receive it, but I haven’t checked my email yet. It’s just that I have some very good news.
Then she tells that I’ve been offered this video shoot I’d been previously told I’d just missed out on, from this guy representing this hot new British band, the Majestic Reptiles, who were going to be touring out here next spring. The dude they had lined up had been in a motorcycle accident and had to pull out. And the money was good. Maybe not as good as the car ad but it sure wasn’t bad and it would be good to have somethin else on my showreel, which you couldn’t file under ‘fucksploitation’. I’d probably only got the gig as I was available in LA at the time, but fuck it, sometimes you need a goddamn break. Things were certainly lookin up, but my mind was elsewhere. — But you will look at the new draft of Big Noise, Martha?
— I promise you I’ll read it right now, if you promise that you’ll lighten up a little and celebrate your good fortune. Deal?
— Deal.
I was as good as my word. To celebrate I took two ol LA-based friends, Brett and Evan, out for a drink at the Chateau Marmont. For a bit it was just like old times except that I was the only one who wasn’t on the sauce. I kept thinkin bout what a motley crew we were; the porn rigger with ambitions to be an art-house writer/director, the standard LA wannabe-actor/bartender, and the songwriter who gigged in sleazepits like Pen’s, but who wanted to write film scores that would make Mancini wet his pants. As was our sad routine, we’d sit there fantasizing about our imaginary movies, casting then rejecting everybody who came in: Keanu, Kirsten, Val, Bob, Colin. Then, through their increasing inebriation, Brett and Evan made me painfully aware that I was the cold ass sipping the mineral water. As they blasted off to that other planet, I could feel their resentment bubblin thinly under the surface of the evenin. They grew belligerent and bitter as they decried the success of others, while I sat bored and tight-lipped for the rest of the night. I felt a blessed relief when it was time to piss in the fire and call a halt to proceedins. I ran them home to Westwood and Venice Beach respectively, the broken, desperate dreams of drunks crashin around in my ears. I couldn’t see no role for me in their lives but as permanent designated driver. Which is another way of sayin I could see no goddamned role at all.
Then the next day Martha called again. I swear to God I’d talked to her more in that last week than I had in five years of being on her agency’s books. But when she started to speak I didn’t know which one of us was the most awestruck. — I can’t believe what you’ve done with Big Noise, honey … it’s a work of art … no, forget that, a work of genius!
It was me who couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This was Martha, and that gal had never exactly been prone to hyperbole. But then again, I guess I hadn’t given her nothin much to get carried away about. — I’m glad you like it –
— Like it? It’s so completely realized … and Julia … she’s totally unrecognizable from the first draft. Look, I’m sending this straight off to Don Fennel in New York with a ‘read immediately’ tag stuck on it. God, what a streak you’re on right now, honey!
I called Pen with my good news and she decided to take a few days off to fly to LA, which cheered me up no end. Every spare moment I got we just hung out in Santa Monica; makin love, watchin television, eating pizza and Chinese, catchin rays and lookin out to the ocean. One day we were just hangin out on the beach at Venice, watchin some surfer dudes doing their thing and somehow the ‘M’ word came up. I dunno who started that kind of fool talk, but it all ended with me asking, ‘Will you?’ and her saying, ‘For sure.’ As we trawled round Santa Monica until we found a suitable ring, we were both joyous, and even the fact that she had to head back down to Phoenix couldn’t take the goofy smiles off our faces.
We floated around on cloud nine, makin plans, or rather scenarios of happiness; moving up to LA and finding our own beach apartment, taking Pen to meet my folks who were gettin on and who’d appreciate new, younger blood in the family. Life couldn’t get much better than this, surely. Then Martha called sayin that she wanted to meet me for dinner. She wouldn’t tell me what it was about but she sure sounded excited. We arranged to meet in a restaurant on Wiltshire and for the first time she was earlier than me. More importantly, she was lookin like the cat that got a whole big bowl of cream.
— I don’t quite know how to say this. Don Fennel loves your script so much he wants to produce Big Noise. He’s confident he can raise the cash. You did say four point five million dollars, right?
I was so convinced that she was dickin me around, I wasn’t even slack-jawed about this ‘news’. Don Fennel, after all, was one of, if not the, hottest indie producer in America. — Don’t do this, Martha –
— I told him that you had to direct and he was cool with that, she said. It was round about then I saw she wasn’t jokin and I had to stop myself shoutin at the maître d’ for a vodka Martini. Martha pointed to the glass of Dom Pérignon she’d already had. — I know you don’t, but I must. Darling, Fennel absolutely loved the showreel. If you can shoot it for four point five million –
— Of course I
can!
— Then it’s definitely going to happen!
— How can he love the goddamned showreel? It ain’t nothing but a handful of ads, pop vids and a couple of shorts that did zilch at the half-assed festivals they got screened at! I gasped. I couldn’t believe it. This just all seemed too good to be true.
— I tell you, I’ve never seen Don Fennel so excited about a script. I said to him, ‘It reminds me of Halliday.’ He just scoffed and said, ‘When was Halliday ever as good as that?’
I almost fell off my chair at that one! The world had gone crazy! I’ll swear by my momma’s sweet life on a warehouse full of Bibles that it was the best week of my life! As I got back down to Santa Monica, Pen was packing her bags for Phoenix, and her eyes widened as I punched the air. I grabbed a hold of her, coughing out my news and we bounced on the bed laughin and foolin, until our eyes met in some primal gaze and we were helpin each other out of our clothes.
Afterwards, she sat up in bed and lit a cigarette. She rolled her eyes and said, — Now, honey, I really have to go.
The band’s shoot was scheduled for two days but took the best part of four. This was all down to the lead singer, who, like many of that breed, was a sullen, irritating, uptight asshole. At first he said that he didn’t want to be in the video. I told him that it was a long way to come from London just to catch some rays and get decent sushi, which he didn’t much appreciate. Then he wanted to wear a stupid leather jacket and a deerstalker hat and cavort with a bunch of models done up as cheerleaders. I was probably emboldened by my stock risin so dramatically lately, so I cornered their manager, a nice guy called Asad, and told him, — Tell that Limey bag of shit we do this my way or I fuckin walk.
To his credit Asad did, and after a band meeting, they decided that I was the man in the chair. The singer asshole, Tommy Sparrow they called him, well, he was hostile for a bit, before he did this complete about-face, spendin the rest of the shoot following me round like a fuckin puppy dog, telling me I was cool and wanting to get loaded with me. With his attention-seekin, he was still a tiresome pain in the ass, and I think I even preferred him sulky. Nevertheless, we finished the shoot if not on time then on budget.
All this and the other shit had shown me that I wasn’t really interested in Yolanda no more. I had all the material I needed on Glen Halliday. And that was who the book was going to be about, a great artist that was at the height of his powers, not some ol lush in decline with a drunken nutcase recluse of an ex-beauty queen turned crazy old crone.
All I needed from Yolanda was some specific information about the circumstances of Glen’s death. But while I was here in LA I had another opportunity to find out who the hell Glen Halliday was. There was a woman he spent ‘a lot of time with’ when he was out here, according to Sandy Nugent’s buddy, Jenny Ralston. And Halliday was out here a lot. Although he did most of his shooting on location in Texas, or occasionally Florida, he had a contact in an LA studio lab, and they let him do for cheap all his editing and post-production up here. He was also in town a lot on that relentless hustlin for cash merry-go-round that dominates the indie film scene.
His friend’s name was Andrea Lyons and she lived up on the hills in Pasadena. Andrea’s home was a smart colonial-style dwellin in an affluent neighborhood favored by Hollywood types. A big convertible sat in a three-car garage. Andrea herself was well groomed in a trashy kind of way, quietly smug with her lot, looking pleasantly surprised by the hand life had dealt her. She gave off the smell of a cocktail waitress who had snared and married the suit at the bar with the big bucks. There was somethin kind of upliftin about this gal, somethin that raised the spirits. I didn’t ask about her husband but I guessed that he was working away on some business trip, as she was very candid about her relationship with Glen Halliday. She told me that she and Glen were an item when he was in town. — I knew that he was hooked up with some mean bitch down in Phoenix, she said, taking a big drag on a Marlboro. — She had this useless old water farm but wouldn’t sell it.
So there it was, straight from the horse’s mouth. Glen Halliday was a gold digger and he was cheatin on Yolanda. I had this information confirmed and I now didn’t know whether I would bury it or use it.
One thing I figured for sure was that it was time to get the hell out of Arizona. It had served its purpose. Pen and I decided it made sense to move up here and Evan knew enough people in town to get her gigs. I reckoned I’d now be making enough to help her in her music career, just as she’d helped me in my screenwritin one; get her some studio time, good backing musicians, and a quality demo tape knocked out. Hell, I was even thinkin of her and Evan in terms of scoring Big Noise.
I loaded up the Land Cruiser, paid my dues on the apartment, booking it for another six months for Pen and me, so we could find somewhere good at our leisure. Then I headed out of LA. This time on the drive down there were no self-indulgent detours, it was interstate all the way. When I crossed the state line into Arizona, I called Pen but her cellphone was switched off; again, no surprises there. I dunno why she bothers with them at all. You could see where she got the habit: bookstores, the stage, recording studios. When I got tired on the road I checked into a motel and watched trashy TV. I felt high, like I wanted to celebrate, so drove to a truck stop and instead of liquor bought a tub of Ben & Jerry’s and headed back to my motel. I watched some reruns of Sex in the City feelin like a goddamn pussy without really caring too much about it.
The next day I was up later than I intended. Hadn’t slept so long or so well in an age. Sun was near as damnit overhead by the time I got back on the road. After drivin most of the day, when I got to the apartment there was no sign of Pen, and her mobile was still switched off. It was a Saturday, and she never worked the bookstore those days. I figured I’d take a run out to Earl’s Roadhouse. It was dark by the time I got there, and I entered with anticipation, though I guess I was also a little tentative in case that asshole Barry was in. But I hadn’t seen his truck outside, nor, for that matter, Pen’s car. Ol Earl spots me right away and comes across. He told me that she ain’t on tonight and that she ain’t stopped by.
I looked behind the bar. No Tracey. Of course, it was her night off every other Saturday and she and Pen often went out for a drink together. It was their night to grab a bite and sink a few beers and I couldn’t begrudge them that; not being a sauce hound anymore I always worried that I was maybe just a little borin in company. I reckoned I’d leave them to it and elected to drive out to Yolanda’s, calling her first to check that it was okay. She seemed flustered – probably drunk – but was pleased to hear from me. She told me that she had some company she needed to get rid of and would appreciate it if I could hold off for a while. That suited me fine. I went back to the apartment for a while, lookin over the latest draft of Big Noise. This, I said to myself in satisfaction, was why I met Yolanda. I got so carried away I guess I lost track of time. An hour had passed. I called Pen again, without expectin much, knowing that when she and Tracey got together it was party time. Then I headed outside and back into the Land Cruiser and out of Phoenix. The dark sky seemed infinite as I cruised down the highway, thinking about Yolanda. This would be my last interview with her. I was kinda concerned that she’d go all psycho-bitch on me after the last time, but I’d never seen her so calm and serene. There was a wild glint in her eye and a crooked smile on her lips as she stood in front of me wearing a white smock and black slacks. — I seem to apologize to you a lot lately, Raymond. I’m sorry if I was rather undignified at our last meeting, she said. — But I assure you there will be no more apologies.
— No problem, Yolanda. I raised my hand, brushin off her concerns. — But I gotta tell you that this is probably gonna be our last meetin. Got some good news workwise; I’m movin back up to LA, then I’m shootin a movie down in Texas.
— I had kind of anticipated that, she said, with a kinda grim, distracted cheer. — You’re an ambitious man, Raymond Wilson Butler. You’re definitely going places.
I guess I was finding it hard to keep the crap-eater outta my smile. It was true. I was goin places. Yolanda got some drinks: a gin for her, and my usual lemonade. I ain’t sure whether it was cause I wasn’t gonna see her again, or perhaps I was just being an arrogant jerk, too flushed with my recent success, but I decided to ask her about her plastic surgery routines. — You … eh, I touched my own face, — had a little work done?
— Stating the obvious, huh? She laughed, not at all offended.
I went to protest but she silenced me with a grandiloquent wave of her hand.
— Don’t worry none. It was a long time ago and he wasn’t exactly the best guy in Beverly Hills, she grinned. — In fact he wasn’t in Beverly Hills at all, just some rat-bastard suburb in Houston. She laughed loudly at her own wit. Her face looked more gargoyle-like than ever at that point, nerves frozen with bad cutting and the stretching of old dead skin.
— What made you decide to go under the knife?
— It was Larry Briggs got me into that. Thought if I looked a little bit like how I used to, back when I was queen of this damned state, then I might be good for some votes when I was on his arm. I admit, though, I didn’t take too much pushing. She smiled sadly. — One strives to keep beauty with one.
I looked over at ol Sparky; way the light hit his glass-eyed stare it seemed alive, feral. Then there was Marco, forever loyal, waitin patiently by the door.
She caught my eye on them. Gave me a nod that was slow, knowin, and that creeped me out a little. — The coyote is done. I’ll show you him in a little while; he’s down in the basement. We have to think of a name for him though, Raymond. I think that you should pick one.