Gonzo Girl

by Cheryl Della Pietra

  “Wouldn’t hurt to get a little more.”

  “Come on downstairs.”

  Walker points to the couch, where I sit as he heads down to the basement with Jim. I’m still flying pretty high and intensely study the artwork in Jim’s living room, a cheesy yet consistent collection of Southwestern scapes that I find oddly beautiful. I’m not so dim as to not realize what’s going on here, and it’s pretty ballsy: Walker Reade just led four cops to his drug dealer’s house.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Okay, it’s two.”

  “So it is.” Walker’s sitting at his typewriter with a blank page inserted. I’m on the barstool next to him with his manuscript open in front of me. All fifty-nine pages of it. These I do have memorized. I have hours of downtime and I’ve looked at these pages from every angle. There are problems. Lots of little ones, and almost as many big ones—poorly conceived characters, lack of narrative direction, gaps of black-hole proportion, tepid humor, plot inconsistencies, and one big problem that has never before been an issue with Walker’s work: it’s kind of boring. I have pages of notes and ideas, but feel I have to measure them out—let them fall into place one at a time.

  Unfortunately, Walker is in an entirely different head space. For about the tenth time, he peeks through the blinds, even though he lives in the middle of nowhere and everyone in this sleepy town is no doubt asleep on a Monday at two in the morning. But in the four days since our little trip up the mountain, Walker has been in full-blown paranoia mode, convinced that his untimely arrest is imminent. Every blind in the house is down, and we rarely venture out, even to eat. We are surviving on Marie Callender’s frozen dinners and that Armageddon-ready supply of canned goods. To my great disappointment, Larry’s visit was canceled. I feel like I’m missing something, as our interaction with the cops had all of the menace of a Dukes of Hazzard episode. The gun really was a screecher gun used to scare off birds; it doesn’t even take ammo. No one got hurt, and no evidence was taken.

  “So I have an idea about the story,” I say.

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Okay. Well, not an idea. It’s a comment.”

  “Sweetie!” Walker is snapping at Devaney like she’s a bellhop. She is sprawled on the circular couch in what appears to be a copper full slip and short shorts—her pajamas—watching Pretty Woman with the volume low. The irony, I assume, is lost on her.

  “What?”

  “Take a peek outside. Here . . .” He hands her a rifle from underneath the counter.

  “Are you crazy, Walker? I’m not sure what you’re lookin’ for, but ain’t nuthin’ out there, babe.”

  “Alley?”

  “How about I take a peek without the gun.” I go into the breezeway, open the door, look through the screen at the half-moon, and smell the night air, hoping it will wake me up. No bogeyman under this bed.

  “See anything?”

  “Nope.” I come back into the kitchen. “Not a thing. So, are you ready?”

  “Ready for what?” He takes a long draw off his scotch and piles some cocaine onto the small tray next to him. Devaney’s eyes light up. Walker does a line and passes the tray to me. I opt for the shortest line, my latest trick, and pass the tray to Devaney, who takes great pains to look exasperated at getting sloppy thirds.

  “Writing,” I say. “It’s after two.”

  “You keep saying that. Who made this rule? Two.”

  “I don’t know. Claudia said—”

  “Claudia is a secretary.”

  “Okay.”

  “So why would I listen to a secretary about when to write my book?”

  “Well, that’s why I’m here, right?” I say matter-of-factly. “So I was thinking . . . It seems as if there’s this disconnect between Luke and Polly . . . in chapter three . . . when they’re—”

  “That’s life, sweetheart.”

  “I mean, there’s just not much emotional resonance in the scene at the truck stop. But I was thinking—”

  “Are you saying you don’t care about the characters?”

  “Well, no. I mean, not no. Not wholesale. I would care more in this section if—”

  “Well, then why don’t we just throw this sixty pages into the fire then.”

  “Oh, no. I wasn’t suggesting—”

  “That’s exactly what you were suggesting. That they’re crap.”

  “I don’t think they’re crap, but I thought you wanted me to be honest.”

  “I would prefer it if you were just not such an idiot.”

  “Okay.” I have, by now, learned better than to chomp down on the “I’m an idiot” bait.

  “You’re wrong, missy. There’s plenty of ‘emotional resonance,’ as you say. What orifice did you even pull that phrase from? We’re not in Lit 201, sweetheart.” Walker does another line and lights a cigarette before training his aviators on me, presumably waiting for an answer to that question.

  I decide to not back down, like Claudia told me. “So if you don’t want me to have an opinion on this, what am I doing here?”

  “Well, for starters, I need a refill on my drink. Scotch. Water. Now.”

  “Oh . . . okay.”

  “I have an idea,” says Devaney. Throughout my first week here, Devaney has insisted on staying up with us. She mostly watches movies on TV, does a ton of coke, and elevates negligee wearing to a level of high art while alternately stewing in sexiness and insecurity. I can’t imagine that she feels threatened by me, but she has the demeanor and impatience of a chaperone at a high school dance. I go to the bar and mix Walker’s Chivas and water.

  “Please, Devaney. Not now.”

  “So you want to hear her ideas but not mine?”

  “My guess is that your idea is lamebrained. You grew up on a farm.”

  “So?”

  “So your thoughts on animal husbandry, or whatever, are not going to help me.”

  “On what?”

  “Okay, back to the movie, honey. And what are you wearing?” Walker is pointing at me and my black turtleneck sweater and blue jeans.

  “I don’t know . . .” I place his scotch down on the coaster next to the typewriter.

  “I will never understand that kind of sweater. God gave you a neck, right? Didn’t I just buy you some clothes? Devaney . . . get this girl something from the back.” Devaney heads back to the bedroom, and I can hear her rummaging through drawers.

  “I’m cold,” I say. “Plus, can I respectfully add that this is supersexist?”

  “Go ahead . . .” Devaney comes back with an orange, off-the-shoulder jersey minidress. “Respectfully add that, then put this on.”

  “You want me to put this on?”

  “You want pages? Trust me, it’ll help. With, you know, emotional resonance.”

  I head into the bathroom and start to change. As I rip off the turtleneck, I offer myself a pep talk of sorts. It’s not like he’s making me put on a bikini, and it might actually help with pages. Maybe if I start looking at this like it’s part of the creative process, as opposed to an assault on my dignity, sense of self-worth, and feminism in general, we’ll get something done. I look at myself in the mirror and smooth the front of the dress, which is sort of cute and fits me nicely.

  “Well, well, Jennifer Beals,” Devaney says when I come out. She is holding a rolled-up bill and takes another quick snort out of the tray. “ ‘What a feeling . . .’ ”

  “Nice. Now, everybody shut up.” Walker starts hunting-and-pecking at the typewriter. “While I’m doing this, I want you to work on the board.” Walker has purchased a giant corkboard and wants me to cut out pictures from magazines that are pertinent to the story.

  “Can I help?” Devaney asks.

  “You can help light my cigarette.” He takes another Dunhill from the pack. “There are also some glasses in the sink.”

  “Fuck you. I’m not the maid.”

  I start looking through magazines.

  Walker literally types two letters—Plink.
Plunk.—and looks outside again. “That bastard Ken is keeping me waiting.”

  “Who’s Ken?” I ask.

  “Town sheriff.”

  “Ken is your friend,” Devaney says.

  “He’s the sheriff first. That bastard is coming after me.”

  “Well, he’s not outside,” Devaney says. “He’s not hiding behind some tree.”

  “I’m looking for lights, you idiot.”

  I consider that perhaps some good old-fashioned reasoning might break Walker out of his funk. “It’s pretty late. Why do you think you might be arrested again?”

  “Golly, you’re stupid.”

  “Just refresh me.”

  “I’m a big fish for this small pond, sweetheart. Catching me would be a real big deal for some people around here. Refreshed now?” Walker turns back to the typewriter. Plink. Plunk. He does another line of coke and hands the tray to me. “Here, you look tired.”

  I do another line because he’s right—I’m exhausted—and I hand the tray to Devaney. The bump is less dramatic than it was when I first got here—still pulse-quickening but more predictable. Less David Lee Roth, more Sammy Hagar.

  “And what are you drinking?”

  “Wine. Red wine,” I say.

  “You’re almost out.” I get up and pour more wine into mine and Devaney’s glasses and resume cutting out pictures that might have something to do with a truck stop, which is where Walker is in his story. The plinking turns into slightly faster key-striking, like a faucet with a washer that’s slowly wearing away. Not exactly a newsroom hum, but I just need one page before bedtime. I’ve told myself that I’m not leaving without it. He’s about a quarter of the way down the page—I’m so afraid of jinxing his progress I don’t even look up—when he turns to me with “So, what do you think of the pages so far?”

  A loud snort comes out of my mouth. I’m sure he’s kidding.

  “Something funny?”

  “No.”

  Devaney starts to shift on the couch, her half-slip riding up. Pretty Woman is over, so we are all basically engaged in a slightly edgy, coked-up staredown as CNN rages quietly in the background.

  “It’s really good so far. I’m interested in what’s coming next.” I nod toward the page in the typewriter.

  “You think I don’t know what I’m doing?” He opens the cabinet next to him and pulls down two boxes. He doesn’t say a word; he just takes out his Pulitzer Prize and his National Book Award and places them between us.

  “Wow. It would be nice to win one of those someday.”

  “It would be nice if someone around here had a goddamn opinion and had the balls to say it. Now, you were saying?”

  “Nothing. It’s really good so far. What’s coming next?” I am cringing internally, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Shockingly, it doesn’t. Walker just types, working his cigarette filter between his teeth. Slowly the page starts to fill, each clunk of the return releasing something like relief in me. When he reaches the end of the sheet and puts in another piece of paper, it’s like a little orgasm. He types two more lines and pulls the page out, handing them both to me.

  “Happy now? Good-bye.” He snaps his fingers at Devaney again, apparently her cue to head to bed. “Take this.” He hands me the .22 from under the counter. “Get home safe.”

  “I’m walking across the driveway.”

  “Coyotes, sweetheart. Go on. I’ll make sure you get over.” I grab the rifle and the two pages. I’m barefoot in the orange dress, so I put on my clunky, black shoes and hightail it out of there. When I get to the door of the cabin, I flick the light on and off, and Walker’s silhouette disappears.

  Inside the cabin, I head back to my bedroom, where I have the Mac set up on the card table. In these moments—as I wearily change out of whatever outfit, like an actress after the curtain—I usually assess my physical condition. Often a headache is building; sometimes I’m still wired from the coke. I’ll brush my teeth, take some aspirin, use Visine.

  I bring the pages into the kitchen. I might as well have them on their own gilded tray for how precious they are to me. I read them, reread them, then reread them again. Before I head back to the bedroom, I brew a pot of coffee because I know it’s going to be a long one. It’s almost as if the pages are in code. I seem to know what Walker is trying to say, but he’s not actually saying any of it. These are different from the first pages I saw, which just needed minor tweaks. As I type the pages into the Mac, I take great pains to ensure continuity with the previous pages, and then, without even knowing that I’m doing it, I crack the code. I take these two measly, mediocre pages and start working them with a thrilling urgency, like I’m tearing the wrapping paper off a present, where I know what’s inside is something invaluable. Something I’ve waited for. I’m rewriting whole sentences. Re-forming whole paragraphs. Suddenly—as the sky turns from dark to light gray—there it is, as if the dawn’s glow is a stage light bringing Walker to the fore: old-school Walker. It’s crisp. It’s taut. The voice is there—the distinctive, adrenalized, paranoid, genius-on-speed voice, so often imitated the past few decades, so rarely duplicated. I print out what is now a page and a half, and I’m pretty goddamned pleased with myself as I watch the sun continue to rise out my window. I’m so pleased that I barely consider that I might be overstepping my bounds. I’m so pleased that I go back out to the living room and hit Lionel Gray’s fax number without a second thought and turn in for the night.

  CHAPTER 9

  “Lionel is happy,” Claudia intones, bursting into the kitchen, where Walker and I are both trying to get our heads on straight at three in the afternoon—him with a pipe full of hash, a couple of lines of coke, and a barely orange screwdriver; me with a giant glass of water, a cup of coffee, and a piece of dry toast. We’re both reading the Denver Post; rather, Walker is studying the op-ed page; I am pretending to read the Lifestyles section but am just pleased to focus on something that won’t talk to me. Claudia delivers this news from Lionel in a singsong voice I haven’t heard in my almost month here. I can tell she’s trying to perk up Walker, who remains mired in a paranoid funk even though it is, by now, a couple of weeks since our run-in with the local Keystone Kops. But the positive reports from New York can neither stir Walker from his grumpy haze nor me from a rabid headache that has taken up residence in my right eye. We drank entirely too many margaritas last night, and I’m paying for it today.

  When I first arrived here, I harbored visions of days spent expanding our minds—a paisley album cover brought to life—and evenings spent turning those pearls of cosmic insight into genius. Walker would tap out the lines on the heels of my gentle prodding. He would be the literary lion, me the lion whisperer. Instead, ever since Walker’s brush with the law, what we’re doing are piles of cocaine and drinking to ridiculous excess, but, to me, it’s all become more grim than fun, more desperate than inspired. Instead of prodding a Thoroughbred, I’m dragging the horse one interminable furlong at a time, with a broken leg, on a muddy track.

  When Walker’s funk had first come on, I had set in place a protocol that has served me well. I resolved to let my natural stubbornness guide me each night and I’m now refusing to leave Walker’s side unless I have at least one page in tow. Sometimes this means I leave at midnight, but more often than not it’s closer to sunrise. Then I go back to the cabin, and the real work starts. I assume that I should have more mixed feelings about what I’ve been doing to Walker’s pages—the editing, the rewriting, the channeling—but I don’t. It has, in fact, been extremely rewarding to take the skeleton of his story and hang fresh meat on those bones. I’m even less conflicted to know that Lionel, with fifteen more pages in hand, is happy with them—until, on this day, the phone rings, and Walker puts the speakerphone on.

  “Walker, ol’ boy. How are things?” It’s Lionel’s unmistakable Plimpton-on-Percocet baritone.

  “Lionel Gray . . .” Walker seems on the verge of ending this sentence with one of his usual bons mots�
��“you bastard,” “you moron”—but even Walker knows who’s writing the checks. “What’s going on?”

  “What are you doing over there?” Lionel asks a tad cryptically. But when he continues, his tone is one of pleasant surprise. “I like what’s coming out of the fax. When can you talk edits?”

  Staring at the speakerphone, neither Claudia nor Walker notices the blood draining from my face, or my jaw slowly hinging downward.

  Walker looks to Claudia, who mouths, “Later today.”

  “How about six?”

  “Works for me. I’ll call you then.”

  After Lionel hangs up, Claudia goes over to Walker and starts kneading his shoulders. “This is great, Walker. He wants to talk edits.”

  “Who cares? My demise is coming. My arrest is imminent. And no one cares. You’re drinking”—he waves his hand up and down at me—“coffee, for Christ’s sake. And you”—he turns and waves his hand the same way at Claudia, but he has no words—“you’ll see.”

  “Walker, no one is going to arrest you. It’s been more than two weeks,” says Claudia. “If they were going to arrest you, they would have done something by now.”

  “That bastard Ken is keeping me waiting.”

  “Ken would have told you if something was going to happen. Do you want me to call over there? Talk to Raine?” Raine is Ken’s wife. She has the clipped good looks of a former model and now runs a farm on the other side of town.

  “Call over there? Are you crazy? Where’s my drink? You. I’m talking to you.”

  “Me?” I snap to attention and turn to Walker with an expression best described as Deer in the Headlights Realizing Too Late That It’s Fucked. I have gone from reading the paper to sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table working a three-hole puncher through Walker’s manuscript—the one without my changes—and putting it into a ringed binder. I know, by now, that when Walker starts to rage it’s best to look busy. But I could spend the next three hours punching out holes with my teeth—nothing can change this one unassailable fact: Lionel wants to talk edits on a manuscript that for all intents and purposes Walker hasn’t even seen.