Gonzo Girl

by Cheryl Della Pietra

  “Holy shit, Larry. Blind me much with that shirt?”

  “This is gonna work. Come here.”

  “How much fucking bleach was used on this shirt?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  I sit close to Larry and he rolls up the T-shirt, placing it on his forehead with one hand and positioning my head with the other.

  “Okay. Ready? Close your eyes.”

  I close them.

  “Now, just trust me. Fall forward.”

  I hit the T-shirt, and Larry’s and my lips lock. The kiss has no discernible beginning, middle, or end. It seems to go on forever in some moist kissing vortex. There is a lot of saliva and a lot of tongue, and even some teeth, and from the sounds around us, my guess is that it doesn’t look particularly sexy. It sounds like it looks pretty gross, actually.

  When I pull away from Larry, I realize everyone is staring at us, but not in the same way as if you were, say, in a restaurant. Each individual trip is playing out, so I’m not exactly sure what Arlo, who is now alert with a bemused look on his face, is seeing, or Lesser, who is no longer laughing and appears concerned. Then I see Walker’s face, which, tripping or not, cannot hide what he’s feeling. Even with all that is happening around him—Devaney licking his ear, Arlo yammering on about Basquiat, Paul fingering one of the African masks suggestively—there is that true part of Walker that is not at all tripping. And that part looks utterly betrayed. I wipe my mouth, crawl over the back of the couch, and head to the bar to mix more drinks. I put Walker’s fresh Chivas and water in front of him. He makes eye contact with me as I do this and simply yells, “To the range!”

  Larry lets out a hoot like he’s at a pep rally, and the group clambers over the back of the couch, following Walker into the gun room. Devaney and Arlo express a preference for the hot tub when they see it, so it’s just the five of us carelessly handling a bunch of firearms as we jostle and jockey in the small room to choose our pieces. As we make our way outside, Walker flips a switch, illuminating the range with klieg lights.

  “Has it ever occurred to you,” I say to Walker, “that this is a terrible combination?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know, guns and drugs . . .”

  “Of course it has, you idiot.” Walker sets up five exploding targets at the far edge of the range, and the five of us line up. Larry and Paul have both chosen Glocks; Walker has a .38 Special; Lesser is handling a hunting rifle; I have my .22. We are all wearing headsets for protection—something I should clearly have done the last time we were out here.

  “Ready . . . aim . . . fire!” Walker shouts. We all shoot, and three of the five targets explode. Lesser, who is apparently far more competent in the confines of his corner office, clearly hasn’t spent much time hunting, and Paul is holding the gun pretty much the wrong way—it didn’t even go off. But the three that do explode look amazing on acid—a slow-motion, Technicolor burst of cartoon flames.

  “Nice shot, Al,” Larry says to me.

  “You, too,” I say.

  As Walker tries to teach Lesser and Paul how to shoot, I hear Devaney calling for him from the hot tub. But she doesn’t sound like her normal self—like Blanche DuBois after a couple of bourbons. Instead her voice is tight with panic. We all leave our guns on the ground and hightail it to the hot-tub room, where we find Arlo facedown in the Jacuzzi. All five feet two, 105 pounds of Devaney is trying to wrestle him out of the tub, but because Arlo is still wearing all of his clothes—what amounts to a giant, wet hemp sack—he probably weighs almost 250 pounds. Forget that we’re tripping—this is definitely as bad as it looks. The guys all pull together and get Arlo faceup at the edge of the hot tub.

  “Shouldn’t we do something like pump his stomach? No, chest,” Paul stammers.

  “No, CPR,” Larry says. This, I consider in a moment of lucidity, is what happens when you confront an actual emergency in the presence of actors and directors. “Wait, is he breathing?”

  Lesser leans down close to Arlo’s face. “I can’t tell. Something is breathing.” We are all, of course, still massively tripping.

  “Nine one one,” I say.

  “No!” everyone hollers together.

  The collective scream succeeds in yanking Arlo’s eyelids open. He doesn’t spit out water or suddenly inhale, like you see in the movies. He simply says, “I saw something.”

  Devaney excuses herself and scurries out the sliding glass door to puke. When she comes back, her nose is bleeding.

  “Jesus,” Paul says.

  “You’re a mess, girl,” Walker says. “Come on. Party’s over for us.”

  “That just freaked me out,” she says.

  “Arlo, are you good, old boy?”

  “More than good, old boy. I’m going home to paint.” Arlo gets up and wanders out the sliding glass door as if nothing whatsoever has happened.

  “Make yourselves at home,” Walker says, leading Devaney back to the bedroom. I’m almost touched that he would give up this party to tend to Devaney, who is visibly shaking, looks an unnatural shade of green, and is on the verge of tears. Walker puts a towel on her as she chatters away in her American-flag bikini.

  Lesser, Paul, Larry, and I head back into the kitchen.

  “Okay. That was bad,” I say.

  “Everyone is fine.” Paul says this, at first, like he’s a guy who’s seen some shit and this is nothing—but he then repeats this every five seconds or so like it’s some kind of Tourette’s mantra.

  As I sit on my normal perch near the end of the counter, listening to Paul make like LSD Rain Man, I’m struck by the notion that I’ve never felt fully relaxed in this room. I can’t tell if I’m still tripping, and this epiphany is therefore meaningless, or if I am, instead, experiencing some kind of posttrip clarity. Paul, rather suddenly, snaps out of his fugue—like someone has yanked the needle off his record—then grabs The Seventh Seal and tosses it in the VCR, before he and Lesser flop on the couch.

  “Christ,” Lesser says. “Can’t we watch something funny?”

  “You’ll see,” Paul says. “It’ll be good.”

  For a second I consider that the two men might hook up, even though Lesser is married with three kids.

  “You want to head home?” Larry asks, tilting his head toward the door. When Larry rubs my leg and looks up at me, I can tell he is having his moment of clarity, too. His hand traces down my cheek and comes to rest on my chest. I place my hand over his, and although I might be accused of buying into all of the cheesy clichés that characterize Larry Lucas’s early movies, he can, no doubt, in this moment, feel the beating of my heart. I am holding his hand there so he can. We are sitting at the counter, so Lesser and Paul can’t see us, which makes it all the more sweet.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Good night, boys,” Larry says. “We’re out.” After handshakes and bro-hugs all around, once we’re outside, out of sight, Larry puts his arm around me. “Want to give it another try?”

  “What?”

  “The kiss.”

  “Yeah, of course I do. Let’s go.”

  “No. Right now. Under all of these stars. Kiss me, Alley,” he teases. This time I don’t argue with him. I don’t even want to. I lean in and kiss him—there’s no question it’s from me to him. No question. Until he returns it.

  “Wanna spoon?”

  I shake my head no and take his hand. “No more silverware. Walk me home. There are animals out here, you know.”

  As we make our way back to the cabin, Larry puts his hand in the back pocket of my jeans.

  “That’s very high school of you. Is my black Goody comb back there?”

  “Something’s back there.”

  “You know, I first fell in love with you in high school. Those movies . . . How does it feel to know an entire generation started masturbating to pictures of you?”

  “Pretty excellent, actually.”

  When we enter the cabin, I notice that Claudia has made up the couch for L
arry. There is something pointed in the amount of bedding she has laid out, as if to telegraph in no uncertain terms that this is where he should end up. There might as well be a mint on the pillow. We head back to my room. All is still behind Claudia’s closed door; I can hear her snoring lightly.

  I close my door behind me. “Do you want a drink?”

  “I think I’m good. You’ve done enough bartending tonight.” It’s endearing how nervous Larry seems as he looks around my room. “That your family?” He points to the photos on the bookshelf.

  “Yeah. Three older brothers. In an Italian family, it’s like having a pack of bouncers at your disposal.”

  Larry points to the manuscript on my desk. “That Walker’s book?”

  “No, that’s my book.” I take the three-ring binder with about a quarter as many pages as mine and hold it aloft. “This . . . is Walker’s book.”

  “How are you doing out here?” He says the word doing the same way one might to an inmate during visiting hours.

  “Jesus, Larry, talk about a kabillion ways you can take something. . . .” He laughs, but I don’t have the wherewithal to get into the depths of my loneliness out here, the anxiety each day brings, my fear of failing. “I’m fine.”

  “What’s your book about?”

  “Oh, you know, it’s like War and Peace meets Less Than Zero.”

  “Really?”

  “No. I’m not telling.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. What do you want me to say? That it deals with the very familiar themes of alienation and loneliness? That the main character, who is definitely not me, has yet to feel she fits in anywhere? That sometimes it seems as if writing this book is the only thing I have to look forward to?”

  “So . . .” Larry puts an index finger up to his lips and raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t peg you for being an opportunist. But maybe you are,” he says in a mock-mysterious way that’s supposed to be funny.

  But it irks me. “How, exactly, am I an opportunist?”

  “You want your own book published, right? That’s why you’re here.”

  “Well, not the only reason. And even if it is, that’s how these things work. You have to know people. Network. Connections. And this is currently the only one I have.”

  “Calm down, calm down. In case you haven’t heard, I am a very important major-motion-picture star. You think I’ve never milked a relationship? I get it. You’re out here alone. This book’s, like, all you’ve got. It’s like”—here Larry pauses for dramatic effect and sets his eyes in a sexy look of deep understanding, a move I’ve seen him pull a hundred times on-screen. And I realize, with no small amount of pride, that Larry Lucas is working me—“it’s like . . . your friend.”

  “Well, if you want to sound supergay about it. Yeah, I suppose.”

  “I’m not trying to sound supergay about anything. I’m trying to sound very heterosexual. Because I’m feeling very heterosexual about you.”

  It’s the best-worst pickup line in history, and I no longer care. Larry sits cross-legged on the bed, facing me, and takes my hand. The moment is an almost-perfect re-creation of the famous kiss in his classic teen romance Sweet Seventeen. And I am totally fine with that.

  He brings his face close to mine, searching, until he finally just says, “I like you, Alessandra.”

  “I like you, too, Larry.”

  He leans in to kiss me, removing my shirt and bra. I take off his T-shirt, and when our skin touches, it feels as if we are too close—a combination, I think, of coming down off the acid and keeping him at a distance for so long. I feel the same way when he finally enters me until, with one honest and tender look from him, I relax. Every moment with Larry has felt like we’re in a movie, except, oddly, for this one. This one feels entirely real.

  CHAPTER 13

  Claudia smothers her emotions so much that it’s hard to tell when she’s unhappy. The emotion manifests, instead, in subtle ways, like a crinkle between her eyebrows or a distracted look on her face. Sometimes her tell comes through the smallest verbal tic—her voice rising slightly at the end of a sentence. So when Larry and I present ourselves the next afternoon at 3:00 p.m., both nursing an acid hangover, she simply says, “Good morning, you twooo . . .” And I immediately feel like an ass.

  One of the primary reasons Claudia is well suited to working for Walker is her ability to suspend all judgment. She witnesses more debauchery than Caligula at Mardi Gras. When in Rome? Hell, she lives in Rome. When people are here, they can do as they please, unless things are catching on fire—and even that’s not always a deal-breaker. So the fact that Claudia is bothered by Larry and me is no small thing, indeed.

  Before she heads over to Walker’s, she says in an overly saccharine way, “You, my friend, are going to get a call soon. So be ready.” She says this to me a lot—“Be ready”—like going over to Walker’s entails some specific preparation, like stretching or putting on sunscreen. Instead I light a cigarette, pour coffee for Larry and myself, and take some Mexican aspirin—which are probably the best preparations I can make.

  “Alley alley oxen free,” Larry says softly, taking my hand across the kitchen table.

  “What in the hell does that even mean?”

  “You know, kids say it when they’re playing games.”

  “I’m aware of that. But what does it mean?”

  “I don’t know. I think it’s a German derivative. I looked it up one time for a role.”

  “Jesus. Really?”

  “Yes, really. I’m all about the Method, you know. You have to immerse. Know all you can know. Then you can set it free.”

  “Oh my God. I’m entirely too hungover to keep a straight face.”

  “Such the cynic! Maybe you think I’m full of shit, but I’d bet it’s the same way you write. Anyway, you should come out to LA and visit sometime.”

  “Full of cynics!”

  “You’ll fit right in.”

  “I’d love to. I’ve never been.” I don’t tell Larry that the trip out here was only my third time ever on a plane.

  “Last night . . . was really, really nice.”

  “I know.” I’m afraid to say much more than that. Afraid of seeming too eager.

  “I’m starting production soon, but I’d like to stay in touch. Get you out to La-La land. I mean it.”

  “I feel like I’m already in la-la land.”

  “You seem to be holding your own.”

  “Does this look like keeping up to you?” I’m huddled over my coffee, waiting for the aspirin to kick in. “I try, but I can’t.”

  “You should do like Bill Clinton.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You know, that whole ‘I didn’t inhale’ thing. Smoking pot at Oxford. Said he didn’t like it and he didn’t inhale.”

  “Yeah, Dan Rather, I heard about it. But . . . well . . . actually, that’s not a bad idea.”

  The phone rings and I pick it up. It’s Claudia. Apparently the party has already started at the house. Walker wants us both over.

  “We’re on,” I say.

  “Who’s there?” Larry asks after I hang up.

  “I guess Paul is back. Devaney. Rene Wang.”

  “Rene? I love that guy. Let’s go.”

  “There are three Asian haircuts and two Asian pairs of glasses. For, like, way more than a billion people. Think about that,” says Rene Wang, who is about three inches from my face and unbelievably high. His black-rimmed glasses look enormous. He holds a huge joint like a cigarette and tips it my way. I’m starting to realize Walker often smokes pot first thing in the morning for a reason—it helps with hangovers. I know that’s a bad sign, thinking that my excessive illegal-drug use might be cured by another illegal drug. But for better or worse—okay, maybe just for worse—that is where I am. I take a drag off the joint and pass it to Larry.

  Rene, Paul, me, Larry, and Devaney are all arrayed on the circular couch. It appears that Devaney is over last night’s traum
a—either that or she’s drowning it in the red-wine glass she now holds. Walker, as usual, is on his barstool behind us. Claudia is puttering about the kitchen, tidying and making coffee.

  “What are the three haircuts?” Larry asks.

  “Asian number one: bowl haircut. Asian number two: crew cut. Asian number three: slightly longer, spiked crew cut. Glasses number one: mine. Glasses number two: Yo-Yo Ma. I have Asian number two hair and Asian number one glasses. It’s like Garanimals. You just mix and match.” Everyone is getting really high now, and Rene is dancing at the far end of his personality spectrum, basically running the show. “Alley, what’s your plushie fuck fantasy?”

  “What?”

  “Sorry. Change of subject. Your plushie fuck fantasy?”

  “I can’t even figure out what you’re saying. What do all of those words together even mean?” I’m fairly high as well. Apparently, Paul crashed in town last night and has come over today to continue the party. Thanks to either gay priorities or good genes—or both—he appears perfectly coiffed and psychically fresh. Rene, who spends the summers in Aspen producing art installations and performance art for festivals, was invited over this afternoon as well. He is, as noted, often called an “enfant terrible,” which I’m pretty sure just means that he can be a tremendous asshole when you least expect it.

  “I’ll repeat the question in the most direct manner possible: If you could have sex with a life-size stuffed animal, what would the animal be?” Larry says.

  “Jesus.”

  “Just answer the question,” Rene says, inching closer toward me. “Don’t think about it too much.”

  “Or maybe think about it a lot. It’s important,” Paul says, as if it’s a matter of national security. We are all really, really high.

  “I don’t know. What’s yours?”

  “Easy,” Rene says. “Cat.”

  “Cat? Too easy. A cat is almost like a girl,” Larry says.

  “That’s my nickname back home.”

  “Girl?” says Larry.