Gonzo Girl

by Cheryl Della Pietra

  “No, Cat. Like, Alley Cat.”

  “Oh, right,” says Larry.

  “So what’s your plushie, Cat?” Rene asks again.

  “I don’t know. Maybe a penguin?”

  “Whoa.”

  “That says something about you, you know, so you better mean it,” Paul says. “Your plushie fantasy is very revealing.”

  “She’s frigid,” Walker says. He’s reading the op-ed page of the New York Times while drinking a cup of coffee. “It’s official.”

  I hear Devaney snicker behind her red-wine glass. Everyone is in some version of pajamas except for Paul—even Rene, who didn’t even sleep here last night.

  “Girl penguin or boy penguin?” Larry asks.

  “Boy penguin, of course,” I say.

  “What if the plushie was a girl? What would you want it to be?”

  “I’ve never had sex with a girl.” All of the guys’ eyes roll at once. “But if I had to pick. Um . . . Frog?”

  “Christ, you’re twisted,” Rene says.

  “What does that say about her?” asks Paul.

  “I don’t know,” says Larry, winking at me.

  “She’s jumpy,” Walker says.

  “Most girls pick a lion or tiger or something dominant,” Paul says. “For a guy, that is. For the girl it’s usually something cute and soft—like a rabbit.”

  “I don’t know. A frog seems vaguely nonthreatening. Why am I the only one here who has to answer this stupid question? What’s yours, Larry?”

  “Lamb.”

  “Isn’t it slightly twisted that it’s a baby sheep—like a barely legal plushie?” Rene says.

  “What about a guy?” I ask.

  “Still lamb. And I’m not apologizing for it. Paul?”

  “I’m not fucking a girl plushie. My boy plushie would be a dog.”

  “Typical” is all Rene says.

  “Dev, you want to weigh in?” In situations like this one, it’s my job to bring Devaney into the fray—to make her feel like she belongs.

  “No, thank you,” she says, sounding a little like Dolly Parton. “I don’t like stuffed animals.”

  “Well, presumably none of us like them,” I say. “We’re just high. How did we get on this again?”

  “I was talking about the fuck-you pajamas,” Rene says. He has just regaled us with a story about his girlfriend, Elise. When she’s mad at him, she puts on gray, amorphous long johns to go to sleep but doesn’t say anything else.

  “Then how do you know she’s mad at you?” I ask.

  “You haven’t seen these pj’s. They say it all. They’re, like, made out of hemp or bamboo or something. Trust me, it’s just aggressive. Nothing passive about it.”

  “And this has to do with stuffed animals because . . . ?”

  “Because sometimes if I pretend Elise is a plushie, it doesn’t seem so bad. That’s how thick and impenetrable these pj’s are.”

  “Dude, that’s messed up,” says Larry.

  “But they’re gray, so she’s like, I don’t know, a rhino plushie. A hot rhino.”

  “There’s no such thing as a hot rhino,” Paul says.

  “Don’t talk about my girlfriend like that. You don’t even like girls.”

  “I like girls. I just don’t like to sleep with girls.”

  “You might if they looked like a hot plushie rhino.”

  “What does vaguely nonthreatening mean?” Larry asks me. “Is that your criteria for sleeping with someone?”

  “What? Did I say that?”

  “Yeah, like, two conversational threads ago,” says Paul.

  “Don’t get your panties in a knot,” I say. “It’s my criteria for sleeping with a hypothetical stuffed-animal woman for the first time. Is this conversation even real?”

  “We need drinks, sweetheart,” Walker says.

  I point at all the guys.

  “I guess a beer,” says Paul.

  “Vodka soda,” says Rene.

  “Vodka, ice,” says Larry.

  “My scotch, honey,” Walker says.

  Devaney is still nursing her red wine.

  I head over to the bar and start mixing.

  “What’re we doing today?” Larry asks Walker. “Maybe we should blow something up.”

  “Not today, I don’t think.”

  Everyone looks at Walker, but it’s Claudia—poker-faced Claudia—who can’t hide her surprise the most. Blowin’ shit up is Walker’s stock-in-trade.

  “We have the fixin’s in the garage, Walker,” she says. “Could be fun.”

  “Nah.” Walker isn’t visibly distraught, but this simple refusal to create a bomb from scratch—something he is famous for—has everyone slightly confused. “Gotta get some work done. Let’s have a round, then we’ve got to get at it, Alley. Throw the game on for now.”

  This is the most enthusiasm, if you can call it that, that I have ever sensed from Walker about working. He excuses himself and heads for the bathroom. We are all quiet after he leaves, so much so that you can hear the clinking of the ice in the glasses.

  “Twist or lime, guys?”

  “Lime,” says Rene.

  “Nothing,” says Larry.

  “Okay,” says Paul. “Who is the most powerful man in Hollywood right now?”

  “Costner. No contest,” Larry says. “JFK, Robin Hood, Bodyguard in the fall.”

  “I don’t know,” Paul says. “What about Gibson, De Niro, Eddie Murphy?”

  “Eddie Murphy?” says Larry.

  “Yes, Eddie Murphy. Do you know how much his films gross? People just keep seeing Eddie Murphy movies, and I don’t know why.”

  “He’s genius,” says Rene, taking another toke. “What are you talking about?”

  “I mean, you could have a two-hour film of Eddie Murphy rolling around in his own fecal matter and it would do eighty million dollars,” says Paul.

  “Well, that might actually be funny,” Rene says. “Think about it.” Rene, Larry, and Paul pause for a beat, then all start laughing at the same time. Then they start laughing really hard—then they can’t stop. Devaney is looking on, unamused, while Claudia smiles ever so slightly.

  “It’s only funny because we’re high,” Paul says, wiping tears from his eyes.

  “Yeah, well, so are all the people who go see Eddie Murphy movies,” says Rene.

  In Walker’s absence, Claudia takes the opportunity to talk to me privately, pulling me aside. “Look, Walker seems to want to write, so in about a half hour I’m not-so-delicately getting everyone the Christ out of here. Devaney and me, too. Be ready.”

  “Got it,” I say.

  Walker emerges from the bathroom visibly energized. You can almost feel the heat emanating from his skin as he passes by.

  “What are you idiots talking about now? Can’t you see there is important shit going on? Jesus.” CNN is on with the volume off, and Walker resumes reading the Times.

  Images of Bill Clinton, George Bush, and Ross Perot appear, and Larry takes his cue to stop acting like a moron and engage. “You think he’s going to beat Bush and Perot?”

  From what we’ve seen so far, Clinton seems to be the alpha dog. Throughout the primary season, dozens of journalists have called Walker for quotes, and this has been his assessment, hands down.

  “Of course he’s going to win,” says Walker. “It’s like putting Elvis up against a weasel and a chicken. It’s done. If women didn’t have the vote, maybe those other two would have a chance.”

  “Excuse me,” I say. “Are you saying that women are this shallow? That they’re just voting for this guy for his sex appeal?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s insulting.”

  “That’s politics,” Walker says. “The tipping points are never on merit. We always vote for the one we want to see naked. Think about it.”

  “Okay,” Larry says. “Bush versus Dukakis.”

  “Works there,” I say, warming to the theory. “Dukakis . . . just so . . . hairy.”
/>   “Reagan and Mondale.”

  “Yup. For sure. Even Mondale didn’t want to see himself naked.”

  “Reagan, Carter.”

  “Much as I hate to say it, yeah.”

  “Carter versus Ford.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “Nixon and McGovern?”

  “Not sure about that one,” I say. “I mean, I’m not sure Nixon ever got naked. I kinda picture him showering in a suit.”

  “Look, it mostly works. And trust me, it will work here. Now, you all are going to have to excuse me,” Walker says dismissively, waving away his couch-dwellers. Then he points to me. “You stay.”

  If I’ve gleaned one thing in my few months at the compound, it’s that Walker reserves his venom for the women in his life. Claudia, Devaney, and I are the buffers for his rage. I avoid trying to pop-psych it. It might not even have to do with our being female as much as that we’re not famous and are responsible for the minutiae of his life—the care and feeding of the modern American icon. Familiarity out here breeds utter contempt. It’s odd then for Walker to call out his guests, whose company he sees as a sign of his continued relevance. It’s so unusual that Larry, Paul, and Rene exchange looks and then immediately start to gather their things to leave.

  “All right, big guy,” says Larry. “Can’t wait to read the rest of that book.”

  “Thanks, Walker. We’ll see you,” says Paul.

  Rene shakes Walker’s hand and gives him a gentle pat on the back.

  “Take care, fellas,” Walker says. “Let’s do it again soon.”

  “Okay, everyone. It was great having you,” says Claudia.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say.

  “Where in the hell are you going?” Walker asks.

  “I left something in the cabin. I’ll be back in two minutes.”

  “Hurry up—and check the pig while you’re at it.”

  I’m sure it’s fairly obvious to everyone present that I want to say good-bye to Larry, but it’s equally obvious that it had better be as quick and as chaste a good-bye as possible. The second Larry and I enter the doorway of the cabin, he pulls me into a dramatic dip and kisses me.

  “Don’t be a stranger,” he says.

  “You don’t be a stranger. I’m in prison till this sucker is done.” I curl my head into Larry’s neck and drink in the smell of him. “How do you smell so good? Even after drinks and pot and a weird night’s sleep you smell like you just came out of the dryer.”

  Larry just runs a finger down my cheek and lifts my chin to meet his gaze. “Stay sweet, Cat. I’ll call you next week.”

  I watch him the entire walk to his rental, staring at his ass, his back, the way his pants drape on his legs. I’m swimming blind out here, and I figure if I’m going to grab on to something passing by, I can think of worse things than Larry Lucas.

  CHAPTER 14

  Much to my distraction, Walker has put Deliverance in the VCR—a movie I’ve heard about but have never seen. Since four, when Walker chased away the riffraff, he and I have shot guns, hung out in the hot tub, ordered take-out Chinese food, tried on a variety of women’s wigs, and consumed a mountain of fresh cherries that I flambéed with brandy and served over vanilla ice cream. I’ve mixed several scotch-and-waters, and Walker has done numerous lines of coke. I have taken Larry’s advice and snorted my way around a few lines, moving them into the main pile completely undetected. I’ve pulled a Clinton on a few hits of pot, and my drink tonight, a “vodka on ice,” is mostly water.

  When the gang dispersed, it was ostensibly because Walker was itching to work. But now at 2:00 a.m., a blank piece of paper sits in the typewriter. Devaney has long been in bed, and both Walker and I are still wearing wigs: I have on a red Mamie Eisenhower bob, Walker a long platinum number. We’re chitchatting about the book, smoking cigarettes, actually having something like fun—Walker appears relaxed, not at all like he was this afternoon. Then Ned Beatty gets guy-raped.

  “I’m going to put this near the top of my list of bad date movies,” I say. “Along with The Accused, The Sound of Music—unless you’re gay—Carrie, and, let’s see, Cape Fear.”

  “You’re starting to talk like them.”

  “Who?”

  “The dick-erati. Larry, Paul, Rene.”

  “You’re the one who hangs out with them. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Not be such a fucking sponge. Have a mind of your own.”

  “I have a mind of my own.”

  “Only when it’s inconvenient.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You question me too much. I’m in charge here, and I don’t want you to forget it. I don’t want any distractions either,” he says pointedly.

  I’m presuming he’s referring to Larry, but he won’t come right out and say it. I’ve been here long enough to know that an argument is as much a diversionary tactic as shooting a gun or setting last year’s Christmas tree on fire. It’s just one more way to get out of writing. But I’m not biting tonight. We need to get stuff done.

  I set about tidying up and grab some magazines to cut out pictures for the storyboard. Walker’s still staring at the piece of paper in the typewriter. Unless we start playing board games, we have officially run out of things to do.

  “We need something else to drink,” he says. I’m not sure if it’s possible to become inured to one particular type of liquor, but the scotch in front of Walker might as well be Hi-C for all the effect it’s having. “How about something sweet. Something with tequila.”

  “You want to go old-school? How about a good old-fashioned tequila sunrise?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Then can we put something, you know, Latin in the VCR? This movie is depressing me.”

  “How about Tequila Sunrise?”

  “Love it.” This is right up Walker’s alley—drinking tequila sunrises and watching Tequila Sunrise. The man loves nothing more than a good theme night padded with narcotics.

  “After you mix the drinks, I need you to work more on that board. Nothing is really coming.” I have arranged and rearranged the storyboard several times tonight to make it appear as if I’m actually doing something during all of the downtime. The storyboard is divided into four quarters: One quadrant deals with the comings and goings at the truck stop—it’s kind of a character dump but a locale in which Walker can write set pieces. One quadrant deals with what happens on the road trip (a linear device, but not one unfamiliar to the Reade oeuvre). One quadrant is just generally about the main characters—Luke and Tomás—how they came to be running from the law, and their backstories. The last quadrant involves all of the substories, the girls, the political radicals seeking to align themselves with the men, the merry band of minor characters. The board has taken on a life of its own; Rene has actually asked to show it in a local gallery.

  I put the movie in the VCR, then go over to the bar, where I grab a bottle of Cuervo, a bottle of grenadine, and an unopened jar of maraschino cherries. I pull orange juice from the fridge and fill two highball glasses with ice.

  “Wow, it’s getting late,” I say as offhandedly as possible—it’s almost 3:00 a.m.—but as soon as it comes out of my mouth, I know an explosion is coming.

  To my surprise, Walker chuckles and says, “It usually comes like bankruptcy.”

  “What does?”

  “The writing.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Gradually, and then suddenly.”

  “What’s that from?”

  “Come on. Hemingway? The Sun Also Rises? Christ, didn’t they teach you anything at that school?”

  “I’m sorry that I don’t memorize everything, Walker.”

  “He also said, ‘There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.’ ”

  “That’s a little melodramatic, don’t you think?”

  “You obviously haven’t written anything of any worth then.”

  “I won the Playboy conte
st.”

  “I repeat . . .”

  “And I’ve written a novel of my own.”

  “Didn’t we cover this? I don’t care.”

  “Not even a little?”

  “Not even a little. So please don’t tell me the only reason you’re here is to get whatever infantile, self-important nonsense you’ve cooked up published. I’m not going to help you.”

  “Of course not,” I lie. “I already told you at the tavern . . . I’m not even working on it anymore,” I lie again.

  “Good. Now get me a beer.”

  “I will. If you start bleeding.”

  “I already have, sweetheart.” His fingers slowly inch their way to the typewriter. I busy myself with cutting out more pictures. I get his beer. I go to the bathroom. I do whatever dishes are in the sink, then go back to moving things around on the storyboard. I don’t want Walker to feel like I’m looking over his shoulder, and I am amazed at how little time it takes for him to finish a page, which he removes from the typewriter with a great flourish.

  “Read it.”

  I start reading the page, but it doesn’t fit in anywhere with what he’s writing. Four sentences in, I realize that it’s the first page of The Great Gatsby.

  “Is this Gatsby?”

  “Ah, so they did teach you something at that school.”

  “Do you have this, like, memorized?”

  “Like, yeah,” Walker says, mocking me. “It’s the greatest masterpiece of this century. It gets my juices flowing—makes me remember how to write one.”

  “Great.” I don’t know what else to say but hand Walker another piece of paper from the area that I’ve turned into a makeshift office-supplies stash. The typewriter starts plucking to life, but slower this time, like raindrops on the roof at the onset of a gentle shower. I start to mix two more tequila sunrises. Walker types for a full ten minutes straight, his fingers quickening now, pummeling the keys, then he pulls out the paper and puts in another piece and keeps going. His platinum wig is so long he has to keep flipping it out of his face, first one side, then the other, like Cher used to do on the Sonny & Cher show. He’s typing and drinking and flipping and chomping on a filtered cigarette. He’s swaying slightly—it’s a thing of beauty. It’s what I imagined when I first got out here but have so rarely seen. This, I think, is what it must have been like when he was in his prime, a writer in full.