Gonzo Girl

by Cheryl Della Pietra

  “Fucking shit! Fucking shit!” I hear a crash from Walker’s house and I freeze. I’m pretty sure Larry and September are over at the cabin, and I’m generally not supposed to go over to Walker’s unless called. Under normal circumstances—rather, if it were anybody else—I’d immediately head in, thinking perhaps that something was wrong. But I’m not quite sure what to do until I hear a thin “Help . . .”

  I race into the house and take quick stock of the situation: A broken plate. Walker huddled on the floor. A cigarette burning in the ashtray. A sink full of glasses. An empty tray of coke. A bag of opened tortilla chips. The place is surprisingly tidy otherwise. He looks up at me, and I realize a moment too late what this is—not at all a break-in or a health scare, but rather a private moment. A man in simple despair. At first I think he’s going to kick me out, and I step backward as if retreating from a bear in the wilderness.

  “What in the fuck are you doing over here?”

  “You said, ‘Help.’ I thought something was wrong.”

  “So what if there was? What the fuck do you care?”

  He pulls himself onto the circular couch and I start picking up pieces of broken plate.

  “Do you buy special break-into-a-billion-pieces plates? Are these from a prop shop? Christ, who are you even throwing this at?”

  “Get me a drink.”

  It’s ten in the morning, so I’m not sure where we’re at drinkswise. He’s wearing the khakis and button-down he was wearing last night. It doesn’t appear that he’s been to bed. “How about some Irish coffee?”

  “Fine.”

  I put a filter in the coffeemaker and pour in some Maxwell House. I take out two large mugs and put two fingers of Bushmills in each and wait.

  “Where were you?”

  “On the range, reading.”

  “Why?” Walker looks like he’s aged about ten years overnight. His skin looks gray, and his eyes are rimmed red. His chest is slightly heaving.

  “Why do you think?” The coffeemaker does its final sputter, and I fill our mugs. I grab a bottle of whipped cream from the fridge and squeeze two large dollops on top of the coffee. I sprinkle white sugar over that and place it in front of Walker, taking my own place on the circular couch. “Don’t throw this.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “Why you were on the range.” It’s hard for me to have a bead on Walker in this moment. I can’t tell if he’s still drunk or high or on something else or just exhausted. He’s acting confused, but not crazy. It’s as if he’s trying to figure out how he got here.

  “I don’t know. The guy I was kind of into is sleeping in my bed with a stupid, rich, beautiful dipshit that you invited out here.”

  Walker looks down at his hand, inspecting it, then takes a sip of his coffee. “This is really good. Thank you.”

  “Do you want me to go?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to work a little? I had a couple of ideas I wanted to run by you.”

  “No.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  He waves his hand over by the rows of movies and lies down on the couch.

  “How about Shaft?”

  “Too black.”

  “Caligula?”

  “Too depraved.”

  “Smokey and the Bandit?”

  “Too pointless.”

  “Scarface?”

  “Too loud.”

  “The Godfather?”

  Walker considers this for a moment. “Fine.”

  “One or two?”

  “One.”

  I put the movie in and try to remain as neutral as possible. I don’t want to kick Walker when he’s down, but I’m not about to let him off the hook either. Inviting September out here was nothing short of a “Fuck you.” I don’t have to pretend to like it.

  “I love this part,” Walker says ten minutes in. “You guineas really know how to make a movie.” He’s sprawled on the couch with his head on a pillow and an afghan over him. He’s lying on his stomach, occasionally lifting himself up to sip his coffee.

  “Film. This is definitely a film.”

  “Ha. She’s such a dumb bitch.”

  “Yeah, well, you invited her.”

  “I know. You’re mad.”

  “Damn straight.” I stare at the TV and sip my coffee.

  “Sweetheart, I might need you to go to Jim’s again.”

  “Yeah, I’m not doing that again.” While my drug run went off without a hitch, I want to make it clear that this is definitely not in my job description.

  “You have to.”

  I glanced at the empty tray when I came in, but I figured that was perhaps only one envelope. “No, I don’t.”

  “Don’t tell me who’s going to do what around here!” Walker snaps.

  I give him my you-have-got-to-be-fucking-kidding-me face, and then the phone rings. Walker answers it on speakerphone.

  “Yes, hello, Walker?” It’s September calling from the cabin. She seems to have developed a British accent overnight. “Hi, love, what’re you doing? Are you up?”

  If it were Claudia or me, Walker would tell us to go to hell, but he’s different with celebrities—especially female celebrities—and the game face comes on. “Yeah, I’m up.”

  “Well, we retired so early . . . Can Larry and I come over? We’re famished.”

  “Sure, come on over.”

  “Right. Thanks.” She hangs up.

  “Why does she sound like fucking Julie Andrews?” I ask.

  “Actresses.”

  “When did they ‘retire’?”

  “Shortly after you abandoned me. I told them I needed to work. I think they were feeling frisky anyway.”

  “Ick.” It occurs to me now that the empty tray of coke is Walker’s doing. I think I’m catching him midbinge.

  He sits up and puts on his aviators and Tilley hat, as if it’s a uniform and he’s about to go to work. He finishes the Irish coffee, then asks me to mix him a scotch and water as he lights a cigarette.

  “What are we eating?” I ask.

  “There’s some spiral ham in there and eggs. Why don’t you cook us up some omelets, sweetheart.”

  “Because I’m not a short-order cook, that’s why.”

  “Alessandra. Please.” I don’t think I’ve ever heard Walker say please, nor has he ever called me Alessandra, and I’m inclined to just do what he says. I feel sorry for him. I pull out the ham and a dozen eggs, butter, bread, and American cheese. I imagine putting half a stick of butter in September’s omelet and the other half on her toast, just so the cat suit will feel a little snug next week. As I set about preparing the omelets, Larry and September bound into the house. I’m swirling butter around in a frying pan when I notice she’s holding the three-ring binder that houses Walker’s manuscript—the one that I’ve been editing. I start to feel slightly nauseated.

  “Walker, we had an idea. I hope you don’t mind this.”

  I catch Larry’s eye and subtly shake my head to telegraph that the manuscript is not to be messed with. Then I start dicing ham, throwing it into the pan, as September asks me for a mimosa.

  “Champagne and orange juice are in the fridge,” I say. “Help yourself.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. I’ll wait till you’re done with those.” She motions to the ham crackling in the pan and the bowl of eggs I’ve whisked. “Larry tells me, Walker, that you read aloud,” she says, now doing her best Margaret Thatcher. “I adore reading fiction out loud. It’s just like acting.”

  “You know, omelets are almost done,” I say, folding the first one over in the pan. “Let’s eat. You said a mimosa?”

  “Sounds good to me, honey,” Walker says to September.

  “Splendid,” she says.

  Larry has gone to the fridge and taken out the champagne and orange juice. I point to the cabinet where the champagne flutes are and shake my head, not liking where I think this moment is headed. Larry
, slow on the uptake, cocks his head like a confused puppy dog.

  September takes the manuscript, clears her throat, pauses a beat to get into some sort of non-British character, and starts reading the most recent chapter in a gruff, mumbly baritone that is a surprisingly impressive impersonation of Walker. As she plows doggedly through the first few pages, Walker’s face first seems to register recognition, then pride, then confusion, and finally anger, as it appears to dawn on him that the words September is reading are not entirely of his own making. Indeed, this most recent stuff is almost half me. My face, meanwhile, is a study in nonchalance. It’s maybe not the best strategy, but I’m too paralyzed with fear to come up with a better plan on the fly. There’s no sense in what I’m thinking—that perhaps he won’t notice—but I keep frying and flipping, thinking maybe I’ll luck out and a safe will fall on September or the ATF will come bursting through the door.

  “This is good,” Larry says, drumming on the table, genuinely excited. “Old-school Walker. Love it.”

  Walker’s hands are on the counter in front of him, and his fingers start drumming, too. He’s practically vibrating, rocking back and forth. The drumming hand is too close to a fist for my liking. I’m sure I’m about to be on the receiving end of an explosion, though I doubt Walker would do that in front of Larry and September. But as September continues to read, I’m not altogether certain Walker’s even listening. I see him with the remainder of coke bag number two under the counter. From my perch I see him put a small spoon in the bag and then pretend to cough, snorting the lot of it. I get it. He’s pissed, he’s almost out, and he’s not sharing.

  It’s then that I see it: a single bead of sweat that has formed at Walker’s temple. As it slowly makes its way down the side of his face, slaloming from pore to pore, it’s as conspicuous as a yacht in a puddle. I have never seen anything like it since I’ve been here, and it is telegraphing in no uncertain terms that something is very, very wrong. He clears his throat and I can see him blinking slowly through his aviators as September rambles on. Walker looks at me squarely, and I imagine he sees what he wishes he didn’t: a face full of concern and questioning. A face that is asking, Are you okay? Imperceptibly he gives me his answer with a short shake of the head: No. I’m not. And that’s when he goes down.

  Seizures in real life are like nothing out of the movies. They are much more awkward and far less violent. What gets missed in the fictional staging is that stuff is usually in the way. Walker slumps on his typewriter, then off his barstool and onto the floor, where he knocks his head hard on the bottom of the counter. For a second September continues reading even after seeing this happen. I don’t know if she’s in shock or simply can’t stand to silence the sound of her voice, but she looks expectantly over at Walker, as if he might pop up at any moment to applaud.

  “Jesus, Larry. Nine one one. Now!” Larry can easily reach the phone from where he’s sitting; he and September exchange a quick look. “Nine one one, Larry. Fuck!”

  “He might come out of it, Alley,” he says in his best TV-doctor voice. He might as well be shaking my shoulders and smacking me in the face. “Give it a second!”

  For a minute I have to remind myself that Larry has no medical knowledge whatsoever—he’s not a doctor, he doesn’t even play one on TV. His tone has a faux urgency, but he’s just sitting there spinning his wheels. If there’s a reason to delay this call, it’s a completely shitty one.

  “What?” I grab the phone and dial 911 myself. I give the dispatcher Walker’s address and tell her I think he’s having a seizure. She tells me to time it, to make sure he’s breathing and in a safe place, and to not shove anything in his mouth. I latch on to the last thing she says: “Someone’s on the way.” I get Walker totally on the floor and surround him with pillows from the circular couch.

  The whole time I’m doing this, Larry and September are huddled in a corner, screaming at each other—playing this scene out like they’re auditioning for a stage version of Sid and Nancy. September is going on like some crazy harpy, but her focus is more in the “What is to become of us?” vein and has little to do with Walker’s condition. Larry’s role is to calm her down and be the godlike voice of reason. Meanwhile I’m getting the kitchen timer and focusing on the rise and fall of Walker’s chest, praying to Christ it doesn’t stop.

  “Alley, we’ve gotta skate,” Larry says.

  “Skate?” The word is not registering. A pond comes to mind. “Skate where?”

  “Go. We’ve got to go.”

  Again, I’m not comprehending. “Go where? The medics are on the way.”

  “September and I can’t be here when they arrive. We can’t risk this kind of publicity.” And then this: “We’re A-list.”

  I take in Larry and September, keeping my hand over Walker’s heart, which is, thank God, still beating. His chest is still rising and falling. He’s still writhing. The kitchen timer says only one minute, though it feels like twenty.

  “Seriously? Larry, I need help.”

  “What are we going to do, Alley? The paramedics are coming, right? I’m sorry. We’re out. We’ve gotta go. He’s going to be fine.”

  “You’re not A-list, you’re . . . shit-list, you motherfuckers. Get out!” I yell.

  But they’re not waiting for my permission. Larry grabs what’s left of coke bag number two and says, “You don’t want them to find this. Trust me.” He takes it, along with the bag of shake, thinking he’s doing me a favor—or acting like it. I can’t tell anymore. Then they’re gone.

  “Walker,” I plead, hoping some part of his brain will hear me. “Please come to. It’s Alley. I’m all alone here. Please wake up.” I hear an ambulance that sounds about a half mile away.

  When Walker finally opens his eyes, the kitchen timer reads three minutes. “What the fuck?”

  “Take it easy. You had a seizure or a heart attack. Something. Something happened to you. Doctors are almost here. Take it easy.”

  For a few seconds, it appears he’s about to fight this—to reflexively fight it like everything else—but he doesn’t have the strength. I take his hand, and he squeezes it. Then he exhales and stares at the ceiling, studying the blond wood as if he’s never really noticed it before.

  CHAPTER 24

  “What did you do?” Claudia enters the cabin in a sweat. She’s raced here from her home in Crested Butte, bolting for her car the second I called her. It’s three in the afternoon. I can’t tell what she’s getting at—if she’s wondering what I personally did or the collective you that was the four of us. She sounds like she’s accusing me of something, but I can’t imagine what.

  “I didn’t do anything, Claudia. He went on some sort of coke binge by himself.”

  “Impossible.”

  I look around to see if I’ve landed in some alternate universe. How that’s “impossible” around here is beyond me. I’m surprised the paramedics aren’t out here every day. “How is it impossible?”

  “Do you know how many drugs Walker has done?”

  “More than I ever could imagine.”

  “He knows how to get himself to the edge and back. Always has,” Claudia says in a tone that I’m not liking.

  “What are you implying?”

  “You mix his drinks too strong. You mix his scotch and water like a real drink. I’ve seen you.”

  “I’m sorry, what am I supposed to do?”

  “More water and less scotch. You’ve actually gotten him hungover.”

  “He has a full bottle of Chivas a day. How exactly is it me who’s making him hungover? Besides, I’m not exactly shoving the coke up his nose.”

  “Not literally, no.”

  “What the fuck, Claude?”

  “He was upset about you and Larry. I think it’s making him act reckless.”

  “That’s a relative term out here. And if you must know, Larry was out here with September McAvoy. Walker invited her.” I leave out the part where Claudia didn’t tell me about the magazine cover
.

  “He did?”

  “Yes, and not only that, they stayed here. In my bed. I slept in yours.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh, and on top of it, they hightailed it out of here when Walker went down. Some friends.”

  Finally, something approaching sympathy falls over Claudia’s face. “Jesus.”

  “I wasn’t even over there for most of the night. I came over here and went to bed. I was reading on the range when I heard him.”

  “Who?”

  “Walker. In there. Freaking out. What about this is not making sense?”

  “The whole thing, Alley. None of this is making sense to me.”

  I see Claudia’s real problem is that she has been forced to traffic in denial for most of her tenure here—but she’s been lucky. Walker’s addictions in a person with a lesser constitution would have landed him in rehab or the hospital—or the morgue—many times over. That his addiction is so outsize, and that he somehow suffers it so well, coupled with its being intrinsically tied to the Walker Reade brand, has lent an almost cinematic glow to the proceedings. To the public, Walker is a character from a movie, except no one ever yells cut. I had assumed that Claudia knew better.

  “How’s Cody?”

  “Oh, fine,” Claudia says, lying. Her son has mono and Claudia left him on a dime to come here. “He’ll survive.”

  “What do you need to know?”

  “I just want to know what happened before I head over there. Tell me everything again.”

  “I told you. The paramedics came. It was around eleven this morning. He refused treatment and went right to bed. I came over here and called you. He’s been asleep ever since. At least I hope so. I came over here and crashed myself.” The phone rings, and we both sit for a second and stare at it.

  Claudia picks up on the second ring. “Walker, it’s me. I’m here.” I can hear him barking something through the receiver about abandoning him in his time of need. “I’ll be right over. . . . What? . . . Oh, okay. Yep. Okay.” She puts the receiver down and says simply, “He wants you.”