Gonzo Girl

by Cheryl Della Pietra

  I look at her and shake my head. “I don’t want to go over there. Not alone.” I am happy to continue making my way through Emma, staring at peacocks, potting flowers, pretending like I’m not completely traumatized by what just happened. This is unmistakably in Claudia’s job description: Go over after coke-binge-induced, heart-stopping seizure and pretend everything is okay. I didn’t know exactly what I signed up for when I came out here, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t this.

  “You have to go. That’s what he wants. Remember, Alley, just be . . . be watchful.” She’s starting to sound like Jane Austen herself. “Just go.”

  I walk into our kitchen and look around for something distracting to bring over. I’m stalling. The pit that’s typically in my stomach when I’m called over is more like a Florida sinkhole. I open and close the pantry door, then just sit at the kitchen table and put my head in my hands. I can barely breathe. But I can’t wait much longer. Everything is worse if Walker has to call twice, so I grab a box of Russell Stover chocolates from the pantry and a six-pack of Heineken from the fridge.

  As I make the long walk across the driveway, I take in the whole scene in the late-afternoon sun—the Caprice, the peacocks, the range, the flower flats, like so many props in this one-man show. What seemed like charming touchstones when I first arrived feel somewhat sinister to me now as I make my way to Walker’s—or if not sinister, then like nothing more than work. I can feel, like a tangible weight, how exhausting it must be to keep up the appearance of being Walker Reade. I pause at the threshold of the breezeway. I literally have one foot in the door—I can’t even see Walker—when he starts in on me.

  “Wipe that look off your face, missy.”

  “What look is that?” I enter the kitchen, trying to appear nonchalant. “You can’t even see me.”

  “Fear. Or maybe I’m just smelling it on you.”

  “Jeez, Walker. Can I get two feet in the door first?”

  “No.”

  “What does fear even smell like?” I go to the bar and pour us two shots of tequila.

  “Beer and gunpowder and lies.”

  “Jesus, write that down. That’s good. I do have beer, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Now, you tell me. Why on earth would I bother to write it down?”

  “For the book, of course.” The pause between us couldn’t get any more pregnant. I hand him the shot and we both throw them back. “You wanted me over for something?” I sit on the barstool next to him and begin unwrapping the chocolates.

  Walker looks better—rested, with color in his face. He’s in one of his stolen hotel bathrobes, smoking a cigarette. He bites down on the filter. “You’re my secretary. I’m ready to write,” he says through gritted teeth.

  “Your secretary? What is this, 1952? If anyone’s your secretary, it’s Claudia, remember?”

  “What does that make you?”

  “I don’t know, I’m your assistant.”

  “Devaney was my assistant.”

  I roll my eyes toward him. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Walker snickers a little at my joke. “So what does that make me?”

  I remove the top from the chocolate box and wave the candies toward Walker. He chooses a caramel and a chocolate cream and places them next to the typewriter. I crack a beer and hand it to him. We sit in silence for a few minutes eating our chocolate-and-beer supper.

  “Let’s get to work.”

  “If you say so.” I’m not exactly sure how this is going to go. We have effectively been working on two different manuscripts. That Walker is evading this newly confirmed reality, at least for the present, is puzzling. But I’m not about to call attention to it. I’ll approach it the same way I’ve done everything else since the moment I arrived here: figure it out later.

  “I say so. Get me my scotch.” He puts a piece of paper in the typewriter while I mix the scotch and water according to Claudia’s directions. “And do not water that shit down.”

  “How did you know I was going to do that?”

  “Wild guess. Claudia’s convinced I can’t hold my liquor anymore.”

  “Oddly. Yes. Among other things.”

  “Just mix it.”

  “How are you feeling, by the way?” I ask offhandedly.

  “Don’t ever ask me that question again. I’m fine. Mix.”

  I get two highballs from the dish drain and fill them with ice. Then I pour in a three count of Chivas and fill the rest with water. “Walker, you know, I had some ideas—”

  “Seems like you’ve had a lot of ideas about my work lately.”

  And there it is. I try to sound as casual as possible, placing the drink next to the typewriter. “Just a few. Nothing Lionel wouldn’t do.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re not Lionel fucking Gray. He’s a legend. You’re a bartender.”

  If I was on a tightrope before, now I’m also spinning a set of fine china on my fingertips while riding a ten-speed bike.

  “You’re right. I’m just the bartender,” I say evenly. “Why don’t we just get to work?”

  “I have a better idea. Let’s start with a little quiz. Trick question: Why don’t you just finish this fucking book for me?”

  “Because I’m not Walker Reade?”

  “Well, I’m glad you finally remembered that. Now we can get to work.” Then he does something so casually that for a moment I almost forget he shouldn’t be doing it: He takes out a green envelope and pours some cocaine onto a tray. I’m mesmerized by the credit card, the word VISA coated in powder, as Walker deftly flicks it back and forth, cutting out four lines, all exactly the same size. A few things cross my mind, but I settle on the audacity—the solid brass ones—Walker has to lean over and snort two of the lines in front of me as casually as possible, as if he weren’t just seizing on this very floor mere hours ago.

  “Where did you get that?”

  Walker is startled upright. “Safeway, you idiot. What do you mean, where did I get this?”

  “I thought it was all gone.” Visions of Larry taking the rest of bag number two are dancing in my head.

  “The stuff you got is. Fucking Larry jacking my drugs. That leech.”

  In that moment I truly do feel like an idiot. When you’re an addict of Walker Reade proportions, you have a stash. You always have a stash. He does two quick lines and hands the tray to me. I stare at him.

  “Do not give me that wounded-deer look. What in the fuck are you looking at? Here.”

  “I don’t know, Walker. Just . . . are you kidding me?”

  “No, I am not kidding. Here.”

  “I’m not doing that. And I’m pretty sure you should lay off, too.”

  “Great, now I have a neophyte editor and a babysitter on my hands. Anything else you’d like to add to your job description? Peacock farmer? Director of ashtrays? I could use a good lawyer, actually.”

  “Don’t forget bartender.” Inexplicably, tears are welling in my eyes.

  Walker is unmoved. “Stop working so hard, sweetheart. You’re window dressing around here, and don’t you forget it. Larry never did.”

  Even though I have learned in these moments to tune out Walker—the casual meanness, the cruelty—this one gets my Italian up. In a flash, I think of the worst thing I can do back, and that’s taking the tray and flinging it clear across the room. And then, astonishingly enough, I do it. The coke goes up in a trailing cloud that slowly descends to the floor like a miniature snowstorm. Out here, this is what they call a fireable offense.

  “What the fuck did you just do?” Walker demands, even though his answer is all over the circular couch. “Just . . . Don’t move.”

  Clearly this isn’t the first time this has happened in Walker Reade’s life. No doubt he’s been witness to more party fouls than most, and he patiently waits for the coke to settle on the floor and the sofa, his hand up holding me in place by the counter. Then he kneels in front of the cushions and does his level best to scrape as much of the po
wder onto the tray as he can, even rubbing some on his teeth and nostrils as he goes.

  “Are you crazy?” he asks, his voice rising.

  “Fuck you, Walker.”

  “I repeat. Have you gone crazy?”

  “You are nothing but a mean cokehead.”

  “What did you call me?” He turns his head toward me and takes his glasses off.

  “You heard me. A mean cokehead. Cokehead. Stop the presses. Walker Reade is a certifiable cokehead. Look at you. On the floor.”

  “You can leave, little girl.”

  “We both know you don’t want that.”

  “I said you can go home.”

  “Fine by me. I’m doing the same thing here as I was doing there.” The tears are coming fast now.

  “What’s that, fucking off?”

  “No. Tending bar to mean drunks. Except I actually used to make tips.”

  “Get out.”

  “I’d already be gone if you weren’t holding my manuscript hostage.”

  “Nothing but kindling, sweetheart.”

  “How in the hell are you going to finish this book without me? Huh? You can’t even string two sentences together.”

  “You think I need you?” he says with a hint of desperation, and then does something with such purpose that it seems as if he’s simply been waiting for the right time, like he’s been practicing the move for years. Rising quickly from the floor, he grabs two objects from the cabinet next to him and, with two swift flicks—like a knife thrower at a state fair—sends them hurtling toward me. As I duck to miss the first, I realize the error I’ve made when the second one makes disconcertingly solid contact with my skull. I didn’t calculate it correctly. Perhaps better to take a National Book Award to the temple than a Grammy. Those Grammys—I discover at the moment of impact—are nothing but brass and hard edges. The pain is immediate and intense. I crumple to the ground, and two small drops of blood fall on the floor in front of me. I either can’t or don’t want to get up, so I focus on those two drops, then three, and four, as they pool into one another. Walker’s gone quiet—I can just hear him breathing—and we’re both frozen in this moment, though I’m not sure who’s more afraid. Peripherally I see the awards on the floor next to me, beautifully bronzed and serious.

  “Who’s the mean cokehead now?” he says.

  I look up at Walker, whose face goes white.

  “Fuck . . . Alley. Are you . . .” Then I see him dialing Claudia, can hear him telling her what happened, how I look. I wonder to myself why he’s speaking so quietly—he sounds like he’s in church or a library. The last thing I see before I lose consciousness is Walker mouthing, I’m sorry, but he’s not really mouthing it. I just can’t hear it for myself.

  CHAPTER 25

  “John Dante.”

  “Alley Cat. What’s up? You okay?”

  “No, are you alone?”

  “Yeah, everyone’s at Auntie’s. What’s up?”

  “It’s kind of awful. Do not tell Mom or Dad or anyone anything. Do you hear me?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Calm down. What’s going on?”

  A butterfly bandage is over my right eyebrow, and I’m sitting at Claudia’s desk; she’s out grocery shopping. It’s been two days since I was Grammied, and I haven’t been over to Walker’s since. I tell J.D. the whole sordid tale.

  “Cat, it’s pretty simple: just come home.”

  “My manuscript, J.D.”

  “It’s not worth it.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. I worked two years on that thing.” There is a long pause on the other end. “What?”

  “Nothing. I just bet you could get it back if you were leaving. Ask that chick Claudia to get it back. But . . . I don’t know. I think if you’re staying, it’s for other reasons.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? You have no idea what it’s like out here.” I’ve got to hand it to J.D. Even from two thousand miles away, he senses the compelling push-pull that drives each day. That for every dinner plate whizzing by my head there are pages and hot-tub romps and brushes with Larry Lucas.

  “I think you don’t really want to come home. I think we’re all too boring for you. You think we’re all stupid.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yeah, you do.”

  “Look . . . I’m just trying to make something of myself.”

  “Yeah, but look at you. What are you trying to make—the local news? Cat, just . . . come home.”

  “Then everyone is going to say I told you so. Everyone’s going to think I’m a huge failure.”

  “Look, Cat, nobody really cares about what you’re doing there. Everyone will be happy if you come home.”

  “And that’s precisely the problem, J.D. Nobody really cares what I’m doing. Nobody cares what I become.” The dam bursts. I break into hysterical sobs. “If I don’t care, who will?”

  “There are other ways to get to where you want to be, Cat. And . . . why in the hell are you crying?”

  “Look, I don’t feel like a very good person right now. I did a drug run, J.D. I’m doing more coke than John Belushi. All the things you warned me about, I’m doing them.”

  “Cat, just come home. We’ll work it out.” Buried in J.D.’s voice is an approximation of my dad’s; it’s almost creepy. I can practically hear my father’s words: Door’s always open. When you come back. . . .

  “I don’t know.”

  “Look, I’ll buy your plane ticket. Just come home. We love you.”

  I hear Claudia pull into the driveway. “I’ve gotta run. I’ll call you later.”

  “Okay . . . okay, Cat. Just . . . you know, just, like, hang in there.”

  Claudia comes into the cabin with four bags of groceries full of the things that have become our staples: frozen dinners, cigarettes, beer, wine, avocados, mushrooms, and coffee. I get up from the couch, where I have been passive-aggressively lounging for the past day and a half—nursing a headache and my ego—and in silence help her put everything away. I sit at the kitchen table and finger the butterfly bandage over my eye. Then she asks the million-dollar question. Or more to the point, the $25,000 question.

  “So are you leaving?” she says with a heavy sigh. She clearly just wants to get this over with.

  “I don’t know.” I take a pack of Dunhill blues out of the carton. “Do you think I should?”

  “People have left for less. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine.” I pull the wrapper off the pack. I offer one to Claudia and take one for myself. She gets an ashtray from the dish rack and a Bic lighter from the kitchen table. “It’s not a concussion, so . . .”

  After the incident, Claudia had taken me down to the local clinic where she’s friends with one of the nurses, while Walker stayed on the farm to sweat. By the time we got to the clinic, the dish towel pressed to my head was soaked through, affirmation of something my Mafia uncle had once mysteriously told me: Russos know how to bleed. The clinic visit resembled a bad made-for-TV movie about domestic violence, where the victim conjures stories of walking into walls (in this case, Claudia thought the corner of a cabinet was believable enough) while the bit actors, in their lab coats, stew silently in subtext and tension, not buying it. The nurse eyed the gash—her gaze moving from the cut to my studied veneer—and she deemed it CAT scan–worthy. The diagnosis: No concussion. No internal bleeding. The prescription: rest, ice, and aspirin.

  Claudia lights both of our cigarettes and takes a seat at the kitchen table. “Walker’s worried you’re going to sue him.”

  “I’m sure he is. It’s always about him.”

  “You knew that was the deal.”

  She’s right. I had heard these very words from Claudia, but only now do I understand them. The deal is painfully clear: This is Walker’s show. He’s the star and the director. Claudia is the producer. And I’m not sure I want to be here for the final scene.

  “Tell him to not worry. I’m not suing him. But can you see if you can get my manuscript
back?”

  “I’ll see.”

  “Actually, Claude, I’m asking you. Please. Friend to friend. Can you just go get it sometime when he’s out or sleeping or whatever? You know it’s the right thing to do. It’s mine. Then I can make a decision.”

  “Like I said, I’ll see. Give me a couple of days. I have to head out on an errand. I’ll be back in a bit.”

  After she leaves, I start cleaning out my drawers, folding all of the ridiculous clothing I’ve acquired over the months here: halter tops, miniskirts, high heels, bikinis, minidresses, cowgirl paraphernalia, leather pants, candy-colored tops, wigs, and one lime-green feather boa. I put everything into a garbage bag, tie it up, and set it at the foot of the bed. I pack up my family photos and the dull, monochromatic clothes I brought here, placing everything into my duffel. Then I realize that’s it. Everything else out here—the bedding, the books, the computer, the furniture, the damn aspirin even—belongs to Walker. I lie down on the bed and take a book off the shelf—The Great Gatsby, one of Walker’s favorites. I start reading when I hear a shuffling outside my door, which I presume is Claudia, back from her errand. But then, just as when I first arrived here, a note slides under my door.

  I wait to hear the cabin door close and look at the single sheet of paper. Please don’t go. I’m sorry is all it says. I fold it and put it in my duffel bag, lie back down on the bed, and resume reading.

  The phone rings out in the living room and I ignore it, thinking it must be Walker. Five minutes later it rings again. I go out and take a seat at Claudia’s desk and stare at it. I pick it up but don’t say anything.

  “Hello? Claudia?” It’s Larry.

  “No. It’s Alley.”

  “Hey, good. You were the one I was trying to reach, actually.” While Larry isn’t exactly employing a full-on British accent, he has evidently acquired a spot of September’s unmistakable Anglophile patois. Fucking actors. “Alley oxen free. How’s it going, love?”

  “Please don’t call me that. Just . . . stop talking like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re Rex Harrison. Like we’re chums.”