I pulled into the Shorebird Resort a little after 10:00 p.m. “Resort” is optimistic. It’s a cheap hotel by the ocean, priced high enough to make the middle-class think they’re buying a luxury room. Picture a La Quinta Inn next to the beach with a decent pool. I would have stayed in a nicer hotel, but on such short notice this was all that was available. My room is a single-room suite with a view of the ocean. The last time I could see the ocean from my bed was two years ago. I fight off the surge of sadness that wells up when I remember my Malibu house. Two mini bottles of Smirnoff from the mini fridge help. It’s Friday, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend the night moping around this three hundred square foot poorly decorated cheaply furnished poorly-lit beige attempt at a hotel room.
There are several bars within walking distance of the Shorebird “Resort” but I take the Porsche. I don’t know many people around here, and the Porsche is the best way to introduce myself. The Tar Bar looked like the place to be, so I rolled my window down and circled the block a couple times looking for a parking place. After a few laps a spot opened up and I parallel parked with speed and efficiency that impressed onlookers. I showed the doorman my ID and ducked into the Tar Bar.
This bar was like most bars, low lights, loud, and full of mostly youngish people glancing around, laughing, and acting drunker than they actually are. A live band was covering “Rock You Like a Hurricane” in the back corner, and the locals were making the most of the dance floor. I shouldered my way onto a bar stool and ordered a local pilsner and a shot of Jack Daniels. I also ordered spicy chicken wings. I hadn’t eaten since Camarillo.
When my chicken wings arrive, a youngish local to my left leaned over and asked, “Excuse me, could I try one of those wings? Can’t decide if that’s what I wanna get.” The local was thin, blonde, and looked like some famous person whose name I couldn’t remember.
“Um. You want one of my buffalo wings?” I said.
“Yeah,” the local said, completely unashamed. “Unless you’re weirded out by that. Just wanna try one before I order a whole batch.”
“Sure, yeah. I guess. Shit. I’ve never had a stranger ask to have one of my wings. Or even fries. But sure, here,” I handed over a chicken wing. The local smiled, thanked me, dipped the wing in my Ranch dressing, and ate it with delicacy so as to spare the cheeks any stickiness. Those eyes... I had seen this person before.
“Mmm, those are super good. I appreciate it, thanks,” the local said. Then the local hailed the bartender and ordered eight wings. “I can tell you’re not from Pismo, huh?”
“No, I’m from here, I’m a California native,” which I am at this point.
“Oh, yeah, okay. But I mean from Pismo. Are ya waitin’ for anybody?”
“No, you?” I asked.
“Nope! I come down every now and then and try to make a friend out of a stranger.”
“And I’m tonight’s stranger?”
“Not if ya don’t wanna be, but ya made me sad sittin’ over here all alone and I figured, hell, maybe this tourist needs a friend.”
“I’m not a tourist, I’m from California.”
“Right, yeah, but I mean a tourist to Pismo Beach. I’m Jackie,” the local said.
“I’m Caish, nice to meet you Jackie.”
“How long ya been in town, Cash?”
“It’s Caish like cake with an ‘sh’ at the end.”
“Oh, Caish. How long ya been in town?”
“Just got here a couple hours ago.”
“Hm. So, Caish, what’s buggin’ ya?”
“What?”
“Ya know, what’s got ya down?” Jackie asked. “Seems like if the palm trees, warm weather, and local talent hasn’t cheered ya up by this point, those buffalo wings would’ve. So, what’s up?”
“Well, ya know, life can just be tough sometimes.” I took a long swig of my beer and ate a few celery sticks, hoping Jackie would pick up on my hint that I didn’t want to share my personal life with a stranger. That said, I didn’t want to be rude. I hadn’t had sex in weeks. Jackie was bangin’ and obviously wanted to get with me—it was the hungry eyes that gave Jackie away. Hungry Eyes! That was it! Jackie was Hungry Eyes!
“Jackie! We’ve met before!” I nearly yelled.
“Haha, yeah? Jeez, must have been pretty good, huh?”
“Well we didn’t really get to know each other, we met at a club and got separated before we had a chance to talk much.”
“You remember me from bumping into me at a club? Quite the memory. What club?” Jackie asked.
“Hyde. It was a few years back. You were with a friend, and... Oh, actually we met before we got to the club. You were walking on like... or, in Santa Monica. You were walking in Santa Monica with a friend and I was in a white Lamborghini and you came over and started talking to me.”
“Hmm, I usually don’t approach people on the street, ya sure it was me?”
“Don’t approach people on the street but you’ll steal a stranger’s chicken wing?”
“Sure, yeah. Pretty big difference. I know I wouldn’t randomly approach a stranger’s car in Santa Monica and start a conversation.”
“Well you definitely did. I wouldn’t forget those eyes,” I sipped some beer at this point to let the words work their magic on Jackie. “Remember? You ubered over to Hyde, I was in a white Lamborghini and followed you over?”
“Oh! Haha, yeah! You’re Lamborghini Bambini! What a trip!”
“Yeah, wow. What are the chances,” I said, “it’s a small world.” This wasn’t a coincidence. There’s no such thing. God crossed our paths again for a reason.
“Yeah... I forgot all about that night. Oh, yeah, that was a fun night,” Jackie said, grinning into the distance. Jackie was trying to make me jealous, which was a good sign. “But as I remember it,” Jackie went on, “you yelled out to us from your Lambo. We didn’t approach you.”
“Mmm, I’m pretty sure you approached me,” I said, “but it doesn’t really matter. We got separated not long after and it sounds like we both had a pretty good time anyway.”
“Sort of, yeah. So, Caish—it’s Caish, right?—or should I call you Lamborghini Bambini?”
“Yeah, Caish. Let’s stick with Caish for now.”
“Okay, Caish, what brings ya up from Santa Monica? Did ya drive your Lamborghini up?” The bartender dropped off Jackie’s chicken wings and set a new glass of beer in front of me. “Anything to drink?” the bartender asked Jackie. “Yeah, give me a water and whatever your best IPA is.”
“Just vacationing,” I answered, “but I’m actually from Malibu. I have a house on the coast sort of by Point Mugu. What about you? You act like a Pismo local, were you just visiting LA?”
“Yeah I’m from Pismo. But I have lots of friends in LA, so I’m down there all the time. You go to Hyde a lot?”
“Not a lot, probably once a month or so. If I remember correctly, and I do, you were in the VIP area all night when I was there. What’s up with that? You have connections at Hyde, or what?”
“Just a lot of friends,” Jackie said, “and I forgot, were you in the VIP area too?” Jackie already knew the answer.
“No, they wouldn’t let me back there. Guess I’m just not fancy enough, even if I am a millionaire with a Lamborghini.”
“Wow.” Jackie’s IPA and water arrived and Jackie took a gulp of beer before saying, “I’m surprised ya don’t lead with that.”
“What?”
“Ya know, ‘I’m a millionaire with a Lamborghini.’ That’s a pretty good pick-up line.”
“I didn’t mean it like that, I’m just saying. They wouldn’t let me back to the VIP area, so you must have quite the friends.”
“Yeah, I guess, so, how long you in Pismo?”
“Depends, how long do you think I should be in Pismo?” I said. I figured it was probably time to get started with the hints. We had each other’s names, what more did we need? Bodies like mine and Jackie’s were meant to be together, if only for a few nights, and I
had a feeling Jackie knew it.
“Hmm. So it’s up to me?” Jackie asked.
“Should it be?”
“Depends.”
“On what?” I asked.
“Well. If I don’t get anything from it, then I don’t think it should be up to me,” Jackie was licking the sauce off of a chicken wing, “But, if there’s somethin’ in it for me, then it prob’ly should be up to me.”
“I see what you’re saying. I think you’re safe assuming there’s something in it for you.”
“Oooo, a ride in Lamborghini Bambini’s Lamborghini?”
“Play your cards right and there might be some candy too.” That did it. Locked in. I’m sleeping with Jackie tonight. I’ll finally land Hungry Eyes.
“Hm,” Jackie said, acting deep in thought, “So, in that case, you should stay the weekend, feel out Pismo Beach, then, depending on how the weekend goes, stay the next week. Unless you have to get back to work or somethin’.”
“I like that plan. When do you wanna go for a ride in my Lamborghini?”
“Let’s have a few more drinks, on me—consider it a welcome gift—then go for a drive.” Jackie ordered two shots of Fireball and we toasted to my stay in Pismo. Jackie’s hungry eyes turned to starving eyes (in a good way) and I felt the fizz begin to build below the belt. The tingle that tells you it’s time.
We had a few more shots, getting progressively more touchy, then I paid the bill and we capered out to the Porsche.
“Wait a minute, Lamborghini Bambini,” Jackie was reaching for the door handle, then took a few steps away from the car, “I dunno much about cars, but I know this is not a Lambo. This wasn’t the deal.”
“My Lamborghini’s still in Malibu,” (God I wish it was) “I don’t take it on road trips. But this Porsche is just as expensive as my Lamborghini.”
“Mmmm, I really wanted a ride in a Lamborghini tonight, not some Batmobile Porsche.”
“How about I sweeten the deal?” I asked.
“Can I drive?”
“No.”
“Candy?”
“Yup. Hop in.”
As soon as we were in the car, I reached into the glove box and pulled out a Ziploc bag of cocaine and a snuff spoon. “Care to do the honors?” I handed the bag and spoon to Jackie. Without asking any questions, Jackie peeled open the bag, loaded the spoon to maximum capacity, and inhaled it with the force of a reverse sneeze. We went back and forth until we both felt electric. I put the coke under my seat, lit a cigarette, and started the car. Again, I wouldn’t usually smoke in the car, but it was important that I demonstrate to Jackie just how much of a badass I actually was. The cigarette was necessary.
“So, Porsche Bambini, where we hop bop boppin’ off to?” Jackie turned toward me, sitting sideways in the seat, and Jackie’s right hand slid around my knee.
“I’ve got a room at the Shorebird Resort, how about we take the long way back?”
“Oooo, the Shorebird, big spender.”
“It was the only room available on short notice.”
“Chill out, Bambi, I’m just givin’ ya a hard time.” Jackie’s hand slid up the inside of my thigh. “Take me to your room Bambini. Bam Bambi Bambini. Bambi’s jungle resort room...” Jackie’s hand cupped my crotch. “Or shall we begin here?” Jackie’s hand slid up the front of my pants and nudged its way behind the top button. Jackie leaned across the seat and breathed into my ear, then whispered, “Maybe we should take the short way back.” Jackie’s fingers slid down into my pubic hair, and I snapped out of my trance with embarrassment for not having shaved.
From the parking spot, I smashed the gas pedal to the floor and might have clipped the car in front of me (no time to stop and check). Luckily there wasn’t much traffic, so I didn’t have to stop at red lights. Just slowed down, checked both ways, then did a burnout through the intersection when it was clear. By the third intersection, Jackie had unbuttoned my pants and was tugging at my underwear.
The Shorebird Resort was now in sight. I floored it and had to pass a car or two on the shoulder. The Porsche is good for that. The speed limit on that stretch of road was 40 miles-per-hour, and I was nearing 100 when I passed a squad car. The cop’s lights went on immediately and my stomach plummeted.
“Fuuuuuuuuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I moaned.
“Yes, yes we will.” Jackie said.
“Ah, shit. I don’t think we will. God dammit.” I let off the gas and started braking. “That was pretty fast and I’ve got a load on.” I was buttoning up my pants and coming to a stop, pulling into the soft shoulder. The cop was right on my ass. I couldn’t even see the cop car’s headlights—just blinding flashes of blue and red. “I’ll blow into one of those fucking breathalyzers, get arrested for a DUI, then they’ll search the car and find coke. Fuck. Goddammit. All I wanted to do tonight was fuck you. Was that so much to ask?”
“Then lose the tail and fuck me.”
“What?”
“If ya wanna fuck me, stop being a lil’ bitch, lose the tail, and take me to your room. This is a Porsche, isn’t it? Ya think that cop’s in a Ferrari?”
“I can’t run from the cops, are you kidding?”
“Not if you keep stalling. If he doesn’t already, that cop is going to have your plate number in his system in a couple seconds.”
The Porsche had just about come to a stop. A dust cloud from the shoulder surrounded our cars. In less than a second, I had a minute’s worth of contemplation. I had two options. Option A: pull over and get fucked by the law, spend the rest of the night (and maybe longer) in jail. Option B: rabbit and get fucked by Jackie, spend the rest of the night in a hotel suite. If I chose option B and got caught, I would be formally fucked by the law. But, if I didn’t get caught, I would get royally fucked by Jackie. Nothing to get the adrenaline running like a police chase. I once heard that participating in high-adrenaline activities is a good way to bond, but that’s beside the point.
As the car came to a stop and rocked back, I made up my mind. I shifted into first, crammed the gas, and popped the clutch. After showering the cop car with sand and gravel, my tires met the pavement and squealed under the punishment of the Porsche’s engine at full tilt. Jackie, seemingly oblivious to the stakes, yelled, “Yaaaasss! Lamborghini Bambini’s gonna bam my bini me tonight!”
The Porsche launched into the darkness. The rearview showed me the squad car scrambling back onto the road, but not before we were well on our way. I killed the lights and made random turns headed toward the 101. When I couldn’t see the squad car’s lights anymore, I turned my lights back on. I pushed the Porsche beyond what I had ever tried. I kept my foot buried in the gas, letting off only to shift up or jam the brakes for corners. The engine roared and the exhaust barked flames on the down shifts. Finally we made it to the 101. I peeled out around the onramp corner and soared onto the freeway. We were weaving through traffic when, unbelievably, another set of cop-car lights lit up in the distance behind us. Now California Highway Patrol was giving chase. But the CHP car was too far back to get a read on my plates, so I was probably still in the clear. Still going to make it back to Shorebird, still going to land Hungry Eyes. It didn’t take long to lose the CHP car. Their Dodge Chargers are no match for my Porsche.
We were flying at over 150 mph when Jackie yelled, “Shell Beach Road! Exit 191 B, this is you!” and pointed to the exit. I swerved into the exit, and put all my weight onto the brake pedal. The car’s back end danced back and forth as we skidded down the exit ramp. A truck was stopped in the right lane, waiting to turn right onto Mattie Road, and a van blocked the left turn lane. I wasn’t going to be able to stop in time, but needed to turn right. I veered into the shoulder to pass the truck. Just before I passed the truck, my passenger-side rear tire struck the curb on the side of the shoulder. The curb bucked the back end of the car up and out to the left. The entire car left the road and the back end slid along the side of the truck as the car rotated clockwise. Jackie let out a short, sharp yelp. Wh
en the car next met the road, the driver’s side tires dug in and the car wrenched over onto its roof. The jolt was as loud as it was violent. Momentum kept the car rolling through the intersection and into a chain-linked fence. When it came to rest, the Porsche was upside-down with its hood buried in bushes and back tires spinning in the air.
My ears were ringing, and I’m not sure if I woke up or just stopped clenching. I opened my eyes and surveyed the damage. My seatbelt kept me hanging from what was now the top of the car. Luckily, this car was built to race, and had a roll cage, so the roof didn’t cave in. The windshield was shattered. No airbags, but a four-point seat belt and bucket seat kept me planted. My left arm was broken. Unquestionably. There was a new joint between my elbow and wrist. I couldn’t see my knees, but pain surged up through to my hips. Sirens whined in the distance. My vision was blurry. Something was in my eyes. Dust, tears, blood? It smelled like burning rubber. My arms were hanging down under my head and felt too heavy to move. I could hardly turn my head.
“Jackie, you alright?”
No response.
11
“Your honor, the defendant, Caish Calloway, was operating a vehicle in violation of California Code Section 23152(a), which provides that ‘it is unlawful for a person who is under the influence of any alcoholic beverage to drive a vehicle.’ The defendant also violated subsection (d), which states that ‘it is unlawful for a person who is addicted to the use of any drug to drive a vehicle.’ Not only was the defendant’s blood alcohol level well over the .08 limit, a blood draw at the scene of the accident evidences that the defendant was also driving under the influence of cocaine. Further, by driving upon California’s highways with a ‘willful or wanton disregard for the safety of person or property’ the defendant is guilty of reckless driving in violation of California Code Section 23103.
“That is why, your honor, the defendant is not guilty of vehicular manslaughter, but instead, of gross vehicular manslaughter while intoxicated, as provided in Section 191.5 of the California Penal Code. Said section provides, in relevant part, that ‘gross vehicular manslaughter while intoxicated is the unlawful killing of a human being without malice aforethought, in the driving of a vehicle, where the driving was in violation of Section 23152 of the Vehicle Code, and the killing was either the proximate result of the commission of an unlawful act, not amounting to a felony, and with gross negligence.’ Although Caish Calloway’s unlawful actions amount to multiple felonies, the defendant is guilty of gross vehicular manslaughter while intoxicated because, while driving recklessly (which does not amount to a felony), the defendant operated a vehicle while intoxicated and caused the early, grisly death of Jackie Marquez.
Malibu Motel Page 15