Malibu Motel

by Chaunceton Bird

  One night on Facebook I see that Riley died. Two months ago. There aren’t many details, but AIDS was the cause of death—another crash in the fast lane. Riley was too young to die. And too good-looking. Truly a tragedy. But at least Riley wasn’t living in a garage. Nothing but a laptop, flip-phone, clothes, pills, and heroin in my possession. There’s the true tragedy. But, all the better story when I make it back to wealth.

  My story!

  My story is my greatest asset! That’s how I make it back! Now I even had the death of a lover. Hollywood will pay me millions for my story. For the screenplay. They love true stories! Then I’ll get royalties from the film for the rest of my life. Hell, maybe I’ll even become a full-time screenwriter. Hopelessness whispered to me that it would never work, that nobody would want to watch such a depressing movie. But Hopelessness doesn’t know the human heart. We love to watch burning buildings, crashing cars, and sinking ships. Destruction stops us dead in our tracks. We love home videos of people hurting themselves. This is who we are. My movie will captivate the audience with the calamity, then reward them with the happy ending of me becoming a successful screenwriter.

  The next morning I buy ten notepads, a pack of pens, and stop by FedEx Kinkos and print photos from the last several years of my life. The notepads are for this story. I can’t risk typing it on Word then losing the laptop or having to sell it. I need my story in hardcopy from the first word to the last. The photos are for proof. Hollywood will want to see that this really happened. They will also help the director of photography get an idea for how to frame the cinematography. And they will help the director cast the right actors. Who is going to play me? Probably an A-Lister with a perfect build that doesn’t mind committing themselves to the role. A method actor. They’ll need to spend hours and hours with me to learn what I’m like. We’ll become good friends and establish a lifelong connection.

  I sit on my cot and begin writing. I start from the beginning. Well, the beginning of the end. My meeting with Jamie T. Fucking Lowell. My life in Malibu. My life in wealth. Writing is easy, I just scribble the words that come to me. No writer’s block here. I’m not making it up. This is how it happened.

  27

  I keep at my screenplay day and night for weeks. I write until my hand cramps and my fingers shake. The story—my story—is my purpose. Deciding on a name for the story is tough. “Riches to Rags and Back,” “Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Wealth,” and “The Cost of Free Cash” became my working titles. The studio will probably come up with one anyway.

  I even write a few poems. I didn’t know I had it in me, but once I get into it, they just flow out.

  Now I wasn’t a homeless wretch, I was a starving writer—a perfectly respectable profession. I joined the ranks of the many screenwriters before me who had nothing, but would rise to fame and wealth by sheer act of will and profound storytelling abilities. By myself. Without any help from anybody. Neither Satan nor God came through, so I had to bootstrap my way back to wealth.

  In the meantime, though, I still need money. Golden’s friend is a nice lady, but she wants her “goddamn $500,” and I don’t have it. I need all the pills I have. I have enough for a few nights at Malibu Motel, so I pack my backpack and suitcase—a recent thrift store acquisition to hold my kit and screenplay materials—and check into the same ground floor room I stayed in last time. It feels like home. Golden even brings me a bottle of Jack Daniels as a welcome home gift. We sit on the nylon comforter of my bed, shoulder to shoulder, and pass the bottle back and forth.

  I tell Golden about my million-dollar idea with the screenplay. Golden is excited about it and willing to help with editing. Golden claims to have a degree in creative writing from UCLA (“You can see where that got me!”). I also tell Golden about my predicament with cash. Namely, that I’m once again out of it.

  “Can ya refill any of your scrips? There are always buyers.” Golden takes a graceful swig.

  “Nah,” I say, “none are up for refill for another week. And I think I’ve been to every hospital within walkin’ distance complainin’ about head and back pain. I don’t know how to get more.”

  “And ya don’t have enough money to buy anything else right now?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, Cash, we could always go the ER route.” Golden set the bottle on the nightstand. “Let’s step out and have a cigarette.”

  I follow Golden out to the porch and ask, “What’s the ER route? Just asking ER nurses for something for your headache? Can I bum a cigarette off ya? I left mine in the room. Thanks.”

  “With the ER route, ya walk into the ER with a real injury.” Golden blows smoke into the sunset and looks down, kicking a pebble off the porch.

  “A real injury? My back really is injured. And I really do get headaches.”

  “Oh, sure, sure. I wasn’t saying that. I’m just sayin’, if you walk in... say... bleeding, or with a broken bone...”

  “What? Like, get fake blood or something?”

  Golden keeps looking down. Like an ashamed child. “No, not fake. From time to time, people in your position can get more painkillers—stronger painkillers—by injuring themselves... I know it sounds pretty bad, but it works.”

  “Oh, fuck that Golden, I can’t break my own arm.”

  “Well, ya don’t have to break your arm, you could just look like you got into a fight. Just roughed up. And have a couple cuts. That would do it. They’d give ya hydrocodone, probably. Maybe a Suboxone scrip.”

  “Ah, damn. I don’t know, Golden.”

  “Well, think about it. I know Topaz is looking for hydros, so if you can get ‘em, she’s buyin’.”

  “Oh yeah, whatever happened to her baby?”

  Golden looked pained by my question. “Lost it. Late miscarriage.”

  “Fuck. That’s terrible. How’s she doin’?”

  “She’s in the market for hydros, so, I guess she’s doin’ about as bad as the rest of us.”

  Golden’s plan is a good one. We’d give me a few cuts, rough me up, then dump me in an emergency room. The cuts and roughing up didn’t have to hurt, Golden was armed to the teeth with heroin and alcohol. We agreed to split my profits 60/40. They would take my blood at the hospital and see that I was on heroin, but they wouldn’t arrest me. They’d probably just give me methadone in addition to whatever painkillers they prescribed me.

  Golden fills my veins with heroin and my stomach with alcohol, then hands me a glass from the kitchenette in my room. I brake the glass and drag the shard across the top of my knee. Blood gushed around my fingertips and down my leg. I must have squeezed the glass too hard, my finger is cut. Bad.

  “Shit,” Golden says, “that was pretty deep. Let’s go.”

  “Wuddabout roughin’ me up s’more?” I slur.

  “No need, we got what we needed, come on.” Golden lifts me by my arm and helps me out the door and onto the porch.

  “Lock my door, Ima meet you at th—” I fall to my knees into the parking lot, hands extended to break my fall. I’m still holding the glass shard in my left hand. The asphalt plunges the shard into my fingers. I see it, but don’t feel it.

  Golden helps me to my feet, “Fuck, Cash, you alright? Your knees are scraped up. Oh fuck! Your hand is bleeding! Sweet mother of Christ.”

  Golden lifts me into the backseat of a friend’s shitty van. “Yeah, I fell off th’ curb,” I explain.

  The driver puts on the van’s hazard lights and speeds to the hospital. La Riqueza Medical Center. We pull into the ER entrance and Golden helps me in. Golden tells the nurse that some guy-some fuckin’ bastard-just beat me up. Tried to rob me, then got pissed when I didn’t have anything on me. Cut me up. Cut my hands when I tried to defend myself. Hit my thigh with his knife. Fucking bastard.

  I drift off when they stitch my fingers. My left pointer finger and right middle finger took twelve stitches. My knee needs more. Seventeen stitches to close that one.

  But it’s mission accomplishe
d. They give me three different kinds of painkiller and methadone. I even get to stay the night and have hospital food.

  Golden takes me back to the motel the next morning and makes the rounds with my new inventory. Even after Golden’s cut, I make over three hundred dollars. Enough for a few more days at Malibu Motel. I buy heroin from Golden for the pain, and Golden is kind enough to throw in some marijuana. Weed is a superb side dish.

  My writing hand is obtrusively bandaged, but I can still write. I make progress on my screenplay. Each day Golden tends to me to make sure I’m comfortable, and keeps an eye on my inventory. Golden takes care of the selling during the days and nights, and spends the evenings editing my manuscript. I’ve promised Golden thirty percent of the profits I earn from the screenplay. Golden believes in me. Believes in the screenplay. Golden knows this is going to be a money maker. I can see it in the way Golden works on the manuscript. Fervent. Always asking me clarifying questions. Giving suggestions on how to tell certain stories. Which stories to include, and which to leave out.

  Golden even offers to write. At least until my hand heals. Golden sits at the foot of my bed and I dictate the story. We fill all ten notebooks and Golden buys more. We settle into a routine. We’re both charged with the excitement about what this manuscript means for us.

  Golden also comes up with the wise idea of novelizing the screenplay. That way, when the movie comes out, we can ride the wave of fame and sell tons of books.

  Before my big break I want to tie up a few loose ends. I email Caleb and apologize for any pain I may have caused him or his wife (although I’m still convinced I was just helping her). I send a Facebook message to my ex and Mark, apologizing for not calling more often, and promising to be a better parent when I get back on my feet. I email Agent Palmer, just in case.

  At the end of the evening, after Golden has left for the night, I heat up a frozen burrito and take a few painkillers. After dinner I find a vein and inject euphoria into my arm.

  The local news is droning on the TV. It’s too loud. I’d rather float in silence. Where is that confounded remote?

  “Our next story is one you have to see to believe,” the plastic news anchor is saying, “luckily, we’ve got it all on tape.”

  The camera cut to the other anchor who was smiling and nodding. “That’s right Kristen. Video surveillance footage from nine banks shows former lottery winner Timothy Eric Rayburn sliding a note across to tellers demanding money and telling them that he was armed.”

  Slack-jawed, I fall off the side of the bed.

  “Jacob Handley is live at the scene of the most recent robbery. Jacob?”

  A split screen of Jacob appears. He’s standing, well lit, in front of a US Bank. He’s smiling, waiting for his turn to talk. When Kristen, from the newsroom, stops talking, there is an awkward pause and then Jacob begins to talk.

  “That’s right Kristen, we’re here in Burbank in front of the US Bank on Olive Avenue.” The split screen gives way to his screen. “This was the ninth and final bank robbed by Timothy Rayburn. Local news and radio stations have been calling him the Brazen Bandit. As a former lottery winner with nothing left to lose, he walked into banks without a mask or disguise and demanded cash. His weapon of choice: a piece of paper. He simply slid a note across the counter that told the teller he had a gun and demanded money. When the teller gave him what was in the till, he’d walk out of the bank in full view of the cameras. Police say they had difficulty tracking the man because, even after releasing images to the public and receiving tips as to the man’s identity, Timothy Rayburn did not have an official address. He and his wife, Selina, were living with a friend in Orange County. Police state that...”

  Tim Rayburn. Fucking Tim Rayburn. Bank robber. Not once or twice. Nine times. I pull out my laptop and Google him. Reports say he pulled in an average of $4,000 from each robbery. He spent the money on a Honda Element, then bought wheels and a sound system, clothes, and heroin. The FBI raided the room the Rayburns were staying in and discovered nearly twenty grams of heroin. The news reporter droning on the TV is giving details about how Tim won the lottery twenty years ago, but then lost it all over the years. He and his wife were destitute, and he determined that robbing banks was the only way to survive.

  Robbing banks.

  Why didn’t I think of that? You don’t even need a gun. You just need to tell the teller that you have one. One robbery would be enough to get by until my manuscripts were purchased. Golden had been taking my hard copies and typing them into a Word document so we could send it to agents. Golden was almost caught up with me, and I was almost caught up with real time. A couple months, max, and the screenplay would be purchased. Tim robbed nine banks before getting caught, and he didn’t even wear a disguise (did he want to get caught?). I could rob just one, using the same MO, maybe two max, and have enough to make ends meet for the foreseeable future.

  Golden knocked, then poked in (always so polite). “Caish?” Golden asks. Golden started pronouncing my name correctly after I handed over the manuscripts to be typed up. Seeing it written helps.

  “Yeah, come in.”

  “Hey, here’s your take of what I sold tonight,” Golden handed me a roll of bills, “and I have a ride lined up for ya tomorrow at eleven to take you to get your scrips filled.”

  “Thanks Golden, I truly appreciate how great you’ve been to me. Always watchin’ after me.”

  “Well, we’re friends. What else do we have, right? How are ya doin’ on smack?”

  “Good, I could use more though. Runnin’ a lil’ low. Oh, Golden, check this out,” I turned up the TV. “I know this guy, Tim Rayburn, he’s the one in the story with the Aventador that Mario Andretti drives. He’s the only other lottery winner I know.”

  “No shit,” Golden says, staring at the TV and sitting on the foot of my bed. “And he’s robbin’ banks?”

  “Well, was, he got caught.”

  “How many?”

  “Nine.”

  “Nine?”

  “Yeah, got away with eight bank robberies, then got caught when an off-duty cop was at the teller station next to him at a US Bank in Burbank. Saw the teller’s face and pulled out his concealed. Had Tim on the ground with his arm bent behind him for twenty-five minutes until Burbank’s finest finally showed up.”

  “Damn. So did he lose everything too?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think he got conned or anything. I think he was just bad with money. But Golden, I think I might give bank robbery a try. Just one to bridge me over until my manuscript gets picked up.”

  “Haha, sounds good, Caish, let me know if you need a getaway driver.”

  “Haha, will do. But I’m serious, Golden. I’m going to do the same thing Tim got away with eight times. I won’t have a gun or anything, I’ll just use a note.”

  “You’re not actually serious though, right?” Golden asks, turning more fully toward me and examining my face.

  “Yeah, I’m serious. He averaged four grand on every robbery. That would last me a couple months.”

  “But, Caish. That puts everything at risk. What about our screenplay? Our novel? How will you work on that and get that to publishers if you’re behind bars? Publishers won’t even look at you if you’re locked up.”

  “I won’t get caught. Tim did it eight times without even using a disguise. I’ll change my look entirely. And imagine what that will do for the story!”

  “Caish, you’ll doom the story. This is too soon. You’re not done with the story yet. You can’t do this. I can’t let you do this. We’ve put too much into our screenplay to risk losing it all.”

  “I’ve made up my mind, Golden. I’m doing this. Tomorrow morning. I’m a little behind with motel management too, so this will help me get current.”

  “Plus, the screenplay is basically done.”

  “Done?” Golden asks.

  “Basically, I just need to write about the last couple of nights. It’s all here.”

  “And you’
re starting your robbing tomorrow?”

  “Yup!”

  Golden sat at the end of the bed, looking at me. Reaching over, Golden turns off the TV. “So, I can’t talk you out of this?” Golden asks.

  “This is the answer. It’s meant to be. You can’t talk me out of it,” I say. “This is how the story goes.”

  Golden thinks on my words, then stands and walks to the door. “Well, then tonight’s a big night. The night before your foray into bank robbery. I think it calls for a celebration!”

  “Haha, what?”

  “I’ll be right back. Sit tight.” Golden pulls the door closed on the way out.

  I sit on my bed, imagining how the next few months will go. This is perfect. I’ll rob a bank, just one. Two tops. And have enough to get myself looking presentable in meetings where I’ll be pitching my screenplay to agents and production studios. I even have a photo album that goes along with the manuscript. Visual aids are helpful with these production types. After they buy the rights to the story, I’ll be set. This time I’ll live more conservatively. Depending on how much it sells for. And how much the royalties are. Either way I’ll for sure move back to Malibu.

  That’s when it comes to me, my magnum opus:

  I am the score, the reminder of more;

  the ambition that man makes his mission.

  The woman of the hour, with her braids of power.

  The sign of status, the aspiring vine’s lattice.

  The white clouds of bliss and the black abyss.

  The endless sea, the omnipotent key.

  I am the fire behind desire.

  Money is me and I am thee.

  Golden walks in with a smile and a kit. “Tonight’s on me, Caish. One last ride into the sky before your high-stakes day tomorrow.” Golden sits on the edge of the bed and pulls out a small ball of cellophane-wrapped heroin. “Pull the curtains closed, would ya?”

  I finish writing the poem, then get out of the bed, pull the curtains closed, and lock the door. “I wanna float high tonight, Golden. Ya sure you don’t mind me usin’ up your junk?”