Going Down in La-La Land

by Andy Zeffer

  I was still reluctant but with a little more prodding and pushing agreed to go. Candy and I inevitably had a good time and never lacked for conversation, which was why she must have wanted me to come along so badly. I guess bossing around your slave in a public restaurant all alone wasn’t her idea of a good time. That and the fact Candy didn’t want anybody to think she was dating him.

  Forty-five minutes later I threw on my best Armani Exchange shirt and a furry black cap from Urban Outfitters because it was a chilly night, and waited for Candy to get ready. Candy came out of her room wearing the most outrageous outfit I’d seen her put on in a long time. And that was saying a lot. You’d think we were going to the Playboy mansion, her frequent haunt.

  She wore a black beret with white rhinestones on it from Dolce & Gabbana, a fur scarf, Dolce & Gabbana jacket and barely existent skirt, and thigh-high zip-up boots.

  “Looking to upstage the belly dancers?” I asked. “You better be careful or the customers will be handing you dollar bills instead.”

  Candy just laughed it off.

  Downstairs the slave greeted us in the indecipherable moderate accent he spoke in. For the life of me I could not figure out where the man was from, and didn’t care enough to ask. I climbed into the back with Candy and off we went.

  The slave said nothing the whole ride there, and Candy spoke to him only to give him directions. I thought the whole thing was so weird, and uncomfortable, to say the least. All I kept thinking about was the delicious lemon chicken awaiting me.

  When we arrived at the restaurant he said he would go look for parking and dropped us off at the front. We stood outside the door for a minute or so, and I had a feeling something was wrong right then and there. Parking wasn’t too much of a nightmare in this neighborhood, a rare thing in LA. The air was turning really cold, so Candy suggested we wait inside.

  It wasn’t so much better inside, as the waiting area had an open ceiling with a fountain underneath. There were two dining areas, one to the left and one to the right, and a private dining room in the front. Quite a few people were already waiting for a table when we came in.

  Immediately I sensed the focus of the room shift toward us. I could imagine that we made quite a pair, the voluptuous blonde with her outlandish outfit and the chiseled tall guy next to her with pronounced cheekbones and a furry black cap. I sat down on a little stool while Candy stood up, starting to look a bit concerned after a few more minutes of waiting.

  “Adam,” her voice was hesitant, “this is weird. It couldn’t be taking him that long to get here. Do you think he took off?”

  Actually I had been thinking that since before walking through the door. He had just been too detached and distant, even for a slave.

  “It’s never taken me this long to park around here, and I have the worst luck finding parking,” I answered gravely.

  Candy went out to the street again to check, but still no sign of the slave. She went on about it in disbelief, but I was too distracted by the obnoxious drunken party seated in the private room across from us. They had been laughing loudly and were staring and laughing in our direction, at Candy in particular, the second we stepped in. I had said something about it, and Candy made some remark back about them not knowing fashion if it hit them in the face. Candy was used to getting reactions from her outfits.

  When she first moved to LA, she wore a gorgeous Chanel suit and hat to a restaurant and some guy cracked to his girlfriend “Where’s the parade?” I never forgot that story. That hat had probably cost his whole week’s salary. But in LA the idea of fashionable was dirty-look-ing hair, a tank top, workout pants, and cell phone. But you had to drive a really nice car that was meticulously washed at all times. I swear people would carry about or wear their fucking cars around their necks in LA if they could.

  The final straw was when some stupid middle-aged woman with one of those ugly short haircuts like the kind Angela Lansbury wore on Murder She Wrote or some suburban moms in the Midwest still sport pulled her friend into view and pointed our way. She was blatantly poking fun at Candy’s appearance, not even bothering to be discreet about it.

  After being deserted by the slave I was not in the mood. I felt like a mother lion defending her cub, immediately springing into attack. I was always protective of Candy, like two misfits sticking together in a world that was hard enough as it was.

  When I get angry, I take on the behavior of a deranged person who can do major harm. Think Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

  “What!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “What the fuck are you looking at!?” I screamed, staring straight at the bitch and almost foaming at the mouth.

  Around me it got quiet. It was a good thing this was a Moroccan restaurant with belly dancers, musicians, and lots of noise or I’m sure the whole restaurant would have stopped. The woman in the ugly haircut and dated baggy sweater wiped the goofy smirk off her face and immediately looked away. Her stupid friend sat back down, and a few seconds later someone slid the doors to their dining room shut.

  “Who wears baggy sweaters like that anymore?” I screamed as the door shut.

  Candy was surprised and taken aback, and it took a lot for me to surprise Candy.

  “Jesus, Adam,” she murmured, “you really went off on those people.”

  “Good,” I grumbled. “We don’t have to hear their annoying mouths or avoid their ugly faces.”

  We didn’t discuss it for long as a nearby voice interrupted our conversation.

  “Hello. Can I take your picture?” I heard someone say. It sounded like he was deaf. I turned around to see a retarded young man sitting down next to me with a digital camera in his hand.

  “Sure,” I said in an overly friendly voice.

  One thing I have to say about myself is that I always go out of my way to be considerate and kind to retarded and handicapped people, as I think most people should.

  Candy and I went on to speak to the retarded guy at length. He let us know that Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and Bedknobs and Broomsticks were his favorite movies

  “Do you know this one?” Candy asked him in a cooing voice one would use for a toddler, and blurted out “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!”

  The retarded guy twisted his face up in glee and laughed loudly. The men that were with him smiled at us, showing their appreciation for humoring the guy.

  “You are my new friend,” he said to each of us, which we reaffirmed with a profound “Of course!” and “Absolutely!”

  After the retarded guy and his party left to be seated we looked at each other in expressions that said what we were thinking. Namely, Can you believe this night? Is there a full moon out or what?

  By the time two of us got a table it was obvious the slave was long gone. Across from us sat a group of people in their twenties and thirties. Next to us was a large table of retired men and their wives. Again everyone looked at Candy and me as we sat on our cushions next to the low table. Candy was pissed but took on the attitude that we were here and might as well enjoy it. I was a little more peeved, and I don’t know why. She had more reason to be. After all, he wasn’t my slave.

  At one point I got all bitchy and said to her something to the effect of “Well, what did you expect!” I guess I was annoyed because I sensed trouble from the start.

  Candy looked at me with a very serious and hurt voice, stared me in the face, and said slowly, “Adam, don’t yell at me. It’s not my fault.”

  A few of the young people across the way glanced at us. I don’t know why I was so concerned with all the reaction going on around us the whole night. I guess this jumping Moroccan restaurant was sensory overload. I immediately felt terrible. It was a very rare occurrence for me to lose patience and Candy get serious with me in turn.

  “I’m sorry, Candy. I didn’t mean to flip out on you. It’s just that your slave is a real shithead,” I apologized.

  “Well, we’re here, Adam. So let’s just enjoy the food and the belly dancers and have some
fun, okay?”

  When we finished dinner Candy put it on her charge card and asked the waiter to call us a cab. After waiting for what seemed forever we went to the front.

  The hostess said she had never been asked to call a cab. Now I was getting pissed again. It didn’t help that a bunch of middle-aged drunks, different ones from the ones I yelled at earlier, were coming up to Candy and petting her scarf. One woman asked what it was and I snapped, “It’s the real thing! We’re from New York and don’t fake it!” in my nastiest voice possible.

  I am a huge animal lover but was in no mood to hear the riot act from anyone. There was a taxi outside but other people were climbing into it. We had no idea if it was meant for us or not. Desperate and standing around like two idiots, we went around the corner to try to hail one from Sunset, a virtually impossible task in LA since the only way to get a cab was to call for it. Such moments made me wish I’d never left Manhattan.

  I realize we must have looked like a very expensively dressed, very fashionable and high-class pimp and his whore walking up and down an empty stretch of sidewalk on Sunset Boulevard.

  Finally we walked back to the front of the restaurant, saw a cab drive up and grabbed open the door before it came to a full stop, not giving anyone else a chance to take it.

  “Where are you going?” the cabdriver asked us.

  When we told him, he protested, “But that is not where I was called to drop off.”

  “Just go!” we yelled at him like two nut jobs waiting to be taken to Bellevue for evaluation.

  He drove off, and we relaxed a bit on the way back home, happy that the whole evening was behind us. Candy had lost her good humor, and vented about how the fucking prick would pay for taking off and leaving us there, using every expletive in existence to make her point clear. When we got home she called his machine and went off on it.

  “You asshole! Don’t you ever fucking contact me again or I will cut your balls off!”

  I went in my room and shut my door so I didn’t have to hear anymore.

  It wasn’t long before he started calling, pleading with Candy, “Please mistress, I beg you, forgive me!”

  She would just hang up.

  “I figure not even answering him is more torturous for him rather than calling him every name in the book, since he gets his kicks out of being abused to begin with, the sick fuck,” laughed Candy.

  E-mails came as well that started out by stating, “Mistress, it’s your worm.”

  Finally we got the answer why he ditched us in the first place. He eventually wrote to her that his last mistress made him suck off her boyfriend’s dick, and he was afraid Candy would make him have sex with me that night because she invited me along for dinner. That one had me on the floor, I was laughing so hard.

  “That toad couldn’t pay me enough to let him even touch my dick!” I laughed in tears.

  Yet he kept e-mailing, messages that read, “Please mistress, there is no one as classy as you, or as good of a mistress!”

  “Guess the asshole should have thought of that before he hightailed it down Sunset leaving us stranded,” Candy told me.

  The slave was just one more example of depravity I was encountering in Hollywood. Between home and work, it was like the Twilight Zone.

  But in a way it was fun and exciting to feel wanted for once. It was a real change, rather than searching for the right opportunity or big break. And whereas no mainstream agents or casting directors responded to my head shot mailings, I was a rising and wanted star at HUNG Video. I was just riding the wave; soon I’d find something else and come up with a long-term plan. But this is where I was now, and I was going to try and enjoy it and use it for all it was worth.

  Who Says Not to Shit Where You Eat?

  By now I had become an expert in shrink-wrapping. I could fold that plastic over DVDs and videos like gangbusters, and hold the blow-dryer so that the plastic melted over the surfaces and corners like wet glass. I had become quite proud of myself. In fact, I took more pride in my shrink-wrapping than I did in the fact that I was appearing on the covers of both Men and Unzipped magazines. Bobby Steelhard’s Hollywood Garage was a hit, and Ron told me I was garnering some great fan response.

  But I didn’t take any of that too seriously. I had plans of my own. And they included getting my resumé together so I could land a job with a production company or a movie studio. An employment agency I contacted back when I was answering phones at Acclaimed Talent was offering free courses in Word, Excel, and PowerPoint, and my intention was to sharpen up my computer skills for an administrative job. All this X-rated business was just a stepping stone, an amusing diversion I could think back to years from now and laugh about. I was just having fun until the point when I could find a real job.

  “Keep that shrink-wrap rolling!” a loud voice boomed behind me, startling the wits out of me and causing me to knock over a tall stack that had accumulated near my elbow.

  I turned around to find Dale Warner laughing at me.

  “Don’t do that shit,” I said in annoyed voice. “I hate it when people sneak up like that.”

  My irritation just seemed to give him more satisfaction.

  “I knew you’d get the hang of this in no time flat,” he cracked good-naturedly, picking up one of the fallen VHS cases.

  “I had a very good teacher. Your shrink-wrapping surpasses all. Maybe you’ll direct as well someday,” I joked back.

  “And I take that as quite a compliment coming from big talking, smart-ass Adam,” he laughed, then playfully picked up the blow-dryer and turned it on my face.

  “Watch it!” I laughed, grabbing the end. He turned it off and we both held it for a minute, gazing at each other again and smiling.

  “You know,” he said finally. “Why don’t we go out for a drink tonight? It’s on me. I am very curious to see what Mr. Adam is like in a change of scenery.”

  “Well now that I’m hot shit in front of the camera, my calendar is really full. But since you’re paying, why not? Who am I to kick the gift horse in its mouth?”

  “Spoken like a true hustler,” Dale joked. “I see LA is teaching you well. How does seven sound?”

  “Seven thirty sounds better,” I said.

  “Call you later,” he said and walked off.

  I tuned around and bent over to pick up the videos I had knocked over. I heard behind me, “By the way, nice ass!”

  Later that night Dale called me a few minutes before half past seven.

  “You ready to hit the town?” he asked.

  “Absolutely,” I answered.

  “How does Mexican sound?”

  “Great.”

  “Then afterwards I have a favorite place I’ll take you for drinks in Silver Lake. It’s called Akbar. Have you been there before?”

  “I haven’t been to Silver Lake at all.”

  “This place is funky, has great jukebox. You’ll love it,” Dale assured me.

  We went to a popular joint in West Hollywood called Marix. With a bar that served one margarita after another and a retractable ceiling that revealed a night sky, the place was a mob scene.

  We stood at the bar with frozen margaritas in hand while waiting for our table. Dale kept me entertained by filling me in on the gossip about Ron, Brian the photographer, and his other porn pals.

  While we spoke, my eyes traveled on his body. I had to keep my thoughts from drifting about how sexy he actually was. I hadn’t been that impressed when I first laid eyes on him, but his gruff looks were growing on me. He wasn’t a pretty boy like Brian. But with his thick, tall, and stocky frame he was all man. His body was firm yet had just a bit of a belly, which I liked. I imagined what my dick would feel like against his abdomen. It must have had a bit of hair on it. His forearms had just the right amount of dark hair on them, sexy but not excessive. The farm-boy face was hiding under a baseball cap, and he wore baggy jeans and a T-shirt. He looked like he was about to go work on his car or get out of shop class.

&n
bsp; A number of flashy WeHo guys came up to say hi to him. He seemed so different from the other guys in town. It was strange to think he lived in such a fast world.

  “So how’d you get involved in porn anyways?” I asked after we had been seated.

  “By accident, the same way a lot of people do I suppose,” he began. “I moved out here from Ohio with a guy I was with at the time, who has since moved back to Cleveland. I started doing crew work on films, that and working as a delivery guy. Back home I had always been into building things, like sets for theater and stuff like that, and always huge projects in shop.”

  “So I was right!” I blurted out, happy at my early industrial arts assessment of Dale.

  “Right about what?” he turned his head to the side with a suspicious smile and peered at me.

  “You were an industrial arts dude. I’m sorry to interrupt. Finish your story,” I said.

  “Okay, we’ll revisit that one later,” he teased. “Soon one thing led to another and before I knew it I was doing what you’ve been doing, the grunt work on porn sets. I got along well with Ron and the other companies I work for, and saw the other idiots who were directing and didn’t know what the fuck they we’re doing.” He stopped to take a sip of his frozen margarita.

  “Anyways,” he said after a long swallow, “I’d always been into filmmaking, you know, Star Wars and all that,” he laughed. He was growing sexier by the minute.

  “So one day I asked if I could pick up the camera at one of the cheaper companies, and they said sure. And using that as a springboard, I’ve doing it ever since. I taught myself how to edit, and now I edit my own shit and for other directors as well.”

  “And the rest is all history,” I smiled.

  “That’s all she wrote!” he laughed.

  “So you’ve become something of a tycoon,” I said flippantly.

  “Well, I don’t know about tycoon,” he emphasized, teasing me back. “But I’m doing all right. I’m not sure if it’s something I want to do forever, but it’s great for now. Some of the nicest, coolest people I have met in porn. Most of them are much nicer than the mainstream industry people in town, who are just as sleazy behind closed doors. I mean, porn might not be for everybody, but it’s been great for me.”