Going Down in La-La Land

by Andy Zeffer

  Bowing Out with a Boa

  That night Candy was getting ready for a party at Koi, one of the restaurants to be seen at in town.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to tag along?” Candy asked while strapping on a pair of gold Manolo Blahnik stilettos. Her look this evening was particularly stunning. She had on a beige cashmere tank top sweater with a padded bra that made her breasts look even bigger than they already were. A sequined gold and nude skirt that cost $2,500 from Blumarine, which she had seen Jennifer Lopez wear in a photo shoot, lit up the room.

  “No, I think I’m just going to hang out here,” I replied. While Candy looked breathtaking, I was frazzled and looked like shit. I felt gross too, as though I were infested with the encounters from my past, both mentally and physically.

  “You sure you don’t want to change your mind? There will be an open bar and sushi,” Candy teased as she touched up her lips with some Chanel gloss. She was a whirling dervish while getting ready— sandal straps one second, lip gloss the next—but always came out looking like a million bucks.

  “No. Thanks but no thanks,” I said.

  “All right,” Candy sighed in resignation with a hint of disapproval. She felt I was becoming a permanent hermit, succumbing to serious agoraphobia.

  “How do I look?” she asked, spinning around in her sequined number.

  “Sensational,” I smiled.

  “If you change your mind, call me.” And with that she clicked her way out of the apartment, shutting and locking the door behind her.

  I would soon regret not accompanying her, despite my depression. I tried to lay down with a book but was too fidgety and nervous, worried about my HIV test results. Thinking the television would distract me more easily, I turned it on. After flipping through the channels I came upon none other than John hamming it up on the screen before me.

  I had forgotten that Life’s Lessons aired that night. Instead of changing the channel I froze, watching John and thinking about how happy I was with him, how right it felt. I sat numb for minutes watching the whole program and wishing that things could have been different. The urge to call him was becoming impossible to fight. I had little pride left, and I didn’t want to seem any more pathetic and dangerous, misguided and misdirected to him by contacting him in my current frame of mind.

  Suddenly an uncharacteristic rage took over me. After beating the pillows hysterically and spooking out the cats, I realized I need to calm down. I darted into Candy’s bathroom.

  Her vast collection of cosmetics took over the counter, compartment after compartment of Lancôme, Chanel, Shiseido, MAC, Bobbi Brown, and more set up in clear compartments purchased at Bed, Bath, and Beyond. Ignoring the mess, I pulled open her medicine cabinet. After knocking over a few bottles I found what I was looking for, her bottle of Xanax. Grabbing a handful, I popped them in my mouth, chasing the pills down with tap water gathered in the palm of my hand.

  I need something better to chase these down with, I thought, and went into the kitchen where I found a bottle of merlot open on the counter. I couldn’t be bothered to pour it into a glass, so I just started guzzling it down from the bottle.

  All of a sudden I felt really hot. I started stripping my clothes off right then and there in the kitchen, piece by piece, flinging each garment around with reckless abandon.

  “Score!” I yelled as my underwear caught onto the ceiling fan.

  “What this place really needs is some music,” I hollered out loud in a drugged-up stupor that was really beginning to hit. Prancing over to the stereo system, I punched the buttons until ABBA’s Greatest Hits came on. Soon I was spinning around in the room like an escapee from Bellevue.

  “Dancing Queen, young and sweet, only seventeen,” I bellowed in the most tone-deaf, off-key, ear-splitting singing voice imaginable. No American Idol reject had anything on me.

  I grabbed a hot pink feather boa Candy had draped over one of her lamps in the living room, which she kept around so we could crack each other up with our Mae West impersonations.

  Dancing over to the stereo I turned the volume dial up all the way, the music blasting so the walls shook. It felt so good to forget about everything. I wanted this feeling to last forever. No more worries about the future, no more regrets about the past. No more feeling scared, negative, like I wasn’t skilled enough, not smart enough. No more feeling like a freak.

  A minute later I heard banging on the doorway. It was Candy’s neighbor Orly, yelling to turn down the music.

  “Cahn-dee, Ahh-dum, turn down the mus-eeec right now!” Orly hollered in her broken English.

  “Fuck off, Orly!” I yelled, and then darted for the bathroom, tripping on the boa around my neck and skidding on the floor along the way. Crawling the rest of the way I felt the cool tile of the bathroom, hoisted myself up, and grabbed the remaining bottle of Xanax, dumping them down my throat and coughing.

  Stumbling toward the kitchen I grabbed the wine, spilling most of it on the boa and my naked body but getting a bit of a swig in my mouth.

  “I called the po-leeese!” Orly yelled, banging furiously on the door.

  “Go away!” I moaned.

  The room started spinning faster and faster around me. I felt hot, so hot. I needed fresh air. Through my blurred vision I could see the opening to the darkness outside, the gauzy curtains that framed the balcony. Stumbling toward the open door of the balcony, I crashed into a side table, knocking over a lamp and a vase.

  “Shit. Candy’s gonna be pissed,” I slurred.

  Finally I crossed the threshold from the living room to the balcony. The cool evening air smacked against my hot skin, offering just a slight wisp of invigoration. Pulling myself up against the iron railing I stood against the late night breeze, hot pink feathers flying around me and sticking to my mouth as I tried to spit them away.

  “John, John, I love you. I love you so much.” I mumbled, feeling queasy and hanging over the railing, my head feeling heavy.

  Behind me the faint banging of the door and more voices could barely be heard under the blaring ABBA music as “Mamma Mia” now blasted.

  Air, I need more air, I thought as I leaned forward further. The next thing I knew a sharp pain hit me in the stomach, causing me to buckle over. My body jutted further. Then everything went black.

  Staying Alive

  It wasn’t a pang of pain in my stomach but a pain in my eyes that greeted me as I awoke to a blinding flood of light. For a moment I thought they were the lights of heaven, until my squinty eyes and blurry vision cleared and I saw Candy sitting next to me in her familiar pale blue sweat suit.

  “Where I am I?” I whispered.

  “Cedars Sinai,” Candy answered bluntly.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Well, where do I begin,” Candy started in a no-nonsense tone. “After raiding my medicine cabinet it appears you decided to take a dive off the balcony in nothing but a pink feathered boa, almost getting us evicted in the process. Miraculously, all you ended up with was a broken wrist and mild concussion after hitting the grass instead of the cement. Oh, did I mention they managed to pump your stomach and get most of the Xanax out?”

  “Oh Jesus. I am so sorry, Candy,” I moaned, picking up my head a bit to look at the cast on my right arm.

  “Ohhh,” I gasped in pain. My head felt like a rock.

  “That would be the egg-size bump on your head,” Candy muttered. Then, taking hold of my other hand, she squeezed it hard, placed one hand on my cheek, and emphatically told me, “Adam, don’t ever do that again. No matter how bad things seem, they change. Don’t ever, ever pull that shit. Promise me?” she ordered while her blue eyes stared into mine.

  “I promise,” I replied gently.

  “Good,” she winked, and then kissed me on the forehead.

  “So they told me the medics did their best to keep it professional after arriving on the scene to find a large, muscular naked man laying on the ground with a hot pink boa tossed around his nec
k. You’re the talk of the whole building. When I came home I couldn’t get Orly to shut up. She followed me from the apartment all the way to my car, and wanted to come to hospital as well. Thankfully I was able to talk her out of it. She was very concerned though, despite the fact you disrupted her beauty sleep with raging disco music.”

  “So I guess I messed up big time,” I sighed.

  “You messed up, but by the grace of God you didn’t wind up dead,” Candy said. “Which brings me to another matter.”

  I looked at Candy with worn-out eyes.

  “What? Dare I ask?” I said.

  “It was in all this morning’s papers. I could hardly believe it myself. I never bought the paper, but needed something to do while waiting for you to wake up, and I already have every magazine the gift shop sells at home.”

  “What?” I exclaimed flabbergasted. “My falling off the balcony completely inebriated on pills and booze made the paper?” I asked in fear.

  “No not you,” Candy rolled her eyes. “Calm down.”

  “Here,” she said, laying the paper on top of me. “I’m not even going to tell you. I’ll let you read it for yourself. But I have to warn you, it’s upsetting.”

  Using my good arm I picked up the paper. The front headline read “Actress Killed in Drug Deal Gone Awry.” The subhead said “Zinnia, one-named starlet who rose to fame in the ’80s stabbed to death in her home.”

  Placed underneath was publicity shot from Zinnia in her heyday when she was still a smoldering beauty, before her looks became wrecked with aging and excessive plastic surgery. But what shocked me even more was a mug shot of none other than Dale right beside her. The caption read “Dale Warren, 31, of West Hollywood has been booked and held on a million dollars bail for the stabbing death of Angela Watson, 45, better known as Zinnia.”

  “Holy shit,” I whispered in astonishment. “I don’t believe it.”

  “It was on all the morning news shows too. They had Good Day LA on in the waiting room and that’s all they were talking about,” Candy commented.

  “Oh man, Dale,” I said out loud. “How could you do it? What a waste. Oh man,” I repeated in shock.

  “Horrible, isn’t it,” Candy said grimly. “At least we know he won’t be creeping around our place anymore.”

  I was in shock. All of a sudden my mind put two and two together and staring at the paper I suddenly remarked, “That was her! That’s who it was!”

  “That was her who? What are you talking about?” Candy questioned.

  “That night Dale and I went to Gleisman’s party,” I recollected. “He stopped to get gas and I answered his cell phone when he got out of the car. A nasty woman’s voice snapped that she had his stuff, not even bothering to make sure it was him. No wonder she seemed so familiar, and it was always creepy to me whenever she was around John. She was supplying Dale with drugs all along.”

  “Wasn’t very careful or discreet about it either,” Candy observed. “Doing transactions in parking lots, not even making sure who she was speaking to on the phone, having crazed addicts in her home.”

  “You know, I think she was just so frustrated, Candy. So bitter she just didn’t care about that any more,” I remarked.

  A lump filled up my throat. I felt so guilty, despite all the craziness around me and events happening so fast, maybe there was more I could have done for Dale. He had been so sweet in the beginning, such a great companion.

  “Oh, Candy, I let him down. I totally let the guy down. He had a problem and needed someone to take control of it for him, someone who cared enough. And all I was thinking about was myself, what kind of job I needed and where the next buck was coming from. Turning tricks while a friend was in trouble,” I finished in tears.

  “Hey,” Candy said smoothly, “stop that. You tried to tell him. Look, Adam, I’m sure he was way overboard with his addiction before you ever stepped into the picture. And maybe if hadn’t tried to kill you, you could have done more. But I’m sure a lot of people tried to get him off that stuff, but others can only do so much. You can bring a camel to water but you can’t make them drink.” Then she stopped and asked, “Did I get that saying right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anyhow, you’ve gone through so much these past weeks. You need to rest and be good to yourself.”

  I had been through a lot. But I made a vow at that point never to become so self-consumed that I couldn’t be of help to someone in my life ever again.

  Candy left to get some things done. I was to be discharged within twenty-four hours. All I could think about as I lay in my hospital bed was that through a series of unfortunate circumstances I came to know two people, and now one was dead and the other headed for prison. And one of those people I had cared for at some point. In my short time in LA I witnessed Dale become ravaged and brought down by drugs, and the grisly reality of it left me glum and sober. After my own episode the night before, feeling sober was something I needed at the moment.

  Almost two weeks later I wobbled into the clinic to receive the results of my HIV test, still wearing a cast on my wrist. In the lobby I waited anxiously, but in much better form than my first visit. Finally Eduardo came into the room carrying my file, and greeted me in a peppy and sunny disposition. I took it as a good sign.

  “What happened here?” he asked, noticing my cast after trying to shake my right hand.

  “Oh, just a minor accident,” I said, brushing it aside. “I took a spill outside my building.”

  “Nothing serious I hope?” he began leading me down the hallway.

  “Oh no, not at all,” I smiled. “It’s coming off in a few days.”

  We both sat down. I took a deep breath. He got right down to business.

  “Okay, Adam, your test results came back negative,” he said, showing me the paperwork and pointing to the word “non-reactive.”

  “Great,” I breathed.

  Before leaving Eduardo inquired if I was doing better, and told me to keep practicing safe sex. I left feeling refreshed and renewed, and promised to come back in three months to be sure.

  With my hospital bills from the fall wiping out all the money John had given me and the cash I had from Christmas dwindling down to nothing, I would have to find a job very soon. And that was okay. I’d take any job. At a hotel, at a department store, where I could make the bills and pay the rent. It didn’t matter if it was day-to-day drudgery or not the best job in the world, because it wouldn’t be forever.

  I was putting together a long-term plan, and it was going to involve going back to school again and starting anew, this time with greater focus. My time in LA taught me some valuable lessons about what I wanted in life. And felt good about the decision to start again, without the sense of wariness that clouded me when coming to Hollywood.

  God wasn’t finished with me yet, and I wasn’t finished with myself either.

  Cut to Flashback

  The e-mail was close to being deleted along with all the other junk mail finding its way to my in-box until I looked more closely. Though I didn’t recognize the address, instead of the usual GET OUT OF DEBT or HORNY TEENS! BARELY LEGAL! it read VOYEUR NEW YORK DEBUT. The whole experience had all but been forgotten among the loads of classes, assignments, and work on my plate. I had already been back in New York more than a year by this time, and couldn’t be happier.

  It wasn’t too much of a surprise. I figured the film would have a run in a few artsy movie houses in New York and LA. It made the rounds of quite a few film festivals like Toronto, Berlin, and Sundance before finding a distributor. Perry and Mitch had a whole Voyeur Web site created with updates and latest news posted. My name was even listed in the Internet Movie Database, a record of my one true credit as a movie actor. Actually two credits, if I counted Sect of Lucifer.

  What did come as a surprise was when The Voyeur experienced a re-cord-breaking run at the Quad Cinema on 13th Street, and went on to play in other major cities and even smaller ones, such as Cleveland and Fort
Lauderdale.

  Good for them. Those guys deserved it. God knows they put enough blood, sweat, and tears into the project.

  Glancing at the movie listings and advertisements in the paper while sipping my morning coffee, I reflected momentarily on whether I would have been able to land an agent if I stuck around LA, now that The Voyeur was a success. My conclusion was no. It would take more than a few minutes on screen in a racy role to land even a semi-decent agent.

  Not that it mattered much anymore. That was all history. Due to deadlines and a heavy workload, there was no way I was going downtown for the premiere. Besides, I already went to the screening for cast and crew before I left LA, and that was more than enough.

  Almost two years have passed since I left Los Angeles. The last few months I spent there were remarkably peaceful and enjoyable. Knowing I’d be leaving soon, I concentrated on the good my surroundings had to offer. I think I went for a hike in the hills or a swim in the West Hollywood Park almost every day.

  The decision came to me soon after my release from the hospital. All of a sudden my need to be in the limelight, to feel loved and receive attention and adulation from others had retreated. I was just happy to be alive, and ready for a new direction. My disappointments had beaten away a lot of lingering hang-ups. They were instead being replaced by lessons in humility. My life wasn’t going to be like the lives of those celebrities I had read about with envy and adulation. But there was a whole entire world full of wonder and possibilities outside of the glitter and glamour of Hollywood.

  A month after the murder of Zinnia I was asked to take part in an E! True Hollywood Story about her and the grisly events surrounding her death. It seemed the producers learned about my association with Dale, probably through Ron, and remembered me being revealed as John Vastelli’s gay assistant. I declined to become involved.