by Kirk Alex
Working the Hard Side of the Street
L.A. Cab Stories, Vol. I
By Kirk Alex
Contents
Reviews
Title Page
Copyright
Fame At 2 A.M.
What’s Love Got To Do With Anything?
Get Married, And Have A Good Life
A Popular Fellow
Better Than Money
Trouble With A Diva
Working the Hard Side of the Street
Long Night
About the Author
Praise for Kirk Alex and
Working the Hard Side of the Street
“…this is a nicely put together piece of work.” —BookLore
“This book is excellent. It’s full of honest, heartfelt writing that certainly shows a very different view of Hollywood.” —Paul Lappen, DEAD TREES REVIEW
“Working the Hard Side of the Street is recommended as a gut-wrenching read for both its candor and bravado.” —THE MIDWEST BOOK REVIEW
“These hard-luck tales have a working class realism that at times recall a less repetitive, not-quite-as-alcohol-and-sex-obsessed Bukowski. The short stories—generally only few pages in length each—are introspective and moving but also filled with humor, surreal moments and oddball characters. It’s a compelling read that successfully brings you into the mind of a conflicted, complicated man.” —Dave Heaton, ERASING CLOUDS
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
WORKING THE HARD SIDE OF THE STREET — L.A. Cab Stories, Vol. I By Kirk Alex
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Copyright © 1993, 1999, 2012 Kirk Alex. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
Cover Copyright © Kirk Alex
Illustration by: Peter Cunis
Graphics by: Mirzet Alijagic and Mark Wyner
Digital ISBN: 978-0-939122-00-4
Version: 2012.3.8
Publisher’s Note:
The eight stories included here initially appeared in a trade paperback collection entitled Working the Hard Side of the Street — Selected Stories/Poems/Screams in October, 1999. Published by Tucumcari Press, P.O. Box 40998, Tucson, Az 85717-0998
Title changes are:
Stop Talking About Her Before You Start Crying, to: What’s Love Got To Do With Anything?
Love Did Not Happen This Easily, to: A Popular Fellow
And How Are You This Evening? to: Better Than Money
The Famous Person, to: Trouble With A Diva
Looking For A Ho In The Rain, to: Long Night
Fame
At 2 A.M.
IT WAS A late night call and these late night calls can be real beauts. The dispatcher had one up in Coldwater Canyon. I’d been sitting at the Beverly Hills Hotel doing nothing. It was two in the morning. I took the call, whipped the cab down to the end of the driveway, turned right, made it to Beverly Drive and took it to Coldwater. No cars around. Nothing.
The streets were dark and quiet in an eerie kind of way, and I had the opera going on the radio, with the female voice hitting such high notes it seemed to underscore the other-worldly atmosphere. I don’t usually go for opera, but this time it felt right for some reason, even soothing. I stayed on Coldwater for a mile, turned left, and went up this winding, narrow road, all the while wondering what kind of basket case it was going to be this time because that’s all you got this late on a Saturday night in Beverly Hills—crank-calls, 8-balls, show biz freaks who were burning themselves out on booze and drugs. And if they hadn’t made it yet, they were fame-struck newcomers, a sad, pathetic bunch struggling, doing anything and everything to climb up that ladder and become a star. As usual, I was apprehensive. I wondered what the hell it was going to be as I pulled up to this two-story house with the big garage and the three or four Ferraris or M. Benzes, or whatever, parked in the driveway and along the front of the white picket fence.
The front door was open and the noise coming from it gave the impression somebody was having a wild time of it inside. I didn’t bother to get out of my cab.
A tall, middle-aged guy holding a drink in his hand appeared briefly, said that she would be out in a second, and disappeared inside.
I waited.
The “second” dragged on. I didn’t turn the meter on. I didn’t feel like getting into a hassle with some drunk over it, didn’t feel like having to explain about Waiting Time. When the “second” stretched into nearly twenty minutes I turned the meter on and stepped out to stretch my legs. Finally, she staggered out. She was a young woman, early 20s, and she had red hair. The same guy was right behind her, grabbed the drink from her hand, walked back in the house and slammed the door shut. The redhead continued toward my cab and she was having a difficult time in her high heels and condition. She’d had one drink too many, it seemed, and she was a mess—tears and makeup streaming down her face.
Jesus, here we go again. You work the night shift and this is what happens. I preferred working nights for two reasons: I couldn’t take L.A. traffic during the day and I couldn’t take the heat.
I kept looking at her. I didn’t know her, but I felt for her just the same. What a shame, another struggling actress, another good-looking, healthy woman that was going to be used and abused, ruined, and she was going to allow this to happen to herself just so that she might get a taste of fame. She would pay for that stardom, if and when she ever got that far—not that many did—(and even if she never got anywhere, she was still going to pay).
I opened the back door for her, helped her in. I hoped she was sober enough to give me the address. I climbed in, turned the key, and pulled out slowly. There was a three- or four-hundred-foot drop on our right; the road was narrow, winding. I had to be careful. You never knew when a possum or a raccoon or even a coyote might suddenly appear and scurry across the road in front of you. These hills around here were full of the little rascals.
I could hear the woman crying in the backseat. When I asked for a destination all I got was a mumble or two. Not until I reached the bottom of Coldwater Canyon did I try again.
“Westwood,” she said.
“Where in Westwood?” I needed a street address.
I got nothing. I looked in the rearview and couldn’t see her.
I pulled over to the curb, turned my head to get a better look.
The woman had slid off the backseat and was lying on the floorboard, weeping. She could have been in pain; I wasn’t sure, had no way of knowing. I kept looking at her and couldn’t shake the sadness of it. Hollywood? You want to
come to Hollywood? This is what Hollywood was about, the Hollywood I saw, the Hollywood most people didn’t know about. Tinseltown. What a crock. I wished something could have been done about the assholes who ran the game.
“Hey, are you all right?”
She looked up, did her best to smile, but it wasn’t working.
“Are you okay?” Her eyes blinked and that sad smile remained, but I got nothing.
I pulled away from the curb.
“I’m taking you to the hospital,” I told her.
“No,” came from the backseat. “I’m okay. Really, I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
She kept stammering, assuring me that she was fine. Confused, I turned left on Lexington, took it down to Sunset and Sunset west.
“Where in Westwood do you want to go?”
“Just go to Westwood,” she hiccupped. “They’re bastards,” she said. “All bastards… Got me drunk … put something in my drink … I don’t know what it was—but it screwed up my head, know what I mean? Really fucked me up. Did you see the bastard who took my drink away?”
“Yeah; I saw him.”
“He used to sell used cars. He doesn’t sell used cars anymore. He’s a producer now, so he thinks… He was supposed to help me, give me a break. That’s what he said. I do comedy. I’ve done the Comedy Store a couple of times. You might have heard of me.” She told me her name. I hadn’t heard of her. “I’ve been on the Tonight Show,” she said.
“Really?” I said.
“Yeah,” she said. “The Tonight Show. One time. I’m a comedienne. Anyway, this bastard is really hung, you know? He’s really hung. And every girl in town, every starlet supposedly wants to fuck him because he used to go with Elizabeth ____________. And he thinks he’s hot shit, you know? He’s it—because he’s hung and he can do as he damn well pleases—and you’re supposed to do what he wants. They drugged me.” She wiped her tears, did her best to wipe away the smeared makeup. “He wanted me to go to bed with him. There were two other women in bed with him. I didn’t want to do it—and I told him I didn’t want to do it…” She blew her nose, unable to stop crying. “Shit,” she said, angry with herself. “That’s when they drugged me. I wouldn’t fuck him. I wasn’t raised like that. I come from a good family…” After a moment, she said: “They pinned me down … and he … I’m bleeding back there. God, it hurt… What a bastard. Jesus Christ, I don’t even know why I went. I’m wasting my time.”
“You ought to know better,” I said. “Lowlifes like that just use people like you. They’re screwed up beyond repair.”
“He’s supposed to help me—get my career off the ground. Lies. That’s what it was—all lies. He couldn’t help anybody, the sick son of a bitch.”
I knew it wouldn’t do any good to say anything. I did anyway. “It’s not worth it,” I told her. “Forget the whole thing. You’ll get used and keep on getting used. That’s the way it is. That’s Hollywood. You ought to get out—go back where you came from. What happened tonight will happen again.”
“Oh no—never again. No more parties.”
“Sure, it’ll happen again.”
“I don’t need these bastards. I’ll make it on my own. I got talent. I’ll show them.”
I shook my head. “Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to a hospital?”
“I’m sure.”
I nodded. “Where are you staying?”
She gave me a Hilgard address. The apartment building I stopped the cab in front of was across the street from UCLA.
“Wait,” she said, as she got out. “I have to make sure he’s home.”
I waited and watched her make it up the four or five steps to the lobby entrance. She reached for the receiver there, dialed a number. She spoke into the receiver for several minutes and climbed back down. She was on the sidewalk, pacing nervously, glancing upwards from time to time. Scared. I looked up myself and noticed a man in a dark overcoat standing on the 4th floor balcony. He was about forty and you could tell he was seething with anger, but he held it in check.
“What do you want?” he said to her in a rather calm tone.
“What do you think?” she answered.
“Why don’t you go stay with your friends?”
“I want to come in,” she said, tears rolling down her face. “I’m tired. I want to come in.”
The man didn’t move. I saw him looking at me, then up at the bleak sky above, and back down again. It must have taken everything in his power to control his anger.
“Are you just going to stand there!?” she cried out.
“I don’t want you in here, bitch.”
“Will you let me in?”
A minute passed, he went inside and reappeared a while later in a white Seville in the garage downstairs. You could hear the iron gate sliding open. The man slowly drove out to the curb.
Perhaps due to the deep tan and short dark hair, but the guy looked like a contract killer out of the Godfather films. He still had the black overcoat on, white T-shirt underneath, and he looked like he was ready to kill. It was all in the face, cold, unflinching—and yet he maintained. I didn’t particularly like getting caught in the middle of something like this—still, I wanted to be paid for my time. I had rent to make, and I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to this woman now. Would I be able to help somehow? Hell, I didn’t know. I waited.
“Where’ve you been?” he said to her.
“Are you going to let me in?”
“You filthy whore.” The tone was low, controlled, but he meant business. The redhead kept blowing her nose and wiping her eyes. The man finally got out, and as he did, she backed away, nearly losing her footing in the process.
The overcoat walked over to me, asked what was on the meter.
I told him.
“Goddamn broads are all the same,” he said, “they’ll fuck anything to get a break.”
He paid me.
“Don’t get mixed up with these crazy bitches around here,” he advised, adding: “It’s not worth it.”
I got in my cab.
“Don’t leave,” the woman pleaded after me, clearly frightened of the guy. “Don’t leave.”
The man took several steps toward her, but she kept backing away, not wanting him to get near her. He walked back to his car.
“What are you going to do?” she yelled after him.
“Taking you to your friends’ house.”
“I’m staying here.”
He shook his head. “I’m taking you to your friends’ house.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she insisted. “I don’t have any friends.”
The Seville disappeared inside the garage and the electric gate banged shut. The woman hurried south on Hilgard, staggering along.
I don’t think she knew where she was going or even what she was going to do. I pulled a Uie in the middle of the street and tailed after her. There wasn’t a soul around. Nobody. It was late.
Her heels clicked along on the sidewalk as she continued to run.
“Look,” I said; “this is crazy. Where are you going?” She glanced at me, but wouldn’t stop. “It’s not safe. I wouldn’t be running around like this if I were you. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”
She slowed down at least.
“It’s after three in the morning, for God’s sake.”
She walked toward my cab, not saying anything.
“I’ll take you where you want to go—no charge. Don’t worry about it—but just get in. Please?”
She climbed in the front seat.
“Do you have any friends that you can stay with? Anybody?”
She wept in silence.
“You must know someone you can stay with.”
“You’re nice,” she said.
“Don’t you know anybody? I can’t just leave you like this. He looks like he means business.” I then asked what the guy did for a living.
“He’s a doctor,” was her answer.
“I don’t know …”
“He ever hit you?”
She nodded. “I don’t have any other place to stay.”
“You don’t want to go back there.”
She sighed.
The so-called doctor was back on the balcony, watching us.
“He’ll probably hit me,” she said. “I have no choice.”
“You guys married?”
She smiled a weak smile, shook her head. “No… We share the apartment.”
I asked how long she’d been in town.
“Eight months,” she said.
Again, I tried to talk her into forgetting show business, just dropping it. She said she was from North Carolina, had four brothers and one sister back home—and they all knew she had talent and could make it, and that there was no way in the world she could face them unless she made it.
I didn’t know what to say after that.
She kissed me lightly on the cheek. We pulled away from the curb. I didn’t know where to take her. She didn’t want to go anywhere but back to the apartment building on Hilgard.
I drove her back.
Before she climbed out she told me her name again. “Be sure to watch for me on TV. I’m going to make it. I’m going to be a star.” Then added: “This whole thing is incredible.” She wiped her face one more time, wanting her true personality to shine through for me. She wanted me to know that everything would work out.
“I’m supposed to make people laugh—that’s supposed to be my job—and look at me…”
I wanted to wish her luck, I wanted to wish her the best, to say something, instead I watched her go up the steps.
She pressed a button near the intercom. The buzzer sounded, and she pushed in the door. As she stepped into the lobby I saw her turn, and pausing long enough to wave goodbye to me, she did her best to smile a nervous smile—and continued on in.