04 – Cal and the Persians
Why is it that every single person I encounter has to try and fuck me over? Seriously! That little Sonya cunt is lucky I had a bank card and Donnie was in an unusually weird mood (and by that I mean patient and understanding) otherwise Sonya would be in a world of hurt. How stupid does the bitch think I am? Really?
There I was all psyched to have gotten rid of the whore and once Donnie came back into the house – why he chased after her in the first place I don’t know, probably tried to score Rachael’s digits, pimp he is – he was acting all funny and I knew he just wanted his money so I go upstairs to the dresser and low and behold, it’s fucking gone.
Sonya through and through.
So then I tell Donnie I don’t have the buy money on hand because Sonya jacked it and rather than getting all mad like I thought he would he just stood there with some weirdo-smile almost like he was tripping on mushrooms or something and he says something real soft like, “yeah she’s taken a lot from me too… more than you’ll know “, or something along those lines – I was only half with-it still pissed over Sonya and fucked up on Xanax – but whatever, long and short I paid him for the test unit, it’s bomb as shit, and Vallah and his Persian crew are on their way and it’s on!
At first I didn’t think to bring the Persians into this thing but they always have cash and Donnie’s giving me such a good price I figure on top of the ten I’m going to put my own cash on I can get another ten from Vallah. And the best part about all of this is in getting twenty units rather than ten Donnie will bring my price down so I’m actually making another two grand just playing middle man for Vallah. So on top of my total profits, you add what I make middling for the Persians, I could very well do another job with Donnie and clean-up. It’s all fucking perfect!
And my asshole father says I know dick about business… fuck him. This move should put a wingtip in his mouth without a question. Plus all those kids like Sonya and her entire crew, always more than happy to take from me, but never willing to give when the time comes respect-wise.
Everyone thinks I’m full of shit. Well what do you expect? All I’m trying to do is appease every last personality I encounter day to day. How could anyone possibly keep everyone happy at all times without dishing out a few tall-tales here and there? And then the best part of it all is, if god-forbid one of my white-lies comes out to light for these people, they shun me as a bullshitter! Well just why and the fuck do they think I was bullshitting? To keep them happy! Fucking hilarious how life works.
Well tonight it all changes. Tonight marks the day I come through with what I say I will. No more late nights hearing Sonya and everyone else like her harp on about my Vampire movie. No more listening to my dad’s shit about how much it costs to keep this place running while I’m not working. I am working asshole! I’m a producer. And now I’m about to produce.
I’ve got the crib cleaned up and pimped out for Vallah and his boys. Not a hint of Sonya or that unbelievable Rachael chick or even Donnie himself. Just a Macbook on the coffee table with a bottle of Belvidere and a ball of coke dumped out on a mirror.
Pimp status all the way.
I remember Vallah saying he’d be by around nine and I notice it’s 9:02 and I don’t want to be a total dick but at the same time want to present myself as a business-type so I reach for the phone reluctantly to get an ETA from him. Just as I’m about to hit send the phone vibrates in my hand and sure as shit, it’s Vallah. I answer the phone. He’s at my door. I ask him why he didn’t ring. He says he didn’t feel like it. I tell him that’s cool and say the doors unlocked and to come in – not before setting myself up on an armchair I brought from upstairs just for this meeting. I wanna look like a Godfather type or Scarface or some shit. That’s what’s up.
Like out of some rap music video Vallah struts down the hall with his boys in tow. I know one of them, Ali. The other two I’ve never seen before… whatever.
The funny thing about these Persian cats is they have money and they make moves and all that but it’s all flash and show. They all grew up in Beverly Hills with their parents and just like to present themselves as gangsters, when really they’re no different than I am – rich kids playing an angle. Difference is I’m an aspiring producer, these guys are aspiring career criminals. And where real criminals get violent because they have to, these guys do it because they think it’s cool. Fully aware of all this I still approach Vallah as just another Beverly Hills High Alum but stay alert at the same time. Who knows what he may feel like he has to prove at any given time… plus these greasy fucks hit that Methamphetamine like no tomorrow so you can never be too careful.
“What up Vallah!” I say still sitting in my armchair – careful to maintain my pimp status.
“It’s V you skinny white motherfucker. V! How many times I gotta tell you that?” Vallah – I mean V – says in a way I can’t be certain if he’s joking around or being serious or a little bit of both.
“Sorry V” I say, then to his friends I nod my head and say, “’sup.”
To this they say nothing.
After a beat of silence where V and his cronies just exchange confused glances with one another I finally offer them to take a seat. They oblige. Once seated, V is all business, eyeballing the Mac to death while his cronies seem more interested in the Belvidere and eight-ball of coke on the mirror. To all of this I smile.
“Help yourselves to anything gentleman” I say, upholding my pimp-status.
V’s cronies immediately tackle the blow while V remains still in his seat – eye-balling the Mac – then says, “Is that what you’re working with?”
“This of course” I say as I stand, pick up the Mac, and bring it over to V, “Is a test unit just to give you an idea, the box is behind the sofa you’re sitting on. As you can see they’re brand new, completely clean, and still in the box.”
“No one’s missing these things? I mean, I go and sell them at my cousins shop his customers aren’t going to have any problems registering or with warranty’s or anything like that?”
“Fuck no” I say immediately, but coolly as if to say I have my shit together, “Everything is clean and registered. Your buyers open the box and turn the thing on, they register online. After that they’re covered for a year. It’s just like buying from the store direct.”
V studies the computer and its box for a minute while his friends cut up lines and finally he says, “Yeah but I’m not buying from a fucking store am I? I’m buying from some kid on the hill with a reputation for being full of shit. So you understand my reluctance just handing you ten maybe fifteen stacks off of trust alone. You can understand my fucking problem can’t you?”
“Of course, but look around you V” I say, gesturing around the house, “I’m not exactly hurting on dough.”
“Your pop aint hurting on bread. You another story all together.”
“Yeah well I can assure you I already have money down and am putting another ten into this shipment. You wanna share the shipment with me that’s cool. Otherwise you can buy off me when I get mine.” I say.
“Yeah but I want them at your price… and I don’t mean your price, I mean the fucking price you’re getting them at.”
“I understand. And I’m more than happy to help you out. Just realize my guy wants cash up front. That’s why we’re dealing with legitimate product. You want something off the back of a truck then you go pay for the product on the spot.”
V takes a beat. He could be pissed. I really don’t know. His friends hand him the mirror with lines chopped up he declines. They offer me the mirror next. I look at V and he says, “Don’t hold back on my account, I’m about to do my shit”, after this he flashes a meth-pipe and a grin at the same time.
I give him my signature wink. Then I dive into the blow.
V sparks a torch to his bulb at the same time, takes a monster hit of meth, then chokes it all out.
His buddies are all nods and smiles. I think this is going well.
After our round of drug taking has concluded, V chimes in, “So how exactly do we do this?”
“Well I’m already committed to ten computers. My source has a one-to-three day turn around. He gave me that computer in good faith as a test run and I paid him outright for it. If we do business I’m more than happy to let you hold on to that computer there in good faith so you can show whatever buyers you may have lined up what to expect.”
“Anyone can go get you a computer in a day. How you know your guy can come through on weight?” He asks.
“A valid question, but you don’t know my guy.”
“Oh yeah” he says, “But do you know your guy is my worry?”
“He wouldn’t be my guy if I didn’t.” I say too smug, too cool.
V sits on my words for a minute as he preps himself another hit of meth that he inhales violently and chokes out and then after regaining his breath he says, “Understand though, if I’m giving you my money, I’m dealing with you, dog. Plain and fucking simple. So if by chance you may not know your guy as well as you think you do and shit goes awry, it’s not your guy’s problem that I’m out money. It’s your problem.”
Again I keep in mind I’m dealing with rich, wannabe gangsters with Daddies just as rich as mine and take his threat with a grain of salt but want to appear as if I’m genuinely scared of bodily harm and say with feigned shakiness, “I’m well aware of that, but I don’t expect a problem.”
“No one ever expects a problem but that don’t mean they don’t come up. In the event a problem does present itself in this transaction—“
“But there won’t be a problem” I cut him off, still trying to maintain my cool, “Plain and simple.”
“I’m just contemplating the ‘ifs’.”
“What kind of ‘ifs’?”
“Fuck if I should know. Maybe there’s a bust. Maybe the computers come to you in pieces. Maybe your buddy runs off with your cash – and at the same time without knowing – runs off with mine as well.”
“But that won’t happen” I say with an assuring smile.
Frustrated and short-tempered (off the meth I suspect) V slams his fist on my couch and yells, “I’m just saying if, motherfucker. If some shit goes down. How do you make things right?”
“Look around you” I say, again gesturing my massive house, “I’m sure we’ll be able to work something out.”
“Oh we’ll work something out alright” V says as he nods to his boys who immediately take their cue and put the mirror down… playtime is over.
“But like I said” I say, this time genuinely shaken, “We’re not going to have a problem. Worst case, I’ll be able to get you your money back.”
V laughs at this. Looks over at his friends. They too laugh. Then he leans forward in his seat and locks eyes with me dead cold, “I aint doin business with your white ass to get my money back. I’m in this to make money.”
“Like I said, look around, there’s no risk.”
“Oh there’s always a risk” V says calmly then says, “I just aint gonna be the one taking one.”
After this V snaps his fingers and out of nowhere his cronies jump from where they were once casually seated and before I realize what’s happening they’ve picked me up from my chair and thrown me to the carpet – knees in my back – holding me down prison-rape style.
“What the fuck” I manage to say through a mouth full of carpet.
V’s boys hold me down harder. I don’t bother with squirming.
V calmly stands up from where he was seated and kneels down where my face is being smothered into the carpeting, I want to say something but simply can’t…
I have no idea where the fuck this is all heading.
And then it happens—
V draws out an automatic pistol and digs it into my temple. I want to piss my pants and instinctually start squirming to which V’s boys remedy by holding me harder against the ground.
With his pistol still against my face, V inches very close and almost whispers, “I just want to be clear before we go any further. You may remember me from high school and think everything’s grand but I don’t want you for one second to confuse me for another one of your rich, fuckup, full of shit buddies. I will not fuck with you if you fuck me, do you understand?”
I do my best to nod.
“I’m sure you know your guy quite well. I’m happy for you, but I’m also sure you’re stupid enough to get into something bigger than you and fuck up. Now whatever you’re into with your guy” he says, digging his pistol deeper into my face, “that’s between you and your guy. I want to believe you can come through with this and not prove the rest of the world right by fucking up because you’re a moron. But just take this as a fair warning. If you do fuck up and lose my money, I’ll not only want my money back, but plus the interest I would have made had the deal gone down. You feeling me buddy?”
His cronies ease up, probably just to allow me to say, “Yes I feel you.”
“Good” V says as he stows the gun and instructs his friends to help me up – which they do gently and once grounded I go straight for the Belvidere and chug a quarter of the thing down sans glass to calm the nerves.
V and his grease-ball-wannabe-thugs return to their seats and lounge like a group of cucumbers – as if we had just finished playing a casual game of Twister just moments ago. Fucking animals. I can’t get around what has just occurred and as fag as it may be to say, I feel fucking raped.
The Persian’s on the other hand couldn’t appear more casual if they tried. V of course is the calmest of the crew. Leaning back with a smug mug suggesting he just copped a fifty-dollar blow-job.
“Because in the event anything does go wrong” V says while patting the region of his belt where his gun is now stowed, “I don’t want to hear that you weren’t warned.”
What I’m supposed to say or do next is beyond me. Where am I supposed to go from here? Or better yet, what the fuck am I doing in a position like this? I mean really, we’re talking about computers here – it’s not like we’re bringing in slaves from China or heroin or chemicals for terrorists or Uzi’s for Niggers – who do these kids think they are! Now I can see why the Sonya’s and Donnie’s of the world have such a distaste for rap music and the whole culture – especially when people of privilege mold their personalities around it (like I vow not to continue) – some people just can’t handle it. They go too far. And one day you’ve got a once innocent kid with a good family prancing about town with a gun thinking he’s Frank White or Tony Montana or something of the like… and although I’m sure V is still awaiting an answer from me I am nowhere near being stable enough to craft any words. My mind’s a total mess, with only one certainty before me – I may be a little over my head here…
I’m just trying to make movies.
“So we clear on everything?” V asks with (get this) a friendly smile.
Unable to speak I simply nod and grunt what could be considered an affirmation of understanding… we’re on the same page. To this grunt-nod-combo V smiles and – this isn’t a shocker – preps himself yet another meth-hit in that glass-pipe of his that is strikingly similar to the shape of a penis. No wonder he can’t keep his lips off the thing.
It’s clear to me now I’ve failed to follow the old adage of never inviting a vampire into your home, because once you do, they’re free to reign whatever terror they so desire, with the ultimate end result of one (in this case me) losing their soul.
I sit completely still maintaining my silence – occasionally pulling from the Belvidere which at this point goes down like Fiji Water – serving as a medication of sorts – calming the seismic-activity in the roots of my nervous system on one end and some sort of brain-tonic on the other – slowing down and bringing back to focus a mind that just moments ago was racing with pinging and erratic thoughts at a speed only maybe that wheel-chair guy (Hawking I think) would be able to identify, name, and catalogue.
How I let things get to be this way I’ll never know. All I can say is thank whatever God that may exist for Donnie Ramo. If I didn’t have him in my corner, I’d be tight-roping without a net and completely on my own in a world I severely miscalculated. And in realizing my faults in regards to approaching this whole thing and after being presented with the unexpected, I can’t help but to curse myself for this fucking virus, this addiction, this affliction I’ve had running rampant through my soul dating back probably to the day my mother died once upon a time ago… this need to lie, to impress, to appease total strangers when all the while I’m tearing down foundations of those lifelong relationships of the heart that really matter… brick by brick… lie by lie… fuck up by fuck up…
Sonya was right the other night; I am the most dangerous breed of liar on account I’m just sick enough to buy into my own shit. Who am I kidding when it comes down to it, really? Not the girls, not my father, certainly not the fucking Persians – a lie can only stretch so far – and the end result is always the same. No, the true fool here is me. With every lie I tell, with every scenario I invent, with every promise I don’t deliver, the only victim left after the smoke clears is me – and I’ve only myself to blame.
For the other party involved in whatever untruthful bile I may be purging one moment to the next, when it’s all over and done with, they remain unscathed – where I on the other hand am left with yet another bridge torn to shit and a few more feet below the earth – forced to concoct another farce in the hopes the next will be my ticket back to the world of the living.
I look at V and flashes of his pistol pressed against my face are impossible to chase away. I can still feel the cold-steel pressed against my sweaty skin. And scariest of all is recalling the one thought repeating over and over broken-record-style while my face was pressed against the carpeting – if this is the end, if I fade to black here and now, I would have left nothing behind. No legacy. No way of redeeming myself for the mistakes I’ve made. I’d be another in a long line of tragic souls that left behind an impression to those they once knew based on whatever wrongs they may have committed, rather than the intentions behind the acts.
When we depart prematurely, we’re remembered and defined by our acts – not our intentions – no matter how noble they may have been. And when that pistol was pressed against my skull and I felt the unforgiving and ruthless knees of V’s cronies drilling into my spine, the last thing on my mind was pain or potential violence – but rather an unshakable fear that at that moment I would die and after my death would be remembered not for my intentions but the acts that followed, and worse of all, completely misunderstood – where in short time I’d no longer be remembered at all, but merely lost and forgotten forever as if I hadn’t existed at all.
Part of me is saying cut loose while I’m ahead – thank V for his time and put our business on a short holiday until I’m absolutely certain I can deliver. It’s obvious I’ve gotten myself way over my head… and for the stable human this should come as no surprise. Yet for the few walking the earth of my breed – those so pathological we buy into our own shit – it’s unbelievably easy to find oneself riding a pink cloud made up of all the fantasies and lies and bullshit – until one day something or someone comes along and obliderates the cloud – sending the rider into a freefall toward the rocky floors of reality.
V and his pistol and this moment and my uncertain future – everything – this is only the beginning of my freefall. And there isn’t a lie I could possibly engineer to convince myself the impact won’t be catastrophic.
As much as I should back-out now I know it’s not a feasible option. The little voice whispering in my ear, begging and pleading for temporary withdrawal in order to assess the reality of the situation – to separate fact from fiction – this is the voice of my father. Since before I’m old enough to remember, his voice has always been there, haunting me – and in his case, rather than having a voice of the traditional father in telling me what to do, his has always been and forever will be a voice mocking me, constantly telling me what I can’t do.
I have to go through with this. V’s threat aside – however empty it may really be – I have to keep on going. This is my only way out. It’s time to roll the dice and close my eyes and take whatever falls on the table once my eyes are open. Prolonging will only insure that more situations such as the one before me will slither their way into my life, and I’ll only get deeper and deeper.
If all goes well on the other hand, all of this will be a distant memory and a new chapter and phase will come into my life – leading to a finished product that will allow me to at long last stand before all those that bet against me and say I finally did it. I finally have produced something to make all those lies and poor decisions worth it all. And above all I’ll not only gain approval from strangers and family alike, but I’ll be loved.
This is my shot, the one moment in life I can look back on and wonder how things would have panned out had I gone the other way.
Before me, in the very living room I grew up in and once opened Christmas gifts with mother before she died and father before he lost his soul, I’m presented with an opportunity to change it all. Reality is staring me straight in the face with a gun in it’s hip and I’ve only one question to ask. Do I believe in myself enough to put this all together? Can I pass this test?
I finish off the Belvidere and lean toward the coffee table for a cigarette. I light it and take a few drags. V’s smoking speed. The whole room is quiet. After a few beats I stretch my hand out and V meets it with his own. We shake.
“Don’t worry,” I say, “I hear you loud and clear. Whatever happens, good or bad, it’s on me. This is my deal.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” V the sociopath says with a smile, “I’d toast to that but, well, you drank all the Belvi.”
Everyone laughs and I chime in as best I can. Everything back to normal. Business as usual.
And as I watch these animals defile the house I once lived in a more innocent and naïve state, younger and more pure, only to have a gun pointed to my head x amount of years later, I can only think one thing…
Thank God I have Donnie Ramo on my side. He’s no wannabe or cowboy like these punk-Persians. He’s a stone-cold professional – the type of guy I’d aspire to be. The kind of guy my father would be proud of.
By myself I’d have a thing or two to worry about in regards to V and his six-shooter. But with Donnie I’m certain I’m safe.
If it weren’t for Donnie, I’d be done for…
