05 – Cal’s Going Out of Business Sale
V and his clan were supposed to be paid weeks ago and weren’t. Big surprise, Donnie’s nowhere to be heard from. Luckily, as the Persians pitched it to me, luckily my daddy’s rich as sin so they’ll give me time to pay… with interest mind you.
I’ve been selling everything in the house, from Craigslist to friends, from antiques to sports-memorabilia, everything is fair-game as long as I can attach a price. A week ago I told people I needed to raise last-minute money for my film project. Now I don’t even bother. I’ve only begun to put a dent in my debt to V and they’re starting to grow impatient.
Have I mentioned Donnie’s dropped off the map completely?
This would be a great example of one of those times dad would chime in on my life to say something like, you should have seen this coming, you have no one to blame but yourself… and hard as it is to face, he’d be absolutely right.
I should have known this would have happened…
In a perfect world Donnie would have come through…
A shame I’ve never lived in a perfect world… just a fantasy world at best…
And now I’m at last paying the price to come with living a life clouded by fantasy.
The ride’s over and if I ever plan on going on another I’ll have to wait in line like everyone else. If anything could be taken from this fiasco it’s these two absolute truths: there are no short-cuts in life and when it’s all said and done you go at it all alone… at least the tough times.
I was never short on support when the money was mine, the parties were big, and everything was free for the taking. In paying for all my friends and associates I’m now stuck with the bill. And it’s a bitch to handle all on my own…
If I had only done a few things different in the past maybe I wouldn’t have to go at all this alone… but I didn’t. If only no longer belongs in the vocab. What’s done is done. And if I don’t get help soon I’m fucked. Maybe even dead…
I’m at the W Hotel in Westwood eating off my father’s account looking at the black-and-white portrait of Julia Roberts across the way and wondering what’s the worst that can happen in tracking Julia down, taking only a moment of her time to explain my status, and ask her humbly for the money I need… surly she can afford it. But then again she’s a total fucking stranger – probably not even in LA – and being as I can’t even rely on my own father for help, what’s to say Julia Roberts would or should give a shit about me…
I finish off my sixth or seventh (or maybe even eighth) scotch and two rocks and peep the scene around me and remember not too long ago sitting at this very table across from Donnie as he tricked me into thinking he was the key to unlocking all my dreams. Funny how much can change in so little time. And Donnie, who knows what he’s up to – probably living it up hidden in some tower somewhere – completely unaware or (more than likely) not the least bit concerned with the shambles he’s left my life in. How a human being can from the very start know full-well a life can be ruined and go through the motions without remorse is beyond me… The things that some of these people do – people I once wanted to feel equal too – just in order to serve their own selfish needs… it sickens me. I motion to the waitress for another drink as a thought comes to mind – these people in whom I’m trying so hard to understand – what separates me from them? How many lives have I left in rubble through my past exploits without a thought or any regard at all? And now finally playing role of victim, who am I to judge anyone at all? Truth is I’m no different from any of them, only difference is I’m at the losing end this time around.
My drink arrives and I hatch it in two gulps – reflecting on all the girls I’ve fucked over with all my bullshit – unable to believe I’ve been able to live with myself all this time…
Able and willing to believe our own lies with little difficulty – a trait I’ve accessed my entire life – easily makes us as humans the most dangerous breed of all… as even when we’re wrong without a doubt we continue to carry on as we’ve only ourselves to convince… Like the terrorist who blows himself to pieces along with a coffee-shop brimmed with innocents, the self-deceived mind is the most lethal weapon of mass-destruction man has and ever will encounter…
And as I gesture for another drink the waitress is now reluctant to oblige I see before me one of LA’s prime examples of flesh-and-blood WMD’s… Sonya.
Fucking Sonya.
A few tables away she sits down alone – waiting for some poor schmuck she’s taking advantage of I’m sure – and her eyes meet mine. Uncomfortable I’m sure, she looks away for a moment, ponders, and for whatever reason stands up making way for my table. Before I can think of how to respond she takes the empty seat across from me and sighs. Studies me. I refuse to look her in the eye.
“You smell like a gin-mill” she says after a looong beat of silence.
“I’m drinking scotch” I say, eyes squinted, holding up the latest emptied tumbler.
“It’s just a saying Cal,” she says with that cunty roll of the eyes of hers and continues, “just trying to be civil… you know, like, strike up conversation…”
“Pretty honed logic you have there,” the scotch says by way of me, “strike up the conversation with an insult… good work.”
Sonya takes a deep breath. Waitress brings me another. I drink. Sonya’s eyes wander. What is she doing here?
“So I uh…” Sonya says then halts, probably drawing blank, silence returns to the table.
“What are you doing here?” I finally ask.
“I was supposed to meet my friend Rachael here, we’re supposed to go out, but she’s uh… well… running late.”
“I mean what are you doing here, at my table, with me now?”
“Passing the time I guess…” She says.
“Well” I raise my tumbler (number ten now I think), “I’m doing fine passing the time my way… so like, you know, I appreciate the effort but I’m like, you know, fine…”
“You don’t look fine,” Sonya says, “In fact, you look like shit.”
“Again, you sure know how to make a person feel good” I say before a sip of the tumbler – by now way past my limit to test hatching another – pacing myself slowly.
“I’m just being honest. You are familiar with that term aren’t you Cal? I mean you may not practice the term, but I’m sure you’re at least aware of its—“
“Could you just…” I interrupt angrily, “… cut me a fucking break for once? I know you love cutting me down and that’s all fine and dandy but can’t you just… I don’t know… can’t you just pull back a little bit? You’ve had your fill at my expense more than enough times in the past, can’t you just… I don’t know… can’t you just show a little fucking mercy? I’m sure you’re aware of that term…”
For hardly even a second’s time Sonya’s eyes glaze over – ready to deliver the litany – then surprisingly shifts in her demeanor. She almost goes soft (if that’s possible) and lets out another sigh.
“I heard what happened…” she says softly, “how are you holding up?”
“As if you care” I say.
“Give me the benefit of the doubt… humor me…” she says while leaning closer to me – a smile about her face I’m almost convinced is warm and genuine.
“When you say you heard what happened,” I start, “What are you referring too? The marker I have with V or your boyfriend ripping me off – subsequently putting me in the position I’m in now…”
Sonya shutters althroughout my response, eventually swallows hard and asks, “What do you mean my boyfriend? What would make you say something like that?”
“What you mean Donnie? You two are fucking aren’t you?”
To this Sonya shutters again. Swallows hard again. Says, “What makes you think that?”
“What that Donnie and you are fucking?”
“Well that…” again she shutters, “…but more specifically the whole boyfriend thing”
“I don’t know” I say, words slurring, “I guess I always assumed you two were a couple…”
“I get that, I just don’t understand why…”
“Didn’t you fuck him at my party last month?” I say bluntly to which she shutters for a moment then (unless I’m seeing things) actually blushes… perhaps she’s human after all.
“Well that… that was just… I mean… Let’s just call that one of the many mistakes I’ve made over the years.”
“Could have fooled me” I say.
“Why’s that?”
“You’d have to be blind or autistic not to see how perfect for one another the two of you are…” I say as the Scotch really goes to work, “The two of you only care about yourselves, you use people to survive, I’m pretty sure both of you have no hearts, and let me think for a second… oh yeah you both ripped me off.”
Sonya’s eyes fall to the table. I suspect a moment of reflection is occurring. After this meditation of hers she says, “I’m nothing like Donnie…”
“Shame you think that way” I say.
“Why’s that?”
“Because if you were able to see how perfect the two of you are for one another maybe the two of you’d actually get together and save the rest of us from all of your shit.”
Although drunk waaaay beyond my usual limit, I’m sure I may have actually tamed the Sonya-beast and forced her to take a look at herself for a change. She’s speechless. All that feigned confidence she’s so renowned for gone. Reduced to the little girl she one day in the distant past started off as.
“Spare me Cal” the old-Sonya says, “Like you are in a position to judge anyone…”
“That’s true, you’ve got me there, but doesn’t change a word I said.”
“Even though every word you said was total shit.”
“Sure it was total shit… not bullshit mind you…” I say with a confident grin, “just the kind of shit you don’t want to hear.”
“Switch places with me and tell me how much you’d like to be compared to Donnie Ramo” says Sonya.
“I’ve been doing that for weeks. Trust me, it’s no fun. But a spade is a fucking spade.”
“So you’re like Donnie too, is that what I’m hearing?”
“Three-quarters of this fucking city is full of Donnie’s in one way or another… A swarm of bats looking to suck the life from the unsuspecting and undeserving sheep of the city… I bullshit people where you and Donnie rip people off…”
“I don’t rip people—“
“Spare me,” I mock Sonya, “I can think of at least a thousand reasons you’re full of shit.”
Sonya goes still again. Eyes back on the tablecloth below her – recalling (I’m sure) the thousand dollars cash that went missing after her last stay at Casa Cal – unsure what to say or do next.
“A thousand reasons…” I begin to say as tears form involuntarily from my eyes, “… A thousand reasons I can really fucking use right about now…”
The last thing I want is to cry in front of Sonya but it can’t be helped. I try hard concealing my tears to little avail. And although usually I’d bet the farm on her loving the sight of me so down and out and pathetic – as she meets my tear-filled eyes with her own – it’s clear to me this creature is actually feeling something.
“I…” Sonya says hoarse, takes a moment, then says humbly, “I don’t know what to say to that… given your situation and all…”
“Sometimes there’s nothing to say…” I muse, “Sometimes all you can do is deal with it.”
To this Sonya says nothing. I do the same. Return to my drink. While sipping I meet Sonya’s eyes with my own. It’s clear she wants to say something to me – no doubt incapable of forging the right words – while my eyes cry for help without a word.
“Could you please just…” I start to say unable to find any words myself.
“Could I please just what?” Sonya says softly.
She opened the door and as much as I not only want to but need to walk through it I don’t. As much as I need a shoulder to cry on – even if it’s the cold-shoulder of Sonya – I can’t bring myself to ask for help.
Silence at the table once again. Then—
“Could you please just,” I say deflated, “leave me alone and let me finish my drink. The last thing I need is sympathy or pity from you.”
Sonya takes a moment to let it all soak and after a minute or so stands up from the table and makes way back to her table.
I return to my drink. Then—
Halfway back to her table Sonya turns to me and says my name softly – to which I lift my head from my glass and meet her eyes once again…
“Yes…” I say.
“I’m sorry…”
I wake up around noon on the floor of my now half-empty house. My head pounds to the furious Jazz-beat of an off-the-chart hang-over. My blackberry flashes on the coffee table. Two people inquiring about a Miro painting I’m selling. Three people offering to buy the DC95 Couch my dad bought two years ago for $5,000 that I’m selling for $850 on Craigslist. And of course a message from V informing me today he’ll be gracing me with his presence to pick up my weekly payment – a payment I’ll be unable to handle not too many weeks from now.
Another wonderful morning.
I make way for the kitchen praying there’s still beer in the fridge so I may do the best I can in drinking myself sober when I’m interrupted by the doorbell…
Fuck me.
If that’s V – who I’m sure it is – I’m fucked proper. I won’t have his money until tonight. Late tonight. I cringe to think what he’ll do to me – terrified in the knowledge hiding from the bell isn’t an option – he’ll just come in through the back like last time…
I’m fucked.
Making way to the front door I’m wondering why V chose to only ring once – his usual method of operation to ring the bell non-stop until I show at the door.
As I reach the door I look out the peep-hole with fingers crossed praying to any God listening not to find V on the other end of the door…
Which (to my surprise and relief) I don’t find…
In fact there’s no one there at all…
Reluctantly I open the door slowly only to find no one around. No signs of life – not even the screech of tires turning off my driveway. For a moment I wonder if I’m so hung-over I imagined the sound of a doorbell – brought to the edge of my sanity by all the recent paranoia…
And then I look down at my feet…
An envelope resting on the stoop – glowing bright off the noontime Los Angeles sun hovering above.
God I hope this isn’t a bomb, I think to myself, V is Persian after all. Could be Anthrax…
Confused, scared, hung-over, and desperate I reach down and snag the envelope. Doesn’t feel like a bomb at all. In fact, it feels like it’s filled with cash…
Unable to believe I could be this lucky I open the envelope expecting anything but cash – only to find ten crisp Ben Franklins staring me in the face.
This can’t be real, I think to myself, things like this don’t happen to me. I’m either still sleeping or the money’s counterfeit…
I hold a bill to the sun – looks kosher. I rub the bills in my hand – feels kosher. I smell the bills…
…and mixed in with the scent of genuine cash I detect a subtle hint of leather and perfume.
Sonya’s perfume…
And as I start yet another day I feel a sense of hope for the first time in awhile.
There may be life in this city after all…
