11 – Cal Reaches Out to His Maker
I’m still in deep with V and his cronies and the house is stripped clean. There’s nothing left to sell and the interest alone is giving me hemorrhages. And now with the well tapped there’s only one option left – the old man – a prospect to me so freighting I’ve put it off until the breaking point simply because – no matter how hard to believe – a sit-down with the old man is far scarier to me than a reprieve of the cold-steel of V’s handgun cocked, locked, and backed in full with threats of violence.
Thugs like V are no more than Neanderthal children in adult bodies only capable of getting their way by way of violence; while my father on the other hand has a way of slowly breaking down the soul… far more torturous than the quick lights-out that comes after simply pulling back on a trigger. At least if I go down V’s way, it’s over before I even know it.
When it comes to my old-man on the other hand, he’s left me for dead years ago, problem is I’m still breathing – and with every breath drawn a severing of the skin follows – leaving me alone and bleeding, simply waiting to die…
To die as we all die…
Alone.
I take my time driving down Ventura Boulevard as I make way to my father’s office in Studio City. Although I’m certain showing up unannounced during prime business hours is a total lack of judgment, I see no other option, as calling ahead to warn my father of my visit would not only send up red-flags all over, but more than certainly result in his insisting we speak at a later time. And being as time is something I’m short on; I’ve really nothing else to do. I have nowhere and no one else to turn.
What a fucking spot I’ve put myself in, I’ve been thinking to myself day and night for weeks now – catching (maybe if I’m lucky) three hours of sleep here and there.
I’m a mess. I’ve been a wreck since the whole thing went south. And looking back – given where I am now – it’s impossible to ignore the simple fact I’ve been a wreck long before Donnie Ramo came around.
And the old-man has been telling me this for years. And here I am now a block away from his office with my cock between and behind my legs completely at his mercy. Proving him right no matter how hard I’ve tried to show him otherwise.
I’m a loser. A liar. Useless.
A spoiled brat just now learning the ways of the world.
Inside Royal Realty (my father’s office) it takes every faculty available to feign calm and cool composure in front of the drop dead gorgeous blonde receptionist smiling wide (and I’m sure this isn’t ego talking) while tossing the let’s-fuck-eyes my way. “How can I help you”, she asks me, completely oblivious to the fact her employer is my father… this of course coming as no surprise given the kind of jag-off my father is, was, and will always be until he goes cold and leaves his fortune to slum-kids on the south-side just to get at me…
“Sir…” hot-blonde-receptionist-chick says to me as if I’ve been idle for hours, “…Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Oh yes, sorry” I say, realizing now I’ve actually been shaking this entire time (however long I’ve been here in this state a total mystery) and then manage to say through a choke, “I’m here to see Richard Went.”
“Do you have an appointment?” she says.
“Not exactly” I say to a now confused hot-blonde-receptionist, “He’s my father. I just need a moment of his time.”
“Your father!” she exclaims genuinely surprised, “I never knew he…”, she pauses – catching herself from potential offense – then says in a tone of synthetic professionalism and pep, “I believe he’s with a client right now (a crock of shit I’m sure). If you take a seat for a moment I’ll let him know you’re here to see him…” she pauses as a thought comes to mind I’m sure and says almost in a whisper, “Is he expecting you?”
“I’m afraid not” I say, “But it’s kinda urgent I see him so if you could, I don’t know, put in a good word or—“
“I’ll take care of it” she says in a sympathetic tone, as if she can read my situation and my fear, “Just don’t be surprised if you have to wait for a few minutes.”
“Oh I’m well aware and used to it by now” I say with a fake smile, “Business first… always.”
“That’s your father alright” she says while standing from her desk, “I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“Thanks” I say while squatting in the waiting area.
And with that hot-blonde-receptionist-chick disappears into the main office area leaving me to myself…
And despite being seated, the shaking has failed to seize. I’m a wreck and have no idea what to expect next.
How I ended up here is no longer a mystery to me. I’m fully aware of my faults, and that said, I’m ready to finally grow up. It all comes down to this moment. This final resort…
A good ten minutes passes (maybe more) before hot-blonde returns with a smile that’s anything but genuine. “Your father will come out to see you in just a moment” she says, “He’s wrapping up some…” she pauses, then, “Paperwork.”
I roll my eyes and she catches it on her way back to her desk. Ten minutes is a long time. I’m sure dad gave her the skinny on me, more than likely spending the entire time figuring how to best get rid of me. And as this blonde-chick takes her seat she glances my way for only a moment with a pair of blue’s letting me know not only is she hip to the status, but she feels for me as well.
Pity, I think to myself, is the last thing I deserve right now. Especially from the likes of a stranger – big tits or not.
After another ten minutes passes by my father appears before me. I pretend to be interested in a three-week-old-edition of Time Magazine – not to impress him or give off a laid back attitude mind you – I just can’t bear to look the guy in the eyes. Not yet. Not here.
“Cal” my father says as he does his best not to come off annoyed by my unexpected visit, “Have you heard of a telephone?”
“I didn’t want to bother you at work but—“
“But you did” he cuts me off coldly.
Great start, I think to myself, what a blessing my father is. I’m sure this will all work out great (total sarcasm). “And I’m sorry. I just figured it’s nearing lunch-time and I’ve sort of got something to talk to you about so I figured—“
“How much do you need this time?” he cuts me off again.
“It’s not like that” I say defensively.
“I’m not one of your ignoramus frat-girls from Westwood, I’m your father, and we’ve been through this before. And I told you last time would be the last time.”
“Can you please not do that” I say, still shaking and on the verge of tears, “Please don’t brush me off like this and make assumptions. It’ not fair.”
“Not fair!” he says with a chuckle, “Try and look at things from someone-else’s point of view for a change. I know that’s probably difficult for you and all but give it a try for my sake. I don’t have the time to waste on your garbage.”
“Yeah well” I say, “I’m pretty short on time myself.”
“If that’s the case let me know how much you need now so I can tell you ‘no’ and get back to work.”
Shaking harder now with authentic tears filling my lids I humbly say through a choke, “Why can’t you be like, I don’t know, a real father for just ten minutes. That’s all I ask. Ten minutes.”
“I’m not all that certain how true that statement is, Cal” he says, “It’s always something with you and your something’s never take only ten-minutes… not to mention all the money over the—“
“Can we please not do this here” I say, then closer to begging I’ve ever been in my life is say deflated, “I mean I’m your son. That should count for something… if anything buy me ten-minutes of your time. I made sure to come around during lunch—“
“How considerate of you” again he cuts me off (making the tally three or four times within minutes) then says, “I’m really busy today Cal. I don’t know if I can even spare ten minutes.”
“Real shocker” I say under my breath.
“What was that?” my father snaps.
“We haven’t said as much as two words together for months. In fact, we’ve barely spoken for years.”
“Except for when you need money of course, which for the record I can’t for the life of me undertand how you could possibly need any money… You’re getting my checks aren’t you?”
“Yeah I’m getting the checks.”
“And you’re still holed up in the old house right?”
“So again I have to ask why this couldn’t be a conversation we have over the phone?”
“Because” I say, eyes blood-red from holding back tears.
“Because…” my father says impatiently.
“Because whenever I do call you don’t answer.”
And with those words something changed within my father. His shoulders dropped. His eyes fell to the floor. And for the first time I can recall, he’s speechless.
“Okay” he says in the tone of one giving-in, “Get a table at MexiCali next-door and I’ll meet you there shortly. You asked for ten minutes, I’ll give you a lunch. How’s that sound?”
“Geez I don’t know what to say.”
“Crack-wise again you’ll get zero minutes of my time. Understand?”
I opt to not respond, stand from my seat, and make way for the door before the father who never wanted or loved me from moment one changes his mind.
Thirty-minutes and five Peroni’s later my father joins me at a corner booth I selected purposely for its seclusion from other guests. I couldn’t begin to imagine how this will all pan out and even with five beers in me with a sixth on the way I’m a bucket of nerves. For the first time in my life (and hopefully the last) I can honestly say my life is at the mercy of this moment…
“So are we drinking our lunch today?” my father says as he takes his seat, “Is drinking in the afternoon a common practice for you these days?”
To this I can toss back countless snippy responses from this coming from a man who needs a tumbler to get out of bed to the simple like father like son line but hold back given my desperate situation. Instead I say nothing as my sixth Peroni arrives.
The somewhat-decent-looking waitress asks my father if she can get him anything. Like the hypocrite he is he orders a twenty dollar glass of scotch. The waitress smiles and offers a menu to my father which (like me) he waves away.
Looks like we’ll both be drinking our lunch today…
Once the waitress out of an ear-shot my father gets right down to it and says, “Alright, what’s so important in your life you have to barge into my office unannounced and demand my time?”
Unable to believe the father I’ve been given I hatch half my beer before managing to say, “It’s kind of a long story…”
“Everything with you is a story, Cal” my father says, “That’s why I’d much rather you come out and ask me for money rather than give me a song and dance every time you manage to get yourself into trouble. Despite how you may feel about it, I am your father after all, for better or worse. And although we may not have spent as much time together as I suppose we should have, I still know you top-to-bottom. If your lips are moving it’s a good chance you’re lying, and it’ because of this you continue to get yourself into trouble.”
“Normally I’d put up a fuss but things have changed and I couldn’t agree with you more.”
“Christ!” he beams as his drink arrives, “You must really be in trouble… Little Cal admits he’s wrong?”
“Yes Dad, which of course makes you right all these years… which I’m sure you love by the way.”
“Normally that would be true. Problem is I don’t believe you even when you claim to have changed. You know why?”
I don’t know how much more I can take, I think to myself, then say, “Why?”
“Because you Cal are a liar. I’m not happy about it. I don’t know where you got it from. Certainly not from me (another crock of shit), but sad as it is for a father to say about his son, the truth of the matter is you started lying the day you learned to speak.”
Here we go again, I think to myself, another fucking sermon. Normally this is how it goes. I listen to his shit for an hour while he inflates his ego by putting me down. But this isn’t a normal situation. And like my father claimed earlier, I don’t have time for any of this…
“I can’t do this… not today. If you want to chastise me feel free to when this is all over” I say.
“By this I assume you’re referring to the trouble you’re in?”
“Yes you assume correct.”
“Meanwhile you say words like when this is all over, assuming I’m going to get you out of whatever mess you’re in. And I hate to tell you kid, unless the world is going to end tomorrow, you probably are assuming incorrectly. I sincerely have no intention in bailing you out of another mess.”
“What if the world is going to end tomorrow?” I snap and beat my fists against the table without thinking, “What if for me the world ends tomorrow unless you help me out?”
“An extreme over exaggeration I’m sure” says Father Knows Best.
“Now…” I can’t help but to laugh, “Now you’re the one assuming incorrectly. And whether you choose to believe me or not, it’s the truth…” I take a beat to gather myself, “And if I’ve never told the truth before in my life, believe me, this trouble I’m in is real. And if you don’t help me something terrible will happen to me. And like you said, for better or worse you’re my father. We both know you’re far from Ward Cleaver, sure, but you’re still my father. And if you don’t help me… if you don’t believe what I have to say… I may not—“
“You may not what?”
“I may not live through the week” I say with a tear, “In fact I doubt I’ll make it through the day” then one tear turns into a stream and with trembling lips I confess, “I’m in real trouble dad… and I’m really scared. I really need your help.”
With his son (me) in a full-throttle uncontrollable fit of tears essentially begging for his life my father does nothing. Says nothing. He’s a fucking rock. And where most fathers (even some of the real scumbags) wouldn’t hesitate for a moment to jump across the table and comfort their son – my father does nothing.
After all, he’s not the typical father… or any father-type at all. He’s no more than the man who lived with me while I grew up. Nothing more. An empty shell.
He just sits there and lets me cry it all out in front of the entire restaurant. After time it passes and I look up at him and he hasn’t moved a muscle.
I want to say more – hoping to get some sort of response – but I’m tapped.
After an ungodly amount of time passes my father at long last shows a sign of life by way of a sigh followed by a disappointed shake of his head.
“You’ve told me some tall-tales in the past but this one… what you’re doing here isn’t only pathetic but just outright sickening.”
My stomach turns over and my heart shatters. This is my father?
“You know all this time you’ve gone on and on about being a producer you’ve had it all wrong” my father says matter-of-factly while sipping his twenty-dollar scotch, “I never thought I’d ever say this but you’ve got talent. You really do…” and as if nothing has happened my father casually gestures toward the waitress for another scotch then says, “All this time you’ve been harping on and on about being some kind of big-shot producer when all along you should have pursued a career in acting. If you had you’d probably be wealthier than I am by now.”
“How can you be so… I don’t know… cold?” I say while questioning in my mind if my father is even human. “I’m being serious here Dad. I’m in real trouble… I mean I’m telling you I may die and you tell me I should have been an actor?!”
“Can you blame me?” he says, “All the lies and stories and songs and dances over the years…”
“This is different—“
“It’s always different with you Cal. There’s always a story. It’s always life-or-death in some way. Except this time you’ve actually gone as far to claim your life is actually in danger—“
“Because it is!” I say through clenched teeth, “I’m in serious trouble. I had a gun stuck against my neck. These people aren’t fucking around with me dad and if I don’t come up with something soon they’ll kill me. Believe me.”
“That’s the problem Cal, the whole believe me line. I’ve heard it before and frankly, I’m incapable of believing you.”
“But I’m telling the truth!” I say red-faced with more tears on the way.
“If that’s the truth then all I have to say is maybe you shouldn’t have lied to me so many times in the past.”
“I realize that, believe me.”
“You keep saying that.”
“And you wont hear me out! Christ just listen to me, will you please?”
To this my father says nothing. He simply nods his head as if to say the floor is mine.
“Whether you believe me or not I’m telling you this is real. And yes, you’re right, why should you believe me? I’m a fucking liar. I always have been – so much so that I’ve spent a lifetime lying to myself to the point I believed my own shit… and one lie turned into another and the days went by and next thing I know I wake up where I am now and I see it all so clearly. I see how much I’ve fucked up. Believe me” my dad starts to open his mouth but I snuff him by quickly saying, “And don’t tell me you heard that before – I’m aware – I just need you to be a father for once—“
“I’ve done more than my share. Don’t give me that be a father bullshit.”
“No dad actually you’ve done nothing for me. At least not in the capacity as a father. Not when it comes to love.” To this my father snickers as I continue, “Cards on the table you and I both know you never loved me.”
“You’re my son, of course I love you. I just don’t love the things you do.”
“That’s a cop-out bullshit statement.”
“You’ve been well taken care of all your life.”
“That’s the thing dad, you’re the type who confuses tossing money around and putting food on the table with affection.”
“That’s a tall statement coming from—“
“Will you cool it with the put-downs and just listen to me! I’ve changed. I really have. I see the way I’ve lived my life, all the bullshitting and whatnot, it was the wrong way. And I’m so ready to change. And so help me fucking god I will change. I just need the chance to change.”
The jerk of a father of mine takes a moment to let my words soak. He polishes off his second tumbler then squeezes his temples. “And I suppose you’re telling me unless I help you right now there’s a chance you may die tonight. And if that happens, you wont have the time to change… is that it?”
“Yes. Trust me, I couldn’t come up with a lie like this… this is real. And unless you help me I’m going to die. And as I tell you this you don’t as much as flinch… what is that?”
“I suppose I’m still trying to make sense of all of this” He pauses for a moment, “Let’s assume I give you the benefit of the doubt here and entertain for a moment the prospect of you – my son – dying tonight unless I help you… by helping you I assume you mean you need money?”
“Yes” I admit shamefully.
“And suppose I believe this business about people out there aiming to kill you – supposing this is true – the money is for them isn’t it?”
“Yes” I say, a glimmer of hope he may make this all go away after all.
“How much money are we talking about?”
I take a deep breath, close my eyes, swallow hard, and come out with the number, “With interest it’s just above twenty-two-thousand.”
For the first time since he sat down I finally manage a response out of him. He leans back in the booth and runs his fingers through his hair. “Twenty-two-thousand dollars, did I hear you correctly, you’re telling me you owe someone twenty-two-thousand American dollars? Try and sit where I am now and consider what I’m supposed to think… I mean this isn’t like the past god-knows-how-many-times in the past – a thousand here and there – but twenty-two-thousand! You’re either pulling a really elaborate and sick confidence scam on me or… what! How does a kid your age get into trouble like this?”
I rap it out to him play-by-play – from day-one with Donnie to the first MacBook to the deal with V to the night the computers never came to the night V literally crashed my house and held a gun to my head. I told him everything – save for all the shit I’ve been reduced to sell from his old house.
The whole story took about ten minutes to pitch and all through my delivery he said nothing… occasionally shaking his head here and there.
“Don’t you see your lying got you into this mess in the first place? For starters I don’t see how you couldn’t smell a con from this Donnie kid moment one. And what’s worse, you go and make a promise you weren’t sure at the time you could come through on to a type of person who is not only dangerous – so you say – but from the sound of it, the type of person that doesn’t care about stories or excuses or any of your song-and-dance-shit about being a producer. I may be in Real Estate but I’ve had my share of cash-buyers if you know what I mean… I know these types. They don’t reason. They don’t care about you or whatever bad-luck fell on you. They just want their money. And if this story you’re telling me is true, from the sound of it they probably will hurt you – if they haven’t already. I’m not so sure they’ll kill you, but I’m sure you’re in for a beating or two.”
Does this mean he’s going to help me or not, I think to myself, I’m getting the impression he’s brushing it all off. It’s possible he believes me, in fact I’m sure he does, thing is I’m not so sure he believes V and CO will actually kill me… probably because he hasn’t had the threats I have. Desperate to earn his full trust I say defensively, “These are serious guys dad. We’re way beyond beatings. It’s the end of the road now. Pay up or pay the price.”
“But these are kids like you aren’t they?”
“A couple years older,” I say, “But that still doesn’t mean they’re not dangerous.”
“I don’t doubt they’re dangerous. I just find it hard to believe they’ll actually kill you.”
“You say that like it’s nothing.”
“That’s because I don’t believe they’ll kill you.”
“Do you believe anything I’ve told you? I mean, am I just wasting my time here?”
He takes a moment to think, then, “I have to admit – impossible as it seems – I do believe you, son.”
I want to cry again, only this time a cry of relief. Not only does he believe me, but he actually called me son! (Maybe he feels bad for me). “You believe me! Really! Do you have any idea how much it means to hear you say that?”
“I’d imagine it’s something you don’t hear often so soak it in and enjoy it” Dad says with a smile.
“I thought for sure I was a dead man” I say as I reach across the table for my father’s hand, “Thank you so much for believing me.”
“Well don’t get too jazzed. I have good reason to believe you this time and I’m pretty certain you wont like my reasoning?”
“I could give a shit just as long as you believe me.”
“Well I do, so you can relax. And the only reason I actually do believe you this time around is apart from being a liar – which you’ve already admitted to being with a desire to change your ways after this ordeal – but apart from a liar, you’ve always been a gullible kid. And where most fathers would say don’t take this the wrong way I’m telling you the opposite and deal with what else I have to say…”
“Okay…” I’m about to jump out of my seat. This is how it always goes. A little verbal abuse followed abruptly with a signed check. I’m free.
“You may be a good talker, which you are, that you get from me without a doubt. But at least up until this point in your life you’ve always been a mouth not a brain…”
To this I get a wee-bit heated but say nothing.
“And this little con you had pulled on you,” Dad continues, “Is just the type of thing I can see you falling for. And for all your faults, I must admit I respect your attempting to make some money of your own to pursue your dream… too bad you got fucked-over.”
Always tells it how it is – my father – the few times we actually talk. “So you’ll help me?” I ask at the edge of my seat.
Again a moment to think, a breath, then he says, “Yes and no.”
I feel a rush of panic coming back slowly, “What is yes and no supposed to mean?”
“Yes I’ll help you but believe me this is the last time.”
“Thank you so much Dad!”
“Don’t get to jolly, I haven’t gotten to the no part.”
Again, my stomach drops. “What’s the no part?”
“I can’t give you any money today. It’ll have to wait a couple days. We’re talking about a lot of money in cash and I don’t need any tax problems. My accountant’s already on my case over your stepmother and her spending habits.”
“She’s your third-wife, hardly what I’d call a stepmother” I say jokingly until it hits me – he’s not giving me money today – and then the panic returns, “Wait you can’t give me anything today? I need it today! I’m supposed to meet with the guy I owe tonight.”
“I told you I can’t do anything for a few days.”
“But I need all of the money today, shit, I needed it yesterday!”
“Don’t go taking a mile on me. You’re lucky I’m helping you out in the first place.”
“But these guys are serious. They’ll kill me if I show up without their money tonight. They were – and I believe I have been as well – very clear on this point.”
“And I believe I’ve been very clear on my conditions of all of this. You’ll just have to push them off a couple days.”
“I can’t! I’ve already pushed it this far – there’s just no more time!”
“Well you should have come to me sooner.”
“You were my last resort. I was sure you wouldn’t help me out…”
“So was I,” my dad says, “There we go assuming wrong again.”
“This isn’t a fucking joke dad. They’ll kill me.”
“You may take a beating but they won’t kill you. Believe me.”
“What am I supposed to do? You said yourself these people don’t reason.”
“I said the people I’ve dealt with in the past don’t understand reason. These are a couple punk kids. Meet up with them tonight, tell them your father is getting you the money, and push them off a few days.”
“That won’t fly, believe me. They’ll kill me.”
“No Son, they won’t. Maybe you’ll take a beating, which if you ask me you deserve, and come three days from now they’ll be paid off and you’ll be cut off indefinitely until you show me this new you you’re talking about becoming.”
“Which I will become assuming I live through the night” I say.
“You’ll be just fine.”
“How can you be so sure? You don’t know these guys.”
“Yeah well,” my dad smiles, “I know you…”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re a liar… a good one at that. I’m sure you can come up with something to buy yourself a few days.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not. Just meet these punks tonight, let them know you talked to me, give them my card if you have to so they can confirm with me.”
“I’m not telling criminals with guns to call my daddy if they don’t believe me.”
My dad laughs (a friendly and warm laugh I’ve never seen come from him before) then says, “Well it seems to me you lied your way into this mess, I’m sure you’ll have no problem lying your way out of it.”
To this I laugh… a real father-son moment…
“You’ll be fine” he says, “I’m sure of it. Just remember this is it. You’re cut off until you can prove to me you can keep yourself out of shit.”
“I am so ready to turn the leaf over you have no idea. I’ve already given up lying.”
“Well you’ll have to keep it going for three more days, sorry to tell you that, but then it will be all over.”
“You really think they’ll give me three days? I mean you really think I have nothing to worry about?”
“I know you have nothing to worry about. No one is killing you. Not tonight. Not any night. You hear me…”
He reaches over and touches my hand and winks. I suspect the wink was his way of telling me he loves me… that and the twenty-two-thousand dollar check he’s about to cut…
So yeah, I guess the old man loves me after all.
“Go home and get some rest” my dad tells me, “Meet up with your friends and this will be all over in three days. You have nothing to worry about.”
“You promise?” I say with elementary school innocence and fate in Daddy.
He smiles wide, shoots another wink, and whispers close to me with scotch on his breath…
“Trust me.”
