Chapter 38/Page 6

Nerves made my arms twitch above the elbows as I stepped into the courtyard. Those nerves turned to anger when I saw the low amber lights giving 4’s apartment That Look. I beat my fist on her door like I was driving nails. She opened the door in shock. I pushed my way inside.

“What are you doing?” She demanded. My eyes reddened at the sight of her in a thin robe and a new piece of lingerie I’d never seen.

“You lied. You said we’d be friends when this was over.”

“Are you crazy?” She asked. Before I could answer, he came out of the bathroom, shirtless, zipping up his jeans.

“Who the fuck are you?” I assumed he was talking to me.

My whole life, everybody’s told me how my mouth was going to get me in trouble some day. And on that day, I was going to open my yap to the wrong muscle-bound ape, who would understand only enough of my verbal lacerations to know that he’d been disrespected, and he would tear me limb from limb. The smart money said that day was this day. I wish I had taken everybody’s bets. They were all so wrong.

It wasn’t my mouth that got me into trouble at all. It was my eyes. Long-term friends refer to this thing I do as my “death glare.” It’s not an “I wish you were dead” look. No, it’s more “my eyes are dead to you, you don’t exist,” absolutely lifeless stare.

Words were superfluous. My eyes said everything I wanted to say: I’m here to see the girl. You have no impact on my life whatsoever. You simply are not.

There was a loud pop on the left side of my face, followed by a sharp crack on my mouth. I reached up and pulled back a blood-filled hand. Another pop on my jaw and I fell to my knees first, spitting out a crown. A dull thud wrenched my back and sent me down to the floor on my side. Out of nowhere sharp pains etched into my thighs, abdomen, ribs, and forehead before she pulled him off and the kicking stopped. I coughed and choked, and threw up a little. The vomit that went back down burned my throat on the way.

“Stop it! Stop it!” She screamed at him, I think. “Get out!” Maybe she meant me. I tried to get up, but couldn’t find my balance and fell back down.

“Fuck you, asshole!” I heard him spit, felt something moist land on me, and one final kick in my kidneys before the door slammed.

“Shit,” she kept saying as she tried to clean me up. “I’ve got to get you to a hospital.”

“No,” I insisted, “I’ll go myself. Don’t worry about it.” I tried to get up, but my legs were useless.

“You can’t leave. He might still be out there.”

“This is what you chose over me? This is what makes you happy?” I refused to refer to her new lover with a human pronoun.

“Don’t.”

“Is this The One? This is the one you ‘love madly’ now?”

“Shut up.”

I did. So did she. There really wasn’t anything more to say about it. We sat in silence and took turns holding bags of ice on different areas of my damage till I was numb.

•••

“Did you file a police report?” My doctor was just doing his job.

“No, that wouldn’t do anybody any good. Least of all me.”

He taped my chest for the cracked ribs, but I’d waited too long for stitches to do any good, so I have a couple scars to show for my trouble. He held up my arm.

“Are you doing anything for the eczema?”

“Yeah -- scratching it till it bleeds.”

He laughed and picked up a prescription pad.

“I’m going to give you something for it. This is very strong, so call me if you have any complications.”

“You mean like working with my ex-girlfriend?” Laughing hurt like hell. “Ow!”

“Do you want something for that?”

“Maybe.”

He wrote a second prescription for my old pal Vicodin.

“No alcohol while you’re on this,” he ordered. “My insurance won’t take it.”

“Yes, boss.” As if, funny bones.

Next stop, my dentist, to reattach the crown that by some miracle found its way into my pocket. How did I keep finding medical professionals who moonlighted as stand up comics?

“Whoa, what does the other guy look like?” Dentist asked.

“He took quite a beating all around his knuckles.”

“Reminds me of a funny story..”

Go ahead; stuff your fat fingers into my mouth and your story in my ears. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.

•••

“What happened?” TSA’s shock equaled my shame.

“Close the door.” I gingerly set down in my chair. “I promise I’ll tell you all about it, but you have to do me a favor first.”

“Sure. Whatever you need.” He was such a good assistant.

“Two favors, actually: First, no calls today, and second: Will you please get these prescriptions filled across the street for me?”

TSA bolted to the pharmacy, closing the door behind him. Stiffly, I reached down into the five o'clock desk drawer and took a hit off my Jack Daniel’s.

TSA returned with the pills and I pored over the whole bloody mess: The 3b episode the other night, then D-Girl, Ex-Ass, D-Girl at Ex-Ass’s party, 4, 4’s hit man, the doctor, the dentist. Not surprisingly, one of 4’s co-workers brought down the purchase orders that day. Turned out that 4 called in sick for a couple days, maybe to save me the trouble.

TSA left around six thirty and I stayed on to work on a special headache that fell into my lap. The company’s biggest release ever was plagued with problems. This was the domestic distribution department’s responsibility, but apparently no one in that department was willing or able to do what had to be done to make sure the film got in the theaters on time.

It should have been a large, but simple job. Of course, several factors came into play that turned it into a complete cluster fuck that I was lassoed into untangling. In a nutshell: The marketing department insisted that a trailer (coming attraction) for another upcoming film be put on the front of all twelve hundred prints of the current film. However, nobody in the marketing department could come up with a trailer that everyone would sign off on. The longer it took them to do their thing, the less time there was to get the trailers attached to the film. Further, the new owners of the company insisted we use the lab they owned in France whose largest order to date was a tenth the size of this one. And finally, the Europeans working at the lab in France were, well, European. Let’s just say that they didn’t share our crazed American work ethic.

None of that fazed me. I didn’t even care that I was now saving the ungracious ass of the head of distribution, a man who was a Slimy Bastard when he was in a good mood. Every time someone mentioned couriers or customs delays, Slimy Bastard’s mood took a turn for the worse. Couriers and customs delays were mentioned daily.

But I took it in stride. It’s not like I had anything else going for me. I stayed at the office till the French got to work, around midnight in California time, so I could call them to tell them exactly what they had to do that day. Around two a.m., I called again to verify they hadn’t actually just spent the morning downing café au lait and Gitannes. In between, I typed orders to the couriers and shipping depots, ensuring negatives got where they needed to go when they needed to get there.

I was fine with all this. The office settled down at night and I could get a lot accomplished. Breaks were preset for me, timed around Vicodin for pain and Prednizone (a steroid) for the eczema. And the Jack Daniel’s was there to smooth it all over.

Around three a.m., I’d fire up the VW and head home for a few winks and a shower before returning to the office in time to call France once more to verify that the work had actually been done and shipments had been made. This gave me just enough time to get a cup of coffee before Slimy Bastard called screaming for an update.

I didn’t see 4, D-Girl, or Ex-Ass all week. I had no idea what they were up to and couldn’t care less. The hours, the pills, and the Jack put me back into familiar territory. I was starting to feel comfortable again with the constant state of detached irony, the glazed vision, the muffled hearing, and the off-kilter thought cycles. Perspective and opinion fell back to where they were when I was a card-carrying insomniac. But I no longer dreaded or feared them, just accepted their return. I knew how to handle them this time around. I was comfortable in this house.

Three thirty-six a.m. that Thursday. I’ll never forget. That was the only time my message machine blinked the entire week. I stared at it for a few minutes, not sure what the light meant. I did finally remember its function and pressed the ‘Listen’ button.

“Hey, it’s me.” Do you have any idea how many people start messages and phone calls with those three words? All of them. Ego assumes that the listener will of course recognize the voice. If I ever have a kid, male or female, its name will be “Me.” My kid will be the only person with the right to start off a message like that.

“I guess I’m returning your call from March.” Wait a minute. I knew that voice. It was 3a.

“I didn’t want to leave a message like this, but you never answer your phone. I don’t know if you’re out of town or something, but if you get this...” Click.

If I get this - what? If I get this - what? Fucking next time I buy an answering machine, it’s going to have no time limit on incoming messages! I smashed the little fucker into the wall, and popped another Vicodin before trying for sleep that never came. For four and a half hours I stared ahead, blank.

I crawled out of bed at eight-thirty, splashed water on my face, and panicked. Today was the big day. All twelve hundred prints of that stupid movie were supposed to have arrived at the U.S. shipping depots that would then rush them to the theaters by the next day. I dragged a brush across my teeth and threw on the same clothes I’d been wearing all week. Of course, there was some stupid construction thing going on in West Hollywood that caused a jam all the way up Santa Monica. The VW swerved in and out of lanes like mad, the German suspension holding up to my teenage expectations. I made an illegal turn onto the street in front of the office and whipped into the parking lot. Running all the way from my car, I got to my desk at two minutes after nine. The phone blinked ‘Message Waiting.’ There were three, all from Slimy Bastard. As I was listening to him scream on a recording, the phone rang and his number came up on the caller I.D.

“Hello.”

“WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MORNING?”

“It’s two minutes after nine.” Asshole.

“WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY PRINTS?”

“I’ve got faxes with the shipping info right here. It looks like they went out on schedule.”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘IT LOOKS LIKE’?”

“Give me a few minutes to call the depots and verify they actually arrived.” Far be it from you to have your incompetent staff make even one fucking phone call in this entire fucked up process.

I got him off the phone and started dialing the depots. Slimy Bastard interrupted every call.

“WHERE THE FUCK ARE THEY?”

“I’m on the phone with the depots right now. If you give me a few more minutes, I’ll have all the confirmations.” You fat fuck.

I called the next depot. Slimy Bastard interrupted again.

“WELL?”

“I’m still talking to the depots. I can’t get your answers if you call here every thirty seconds.” You fat fuck with a little dick.

“LISTEN, YOU FUCKING MORON. IF YOU DON’T KNOW HOW TO DO YOUR GODDAMN JOB, I’LL GET SOMEONE IN THERE WHO DOES!”

Snap! Went something deep inside of me. The Mouth opened and out it came.

“Listen to me, you asshole. I don’t work for you. I’ve been at this fucking office from seven in the morning till three the next morning all week doing your goddamned department’s job because nobody on your staff knows what the fuck they’re doing. So don’t you fucking threaten me. If you don’t like the way I’m doing it, have one of the idiots that do work for you make the call. And if they still can’t figure it out, here’s a suggestion: Why don’t you buy a ticket at the theater. If you’re looking at a blank screen, yell at me all you want. But if you’re watching your goddamn movie with the goddamn trailer on the front, then kiss my ass!”

I probably shouldn’t have said that to a vice president. But after I stopped shaking long enough to dial the phone, I continued calling the depots and verified that all twelve hundred prints, complete with trailers attached at the front, had arrived safely and were being delivered to the theaters right then. TSA finally showed up. I gave him the information and instructed him to pass it along to Slimy Bastard.

Sitting back in my chair, I popped one Vicodin and one Prednizone.

“Are you hot?” I asked TSA as he hung up the phone call to Slimy Bastard.

“No.”

“You’re not?”

“Uh-uh.”

“I’m boiling.”

My hands trembled and my throat was parched.

“I need some water or something. I don’t feel right.”

I got to the door and leaned on the jamb.

“Do you want me to get it for you?” TSA asked.

“No, I want to walk.” And I did. But instead of turning left toward the elevator to the commissary, I turned right and paced down the corridor. It felt good to walk. I followed the hall around the perimeter of the building, ending up right back at my office. But I kept walking past my door, the sound transfer room, the editing suites, the videotape library, and various offices. Faster and faster I circled the building till I was running at full speed, skipping, jumping, and twirling down the hallway. On my last pass, I jumped into every open door and screamed, “Ahh!” at the top of my voice, scaring the shit of everyone. When I should have taken the last corner back to my office, I ran straight to the stairwell, up four flights and out onto the roof. I ran five circles counter clockwise around the building, yelling, and then ran across to the parking structure, dodging in and out of empty parking spaces, working my way back down to the stairwell. Bounding in through the door, I slid down the railings all the way back down to the second floor and only hit my head once.

“Get a haircut, hippie!” I yelled to New-New Girl as I passed the reception desk.

I burst into the office where my young Fuck Buddy worked and squeezed her tits hello.

“Stop it!” She mock protested and grabbed Wiener through my jeans. Then I made a mad dash down the hallway in reverse order, retracing my path, jogging backwards till I finally backed into my office, over my desk and collapsed into my chair.

“I’m tired,” I said in TSA’s general direction.

I was tired. I was tired of making choices. Really I was just tired of having every choice I made blow up in my face. I was tired of my stomach hurting all day, every day. Tired of the embarrassing bloody eczema sores all over my body and the sheets of skin that catapulted off my scalp. Tired of the pain in my heart. Tired of not having the life I wanted. Tired of being afraid of my house. Tired of being lonely. Tired of being crazy. Tired of it all.

And then I crashed, head to the desk. TSA forwarded the phones, locked the office, and found someplace else to work that day. When I woke up at two, I was starved. I found TSA on my way to the commissary.

“All clear. You can go back to your desk.”

“Are you okay?”

“One day you won’t have to ask me that anymore.”

I took a sandwich back to my desk, and thought about all the choices I’d made, everything that got me where I was. Then I thought about the choices I hadn’t made and the role that played in my life.

What about my life? Who was I? My own diary portrays me as a sex-obsessed crybaby. Certainly, I was more than that. Everybody wants sex, craves attention. What would advertising or most of popular culture look like if that weren’t true? I thought I just owned up to it. Maybe I was wrapping up too much of my identity in whomever I was sharing a bed with. But I’m invisible unless I’m standing in someone else’s light. I don’t generate my own electricity. That’s why I played music in front of other people, why I stood on stage with other people -- to suck on the teat of their energy. I don’t exist by myself. 4’s light shone on me brighter than anyone’s had. That she turned it off was an extremely severe punishment for a little social ineptitude.

But that didn’t account for everything else I’d been going through. The decimation of my life’s goals, my closest friends abandoning me, and the shocking vision of a future steeped in the paralyzing fear and negativity that was to be my inheritance. All the crap that had gone on in my life the past year or so -- how much more could there be? Most stories have a beginning, middle and end. I wasn’t at all sure where I sat in mine. Wherever it was I was, I decided to go into passive mode and drift for a while. Things needed to change, but I needed to sit back and evaluate everything in my life before doing anything. Facing even more choices scared me and I couldn’t do it till I gained a little footing.

I was going to find a way to make it okay that my time with 4 was over, push on with life and get comfortable being myself. I had things to live for. If nothing else, I knew that I was capable of loving another human being. There would be more than 4. I would live again. And no matter what, there would be no more drama at work. That was the last thing I needed. I mean, thank God I had my job. Thank God I had this fucked up place to come to every day. Through all the turbulence and misery my thirtieth birthday brought, this place was my rock. I was so very lucky to have at least one place where I was centered. Remembering that left me very relaxed. I stared out the window and watched the low autumn sun fall behind the office towers along Wilshire.

Before I knew it, it was five o’clock and the phone was ringing.

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