by Ben Peller
But Eileen and I had only been seeing each other a month or so, which meant she hadn’t yet turned into a seasoned alcoholic. So after matching me drink for drink all night, she was drunk enough to agree to strip down buck naked and stroll down Santa Monica Boulevard.
Provided that I do the same. “I dare you,” she sang.
I admired her bluff, and called it. Within half a minute I was buck naked, except for my cowboy boots. “All right!” I cried. “Now it’s your turn.”
Poor Eileen looked aghast. “You’re not really going to do this, are you?” she asked.
“I’m a writer!” I shouted. “Life is to be lived, not endured! Now strap on a set of balls and prove to me that you’re a writer, too! That you’re a liver of life!”
Eileen’s eyes were watering. “I’m not sure,” she said in a shaky voice that a night of heavy drinking can bring on in a person who’s ever had a shred of self-doubt in their life (i.e. pretty much everyone). “I’m not sure what I really want to be.”
I tossed my clothes to her. “Wait and watch,” I smiled. “Then catch me if you can.”
The first block of the walk proved to be disappointingly uneventful. A few people stared, a few people laughed; the only person who really took note of me was a large African-American who was either one of the most ripped women or one of the most beautiful men I’d ever seen. S/he called out to me that they had a hotel suite down the block with a “too empty bathtub.”
This relative peace didn’t last long. By the time I got down to the corner of San Vicente and Santa Monica, business had darn sure picked up. Car horns were blaring, people were hooting, and I’d lost a bit of my buzz and realized that I was four blocks away from where Eileen was waiting with my clothes. I began to think it might be a good time to turn around and head back.
When I turned around and saw the squad car, lights flashing, I realized this might not be such a wise move after all. I’m all for experience, but I’d already been arrested in Los Angeles and the adventure of going to jail wasn’t one I wanted to repeat. Especially not while naked.
I sprinted into a crowd of people, all of who parted for me with admirable haste. I thought briefly of Moses, but then realized the reason these citizens were giving me such a wide berth was most likely because they assumed anyone stupid, drunk, or insane enough to walk down Santa Monica Boulevard naked at three A.M. was most likely dangerous in some fashion.
With a police car siren now wailing behind me, I didn’t have time to assure my fellow citizens I was in fact an author and was running naked down the street to glean an added degree of emotional complexity…
I ducked down a side street and hopped over the fence of a house, gaining complexity with every frantic step. I stole down the side of the house and found myself in a backyard with a clothesline, the same kind that the house I’d grown up in the Midwest had had. No time for fond remembrances of childhood now. As luck would have it, this Friday must’ve been laundry day, because there was a full array of clothes hanging by clothespins. I quickly scanned the options and selected a pair of striped slacks and a sweatshirt. I felt like Dr. David “Bruce” Banner in The Incredible Hulk, during those famous scenes where, after shrinking back into a human after shredding clothes as he grew into being The Hulk, Dr. Banner filches some clothes from a clothesline and leaves a ten dollar bill. Here I’d shrunk from a writer ready to risk anything for “art” into the jolting possibility of being a lowly human being who didn’t have a sliver of writing talent save the blinding glare of “experience” to illuminate the way.
With this perturbing consideration came a self-justifying one. I was a good writer, because I’d always noticed the unexplained story incongruity in The Incredible Hulk series, which was how could Dr. Banner turn into a Hulk and rip his shirt but never his trousers. Ha ha. A writer such as myself would never allow such an inconsistency in any television show I wrote for. Sure, one could say that the reason the Hulk’s pants never ripped was because a network show couldn’t allow a green monster’s dick to come flopping out to be viewed by a television audience on Friday nights. But a true artist, I considered, would never allow that kind of censorship—
There came the bark of a dog, an abrupt illumination of a porchlight, and what sounded distinctly like the cock of a shotgun. I decided to hell with story incongruities and sprinted out the back of the yard into an alleyway, desperately clutching the slacks that turned out were about three waist sizes too large for me.
This is for experience, I kept reassuring myself. This is what it means to be a writer.
For the millionth time I silently bemoaned that I’d been afflicted with propensities to drink heavily, write with reckless abandon, and tend toward manic episodes. If it wasn’t for these damning traits, I told myself as I scrambled down an alley with a dog barking and police most likely on the prowl for me, I’d have had the gentle cunning to become a politician and steal the clothes off people’s backs with the blessing of the United States Constitution.
I made it onto San Vicente Boulevard, then crept toward Santa Monica, struggling valiantly to keep my newly acquired pants up all the way. A police car passed me, but I exhibited a shocking grace under pressure and managed to stride along as though being out at three something in the morning was natural for me. As though I had somewhere to go at this hour.
And technically I did. But when I arrived at the spot I left Eileen, she was nowhere to be seen.
A bus came into sight, rumbling in the direction of West L.A., my apartment, and most importantly, a 1.75 liter bottle of vodka in the freezer I was pretty sure was at least half full.
I got on, still struggling to keep my newly moonlit pilfered pants on, and I said to the bus driver, “Sorry, man. They stole my last penny.”
The driver, judging from his ridged skin and tired eyes, had no doubt seen a thing or two in his life. Now, staring at me, he seemed to be holding back a chuckle. “Just take a seat, man,” he drawled.
I did so, and made it home safe and sound. Of course I knew I would be unable to get in without my keys. But I was so exhausted I was ready to gladly sprawl out on the sidewalk in front of my building and wait until someone was leaving for work the next day, when I could dart in the building and accost my building manager for a spare key.
But here were my clothes, neatly folded and sitting on the front steps. On them was a note from Eileen, saying how she felt it was best we not see each other anymore, how I was obviously on a different degree as not only a writer but a human being, and how my actions that night had her questioning everything about what being both meant.
I wanted to tell her that being whatever one was didn’t involve just living like someone with no fear. Being a writer, a human being, is a bit like being in love… risky, painful, horrendous at some times, exhilarating at others. It involves… shit, I thought, standing in stolen clothes at four in the morning, what did being what I was involve? I was too fucking tired to contemplate the question.
The next week I got around to visiting the house I’d garnered my impromptu costume from. I left the clothes, freshly washed and folded, along with a ten dollar bill which I thought would, well, cover the cost of rental, along with a note apologizing for any inconvenience the temporary theft might have cost them.
When I arrived back at my apartment building that day I found a surprise of my own. Eileen had sent me a letter saying she’d decided definitively she wasn’t cut out for “the literary lifestyle.” She was leaving USC and transferring to a college she didn’t disclose to become a Pharmaceutical Company Representative. A friend of hers had promised she would make well into six figures, and “help people live better through chemistry.”
Cool, I thought. Six figures a year. Shit, why hadn’t I ever thought of becoming a Pharmaceutical Company Representative? Though the position’s title sounded fairly intimidating, it probably beat making twenty dollars for an accepted poem or a hundred dollars for a short story, or if a writer really hit the jackpot a twenty
thousand dollar advance for a novel that might‘ve taken years to write.
Alas, common sense has never been my strong suit. Besides, the title of author has a much simpler, more basic, more human ring to it. I figured I’d rather help people live better through words than chemistry.
So I continued to write, drink, and look for love in all the wrong places throughout the City of Angels. A year later I received another letter from Eileen. The first part of her letter covered how she was now living in North Carolina, had found “the one” and was expecting twins “any day now.” The second part revealed she had snagged a job at a large pharmaceutical company. According to her the position as a Pharmaceutical Company Representative was pretty elementary; she took doctors or nurses out to lunch and charmed them into pushing off some new miracle pill on hapless patients. Her company had recently come out with what they vowed was a “female Viagra,” so it didn’t take too much coaxing to get the product introduced. The third part of her letter seemed stained with mental tears; she missed being a writer. So she’d written a story about us, specifically regarding the night in West Hollywood when I’d taken her dare to walk naked down Santa Monica Boulevard. She ended the letter with the news that the story had been accepted by two blogger websites, one that dealt with writing and another that dealt with manic-depression. I got paid one hundred dollars for each acceptance! And I’m going to use it to start a scholarship for the English Department at this local community college near where I live. And by the way, my twins are going to be boys. Guess what I’m going to name one of them?
I put down the letter, smiling, and was happy to find tears in my eyes. So yet another fellow lover/writer had beaten me to the punch in delivering a story of ours to the world, and this one was a whopper in which I behaved like a complete fool on a drunken challenge. But the kicker to this fable was that in the end it culminated with a scholarship being set up and a child being named after me.
It sure as hell beat a twenty thousand dollar advance.
If there’s a moral to these tales, it can be described as thus: if you are a writer, and are ever fortunate yet unfortunate enough to discover yourself in love with a fellow commissioner of words, just remember: when you hear “I dare you to...” – whatever you do, don’t.
Unless, of course, you’re madly in love, and want to live life with a certain disregard that art sometimes demands.
Just make sure you write about it before they do.
The Latent Homosexual
Your Mother Always
Warned You About
A curious thing about gay women. They seem to be a lot more accepted in “polite society” than gay men are. Even the slur provided for them seems more playful; “dyke” has a much better ring to it than “faggot.” Whereas faggot sounds like something you would go hunting for (i.e. “Caught me a faggot the other night. They make some darn good eating.”), dyke sounds like the member of some privileged sorority. Even a college football team could get away with such a name. “Go faggots go” sounds pretty ludicrous, but “Go dykes go” has a certain way of launching off the tongue. Then there’s the world of pornography, where in “straight porn” women are encouraged to make out and go down on each other with uninhibited force, whereas if two guys so much as “cross swords” during a threesome, you know that shot’s not going to make any straight porn’s final cut.
It’s with interest I find that Shawn’s next emailed address turns out to be a strip joint in the San Fernando Valley. A sleek silvery mask decorates the perimeter of a door enclosed by a black building that doesn’t even give off a glint from the sun blazing down on this Southern California Tuesday afternoon.
The bouncer, a surprisingly short timid looking fellow, ushers me in. I ask about the recipient mentioned in Shawn’s email, someone whose moniker is “Doe,” and the man guides me to the DJ booth. Here I find a woman whose face is pure beauty and also has what looks like three hundred pounds of body backed up behind it.
“Doe?” I ask.
She snaps off her headphones. “Doh?”
“Yes,” I respond. “Doe.”
“Did you lose something?”
“No, I’m looking for Doe.”
“Aren’t we all?” she rolls her eyes. “So what the hell are you doing here?”
“Looking for Doe!” I exclaim.
After a minute or so the Abbott and Costellouish routine unravels and she realizes that I’m in fact looking not for money but for a woman named Doe, who Shawn Michals sent a letter to at this address.
“Doe!” the DJ shouts. “She used to dance here! Who was that guy you said?”
I repeat Shawn’s name.
“Huh,” she grunts while slipping on a Buckcherry tune about loving cocaine. “Well, Doe left about a month ago. But I she used to talk about the guy you mentioned. Shawn. He would come in here and not talk to anyone. According to Doe, he used to get table dances from her on the condition that she not touch him at all. Which is kind of different, being that most guys want to grope as much as they can. Isn’t that right, Monique?”
A woman wearing a pink bikini strewn with sparkles has materialized beside me. “That’s right, Pumpkin,” she says, then flickers a smile my way. “How about it, sweetie? Twenty bucks and I’ll give you a two song grope.”
Her breath reminds me of my own; reeking of vodka. As tempting as are both her breath and body, which would definitely fill out the cover of a porn video well enough, are, I am here on semi-business. “No thanks,” I say. “Maybe later.”
She storms off, muttering “Fagola.”
“Hope I didn’t upset her,” I say to Pumpkin.
“Don’t let her get to you,” Pumpkin laughs. “She’s on the rag, and when she’s on the rag, well… she’s worse than Doe was.”
“So you knew Doe well?” I ask.
“I thought I did, honey,” Pumpkin says. “After all, we were engaged to be married.”
This is blinding. How could a woman the size of a port-a-potty be engaged to a woman whose job relies on, clichéd or not, her physical desirability.
Pumpkin just laughs, “You straights think in such linear terms. Doe and I loved one another for our hearts, our souls. And we also both adored microwavable popcorn.
“But,” Pumpkin gives a legitimate sigh. “She took off for South America or something, wanting to save the rainforests.”
The big woman gestures around at our surroundings: the neon beer signs, the strobe lights, the women dancing half-heartedly but determinedly on the stage. “Why give up all this?” she asks, and I can’t tell if she’s kidding or not.
“It seems like people are having fun,” I say uncertainly. There’s a smattering of men by the stage, almost all of them wagging dollar bills.
“Yeah, it’s pretty mellow. But then, it’s a Tuesday afternoon,” Pumpkin points out. “Hang on for a minute. If your boy Shawn sent something here, I think I know where to find it. Meantime, when this song ends, play the next one.”
“Wait, I don’t know how to—“
“Relax,” she points at an army of buttons next to a narrow slot. “Just hit the red one.”
Then she’s gone. As the song winds down, I count no less than four red buttons. I press one, and am relieved as Bob Dylan’s “Tangled Up In Blue” begins to play.
“What the fuck is that?” an irate cry comes from one of the women dancing on the stage.
I quickly punch another red button, and a more appropriate tune to accompany writhing scantily clad women comes to life: Guns n’ Roses’ “Paradise City.” The woman begins to dance again. Order is restored.
Pumpkin emerges from the back laughing. “Sounded like you hit the wrong red one,” she says. “My fault. I should’ve warned you. That was my personal playlist. I don’t listen to the stuff we play here.”
She pushes an envelope at me. “Here. Your little buddy sent this to her.”
“Thanks,” I refrain from asking just what the implications are regarding her ‘little buddy�
�� remark. Instead I inquire about something I’ve always been fascinated by, “How come there aren’t more male strip joints?”
“Beg your pardon?” Pumpkin looks intrigued at my question.
“I mean, these places with women dancing around naked are open practically around the clock. Lunchtime buffets and all that. How come males only have once a week nights and that kind of thing? Wouldn’t horny housewives and career-fixated women who never really have time to date find the time to set aside a lunch hour to stuff a few dollars into some six-packed stud’s g-string?” As I speak my excitement at this revolutionary idea grows; by the time I’m through I’ve even come up with a name for the establishment. “The Men Trough,” I pronounce proudly.
Pumpkin dismisses my dream with a short chuckle. “Sorry,” she says, “But it would never fly.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Look, a bunch of guys straggle into a hotel bar for a bachelor party hoping to get some action. Any woman present will probably roll their eyes and think ‘Oh, brother.’ But a bunch of women walk into a hotel bar for a bachelorette party hoping to get some action and any man within striking distance will think ‘Thank you, God.’”
It’s hard to combat this logic. Pumpkin puts a hand on my shoulder and adds, “Also, we women spend a lot of time grooming ourselves. Waxing, shaving, lathering, cleansing… most guys splash water on their face, spray some deodorant on and call it a mission accomplished.”
I sniff uneasily, pretty sure that I’d splashed water on my face this morning but unsure in regards to the deodorant department.
“You smell my point?” Pumpkin asks kindly.
I do. “So I guess ‘The Men Trough’ is just a pipe dream?”
