by James Ellroy
I drank a toast to fear, draining my glass. The bar Scotch was good, so I set out on a regular procession of toasts: to Herbert Von Karajan and the Berlin Philharmonic, to Vladimir Horowitz, to Richard Wagner, and to the guy who designed the Hollywood Bowl. Since each of these toasts was a solid two ounces of juice, my fears were soon pretty well under wraps and I started feeling good, humming along with my fantasies again. I wasn’t hungry, but I forced myself to eat a greasy plate of eggs and sausage that the barman’s wife served me with a fetching smile.
After I had had about six drinks, a rational train of thought began to emerge, along with a syllogism: I am in a bad way. I am in a bad way because there are big pieces missing in the puzzle I am trying to solve. There are big pieces in the puzzle I am trying to solve because my mind is closed to new concepts in general, and new concepts in music in specific. Wino Walter Cur-ran, my best friend, had been warning me for years of the danger of o.d.’ing on German Romanticism. Since music frees the mind, new music would free my old mind to fit together the big pieces in the puzzle I was trying to solve.
Brilliant. Booze does it again. It was time to hunt down some new music to play Greek chorus to the new mind of Fritz Brown. Beethoven, Brahms, Schubert, Haydn, et al. had had their day, and would have it again, in a better time, a time of reminiscence, shared with Jane. Now it was time for Bartok, Stravinsky, Debussy, and Ravel—all those dissonant guys Walter had been fruitlessly urging on me for so long—to come to my aid.
I left a three dollar tip on the bar and walked outside. The afternoon sun hit like a blow from a sledgehammer. I adjusted my cave dweller mentality to fit the needs of a Mexican seaside town, and went searching for music to think by. It seemed like an insurmountable task at first, given the cultural ambience of the city I was digging through, but soon I warmed to the job. The booze seemed to pop out of every cell of my body, yet I stayed pleasantly, floatingly high.
Ciudad Juarez, the main drag of Ensenada, was a miniature version of L.A.’s 2nd and Broadway: giant outlet stores featuring cheap clothing, cheap radios, cheap appliances, and an incredible selection of cheap watches. I tore through the record bins, past piles of Mexi-Rock, Mexi-Disco, Mexi-Folk, Punk Rock in English, and scores of old albums by such washed-up superstars as Perry Como, Tony Bennett and Nat “King” Cole. At my third outlet store, I hit my first jackpot — a battered copy of “The Planets” by Gustav Hoist, Sir Adrian Boult conducting the BBC Philharmonic. It was a collector’s item; it said so right there on the album cover. It set me back thirty-five cents. I inquired with the English-speaking salesgirl about record shops and she gave me detailed instructions to another one four blocks away. She repeated herself several times, no doubt on the valid assumption that drunks are bad listeners.
I really did smell like a still. I would have to clean up when I got back to my room with my booty. I found the record store. It was the most profound advertisement I had ever seen toward advancing the concept of the “ugly American.” Every wall was festooned with bigger-than-life-size posters of current American rock and pop stars. The women looked vapid and challenging at the same time. They seemed to be challenging their male counterparts—equally vapid teenagers with tight pants, blow-dried hair, and pouts that looked like an incipient offer of a head job to an electronic thrill-out featuring seven amplifiers, eight biofeedback machines, thirty-seven dildos, cocaine, quaaludes, angel dust, and that porno guy with the fourteen-inch dick.
A hard rock record was playing at peak decibel. There was a strobe light flashing at two in the afternoon. I was behind the times; I thought strobe lights were out. A pretty, buxom Mexican girl wearing a T-shirt with Mick Jagger sticking his tongue out of it approached me like a long lost music lover. I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I turned around and walked back out the door, not looking back. It was too much, too soon.
I persisted in my quest and was rewarded down the street: “La Mer” and “Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun” by Debussy—Szell and the Cleveland. Also the “Petrouchka Suite” by Stravinsky—Ozawa and the Boston Symphony—and the grand prize: a boxed set of the Bartok “String Quartets” by the Guarneri Quartet. These cost me a fast three scoots. The Stravinsky was badly scratched, but the other records were in passable condition.
It was enough to begin my journey, but I wasn’t satisfied. I hit a few more bargain bazaars and came up with “Kostelanetz Plays Gershwin,” a disc of dubious merit. The only thing now missing was a stereo. I walked back to the first jumbo outlet store and for $149.63 bought a Panasonic “Zoom” Stereo System—two dinky three-inch speakers, a turntable with an automatic changer and a cheapshit, built-in amplifier. It hardly compared with my state-of-the-art system back in L.A., but it would be enough to rock my tiny fleabag room.
I hailed a taxi and loaded my merchandise in the back seat. On the way out of town I had the cabbie stop at a liquor store where I loaded up on goodies: three half-gallons of Scotch, two six-packs of ginger ale, three bags of ice and a variety of canned meats and processed cheese food. I was storing up for what might be a long process of evolution.
My musical metamorphosis didn’t happen. I listened and I drank for two solid days, fighting off anger, fear, and paranoia. I couldn’t think of the case. When I tried to, my mind shut off and I reached for a drink or turned up the volume on the stereo in fatuous hope of speeding up my thought processes. The music didn’t help at all. I didn’t like it. It was great music that expressed profound thoughts, but it just plain didn’t send me. I found the moderns and impressionists too abstract and dissonant. There was none of the heroism of Beethoven or the lyrical passion of Brahms. The Bartok “Quartets” made me think of Jane, so I couldn’t listen to them at all.
I was getting a bad play from the manager, too: on the first day of my quest I ventured down the hall a half-dozen times to urinate, getting a contemptuous look each time. Somehow I got the feeling that she knew my history and regarded me as the precursor to bad times. So I didn’t go out of my room again, electing instead to piss in the sink.
After two days I had had enough. I had tried eating the canned meat, but threw up immediately. Twice I had awakened dehydrated to the bone and had begun sobbing. I was afraid of the d.t.’s; they seemed imminent now. The room was stifling hot, even at night. On the third night I decided to go for a walk. I shaved and went down the hall and showered off the booze and sweat stink, this time avoiding the manager. The idea of movement and the performing of old rituals heartened me a little. Back in my room I filled a pint ginger ale bottle with Scotch and put on the last of my clean clothes.
I went out to the parking lot and checked my car. It was dusty, but unharmed; the shotgun and tape deck were still in the trunk. I patted them, for luck, and left them there. I got a box of bullets out of the glove compartment and loaded my .38, slipping a dozen extra into my pocket. I walked toward the beach, feeling less tired as the ocean breeze embraced me. After half a mile or so I reached the stone steps that led down to the water. Signs proclaimed “Estero Beach.” I walked south, away from Ensenada; there would be less chance of running into people in that direction. Energy began to course through me, as I traversed the edge of the tide, the wet sand nestling my footsteps and propelling me forward.
I hadn’t had a drink in over four hours, so technically I was sober. The booze that had permeated and putrefied my system seemed to be lying in abeyance, waiting for me to make the first move. I secured my bottle in a mantle of sand, got down and cranked off twenty pushups. It wasn’t too hard; the slight stiffness as I got to my feet felt good. Maybe it wasn’t too bad, I thought. Maybe you can go back to L.A. as if none of this ever happened. Maybe it was time to get sober and stay sober.
The sound of muffled voices and the strumming of a guitar interrupted my thoughts. I was walking toward people, a late-night seaside gathering. As I crossed a rise in the sand, I saw a fire some hundred yards away and smelled roasting meat. The voices became louder and I could discern that the people were spe
aking in English. They were directly in my path, so I walked right up to them, feeling, strangely, only the slightest twinge of paranoia which I shrugged off—I was armed and they probably weren’t. The aroma of the roasting meat was getting to me, as was, also strangely, the need to be with people. I reached into my chest and threw a big, booming “Hi!” at the people sitting in the sand—the first word I had spoken in days.
“Friend or foe?” a male voice returned.
“Friend,” I said.
“Pull up a seat, friend,” the voice answered.
I sat down in the sand. There were eight people—five men and three women. They were young—in their twenties, and seemed to be the counter-culture type at first glance. They were sitting on blankets and sleeping bags, knapsacks and backpacks piled in a heap behind them. The slightest trace of marijuana hung in the air.
I opened with what seemed like a warm remark: “You’re the first Americans I’ve seen since I’ve been down here. That’s a gas. My Spanish is lousy.”
“National origin doesn’t mean shit,” a girl said coldly. “National origin is bourgeois pride. True friendship supersedes all that petty jive. True …”
“He doesn’t mean racism,” a bearded man interrupted. “He’s just lonely. Right, man?”
“You could say that,” I said. “I’ve been down here for a while and I don’t know anybody.”
“What’s your name, man?” he asked.
“Fritz,” said. “What’s yours?”
“I’m Brother Lee. Going around to your left we have Brother Mark, Brother Randy, Sister Julie, Sister Carol, Brother Kevin, Sister Kallie, and Brother Bob. Sister Vicky is doing the cooking tonight.” He pointed to a woman tending the fire a few yards away. I squinted to make her out. She was basting a carcass on a spit. I couldn’t place the aroma.
“Are you people a commune?” I asked.
There was general laughter. One of the girls, I think it was Sister Julie, answered me. “Commune is a tired concept, Brother Fritz. We’re together because we love each other and we care about the same things.”
I forced a smile, “You band together to survive, camping out here on the beach, right? You share your food, your shelter, and your possessions, right?” Most of the group was nodding, and as I got accustomed to the orange light from the cooking fire, I could see that they were smiling. “Doesn’t it get cold in the wintertime? What do you do then?”
“Then we move indoors man, what do you think?” This was from Brother Bob. He looked tougher than the rest, a white-trash, low-rider type. Maybe an ex-con. He was easily as big as I.
“Back off there, Brother Bob,” I said. “I’m on your side and just making friendly overtures.”
“You ask a lot of questions, man, and you look like the heat.”
“I’m just curious, that’s all. I’m a big city hick, tied down to a dull job that I have to go back to soon. You people have got a lot of freedom. I envy you.” It was the right thing to say, a superb icebreaker. I proffered my ginger ale bottle. “Here,” I said, “let’s drink to friendship. It’s good Scotch.”
I took a long drink and passed it to Brother Mark, who passed it on to Brother Randy and the others. When it came back to me again it was almost empty. I didn’t care. I had already decided this would be my last night of drinking. I ventured another question. “What’s that you’re cooking? I can’t place the smell.”
This got a big laugh all around. “It’s a dog, Brother Fritz!” Sister Kallie called gleefully, “Come look.”
I couldn’t believe it. These gentle, if somewhat strident young souls looked like dog lovers, not dog eaters. I got up and walked the few yards to the fire. Sister Kallie followed me, presumably to dig the shocked look on the big square’s face. When I checked out the barbecue close up, I started to laugh. I have never laughed as hard, before or since. The shape on the spit was unmistakably canine: a medium-sized, meaty tailwagger with gaping jaws, plucked out eyes and an amputated tail. He smelled delicious. I fell in the sand, convulsed with spasms of mad laughter.
Sister Kallie was jumping up and down, large breasts shaking beneath her peasant blouse, squealing: “He digs it! He digs it! He loves it!”
Finally I got to my feet, wiping tears from my eyes. Two of the men went to work carving up the beast as the rest of us looked on. I stroked the dog’s head, petting it tenderly, as though it were still the loyal family pet. This caused another outbreak of laughter. Two cases of beer were dragged back from the surf in a net and we popped cans and dug into our feast.
I was ravenous. All eyes were on me as I poised my fork above a jumbo slice of dog meat. Finally, casting all trepidation and social conditioning aside, I dug in. It was salty, smoky and gamey, much like a venison steak I had once eaten. I choked on it a little at first, but gradually forced it down, followed by a huge gulp of beer. This brought a rousing cheer from my newfound friends. After that it was easy and I scarfed the rest of my plate greedily. I forewent the bottle of soy sauce that was being passed around: I was a purist.
The city-bred protein entered my system, my first real food in several days, and a sublime elation came over me. It’s going to be all right, I thought. This feeling was quickly engulfed by a wave of sweaty lust—directed at Sister Kallie and her big chi-chi’s. Maybe dog meat was an aphrodisiac.
As I lay sated, staring up at the starry Mexican night, the girls cleaned up and Brother Bob expertly rolled joints. It was party time. Soon the entire group was sitting around the fire, while I remained a few yards away, staring heavenward, wanting to be coaxed. I was. Sister Julie called to me. “Come on, Fritz, join us. It’s sharing time.” So I joined them.
I didn’t want to destroy the moment, but there was a question I had to ask. “Where the hell did you get that delicious dog?” I said. “I want to thank his master.”
Brother Lee answered me, lighting a joint and passing it. “We get our meat from two sources. There’s a guy who runs a bait store down by the pier. He traps dogs and sells them to his cousin, who has a taco stand in T.J. The cheapest, juiciest, meatiest tacos in Baja. All perro meat. We trade him a bag of weed for two juicy hounds. Sometimes we find dead dogs south of here off a bend in the Coast Road. Cars squash them. Wham. Lots of times we have to ignore them, though. Their ribs get all smashed up and embedded in their skin. Too dangerous to eat.”
“I toast all of you,” I said. “Truly you are the survivors of both capitalism and the rapacious, fanatic counter-culture it spawned. When I said earlier that I envied you your freedom, I was bullshitting. I thought you were just another cadre of dumb hippies. But I was wrong to condescend. I apologize. In a small way, you have life by the ass and I salute you.” They didn’t quite know how to react. The joint was passed to me and I inhaled deeply. I was expecting more applause or laughter. Instead, through the blazing fire I got warm smiles and puzzled looks.
“What do you do back in L.A., man?” Brother Randy asked.
I gave it some thought. Another joint came my way and I hit again. This time even deeper. It was good shit. I hadn’t been blown away on weed since my Hollywood Vice days, but I was getting there now; drifting into a shadow world of fantasy. I considered Brother Randy’s question for a second, then answered: “I do my best to survive. Most of the time it’s easy, but lately it’s been tough. Mostly I repossess cars. I hope you people dig property rights enough to realize that repo men are necessary. We keep the credit racket in line, and keep America from going insane and bringing back the days of debtor’s prison. People like you, the so-called counter-culture, can exist only in places where capitalism is strong. I used to be a cop, but I gave it up. I saw too much stuff I couldn’t tolerate.”
I stopped and took a blow off the pipe that was handed to me, became full-out zonked and surveyed my rapt audience. The women looked very beautiful. When I returned to my story, I took off on a rhapsody of poetic lies: “The corruption, the racism, the violence, I couldn’t handle it. Dealing with so many lost people, most of
whom were wearing blue uniforms, the young people trying to live differently, more honestly than their parents, and how the cops reviled them for their lifestyle. The blacks in the ghettos, the winos, the homeless derelicts of Skid Row. There was a gentle side to me I couldn’t express, so in the end I quit. What I really wanted to do was learn to play the violin. But I didn’t have the patience or the drive to pursue it.” It had started out to be rhapsodic bullshit, but on finishing I felt that the whole fabric of lies contained some intrinsic truth that I couldn’t put my finger on. I was floating so high on weed and dog meat that everything seemed within my reach, but this eluded me.
“So you came to Baja looking for something, right, Fritz?” This was from Sister Carol.
I laughed. “You could say that.”
“Do you think you’ll find it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“How old are you?” my favorite, Sister Kallie, asked. Warm antennas or tendrils seemed to drift toward me from her direction. Her head seemed to be enclosed in a halo.
“Thirty-three.”
“That’s not too old to change your life,” she said. “You’ve been through some heavy shit. Pain causes growth. You could still be a great violin player. I learned the guitar when I was twenty-four.”
“Thanks. Maybe you’re right.”
The party started to break up. Everyone except the sullen Brother Bob wished me good night and invited me to return any evening to enjoy their hospitality. I told them I would take them up on it, only next time I would bring steaks and beer. They then wandered off, grabbing their bedrolls and heading for cozy sand drifts. Except for Kallie. She stayed behind, sitting cross-legged across from me by the remnants of the fire.
“Are you the odd woman out, Kallie?” I asked.
“Not really. Mark and I are together. I just felt like staying behind and rapping for a while.”
