Killing Reality

by Bob Henderson

  I kicked back on my couch, nursing a now lukewarm beer, thinking not only of survival, but also protection. I knew I couldn’t conveniently carry around my trusty Louisville slugger like it was a pocket knife. So, I made a decision. I ran to my bedroom, grabbed some well-hidden cash and a few other goodies I had stored for a rainy day, put on my hoodie, and headed out the front door to hail down a cab.

  “West Hills, Sherman Ave.,” I firmly directed to the cabbie. My hoodie was big enough to (hopefully) cover most of my face. I couldn’t afford to not behave discreetly. Without sharing a word throughout the short ride, I quickly thanked him as he dropped me off at the dimly lit corner of Sherman and Topanga Canyon, right in front of a Sher-Way Pawn. I tried to look like I knew what I was doing as the door buzzed and notified the sales clerk that a new customer had arrived.

  I examined my surroundings, observing the nooks and crannies of the worn-down store. The place looked like I was stepping back in time. It also confirmed that their reputation for having a personal arsenal of guns was spot on.

  “I need a gun,” I blurted out as I approached the counter. I internally kicked myself. I had already blown the whole Clint Eastwood cool vibe cover I was going for. What an idiot! I sound like some raving lunatic. I calmly slid a fake gun license across the counter, a gift from a former roommate who couldn’t pay his half of the rent one month. He’d been a major drug addict, but he’d also been a skilled forger who’d operated a decent hustle making bogus IDs. Thank God for small favors.

  The pawnbroker was obviously having dinner when I arrived, because I caught a whiff of garlic when he reached for my ID. He had to be anywhere from 70 to 90 years old, and he looked like a cross between Carl Reiner and Rod Steiger. He was a bulky man, with droopy jowls and a voice far too high for his size, as I discovered when he squeaked out a “hello.”

  “Hello,” I responded in kind, trying to keep my head down as much as possible. I could feel his eyes lingering, waiting for me to say something else.

  “I’d like to buy a gun,” I said as I cleared my throat. “There was a break-in at my place, and I need some protection.”

  I tried to sound like I was a man about his business, but I wasn’t a very good liar. “Sure, slick. A break-in. Whatever you say,” he said, questioning me with his eyes. “So, what kind? I mean, no gun is the same, like no woman is the same. You get what I’m saying?” he said and chuckled, laughing at his little joke, one he probably told all his customers. “What can I show you? Let’s take a look.”

  We both leaned over, gazing through the glass counter. At first, I paused. I was trying to look like I was an educated gun enthusiast. Then I recalled a scene from a TV movie I had worked on a few years back. “How about a 357 Magnum for starters?” I stood up straight, elongating my spine as much as my five-foot-nine body would allow. Looking the pawnbroker straight in the eye, I thought I had impressed him. But he started laughing. Did I really look that lame?

  “Go ahead. Make my fuckin’ day,” he said, giggling again and trying to hold back tears. I laughed feebly, trying to exude nonchalance, but I had obviously failed, because the broker just looked at me pathetically and shook his gray-haired head. “You kids. Sheesh—doesn’t anyone remember the good movies anymore?”

  Since he seemed to be talking more to himself than me, I kept my mouth shut. He continued, “I don’t get those big boys in here too often, but I do have something that’s pretty sweet for your little home protection.” He winked. “Take a look at this baby.”

  He fished under the counter and came out with something wrapped in a red velvet cloth. He laid it reverently on top of the counter and unwrapped it. “This baby does whatever you need for home defense. It’s a CZ 75 pistol out of the Czech Republic and a semi-automatic with selective fire variants.”

  Huh? I stared at the burnished black gun on display, in all its glory. All of a sudden, my trusty Louisville Slugger looked like it was from the Prehistoric Age compared to this stealth fighter. It was sleek, smooth, and most importantly, lethal. I could feel my testosterone levels rising just looking at it.

  “I tell you,” he said assuredly, “this is one of the original ‘Wonder Nines.’ It even has a staggered-column magazine, all steel construction and a hammer-forged barrel. A piece of fuckin’ art. Definitely for a pistol shooter.”

  He leaned in closer. “It’ll get the job done, and then some, without breaking the bank.”

  I was sold. All I could say was, “I’ll take it!”

  The broker smiled the smile of a used-car dealer and was probably thinking, There’s one born every minute.

  My wallet was significantly lighter as I walked out of the pawn shop, but I didn’t care. I was a new man with some semi-automatic power. I felt so much relief. And truth be told, it put a little swagger in my step. I was feeling a bit like Dirty Harry himself with a new gun tucked neatly into an interior pocket of my jacket. I waved for another cab and went back home.

  As the cab made its way down Topanga Canyon, I let my fantasies fly, dreaming of new triumphs and glory: “Superhero Brings a New Kind of Justice to LA.” Being too caught up in a sorry man’s fantasy, I had no room to think about another, more reality-based headline: “The Pride Goeth Before the Fall.”

  9 When in Rome

  The week went painfully slow, but finally it was Friday. Normally I’d be excited to hit the routine pub crawl in my neighborhood, but that day I just didn’t have the energy. For me, it was day for going straight home to a cold brew and the couch. I needed some major relaxation to shut out the world.

  Once the Martini Shot—which is Hollywood slang for the last shot setup of the day—was in the can, the crew couldn’t pack up fast enough. I found myself smiling as I saw everyone clapping and rejoicing for their Friday. But suddenly, the cheering had come to an abrupt halt. I looked over the mic-boom stand and saw Lync standing on a chair. Apparently, he was using the Martini Shot as his chance to get the crew’s attention. I rolled my eyes, folding my arms in disdain, wondering, What does this prick want now?

  “Attention! Attention! Everyone, listen up!” Lync said. He paused, waiting for everyone to quiet down. “Paul and I want to thank you all so much for the fabulous job you’ve been doing these last couple of weeks.” He turned and cheekily smiled at Paul for dramatic effect. “I’m sure it hasn’t been easy dealing with us celebrities”—he stuck his finger down his throat to mimic throwing up, as everyone laughed perfunctorily—“so we decided to throw a little par-tay tonight at The Nest!” He shimmied in celebration.

  The crew whistled and applauded, happy that they didn’t have to settle for a hole in the wall bar for tonight’s entertainment. “The Nest” was the name of the new garish mansion Paul and Lync owned in the Hollywood Hills. In the past, they’d mentioned how they wanted to name their home after a theme in nature. I guess “The Nest” was the best those two dodo birds could come up with.

  “And…you can bring a plus one!” Lync added, gleefully clapping his hands together. More cheering erupted. “But listen, we have one rule: absolutely no cameras.” The crowd groaned. “Come on, no pouting! Don’t you remember what happened the last time we threw a party?”

  The crowd hooted and hollered like a bunch of banshees in the wild. He was referring to the St. Patrick’s Day bash Paul and Lync had hosted some months ago. Most of the night’s drunken debauchery ended up on every social media platform you could think of. The night had gotten so wild there were not one, but two, visits from the Hollywood Hills police due to excessive noise and general misbehaving. The network big shots and their advertising partners were decidedly not amused after the fiasco went viral.

  “So...Caterina, our charming assistant, will be collecting phones at the door, and will return them when you leave. Fair enough?” There was scattered, unenthused applause. “That’s more like it. Okay, gates open at 7pm. Ciao!” Lync waved, jumping from the chair.

  The crowd began to disperse, and everyone chatted in their respective grou
ps, excited for the evening. It was clear that Lync and Paul had something up their sleeves with this party invite, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what. But it didn’t bother me, because I had absolutely no intention of going.

  I shrugged and proceeded to put the equipment away when I heard someone shout my name in a forcefully excited way. “Marc!”

  I almost jumped out of my skin at the sound of Lync’s voice. I swear he could star in a horror film. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!” I snapped, trying not show how nervous I was.

  He raised his hands, slowly backing up. “Oh hey, sorry bud! I didn’t mean to spook you,” he said, poking me jokingly in the arm. “I just wanted to be sure that there were no hard feelings from the other day.” He winked. “We’re cool, right? I hope you can come tonight so we can put this whole thing behind us. Everyone deserves a little R&R after the dreadfully long week we just had.”

  He purposely waited, as if he wanted me to reflect on the week. But before I had a chance to form a reply, he chirped, “What do you say?”

  Lync’s smile had all the charm of a used car salesman. I took another pause as I set the mic-boom stand on the floor. “Look,” I said matter-of-factly, “I can’t make it tonight. I kind of have plans.”

  I was hoping he’d take the hint and move on, but no such luck. His face lit up. “Ohhh. Big date, huh?” He waved, snapping his fingers and waving his arm in a big circle like it was the gay code for “Oh look! This lame has got some game!”

  “No worries, Mark. Bring her along. She’ll have a blast!”

  If only he’d known that my “big date” was with my neighbor, lounging on the back deck with a pizza and beer. I nearly smiled as I thought It would be interesting to see her cut loose with all “the youngsters” as she liked to call us. I thought about how long I’d have to do this back-and-forth with Lync before I gave in and agreed to go, as we both knew I eventually would. Oh, what the hell, I thought, throwing in my white flag.

  “Sure, why not? If she’s okay with it, we’ll stop by,” I said.

  “Great! I knew you wouldn’t hold a grudge,” he said, smiling.

  He was definitely challenging me with those words and the look in his eyes. Whatever surprise he and Paul were planning, I decided to play along and find out. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” my mom had always said. Besides, with Mrs. Fox as my escort she’d keep me away from any trouble they’d cause.

  After Lync walked away, I took out my phone and called Audry. I called her for two reasons: one, I wanted to give her a loophole just in case she didn’t feel up to such a big event; and two, knowing she was a hardcore party animal back in the day, I knew she’d want some time to “get all dolled up” as she liked to call it.

  I ended up giving her the run-down on the invitation, to which she demurely accepted with a “hell, yes!” She quickly inquired if I was comfortable with going. Audrey was one sharp lady, and she remembered how much I groaned and complained about the situation with Lync and Paul during one of our back patio happy hours. She was probably curious as to why I would dare bother spending time with those losers. I tried making up a story about how I wanted to turn the other cheek. But, being the “no bullshit” woman she was, she told me to cut the crap and not to worry, as she would be my bodyguard. I happily exclaimed she had more cogliones than both of them put together. She let out a very non-ladylike snort. After agreeing to meet at 6:30pm, we hung up. All I could do was stand there, wondering how the night’s festivities would end up with my new bodyguard by my side.

  Mrs. Fox and Daisy, her hyper, yappy white bichon, greeted me at her front door at 6:30pm sharp. As the door opened, I nearly dropped my jaw at the sight of Mrs. Fox. I was used to her wearing her usual neon Juicy Couture tracksuit with red Converse sneakers. I wasn’t prepared to see the dolled-up Aud. She was rocking a pair of dark designer jeans with a sharp crease down the front, four-inch gold strappy sandals that could be considered lethal weapons in some states, a leopard print blouse cut modestly low (well, modest for her standards), and tasteful, expensive-looking gold jewelry adorning her neck, wrist, and ears. Not to mention the lilac highlights in her gelled and spiky, cropped hair.

  “Gorgeous, right?” she said, running her hands down her still-in-great-shape-at-any-age body, giving me a sly wink. Subtlety was not Mrs. Fox’s forte. I gave a low whistle and nod in response as I bent down to pet Daisy, who promptly rolled on her back for a tummy rub, her tongue sticking out in anticipated ecstasy. Audrey gave a hearty laugh that made her earrings jangle. “You think some rich young stud will think I’m a hot cougar?”

  All I could do was shake my head and laugh. “You’ll have to beat the poor bastards off with a stick.” I assured her.

  Aud clapped her hands and ordered, “Okay, then—let’s get this show on the road!”

  I felt my shoulders tense while driving up the mountainous terrain of one of the most luxurious neighborhoods in California, Hollywood Hills. It should’ve taken thirty minutes for us to arrive at The Nest, but with the crippling L.A. traffic, it took nearly an hour.

  We turned up the winding Drive of Mulholland. She recounted to me how she once worked on the film with the same name. She had lived in the hustle and bustle of L.A. for years and knew everything there was to know about this area. After all, she’d spent most of her adult life in the industry. She told me that with its scenic beauty and atmosphere, Mulholland Drive was one of the most traveled roads in the United States. I had to agree that it had earned its reputation, dripping with the rich history of Hollywood.

  “The rich and famous in those days…” Mrs. Fox detailed, “I’m talking Cary Grant, Marilyn Monroe, Steve McQueen—or, if you need me to make it relatable for you young Folk,” she said, smiling, “imagine Denzel Washington, Paris Hilton, or Mark Wahlberg building their palatial homes here, lined up one by one. Each home was more glamorous than the next, AND the parties were outrageous!”

  Mrs. Fox adjusted in her seat, gazing out the window. You could tell she was experiencing a wave of nostalgia, recalling happy memories of her youth. She snapped back into reality when I turned into a driveway framed by sixteen-foot iron gates. “Wow,” she said.

  Mr. and Mr. Prime’s humble abode did not disappoint. Their “love nest” was sculpted like no other. Their house was, well, marble-ous. Literally. Everything was marble. The columns supporting the iron front gates were marble, the grand arched entryway with its fluted pink columns were marble, the floors, stairs, statues—it was entirely made of marble.

  As we made our way up the long and winding driveway, we could see the blazing lights from the party already in full swing. It was no surprise that half the crew already looked like they were three sheets to the wind, even though the sun had just begun to set. And of course, it couldn’t be a Hollywood party without a drug deal taking place right in the front yard. I glanced at Mrs. Fox to see her reaction at the sight of the illegal activity, but instead of shock, she wore a big unwavering grin on her face.

  Pinching my side, she whispered, “You kids didn’t invent drugs you know.”

  I gripped the steering wheel tighter, feeling a wave of angst build in my chest. After we found somewhere to park, we walked to the front door and waited to be greeted. I peeked through the windows, scanning the crowd for our hosts. My plan was to let Mrs. Fox mingle and have some fun, while I tried to figure out what the hell Frick and Frack were up to. I couldn’t believe I was actually in this crazy place. It was like a bad dream.

  A couple crew members came out the front door to join the drug deal, and we took the opportunity to head inside. My nerves were beginning to show, so I decided some liquid courage was in order and looked for the nearest bar. Then a beautiful waitress, who could have doubled for Miss America, came gliding up to me with several glasses of champagne and shrimp cocktail. I nodded to her nonchalantly, and grabbed a flute of champagne in one hand and a shrimp cocktail in the other. If I had come alone, I probably would’ve stalked her most of the
night—which would’ve been a welcomed distraction from the current chaos known as my life.

  My daydream ended when I heard Mrs. Fox offer up a “Salut!” while she clinked her glass against mine. We both took a sip of the Moet et Chandon; it had a slightly dry taste, but it was crisp enough to relish and savor the flavor. The ice-cold shrimp was delicious and just enough to satisfy my hunger. Paul and Lync were no doubt a couple of sleaze balls, but they always spent big on quality product.

  “Oh boy, this is the good stuff,” Audrey chimed, raising her glass in the air as if it should be put on a pedestal. “Maybe you should be nicer to these boys,” she added with a knowing wink, then let out a throaty laugh, making a scene for all those around her to witness.

  She swiveled and flashed a thousand-watt smile to an admirer who was 30 years her junior. She finished what was left of her champagne and shoved the empty glass in my hand. It was nice to see her having a good time. “I am getting a real drink,” she said, side-eyeing me before disappearing into the crowd. I took Mrs. Fox’s stroll as a cue to sneak around for hard, cold evidence.

  The Nest was a mix of tacky and outlandishly decorated rooms with an emphasis on pseudo-African safari themes. It was like I’d lost myself in the Jungle Book story, and I’d become Mowgli trying to survive in the wild. The mansion was packed with life-sized stuffed animals courtesy of FAO Schwartz. It must’ve taken years to collect all this crap. It’d make a perfect venue for a Kardashian baby shower. All in all, this place was incredible.

  I found my way out of the den and wandered into the tricked-out kitchen. There were multiple high-end appliances—my eye hit on a Viking stove easily worth twenty grand—and a slew of various cutlery and cookware. There were foreign cooking gadgets I’d never seen before, and had no idea what they were supposed to do. And to top it all off, marbled pink flamingos gracing the countertops.