by Patti Abbott
This is as close as he's ever going to get.
*****
I'm at the gate around eleven the next morning.
"Turnpike Pirates?" The guard shakes his head. "Sorry, pal. Everything's shut down on that one." He squints at me, his sandwich at half-mast. "You heard, right?"
"Yeah. It's unbelievable." I haven't heard. I know.
"The crew's in shock. Things like that just don't happen."
There's nobody at the gate but us.
"I was supposed to do a crowd scene this afternoon."
"All canceled. Got anything else lined up?"
"Yeah, at Pyramid. But I have to empty my locker."
"Sure, bud, go on." He starts to take a bite of the sandwich, stops himself. "You know, they're saying it looks funny."
"What does?"
"All of it. Like maybe it wasn't no accident."
"What the hell?"
I try not to look at him too hard.
"Well, what are the odds? These guys are careful, you know? It looks bad—the smash-up, the fire, two dead. Maxwell's a bloody pulp, and that other poor devil…"
A van honks at the gate. The guard turns, adjusting his cap.
I leave him to it.
I'm furious with myself all the way across the lot. Nobody else was supposed to get hurt. There were risks, sure, but I knew what I was doing. It was simple mechanics.
The Ford should have come down like a hammer, missing the cab and punching Maxwell right through the bed of the truck. Who else bought it? The cameraman? The assistant? Maxwell wouldn't have had time to save himself, but everyone behind the camera would have seen it coming and hauled ass.
I'm just passing the commissary when Eddie's secretary comes out. She doesn't look so hot. There's a young guy in a blue pinstripe with her, one hand on her elbow and the other pressing his hat to his chest. He's talking to her, shaking his head. She glances my way with smeared eyes, then does a double-take and fixes me over her shoulder as the guy steadies her down the walk.
The smash-up. The fire.
I'm out of breath when I reach the end of Soundstage Five and stumble onto William S. Hart Boulevard. Then there's nothing to do but sink down on the curb and take it all in.
The trunks of the pepper trees are still wet. At least the firemen had something to save.
The lawn is a slick green next to the charred timbers that used to be Eddie's bungalow. A guy in coveralls kicks at a glistening black post while two cops in uniform gape at the ruin, one with his hands on his hips. Something has been dragged out onto the grass. At first I think it's Eddie's desk. Then I recognize the long couch he slept on, the brown leather burnt to tar in the middle and curled to a crisp gray around the edges.
My first thought: I hope Eddie didn't suffer.
And second: I wonder if Maxwell paid Roscoe up front.
Not Even a Mouse
by Nolan Knight
As tinsel dripped from every fixture, reflecting festive bulbs askew, the company cringed at each slurred syllable spat from Max's lips. If only his hoisted cup would keel, raining party punch into eye sockets, searing that sordid brain to an abrupt stop. So much for Christmas miracles.
Whispers clashed between employees as the rant took a breather.
"Solid gold—every year."
"'Tis the season..."
"God, what a fucking wreck."
"Somebody should really do something."
A nod bounced over a snowman tie, arm raising a cellphone. "I am—gettin' this toast for posterity," he sneered. "Classic Max. Watch it go viral."
They laughed into cups.
Max caught wind, tie slouching from the forehead, toast deflating. "Fuggit!" He chugged, ruby streams dribbling off his chin. A single burp roared at the sea of drone eyes, heralding triumph for a beat, ultimately barreling him towards the commode.
First stall didn't budge; bingo on door two. He took a knee and spewed a yuletide stream, tie dangling into contaminated waters.
"Max? You okay, buddy boy?"
The voice came from the first stall. He looked up at a man and woman peering over the partition.
"I'm good, George." He headed for the sink. "What you guys doin'?" Through the mirror, he saw the stall door swing. A grin crawled up George's face; the woman adjusted her blouse, steadying a mistletoe broach.
George approached. "How's the Sony account goin'?"
Max slurped cold water and pulled a hundred dollar bill from out his pocket.
George held it up, letting fluorescent bulbs expose any flaws. "Fuck, this prop could pass on the street. Has the director seen these?
Max shook his head. "Just a prototype."
"Nice work. Can't wait to see the film."
Max took back the bill, knowing damn well how good it was.
George's hand shot out, displaying sharp white tablets. "Take 'em. They'll get ya back in the spirit."
Max popped four, dry. "Ups?"
"Nah—you're good though."
He plopped a hand on George's shoulder. "Thanks, man."
"Don't mention it. This luncheon blows. Happy Holidays."
A single nod told Max to get lost.
*****
Jello stood back with the mop and admired his work. Checkered linoleum glistened throughout the shop, reflecting red lights strung across walls of hand painted flash. All stations were sanitized: steel tables wiped, trash cans emptied, supplies restocked for the next day's work—one after the next. The place reeked of surgical gloves.
Soon he'd be scheduling his own clients, making money. For now, the apprenticeship was keeping him busy. Was hard enough getting a shop to even glance at his portfolio, let alone take the art seriously. Sonny saw something in him; Jello never did ask what. He studied Sonny's station, admiring tubes and custom machines for shading or fine line. Proud stencils were taped up like fish scales, never discarded. His station, if Sonny gave him one, would be a setup like this: a master of the trade.
He left the lights on, using the shop phone to call Mindy. Verizon killed his iPhone last week; same way the cable shut off—black magic. This year had been long, but next would be better. Had to. Life was riding on it. Mindy picked up.
"Don't hang up, baby. Just wanted to say Merry Christmas."
"Can't talk to him."
"Why not?"
"You know why! No support, no contact. Can't even buy him presents this year."
"I'm working on it, alright?"
"Yeah, right…working. Who the fuck leaves a perfectly good job when they got a wife and toddler?"
"That job was hardly perfect. Your dad fuckin' hates me, Mindy."
"So, you go an' give him another reason to? Just another idiot decision to add to the list."
"List?"
"You're serious right now? Where do I begin—trading in the Honda for a busted ass guzzler—signing a five year lease on an apartment I didn't even get to look at! Don't get me started on our credit."
"Okay, first off, you didn't have a problem with the Caddy until it took a shit—and I told you about the lease. Who seriously reads that fine print? Our place is vintage LA, thought you'd love it…"
"I don't."
"What about Mrs. Topalian? Hate her too?"
"Of course not. Don't use the neighbor to rationalize your stupidity."
"Just saying—never would have met the woman if it wasn't for this apartment."
Mindy sucked a tooth. The old woman was a sweetheart, watching Buddy from time to time. Loved their young love. Still…
"Come on, babe—I'm tryin'. Quit drinking an' everything—focused on my work."
"You're not welcome over this year."
"The fuck am I supposed to do then? I'm gonna see my son on Christmas!"
"Shoulda thought about that before you done all this—forced us to move out."
"I didn't force you."
"Might as well have. Can only eat so much Ramen in one's lifetime."
"Can I see him tonight—bring him by th
e apartment?"
"Can't do it. We got midnight Mass."
"Jesus," came under the breath.
"That's right, Jesus—he's the reason for the season. Times like these, we take every blessing we can get. Least He shows mercy."
He choked back a, '"Christ." Three weeks at her parents and back to being programmed. He thought quickly. "I got Buddy some presents—just wanted it to be a surprise is all—like last year." He cringed, "Got something for you too."
"Bullshit."
"Think so?"
Her silence washed a smile: a tremendous feat.
"Well, we can't come over tonight."
"I know. How 'bout tomorrow?"
"We'll be opening presents all morning, so…"
"So, after that."
"Before Mom's dinner."
"Okay."
"Only for an hour."
"Okay—what time?"
"At night."
"When?"
"We'll be there when we get there."
"Merry Christmas, darlin'."
"Oh, you too, sugar plum."
Jello slammed the phone and went to turn off the remaining lights. He paused at the front window display. Why even leave? Shop was warmer than the apartment. He re-plugged the antique metallic tree, gazing at the life-size Santa beside it. Sonny bought it at a flea market 'cause it looked demonic. Thing was taller than he was. He grabbed a candy cane off a limb, popped it in his mouth and proceeded to remove the dummy's jacket. Fit perfect, toasting the bones.
He sparked the storefront neon, peering outside. Boardwalk was void. Even beach bums had a place to go. He retrieved a tattered sketchpad, realizing that he'd filled the beast. Each page bled with paint markers or silver lead. He didn't feel like drawing anyways. Wanted to relax. He pulled a television from under the front counter and rigged the box to life. Couldn't remember the last time he sat back and enjoyed a movie.
*****
Two flies grimaced over cans of Olympia, sparking the young barmaid to spike the juke. They glared at the asshole seated by a tower of pints, crying like a preacher into his cell, hoping the drama got taken outside. Max didn't budge, plunging a finger into the other ear, yelling over Bowie. Barmaid shrugged, "Most wonderful time a da year, huh? You can keep it."
Max heaved another shot, body tingling from the meds. "I'm at a fuckin' bar, Bill! A shitty fuckin' bar in Culver fuckin' City, man. Why don't you call me?" The line went quiet. He wiped snot with a napkin. "What ya mean, 'Kiss-a-Death'? How will I screw everythin' up, Bill? Oh, okay! Whatever you guys think's best!" He bit a nail. "Meet me tonight…where dad used to take us on Christmas? Come on—like old times. Why not? Look, I'm gonna pay you for that urn, all those flowers—when Dad… I was in a real bad place, alright? But—I got the money now, Bill. 'Member, last time I called, told you 'bout those investments? Well, they came through big, man! I mean, shit went back and forth for a minute—but I'm on top now. Listen, any amount you need…" Another sob swelled. "You should call me, man!"
The bartender dropped a receipt in front of him. "You're done."
"Wait a sec, Bill—what?"
She flung a dishrag over a shoulder. "You're cut-off. Pay up, take those tears for a walk."
His jaw went slack, turning towards the flies for support. Their mugs rang it home. "Sorry for the inconvenience, fellas. Talkin' to my older brother for the first time in five years over here—but I'll go. Don't wanna kill this perfect eve of Christ comin' out the pussy." He flung a hundred onto the bar. "Next round's my treat." The phone shot back to his ear. "Sorry, man. This bitch just eighty-sixed me—no way, I ain't done talkin'… Okay, well I can hear Donna yellin', so—hey, tell her I said, Merry—"
The call dropped.
He kicked through the front door, stumbling towards a vacant boulevard.
A cab dropped him at a liquor store in Venice. Loading short dogs of Cutty into a sack, the clerk's eyes never left the TV: some flick with Steve Martin, Santa, and a transvestite.
"You know, they film this light outside here?"
Max dropped cash on the counter. "You don't say?"
"It vas pletty vonderful—to see it all happen."
"Well, look at you."
The clerk snapped the bill, eyeing intensely. "Velly crisp."
"Fresh out the mint."
"Ah, yes—new. Vell, Melly Clistmiss."
"Yeah."
He tossed the sack, lining his coat with clanking bottles, cracking one to his lips as waves crashed in the distance. A walk on the beach would be nice—then again, not getting mugged would be better. He peered back through the store window; the clerk was sucked back into the movie. Max grinned.
Down the way, lonesome neon caught his eye. He approached the shop. Inside, a shirtless Santa greeted with evil eyes. Some dude had his feet propped on the counter, watching a TV. He knocked on snow-frosted glass. "You open?"
*****
"We're closed," Jello uttered, never expecting the guy to respond with a wad of cash thick as a tall boy. What was Jello to do? Here was an opportunity that provided some experience along with monetary gain. Sonny was home with his family, rest of the crew wasn't expected before the New Year. No one would ever know. He scanned the boardwalk; no creatures stirring. Guy's glazed eyes helped the decision. He unlocked the deadbolt and swung the door. "Come on in."
"Thanks, man. Merry Christmas—name's Max."
"No problem. Jello. Nice to meetcha."
They shook.
"Jello? The fuck kinda fruitcake name's that?"
"Uh, just a nickname."
"Sucks for you."
"Not really. What can I do you for?"
Max approached the walls, admiring images of love, death and glory. "Nice shop. Lookin' to get some work—you draw all these?"
"No…not me personally. Ones you're looking at are from some artists who come through the shop. Those on the far wall were done by the great Sonny Bix—guy's a legend, owns this place."
Max gave 'em a glance.
"They're all done in watercolor too—pretty impressive."
Max shrugged. "Was lookin' to get something a little cooler."
"Okay."
The TV caught Max's eye. "You know this flick was filmed right outside here?"
"Yeah—figured after seeing the hanging Venice sign. Shop's in the background too, few scenes."
"Alright, don't gotta break my ass, Jelly. Just saying."
"It's Jello. Sorry, didn't mean to be—"
Max pulled out a dog. "You mind?"
"Go for it." He watched Max take a generous slug, second guessing the decision. "So, what were you thinkin' 'bout gettin'?"
"Oh…" He burped, "Somethin' classy."
*****
Jello re-applied the stencil for a fourth time.
Max studied its placement in the mirror, shirt off, paunch bulging. "Sure you done this before?"
"Tons a times. Neck's a hard area to…center the, um, thing there."
Max took another gander. "Spoken like a pro."
Jello met him with a forced smile, adjusting a masseuse table.
"Rather be sitting up, man." Max dangled a fresh dog and cracked it.
"We can do that. Whatever's most comfortable."
"Good."
As Jello wrapped a chair in cellophane, Max studied art engulfing the kid's hands, neck and head. "How old a you?"
"Twenty-three."
"Who does your work?"
"Sonny, mostly."
"Nice." He chuckled, "Maybe I should be waitin' for him to come in?"
Jello shot up. "Look, if you don't want the piece, that's fine. You been here for two hours already—"
"I want it, I want it. Just joshin', man."
Jello removed the Santa jacket, snapped on black gloves and sat.
Max adjusted on the chair, watching as Jello shook ink containers before filling drops into tiny red thimbles.
Jello punched the machine petal with a toe. The bzzzz had Max jump. He laughed,
"First time?"
"So what?"
"Sure you're up for this?"
"How bad could it be? You got 'em."
"Har-har." Jello re-gauged the machine's settings, checking the needle's rhythm, adjusting rubber bands around both coils accordingly. One hand applied Vaseline to Max's skin; the other dipped the tip into some black. "Here we go, tough guy."
Max cringed at the initial tear, each carve feeling better and better. Endorphins gelled with booze, coursing his system into a dream state. After ten minutes, he was relaxed.
Jello's tongue turtled, in deep concentration. He focused on all those oranges and pork hides Sonny had him practice on. "So, what you do for a living, Max?"
"Work for a printing company off Culver—mainly studio stuff: billboards, posters, movie props."
"Not gonna get fired over this, right?"
"Who cares? Other shit jobs out there. Do what I want—they got a problem, screw 'em. Had our crappy Christmas lunch today."
"How was that?"
Max hesitated, reliving the toast.
"That fun, huh?"
"Buddy a mine fed me some downers."
"Oh yeah?"
"Shit made me all weepy. Didn't care for 'em." He sucked the bottle. Fuckin' Bill—what a dick.
"Hard liquor man, huh?"
"That's right. Don't usually drink though."
Jello took his toe from the petal.
"Well, not in the past few months."
"Oh?"
"Was gettin' outta hand. Burnt bridges, all that good stuff. Got a hold on it though."
Jello watched him kill the bottle, wiping blood with a paper towel. "I hear that. Went on my own tear, few months back. Moderation's king."
"King a what?"
The machine hummed between their thoughts. Max broke the silence.
"Got plans for tomorrow?"
"You mean today, right? It's three in the morning."
"Yeah."
"Supposed to have Christmas at the in-laws, but ain't invited this year."
