by Del Howison
And twice.
And three times. And they didn’t talk much about Angelo’s life-or-death metaphorical need to stop drinking. They talked about Jimi Hendrix, who people said Angelo sounded like; and Eddie Van Halen, and all the new rockers. When Bob V. mentioned that he liked Ottmar Liebert, Angelo said, “Wow, me too!”
That was pure and utter bullshit.
Then one moody, cloudy night, the two Cats were sitting on the concrete railing of their fabulous Spanish Revival mansion up in the Hollywood Hills, each propped up against a column. The garden below was dotted with lush palms, illuminated with canny Art Deco lanterns that glimmered dazzling light in the swimming pool and hot tub. Dwight had wanted to go in the Jacuzzi, but Angelo demurred. Too cold, he said.
Dwight’s sponsor was a B-list actor named Lou S. Lou S., who was about forty, with silvery hair and a long nose and thin lips, had been reduced to making training films for corporations because he had fucked everything up with his out-of-control drinking.
“Doesn’t matter,” Lou S. assured him. “I’m happier now than I have ever been in my life.”
Then you’re an idiot, Dwight informed him silently.
But Dwight had promised Angelo to give this whole stupid thing a fair trial. So he met with Lou and received his Big Book, which was the AA instruction manual, and promised to “work his steps.”
The first time Dwight had gotten together with Lou in his weird little apartment in Woodland Hills, Lou had said, “Do you know what Al-Anon is? You might try them. Or there’s a CoDA meeting on Wednesday nights. CoDA is a twelve-step program designed specifically for people with codependent issues. That’s what their name means. Co-Dependents Anonymous.”
Dwight was infuriated. Codependent issues? Did this no-name loser have any idea who he was fucking with?
But while Dwight seethed, Angelo thrived. He was working his steps, all right.
Work this.
Now, a month into their program, as Angelo set down their bottle of Jack Daniel’s and unfolded another pamphlet, he said, “So what we say when we’re alone is ‘We admitted we were powerless over cannibalism, and that our lives had become unmanageable.’ It is a disease of isms. That’s what Bob told me.” He skimmed the pamphlet.
“So, let me tell you about my addiction,” he commanded, looking up and smiling at Dwight.
Dwight started to sigh, but Lou had told him the heavy sigh was the mating call of the codependent.
Lou had also told him that he, Dwight, would resent him, and that that was natural. Because the part of him that wanted to stay sick would fight tooth and nail—Lou had no idea of the irony there!—to keep his current sick thinking in charge of his actions.
“But it will kill you, Dwight,” Lou had told him. “Untreated, unmanaged, your addiction will bring you down.”
Angelo cleared his throat impatiently.
“Okay, Angelo, tell me how you are powerless over cannibalism,” Dwight said dutifully, folding his hands around his knees.
Angelo got into character, sighing deeply. He could sigh deeply if he wanted to. His sponsor didn’t give a rat’s ass.
“If we don’t stop, we’re going to get caught. If we get caught, they’ll probably give us lethal injections. I know that, but I still don’t want to stop. That I guess makes me powerless over my addiction.” Angelo was clearly thrilled.
Dwight pursed his lips and nodded somberly. “Yes,” he said like a therapist. “I understand.”
Angelo frowned. “What?”
Dwight was flustered. Isn’t that what he was supposed to say? Then he blurted, “If you don’t want to stop, why are we going to meetings and shit? I mean, if you don’t want to stop, why are you going to meetings and—”
“I’m of two minds about it,” Angelo said. He gestured to his shoulders. “Angel.” He touched his right shoulder. “Devil.” He chuckled and pointed at Dwight. “Evil twin.”
“Blood brother,” Dwight amended, feeling the heat in his face.
“Yes.” They had become blood brothers in high school, with blood, which tasted awesome. Then when Angelo had accidentally sliced off the tip of his pinkie and Dwight had popped it in his mouth and man oh man oh man, it was psychedelically delicious. (That was how they had talked back then.) Anyone who said it tasted like chicken was a total poser. Once you tasted human flesh, going back to chicken was like playing some low-rent lounge in Vegas once you’ve done the Universal Amphitheater.
Now on the lounge: They fired the manager who booked them that gig. As for the chicken thing, they eventually made a list of women they wanted to eat when they came to L.A. A couple of the names on the list had sunk into obscurity, then risen again to fame, in part from singing duets with the Cannibal Cats:
1. Tina Turner
2. Madonna
3. Cyndi Lauper
4. Janet Jackson
5. Annie Lennox
There would be way too many questions asked if any of those chicks disappeared, so they stuck to women no one would miss—well, except that hot yakuza babe—and there were even a few glitches with that. Angelo had eaten Dwight’s girlfriend Alice, and Dwight had still never forgiven him for that. Dwight was looking forward to Angelo’s amend on that one—which would come with step nine, where you made things right with people you had harmed.
“Okay, let’s reframe this for our sponsors,” Angelo said, lighting up a joint. He poured himself a whole hell of a lot more Jack Daniel’s and handed the bottle to Dwight. “Because we are famous rock stars, we have to stop drinking so much. We’re getting older and alcohol is affecting our performance.”
“And our livers,” Dwight said, taking a drink. “Add that. Because it’s true. All this protein is messing with our systems.”
“Atkins is so full of it.”
“We should eat him,” Dwight chuckled.
“He’s dead, dork.” Angelo grinned.
“Hasn’t always stopped us.”
“He’s a guy,” Angelo said.
“He’s a guy,” Dwight agreed.
Dwight felt better. Reconnected. After chugalugging about a third of the bottle, Dwight traded the bottle for the joint. They smoked the best marijuana on the planet. He was getting pretty loaded. The air was swirling, the moonlight washing Angelo’s dark ringlets with silver.
Angelo drank the Jack and tipped the bottle upside down. He said, “Dwight, go get another?” and Dwight slid off the railing, opened the sliding-glass door that led into their massive kitchen, and walked unsteadily around the breakfast bar.
About halfway to the booze cabinet, it occurred to him that, hey, Angelo had two good legs, too, so why was he, Dwight, the one who always went after everything?
The familiar tightening in his gut told him to lighten up. Back home, Angelo had been richer, cooler, and had not had a father who beat his mother to death. But that was then, and this was fast-forward to a life together of amazing accomplishments. A few slights, maybe, but then, Angelo had brought the money into the partnership. Money bought state-of-the-art guitars, costumes, lessons, and a few connections. Dwight had just brought a little talent and a lot of hope, and in Hollywood, every kid who got off the bus had some of that.
But he had parlayed his shot into the life he led now.
I am every bit as good as he is.
Even though he was already in the kitchen, he turned around and said, “Angelo, I think you should get a new bottle of Jack’s.”
Whatever Angelo was going to say in response remained unspoken, because Angelo’s cell phone rang.
He whipped it out of his black leather pants and said, “Hello?” with no trace of slurring. He was remarkable that way, could hold his liquor and his dope better than any rock star around. “Oh. Bob.” He smiled big time and looked across the breezeway to Dwight.
Dwight murmured, “Shit!”
“A twelfth-step call?” Angelo asked brightly. “What’s that? Oh. Okay. I’m here with Dwight—can he come, too? Cool. We’ll show.”
<
br /> He pantomimed writing on paper; Dwight got the magnetized notepad on the Sub-Zero fridge, which they had bought for Maria del Carmen, their maid, which was headed HAY QUE COMPRAR, To Buy. They always needed a lot of trash bags and paper towels. And sponges and Formula 409.
She never asked why.
Dwight hurried back with the pad to Angelo, who wrote down an address and some directions. He said, “Yes, all right. Got it. Okay. Half an hour.”
He hung up and said, “We’re supposed to meet him at some guy’s house. The dude is drunk and he’s talking about killing himself.”
“Then he isn’t really going to do it,” Dwight said authoritatively. Being rock stars, they had a lot of experience with people who talked about suicide. “If you talk about it, you don’t do it.”
“Well, addicts are different people,” Angelo reminded him.
“We should sober up. Brush our teeth and use a lot of mouthwash,” Dwight said. “He’ll smell it on us.”
“We should shower,” Angelo replied. “Bob’s cagey. And observant. We’re going to have to be careful around him.”
Dwight wondered why Angelo had picked a cagey, observant sponsor. And then he remembered that the whole point of AA was to help them with their addiction. Even though it was a metaphor.
* * *
They wanted to get to their destination unseen—otherwise, paparazzi—so they took their little black Beemer. They had motorcycles and exotic cars like Lotuses and all that, but a Beemer was business as usual in Los Angeles.
Angelo drove. He always drove. They took the 5 North up past the Getty and the off-ramps for Sherman Oaks, heading toward Burbank. They had recently looped some songs for an animated feature up there. There was a cool horror bookstore, too, owned by a hot chick and a guy with white hair who looked like the folksinger Arlo Guthrie. They had the most massive collection of cannibal items Dwight had ever seen. In fact, now that he thought of it, the name of the store—Dark Delicacies—was a cannibal name, pretty much.
Maybe there are more cannibals in L.A. than we realize, Dwight thought. Maybe if we made contact with a few, we could get some tips on how to be more discreet. We wouldn’t have to give it up …
And at the thought of giving it up—of never eating human flesh again—Dwight broke out in a cold sweat. His stomach cramped; his hands shook. For one crazy moment, he thought of jumping out of the car.
“Do we take the 134?” Angelo murmured, looking at the directions.
It started to rain. Dwight was startled. Angelo turned on the windshield wipers and continued to mutter about the directions.
Dwight couldn’t hear him. He couldn’t hear the windshield wipers. He couldn’t hear the rain.
I’m not going to do it, he realized. I’m not going to stop eating people.
A thrill of exhilaration surged through him. He glanced over at Angelo as if his blood brother could read his mind.
If I have to lie to him, I will, he thought. But I’m not giving it up.
He let the power of his decision propel him along for about six miles, which, when one is driving at sixty miles an hour, is about ten minutes. But Angelo was doing ninety.
Then dread washed over him, hard and cold. He sat breathless in his seat and watched the billboards and lit-up buildings flash past. He couldn’t swallow past the constriction in his throat.
Your alcoholism will do anything it can to survive, Lou the Loser S. had told him. It will make you lie, cheat, steal, and it will tell you that you aren’t really an alcoholic. It will convince you that you can control your drinking.
And then it will kill you.
Dwight shook his head as if he were actually conversing with Lou. I don’t care if I’m addicted to raw human flesh. I’m going to eat it no matter what.
“Dude, are you tripping?” Angelo asked, cutting into his reverie.
Dwight said, “Just practicing in my head.” They were going to do a concert at the Hollywood Bowl in six weeks.
Angelo nodded vaguely. He was checking the directions he’d written down. He swung a quick left—Hollywood Way—and muttered something. Part of what he was saying sounded like mdfahdlajfhadll. The other part sounded like “He said to follow the signs to the airport.”
Dwight was dizzy. Like he was operating a video-game character, he swiveled his head and squinted out the window. The rain was coming down so heavily he couldn’t read the street sign. His stomach lurched. He took a slow, deep breath.
“Okay, we need Magnolia,” Angelo went on.
Dwight wanted to turn to him and shout, “Shut the fuck up! Shut up now!” but that wasn’t on the menu of operating instructions. What was on the menu was just maintaining. He stared at the rain.
Another flash of lightning ripped the sky; the rain came down and Angelo muttered some more. The car rolled to a stop and Angelo said, “We should have brought some fucking umbrellas,” but the thing was, nobody in Los Angeles ever remembered umbrellas. What was important to Dwight was that he actually heard Angelo say the words. His momentary psychic break had passed.
We’re in this thing together. We’re okay.
I will die if I stop eating people.
Angelo got out of his side; Dwight did the same. The rain was plummeting like cold pebbles. Dwight was sad about their black leather jackets and black leather pants, but they were rich; they could buy more.
He paused, waiting for Angelo, who pointed down the street and said, “There they are!”
They? Dwight thought anxiously, as he followed Angelo, who began to trot along the sidewalk. He was not seeing whatever Angelo was seeing, and he began to worry that he was losing his vision. All he saw was gray rain and Angelo’s black-and-gray hair, bobbing along slightly ahead of him like a disembodied head. He wanted to reach out and touch Angelo’s shoulder to make sure the rest of him was there, but he knew that would be dorky.
Angelo said, “See, a twelfth-step call is when you go to help another alcoholic. It’s the twelfth step, being of service.”
Dwight processed that. He wanted to say, “But we’re on step one,” but the syllables were scattering like so many droplets of mercury. He wondered why they hadn’t discussed any of that while they were in the car.
“Hi, Bob!” Angelo called, moving ahead into the rain. Dwight broke into a run, then slowed. Running after Angelo was so codependent.
Getting out of the rain was not.
As he slogged forward, he saw a yellow light; it was a porch light. A lot of people around here—grips, gaffers, sound guys—lived in small homes, bungalows really. No fancy mansions in the shadow of the Warner Brothers water tower and the mountains behind the lot.
Dwight heard Angelo’s voice and followed it toward the light. He was trotting up a walkway, then stepping onto a wooden porch. A screen door was open; Angelo disappeared into the house and Dwight followed after.
Warmth, light, and a man sitting on a plum-colored velveteen sofa, weeping. He was middle-aged, maybe Hispanic, maybe Middle Eastern; this was L.A., and everyone was melting into one color anyway. The air around him was a cloud of alcohol: whiskey, maybe, or scotch. Or tequila. Suddenly Dwight wasn’t so sure about his sense of smell, either.
Bob V. was sitting on a green wooden chair across from the guy. He had a cup of coffee between his hands. When he saw Dwight, he said, “Hey, man. Glad you could make it.”
“Hey.” The words emanated from the mouth of Dwight’s detached gamelike persona. The real Dwight was standing more deeply inside his body, watching Angelo embracing an extremely hot young woman, who was crying on his shoulder. She had on a pair of faded jeans and a turquoise sweater. Long, curly hair tumbled to the small of her back. Her dark eyes were enormous. She had big knockers, maybe fake.
Actress, Dwight thought, wishing he could smell her. Women smelled so good; it was like catching a whiff of the turkey on Thanksgiving, back when turkey had held his interest.
“I just can’t stop,” the guy on the couch moaned. “I just want to dri
nk all the time. I swear, it’s gotten worse since I joined the program!”
Bob held out the coffee, which the guy ignored. Dwight wanted it. He was standing there in soaking black leather and his balls were squishy.
“That’s your self-will,” Bob said. “It’s running riot. It’s doing whatever it can to keep its hold on you. It wants you to drink, Elario.”
Elario. So, he was Hispanic. Across the room, Angelo held the beautiful girl as she reached toward Elario and said, “Daddy, Daddy, goddammit! He just lost another fucking job….”
Elario lapsed into Spanish, probably trying to explain why the thought of not drinking alcohol sent him to a place of terrified silence. Angelo was gathering up the curls of the lovely young girl as he massaged her shoulders through her sweater. She was very lean, very fit. Stringy.
“Remember what we talked about,” Bob said to Elario. “Think about the broken bridge. All blown up. The wreckage of your past. Body parts everywhere. You want to fix that bridge, but you can’t. You can’t fix it, Elario. You have to build a new bridge.”
Body parts.
Angelo’s fingertips brushed the girl’s left tit as she sank back into his arms, crying silently again. Angelo took a long look at Dwight, then turned and walked her out of the room.
Leaving Dwight with Bob and Elario.
Elario was moaning like a Jehovah’s Witness. Bob was silently watching him with the coffee cup between his hands. Dwight wondered if Bob had lost the power of speech, or if there was simply nothing to be said.
They made a little tableau, the three of them; Dwight standing in his steamy pants, watching Bob watching Elario. He scanned the room and saw Angelo’s jacket slung over the wooden chair. Of course he had taken it off. Angelo was a creature of comfort. Dwight had no idea why he hadn’t done the same. Why he didn’t do it now.
Then Bob said to him, “There’s a can of soup by the stove. Can you heat that up?” Directly to him, Dwight. Bob didn’t glance around in surprise, didn’t ask where Angelo was. Or Elario’s daughter.
And suddenly Dwight had the thought that this was a setup. This wasn’t about twelfth-step work and all that shit. Bob V. had called Angelo because he had a hot chick for him to devour.
