by Tony O'Neill
“Yeah.”
Jeffrey opened the door, and slowly – his brittle body full of stiffness and pre-withdrawal aches – made his way out of the car. He slammed the door and then poked his head in through the open window.
“As one judge said to the other, be just. And if you can’t be just… be arbitrary.”
With that, Jeffrey was gone. Randal watched him for a while ambling up the road, another broken ghost on a sidewalk full of such spectres. He seemed at one with his dilapidated surroundings, fading in to a panorama of check cash joints, broken neon signs, shady doorways advertising palm readers and fortunetellers, idling bums, street drinkers, whores and other assorted lunatics. Jeffrey was not alone anymore. Like a salmon tossed back into the stream, he had returned to his own kind and it was only a matter of seconds before he was swallowed up altogether. Before he left, Randal caught something out of the corner of his eye, lying in the seat where Jeffrey had been only moments earlier. Something small, round, and black. Reaching over, Randal found himself holding a small package about the size of a ball bearing. Picking it up and looking closer, he knew immediately what it was. It was a balloon of heroin. It had no doubt fallen out of Jeffrey’s pocket when he had been stuffing the twenty-dollar bill into his jeans. It seemed inconceivable to him that Jeffrey would ever be careless enough with his dope to just drop it in Randal’s car, but here it was.
He considered getting out of the car to chase Jeffrey down. After all – assuming it was an accident – then Jeffrey would certainly be devastated by the loss of the drugs. But he hesitated. He turned the radio back on and found himself listening to America’s Horse With No Name. He laughed a little to himself, remembering a crackhead pilot he had once spent time with in Cirque Lodge out in Utah who had been obsessed with the song and would delight in explaining the many convoluted drug references he believed to be hidden in the lyrics. That had been years ago, and who knew if the pilot was clean or not today, or even alive? The thought gave him pause. He had been in and out of drug rehabs, hospitals, treatment centres and the rest for most of his adult life. When he was younger he’d always assumed that he would somehow just grow out of this self-destructive need to construct his own version of reality with drugs and sex. But life as a straight, as a citizen, still seemed as alien and far away to him today as it had when he was eighteen years old. What a joke. What a horrible, unfunny, awful joke.
Randal pulled away and headed toward home.
viii
When the phone started ringing, Gibby ran frantically around his apartment trying to locate it. On the third ring he found it, almost buried by a partially collapsed pile of unpaid bills next to his laptop. When he saw who it was, relief flooded his every fibre. He took a long, deep breath to compose himself and then assuming his most professional veneer, answered.
“Jacques! What’s happening baby?”
“This ain’t Jacques,” said an unfamiliar voice. “Your name Gibby?”
“Yes.” A note of alarm crept into Gibby’s voice. “Who is this, please?”
“It don’t matter who this is. Let’s just say I’m an acquaintance of Jacques’, okay? You a pal of his? I found your card in his wallet. Fat dude, takes dirty pictures for living?”
“Yes, yes…I – I’m his agent.” Gibby was gripping the cell phone so hard his knuckles were turning white. “Where is he? Is everything okay?”
“I think,” the unfamiliar voice said, “You’d better sit down.”
*
In room 23 of the Budget Inn, next to the corpse of Jacques Seltzer, a red votive candle was still burning. Jacques’ naked body was shiny and slick, having been vigorously rubbed down with Florida Water. The whole room stank of a mixture of sweat, death, citrus and cloves. As she talked on Jacques’ phone, Lupita was packing away any evidence that they had been here at all.
“Here’s the deal, Gibby. Jacques is dead. Dude was getting mad high with me, and he just conked out. Fuckin’ heart gave out, or some shit. One minute he was fine and the next he was on the floor, not breathing…. Ambulance? Nah, this poor bastard needs a hearse, not a fucking ambulance. Now, you got a pen? I’m gonna tell you where he is. My advice to you is that you come over here first and do a bit of housecleaning… ’cos let’s just say if this guy was as much of a big shot as he thought he was, then the pigs are gonna have a field day dragging his name through the mud with all of the paraphernalia they’re gonna find in here.”
“Are… are you sure? I mean – are you sure he’s dead?” Gibby asked in a small, strangulated voice.
“They don’t come any deader than this. Now listen. He’s in room twenty-three of the Budget Inn. That’s on Sunset between Highland and Mansfield. You got that?”
“Yeah, I got it. Okay, fuck… listen, what’s your name?”
There was a cold laugh on the other end of the line. “You don’t need my fuckin’ name ’cos you ain’t ever gonna hear from me again. Take it easy, and you know, uh… sorry about your friend and all.”
With that, Lupita clicked the phone shut. She turned it off again and tossed it on the bed. Genesis was standing by the door with the briefcase full of drugs in her hand. “Ready to split?”
“Sure. One second.”
Lupita picked up the digital camera that Jacques had been snapping them with. She flicked through the images on there – there were hundreds – and deleted any that featured her and Genesis. Then as a final thought she pointed the camera at Jacques’ nude corpse.
“Say cheese.” She snapped a picture, turned the camera off, and tossed it on the bed next to the phone.
“You don’t wanna take the camera?”
“Nah. What the fuck do I need a camera for? And anyway... now we done the ritual our luck should be back to normal. I don’t need any fuckin talismen from this motherfucker bringing weird vibes into our life, ya know?”
“But we’re taking the drugs. And the money.”
“That’s different. None of that is permanent. Give it a month, and all of this shit is gonna be gone. I don’t want anything in our lives lingering around that might invite any spiritual trouble, you know what I mean?”
Genesis shook her head and smiled. “Tell you the truth, Lupe, I don’t have a fuckin’ clue about what you’re talking about. But it’s cool. If you say we’re in the clear, then I’ll take your word for it.”
On a whim Lupita crouched over Jacques’ corpse and flipped up the eye-patch. Underneath a perfectly normal eye stared vacantly back at her.
“Told you it was a put-on,” she muttered to herself.
“What’s that, Lupe?”
“Oh… nothin’.”
She put the patch back in place. Taking one last look around the dismal hotel room Lupita said “Looks like we’re all done here.” She stood and flexed her neck muscles, eliciting a series of pops and crunches, before heading for the door. “C’mon, Genesis hun. Let’s shake a tail feather, I wanna grab some food. It’s been a long fuckin’ day…”
She kissed Genesis on the forehead and they headed out, leaving Jacque Selzter’s corpse alone, cooling on the floor.
x
Randal had just made it back to his place and flicked on the TV when the cell rang again. They were showing Night of the Living Dead on cable. On screen a guy was teasing his sister: “They’re coming to get you Barbara…” He checked the phone and answered.
“Hey Gibby. Look, before you ask… I spent all day out there looking for him. Nobody’s seen nothing. If you ask me, he’s probably holed up somewhere with a couple of hookers and an 8-ball of coke, and you need to stop worrying. When he’s ready he’ll give you a call. And anyway, I’m tired man. It’s been a shitty day.”
There was silence on the other end.
“Gibby? You there?”
“Yeah.” Gibby’s voice sounded small and weak. “I heard from Jacques. Well, I heard from someone who
knows where he is at least.”
“Told you. Look man, if you’re gonna rep someone as fucked up and irresponsible as this bastard, you gotta stop worrying about him. You’re gonna give yourself an ulcer. Fuckers like Jacques will probably outlive us all. People like him… Keith Richards… They’re like fuckin roaches, ya know?”
“Jacques is dead, Randal. I’m on my way over there now. He’s fucking dead. I’m in the shit, big time.”
“Oh.”
Randal kicked off his shoes, and tossed his keys on the coffee table with a clatter. He fell back into the couch still holding a paper sack from his local bodega and said, “Jesus man, I’m sorry to hear that. I really am.”
“Yeah.” Gibby sounded like all the life had leaked out of him. “Well look… I, uh, I just wanted to let you know. I appreciate you looking for him. Once I get a proper look at the situation I can let you know the details. I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Okay. Take care, man.”
Randal closed the phone. He looked into the paper sack next to him, which contained a roll of Reynolds Wrap and a disposable lighter. He’d purchased the stuff on a strange kind of autopilot on his way back to the apartment. He thought of the heroin in his pocket. He closed his eyes, and sighed. Although heroin had not been his drug of choice, not really, Randal knew that this wouldn’t have any bearing on whether or not he would smoke it. After all, now that it was here in his possession, was there any other option? What it offered was irresistible in its promise. It offered the chance to feel different. That was something Randal had spent his whole life chasing after.
The big lie, Randal knew, was the idea that by smoking this heroin he would somehow fail. Relapse. Fuck it all up. Life wasn’t like that. Life was a series of seemingly small decisions that led to other seemingly small decisions. Life was the moment you stopped and looked at the twisting, convoluted path all of those small decisions had led you down. Here and now this small bag of heroin did not represent success or failure. It simply represented a choice: how do you want to feel right now? Where do you want to go tonight?
He looked at the TV again. He watched a gaunt-faced zombie pick up a brick, and smash its way into a car while the woman inside screamed hysterically.
He looked back down at the heroin in his hand.
Where do you want to go tonight?
xi
“John Bonham.” Lupita said.
“Anna Nicole Smith,” Genesis countered.
“Good one. Bon Scott.”
“Who?”
“Singer from AC/DC.”
“Oh.” Genesis looked thoughtful for a moment. “What about Elvis?”
“No. Elvis died taking a shit.”
“Oh yeah. What about Janis Joplin?”
“Nah.” Lupita took a long sip of her chocolate malt, “She OD’d on heroin for sure, but she didn’t choke on her own puke as far as I know.”
Genesis and Lupita were finishing up their drinks at Mel’s Diner on Highland. They were trying to name all the celebrities they could think of who had choked on their own vomit.
“Lousy way to go,” Genesis said thoughtfully, “I mean choking on your puke like that. I mean, the last thing you’d taste’d be your own barf? Jesus fuck, that’s awful.”
At a table across from them was a family of four with two young kids. As Genesis and Lupita’s conversation had grown louder and cruder, Lupita had caught the mother throwing some disgusted looks their way. After the waitress brought the check and Lupita dropped a twenty on the table, she finally made eye contact with the woman and smiled. The woman’s cheeks reddened and she looked away quickly.
Lupita got up out of her seat. She walked over to their table. The husband, a perfectly bland looking guy with a powder blue shirt and a wispy moustache, looked like he was about to say something, and then looked determinedly down at his plate. Genesis grabbed Lupita quickly and said, “C’mon, let’s get out of here. No point in causing a scene.”
Lupita shrugged Genesis away. “Excuse me.”
They continued to pretend she wasn’t there.
“Excuse me.” The husband finally looked up at her. “I saw you looking at us. I just wanted to say… Well, I just wanted to say I’m sorry if our conversation offended you. Sometimes I get a bit carried away, you know? You know how it is when you’re with the person you love… it’s like other people just don’t exist.”
She turned and planted a long lingering kiss on Genesis’s lips. The father and mother sputtered with horror as their two children ogled Genesis and Lupita with open mouths. Their tongues intertwined, wrapped around one another furiously. They finally broke off. Lupita turned her attention back to the family, casually wiping her wet mouth with the back of her hand.
“Here.” She dropped three twenties on their table. “Have dinner on us.”
“That’s… that’s really not necessary…” the father stammered.
“Sure it is,” Lupita said, taking Genesis by the arm, “I insist. Really.”
When they got out to the street, Genesis burst out laughing. “Jesus Christ, Lupe! They looked like they were about to shit their pants.”
“Hell, what’s the point in good fortune if you can’t spread the wealth around a little?”
Genesis kissed Lupita on the neck. As they headed back to the car Genesis said, “Okay, I got a good one. What about famous people who died in plane crashes?”
Lupita shrugged. “Buddy Holly.”
“That’s obvious. How about Ronnie Van Zant from Lynyrd Skynyrd.”
“Big Bopper.”
“Rich Snyder.”
“Who?”
“Guy who founded In and Out Burger. Who you been, girl?”
They laughed as they got into the car. They started the engine, and Lupita turned up the volume on the stereo. “Don’t Jump” by Billy Fury filled the car.
“This is undoubtedly the best rock’n’roll song about someone thinking about throwing themselves off a cliff ever recorded,” Lupita said.
“No doubt,” Genesis said.
Later they pulled up outside the place they were staying at, a nice little hotel called The Sunset in West Hollywood. This was their last night in Los Angeles before they split in the morning for San Francisco and Lupita had insisted that they stay somewhere decent. Genesis had been bugging Lupita to go to the Bay Area for the longest time. Anyway Lupita had some old friends she’d been meaning to look up. With the money and the drugs Jacques had been carrying around with him they wouldn’t have to worry about making a dollar for quite a while. It was a rare feeling, to feel free, to feel that you didn’t owe anybody anything. It was always fleeting, but sweet while it lasted.
They got out of the car. The night was cool and the air around them was alive with the steady rumble of traffic and the rhythmic chirp of crickets.
“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”
“Sure is.”
“I got a good feeling about us, Genesis hun…” Lupita said dreamily. “I got this weird feeling that everything is gonna be alright…”
She reached down and clasped Genesis’ hand in hers, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
Hand in hand, Genesis and Lupita walked off into The Sunset together.
EPILOGUE
(From The LA Weekly)
FRENCH DISS
A year after it took the Cannes film festival by storm, RICK KENT ruminates on the international smash hit Black Neon, and the myth and bullshit surrounding the story of the “imploding dimwit”, Jacques Seltzer.
Given his virtual canonization since his untimely death a year ago this month, taking a swipe at the controversial movie director / photographer / auteur / over-hyped fraud (take your pick) Jacques Seltzer is not a move destined to win you many fans. In fact my original obituary for Seltzer, published in these very pages (“The Legend of the Implodi
ng Dimwit”) earned me more hate mail in one fell swoop than I had previously managed in my twenty year career in cultural criticism. The (admittedly less plentiful) letters of encouragement I also received at least convinced me that I was not the only one who was totally sickened to see the posthumous blowjob being awarded to this guy ever since his much anticipated BLACK NEON finally hit the screen, after fifteen years of intrigue, rumor and delay.
Instead of a coherent follow up to the much loved (by some people) DEAD FLOWERS, what we got instead was the retarded, drug-addled cousin of the wonderful HEARTS OF DARKNESS: A FILMMAKER’S APOCALYPSE (which documented the quagmire that was the making Francis Ford Coppola’s APOCALYPSE NOW). The audience is served up a self-indulgent mess cobbled together by Chainsaw Pictures from the raw footage of the unfinished movie that ultimately killed Seltzer. Instead of any kind of overarching narrative, the viewer was subjected to endless shots of Seltzer getting high, copping drugs, having sex with prostitutes, and rambling at great length about art and destruction in his usual pretentious, faux-intellectual manner. This dull mess was strung together with a series of talking heads. The usual suspects – Bono, Henry Rollins, Kenny Azura, Thurston Moore, James Stein, Sean Penn, Charlie Sheen – pontificate at length about Seltzer’s supposed brilliance, often offering little more than well-worn platitudes and clichés about the link between genius and self-destruction. This cinematic travesty was soon followed by a tie-in coffee table book of photographs that has spent the past twelve months hovering around the New York Times non-fiction list’s top twenty, and the kind of media fanfare that is usually reserved for movies with some… oh, what’s the phrase? Artistic merit?
For years, people debated what BLACK NEON meant. That deliberately mysterious title was dangled in front of the unfortunate aficionados of Seltzer’s work for well over a decade, causing all kind of ridiculous speculation as to what it might actually mean. It seems the kind of fan boys who worship Jacques Seltzer’s particular brand of faux-artsy hokum are especially susceptible to this kind of manufactured speculation. Blinded by their notion that Seltzer was producing Great Art, they drove themselves into paroxysms of intellectual gymnastics, inventing and superimposing all kinds of profundities into his work when the simple truth was that this stuff was no more profound than the latest piece of shit by Michael Bay. Back when Dead Flowers was out, we remember the spectacle of Jacques Seltzer pissing on a Playboy journalist, showing up for an interview – drunk of course – on French national television in blackface, the drunk-driving crash that killed the beautiful and talented Isabella Simonelli, the declarations that he was the messiah, and all the rest of his tacky, shlocky nonsense. Instead of condemning this overweight joker for what he was – a spoiled, talentless moron who had mistaken obnoxiousness for wit, and drug addled stupidity for some kind of Blakean profundity – the public gobbled up this unseemly spectacle, egging him on to ever greater heights of ridiculousness and self-parody.
