Who is Charlie Conti?

by Claus von Bohlen

  ‘Estrella, but everyone here calls me Stella. You?’

  I recorded my name and gave the Dictaphone back to Stella. A voice from the kitchen announced through the hole in the wall that they were out of bread. Stella wanted to close the diner so I figured I’d go someplace else for a burger. I paid for the coffee and gathered together the stuff on my table. I waved goodbye to Stella as I left the diner. She didn’t seem so sad to see me go, but I was sure looking forward to seeing her again.

  *

  I went outside, put my notes written on the napkins into the glove compartment of the Buick where I also kept the laptop, then I climbed up to the roof of the car and sat there with my legs crossed. The roof was still warm although the sun had set. I lit a cigarette. I don’t smoke much; I don’t really like the taste, maybe because of that metallic kiss way back in Tompkins Square Park. But I like the way that a cigarette can kind of solidify a moment, plucking it from the daily flow of life and privileging it above the rest. I like to smoke when a moment is worth remembering. I was thinking about Stella – her Dictaphone, her amused green eyes, and also about her breasts pressed against the inside of her t-shirt. And I was thinking about Special Agent Kramer whom I would meet in person for the first time the following day and who would be able to solve my problems because he knew I was telling the truth and because he had the power of the Federal Bureau of Investigation behind him. And once my bank account was unfrozen I’d head up to see Izzy. And after that maybe I’d return to LA or maybe I’d move back to New York – I didn’t know. So I sat on the sun-warmed roof of the Buick smoking that cigarette because I had already started to see the diner as a turning point and I wanted to record that moment. And I guess I was right about one thing; it really was a turning point.

  The temperature drops fast in the desert. I was about to climb down off the car when I heard someone spitting not far behind me. I looked round and saw a middle-aged man. His hair was mostly white but his skin was tanned and healthy looking and he seemed in pretty good shape. He was making his way over to my car with a bow-legged, cowboy walk.

  ‘Hey buddy, you headin’ south?’

  ‘I dunno,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for a place to get a burger, but not too far from here. I got to be back here tomorrow.’

  ‘You don’t want to try the diner? The waitress is hot, yes sir.’

  ‘I’ve just been in there and she’s closing up,’ I said.

  ‘Huh, I bet I know why that is,’ the man nodded to himself. Then he said, ‘I can show you a place twenty miles from here that does burgers like they was home-cookin’, and I can show you where to go for entertainment after, if you catch my meaning.’

  I didn’t really, but the guy seemed friendly and I had nothing else to do, so I said to him to get in and climbed down off the roof. When I sat down he introduced himself as Pete.

  ‘I’m Charlie. Nice to meet you,’ I said.

  There was a moment of silence as I reversed, then he said, ‘Nice Buick.’

  It’s true, it really was a nice Buick – a ‘57 Roadmaster. I’d bought it when I first got to LA. The owner before me had looked after it well; when I bought it the chrome was like a mirror and the black paint had been polished to perfection. It had had a few knocks since then and a couple of rusty spots were beginning to show. All the same, it was an imposing car – a solid, unequivocal statement of the American Dream: big car, big family and more gas than we’ll ever need. That’s the other thing, it was a gas-guzzler like you wouldn’t believe. Sometimes I felt kind of bad about that, on account of the environment and all. I mean, I don’t like to think that I’m actively destroying the planet. But then, I also think that it’s unlikely that the planet is going to last for ever. Earth as we know it can’t keep going for always, even if we stop polluting and exhausting resources and so on. I mean, there was a time before earth was habitable, and there’ll be a time when earth becomes uninhabitable again; I think that’s obvious. I guess you’re pretty unlucky if you’re around when the transition happens, but I don’t really see that it matters so much if the earth becomes uninhabitable in a thousand years or in ten thousand years or in ten million years. All that stuff about preserving things for future generations – I mean, it’s a nice idea, but if things don’t get preserved then there aren’t going to be any future generations and no one will be any the wiser. And even if we do try to preserve things for future generations, and future generations preserve them for even more future generations and so on, I mean, at some point the chain is going to break and I just don’t really see why it matters so much when that break happens, except that, from a selfish point of view, we don’t want to be around when it does. Anyway, I don’t like thinking on those lines. It gets me down.

  ‘You ok buddy? Lookin’ pretty serious.’

  I’d forgotten about Pete. ‘Yeah. I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Just had a lot to think about today.’

  ‘What’s troublin’ ya?’

  I didn’t really want to go through everything I’d been thinking, so I said, ‘Just the usual. Money, stuff like that, you know.’

  ‘Well buddy, here’s a news flash: it doesn’t get any better. It doesn’t get any better, I swear.’ He patted his pockets, then, ‘Say, mind if I smoke?’ he asked.

  ‘No, go ahead.’ Out of the corner of my eye I watched Pete roll himself a cigarette in one hand, with a filter and all. I was impressed by his dexterity. ‘Where’d you learn that?’ I asked.

  ‘What? Oh, the rolling? I been driving tractors most my life. Always need a hand on the wheel.’

  ‘You from around here?’

  ‘Sure am. Born and bred. I walk to the diner from the farm. Once a month the wife lets me go loose some demons, that’s what she calls it. Says they’re better out than in. Course, I used to drive to Big Al’s – that’s the bar – but last winter I got so drunk on account of the Superbowl and all that I tipped the truck off the road on the way home. Knocked myself out and damn near froze to death. That’s what the doctor said. Anyway, since then the wife won’t let me drive.’ Pete grinned at me.

  ‘Why doesn’t she go with you?’

  ‘Sometimes she does, for sure. But she doesn’t like to leave the kids alone, and she thinks the money is wasted on the dances. I get what she’s saying, but when a man’s got demons, what’s he to do?’

  I wasn’t sure if I was expected to reply. I was trying to think of something noncommittal when Pete continued:

  ‘Course, she loves the burgers at Big Al’s. That’s how we met, right at the counter, twenty-two years ago. She was mighty pretty back then, mighty pretty. We always have a burger at Big Al’s on our anniversary. Take all the kids along too. This year we took Valerie – that’s the youngest, she’s only three months. Jeez did she make a ruckus. Good thing Big Al’s a family man hisself.’

  ‘Are we going to Big Al’s now?’

  ‘Yes sir. Best burgers this side of the Mason-Dixon, I swear.’

  America’s a pretty tolerant society, but if there’s one thing that every American insists on it’s getting you to agree that their favourite burger is the best you’ve ever tasted. I guess it’s a small price to pay for the good will you get in return. Anyhow, I liked Pete, so I thought I’d be happy to agree to whatever.

  ‘Lemme guess, you going to Vegas? asked Pete. Before I could reply he went on, ‘It’s not a good place if you got money troubles.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I was supposed to meet someone who was gonna help me fix all that. But I’m really on my way to visit my sister up in Maryland. Kinda road trip, I guess.’

  ‘Hey, take the next right.’

  *

  Big Al’s burger bar was situated in the middle of a suburban sprawl of fast-food joints, bowling alleys, gas stations and cheap motels. I parked in one of the bays opposite the bar.

  ‘My pa used to come here when this was a ranching community,’ said Pete. ‘Big Al’s pa started it. He was called Big Al too. That was before there was even a casino in Vegas. Har
d to imagine now.’

  The burger bar did look a lot older than everything around it. It was made of stained, heavy wood and there were still posts next to the raised entrance that had been gnawed by horses halfway up. I’ve seen plenty of bars which try to recreate the look of an old saloon and some do it pretty well. But they never get the smell of an old place – the smell of an open grill, old wood with a century of tobacco smoke in it and maybe a faint trace of horse shit. At least, that’s what Big Al’s smelt like, in a good way.

  The place seemed pretty busy. There were a lot of guys – many of them in cowboy hats – but not many girls. Pete made his way to the bar and I followed him. On the way I noticed a couple of old ladies sitting in one of the more shadowy alcoves. One of them had white hair and the other was wearing a red shawl over her head; both were about to dig into thick, greasy burgers and there was a mountain of fries on the plate between them. They made me happy, they really did. Most of the time old people look kind of sad or kind of worried, like there’s not a lot of pleasure left in life. I guess that’s often true. That’s why it’s good to see an old lady digging into a burger.

  ‘Hey Al, come over here,’ said Pete who was already leaning on the bar. A thin man with a drawn, ascetic face turned round and smiled then started walking over to Pete.

  ‘Hiya Pete, how’s things?’

  ‘Al, I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine who’s just passin’ through. This is Charlie. Charlie, Big Al.’

  ‘How do you do, sir,’ I said, but Big Al must have seen a flicker of surprise in my face because he said, ‘Yeah, I know. My pa weighed three hundred pounds and was called Big Al. The guys started calling me Big Al back in High School, jus’ for kicks. Name kinda stuck, I guess.’ He paused for a moment before asking, ‘So, how d’you know Pete?’

  ‘We met at Joe’s diner,’ I said.

  ‘Ok. Well, you make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble tonight. She’s a fine woman, his missus, but she sure has a temper.’

  I heard Pete say, ‘If that ain’t the truth.’

  ‘So, what can I get you?’ asked Big Al.

  ‘Charlie’ll have a burger. Charlie, you like bacon and cheese?’ I nodded. ‘Rare?’ I nodded again. ‘And get us a couple beers.’

  *

  Big Al’s burger really was a great burger. It was just the right size, not too thick, so that you were able to hold it and take a bite right through from top to bottom without having to dislocate your jaw like a snake. And it wasn’t too big either, so you could eat the whole thing without feeling disgusted by the thought of it afterwards. The bun and the meat were just right too, so that by the end the bottom bit of the bun was kind of soggy from the juices of the meat, but not so soggy that it disintegrated. And the juices were good, plentiful and greasy but not too bloody, because that can be kind of gross. Even the slices of gherkin were good – small and sharp tasting, not like the huge watery ones you sometimes get. So, when I told Pete that I thought that it was the best burger I’d ever eaten, I wasn’t just being polite. And boy, it made him happy like you wouldn’t believe. We had another beer and from time to time he’d say, ‘Didn’t I tell you Big Al makes the best burgers?’ but he said it in a kind of whimsical way, so I didn’t feel I had to reply.

  We had another couple of beers and Big Al’s really started to fill up and I found it pretty hard to hear what Pete was saying. I started thinking about maybe driving back to the diner to sleep in the Buick when Pete leant across and shouted in my ear, ‘Wanna go see the girls?’

  ‘What?’ I shouted back.

  ‘Wanna go see the girls?’

  ‘What girls?’

  ‘Come along, I’ll show ya.’

  I was kind of reticent about this after hearing about Pete’s demons, whatever they were, and being told to keep him out of trouble and all. But I didn’t want to be unfriendly, especially since he had insisted on paying the check, though I had tried to stop him. Anyway, Pete seemed pretty lively all of a sudden. He jumped up from his stool and steered me out of the bar by the shoulder before I could think up a good excuse.

  Outside the night was cold and clear and sobering, a real desert night. We stopped on the veranda for a moment. I thought Pete was admiring the thin sickle moon, thin and pale as the end of a finger nail. Then in a wistful voice he said, ‘There she is,’ and motioned to a squat building a couple hundred yards away lit by garish pink neon lights. I’d seen it when we arrived and assumed it was another bowling alley. Now it was dark I could read the neon lettering, ‘The Palace of Pleasure’, but by then Pete had already grabbed my arm and was marching me towards the entrance.

  I’d been to a couple of strip clubs before, once in New York by myself and once in LA, but I didn’t enjoy either very much. I mean, I don’t really like girls who are all make-up and silicone. I just think they’re kind of fake. But sometimes you get a girl who’s really cute and wholesome and natural looking, and in fact that’s even worse. It’s corny as hell, but I kind of fell for one of the strippers in New York. She was petite and brunette and she smiled like she actually found it pretty funny that she was taking her clothes off in front of me. If I’d seen her someplace else she was the kind of girl I’d have liked to talk to, if I were feeling really brave or really drunk. But if you meet a girl like that in a strip club, I mean, there’s no way you can talk to her. I know there’s a load of guys who say they’ve gone home with strippers, and I’m sure it happens, though probably less often than guys pretend; but all I’m saying is, if you see a girl you like, the chances of anything happening are a lot smaller if you meet her in a strip club. Sure you can go have a private dance or whatever, but then you’re just like all the other guys she’s danced for. I guess that’s the other thing I don’t like about strip clubs. They’re some pretty seedy guys in there most of the time, and if you’re in there, well, I guess that makes you pretty seedy too, even if you’re not married and on a business trip and smoking a fat cigar.

  As we approached the pool of light around the entrance I caught sight of the doorman. He was a pretty tall guy anyway, but on top of his head he had a beautiful undulating rockabilly pompadour. The hair itself was black and oiled and occasionally reflected the pink light of the neon sign above him. It extended a good couple of inches in front of his forehead before being swept back upon itself in a gleaming parabola. It was really something.

  The doorman saw Pete and called out, ‘Hiya Pete, figured you might be here tonight. It’s not so busy – I think your table’s still free.’

  We were ushered past the coat-check, into the large, dark main room. In the middle was a stage made from three interlocking circles. The intersection of the three circles was raised higher than the rest and had a silver pole rising from it. Each of the three circles also had poles rising from their centers. Pete made his way over to a table at the far side, one of only two empty ones next to the stage. There seemed to be plenty more tables towards the back, but the chairs were upholstered in black and the tables were black and the lighting was all centred on the stage, so it was pretty hard to see what was going on back there.

  As we sat down the loudspeaker announced, ‘The Palace of Pleasure is proud to bring you the flower of Pensacola beach, ladies and gentleman, the one and only Cristal!’ I heard a soft swishing noise behind me and turned round to see Cristal sashay her way from a darkened doorway to the steps leading up to the stage. She was wearing a pink silk robe and pink diamanté stilettos. She climbed to the central pole and turned to face us. Her peroxide hair was impossibly bright in the spotlight that lit her from directly above. Then she undid the pink belt of her robe and let it slide off her shoulders.

  ‘Oh my God,’ whispered Pete.

  The fluffy pink bikini top and the pink g-string that Cristal was wearing underneath accentuated an absurd, cartoon-like figure. She had not only the largest breasts I had ever seen, but also the slimmest waist. As the music started she made her way to the front of the stage where she would occasional
ly squat lithely down to stroke an onlooker’s face or to accept a dollar bill into the elastic of her g-string. When she reached the part of the stage closest to our table Pete leaned across and slid another bill behind the seven or eight that were already neatly folded against her hip. She had a perfectly sculpted nose and huge collagen lips. Sparkly silver eyelash extensions cast a shadow over her eyes. She seemed to stare straight through us.

  Cristal returned to the central pole and Pete said, ‘Ain’t that the most perfect creature you ever saw?’ I looked across to see whether he was waiting for an answer but he was staring intently at Cristal. There was something strange about his expression: his concentration was total and yet at the same time there was a certain far-away look in his eye. You really had to see it yourself – it’s hard to explain.

  A few minutes later Pete placed a five-dollar bill on the stage in front of us. I ordered a couple more beers from the waitress, increasingly aware of my dwindling resources. When I turned back around I saw that Cristal had her knees on the stage and her hands on the arms of Pete’s chair; she was swinging her enormous breasts just above his nose. Then she turned round so that her peroxide curls fell across his face. Looking at Pete I was struck by the absence of desire in his features. His expression was one of beatific contentment. As if to confirm this he leaned across and said, ‘It’s wonderful. So perfect but you can’t touch,’ then he fell back again and stared in adoration at the peroxide curls.

  It made me think that maybe the urges that drive men to strip clubs are not necessarily seedy. Or at least, maybe there is a small part of it that doesn’t have to be. Watching Pete I realized that in some way his pleasure was the pleasure of being granted a glimpse of a more perfect world: a world of breasts that defy gravity and hair that does not pretend to be real. It is a world of pure fantasy and Pete seemed happy, not despite the fact that he couldn’t touch, but precisely because he couldn’t touch. Maybe he loved Cristal like some adults love fairy tales, because they are always out of reach.