by Dan Fante
It wasn’t a Japanese car. It was a six-cylinder American Dodge Dart. A 1971 model with the 225 cubic-inch motor. Someone once told me—a New York cabbie, I think—that the slant six Chrysler-made engine was the best most reliable car motor ever made.
This one was supposed to have fifty-five thousand miles on it. Rebuilt. Carlos from El Salvador had a backyard jammed with eight or ten old clunkers, with their hoods up in varying stages of repair. They looked like hungry, rusted dinosaurs. We weaved our way through half a dozen cars until he led us to the Dodge. He smiled and pointed it out like an old friend, “Is best one,” he said. “This one run like Mercedes Benz.”
He was tall for a Latin, at least six feet, and he had a high regard for his sales ability. He told us that he made his living by fixing up old cars. He owned a solid gold front tooth and smiled too much.
In El Salvador, Carlos said that he had been the equivalent of a head mechanic at a new car agency. Amy seemed impressed. He said that if I bought the car, he would repair whatever went wrong with the motor for the next six months, at no charge. Then he smiled to verify his sincerity. Amy smiled back representing our side.
The Dart had an automatic transmission and the body was second or third generation dark blue. The tires were all good, and all four hubcaps were still on the wheels. Both doors had minor dings and part of the grill was missing, but on the whole, it looked decent.
Inside, on the seats, there were worn and unhappy beige imitation sheepskin covers that concealed the twenty-eight year old ruined plastic covers that had come with the car. That was okay. All the buttons and knobs were on the dash and the AM-FM radio played a favorite old Jimmy Reid blues tune when I clicked it on. I believed the song to be a good omen.
The taxi ride we took to Downey from Hollywood to buy the car had cost thirty-eight dollars, plus tip. I gave Carlos and his gold tooth $1,200 in cash after a good test drive that put the Dart through her paces. The twenties and tens I peeled off made his tooth grin. The expenditure left me just under four hundred dollars in total assets.
Amy had been sipping Jack Daniels’ on the ride there, because she knew that she would be talking to strangers and wanted to control her stutter. But she’d overdone it. The side effect was that the bitch became too friendly, and an irritating flirtation between her and the oily-haired mechanic developed. I attempted to ignore the slutty nonsense until Carlos’s attention started to wander. While he tallied up my cash, she caused him to lose count and leer at the crotch of her tight elastic black pants. The transaction got sidetracked.
“Pardon me,” I said to break it up.
“What honey?” Amy whispered back in a silky voice contrived to impress the blue-eyed mechanic. She wasn’t stuttering.
My mouth was angry. “Have you decided to blow this wetback before I buy the car or will you be gracious enough to wait until he’s finished taking my money?”
It was poor word selection. She was instantly angry. “Fa-fuck you, Bruno. You’re such a nasty pig. I da-don’t owe you anything!”
In too deep, I had to go on. “If she sucks your dick Carlos, I want fifty bucks taken off the price of the car. Fair enough?”
Carlos had stopped smiling.
On the drive back to Hollywood in the Dart, she took on the part of the violated heroine, sitting in the rear seat with Rocco’s face in her lap. Amy gulped whiskey and spit words at the back of my head like a riled cobra.
“You’re a mean-ass know-it-all pa-prick, Bruno. A bad-tempered wa-wino fa-fuck…so much smm-mm-smarter than everybody else. I’d rather have herpes and fuck Ka-Ka-Carlos and push a supermarket ka-ka-cart ka-ka-collecting a-lu-lu-luluminum beer ka-cans and sa-sleeping in da-doorways on Hollywood Boulevard than ta-ta-take another day of your shit. I don’t la-love you anymore, and additionally, I ha-hate your ga-guts.” When Amy was angry, even if she was drunk, her speech impediment became more pronounced.
Her anger had lost most of its steam in a few minutes, and she satisfied herself by muttering to the dog. After that, she was silent, brooding and smoking the rest of the way to Hollywood.
When I had gotten off the freeway and stopped for a traffic light a mile from the motel, without warning, she lurched the back door open and got out of the car. The Jack Daniels’ bottle lay empty next to the dog.
“Hey, get in,” I yelled.
“Fuck you, nasty prince dickface!,” she shouted back, wobbling. “Fuck your whole da-dead unsociable fa-family! You owe me $800. Two hundred a day for four days. Pay me!”
We were two lanes from the curb. “Goddammit, Amy, get in the car!”
“No way,” she screamed, pounding hard with her open hand on the metal roof. “You fucked me fa-four days! One!” POUND. “Two!” POUND. “Three!” POUND. “Four!” POUND. “That’s eight hundred dollars!” POUND—POUND—POUND. The echoing noise started Rocco barking and snarling.
I yelled back, trying to reason with her, “You’ll get us arrested if you keep that up! You know I haven’t got eight hundred dollars!”
“Not my problem! POUND—POUND. Your problem! Ya-your own father loved you but because it w-wasn’t your wa-way, you sta-stiffed him too. POUND—POUND. “Ba-bad tempered asshole! Ice dick!”
Her hammering finally made me angry. I got out of the driver’s side to stop her. Cars were speeding dangerously close.
Seeing me coming, drunk and unafraid, she pushed the rear door closed and weaved her way by an oncoming pick-up to get to the sidewalk, laughing and screaming at the same time. She enjoyed taunting me. “You can’t even ta-take care of a fa-fucking dog!”
I decided to let her go. She was too drunk and too crazy and angry. I got back in the car and watched her stumble north in the direction of Sunset Boulevard, yelling curses at me over her shoulder.
13
ROCCO’S HEALTH WAS WORSE. ALL THAT DAY, HE LAY IN THE SAME spot on the motel room floor without moving. If he tried to get up, he’d yelp in pain. The next morning, he refused to eat anything I offered him, or even to drink any milk and whiskey. Amy had not returned, and my relationship with the dog had now become one of icy tolerance.
The Dart’s tank needed gas and I needed cigarettes. I left the dog in the room with the TV on and an open box of Oreo cookies.
At the self-service gas station, I counted all the money in my pants. Paying the rent for another full week would leave me just over a hundred dollars. I remembered that Amy’s clothes were still in the closet on the floor in a plastic bag. The manager would hold them for her if I checked out. But finding a place that took dogs and had a lower daily rent would be hard to do. Either way, I’d be broke in a few days. I made a decision to go to the movies, eat popcorn and not think about it.
That night on the way back to the motel, I stopped at the liquor store to pick up a jug and a copy of the L.A. Times. I wanted to see what was available in the Employment Section. Once I had the paper, I went by the store’s cold cuts department and selected a 12-ounce package of expensive bologna for Rocco. I felt bad about leaving him alone in the unlit room for so many hours.
When I got back to the motel, I opened the cold cuts, shredded several pieces, then dumped them into his bowl. He ignored the offering at first, so I added milk and pushed the dish against his nose. He still was unmoved.
Then I poured in a little whiskey, less than an ounce. He evaluated my submission with a snort and a tentative swipe of his big pink tongue—a master chef sampling the broth of his underling apprentice. It pleased him enough that he ate about half the contents of the bowl, while looking up at me from time to time as if to make sure that I understood he was doing me a favor.
I was almost out of money and I needed an income. A job. Opening the L.A. Times, I had the idea of bartender positions first, thinking that I might be lucky enough to earn money pouring drinks. I’d done it before at two different saloons in New York, until it had become clear that fighting was an important component of the trade.
There were only six small ads in the bartend
er section, anyway. Five were for more formal restaurant and hotel work, upscale stuff. The last was in another area code. Away from Hollywood. A bartender needs to be no further than walking distance from work. I gave up the idea.
Next I looked at advertisements for boiler rooms. “Telemarketing.” I hoped that I could make myself do it again. The money was always fast, and hammering customers with preposterous come-on lies seemed to fit much better here in Los Angeles. With a couple of drinks in me, I could go back to guaranteeing color TV’s and Hawaiian vacations, duping clerks and receptionists and assistant managers into receiving truck loads of photocopy toner cartridges, office supply seconds, gas station driveway cleaner, surplus cable and wire, tools, computer ribbon and guaranteed loans…“Mrs. Washington, Bill Baxter with United Credit Consultants getting back to you…Your loan application is in the final approval stage right now. I’m almost sure we’ll have the good news this week. We’ll need you to send in your processing fee TODAY so we can complete our paperwork…I’ll hold on while you get your check book…Of course it’s guaranteed. We personally stand behind each and every loan…”
My problem was that I didn’t know any phone room people here, and trying the wrong hustle could take a day or more potential income out of my pocket. There were no ads that promised the telemarketer a weekly guarantee or cash every day, so I decided it was safest to pass.
I worked a fresh pint halfway down looking through the other sections of the classified, circling possibilities, hating and fearing having to confront the ads.
From the “Chauffeur,” “Driver,” and “Clerk” columns I went to “Trainees.” Nothing inspired me. Finally, back under “Sales,” I came to a narrow, thin ad that looked fetching. Dream Mate International needed Counselor/Salespersons for their new office in Westchester. “GUARANTEED DRAW PAID WEEKLY—HIGH COMMISSIONS—DAILY CASH BONUSES…Must have own car and be prepared to earn BIG $$$$!!! No previous experience necessary—WE TRAIN—Only serious and highly motivated need apply.”
There was a 24-hour hotline number to call. I read through the ad twice more to be sure that I was highly motivated, then dialed the hotline.
A recording with instructions answered. A phone mail lady. She told me to punch a series of keys. I pressed those, then got more instructions, hit some more buttons, then heard a man’s voice explain a long deal about how splendid being a counselor at DMI could be. The recording had high praise for a new guy named Glen Manoff. In his first full week, Glen had earned $1,000 in commission and bonuses. The message said that Mitch Glickman, the old-timer, made $3,000.
It was a long, sophisticated presentation dealing with the importance of video dating and the career path to financial independence at DMI.
I did what the voice requested and left my name, a callback number and the message, “I am a highly motivated career salesman with a burning desire to achieve financial independence. Your DMI deal sounds like a path to success, fulfillment and greatness. I hope that you will call me back right away so that I can get on DMI’s winning team.” I pressed the # key, the way the directions indicated and after a new voice wished me happy holidays, I hung up.
After the call, my head was pounding and my body was jerked full of adrenaline. Fear of employment. I didn’t think anyone would call back from DMI, but I turned on the lights and went to the closet anyway. I would need the right clothes.
My sports jacket, the heavy grey tweed that I’d worn on the plane and to the funeral, looked passable. My only dark pants had a small noticeable rip at the bottom of the crotch. They were wrinkled and without a crease, but they’d be okay after a trip to the cleaners. I’d spilled something on my only dress shirt and tie and that stain appeared to be permanent and fatal, smelling like brake fluid. My daily brown shoes would look okay if they were polished.
The rest of that night I smoked, watched HBO and read poetry, not sleeping. The idea of a job again, after the treatment center and six months of unemployment, had my mind racing.
As I lay awake, I began to blame Rocco. Watching him curled up on the floor next to the warmth of a heating duct yelping in his sleep, I became aware that having him in my life was like strapping a wet sandbag to my ass. I was a prisoner to debt because of this animal.
By myself, I could sleep in the car and save three hundred a week in rent, but with my father’s sick mutt as a dependent, I was now obliged to provide food and warmth as one would provide for a child.
What if the fucker with his evil breath had hip dysplasia, or needed tooth extractions, or had contracted doggie cancer requiring hundreds or thousands of dollars in veterinary expenses? What then? My brain spent the rest of the night exploring ways to be rid of the beast.
At 9:00 a.m., I got the animal shelter’s number from the information operator. I dialed, a computer answered with instructions. I pressed, and entered my way into another phone system with hold intervals. A minute or so later, a live attendant finally came on the line. I hadn’t slept in thirty hours.
“I know of a sick dog,” I said to the voice at the other end. “He needs help. Veterinary attention.”
“We’re not the vet, sir,” the guy said. “We deal with homeless pets.”
“Then who do I call?”
“If you have a sick animal, call a vet.”
“I can’t afford a vet. What if this dog were homeless? Would you take him then?”
“We’d come out and pick him up.”
“He’s homeless. I’m moving. How does it work? How do we proceed?”
“We dispatch one of our personnel to come and get the dog…I’ll need the animal’s approximate weight, color and a general location of where he was last seen. What’s the nearest major intersection to the location of the animal?”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll give you the address…It’s the Starburst Motel on La Brea Avenue just north of Sunset…What happens next? To the dog.”
“We’ll pick him up and hold him for seventy-two hours or until somebody shows up to claim him. You are not the owner of the animal, correct?”
“Correct. What if nobody comes to get him?”
“After the mandatory 72-hour period, we put the animal to sleep.”
“We can’t do that.”
“…Sir, we’re busy here. Are you reporting a stray dog?”
“He whimpers in his sleep all night and seems to be in a lot of pain. What’s your recommendation?”
“Find his owner or bring him to the shelter.”
“His owner’s dead. I’m in charge of the dog now.”
“How old is the animal?”
“Very old, maybe twelve or thirteen.”
“Have him put to sleep.”
“I can’t do that. The dog belonged to my father.”
“Then take the animal to a vet.”
“I told you, I don’t have the money for a vet.”
“I can’t help you, sir.”
“I asked for a recommendation.”
“I just gave you one.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
After noon that day, my room phone rang and woke me up. At first I thought it was Amy, but it was Susan Bolke, Mr. Berkhardt’s assistant from Dream Mate International. Susan was returning my message for the VP of sales. She sounded young and sexy and businesslike.
She said that Mr. Berkhardt had been impressed by my message and had asked her to set an appointment with me for a job interview the next day. Susan gave me the address of the ASI office in Westchester. I puked for ten minutes, then took a long hot shower. It helped to quiet my mind.
Rocco wouldn’t eat anything, but when I went to the door to leave, he got up and acted like he wanted to go too. I remembered what it was like to be locked alone in a room and decided to let him come with me. Me and this dog had things in common…
First, we walked in the direction of the cleaners down the block on Sunset. He was still limping, but stopped to pee ten or fifteen times. We even pissed tog
ether on the same shrub.
The window sign at the cleaners advertised, SAME DAY SERVICE in big letters as if SAME DAY SERVICE were the name of the shop. I decided to try my luck.
To clean and repair the trousers, the guy wanted $16.00. I negotiated in American, but he responded in a form of Asian, nodding his head up and down. When I asked how much it was for the tailoring alone, he nodded quickly many times and said $12.00. We arrived at an agreement to just do the cleaning, without the repair, but the price would be $6.00, 50% more because I wanted same day service. I nodded, and he nodded, and we closed the deal.
I helped Rocco climb into the back seat of the Dart and drove to the Pick And Save department store on Western Avenue. Inside, in the men’s section, I found two manufacturer’s-reject white dress shirts in a plastic package for $14.99 (You had to buy two). They were made from a plastic miracle fabric that excluded cotton. I threw the shirts into my wire shopping basket and continued on.
Pick & Save specialized in odd merchandise. Close outs, seconds, discontinued items. There were no neck ties in the men’s section, but in the boys’ aisle I found a display that had a number of different kinds. Most were too short, or unsuitable, because of the childish themes painted on their fronts. But I did find a dark blue clip-on with little galloping white pigs running hither and yon across the front. The tie went in the wire basket also.
In another department, I discovered a strange flow-on shoe polish for 89 cents that must have failed badly as a marketing gimmick, because there were hundreds of the little sponge-topped bottles on a shelf twenty feet long. I selected a bottle of the “Calico Brown,” and an additional one of the “Ebony,” in case I ever expanded my wardrobe to include black shoes.
14
SUSAN BOLKE’S PERFUME WAS AS SEXY AS HER VOICE. SHE HAD a clipboard and protruding nipples and a frizzy hair style like the girl in the vaginal spray ad on TV. Everybody who worked at DMI dressed as if they were applying for a job. The men had double-breasted suits, and the women all wore panty hose and lots of jewelry.
