Lost Angeles

by David Louden

  I awoke to the sound of children playing and by playing you should probably infer screaming like banshees in the street. It had snowed again only this time nature hadn’t decided to piss all over it and turn it to slush. A snowball fight ensued which I could only watch with one eye as to double barrel the outside world would allow too much light into my aching head. At some point someone had borrowed my head to crack a safe then proceeded to fuck my throat with a razorblade. I managed standing, not completely vertical but close enough. I hadn’t seen the living room in ages; it felt as though I was so tightly wrapped up with my own issues that the world around me became a beige backdrop for a time. We had done a good job decorating the place when we moved in, the landlord owned the entire block and as such decorated them all in the same bland inoffensive colours that were so passive and soulless that they actually caused offence. The dark green on the feature wall matched Kelly’s eyes perfectly, I had picked that. Brushing my teeth I make a conscious decision to turn it around, turn it all around. Breakfast was a banana, it’s impossible to look manly eating a banana…impossible and once I’m confident it’s in my stomach I popped two painkillers to help overcome the crippling agony that exists inside my head.

  “New start Douglas.” I told myself, spurred on by my own resolution I felt slightly cheerier as I boiled the kettle and made tea, massaged the contents of an orange into a highball glass and toasted some bread.

  Placing it all together on a tray I took it to the bedroom to gleefully introduce Kelly to the fresh start we both needed. For the first time in months we were on the same page. Kelly had grabbed her fresh start too it seemed, and while I slept moved out of our apartment.

  3

  ROB’S MOOD worsened since our near death incident at Sunset Strip’s finest finger buffet. News from the Motherland was that Rosie had pushed ahead with divorce proceedings in his absence, news which would had led him to take to the demon drink if he wasn’t already cohabiting with the ‘liver shriveller’. To take his mind off women folk I proposed a trip to the beach but he didn’t want it. “I don’t need to take me mind off women, I want to take me mind off Rosie,” so I suggested instead a spot of polite lunch, watered down beer and sports at the themed strip club called Poles & Goals. On the walk down the sun-kissed street he explains, with an abundance of breaks in speech to allow for tourist dodging, that he’s not entirely saddened by the divorce proceedings per sé but rather the unemotional and clinical way in which she’s meticulously gone about it. I share with him a tiny snippet of Kelly’s exit from our domicile in an effort to empathise. We agree that the women in our lives to date have all been troublesome ‘cooze dealers’ and enter the sporting establishment.

  Propping up a seat at the bar we devour chicken wings like life does dreams and drink from their generic beer selection. We enter a near state of hypnosis as the female jiggly bits on a staff member behind the counter bounce from left to right, up and down as a busy lunch turnover keeps them all working flat out.

  With lunchtime in the past we bed in for an afternoon of conversation and beer. Our waitress Ana brings the food bill and our sixth round of drink.

  “Yawl ok for everythin’?” She drawls.

  “I am fed and watered Ana, you have nourished me handsomely. Thank you.” I replied.

  She smiles at the accent. “Belfast right?”

  I was heartily impressed; I budge up in our newly acquired booth to allow room for Ana to slip in beside us, which she accepts. The leather chaps of her work uniform squeak as they collide with the upholstery of the booth.

  “Impressive, quite the ear you got there.” I said.

  “Two even.” added Rob.

  “I saw you guys come in, I gotta say you ain’t buying into the whole Poles & Goals experience. What’s got you long faced?” she queries.

  Rob takes the opportunity to talk her through his tale of love and loss on the hedonic isle of Ibiza. By the time his epic saga is finished the booth is awash with Goals’ girls, all listening, all offering advice, all moved. The manager chases them off and they disperse in all directions. Apparently there’s a limit of one lady per table and only then if we buy a dance.

  “Christ man you’re better than a new-born baby multiplied by a puppy.” I whispered.

  “What are you on about?” He asked.

  “The ladies, they love you…congratulations man you’re seeing more ass tonight than a proctologist.” I stated as I downed the remainder of my beer oblivious to the fact it was day time. Rob was sceptical until he looked over at the bar to see a petite blonde and a dark haired Italian girl both staring in the direction of our booth. Ana, whose hair was a cascade of blonde ringlets, and a tall Italian looking brunette with olive skin whose announcement had singled her out as Margarita were smiling over at us. We smile, trying our best not to look like predators.

  “One more drink then we’re dry till later.” Ordered Rob.

  “Worried about your junk not working’?” I asked only half serious, to which he replied “quality control my good man.” with not a shadow of humour.

  Twenty minutes later we were settling our bill and leaving a large enough tip that it would reflect positively on any future encounters out of the Sports themed locale. As we head to the door Ana appears from behind the greeters’ station. She slips a piece of folded paper into Rob’s left hand.

  “My number, gimme a call after seven,” she says “and you,” pointing to me “my girl Rita wants to know all about you so make sure you keep yourself free.”

  I nod and steal one more look at the dark haired Italian goddess in a sheer lace night gown. “I’ll let you guys finish up” I say, stealing a final look at Rita and exiting the building where I light up a Marlboro red and try to look nonchalant; I had aimed for cool but nonchalant would have to do.

  Inside the conversation is short but promising. After satisfying herself that her manager isn’t looking Ana gives Rob a kiss. Under strict orders from Rob we embark on a time killing exercise that doesn’t involve self destruction, the first of its kind while on the West Coast. The sky is a beautiful shade of blue, the wind absent, the City sweltering. In an effort to see something of cultural importance a foot powered trek to the Hollywood Bowl is undertaken. The walk is long, entirely uphill and showcases Angelian’s contempt for pedestrians. We’re almost mowed down on several occasions by people still filled to the brim with the frontier spirit as they ride around in their shit heap metal Honda horses. A mid ramble stop brings us to Hollywood Heritage Museum. I explain the significance to cinema that this house has, Rob kindly fakes interest but it affords us an opportunity to grab a cigarette and rest our heels under the hanging foliage that surrounds the old wooden house.

  “You know a lot about this stuff.” He said.

  “Pitfalls of an unnecessary tertiary education.” I retorted.

  “That where you met Kelly?” Rob was fishing, I could practically see the pole.

  “There or somewhere else, why are you doing this now?” I snarled.

  “Man we’ve been hangin’ out twenty-four seven now for over a week and the only thing I know about you is what you like to drink but you know everythin’ about me.” Explained Rob.

  “Today’s not the day for getting to know me Rob, there’s a beautiful woman waiting at the end of a shift for you and that beautiful woman is bringing a gal pal for this plus one here and getting to know me will be no good thing. It’ll get you non laid.”

  “Speak for yourself.” Rob interjected.

  He had a point, “Fair dues, point taken. Can we move on because I’m beginning to get relationship flashbacks?!”

  I urged him to drop it. He did. As I stubbed my cigarette out I felt the need to break the ice, “You can be my plus one to the pity party tomorrow. I swear.”

  The Hollywood Bowl was quiet, outside of concert time it was a place of tranquillity in a City that had little to do with tranquillity. On days when bands and artists were sound checking a forthcoming gig there was
an open house policy. It allowed visitors and vagrants alike to camp out in the amphitheatre and enjoy a free afternoon unpolished gig. Turning the corner into the hallowed grounds of the Bowl we’re confronted by a gentleman sleeping at the side of the stage while a handful of technical crew rig up. Elton John was playing the following night, it had been a while since I had followed any form of popular culture that wasn’t Naughty Neighbours Monthly but I was pretty sure the unconscious man rocking double denim by the PA stack wasn’t the Rocket Man. As we took our seats a call come out over the radio, crackled and inaudible, the unconscious man got to his feet, jammed his noise cancelling plugs into his ears and came front and centre as he began singing an unfamiliar song. “Support act” I stated. I lit a cigarette and put my feet up on the backboard of the seat in front of me. Rob takes his phone out and snaps a couple of photos including one of me scowling.

  “Not once have I seen you take a photograph. Not once this entire time.” He said.

  “I didn’t come here to capture memories.” I thought. I knew if I behaved as though I hadn’t heard him he’d eventually leave me alone.

  Monitoring him from my peripheral vision he finally refocused his attention on the stage in front of us. The walk back to the hostel was even more gruelling than the uphill assault. The heat had increased and dehydration from our lunchtime beers had left me with a micro-hangover. Smoking my way through the pain and smog of the Hollywood Freeway we finally hit the starry street that is Hollywood Blvd. Reaching the hostel we climb the stairs, ignore the Russians and the fresh carpet stains, the smell of bleach filling the air. Entering the room I make the executive decision that I’ve earned a sleep after a hard fought day.

  As I wake a female face was at the front of my mind, consciousness wiped my ability to recall details of it but it was welcoming, it made me happy. I had the slightest essence of a song niggling at me, something I was listening to maybe, or something from my dream…but it was gone. There are sobs in the adjoining room to ours and through the wafer walls I can hear the midlands twang of my roommate Rob. The Japanese kid sits across from me strumming on his guitar with his earphones in. His mop of black hair covering his eyebrows. He makes eye contact as I rise.

  “Hey Kenny kindly tell me what the fuck’s goin’ on?” I asked.

  He wasn’t entirely sure of the details but it had sounded like an all girl riot squad hit our neighbouring room and now, seemingly, Rob was caught up in the aftermath. The salvage and clean up mission. Staggering out into the hall I can make out the sound of bitchiness coming from the communal room. Knocking on the door it opens and I see Rob sitting on a bed with Scottish Jen sobbing in his arms. Her lip appears swollen. Rob waves me off with a stare, stealthily retreating from the doorway I march to the communal space. Two bleach blonde jocks are playing pool while three bikini clad Barbies sit on the couch in a fit of uncontrollable laughter. I notice in passing the TV is the same model I threw out of the window of my apartment when Kelly came back to reclaim her appliances. Snatching the remote from Alpha Barbie I turn the TV off.

  “The state Jen’s in,” I snapped “that’s your doing I take it?!” I direct it at Malibu Barbie and chums. It’s not a question.

  The three girls giggled at the sound of her name.

  “I’ve never met such a hateful bunch of fuckin’ skanks.” I spat at them.

  The sound of a cue hitting the floor brought my attention back around to the two guys behind me. The taller one was painfully trendy in a basketball vest, camouflage cargo shorts and sandals. His sidekick wore a University of Ohio tracksuit, he must have bought it in the gift shop, they clearly don’t I.D.

  “You watch your tongue when talking to my girl, you hear me?!” He swaggered when he walked, I hate that.

  “Stay the fuck out of this!” I replied.

  I moved as he went to take a swing at me and was caught by a cheap shot from his little buddy. As I went to ground I swung out a kick and made full contact with the Jock’s baby makers. The force of the kick rang out and made my foot hurt, I could only imagine how he felt as he lay on the floor clutching his jewels and screaming. The little one had taken the chance to lay a couple of kicks in on me, as I fought my way vertical again he disappeared. Rob emerged, unnoticed, and threw him into the side of the pool table cracking one of the gaming table’s legs. A punch to the side of the head kept him down. Back on my feet I returned to Alpha Barbie.

  “You better discover some manners before she feels better. She’ll probably decide she wants to pound that perky lil ass of yours. I don’t blame her.” I said.

  Rob and I exit the communal room an inch taller. I remember feeling like we should have at least high fived over one of them but by the time we were within touching distance the moment had passed. That’s the thing about high fives, if you don’t do them in the right way at the right time you’re going to come across looking incredibly white.

  “Would you be pissed at me if I bailed tonight?” Rob asked on the way back down the corridor.

  “Robert this is bigger than you and Rosie, this is about a nice young lady with swell cannons and an introductory meeting to your trouser trumpet.” I replied.

  “I know, this is not about me moping around here. Jen’s really upset. They apparently were her friends before that one got convinced Jen was tryin’ to steal her Neanderthal boyfriend and they beat her up.” He explained.

  The gesture moved me. It’s an incredibly selfless act to cock block one’s self. “Are you sweet on this girl son?” I asked in my best fatherly impression.

  “Eat a dick, she’s upset. She’s nice and now, thanks to them lot she’s lonely.” Justified Rob.

  “Go with God my child,” I said kissing him on his forehead “thanks for dealing with Mr Cheapshot.”

  Rob disappeared back inside Jen’s room while I washed the blood off my face and prepared my best ‘You should see the other guy’ lines.

  Pulling up in a Yellow Cab it was comforting to see that the sight of fifty percent of the agreed party was met with confusion rather than disappointment. Ana was clearly looking forward to this evening as she had broken out the big guns, a classic little black dress, white gold swallows adorned her necklace and stilettos were on her feet. Margarita had let her dark mane blow free in the wind. She rocked a more casual approach with mouth-wateringly curve hugging denim jeans a black suit jacket with a white Jimmy Eat World T-Shirt under it. She tried to restrain her hair by tucking it behind her ears, but it was a futile gesture as the loose waves broke free repeatedly. For my part I have always been a fan of comfort and the snoozing Rocket Man earlier put me in a mood for double denim which I adhered to. I explained to Ana how a friend had been hurt and Rob wasn’t comfortable in leaving them alone, that he apologised for standing her up. They both seemed visibly moved by the whole thing, more so when they realised that the black eye I was now sporting came at the defence of a lady’s honour. Venice Beach was a crazed meat market during the day but at night the temperature dropped, the waves eased and the place became deathly silent. Apart from the occasional car, the cough of the homeless sleeping in the shadows and the seven foot Jesus who stalks the streets putting diners off their dinner conversation and drunks into rehab, all was quiet. I ponied up and took Ana & Margarita to James Beach for fish tacos and pitchers of cocktails. Buoyed by the success of Rob in his tale of woe I felt considerably more open to the topic of ‘What the fuck am I doing here’. The food arrived as we ordered our second pitcher.

  “So how long have you ladies been picking up strays at Poles’n’Goals?” I asked.

  “Oh Christ, yeah you must think we’re total cougars.” Joked Ana.

  “Certainly not…you’re both too young to be cougars. What predator that makes you though I’ve no idea.” I replied.

  “Well for the record,” added Margarita “we had designs on defiling the both of you but since you’re a little outnumbered we’ll play nice.”

  “Ah Rob…have I mentioned how I hate him and he�
��s dead to me?!”

  We shared an awkward laugh. “You seemed like nice guys, I’m relatively new in town myself.” Said Ana.

  It turned out Ana had been looking climates new round about the same time I was having my fifth consecutive leaving party with students who didn’t even know my last name in Fast City. Ana came from a Mormon family in Provo, Utah. Having finished high school she managed to postpone the inevitable by applying for a Marine Biology course in Salt Lake City. Her big brain (as much as I’d love to say T and A ultimately I’m a brain man) led her to finish her degree with a year and a half to spare. That’s when Dad appeared on her doorstep with a collection of male suitors. Facing life in Utah and a martial bed rota she got herself on the first post-graduate course she could get to accept her, as far away from Salt Lake City as she could get. Her recent application for a firearm licence was proof that should Papa or Suitor number 1, 2 or 3 turn up at her door she’ll not be taken back alive. Margarita’s story was somewhat familiar, she was a model or at least wanted to be, she certainly had what was required to ace the test. She seemed too content bouncing around from short term relationship to short term relationship living, never learning but, more importantly, never really picking up that many battle scars. If my waist was the demilitarised zone then the North of me was pulling for Ana’s affection while the South chanted for Team Rita.

  With dinner over the three of us walked along the beach contemplating the next move. A small fire burned brightly just short of one of the lifeguard stations. Margarita suggested we check it out. Sitting in a circle around the fire the oddest collection of hippies and hip hop enthusiasts listened to music and smoked weed. At the head of the circle – if there is a head of a circle, under the dark velvet sky, sat what I can only imagine is the King of the hippies. With a long straggly beard he sat naked playing the bongos. His appearance was so striking that it took a couple of minutes to realise that the hippy’s feet were pointing in the wrong direction, a birth defect that medical science ignored in his infancy. As the circle widens to absorb us into the mix we took a seat in the sand and awaited the good smoke to come our way.