Lost Angeles

by David Louden

  My head was light, fanciful even, but grounded enough to know that my two companions were caressing one of my legs each. As I take another drag I catch a nod of approval from one of the hip hop smokers. The arrival of thunder and lightning calls a premature end to the Woodstock re-enactment. Getting to my feet I help Ana and Margarita up and we run back towards the boardwalk. Once on solid ground Ana suggests we hit up an underground rave that Margarita had been telling her about the previous week. We’re all a bit flighty from the military grade cannabis that was doing the rounds so how we got from the Venice boardwalk to a suburb by the airport is anyone’s guess. Though cab is the most likely option it’s not inconceivable that I sprouted wings from my ball sack and flew us there. Down two flights of stairs in an old bunker, a well-to-do man’s Cold War hang up, we’re ushered inside by a friend of Margarita and asked to contribute five dollars to the Hurricane Katrina fund. California seemingly has a better class of ecstasy lover than Northern Ireland. The base of the music reverberated off the solid stone walls of the shelter as people bounced and rocked and jittered to the beat of their own personal hit. Rave music has never been my particular fancy; I’ve always hated the industrial nature of its repetition but with Rob taking care of Jen I was a man alone in a strange land with no aspirations and nothing to lose. Leaning in I ask what the two would like to drink, a futile platitude when faced with the volume of noise that was ear fucking us but chivalry can still be revived.

  The queue to the bar was little more than a cattle drive but with most of the clientele there for bottled water I was able to make good time in securing three double vodka and Red Bulls. Returning to where I left them I find Ana and Margarita dancing with one another, my approach brings about a cheer and the order to “open your mouth” from Margarita. Obliging a lady is the gentlemanly thing I do, I opened my word hole and felt her finger creep in, leaving on my tongue a small pill. Taking a drink from my vodka it disappeared into my depths, it was less than an hour before it began to kick in. My heart raced, blood boiled, every millimetre of me felt as though it had been recharged. I was brand new again, one hundred percent and free. Even the music began to soak into my being. I found a previously unrecognised connection to the beat of the trance music. Ana and Margarita felt it too, I could tell. We were all connected.

  5AM came and the shelter shut its doors for the night, we stood by the side of the road exhausted. Reborn in gallons of our own sweat, Margarita points out that her house is less than a block away and faced with the prospect of hitchhiking or cabbing it from LAX, effectively, to Hollywood I figure it’s no bad thing to avail of the kindly offered hospitality. Eager not to split up a winning team Ana seconds the motion and the three of us head for Washington Park.

  The inside of Margarita’s house resembles an interactive fashion museum. The leather couch, a gift from an artist friend who was now working with Dave La Chappelle. The wallpaper handmade from an old textile print, the penny finally dropped when she showed us the master bedroom and its fifteen foot circular bed…this was not her house. Relatively new to the City of Angels Margarita had landed on her feet by getting a job house sitting this salute to consumerism for someone she knew. Someone who wasn’t in L.A too often probably someone from New York, where the two month old luggage tags said she was from. Making my way through the labyrinth of cool I find myself in the Master of the house’s office and no more than ten feet from his liquor cabinet. Upon inspection it’s obvious that Master has a thing for twenty five year old single malts. We’d all love to have that particular hobby. Grabbing the one which speaks to me first I open the bottle, grab three whiskey tumblers and continue on my lost exploration. Eventually I make it to the kitchen where I can hear signs of life, “surely the living room is around here somewhere” I concluded. Stepping down the marble steps connecting the kitchen to the main hall I walk into the soft lit and flickering living room. Lit by the fire, heavy shadows are cast around the margins of the room. Bookshelves, awards, family photos all deadened, all hidden in the absence of light.

  The girls were curled up on the couch, Ana legs up on Rita’s knees. I hand them their glasses and pour three generous whiskeys. I hadn’t thought to bring mixture. Why would I? I drop into the armchair, kicking off my boots and pouring a large one. Eyes hung heavy, I felt and looked like shit. Sweaty, strung out, beaten. The young dancers from Poles & Goals on the other hand looked immaculate. As though they’d just stepped off a Bodyform commercial.

  “Sláinte!” I tossed, knocking back a mouthful.

  “Slan-cha…is that right?” Asked Ana.

  “Close enough Utah.”

  “How’re you findin’ LA Irish?” Adds Margarita “It’s somethin’ else right?!”

  “To. Be. Sure!” Irishisms hulked with alcohol. It brought about a laugh.

  “I thought you said you people don’t say that.” Margarita gleefully struck.

  “Oh we don’t…and what is this ‘You People’. Anymore of that you people and Paddys will be marching on Washington.”

  “To be sure!” Ana toasted, drink in the air.

  We laughed, downed and then reloaded. This time filling the heavy based crystal tumblers to the brim.

  “Woah woah, I gotta drive in the morning!” protested Margarita.

  “Seriously Rita…ecstasy…really! Now you’ve got to drive?” Ana countered.

  “Schooled!” Said I.

  She shut up and sipped on her single malt.

  “So why LA?”

  I pretended not to understand Ana’s question.

  “It’s just…it’s quite far. What you runnin’ from?” She continued.

  “Simple really. My ol’ man was trying to marry me off to these three horse farmers.”

  “You were listenin’!”

  “Always.”

  “So why then?”

  “Why not” I took a gulp catching up with Rita “it’s LA. It’s somewhere we’d always planned to come and it sure as shit ain’t…”

  “Who’s we?”

  “What?”

  “You said we…who’s we?”

  “The royal we.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Proper English is not bullshit young lady. You’d get that if you ever grasped the letter U in the word colour…colour!”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously!”

  “We was a girl. We is just me now.”

  “You guys break up?”

  “Somethin’ like that.”

  “And there’s no goin’ back?”

  “I’m sittin’ here right?”

  “I have an idea.” Margarita had chipped in again, her volume almost made the two of us jump.

  “What’s the plan shouty?” I ask.

  “Well you seem blue…about we.”

  “No. I’m not.”

  “I was thinkin’ we could all fuck and maybe make you feel better…” she said unabashed.

  “…no Rita” countered Ana “he said no…he’s ok.”

  “Maybe I’m a little upset.”

  Who stuck what where first would be a complicated tale, the details graphic, the motor skills incredibly sloppy. As the sun emerged in the Californian sky darkness left us as we screwed ourselves into somewhere that exists between exhaustion and oblivion.

  I would wake around noon, highly respectable for someone who had partaken in such a night of debauchery. My keen detective skills told me something wasn’t right. The last thing I remembered was being locked at the hip with Margarita while Ana rode my face to the Farmer’s Market and all this took place in the living room yet here I am, hungry, dirty, hung-over and in the Master bedroom. It couldn’t have all been a dream, my ego couldn’t take it being a dream. It was a Penthouse forum letter of a night, please let there be something to distinguish it from the mountain of wet dreams pubescent teens have. The answer was all too apparent the moment I attempted re-entry into my jeans, the chaffing was eye wateringly painful. It was real,
enough to give me a bad dose of the blue balls. It should have been my proudest moment, if I had told that story to myself I would have high fived with me but my nuggets were aching, my head pounding, I could barely walk and was feeling mighty sorry for myself. It hit me when I was brushing my teeth with a stranger’s toothbrush, I knew how I ended up here. Knee deep in pussy with a cock covered in shit.

  In my absence Rob and Jen had gotten close. He had talked her round from blaming herself for the falling out with her ‘friends’, and had explained how those “fuckin’ Barbie bitches” were not good people and she deserves a better calibre of compadré. He even managed to extract that smile. The one I thought was so winning and worthy of a potential ass kicking from the cock jocks. Once the tears dried they snazzed themselves up and headed to the Sushi House for some overpriced dining that’ll leave you craving a cheese burger before nightfall. Even though Rob was from Birmingham and Jen from Glasgow they seemed to know a lot of the same people from the Ibiza party circuit and they spent the rest of the night connecting the dots of how they managed to continually miss meeting one another.

  Jen was an accountant who had recently lost her job on account of her boss cooking the books, being tried, convicted and ultimately hanging himself in an eight by ten cell. The administrators moved in and picked the bones clean, she was able to sell her house before she defaulted on the mortgage, cleared her debts and had just about enough to venture forth and discover the Sunshine State. Afterwards they would drop by the Pig and Whistle for a taste of home ale and some banjo music before Rob walked her to her door. He’d refuse to verify the rest of the evening but as they say in the U.S of A dollars to donuts she kissed him, brought him inside her room and made the rest of her dorm room extremely uncomfortable as they bumped uglies and traded O faces all night long. I know this without him needing to confirm because he smelt as bad as I did when I next saw him.

  The bus ride back to Hollywood was long and yet welcoming. In my good nature I opted to tidy the house before leaving and was there long enough to bare witness to the Master returning home. A Master who bore a striking resemblance to Margarita and spoke of a daughter who was “doing better having been off the rails for a few years”. I prayed he didn’t noticed the bottle which used to contain three hundred dollars worth of whiskey. But I would have preferred that to him noticing that he could smell his daughter off my face. Slipping out the back of the house I traversed a couple of garden fences until I reached the road and began the multi-route epic bus journey back to the Blvd and my bed. My chest felt hollow, I had clearly smoked more than ‘Big Tobacco’ could have ever hoped but still I craved one, too fragile I held my nerve and tried to sleep through the lengthy journey.

  It was a few hours before I was on La Brea and within touching distance of a shower and a change of clothes. I longed for a day of pampering after the night shift I had just put in. Walking past Poles & Goals I threw a glance into the building. Both Margarita and Ana waved to me, their customers blissfully unaware where the hands that currently served them food had been. I’d see them both again…but not yet, not without a bottle of Lucozade and a line of speed. Walking was painful, they had gone to town on me. Finally I reached the hostel and putting one foot in front of the other, climbed the dark corridor that led to the reception and the corridors that would shepherd me to sleep. As I past the reception point the Russian son called for me to come back. I played deaf but his old man raced after me and pinned me to the wall, showering me in his dental hygiene issues as he screamed that I was “no welcome here”. I’ve been generally slow on the up-take with the cause and effect nature of the modern age. How life has consequences and sometimes, even when you do something good, you end up having to eat just a little bit of shit. That morning, upon hearing that one of his residents had suffered a battered testicle in an altercation on his premises the previous night he followed the trail of pointing fingers to Jen, Rob and my absentee self. Evicting the three of us and calling the cops. Jen and Rob had taken refuge in the Pig and Whistle with my bag. They had given my phone to Kenny in our shared dorm with the instruction that he watches out and delivers it to me at the first possible opportunity. Fully charged I turn the phone on to receive several messages which caught me up on our exile from the International Hostel.

  Leaving before the Russians remembered to call the police I put the Monroe and Lugosi impersonators to shame as I Robert Mitchum’d my ass down Hollywood Blvd and into the dark lair of the Pig and Whistle. Jen and Rob were tucked up in a booth, Rob – phone in hand as he awaits an update on my whereabouts. As I gingerly climb the steps to the raised booth area he appears to be wearing the same look my Mother would wear when I came home from University at the weekend.

  “Where the fuck did you get to?” He hollered.

  “Presently I have no idea where the fuck I would start,” I replied before continuing “hello again Jennifer, I believe our chivalry got you expelled from the Eastern block Comfort Inn.”

  Jen laughs; it’s a pretty reaction…my balls ache a little. “Your chivalry may have went unappreciated by Boris and the boy but as I said to Rob, thank you!” She offers a smile to boot.

  “Well as long as you don’t plan of thanking me the way you thanked him cos my dong is killin’ me.” I proclaimed.

  Jen threw Rob a look, who protested innocence at all costs to credibility. “Don’t you bullshit me Englishman you stink of sex” I replied before turning to Jen “So how is my boy…you know downstairs…in the meat locker.”

  The question was met with the verbal equivalent of slight of hand, within seconds the waiting staff were at our table and the question was lost in the sound of clinking glasses and sports.

  Breakfast came, full English with a tea to wash it all down. It was the first fluid beverage I’d consumed that didn’t have a percentage sign on the label in weeks. But when it comes to fried foods, I’m a traditionalist. The time had come to consider what we were going to do. We were three individuals brought together by a hostel on Hollywood Blvd and subsequently expelled from the one thing that bound us together. The prospect of separating wasn’t particularly appealing, we had cultivated friendships. Even the idea of having Rob and Jen constantly making puppy eyes at one another wasn’t enough for me to desire solitude. The issue of re-housing would have to be addressed but before that the obligatory inspection. I had all my money with me when out with Ana and Margarita and somehow, by the good grace of God I hadn’t parted company with it. Rob’s notice was short and our eviction swift. I was unsure what he was able to pack on my behalf before we were dumped on to the glass covered sidewalk. Fishing through the rolled up contents of my travel bag I found my phone charger, watch, razor and all things a man needs…one thing was missing though. The one thing I wasn’t prepared to be parted from. Realising what had been left behind I got to my feet dropping money on the table to cover the cost of our scrans and, ignoring the groin pain, marched back down Hollywood Blvd towards the Russians. Bounding up the stairs I’m again confronted by the Boy who screams for me to stop. Like before I ignore him, the Father appears again but this time rather than bathe in the contents of his oversized tonsil sacks I push past him and make a dash to the communal room. Alpha Barbie is painting her nails while the boyfriend Brad…or Hoyt or whatever he’s called is watching ESPN and nursing his balls. I step right in front of the screen.

  “Where the fuck is it? Don’t make me cock punch the shit out of you!” I roared.

  “You got some ner..”

  “Shut. The Fuck. Up Barbie!” I said, interrupting her speech.

  The Russian and his son had reached me. Pushing the son off I warn him. Jen and Rob appear at the threshold to the communal space too. I point to the fire escape outside the large bay windows.

  “Give me it or I’ll fuckin’ dump you right into the fuckin’ traffic.” I warned.

  Boris had disappeared from view and as Brad protests his innocence again the fat hairy Russian reappears clutching in his bear like fu
cking paw my first edition of 1984.

  “You look for this shit-bird?!” His voice chucking word bricks at me rather than speech.

  Relief washed over me, my shoulders drop, my mood lifted.

  “Oh thank God! That book’s really imp...” before I could finish he puts it between vicey flesh shovels and pulls.

  The book separates into two pieces, as he begins to pull the pages out individually. I lose it. Red descends. Pushing his son out of the way I charge at the man tank, I hurl a fist which connects with his face. He’s not as impervious as he looks and he begins to go down, a second and third punch puts him on the ground before the world switches off.

  I come to under fluorescent lighting; a blue stained curtain encloses me from the rest of the room and the single bed I adorn. The son had clocked me in the back of the head with a pool cue before laying some heavy duty kicks and punches into my already inflamed groin and bruised face. Rob would appear from behind the plastic curtain wearing his badge of bravery, a split lip and black eye from going toe to toe with a junior prize fighter. He might bruise like a peach but he did it for my white ass so that makes him a street king in my book.

  “How you feelin’ champ?” He asked.

  “My pee pee is sore.” I replied.

  “Don’t make me laugh my ribs hurt.”

  “I’m glad my injured pee pee amuses you muthafucka!”

  Four hundred dollars later and the Emergency Care centre were happy to grant me a clean bill of health, even if none of the nurses did a thorough inspection of my trouser furniture as I’d requested. We arrived back at the Pig and Whistle where an old hippy waiter called Luke was minding our stuff. As we cooled our heels with a pint it become obvious I was going to be the bastard child to these love birds as they swooned over one another. The Pig and Whistle offer up some fine Guinness; my liver can hold court on that matter. The first pint was gone within a matter of minutes, I slowed my pace as I wasn’t looking forward to attempting to urinate. The bar was filling up, night was falling and we still had no idea where we would call home in the immediate future. The kiss on the cheek from Margarita, who had arrived in unnoticed, was a welcome moment of kindness in an otherwise fucked up day. Margarita’s offer of emergency housing relief was a God send even if I was going to be “working off the rent for three.”