by David Louden
“Chris Coulter! Chris Fuckin’ Coulter!” She exclaimed before Rob was able to put his hand over her giddy schoolgirl mouth.
There wasn’t a moment when the entire party stopped, music paused, birds hung in the sky before everything sprang back to life but there was certainly an acknowledgement of a few people who were out of place. I take another quick glance at Chris Fuckin’ Coulter, the synopses fire and the connection is made. Christ I hated his shit fucking films, “Is he only ever capable of playing doctors or spies?” I asked and was sufficiently answered by a look of pure scorn fired my way by my always understanding Scottish sister. A gaggle of female admirers, all surgically enhanced, all blonde and half under the legal age to be consuming alcohol were crowded around him oblivious to his shitness.
“I’m gonna mingle before his pussy posse give me tube steak.” I proclaimed before disappearing off into bleached tooth masses.
I was well aware that I was batting out of my league in this crowd, the majority of ladies in Tokyo I suspected had piercings in their unmentionable regions that cost more money than I’d see in a year, than I’d see in a really good year. They could smell the poor; I finished my drink and my backup drink while watching The Night on the back wall of the restaurant before I’m approached by someone who looks suspiciously like a young Don Johnson.
“You liking the movie?” He’d ask, taking a sip from his whiskey sour.
“Somewhat baffled that it’s taken me six thousand miles to run into it again.” I said before finishing with “I hope to see The Passenger in the bathroom, though hopefully not Jack Nicholson’s lil Jack. Answer me this, Chris Coulter, doctor or spy?”
Don takes up a stance beside me “I can introduce you if you want?!” He offered.
“I’m good Don, though if any of his lady army need…” I was cut off by him.
“Sorry do I know you?”
“Flattered but hetero.” I replied.
“Yeah flattering yourself, how did you know my name?”
As it transpires Young Don Johnson was a restaurant owner, this restaurant owner and a Hollywood Party Priest by the name of Don Galligan. He had thrown this party for his friend, a small time producer whose birthday was the following day but the guest of honour was yet to arrive as were half the starting line up of the Oakland Raiders.
“…and if you think Chris’ posse is impressive wait till you see the gals that come with a tight end.” He stated, smiling one of those Hollywood shit eating grins that win awards and features in movie trailers every weekend.
“Well I love a good tight end Don Johnson, I’ll drink to that.” I toasted, finishing off my beer. Don downs his whiskey.
“Speaking of which, let’s get another. What can I get ya?”
I asked for, jokingly I might add, a pint of vodka thinking he would laugh it off. My beer had been ten dollars so this request would probably run one hundred easy yet within seconds it appeared in front of me. Then I realised that Don wasn’t without a sense of humour, he could tell I was joking, his retort was to honour my request and proceed to watch me drink it…asshole.
I worked my way through my clear pint all the while talking about film, Italian Neo-Realism seemed to be a point of interest for Don, especially Fellini and Antonioni. It was a subject that could hold my interest, there were many nights when Kelly and I would talk ourselves into exhaustion on the merits of The Red Desert or Nights of Cabiria and it always led to the steamiest nights. That was a “tradition I was willing to forgo tonight” I thought.
“So who do you know here then?” Don slipped into the conversation.
I point out my party crashers, “Just those three plebs.” I replied.
“You crashed this party didn’t you Doug?” He stated.
He didn’t need an answer, he was being nice, probably before he had a Raider ball stomp us.
“Well Don Johnson, you’re too good a friend to lie to.” I said, taking another sip of my vodka pint “We crashed the shit outta this party.”
He laughed before patting me on the back and proclaiming something about the fucking Irish and inviting me outside for a cigarette.
Under the warm desert sky with the beat of the music gently humming in the background Don offers me his cigarette packet; I graciously select one from the contending white heads and light up. He talks me through his family tree; this is a typical conversation for any true Paddy in the New World. Many Americans have a seemingly encyclopaedic understanding of their family’s background. His grandmother, on his mum’s side, came from Limerick. At the end of the First World War her father had upped the family from the land they had called home for hundreds of years and shipped them off to America. Two of the seven children passed before Lady Liberty appeared in the porthole on that mild spring morning. I’m pretty sure the thought of Grandma was the reason he was sharing his cigarettes and giving me buckets of his finest Russian firewater. Across the courtyard Jen and Rob shared a slow dance, I watched in the hope that I didn’t catch either of their eyes and pull them back to reality. It was comforting seeing two friends salvage something good from the chaos that life invites in. I finished my pint with a forceful gulp, setting the glass on a table littered with empties. I had missed the numbing affects of the grown-up drinks as my cousin Adam would call it when he was a child. Stubbing out my cigarette I head back to the bar and order myself a double whiskey. Johnny had spotted an agent I assume he’d recognised from some audition and was in the process of putting the moves on her, “good on him” I told myself. The vodka has heightened my mood, Kelly always warned me about the clear devil. She never thought it mixed well with me, she was probably right. The Antonioni film, which by now I’m convinced is on repeat, had stirred up memories I’d be weighing down with living. Now, with the aid of a forty percentage pint, it had risen to the surface, strong and exaggerated like a brooding hulk of a recollection.
Two hours passed as I sat on the roof of Tokyo sipping my beer and looking out over the low rise buildings of Hollywood Boulevard as the city slept and dreamt of stardom, fame and fortune. As my eyes glide down from the sky and across the busy forecourt of the heaving restaurant I catch the eye of a cocktail waitress wearing the traditional pure white shirt and black skirt, she even had the pencil tucked into her flame red hair. She smiles, it involuntarily invites a wave out of my right hand and like that she’s gone, ducking back inside the building, minutes later the roof door opens. Heels click on the tarred surface and then the red haired smiler, Chloe according to her name badge, is sitting beside me.
“So I’m wondering,” she opens with “you passing?”
I recognised the accent; the lady was a Londoner and an edgy one at that. She had see-saw hips and on her wrists two swallows tattooed. “Straight up from the Marlboro man I’m afraid lady. I thought you food services professionals had the great line on cheech.” I replied, slowly positioning myself in a way that allowed me to look her in the eye without running the risk of nose diving off the roof.
It was only when the wind whipped a beer bottle out of my hand that we took a vote and unanimously decided to take it down to where gravity couldn’t bitch slap us. Under the pristine snow white shirt and black pencil skirt Chloe was a bit of a rocker, the kind of woman who’d steal your AC/DC tee shirt wear it for three days and look hotter in it than you ever could. She left home at fourteen when her mum brought back another new suitor and moved in with a slash bassist from Southwark the week before his twenty-seventh birthday. At sixteen she’d outgrown him, packed a bag and bought a one way to New York, a job in TGI Friday and another in Virgin Megastore, Time Square. It paid for a box room on Forty-Second street before she packed up and moved to Florida. With her apartment in Jacksonville robbed less than a month off the Greyhound, Chloe cashed in her Sea World pay packet and crossed country to Hell.A and she’s been living the good life in Little Armenia, working three jobs to finance the next stage in her Littlest Hobo education ever since. When she moved around the restaurant amongst th
e new money try-hards of indie USA you could see the faintest outline of hip tattoos. I had forgotten I had come with company; Chloe’s conversation had melted away not only my previous mood which had taken me to the roof, but also the recollection of my non-blood family. As she worked her way back round the room I caught her eye and guided her in, her green pools surrounded with lace-like lashes and filled with energy.
“So what’s a guy got to do to buy you a drink or get your number?” I asked.
“Fuck! I’d love a drink…alas Dearest Douglas I’m on the meter babe.”
“One drink!” I persisted.
“Rooftop spliff is one thing but look around.”
Signalling to Don I ask Chloe to hold her water, I wasn’t entirely sure she’d be there when I turned around again. From her modus operandi she could be half way to Fiji but a selection of carefully placed words had Don introducing himself to Chloe, thanking her for her work and most perplexing to the London party child a congratulations before inviting her to take the remainder of the night off, on him of course. She looked at me like I was Gene Simmons, amazed yet disbelieving on the mind skills I had just worked.
“You’re quite remarkable…” Chloe said “you’re not going to tell me how you did that are you?” I shook my head invoking a smile from the twenty-four year old waitress “Good,” she continued “why ruin the magic.”
I had often told the white, grey and whooping black lie to resolve a sticky situation that was preventing my will; everyone has if they search their soul deep enough. I had never claimed to be engaged before, not even with Kelly when we checked into our hotel in Las Vegas and that would have resulted in a bottle of pink and fizzy. Now it was so I could get a red headed white collar worker to myself long enough to see if there were any mutual adventures to be had. Los Angeles was beginning to seep into my skin; it was all about play now. Grabbing two bottles of Mexican beer at the bar I slip one into Chloe’s hand and lead her outside. As I cross the threshold I’m overcome by a man-slide as Johnny and Rob grab a hold of me. Their eyes roll around in the grey sockets, I introduce Chloe to my troupe, she takes the insane drunken ramblings of a Brummie and an old school Yankee in her stride. Finishing our drinks we head out on to the dance floor absorbing Jen into the boogie caravan en route.
Strolling down Vine the five of us stop at an all night shop to stock up on cigarettes and Red Bull for the morning. Partying night after night makes it easy to avoid the brain shredding pain of the grape and grain hangover especially when you never fully reach sober. But the first night back on the tracks usually results in a cold and painful sunrise and the difficult decision of which end to point at the toilet. Leaving the store Rob pulls me to one side, Jen had finally gotten round to breaking the news of her cross country relocation. Evidently she had either taken a U-turn and ignored my advice or Rob had failed to interpret lady language and missed the invitation as it didn’t kick his fucking door down and stomp on his face. As we reach the motel I light a cigarette to gain a little bit more distance between Jen, Chloe & Johnny and us. As they take the corner, disappearing from view on the street lit sleepy Boulevard I slap Rob across the face. He looks shocked, then a little angry. I hadn’t thought what I was going to follow that up with. Eventually and before he hit me back with one of his bear paws I tell him the truth.
“She likes you man, she’s not too sure you feel the same. You should go with her. This is what we talked about in the Rainbow Room.”
“Before or after the tug job?” He joked.
“Who knows?”
He starts listing the reasons to stay, most of them involve not wanting to leave me, how he wants to help.
“Man I got troubles, believe me…you don’t want to be around this for too long. You’re not that guy. Do us both a favour, use that computer for something other than chuggin’ it off and book yourself a fuckin’ ticket tonight.”
With that sage-like advice I stub out my cigarette and bound up the stairs, three at a time to my room. At the top of the stairs Chloe stands in the doorway smoking a cigarette in her worker uniform. Jen stands leaning against the balcony smoking and looking slightly nervous about what we must be talking about.
“Robert’s in with you tonight.” I say before racing into the room, closing the adjoining door and throwing Chloe over my shoulder. This motel room had been virtuous for long enough and if my brother by another was to hop a United to the Big Apple I was going to break, strain or bruise something in ensuring that it got a damn good christening and a sending off.
The knock on the door came about three hours after Chloe and I had smoked our last cigarette, tangled up in each others limbs. Grabbing the blanket and peeling it off Chloe’s moist skin I toga up before opening the door. The motel room door was a sun trap first thing in the morning, adding my sunglasses I step outside. Jen stands at the door looking as though she had been up half the night too. Beneath us Rob was loading luggage into the back of a Yellow Cab, I inspect the amount of journeys he takes to clear the load. Upon seeing what must be the weirdest Roman Emperor / Homeless Elvis impression there must ever have been he races up the stairs before giving me a huge hug. It was sweet that a slap on the face could mean that much to him.
“Thanks mate,” he said “you’re a good friend.”
“You fuckin’ woke me for that?” I yelped jokingly.
“Thank you Doug,” added Jen “you know…. you never asked me whether I was green or blue.” It was too early for primary riddles, my blank expression called for clarification. “I tell you I’m from Glasgow and you’re the first not to ask,” she explained “I love that about you.”
I’m not particularly good with honest displays of emotion, I play it down by telling her I simply assumed she was a blue as the first time I saw her she gave me wood but the truth is I never considered it. That shit had fucked up my Country for enough years without having it exported to another continent for another generation. Either way she seemed genuinely touched. As the cab driver blasts his horn, a queue of cars line up behind him impatiently wanting to start the day, Jen turns back to me one last time. Her face serious, slightly troubled, she kisses me on the cheek takes my hand and squeezes it, as if to test for signs of life.
“You’re a good man Doug, don’t get lost here. You understand me right?”
I nodded. I had never fully discussed what had brought me to Los Angeles with Jen or Rob. I had never told them my reasoning for escaping to a land that’s populated with people looking to be discovered but somehow she knew. She had seen something in me that was real, maybe even good and she saw my life choices rack up like a shopping list of sexual litanies, sorrow and drug fuelled lapses in morality. In that moment I saw what she was, she was a real friend, a confidant and I wished she wasn’t leaving.
5
AS A CITY Belfast had my back, the weather for the past few months had been symbolic of my mood. Clinical folk would perhaps point to one influencing the other and recommend some sort of management plan for seasonal affected disorder but that would be all bullshit, Belfast was my homey. The apartment was suffering from a void; it had doubled in size without Kelly. It was ill-fitting to look over at the faux Victorian living room door and not see a pair of her boots propping it open or her toothbrush in the Support the Welsh Miners cup in the bathroom or a collection of her skimpies drying on the clothes horse in the spare room. The Belfast winter would mean that the evenings commence at 3PM, almost religiously, like some sort of strict puritanical parent. The evenings would be dark, darker than the city could ever get. Every inch of the apartment creaked and moaned, every moment of structural exasperation would be heard. There would be no conversation, no sound of old crisp pages being turned on the couch, which was hers. She was welcome to it. She was welcome to the bed too, it was intoxicating. Leather and sex, that’s what her perfume smelt like to me. There were so many nights in the beginning in which I would arrive home drunk on her scent and smelling of it for days. Now it sat on our sheets, her pillow,
it lived two inches thick in the walls as a constant reminder that she was no longer here though her mark lingered.
For the most part I would sleep in the armchair, it kept the room off limits I would tell myself, but the truth of the matter was it would keep the room fresh. Her Agent Provocateur would last longer if it didn’t have to compete with tobacco, bourbon and cheap kebab meat from Esperanto. Lie to myself all I wanted to but I was keeping the room in stasis like the grieving mother of a child that had been snatched too soon from the world. Putting in the Christmas week would be one of the toughest things I’d ever have to do, so I thought. As soul crushing as it was there’s something to be said for the mundane distractions of nine to five employment but that was still seven days from me. “Get through this fuckin’ Christmas week” I would tell myself. I knew that everything wouldn’t be instantly ok but it would be a hell of a lot better when I wasn’t confronted with the family ideal that everyone my age seemed to have no trouble acquiring. There were people in my year at school that dropped out before their exams at sixteen and are now driving top line BMWs and have the nuclear family, their own business and even the perfect dog. Don’t get me wrong that package was not exactly on my ‘To Do’ list, which was probably part of Kelly’s problem, but I would have at least taken the dog. No, once this week was over and the world returned to normal and families started hating each other again I’d be ok. A little dinged up but ok.
When I had sufficiently deadened my core that sleep was a possibility I would stretch out in my chair by the window, empty tumbler by the photo of Kelly smiling in Barcelona and dream only to wake to a face fleeing from my memory and a song I knew too well. Even in my head I had no way of escaping her, though at least she was there. I would dream of the old days. The study buddy years.
