by David Louden
I crash through the green frosted glass front door or our second floor male abode with seven large pizzas. Dumping them on to the coffee table I collapse into the blue leather settee which has begun to hold the ass imprints of those inhabiting. Danny hands me an ice cold can of Carlsberg as he grabs a pizza then slumps back down into the armchair refocusing his attention on the DVD copy of Gwendolyn and the Land of the Yick Yack I bought him for his birthday. Turning on my laptop I devour pizza and beer until I’ve made an odd hobo soup in the pit of my stomach. Halfway down my INBOX amidst the host of foreign names sits a message entitled HEY-HO STRANGER from Marcy Collins.
It took all of Danny’s “don’t be a pussy” team talks to convince me to reply. As I sat in the Empire’s downstairs bar awaiting my old friend I re-read her message in my head. It was filled with compliments, enough for me to effectively agree to a blind date. She had reacted badly to my hooking up with Cherrie, she had been particularly mean to Cherrie in the following weeks – information Cherrie had left out at the time. How she had only reacted so badly because she had feelings for me she wasn’t able to reconcile at the time. But apparently when she saw my profile it had all come back to her. Marcy had thought that some time away from each other would allow us to regain our friendship. I was feeling a little banged up from Hurricane Kelly but not too burnt to be shy of a friend, particularly a naked one, so I let myself be convinced that it was a good idea. Marcy was, after all, one of the few people to know every aspect of my life and she still wanted to be around me. She had heard much of my bedroom stylings and I hers, it was actually becoming something of an erotic fixation – experiencing all the things she’d told me she had and could do.
Sitting at a table in a darkened corner of the bar I drank my Guinness and awaited the athletic little firecracker I had last seen poured into an evening gown some six years previously. From out of nowhere I was joined at my table with a kiss on the cheek and an old looking blonde.
“Hey-ho stranger.” She said.
It took a moment for the realisation to sink in as the scales of fantasy fell away. In the years since I had known Marcy she had seemingly spat out two children, a feat from which her formerly tiny frame had not recovered. I could see the familiar eyes encased in a wrinkled and tired mass of flesh. On her forearm she sported the names KYLE and JAMIE tattooed by an unskilled artist as the ink had begun to bleed. We wander through the routine catch up conversation, Marcy speaks of “the ex” and “the kids” while I spent a lot of the time wondering how I could get out of this situation without hurting her feelings. Beautiful women come in many forms but ploughing someone who’s looking old enough and rough enough to be a parent rather than a peer is one form too many. She switches to “the shots” as I order another Guinness and search frantically for an excuse watertight enough to get away, at this point I don’t even care if I kill any potential friendship. She’s started talking about “scoring some E’s and headin’ to Thompson’s for a session”. I make an excuse about having to work in the morning and finish up but as I make a move towards the door I find the Marcy has linked my arm. Outside her demonstration of how much she’s changed continues as she spits on the ground between draws of her cigarette and walks like a football hooligan. I try to palm her off at the taxi depot but hints are apparently repelled by the new Marcy. I take the long way home in the hope that I can unshackle myself from her grasp before I get to my door, but she hangs on like a rodeo pro. It’s almost admirable how determined she is to get some.
Back inside the apartment Marcy invites herself into my bedroom as I rush towards Danny’s room. Once inside the height ceiling man pad I plead with him to help me out. Seemingly he’s found the entire situation too funny to be audible as he bellows with laughter. Sucking it up I leave his room and tread carefully towards my bedroom, opening the door I enter to find Marcy tucked up under my sheets, her clothes discarded like old skin across my bedroom floor. There’s a slight pang of two parts regret one part foolishness, this was a bad idea – why couldn’t I just opt to not listen to Danny? It’s not as if he’s ever dropped bona fide advice… “asshole”.
“Come’n get it Douggie.” Teased Marcy.
“One more minute.” I haggled.
Back outside the room and I’m straight over to Danny’s room again, he’s collected a crowd. Richard, who I’ve literally met one other time before, and Alvin – Danny’s Dutch chemistry partner from Queen’s are sharing a laugh I can only imagine is at my expense.
“You fuckin’ enjoying yourself?” I ask trying not to give in to the infectiousness of their laughter.
“Dude your fuckin’ face!” Erupted Danny.
“I’m not even joking anymore man she’s in my room completely nuddy and she ain’t leaving till she gets some trouser meat. She’s got squatters right now muthafucka!” I replied.
“What are you waitin’ for? Go fuck her!” Replied Danny sending the gang into fits.
“Looking for sympathy with you fuckers is like asking a blind man for directions.”
Two deep breaths and I was marching back towards the room, there’d be a conversation and the odd feeling might get dinged but it would be better, much better than stealing a screw from a mum of two with a gait like a builder. Easing the door open I spy her, asleep.
I slept on the couch that night. When the morning came I brewed myself a coffee and had a cigarette out of the kitchen window. The telltale creak of the bottom step alerted me that someone was about to enter the kitchen. As the door opens a shy Marcy enters the room, she’s borrowed a lumberjack shirt from my wardrobe. She looks sheepish.
“Hey you.” She’d say.
“Hey yourself Marcipan.”
“I haven’t heard that in years,” Marcy takes a seat at the table and sparks up one of my cigarettes before continuing “look about last night…”
“Yeah, I…”
She’d interrupt “I mean you and me and all this…”
“It’s cool Marce,” I say “I don’t know, I think maybe too much time and life has passed us by you know.”
“Yeah.”
We make the promises and plans distant friends do, we’ll stay in touch, we’ll go out for dinner. I wonder for a moment what Cherrie looks like but can’t take the idea of tainting my memory of those perfect breasts. I call Marcy a cab and walk her downstairs to the front door. I give her a kiss on the cheek and wave her off as she leaves. Neither of us will even try to contact the other again.
9
THERE’S A HUM that’s intuitively audible on Hawaii, it can he detected at locations miles apart from one another and has been described as an idling diesel engine by folk. It’s believed to be related to volcanic activity on the island. It’s kind of like listening to the contented groan of a sleeping cat, at least before it takes a disliking towards you and claws your eye lids off. The twenty two dollar per night hostel on Venice Beach had a similar low-level frequency buzzing throughout it. It felt somewhere between comforting and volatile in the Spanish influenced architecture of the Lost Angeles Backpackers.
The building had undergone an inexpensive and incomplete refurbishment whenever it came under new management. It was clearly a work in progress as the building’s transformation from ailing strip club to home of the wanderer was gradual, with several key areas still having tells visibly present of the building’s former existence. The storage cupboards and laundry room’s ceilings were still mirrored; the floor stained with what many hoped was baby lotion and small speakers from which the dancers would set the scene with their signature music. Several of the rooms still had the wall length desktops at which equal amounts of blusher and glitter were painted onto nude bodies in front of a halo lit mirror. The upstairs bar, which would carry open mike and comedy nights still carried with it the red velvet curtain and floor to ceiling pole which had seen and grinded up against so many shaven nether regions until Lou, who I’m guessing was the proud owner, passed away leaving his three daughters with a centre for f
emale objectification they neither wanted nor had any idea how to manage. Selling on the red and yellow bricked dollar bill den to a couple of wannabe entrepreneurs from Santa Clarita they got out of the tits and g-strings game and so began the evolution of the Bang Bang Rooms into Lost Angeles.
Checking in I was greeted by Andrei, a Ukrainian hipster who carried my bag to my dorm room before taking me on a detailed guided tour of the beach facing property.
“You like it here,” he said “it like family only everyone has sex with each other.”
“Like Springer then.” I replied, unsure whether that cultural reference would hit any mark.
Whether it was the name of the place, the location, the fact it used to stock titillation or the low level hum it emitted there was something about Lost Angeles. It seemed to attract a very specific type of clientele. Billie would later explain to me that the walls were inch thick in sexual tension and that it was inevitable that, even as a hostel, it would descend into Sodom and Gomorra with Lonely Planet guides on a nightly basis. Dozens of Brits, Aussies, Koreans crowded around two TVs in the dining room. What our hosts would call “Soccer” was blasting out thanks to Fox Sport. I had forgotten it was one of those wonderful summers of sport. Continuing to the fridge I grab a beer and stick two dollars in the jar wedged in the door of the cold box with the sticker “Be Honest” that Andrei had told me about. “A nice touch” I thought.
Drinking my ice cold Sol I wandered around the hostel looking for somewhere to put myself down and catch up on my reading. It had been a while since I’d been able to find escape through literature. But with Johnny off the radar thanks to increased work opportunities and the sweet loving of his lady, Don Johnson little more than a catalyst for nocturnal chaos and my lunch date with Billie a day away I could either venture down to the airport to have my brains fucked out by Margarita (providing she got around to my number that day) or I could explore my latest surroundings. Herb and Elsa would be waiting for me at The Snake Pit in a couple of hours. The early morning relocation to Lost Angeles was less than ideal but was forced upon several of us at our former abode after a night that involved Belgian twins stealing a quad bike from a neighbourhood body shop and playing quad biker matador in the hallway. They caused a couple of thousand dollars worth of damage before the night supervisor beat some sense into them. Realising that my card would in turn be marked thanks to my friendship with the brothers I packed up and shipped out at 6AM before the owner had arrived to give his statement to the Police and I was offered a chance to split their bill. Going Dutch with the Belgians was not a particularly appealing offer.
I planted myself down in a corner booth by the window in the upstairs bar. It was a location I thought that would have made an excellent spot for an ass to be wiggled in ones face. I broke out the rag-tag copy of The Trial and started reading. I would try to read it several times during my stay here, each time without success. On this occasion it was the screams of a well spoken English girl named Victoria that would snatch me away from Kafka. Tucking the book back into my pocket I head to the stairs and the increasing commotion as the number of raised voices doubled by the second. At the bottom of the stairs I see a man I would learn later was called Sam. Sam was from New Zealand, though originally from India. He had been at the hostel for a couple of weeks and had a “he said, she said” altercation with some low budget newly weds when he tried to rub up against the young bride in the laundry room. Sam wears a forced smile as the kitchen empties and the front patio residents retreat inside the building to converge on this narrow strip of space. Victoria stands shaking, crying into her hand. A camouflage tank top and cut off shorts is all that had come between her and an unwanted tryst with Sam in the laundry room. Having caught wind of what happened I jump out of the way as the man-tank Frank tears down the stairs and straight into the path of the now worried Sam.
“You’ve been warned about this before you dickhead.” Growls Frank, wagging a finger in Sam’s face the size of a child’s hand.
“Misunderstanding…she misunderstands!” Argued Sam.
Victoria would emit something that’s completely inaudible as she begins to cry again. Frank pins Sam to the wall before moving in, now nose to nose with him.
“Get the fuck out of here now. Get your shit and fuck off before I break you.”
Sam’s bravado melts, he slips through the crowd of people all gathering to console Victoria. He’s thumbing a cab within the hour.
With Sam gone the hostel returns to normal quite quickly. The football fans return to their game, the barbecued meat is salvaged and Victoria thanks Frank with a hug. Returning to the fridge I grab a six pack before asking.
“Anyone want one of Sam’s beers?”
Lunchtime at The Snake Pit was alien. Gareth, a long goatee-wearing metal fan, was working bar – always an unpleasant experience as his fun bags were infinitely less appealing to look at and Herb was nowhere to be seen. Having finished up their signature burger bedded down with four pints of Guinness I was adamant that today would be a day for new friendships rather than old and returned to the warm embrace of what used to be the Bang Bang Rooms.
I return to the hostel bar with enough time to be co-opted on to Team Ireland for Lost Angeles’ Drinking World Cup Tournament. The rules were simple; two teams face off one on one and down drinks. “The winners advance the losers piss their pants” as the MC cleverly rhymed. The first two rounds saw us see off Australia. It was easier than their stereotype would suggest and Russia were beaten before my tequila soaked semi final against the USA and the colonial grudge match of Ireland versus England and Frank the man-tank. We go head to head in downing a bottle of vodka on stage. I would wake to that face again before it would slowly fade. It was morning I would guess and that was all I knew. Climbing from my bed I stoop to comfort my head from the impending hangover and take the uncoordinated walk to the bathroom accompanied by a soft hand clap from Carl, the Swedish roommate who appears to have company under the blanket.
Carl would later sit me down and over a breakfast burrito and a Tecaté on the front patio and walk me through the abyss in my head where last night should have resided. Apparently after the World Cup, a tournament I was pleased to discover Ireland won, I proceeded to drink the water cooler bottle of tequila that came in place of the gold trophy. I would then insert myself in the middle of a brother and sister’s argument assuming they were a couple before taking one of the chin from the brother who would then exit the hostel bar from a side window. It would appear I had the presence of mind to pick the window over heavy shrubbery as to not cause him serious harm and to cap it all off sick up all over his sister in the middle of the library at the rear of the building. What was most troubling was the fact that Carl seemed to be editing out events from the night that might cause me “some regret”. Finishing my burrito and accepting yet another pat on the back from another complete stranger I grab a beer for the road and set off to meet Billie at the Sidewalk Café for lunch.
Sitting against the rail I order a cola and watch the homeless, insane and musical drifters perform for the thousands that traverse the boardwalk on a daily basis. Carl’s Scandinavian tonal narration of the night before still ringing in my ears haunts me. I idly ponder whether I’ll end up like the Mexican guy dancing around in a torn “I ran the world” t-shirt applying body glitter to his cheeks and spinning a hula hoop or will I actually strike up the nerve to see it all through to the end. Secretly I was starting to enjoy the “anything can happen” course my life was taking in California and though self medicating had become an occupation I could see the benefits of the City on the broken souls.
Billie arrived at the table with her dark curly hair tied up in pigtails and wearing a white gypsy dress through which peaked the slightest hint of tattoos. She takes a sip from my glass, her eyes all the while fixed on mine. We order lunch, it dawns on me that conversation could become something of an issue between complete strangers. The antics of the night before as reported to m
e has thrown my A game. As it would turn out Billie was packing enough game for both of us.
“So you gonna tell me how you got my digits?” She asked.
“That? Oh that was easy,” I boasted “told him I was lookin’ some work.”
“Impressive.”
“You think that but now I’m pretty sure he’s gonna hook me up with some indie film work which I’m not adverse to as long as it isn’t shot in the back of a van.”
Billie’s laugh is smooth “That’s not what I saw.”
“Touché.”
“Normally,” she says, taking a bite from a large slice of pepperoni pizza “I’d give good warning to anyone about spending too much time with Donald but you…I don’t think you’ve anything to worry about.”
“It’s because I’m living at the Bang Bang Rooms right?”
Billie would go on to tell me all about the place I was staying while feeding her pizza crusts to a stray dog that had parked up beside us. The waiting staff tried to discourage her, it was an argument I understood they had every time she dined at the Sidewalk, an argument she won each time. She’d pick off the mushrooms, wrapping them around a French fry and placing it inside the mouth of the underweight Labrador that gazed adoringly at each morsel. Kelly had similar misgivings towards onions and olives, especially when they were discreetly placed in sandwiches, it meant she’d spend half our lunch hour together picking through them, removing every tiny sliver she could see. It was adorable; I found it cute – cute enough that I allowed her to pull me into a two person impromptu picket of the sandwich shop and their “Covert Onion Pushing Agenda”.
After lunch Billie would introduce me to the street artists along the boardwalk, she knew everyone. She even gave her takeaway leftovers to a couple of kids who appeared to have been sleeping rough explaining that they were “just kids”. When the afternoon drew to a close we would park up in Danny’s Bar on Windward under the celebrity caricatures that adorned the walls and she would talk about her art. Billie wasn’t like the pretentious “my art” talkers you would strive to avoid back home; she didn’t wax lyrical for the sake of being heard. She was different, a doer. She had been making a music video to help her dance company “jazz up” their website and attract a bigger audience and hopefully secure another year in existence.
