L.A. Success

by Lonnie Raines

  As I entered Dennis’ neighborhood, I saw my dad out walking the big poodle. I couldn’t believe that he had decided to take him out all on his own.

  I pulled in and got out of the car. When my dad made it over, we went inside. I could tell that he had been sculpting again because there were wrappers from the blocks of chocolate lying around. Ballsack licked at them a little, so I guessed he was hungry, too. I picked all that up, gave the big poodle some food, and turned on the tube for dad. I ordered a couple of delivery pizzas and then sat down on the couch. My body was aching from the caffeine ride it had been through. I really needed some food and a good night’s sleep.

  After dinner I walked home with Ballsack. Tommy said something like “I ‘ave I-runned you cloziz” to me when I passed through the living room, but I was so tired that whatever he meant didn’t register. I only grunted and kept going.

  That night I dreamed all sorts of weirdness. I think the caffeine in my body was making my brain remember stuff. I dreamed about my meeting with Spieldburt the other day, but this time, since I wasn’t wasted, all sorts of details I had missed the first time were coming back to me. I now remembered, for example, something I had asked him. This is how I remembered it in the dream:

  “So Spieldburt, when you did that E.T. movie, did you ever think about how ridiculous a similar but reversed situation would be? Like, if a human scientist went to another planet and got stranded, would he be standing there going ‘hmm…I have to improvise a complex intergalactic-communication device so that I can contact my scientist colleagues who left me here by accident—oh look! There’s candy on the ground! I love candy! I should pick up the pieces slowly and pay no attention at all to where I’m going.’ I mean, come on, was this the dumbest E.T. on the ship or what?”

  “You have a sound point,” Spieldburt answered, stroking his beard. “I really could have used someone like you to point out these glaring contradictions in my film. Perhaps after you find out whether my lover is cheating on me you could read through some of my newest projects?”

  “It would be a pleasure,” I answered.

  19

  I woke up the next morning and got ready as fast as I could. When I went into my closet to get a fresh Arnold, I saw that Tommy had ironed my clothes. Life just kept getting better and better.

  I took my dad some fruit for breakfast. He was already up playing chess on the computer. He was really looking good nowadays, but I was going to have to buy him some more clothes and make him take a shower again soon.

  I arrived at the Starbucks before 9am. Some of the writers were already there. We said hello, and I went inside to get a coffee. The same guy as yesterday was working, so I waited in his line. The name on his badge was Max. He remembered who I was.

  “Okay, now imagine that Columbo is coming in for some coffee. Give me whatever you would give him,” I said.

  The kid thought for a while and then grabbed a big cup and filled it up. No steamy, foamy stuff this time around.

  “Dark roast,” he said. “Put two creamers and a pack of sugar in it, because Columbo has a soft side.”

  I thanked him and did exactly that.

  I went outside with the writers and took out my paper and pen. I was going to have to pretend to be writing something from now on if I wanted to maintain my cover. The guys looked at me with admiration, as if I were an old kung-fu master keeping an ancient fighting style alive.

  This coffee was exactly what I wanted. It was rough at first, just like when you look at Columbo and think what an ugly guy he is.

  I looked up from my coffee and noticed that the bald USC guy from yesterday was wearing the same sweatshirt again. In fact, all of them were wearing something they had worn yesterday. One guy had on the same hat. Another, the same scarf. I, of course, was wearing the same T-shirt. I started thinking that after this P.I. stuff was over, I’d have to give a try at the writing since I apparently fit the profile.

  “I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Lonnie.”

  They all told me their names. USC guy’s name was Jake. Scarf guy was Al. Hat guy was Leonard. Then there was pocket-watch guy—it actually took me a few more times before I realized that this was his thing—whose name was Eddie, and old-Birkenstock guy, whose name was Jerry. I tried never to sit too close to Jerry. Occasionally, no matter where I sat, a gust of wind would remind me he was there.

  At about 10am, a young woman walked up to Gertie’s office. She took out a key, unlocked the door, and went inside. I saw the lights come on, but I couldn’t see what she was doing from where I was sitting. I had barely started in on my coffee, but I really needed to go see what this chick was up to. I thought about going right up and talking to her, but then when I came here to spy on Gertie in the future, this chick might come over and say hi or tell Gertie that I was the guy who had been looking for her. No, that wouldn’t work at all.

  After a few more sips of coffee, my brain got into the right mode of thinking. I stopped pretending to be writing stuff and called Gertie’s office number on my shit phone. The young woman answered.

  “Gertie Elliot’s office. Gertie isn’t here right now because she’s off doing it right! Can I help you?” she said in a perky voice.

  “Uh…who are you?” I asked.

  “This is Ellen, Ms. Elliot’s assistant. Do you need to talk to Ms. Elliot?”

  “Yeah…I was wondering about a house or something.”

  “Great! I’ll have Gertie get in touch with you as soon as she comes in. One second while I write down your number.”

  I hung up as fast as I could. A couple of seconds passed, and my phone rang. It was Ellen. Damn caller ID. She must have thought we had got cut off. I answered it.

  “Sorry about that,” I said. “Look, I’ll call back later. I’ve got meetings all day today, so I don’t want to be bothered. Don’t tell her to call.”

  “Oh. Okay. But call us as soon as you can.”

  That wasn’t very smooth, but at least I now knew that Gertie was supposed to come by the office today. All I’d have to do is wait around long enough, and that wouldn’t be too difficult as long as I could keep myself occupied.

  To stay in good with everyone, I didn’t even have to pretend to be writing anymore because I noticed that Old-Birkenstock Jerry hadn’t written anything at all today, and everyone was being much nicer to him because of it. He would sigh, grimace, and drum on the laptop, or write a few words with soft, irregular tapping on the keyboard and then delete what he had written with hard, regular pounding of the delete key. And everyone understood what he was going through without asking him anything. Pocket-Watch Eddy even bought him his next coffee. Swell guys, these writers. The less you work, the nicer they are.

  At noon I was exhausted. I couldn’t take the writers sympathizing with my lack of writing anymore. It was emotionally draining, and somehow it made me feel ridiculous, as if I were pretending not to be able to get it up around a bunch of impotent dudes just to be nice. And anyway, this writing crap didn’t seem too difficult to me. I was thinking that I was going to come back after I was done pretending to be Dennis and write some serious shit. But for the meantime, I’d just write down descriptions of all the people who went into Gertie’s office to talk with Ellen.

  I was really getting into my descriptions when the kid from Starbucks, Max, came out to pick up the empty cups that had been left on the tables. He looked over in my direction and saw that I had already thrown my cup away. I thought he was going to be happy about this, but instead he came over and said, “Ummm, these tables are for customers only. You can stay here as long as you want if you keep buying coffee.”

  This was getting expensive, this spying. I was going to have to bill Spieldburt for this. I went in and got another coffee. This time I asked for something inspector Clouseau would drink. I got an espresso, which wasn’t cool because it was so small. I had to go back for another one every thirty minutes so I could keep sitting at the table. And although I had avoided running off to
the bathroom so far, I couldn’t take it anymore. I just hoped Gertie wouldn’t blow through there while I was away from my post. Old-Birkenstock Jerry must have had to go too, because he got up and followed me into the restroom.

  We took our positions next to each other at the urinals. I started going and had to hold back what would have been orgasmic-sounding groans. I bet he was doing the same thing, because even after twenty seconds we were still going strong. And then I noticed something. I could feel a fine mist hitting my flip-flopped feet. I had no idea whether this mist was coming from me or Old-Birkenstock Jerry, but either way, it was pretty clear that my feet were getting peed on. This was one of those things in life that I’d never be able to ask about, no “Hey Jerry, you aren’t peeing on my feet, are you?” especially because if I could feel that, he had to be feeling the same thing, if he was paying attention. No wonder those sandals of his were smelly. I finished up and got out of there.

  Maybe I was imagining it, but as I rounded the corner and headed outside, I thought I could feel my feet stinging. I looked down at them, stopped paying attention to where I was going and walked right into someone.

  “Oh god, sorry,” I said and looked up into the eyes of Gertie Elliot.

  She was wearing a green miniskirt and a pink, frilly blouse. She was showing a lot more leg and cleavage than I wanted to see, and that was saying a lot since those were things I usually didn’t complain about seeing too much of. The thing was, she managed to set everything up so that you didn’t have a choice but to look at her action. And when you have the impression that you’re being forced to look at something you normally try to look at, you ask yourself why, and then you get really confused about the whole thing instead of just enjoying the view. So what I finally decided was that I wouldn’t have normally wanted to look at her because she was out of my age group. It gave me the feeling I was doing something weird, looking at an old lady like that.

  “Slow down there. Lucky for me there’s a little cushion,” she said and put her hand on my belly for a second. Her breath floated over to my nose, and I could tell that she had been a life-long smoker. The smell was like a mix of old tobacco and rotting meat. This again gave me a weird impression. It was like she was hiding a bunch of nastiness behind an artificially sexy facade. But the stuff she was hiding kind of poked out all over, like the little whiskers she tried to cover up with foundation. I couldn’t help imagining that if you took off all her clothes, everything would come loose and she would turn into a greasy, red-haired sea lion. One that would try to do you.

  “Sorry about that. You okay?” I asked.

  “I’ve bumped up against harder things than you,” she said and gave me a wink. She continued over to the counter to order a coffee. I went outside and sat down with the writers. After a few minutes, she strolled by us on her way over to her office, her rump swaying to the rhythm of her high heels. I watched her go down the sidewalk and into her office.

  I looked over and noticed that Pocket-Watch Eddy was fidgeting more than usual. He had a desperate look on his face. He started hitting the keys harder than normal and was breathing like an animal. The other writers noticed it too and stopped working.

  “Eddy,” said Hat-Guy Leonard, but Pocket-Watch Eddy just continued banging away at his laptop. “Eddy!” he said again, louder.

  “No no no, not now,” said Pocket-Watch Eddy, and he continued to hammer away. “I was just not thinking big enough—I’m changing directions. Bigger, better, more modern. Going with what people like. Everything’s flowing fast now.”

  “Eddy,” said Hat-Guy Leonard, “you aren’t working on that idea that you told us about last week, are you?”

  “I’ve made changes, lots of changes. It’s okay now,” he said. He looked hysterical as his fingers tapdanced all over the keyboard.

  “No Eddy, it’s not okay. Just go back to the themes Sony is developing. Give them what they want,” said Hat-Guy Leonard.

  “To hell with their themes! I can’t write in a box, Leonard! They’re holding me back, killing my creativity. No, no—I won’t do it!”

  “What are you working on, Eddy?” asked USC-Shirt Jake, but it didn’t sound like a question.

  “Oh, you’d like to know, wouldn’t you? I’ll never tell you!” he answered, and hunched up closer to his screen to prevent us from seeing anything.

  “We know what you’re writing, and we want you to stop,” said Scarf-Guy Al. “Stand up, stretch your legs a little bit, grab another coffee—I’m buying—and get back to work.”

  “You have no idea what I’m writing! It’ll be the biggest film of all time!” he said. Then he leaned back and stared off into the distance. “Imagine an enormous, environmentally friendly luxury cruise liner, sailing inexorably toward a tragic destiny, upon which a friendly race of twelve-foot tall, blue, cat-like people vacation peacefully, all of which have humanoid sexual organs that you will guiltily try to sneak peeks of throughout the movie. Suddenly, an American Army spacecraft lands on the deck of the ship. Their mission: infiltrate the vacationing blue cats with advanced cat clones in order to turn the giant, doomed ship into an oil platform and drill for rare natural resources beneath the sea—resources that seem unnecessary based on the level of technology they have clearly acquired to be able to make the clones, but hey, you’ll be too busy trying to look under the loincloths to make that deduction. One man resists and is accepted by the cat people before the ship slams into a floating sea rock and sinks, killing everybody except the cat woman who had been getting it on with the good human.”

  “Damn it Eddy! You told us about ‘The Titavatar’ when you lost it last week. You don’t have permission to use those characters. Stop it now!” said Hat-Guy Leonard.

  Eddy seemed to come out of his trance. He looked down at his screen.

  “My God, what have I been doing?” He erased the document and then stood up to go get a little air.

  “At least we caught him early,” said Scarf-Guy Al. He looked over at me. “I once cracked like that and started writing a movie about an ambitious wookie groomer, who, when confronted by an intergalactic conflict, decides to move to a neutral country and open a salon. It was a musical. I finished half of if before the guys realized I had cracked and stopped me.” He shook his head and went back to work.

  20

  Gertie came out of her office about a half an hour later. I watched her as she made her way over to her car. It was a yellow ‘78 Eldorado Biarritz, one of those old boats that, even though it was the size of a house, only had two doors. It had sweet white-wall tires. It was going to be easy to follow.

  I ran over to my car and got in. I pulled around to her side of the parking lot and caught a glimpse of her making an illegal turn onto Venice Boulevard. She was heading out west. I turned east and then, when I was sure no cops were around, swung a Uey. I had lost sight of her, but I had no trouble catching up in Dennis’ powerful Charger.

  She drove like a maniac. Sometimes she sped up for no reason, and then after I matched her speed, she’d slow down suddenly and I’d have to slam on my breaks to avoid hitting her. I got the impression that she was looking for something in the glove compartment or trying to find a station on the radio, because the Eldorado kept jerking to the left and right, and would even slowly drift into the oncoming lane once in a while. But one good thing about the way she was driving was that I could be sure she wasn’t looking around to see if she was being followed.

  She continued until she arrived at her house, a nice little place in Venice on the corner of Dell Avenue and Sherman Canal. She pulled into her garage and parked. I drove by, pretending to be just another tourist gawking at the houses on the canals. I got a good look at her place and was happy to see that there was nothing blocking the windows. Most of the canal houses have small lawns, so the owners plant a lot of trees to give them some privacy. Gertie had a few trees, but the second-floor windows were clear. The real problem was going to be trying to find somewhere to park. All the streets in
that area were permit only, and if I parked somewhere else and walked around, that’d only fly for a while. I could take pictures and pull out the binoculars—everybody does. But after a while people would start to get suspicious. I drove north up Dell Avenue and then turned around and drove slowly over the canal bridge, looking right into Gertie’s windows. Then I turned around and did it again, but she had already pulled the curtains closed.

  I tried to make another pass, but there were so many cars that it was taking forever and turning around was getting difficult. I decided to park a little to the west on Pacific Avenue and then walk back on foot. I’d pretend to be a creepy tourist until it got weird. By the time I got back to her place, the lights were out. I couldn’t tell if she was still there. I did a tour of the entire canal system waiting for any changes, but nothing doing. I either hadn’t seen her leave, or she was in a room I couldn’t see very well.

  21

  I walked back to the Charger and got in. The radio said it was almost seven in the evening. I hadn’t eaten anything in forever, and since I had just done some serious walking, I was feeling light headed. Then I realized I hadn’t ordered anything for my dad either, so he must have been hungry, too. I drove back to Santa Monica, picked up some sub sandwiches, and then went over to Dennis’.

  When I walked in, I smelled something funky. Ballsack had left a little package for me on the tiles in front of the door. I guessed that it was his way of telling me he was pissed off at me for staying out all day without him. I also noticed that my dad wasn’t playing chess. He was just sitting on the couch doing nothing.

  “Dad, I’m sorry about this. I got caught up in a bunch of stuff and just forgot.” He didn’t look over.