PARADOXIA

by Lunch Lydia

  Los Angeles, an endless sprawl of suburban subdivisions spread out in a massive grid encircling Hollywood, the fraudulent Mecca of egotistical schemers. Everyone’s got a grift in Hollywood, or working hard on devising one. The city is paved with broken hearts, shattered dreams, dashed hopes. Everyone expects their fifteen minutes, not realizing their minor brush with greatness will pollute the rest of their tortured lives, creating an almost unbearable torment whose mantra cries out for what could have been, what should have been, what will never be.

  Its history of random violence, drive-by shootings, highway snipers, serial killers, religious cults, countless casualties, revolves around the eternal possibility that something greater is almost within reach of every leech, loser, and lowlife. Hollywood has created Sodom with the help of a corporate machine that feeds on the bruised bones of sacrificial offerings. Its obscene wealth, undeserved fame, untold riches reside side by side with a desperate poverty whose scope is forever overlooked, avoided, ignored. The root of all the sickness swelling inside its soured belly.

  I went out to L.A. with a dream on my sleeve too. A dream of escaping the asshole who was obsessing my life back in New York. Just a small vacation, three or four days to clear my head. I put a call in to Pleasant, a hot Hollywood fixture. Part belly dancer, all ghost of Jayne Mansfield. A luscious redhead who knew where to score what from who, whenever. I knew her from New York, a friend of a friend. Suggested she shake some titty at the Wild West Saloon. Even lent her some panties. She thought she was returning the favor when she suggested I hit a party that was happening on my first night in the City of Angels. Told me to look for Marty, a speedway freak who played hairdresser by day down in Malibu. She claimed he was my type, which I took to mean a little bit twisted. Said he grew up in Topanga, had a thing for Charlie, surrounded himself with chicks with Sexy Sadie fantasies. She was sure I’d be amused.

  The party was a bust, full of Valley chicks, jocks, and rockabillies. Disappeared into the kitchen looking for something stronger than liquor. There was a small bowl of Quaaludes propped demurely behind a jar of powdered Vitamin C. I popped one, stuck three in my pocket for later. After all, I was going to be out there for a few days.

  Someone cranked the stereo up a few notches, the strains of early Carl Perkins wobbled the posterboard walls. I could see a wide circle form in the living room, as a greasy biker took center stage and slicked his hair back, threw one hip forward, and began a hilariously awful Elvis impersonation. I knew it must be Marty. The gathering crowd clapped along, encouraging obscene gyrations, offset by hoots and howls. I was vaguely repulsed.

  I decided to check out the master bedroom and bath, in search of a small token to justify my journey. A small tray of cheap jewelry sat on the dresser, I bypassed that and opened the top drawer. More costume crap and a fat rubber band of credit cards. I popped the Mastercard into my pocket, more as a memento. Rifled through the bathroom cabinets. Slipped a handful of ten-milligram Valium into my pocket. Felt much better. Thought I’d return and make the rounds once more before departure. Opened the bathroom door to find Marty cleaning his nails with a small switchblade. “Axle grease,” he admitted under his breath. I could smell it on him. It turned me on. Like the smell of gasoline. Like my first real fuck with some blond-haired blue-eyed kid whose father was a two-bit mechanic upstate. “I’ll be right back,” he whispered, undoing his belt buckle, a tarnished grim reaper. I headed out to the balcony, figuring he’d come looking.

  I scanned the L.A. skyline, a neon blur of late-night commerce. Scattered numbers in my head trying to size up the population, wondering how many dollars were spent every minute in vulgar pursuit of the next big thing, big star, major motion picture, scam, scheme, rip-off, rape. Wondering how many living rooms were under siege by drunken day laborers taking out the boss’s bullshit on the wife and kids, how many punches were being thrown in alleys at the back of dirty bars, how many shots were being fired from Mexican gangbangers, how many kids were undergoing their first hustle with some stinking john in any make of car cruising down Hollywood Boulevard, Santa Monica Boulevard, Crenshaw Boulevard.

  I didn’t hear him come out. Felt his breath on the back of my neck. “Creepy Crawl?” he questioned, an invitation I knew I somehow, somewhere would take him up on.

  Marty was a mongrel mix of Cherokee/Black Irish. Trouble, in other words. He spoke in a strange dialect more Blue Ridge Mountains than Southern California. Spent his formative years racing dirt bikes in the backyard of the Manson family down in the snakepit of Topanga Canyon. Watched the mud slides come and go, wiping out the hippies, hillbillies, and dirt farmers who had set up camp in ill-constructed shacks which formed the valley near enough to Malibu, yet still light years away. Said he stayed there because he respected Mother Nature’s mean streak, and besides, what’s a little mud? The place he shared with his brother, a lowbrow surf freak, had just withstood four feet of thick sludge seeping in and back out of its four shitstained walls. Said he’d move when the place collapsed. I dug his gumption. Easygoing nature. Devil-may-care attitude. Invited him to my hotel the next night, told him to come by when he was through restyling the hair of would-be B-movie actresses who frequented the upscale yet still gritty salon he managed four days a week a few blocks from the beach.

  I prepared for our date by swallowing a couple of Quaaludes washed down with Jack Daniel’s. I slipped into sheer black, applied some lipstick, put on my pumps while dimming the lights. Opened the door, hairline fracture crack, popped a matchbook flap under the dead bolt with TRUE CONFESSIONS stamped seductively in fire-engine red, its 900 number torn in two. Knew he’d know exactly what to do. Stimulated myself with moistened fingertips dipped in drink. The stinging skin contracting and twitching as I twisted the tender flesh between index and forefinger. Felt so good I slipped into slumber. Woke to scissors pressed firmly to throat. The smell of hair gel and axle grease a pungent intoxicant. The mute TV transmitting a dead station whose black-and-white shadows tangoed upon the bed. “Will you die for me?” he purred, quoting Manson’s headtrip played on Tex Watson a few months before the Tate/LaBianca murders. “I’d kill for you,” I lied back, cementing the bond that would become a two-year-long, on again/off again, love/hate, white trash romance.

  The sex was a blur of unpronounced threats, deadly possibilities, future recall. Badlands, Bonnie and Clyde, The Boston Strangler, I Want to Live! Scattered dreamscapes melting in and out of consciousness. Trapped in a time zone where minutes stretch into hours.

  Woke up to find him gone. Downstairs at 7 scrawled on the mirror in spunk.

  He picked me up in a babyshit-brown ’58 Ford pickup. Cruised around Watts pulling up to Piggy’s Fat Back, a Mississippi-style barbecue takeout consisting of a single battered countertop set against bulletproof glass. The misspelled menu chicken-pecked in pencil near the low-hung, fly-specked ceiling. A tired overhead fan threatened collapse. Ordered five-alarm pork tips, potato salad, and spicy beans. The smell lingering hours after fingers are licked clean. A smell which will always remind me of his chipped, wolfen teeth, the way his hair hung down over one eye, the automatic rearranging of Levi’s jeans, the front of which swelled at random intervals. Our first near murder.

  He asked if I’d come along on a money run. Claimed an ex-buddy was into him for twenty-five hundred. Owed him for refurbishing the tattered remains of a shell-shocked Vespa. We’d be out of there in no time. Take the money and run. Maybe stop on the way back from Inglewood to catch the late set by Eddie “Cleanhead” Vinson, who was doing three sets down in the Parisienne Room, a funky, rundown jazz club packed with older black couples who enjoyed a grind or two with their groove. Catch the 11 o’clock show if all went as planned.

  I could smell something percolating. Knew better. Couldn’t help myself. Had to see how he operated. We pulled into the underground garage, cut the lights, and sat parked for a few minutes. Allowing our eyes to readjust. Deep breaths and a high-pitched hum from an electrical generator on the f
loor below bookended the atmosphere, scattering soundwaves bouncing around in the darkness. He snuck into the glove compartment and pulled out Mr. Rigid. A twelve-inch-long, three-inch-wide buck knife. He cleaned the blade with a soiled hanky, spat on and wiped the handle, set it in his lap. Slipped his still sticky fingers into worn leather racing gloves, picked up the buck, and kissed it once for good luck. Slid it back into its sheath, snapped it onto his belt. A twisted smile from one corner of his mouth whispered, Let’s do it … Instructing me to leave the door open a crack, just enough so the light is out. Just enough for a smoother getaway.

  A massive hollow swallowed. Blind eyes, big cave, no fucking clue which way was even forward. Whispering, “Marty … Marty … ?” He spat, “Ssshh … c’mon …” allowing a small sliver of light to slip into the cavernous garage as he opened the stairwell door. My pulse already doing backflips. “Don’t say my name again until we’re back in the truck, keep your fucking mouth shut, don’t even breathe hard,” he threatened, spitting the words into my neck. He cocked his head toward the steps, took off up them, leaving me to lag behind, trying to get my boots to behave below my rubbered knees. Floor after floor, the hall entrances were locked. Seemed to make him more determined. He was smiling down at me as I hit level six, one hand slowly spinning the knob that allowed us entry. The other hand darting between my legs, rubbing leathered fingers against moistened jeans. He cocked his finger and pulled me into the hallway by my crotch. Eased the door shut. Holding finger to lips in a silent kiss, sniffing the remnants of nervous pussy. We found the interior stairway. Went back down to the second floor, circling around the hallway, stopped at apartment 9B. The entire Beatles White Album jump-cut in my head. He tried the door. Locked. Tapped boot to door jam. No answer. The lights were on, soft music lilting in the background. “Shit … we’ll have to try the fire escape …” he grumbled, stroking the sheath the buck sat buckled in. I was so fucking high on adrenalin I couldn’t think straight, much less make even a weak protest. I followed obediently as we once more mounted the interior stairs on the way to the roof. Just about ready to piss my pants, not knowing who we were stalking or what we would do to them once we found them. Exit onto the roof, half-moon glow, lit up with a backdrop of silver pinpricks, the irregular pattern of a dead star’s radar mimicking my goosebumps. Marty slipped the door shut, pinning me against it. Unsnapped the sheath. As loud as a gunshot. Started to trace my outline, like a corpse at a crime scene, the thick blade slicing tar paper like cake icing. One hand around my throat, slow, heavy breath, hot on my face. Humid. With the tip of the blade he lifted my wrist from beside me, tracing close to my hip. Kicked my legs apart. Placed the buck between them, screwing it into the wall. Rubbed himself against the handle. Told me to close my legs, hold it in place with my pussy, make that pussy work for him. Unsnapped his jeans, shiny prick plops out, mossy aroma wafts mingling with sea breeze and gardenias, spanks it against the handle. Whimpers.

  I beg for his fuck, beg to be power-slammed against the wall, squashed by his slippery prick, annihilated. Spins me against the tar paper, smooth cheek bitten by sand. Manhandles pants over ass, mutters, “Ssshhh, ssshh,” rubs his greasy prick between fat cheeks. Circling the bull’s-eye.

  Quick spastic jerk. Banging body parts off against twin receptors. Flood of relief as near panic is replaced with brutal focus. Slicing me open from behind like an engorged bloodhound. Buck knife used as bind for breasts, steely edge flattens nipple in silent threat. Delirium.

  Retreat to the pickup. More alive the closer to death. Our common bond a need for acceleration. Speed. Chaos. His ambition: to race dirt bikes as fast as possible on dirt tracks incurring a great many broken bones, a fractured skull, countless trips to the emergency room. An excuse for his behavior. My obsession: escalate blood pressure, overstimulate adrenal glands, taunt death. Our marriage vows: a promise to scare the shit out of each other. Apathetic assholes that we were. We thrived on fear. Fear: the greatest of all aphrodisiacs.

  Marty’s shack in Topanga bit it after our second date. The whole thing nearly collapsed in upon itself, burdened by a ton of mud. He salvaged some clothes, his bike, and the truck. His brother escaped with the clothes on his back and a box of records. Late one night with Marty, I managed to skip out on the hotel bill. We decided to look for temporary digs, the three of us. Ended up in Venice, a block from gangland. Small dilapidated house a few blocks from the beach. I looked witchy enough to keep the local kids out of the backyard. Their older brothers away from the barred windows and doors. It was a miracle we were never fucked with or broken into. Of course, there was nothing to steal. Marty had a shotgun pulled on him in front of the house early one Sunday morning, but he scared them off by warning them his blood on their hands would live to forever haunt, that the witch he lived with would curse not only the shooter, but his entire family with spells conjured from Santería, voodoo, and old-fashioned vengeance. That if his murder meant acceptance as gang initiation, it wasn’t worth it. His whole barrio would fall. The young Mexican ran off trembling, apologizing. Tripped and fell halfway up the block, the shotgun going off, shattering the sleepy Sunday silence. Marty sauntered in laughing, cursing racial slurs. No one bothered us again.

  I spent my days scribbling in notebooks, taking long walks down to the water, wandering aimlessly around Venice, fucking the occasional fourteen-year-old gangbanger. Marty was racing once or twice a week in San Bernadino, Bakersfield, Ventura. I’d tag along like a handmaiden to a blood bath. Week after week the same ritual. Days off spent repairing his bike, recovering from the previous week’s battery. Load up the truck, drive for a few hours, race for a few minutes, crash the bike, get banged up, load the bike or what was left of it back onto the truck, drive for a few more hours, recuperate. Repair the bike. Bandage the bruises, begin again.

  Speedway season came to a close. Too much free time on our hands. Needed a new kick to sustain the blood rush we were both addicted to. Night drives, circling the city, suburbs, subdivisions, outlaying communities. We’d visit old crime scenes just to zone in on the frequency. Marty seemed to know all the hot spots. The lots where the Hillside Stranglers’ victims were dumped. The stomping ground of the Night Stalker. Charlie’s haunts. We’d drive in silence, senses prickling the closer we’d get. He’d make up little games to test me. See if I could pick out the exact location. Insist I direct him to places I’d never been before. Question me as to how I’d get rid of the body. Would I be as bold as Buono and Bianchi and leave my victims in plain sight? Cut them up in little pieces, stuffed inside black plastic garbage bags, hurled over the side of a dumpster, or left to be picked apart by vultures in the hot California sun. Leave them to rot, perhaps undetected for days in their Hollywood Hills or Pacific Palisades or Hermosa Beach hideaways, until by chance they’re discovered, bloated and swollen, a look of unrestrained horror on their death mask, found by a curious mailman, nosy neighbor, concerned relative.

  Marty insisted we stain the crime site with our own markings: blood, urine, jizz, chicken bones, empty potato chip bags, matchbooks, bottle caps, belt buckles. Any memento, offered up as ritual. Leaving personal tokens in exchange for the charge of electricity we would steal from the scene. Tapping into other realms, whose vortex could be charted by decoding latitude, longitude, and astrological positions. Enthralled in lengthy discussions on geographical sickness. Los Angeles, its valleys and hillsides, thrown up by the earth’s internal retching, only to once more, one day be swallowed back up by a massive earthquake which will collapse its flimsy foundations.

  Merely visiting crime scenes was no longer exciting enough. We were driven to start initiating our own secret markers. Strategic locations planned out in a grid, marred by petty atrocities. A roadmap of vicious little misdemeanors whose memory we would gloat over. Arson, vandalism, dog-napping, burglary, check-cashing schemes, fraud. Victimless crimes at first. Until we decided to up the ante. Until the thrill became stale and we needed that extra boost that only fear could s
upply. Someone else’s fear.