Big Egos

by S. G. Browne

  CHAPTER 54

  I wake up in an alley and I don’t know who I am.

  For an instant there’s nothing. Not a hint of identity. There’s just an empty room in my head where I should be and a VACANCY sign lit up out front in bright, flickering, neon red letters. Not the kind of sign you’d see outside a luxury bed-and-breakfast in Beverly Hills, but more like the type you’d see outside a cheap motel in downtown Los Angeles. Someplace with a name like the Oasis or the Ambassador that comes with free 24/7 porno flicks and residential crack whores.

  At least that’s the kind of mood I’m in.

  Then the VACANCY sign flickers off and my identity returns. Only it’s not me unpacking my bags, it’s Elvis.

  I sit up and look around and wonder what I’m doing in an alley rather than in my California king at Graceland. There are empty parking places next to a faded white, one-story building on one side of me and on the other side, the muted brown stucco wall of a two-story building. The sky is dark but there’s just a hint of light, which means it’s either dusk or dawn, I don’t know which. I notice that I’m wearing a suit. And not my white jumpsuit, either.

  The coat and slacks are charcoal gray. The shirt ivory white. The tie royal blue. The shoes midnight black. Definitely not Elvis attire. More like something James Bond or JFK would wear. Only I’m not feeling the secret agent or presidential vibe. And I’m hankering for some ham bone dumplings and sour milk cornbread.

  The thought of food gets me to my feet and I’m wondering if there’s a doughnut shop nearby. Or maybe Roscoe’s. I could go for some chicken and waffles. And a big side of bacon. But before I can get out of the alley and figure out where the nearest source of food is, The King is gone and I’m Captain Kirk, looking around, wondering what planet I’m on and where my away team is and why I’m not wearing my uniform.

  What . . . happened to me? Where . . . am I?

  I pull out my communicator and try to raise the Enterprise, though my communicator has a touchscreen that doesn’t look familiar. I start pressing buttons but all I get is a digital clock on the screen with today’s date. At least I know what month it is. Eventually I manage to bring up another screen filled with several rows and columns of thumb-sized icons. I hit the one that looks like a microphone and is labeled VOICE RECORDER.

  “Scotty,” I speak into the screen. “Can you read me?”

  Nothing happens. Not even the hint of an image or a signal. So I walk out of the alley, hoping I don’t run into Khan or a gang of Romulans.

  And where the fuck is Spock? That emotionless Vulcan bastard is never around when you need him.

  A moment later, Kirk is gone and Philip Marlowe has taken his place.

  Once out on the street I discover I’m on Santa Monica Boulevard, across from the Formosa Cafe, its neon green sign glowing like a bug light. Only it’s meant to attract humans, not bugs. And it’s doing the trick. I could use a drink. The faint light in the sky is coming from the west, which means it’s evening, cocktail hour, so at least I’m in the right place.

  I step off the curb to cross the street and find my way to the bottom of a glass full of bourbon when a car drives past, blasting its horn. I jump back onto the sidewalk and I’m Indiana Jones.

  There’s enough of me inside my head to realize I’m in trouble. And not in a stolen-historical-artifact-how-to-deal-with-Nazis-trying-to-kill-me kind of trouble. This goes beyond the imagined world of my alternate personas.

  It’s as if the gears of my mind are slipping, like a car with a clutch that’s going out, shifting from third to fifth to second, the teeth of the gears worn-out from overuse. Only instead of a bad clutch, I’ve got a bad Ego that keeps slipping from one identity to another.

  Slip.

  I’m Jim Morrison.

  Slip.

  I’m Holden Caulfield.

  Slip.

  I’m back to Indiana Jones.

  I’m beginning to wonder if I’m ever going to slip back to myself. Or how much of me exists anymore.

  But for the moment I’m Indiana Jones: full-time professor of archaeology, part-time retriever of valuable historical artifacts, and occasional Nazi ass-kicker. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be looking for, or if there’s someone’s ass I should be kicking, but I seem to have lost my fedora.

  Traffic drives past on Santa Monica Boulevard. Across the street, a couple, a man and a woman, walk out the front doors of the Formosa beneath the black-and-white-striped awning. The man glances my way, then leads the woman around the corner. I don’t know if he’s suspicious or if it’s just my imagination, but before I realize it, I’ve slipped from Indiana Jones to James Bond.

  I look down at the phone in my hand and check the time and date, which tells me it’s 4:51 p.m. on December 19.

  I have no idea how long I was unconscious in the alley, but I’m wondering if I was drugged. Or ambushed. If somebody put me there or if I ended up there on my own. I don’t feel like I’ve been hit. No sore spots on my head. No visible wounds. When I put my phone away and check my jacket pockets to make sure I wasn’t mugged, one of my hands comes out with my wallet and the other hand comes out holding a business card.

  On one side of the card is the name Joey Balsama, professionally printed, with a phone number and nothing else. The name seems familiar. A hint of a memory. An itch at the back of my brain that I can’t manage to scratch. I flip the card over and on the other side is a handwritten address on North Rockingham Avenue, near where O. J. Simpson once lived. Which also seems oddly familiar. Not in a I-used-to-be-a-celebrated-athlete-who-was-accused-of-killing-his-wife-and-her-friend-and-ended-up-doing-time-for-stealing-a-bunch-of-sports-memorabilia-at-gunpoint kind of familiar, but more like I know the address. The question is: Did I already go there? Or is that the next item on my agenda? My plans for the evening?

  This would be so much easier to figure out if my identities would cooperate.

  I study the address on the card for several moments, hoping to coerce some information from my memory, waiting for an epiphany that never comes. It’s a mystery that I’ll have to resolve later. Right now, James Bond needs his signature drink.

  As the fading light of the setting sun slips behind the roofs of West Hollywood, I put the card into my wallet and return the wallet to my coat pocket, look both ways along Santa Monica Boulevard, wait for the traffic signal to change, then walk across the street and into the Formosa Cafe.

  CHAPTER 55

  Genghis Khan walks into a bar.

  I’m waiting for the rest of the joke, but apparently the joke’s on me because Genghis looks like he’s in a bad mood and he’s headed my way.

  Where I am is Barney’s Beanery in West Hollywood, which for much of its hundred years has been a hangout for movie legends, rock stars, and writers.

  Clark Gable and Errol Flynn.

  Jim Morrison and Janis Joplin.

  Charles Bukowski and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

  While the bar is rich in Hollywood history and used to have a bit of an overused charm to go along with its world-class beer menu, today it’s more of an overdone sports bar and restaurant with enough items on its food menu to serve a small nation without anyone ordering the same thing. The food is just above average and the service likewise.

  But even so, you’re still likely to see the occasional film or television celebrity in a booth chowing down on a Dagwood Burger and some hot wings or sitting at the bar drinking a Cosmopolitan or one of the numerous beers on tap.

  But Genghis Khan isn’t a regular.

  He walks in, sits down at the bar next to me, and orders a Tsingtao.

  “We don’t have Tsingtao,” says the bartender. “How about a Stella?”

  I can tell Genghis isn’t happy about this development by the way his face turns red and the veins stand out on his forehead. I half expect him to pull out a knife or a short sword and slit the bartender’s throat. Instead, he closes his eyes and starts counting softly in Chinese.

  “Yuht, yee, s
ahm, say . . .”

  When he gets to ten, he opens his eyes, takes a deep breath, and smiles at the bartender.

  “Okay then,” he says, “give me a Bud Light.”

  As the bartender pulls out a pint glass and puts it under the tap, Genghis turns to me and smiles. “Anger management classes.”

  I just nod at him and try not to make eye contact.

  When his beer arrives, Genghis raises his glass to me. “Gan bei,” he says, then downs his beer in one gulp.

  How I ended up in Barney’s I have no idea. I think this is another memory, but I don’t know when this happened. Or even if it’s real.

  Genghis wipes his mouth, lets out a belch, then slams his empty glass down on the bar. “Give me another!”

  “Do you want to open a tab?” asks the bartender.

  Genghis pulls out an American Express gold card and gives it to the bartender. “And another beer for my friend here!”

  While the bartender pours Genghis another Bud Light and gets me a refill of my Guinness, Jack the Ripper sits down on the other side of me and orders a Bloody Mary.

  Go figure.

  “Evening, mate,” he says to me with a smile.

  I smile back to be polite, not wanting to get on his bad side, waiting for someone to fill me in on the joke, but I don’t see a punch line in sight.

  When I look in the mirror behind the bar, I notice that in addition to Jack and Genghis, the patrons of Barney’s Beanery include John Wilkes Booth, Professor Moriarty, Don Juan, Bonnie Parker, Mr. Hyde, Dr. Evil, the Wicked Witch of the West, Al Capone, Lex Luthor, Norman Bates, the Queen of Hearts, Charles Manson, Ed Gein, Marie Antoinette, and Lord Voldemort.

  “Where did all of these people come from?” I ask.

  “From you,” says Jack.

  “From me?” I say, looking around. “What do you mean? How did they come from me?”

  Genghis laughs and slaps me on the back so hard that he almost breaks one of my ribs, then our drinks arrive and before I can take my first sip, he’s downing his beer and asking for another round.

  Jack raises his Bloody Mary to me and says, “Cheers, mate.”

  CHAPTER 56

  “What can I get you to drink?” says the bartender, an Asian man in a black short-sleeved shirt who looks like he’s been working here since the place opened back in 1934.

  I look around and realize I’m at the Formosa Cafe rather than Barney’s Beanery, and there’s no Genghis Khan or Jack the Ripper in sight. So I’ve got that going for me. And at least for the time being, I’m still James Bond.

  I open my mouth to ask the bartender for a Grey Goose martini. Shaken, not stirred. With two olives. But before the words come out, 007 disappears and JFK takes his place. So instead of a martini, I order a daiquiri.

  The bartender gives me a funny look. Not funny like he’s never seen a man order a daiquiri before, but more like he’s trying to figure out who I am. And I realize he probably saw my face shift when I transitioned from one Ego to another. I glance up and look in the mirror behind the bar, where a semblance of JFK’s boyish, good-looking face stares back at me.

  “Everything all right?” I ask the bartender with a thick Boston accent.

  He just nods once and goes to fix my drink while I take a seat and look around. Most of the chairs at the bar are filled, as are the deep red booths behind me, where the photographs of dead movie stars keep watch over the current clientele. Sitting on my left is a young woman with short, dark hair, luscious red lips, and a nose ring. I smile at her and introduce myself and offer to buy her a drink. She points to her nearly full pint of beer.

  “I’m good,” she says, then reaches for her drink. “Besides, I’m Republican.”

  So much for JFK’s irresistible charm.

  On the other side of me are two gay men sporting stylish hair and artificial tans who keep arguing about truth and wisdom. Down at the far end of the bar, some sleazeball with a ponytail is hitting on a cute little number who looks like Marilyn Monroe. As a matter of fact, I think she is Marilyn and I’m wondering if she’d like to knock one out for old times’ sake. She excuses herself from the sleazeball to go to the bathroom and starts walking my way. I’m about to stop her when a car backfires out on Santa Monica Boulevard and I flinch and duck and reach up to make sure my head is still in one piece. It’s kind of an automatic response. I can’t go anywhere near a parade. And a Fourth of July fireworks show? Forget it.

  When Marilyn passes me, I turn to say something to her but JFK slips away and Holden Caulfield takes his place. Not the smoothest of transitions. It’s a bit disconcerting to go from being the former president of the United States to a fictional character with mental problems created by a reclusive writer.

  “Forget something, pal?” says some five-and-a-half-foot phony with a cheesy mustache who appears in front of me. He’s wearing a blue suit one size too small and has enough grease in his hair to deep-fry a goddamned turkey.

  “Christ,” he says, before I have a chance to answer his first question. “What the hell happened to you?”

  I glance at the mirror behind the bar and notice that my face doesn’t look anything like me. It doesn’t look like JFK or James Bond or Indiana Jones. And although only Salinger knows for sure what Holden Caulfield looks like, I don’t recognize the person wearing my suit.

  I’m a stranger in my own skin.

  A spectator watching a performance.

  Truth is, I’m not sure if I’m real or make-believe.

  “Last time I saw you, you looked different,” says the phony.

  “Last time?” I say.

  “Yeah.” He waves the bartender over. “Not thirty minutes ago. Right over there.”

  He points toward the end of the bar, where some phony with a ponytail is checking himself out in the mirror like a goddamned prince.

  I don’t remember coming in here half an hour ago. Or talking to this phony. Or how I ended up in the alley. Then my gears shift again and Holden Caulfield is gone and it’s me.

  “Jesus!” says my mustached companion. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  I look in the mirror and see my reflection. My face. My eyes. My lips. It’s good to be back, though I wonder how long I’m going to stay this way. Then I remember the business card in my wallet.

  I pull out my wallet and remove the business card. “This is yours,” I say to the guy with the mustache.

  “No shit.” Joey Balsama turns to the bartender. “Jack and Coke. Easy on the Coke.”

  It all comes back to me: the conversation, the address in Brentwood, and what I could get at that address.

  “So did you change your mind?” says Joey. “Or are you looking for someone to hold your hand?”

  “No on both counts,” I say.

  “Good. Now do me a favor and make yourself scarce.” He picks up his Jack and Coke. “I’m busy.”

  I pay the bartender for my daiquiri and leave the drink on the bar without touching it, then walk outside and stand on the sidewalk in the post-dusk gloom as cars drive past on Santa Monica Boulevard. I study the business card in the hollow glow of the streetlights, flipping the card over from one side to the other.

  I’m trying to remember when I set this in motion and how I even met Joey Balsama, but I don’t know if I was me when I first met him or if I was someone else. James Bond. Philip Marlowe. Tyler Durden. Whoever I was, it occurs to me that I should probably think about making some travel plans.

  CHAPTER 57

  “Where would you like to go?” asks the travel agent, her voice soft and inviting in my ear.

  I sit at the signal and stare through the windshield of my ’59 T-Bird at the traffic passing back and forth in front of me on San Vicente Boulevard, windshields and metal surfaces reflecting the afternoon sun, the travel agent’s question replaying in my head.

  Where would you like to go?

  I’m twenty-seven years old and I’ve never been out of the country. The only times I’ve been out of
the state were to Tijuana during high school and college and once to Vegas with Nat after we both turned twenty-one. I’ve never flown on a plane.

  Where would I like to go?

  My father never asked me that question. Or my mother. We never did anything or took any vacations. At least not together. As I found out later, my father took a lot of “vacations” without us. My parents claimed they took me to Venice Beach once when I was four years old but I don’t remember it. And my parents didn’t take any pictures, so I’m dubious it ever happened.

  Where would I like to go?

  There are so many places to choose from. So many places I’ve never been that I’d like to visit. Portugal. Greece. South America. Australia. Europe. The Caribbean. New York City. Disneyland. I’m not sure I have any idea where to begin.

  “I don’t know,” I say into my wireless headset.

  “Well, are there any specific experiences you’d like to have?” asks the travel agent, her voice deep and husky and filled with unspoken promises, like I’m ordering up phone sex. I can almost picture her crawling across a giant map of the world on her hands and knees wearing nothing but a smile, then giving me a coy look over one shoulder. “Anything special you had in mind?”

  Her choice of words isn’t helping me to focus on picking a destination.

  “Someplace out of the country,” I say.

  “Good.” The word comes out like a purr and almost tickles my ear. I imagine her running her tongue across her lips. “Let’s start there.”

  The light turns green and I accelerate through the intersection, thoughts of naked travel agents and all-inclusive resorts running through my head.

  “So what kind of vacation were you looking to take?” she asks. “Were you thinking of a tropical destination? An African safari? Or maybe a Mediterranean cruise?”

  Someplace tropical sounds tempting. I like the idea of white sand and the ocean and endless mai tais. Maybe Fiji. Or Jamaica. They both sound like a better idea than an African safari. And I don’t even know where the Mediterranean Sea is.