John Belushi Is Dead (19 page)

“Believe it or not, it's actually kind of fun. It used to be anyway.”

“Used to be?”

I thought again of Benji. “Something wrong?” Jake asked.

“Sorry, I'm just worried about a friend.”

“What's the problem?”

“I don't know exactly. He just seems… off. Like he's not there anymore. Hank thinks he's sick.”

“Like a virus?”

I shook my head. “I don't think that's what he meant.”

We finished our drinks in silence and watched the cars driving down Sunset. At the other tables, writers with open laptops chatted about screenplays and meetings, and I was once again struck by how insignificant Los Angeles could make you feel if you didn't work in the movies. There was a real us-and-them mentality. If you
didn't work in the film industry, you were invisible. Unless you became a serial killer, then everyone suddenly sat up and took notice.

“There are a lot of people like me,” I said, suddenly feeling like I wanted to explain to Jake why I did the things I did, why I wasn't the freak he thought I was. “There's a whole community of us. We're all interested in it for different reasons, I guess. I suppose I want to look darkness in the eye and not be afraid. I want to feel the resonance of history and all the bad things people have done and try to understand why. I want to stand inside the Colosseum, feel the vibrations of so much death and despair. I want to walk the corridors of Columbine High. I want to touch the walls of Auschwitz.”

“Really?” Jake said, sounding amused.

“It sounds weird, huh?”

“Well, a little.”

“It's just that, ever since my parents died, I feel like death has been with me, you know?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because I was kind of there when it happened. But I got out. Now I've got this weird feeling, like something bad is going to happen to me.”

“Not while I'm around,” Jake said, puffing up his chest, and I couldn't help laughing.

“You know what, Jake? I think I'm starting to like you.”

“Really?” he said, sounding a little surprised.

“Yeah. You're okay, Jake.”

“Just okay?”

I nodded and smile. “
Barely
okay.”

“At least I've got something to work with,” he said, sounding pleased. “Hey, you know what you were saying about Auschwitz?
Have you ever thought about how many layers of skin and blood are on those walls? When people take those tours of the death camps, do they think about the fact that they're standing on mountains of skin cells and DNA?”

“That's gross. You sound like the one who needs help, not me.”

“Sorry. I guess I have a habit of coming at things from a different angle. You know, attention to detail. Do you think disinfectant can remove traces of skin cells?”

“Perhaps. You'd think there'd be some kind of residue left.”

“Maybe prisoners were forced to clean the areas where their cell mates had been killed. Like when they made them dig their own graves, and when the hole was dug they'd shoot them, and the body would fall straight in. Maybe I'll ask Hank.”

“What do you mean, ask Hank?”

“Hank was in a concentration camp. He didn't tell you?”

A piece of brownie caught in my throat. “No,” I said, coughing. “He didn't tell me. He told you?”

“Well, not exactly. I just kind of figured it out, then when I mentioned something to him, he didn't deny it, so I figured that was a yes. I mean, the mark on his arm, the fact that he's European. It all adds up, doesn't it? Don't you think that's why he's been going crazy lately, some kind of ‘posttraumatic' thing?”

We were quiet for a moment. Jake chewed on the edge of his paper coffee cup, bit off a piece, and spat it back out into his hand.

“So did he say anything else to you?” I asked.

“About what?”

“Being in a concentration camp.”

“Not really. I just said something like “Did you get that mark
in a camp?” and he said “something like that.” I guess if he hasn't talked to you about it, he doesn't want to talk to anyone.”

This made me feel a little better. It was one thing for Jake to figure out Hank had been in a camp, but quite another for Hank to bare his soul to Jake about what had happened there.

“But I mean, can you blame him for not wanting to talk about it?” Jake said. “I probably wouldn't want to relive that shit, either.”

“I guess not,” I said, but I still felt hurt. I thought Hank and I knew each other well enough that he would talk to me about something like that.

“So are you going to ask him about it?” Jake said.

“I don't know,” I said, feeling dejected. “Maybe.”

“Listen,” Jake said, changing the subject. “Do you think you might like to do this again with me? I was thinking of taking a day off tomorrow, and if I don't plan to do something, I'll just end up back at Starbucks working on my screenplay.”

“You write at Starbucks? That's a bit of a cliché, isn't it?”

“It's the only social interaction I get nowadays, apart from meetings with the suits at the studio, who I'd rather avoid. I sometimes work from home, but I like the buzz of the coffee shop, the idea that we're all in there hammering away at our own little stories. It's a cool energy. Mind you, there's a hell of a bitch fight for the power sockets.”

I thought for a moment. “How do you feel about taking a ride into the dark side of Los Angeles?”

Jake smirked. “Murder sites?”

“Who knows? Maybe you'll find a great idea for a screenplay.”

He screwed up his empty coffee cup and threw it on the fire, where it melted in on itself and burst into flames.

“When you put it that way,” he said, smiling. “I'll do anything for a good story.”

“Cool. Well, I guess I better be getting back.”

“Me too.”

We stood. Jake threw his backpack over his shoulder and something came tumbling out, hitting the ground with a crack. He scooped down to pick it up but I beat him to it.

“What's this?” I asked, examining it, knowing very well what it was.

“That? Just a tape recorder,” he said, snatching it out of my hand.

“What's it for?”

“Oh, for when I get ideas and I've left my notepad at home.”

“Is that so? You ever recorded anyone on that secretly?” I teased.

Jake gave me a serious look. “I've been recording this entire conversation.”

“You have not.”

He broke into a broad smile. “Of course I haven't. That would be a gross invasion of privacy.”

“Well, don't let Hank see you with that. He's so paranoid about everything he'll get the wrong idea.”

“He sure would,” Jake said, and stuffed the recorder back into his bag.

T
HE NEXT DAY
J
AKE
arrived at my house in his rusty convertible. He opened the passenger door and I saw the seat was a mess, covered in papers, candy bar wrappers, and empty Coke bottles. I stood and waited.

“Oh shit, sorry.” He stepped forward and threw everything onto the backseat.

“What is all that stuff?” I asked.

“What do you think it is? It's my work.”

“Shouldn't you be more careful with it? One gust of wind will send all those papers flying out the window.”

“Like in the movie
Wonder Boys
? That would be hilarious.”

We drove down Ventura Boulevard, past restaurants, trendy boutiques, and gas stations. Jake lit a Marlboro Light and let his hand hang out the window as he blew smoke outside. He was wearing brown cords and a T-shirt that said
BETTY FORD CLINIC
, and looked effortlessly cool with his black curls blowing against his
forehead, cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth like he was James Dean.

I looked down at my black cords and plain gray T-shirt and hoped that my look came off as effortless as his did. Some people were able to wear plain clothes and make them look ridiculously fashionable: James Dean did it with a tight white tee, Marlon Brando with denim jeans. But everything I put on felt too well thought out; the T-shirt wasn't creased enough, and my sneakers were hardly soiled. I figured the key to the look was not to care, but the problem was I did. I found myself caring too much what Jake thought of me. And Jake, tapping his fingers on the dashboard to Guns N' Roses' “Welcome to the Jungle,” looked like he didn't care at all.

We turned right on Beverly Glen and headed up over the Hollywood Hills, then crossed Mulholland Drive and made our descent into the wilderness of the canyons. Any anxiety I had been feeling slowly started to drift away. The canyons had that effect on me; the thin, snaking roads lined with eucalyptus trees, the rustic charm of the houses. It was amazing that such a rural area existed barely five minutes from the bustle of the nightclubs and restaurants on Sunset Boulevard. It was an oasis in the city, a wilderness where people could disappear into the bush and scrub, a place where you could hide from the world. I loved the little cottages that dotted the hills; they had so much more character than the gaudy mansions of Beverly Hills. If I could live anywhere in the world it would be here, snug in the comfort of the canyons, surrounded by their secrets.

“So do you like school?” Jake asked, flicking ash out the window that immediately blew back on him.

“Do I like school?” I repeated.

“Yeah,” he said, taking his hands off the steering wheel and driving with his knees as he brushed himself off. “School's cool, right?”

“Yes, Jake. It's, like, totally awesome.”

“Hell, I loved school when I was there. I just decided it wasn't for me, you know? My parents were hippies who didn't believe in the ‘state' and ‘institutions.' I went to this special school in Malibu where you could do whatever you wanted. If you wanted to finger paint all day, you could do that. If you wanted to eat glue, you could do that, too. I did nothing but woodwork for the first eight years of school. I made some beautiful birdhouses.”

“Birdhouses?”

“It's true. I couldn't read or write until I was fifteen.”

“And now you're a screenwriter? How does that work?”

“Hilda, have you been to the movies lately? You don't have to be a great writer to make a career out of it. Anyway, it's not about how well you can write; it's all about
story
. I'm a born storyteller. Let me give you an example. Here's a story for you: A young girl is driving through the Hollywood Hills with a guy she barely knows, looking at murder sites. The canyons conceal things, make it real easy to pick someone off if you were so inclined, you know? He murders her and throws her body into the brush, where it's picked apart by coyotes. Then she becomes a ghost and haunts the canyons like the dead celebrities whose houses she came to explore. See how I did that? See how I did the irony thing at the end?”

“Yeah, well, the girl would've kicked him in the nuts before he had a chance to do anything.”

He broke into a smile. “An ass-kicking heroine, huh? I like it. There's not enough positive role models for girls these days.”

He took a long drag on his cigarette, then flicked the butt out the window and straight into a thick hedge where I half expected it to go up in flames.

“Left here,” I said, sitting up and pointing. “That's it.”

We almost missed the turnoff, a narrow lane called Easton Drive that we could barely fit the convertible through; the sides scraped against overhanging pine and oak tree branches. We passed cottages with wooden porches and small front gardens filled with firewood and swing sets. The front doors were wide open, and inside people talked and laughed in doorways. I could smell homemade cooking, like stews and freshly made bread, hearty foods full of starch and calories. One home even had a fire going, smoke rising dreamily from the chimney. The gardeners and maintenance workers paid us no attention. This was not a road you drove on unless you lived there, and the men in sun hats holding shears and pitchforks went about their business, arms deep in muck, pulling weeds out by the roots.

“So what is it exactly that we're looking for?” Jake asked.

“Ninety-eight sixty Easton Drive. It's the house where the movie producer Paul Bern lived with his wife, Jean Harlow. He died there from a gunshot wound. They never found out whether it was murder or suicide. When it happened, there was a rumor that he shot himself because he couldn't satisfy his wife.”

“He couldn't satisfy Jean Harlow?”

“Apparently he was a closet homosexual,” I said, straining to find the place. None of the houses on the road looked like the pictures I'd seen on the Internet. “Some people think he couldn't get it up. But there are other people who say he and Jean Harlow were madly in love. I don't think he killed himself. Turns out he had a crazy ex-wife who he hid in an apartment and never told Jean Harlow
about. This crazy lady ends up escaping from the apartment, comes to this house to try and reconcile, and shoots Bern when he refuses to leave Harlow. She then runs off to San Francisco, gets on a ferry, and throws herself overboard so no one will ever know what really happened.”

“But you think you do.”

“Jake, would you kill yourself if you were married to Jean Harlow? They were in love.”

“Does love mean never having to say you're impotent?”

“Jay Sebring lived in this house, too,” I said, ignoring the last comment.

“The hairdresser? The one who was killed by the Manson Family?”

“His friends warned him the house was cursed. He was living there when he was murdered at Sharon Tate's house just around the corner.”

We reached the end of the street. “Damn,” I said. “Turn around. We might see it on the way back.”

Jake squeezed the convertible around the tiny end of the cul-de-sac and we started to crawl back down the hill. “I don't see it,” Jake said, looking around. “I think you imagined this demon house from hell.”