John Belushi Is Dead (29 page)

“I just can't live like this,” I cried into his shoulder.

“Like what?” he whispered, his hand on my hair.

“With all this death.”

“I'm alive, Hilda. I'm alive.”

I pushed him away. “No you're not,” I said, and all I could think was that he was dead, we were all dead, and that's why it was a dumb idea to ever get close to people.

“Hilda—”

“Hey!” A voice yelled from the sidewalk: Lynette, home from work, her arms filled with casebooks. “What's going on?”

She looked at me, saw my tears, and a hard look settled into her features.

“Hey, buddy,” she said to Jake. “Take a hike.”

“Look, I'm just trying to—”

“I said, take a hike!”

I'm not sure at what point Lynette pulled her assistant DA badge from her bag, but all of a sudden it was in her hand, being flashed in front of Jake's face.

“You know what this is, son?” she said.

Jake sighed. “No, what is it?”

“It's a DA's badge.”

“Really?”

“Well, assistant DA. Point is, I could arrest you on the spot. Now, I told you to take a hike. She doesn't want you here.”

“Hilda—”

“No, you don't,” Lynette said. “She doesn't want you here. Not now anyway. If you've got something to sort out, now is not the time. Do you understand?”

He sighed. “Fine. I'll go.”

Jake held out his hand to Lynette as I stood silently on the front porch, the tears drying on my face.

“I'm Jake, by the way,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”

Lynette hesitated for a moment, then shook his hand. “Assistant DA Lynette Hannigan. Good to meet you, too. Now move along.”

“Okay.”

Jake slunk back to his convertible. Lynette came and put her arm around me, and together we watched him drive away. I put my head on her shoulder.

“Who was that?” she asked, stroking my hair.

“That was Jake.”

“Cute.”

I laughed, wiped my nose with my sleeve.

“Well, you gotta admit, he's a hell of a lot better looking than Benji.”

“That's mean,” I said, but couldn't help grinning.

“You want some ice cream?”

I sniffled. “Okay.”

We walked back inside.

“You know what?” I said. “That thing you did with your badge? That was actually pretty cool this time.”

“Next time I'll pull a gun,” she said. “But only if you want me to.”

T
HE PARTY SOUNDED TASTELESS
even by Benji's standards. The invitation was a flash animation showing a bloated and passed-out John Belushi with a large hypodermic needle in his arm.
Come and party with the ghost of Belushi,
it read.
B.Y.O. beer. Speedballs optional.

Benji had rented bungalow 3 at the Chateau Marmont on the Sunset Strip. Bungalow 3 was the room where John Belushi OD'd after a five-day drug binge, shattering the dreams of an entire generation overnight. Now Benji and his creepy friends would be trashing the place where he died, eating from his fridge, and doing God knows what else. The invitation billed it as a memorial event, but I knew there was nothing sacred about this little soiree. I was also pretty sure that the Chateau wouldn't have rented bungalow 3 to Benji had they known what he was using it for. Still, the hotel was notoriously difficult to get into unless you were an A-list star, and I had always wanted to see inside bungalow 3. Deep down I
also wanted to see Benji. I was desperate for something familiar. Maybe the break had done us good, and when we saw each other we would pick up where we left off and everything would be as it once was. I also felt lonely. As a cab took me down the Sunset Strip, I thought about how much everything had changed. Once Benji and I had explored this town together. One night we had loitered outside the Viper Room, too young to actually get in, trying to imagine what it was like the night River Phoenix died on the pavement outside. Benji had come armed with a mallet and pike, determined to hammer out the part of the pavement where River collapsed and take a piece home for his collection. The moment Benji crouched down, tools at the ready, a cop car slowed to a crawl beside us. I told the cops Benji was mentally ill and thought there was buried treasure beneath the streets of Los Angeles. I promised to take him home and make sure he took his medication.

Another night we tried to sneak into On the Rox, the private room above the Roxy nightclub, where Belushi spent his final hours on earth before leaving for the Chateau. There was no bribing the doorman, who was well-versed in prohibiting entry to the many wannabes and hangers-on who plagued the Sunset Strip. Benji tried to convince him we were the kids of a major studio head, a claim we thought the doorman couldn't really dispute. But when he asked which one and Benji blurted out Michael Eisner, our distinct lack of Jewish features was enough to tip him off. It was hard to get away with anything in Los Angeles. Even the doormen at nightclubs read the trades.

Once this town had been
ours
. Now, like so many other things in my life, I had lost Benji, too. As the cab pulled up to the Chateau Marmont, that huge, towering castle on the hill, I hoped I
might find something in my relationship with Benji to salvage. I paid the driver, and before I could reach over for the door handle, someone had opened it for me. The bellboy tipped his cap, and a crowd of photographers surged forward, acting on instinct; then I emerged and they went away just as quickly.

“Are you a guest?” the bellboy asked. “Do you have any bags?”

“I'm here for a party,” I said, sure I would be turned away on the spot. I was wearing a black slip dress and a pair of Lynette's high heels, two sizes too big. “It's in bungalow three.”

“Of course,” the bellboy said. “Follow me.”

Bungalow 3 had a private entranceway that couldn't be accessed from the hotel foyer. As I followed the bellboy up the lane that ran along the side of the hotel, I could already hear the music. A single street lamp illuminated the entrance to the bungalow, a gate familiar to me from the many photographs I'd seen on the Internet. I had seen footage of Belushi being carried through this gate under a white sheet. I waited for the shivers of excitement that usually came whenever I stood at a site like this; I felt nothing but the wind on my bare shoulders. The bellboy tipped his cap again. I gave him a few dollars and he scampered off into the night. I pushed the gate open and went inside.

The bungalows at the Chateau Marmont are more like little homes than hotel suites. I walked the few feet to the front door; the music was so loud I could barely hear my own footsteps on the concrete path. I knocked, and a moment later the door swung open as if someone had been waiting behind it. Benji stood there in a black suit and sunglasses, a black fedora on his head, Budweiser in hand. We looked at each other for a moment, saying nothing, then a broad smile broke out across his face.

“Hilda!” he yelled too loudly, and I could tell he was drunk. “Where you been?”

“Nice suit,” I said.

“I'm a Blues Brother! Isn't this great?”

He stepped forward, awkward, and threw his arm around my shoulder. I walked in. The main room of the bungalow was a large lounge area with a kitchenette, and I was surprised to find it wasn't all that fancy inside; in fact, it looked like they hadn't updated the decor since the seventies. Inside, people I didn't know lounged on the red couches and milled around behind the kitchen counter, and as I walked in, nobody paid me much attention. The furniture was all old-fashioned in a hip kind of way, and sliding glass doors led to what can best be described as a backyard, a self-contained garden area where people were sitting on old garden chairs, smoking. Some of the people were dressed like Benji, while others were wearing togas, an obvious homage to
Animal House
. John Lee Hooker, Belushi's favorite blues artist, was playing on the stereo, and old episodes of
Saturday Night Live
were playing on an enormous flat-screen television, the most modern item in the place. I watched the screen. Belushi was prancing around in a giant bumblebee costume. Story goes that he hated that costume, and whenever the producers asked him to wear it, he could barely hide his disgust, even when on the air. You could almost see the boredom in his eyes. With his hands on his fuzzy yellow-and-black belly, antennae flying above his head, he looked like a man who had given up hope.

“Who the hell are all these people?” I asked Benji.

“They're just people, you know? I met most of them online.”

Yeah, just people more than willing to take advantage of his hospitality. “How did you get this place?”

“Oh, you see Bruce over there?” He pointed to an enormous, brooding figure in the corner of the kitchen, clutching a bottle of bourbon close to his chest. “He works for some rock star. I met him at a séance. He got the room for us.”

“A séance?”

“You should have been there, Hilda. You would have loved it. We talked to Sinatra!”

“Oh yeah?” I said, disbelieving. “Why the hell would Sinatra want to talk to you guys?”

“Because we made a sacrifice to him.”

“A sacrifice? Not more goldfish, Benji, please.”

Benji made the sign of the cross over his heart and smirked. “No more goldfish. That I can promise you. Can I get you a drink or something?”

“Anything.”

He ran to the kitchen and threw open the refrigerator door. Séances? I didn't want to ask any further about the sacrifice part. It appeared to me Benji had sacrificed more than he knew to these new friends of his. I looked around the room. A woman wearing fishnet tights and a leotard scowled at me from the kitchen counter, her cigarette dropping ash on the floor. A guy in the living room pulled his toga up, and I caught a glimpse of pink, wobbling flesh before everyone started applauding. Benji came back with a beer and handed it to me.

“Who the hell is that?” I said, pointing toward the guy in the toga who was now waving his junk in everyone's faces. The girls screamed.

“That's Sammy. He's the coolest.” Benji laughed and clapped his hands. “Way to go, Sammy!”

I felt the room closing in on me. I put the unopened beer on the counter. “Are you all right?” Benji asked. “You don't look good. Are you sick?”

“No, I'm just tired. Can I sit down somewhere?”

“Let's go over here.”

Benji led me to an empty couch and I took a seat. “I'm just gonna get another beer,” he said. “Don't go anywhere. Just stay right there.”

“I'm fine. Go.”

Benji went back into the kitchen and started talking to the woman in the leotard. A girl wearing a sarong came and sat down beside me. Her hair was long and blond and her hands were decked out in amber rings. “Cool party, huh?” she said. I put my hand to my head.

“Sorta. I guess. Sorry, I've actually got a headache.”

“So you feel it, too?”

“Feel what?”

She lifted her arms in the air as if she were going to float off. “The energy in the air, the vibe of the place. Can't you just feel him here? He's here with us.”

“Who?”

“Belushi. He totally wants us to party with him. That's what he was all about—energy, life, living it to the fullest. Rockin' out.”

I stared at her. “I don't think I caught your name.”

“It's Amelia. Like the Joni Mitchell song.”

“Right, okay. Amelia? I'm sorry to disagree with you, but Belushi wasn't about life and energy and all that positive crap you're talking about. Belushi was an
addict
. Just another sad, pathetic actor wandering the streets of Hollywood, looking for all the attention
he could get. There was nothing positive about what happened to Belushi. He died thousands of miles from his home, thousands of miles from his wife, in a hotel room with a hooker. Tell me what's so positive about that.”

“I don't understand. Don't you like John Belushi?”

“God! Are you even listening to me? John Belushi was a genius, a supremely talented person who fucked up his life with drugs and alcohol. He may have been a genius, but in the end he was just sad and pathetic. He was just another piece of roadkill on the Hollywood highway.”

“But he was pretty funny, wasn't he?” she said, looking confused. “He was a funny guy, right?”

“Yes, Amelia.” I sighed. “He was
hilarious
.”

“I like
The Blues Brothers
. That was a funny movie.”

“Yes,
The Blues Brothers
was
hilarious
. By the way, that Joni Mitchell song, ‘Amelia'? It was about Amelia Earhart.”

“Cool. Who's Amelia Earhart?”

“Exactly,” I said, and stood. “If you'll excuse me for a moment.”

I walked across the room and down the hallway, looking for a bathroom. I passed the first bedroom on the right, not the one Belushi died in but a smaller one that was being used as the party's cloakroom. Jackets were thrown on the bed and the ground, and a fresh pool of vomit festered perilously close to a trench coat. I turned away, saw the closed door at the end of the hallway, the door to Belushi's bedroom, and instead of going toward it I quickly turned right into the bathroom, closed the door, and locked it.

I turned on the tap and threw water over my face. My eye makeup started to run. “Shit!” I mumbled, grabbing a tissue from
next to the sink and trying ineffectively to dab away the black lines that were now running down my face. What was wrong with me? I was at a party at the Chateau Marmont, Hollywood's most legendary hotel, in bungalow 3 no less. Led Zeppelin rode their motorbikes through the foyer. James Dean climbed through a window to audition for
Rebel Without a Cause
. Jim Morrison nearly killed himself dangling from a drain pipe. Why couldn't I enjoy myself?