L.A. Success (22 page)

“I found a dog, and the tag says
this address. Did you lose one?”

“I'm just babysitting, but I've
never seen a dog here. Amanda?” she asked, turning into the room. “Do you have
a dog?”

“Yes. A white dog,” said Amanda,
who, from the sounds of it, was now dumping out the contents of her toy box.

I had the same feeling I get when I
call a customer-service department, and, after telling a completely
uninterested person my problem in as much detail as possible so that even a
customer-service agent can understand it, I'm put on hold and then transferred
to a second person and made to repeat the entire situation over again.

“This dog isn't white,” I said,
trying to cut her off before she could say it herself. “You don't know if the
people who used to live here had a dog, do you? Have you been babysitting here
a long time?”

“Just a few months.”

“It says 'call Ignacio' under the
address on the tag, but the number is out of service. Do you know anyone with
that name?”

“No, but I can ask Mr. Fernandez
when he gets back,” she said.

“Don't worry about it. I'll ask the
neighbors. Sorry to have bothered you.”

I walked around the building looking
for the mailboxes. In the center of the building, there was a locked,
tinted-glass door leading down to the washing machines, and right inside the
door, set in the wall, were the boxes. I could see labels scotch-taped to them,
but I couldn't make out the names because the labels were curling up at the
edges. I didn't want to sit around waiting for someone to come along, and
anyway, Ignacio clearly hadn't been staying there. It didn't seem worth the
wait just to find out this Fernandez guy's first name, so I got back in the
Charger and drove home.

30

The next day I checked my email again,
but all I got was a no-new-messages alert. It had been a while since I had sent
that message to Helen, so I was sure she had read it. That meant that she was
ignoring me on purpose, which I found really surprising since normally you
can't make women stop talking even when you want them to. It now seemed to me
that the only thing worse than a woman telling you every thought that goes
through her head is when she stops doing that, because it means something
really bad has happened.

I picked up my shit phone and dialed
her number a few times, but she didn't pick up. I left some messages, but I had
the feeling I was just going to make her upset with them and give her even more
excuses not to answer me. I could already hear her saying “Why doesn't he just
leave me alone?” I suddenly had the feeling that I had crossed the line and
that Helen had already re-organized her universe, putting me somewhere in the
background with a new title, like “ex-boyfriend, potential casual friend.”
Maybe I'd be the ex-boyfriend girls were always talking about chatting on the
phone with, that ex that always seems to be hovering around so that you know if
you screw up, she'll go crying over to his house and end up getting done.

As nice as that last bit sounded, I
couldn't let that happen, so I jumped in the Charger and started driving out to
Helen's sister's place. About half way there, I had a panic attack, thinking
that everything had ended for good without me even realizing. I hit the gas and
started weaving around people like mad. The part of my brain that registered
things like speed limits and laws of physics sunk into the background, and even
when there was not enough space to change lanes, I did it anyway. People hit
their brakes, swerved, changed lanes, and honked like maniacs, and since I no
longer cared about traffic rules, I rolled down my window and stuck my hand
out, preparing to give them all the finger. And then it hit me all at once: I
was becoming a male Gertie. I didn't quite know what to do with that thought,
so I tucked it back in my brain for later. I slowed down and merged back into
the normal flow of traffic, accepting all the angry looks from the people I'd
pissed off.

When I got to the house, I knocked
on the door and waited. I heard moving around inside, but no one came to the
door.

“Helen?” I said. “It's me. I need to
know something. I need to know if you're ever going to talk to me again.”

The door cracked open a little. She
stood there looking at me for a long time and then stepped out.

“Come with me for a minute. I've got
something to tell you,” she said and led me into the backyard. We sat down on a
porch swing that was suspended from the branch of a huge shade tree and started
rocking a little. I was waiting for her to start talking, but the silence was killing
me.

“Did you get the email I sent?
Because I—”

“Just listen,” she said, looking
straight forward. “The restaurant, the slap—it doesn't matter. None of that
matters.” She paused for a long time. We sat rocking slowly, looking off toward
nothing, listening to the noise the ropes holding up the swing made as they
rubbed against the tree branch. “I wish you had shown me
something
—that
you were scared, upset, or worried—when it was important. I wanted you to make
a serious commitment to me, and it was like you wouldn't even consider it. I
knew you were afraid because of the way your family turned out, and I know the
drinking was to hide it all inside, but you never told me how you felt. I
started thinking that no matter how much I loved you, we could never have a
future together because when I was ready to take the next step, you disappeared
emotionally.”

I sat there, rocking back and forth,
thinking about what she had just said. I was trying to pull something out of
that, to say something important about why I had acted that way, but I was
worried I'd say something stupid, and to be honest, I had been so blitzed all
the time that I couldn't remember exactly what I had thought.

“And you know,” she continued, “when
I saw you after we split up, you looked great. It only took you a couple of
months to get everything together. You're doing better than ever before, and
it's without me. I think that's why I slapped you so fast—I was angry that you
could do this for yourself, but not for me, for us.”

“But I love you,” I said.

“I know you do, in your way. Even
when we were going through everything, I knew you loved me. But what does it
matter if it doesn't cause you to do things for us? If you love someone, but
that love doesn't guide you toward something—a common goal, a future
together—then it's just the kind of love that makes the person you’re with
suffer in the long run.”

I felt pain at the top of my throat.
There it was—the proof that I was responsible for making her unhappy. I tried
to open my mouth to say something, but I just ended up crying and then trying
to fight back the tears. Helen put her hand on my shoulder, but I shook it off
and stood up. I couldn't stand anyone seeing me cry like that, so I turned
away. After a few minutes I tried to choke everything back, and I turned around
again to look at her.

“I'm so sorry,” I said, wanting to
say so many things that I couldn't. I felt everything welling up in me again. I
gestured with my hand to say give me a minute, but I couldn't get control of
myself enough to speak. “I'm sorry,” I said again quickly and took off.

31

On Monday I went back into training
mode with Gertie. Halfway through the week I got a call on the shit phone. It
was Grant. I answered it, and, after the usual amount of desperate “hellos”
while moving around to get a better signal, the connection cleared up.

“Did you take a look at my movie?” I
asked.

“I took a look at the awful
handwriting and coffee stains, and then tossed it aside. But when I was getting
my things together for a meeting, I noticed the name of your lead female
character. I mentioned the coincidence to Steven, and he asked me to bring it
to him.”

“So what did he say?”

“He said he wanted to know where you
wanted to go with this,” said Grant.

“Well, I was hoping to get a little
advance for the first part and then get the rest of the money when I finish the
job.”

“He's going to want to see more
before he signs any checks. You're lucky he even looked at the thing, so I
wouldn't push it. Oh, and is the version you sent me the only copy you have of
it?”

“Yeah, so tell Spieldburt not to
lose it. Also, tell him he'll get more soon.”

“It's pronounced Spie—” and here I
hung up on prissy Grant, since now he needed me more than I needed him.

After another week of work with
Gertie was over, I went back to Culver City to hang out with my writing
buddies, caffed myself up again, and spewed out the next installment of my
disguised report. I was careful not to reveal too much, because I definitely
wasn't going to tell him everything until I had a little of his money. The way
I saw it, he'd be so anxious after reading act two that I could make him
deliver the dough before I handed the last one over. It took me a couple of
hours of frantic scribbling to finish. I then took it to Fed-ex and mailed it
immediately.

32

SUPPLEMENTARY TERRIAN DWELLER

Act 2

By Lonnie Herisson

INT. LONNIE HERISSON'S BEDROOM - MORNING

Our hero, LONNIE HERISSON, looking particularly downtrodden,
combs his hair in the mirror. He picks up a picture of a beautiful woman and
looks at it longingly. Then he picks up the strange gun and stares resolutely
into the mirror.

LONNIE HERISSON

I'm going to get this Supplementary Terrian Dweller for you,
babe.

The shit phone rings.

LONNIE HERISSON

(Into the phone)

Hi Gertie. Are you ready for me?

GERTIE ELLIOT

(Off screen)

Oh yeah. My website got a hit. Get down to my office.

LONNIE hangs up, knowing, like all people in movies know and
tacitly agree on, exactly when a conversation has reached its end point, thus
eliminating completely the need to state “goodbye.”

EXT. CULVER CITY PARKING LOT - LATER

LONNIE gets out of a green Mercedes and walks over to GERTIE
ELLIOT's real-estate office.

INT. GERTIE ELLIOT'S REAL-ESTATE OFFICE - CONTINUOUS

GERTIE is seated at her desk working on the computer. LONNIE
enters and sits down in front of the desk. GERTIE turns the monitor so that
they can both see it. LONNIE looks into her eyes to see if she's under the
trance of the SUPPLEMENTARY TERRIAN DWELLER. Her eyes look normal. GERTIE
notices him staring and smiles a little.

GERTIE ELLIOT

Here are the potential clients, Jacob and Abigail Ritter.
They scored 95% on my bible quiz.

LONNIE HERISSON

Bible quiz? I never took you for the religious type.

GERTIE ELLIOT

To sell a house, I'll be any religion you like. Take a look
at this. I've given this web address to all the churches on the west side. When
they come to the home page, they can't even access the listings until they pass
the quiz, and believe me, this thing is hard. Most people don't even get half
of the questions right. They have to register, so if they flunk it, they can't
take it a second time.

LONNIE HERISSON

But then you lose a customer.

GERTIE ELLIOT

Not at all. Word gets around, and then they all get curious.
The ones that manage to pass this thing can't wait to rub it in everyone's
face. I even go to their church to meet with them the first time. Every time I
walk into a place, the people stare at me, waiting to see who was good enough
to be christened by The Gert. You're going with me on this one.

GERTIE gets up and heads over to her things that she has
left in the two-chair waiting area. LONNIE gives her a good looking over.

LONNIE HERISSON (voice over)

Damn! The dress she has on will never allow me to stick my
weird gun in her navel! Unless I lift it up really fast...

LONNIE cringes at this disgusting thought.

GERTIE rummages through a shopping bag. She pulls out a
large pink polo shirt.

GERTIE ELLIOT

Put this on.

LONNIE stands up and takes the shirt. He removes his classy
shirt, revealing an Arnold T-shirt. He then puts on the pink polo, which is
definitely too small and hugs all his roundness. While he is changing, GERTIE
watches lasciviously.

LONNIE HERISSON

This really looks like crap.

GERTIE ELLIOT

Oh no. It's almost perfect.

GERTIE steps up close to LONNIE. She buttons the shirt all
the way up. Then, before he even realizes what she's doing, she tucks it in, her
hands going a little farther south of the waistline than appreciated.