L.A. Success (16 page)

“Hey, thanks. That helps a lot,” I said. I'd never imagined that Sharkburt could have other motives. If I found out something weird, I could make even more money by blackmailing him. I also never thought about the fact that Gertie now treated me like a client, and that since she was trying to make money off of me, she'd never really open up and show me her true colors, if she had any. If I became her apprentice, she might start showing me exactly what she was capable of.

I walked over to Gertie's office and saw Ellen inside. I rapped on the window a little and went in.

“Hello,” she said. “Has Gertie got in touch with you?”

“Yeah, but I was hoping to get an update. You don't know where she is, do you?”

“Actually, she's not available today. She said she was supervising the seeding of a lawn. Would you like to leave—?”

I was out the door before she could finish her sentence. I got in the Charger and tried to calm down a little before pulling out of the parking lot. I already had images of little grass seeds being scattered around my house, of fertilizer pellets that stunk like vitamins, of a tanned, sweaty laborer shaking little clumps of straw that rained down everywhere. And then I imagined the grass slowly coming in, at first looking like the balding head that triggers a mid-life crisis, then becoming as thick as my hair. The street would finally have that seamless I'm-okay-you're-okay unity that my neighbors had always dreamed of.

16

When I pulled into my driveway, I saw that the scene was mostly how I had imagined, except that the tanned laborer had been replaced by a pasty-white, jiggly Frenchman. He had been sweating so much that the hair on top of his head looked even thinner, and the longer hair in back hung straighter than normal, brushing the top of his shoulders when he bent down to pick up more straw.

Gertie stepped out of the house holding a glass of whiskey on the rocks. When she saw me, she started walking over, her boobs once again moving in circles and smashing into one another with each step. I wondered why they didn't swing in unison like a pendulum, but maybe it was like the water in the toilet that always goes down clockwise. Maybe Australian Gertie's boobs swung in the opposite direction. Even more disturbing than that image was the fact that if she was free-boobing, then that meant my immigrant worker had probably been defiled by the lady of the house during his break.

“I'd have bought sod, but this is much cheaper, and the labor is free,” she said. “Well, not free, but let’s just say he worked on a different patch of grass as compensation.” She took a long drink of whiskey and let out a satisfied “ahh.” I was a little too grossed out to go off on her, and anyway I couldn't risk jeopardizing my new plan.

“So what's this going to cost me?”

“Nada. The Gert has a rule: always screw the guy at the very bottom. For my expertise, I'm taking ten percent of the rent for the next six months. But don't worry—I just raised Tommy's rent by that much since he's now living in a luxury apartment.”

“Luxury apartment?”

“Yeah. I'm going to have him install a bird feeder with running water in the backyard. We'll call it a pool until the inspectors come. I've done it hundreds of times.”

“That's great, but you don't think I can sell the place?” I asked, even though I had no intention of doing so.

“Not now. You'd lose too much because of the market. But I've got another idea you can do while waiting. Your neighbors have been wanting this grass for so long that I think you'll be able to milk them for landscaping costs. After the grass comes in, they're going to be really happy. I'll wait two or three months, and then when someone calls me about the value of their property, I'll tell them it's about to go down because Mr. Herisson can't pay for the upkeep anymore. Then I'll feed them the idea of joining up with the other neighbors to pay for your landscaping. They'll do it just to keep the value of their houses up.”

“But I don't want any landscaping.”

“It'll never actually happen. We'll split the money and have Tommy plant a tree.”

“Wow,” I said, smiling and nodding to show my admiration.

Since things seemed to be going well, I decided to spring my plan on her. “Say Gertie, I've been unemployed for a while now, and I want to look into learning some new stuff. I imagine you'll say no to this, but why don't you let me work for free as your assistant so I can see how you do all this? I wouldn't be any competition for you because if I sell my house I'm getting out of L.A.”

“Hmm...a free assistant,” she said, and I could see from the way she squinted her eyes and smiled evilly that she was imagining ways she could use me as slave labor for as long as possible. After a moment she regained control of her expression. “An assistant would just get in my way. I'd end up having to work harder.” I knew she was lying because she was forcing herself to smile like she smiled at those Malibu church goers. She was trying to milk me for more than just labor.

“I suppose I could also sign exclusively with you for the sale of my house. That way you could be sure I wouldn't try to sell it myself after I learned how to do it.” I wasn't worried about this because even if she did find a buyer later, I'd refuse.

“You'll do everything I say? I don't want to start you down the path and then have you bailing out on me after I've invested a lot of effort.”

“No...I'll take it seriously.”

“Okay then. You start Monday. Report to my office and await my instructions.”

“Thanks Gertie. You won't regret this,” I said, trying to sound like a go-getter.

“I'm sure I won't.” She turned to go back inside and at the same time gave me a little pat on the ass. I was hoping this was like one of those little-league pats, but then when I thought about it, those little-league ones seemed pretty pervy as well.

17

My last sexual-harassment-free weekend. Saturday, I took Ballsack on a walk along the path that runs parallel to Ocean Avenue. I always loved to walk under the palm trees, to look out over the ocean, to check out all of the beautiful jogging girls and watch for the occasional celebrity. Santa Monica always did me some good.

As I was leaning against the fence that ran along the cliff, the big poodle started going crazy, spinning in circles. I had to move the leash around to prevent him from choking himself. Then he started pulling me over toward a big palm tree. When we got over there, Ballsack reared up on his back legs and barked a little. Then he crouched down low to the ground with his front paws as if he was getting ready to pounce. His tail wagged away.

I circled the tree to see what he was excited about, expecting to see a squirrel, but there was only some guy there. He was trying to shoo the big poodle away with his left hand while holding his bandaged right hand up against his chest in case the dog jumped. He was very tan and was wearing a tank top with weird, white cotton pants that stopped at his calves. They made me think that he hadn't been able to make up his mind whether to wear shorts or pants, so he had compromised.

“Sorry buddy,” I said. “He won't hurt you. He just gets excited sometimes.” He stopped trying to make the big poodle go away and leaned over. He gave the dog a scratch behind the ear.

“This is my favorite kind of dog,” he said and then made the noises you'd normally make to a baby. “Oh yes, you like the scratches, don't you!”

“That's the place he likes to be scratched the most.”

“How long have you had him?” he asked.

“He's not mine. I'm just dog sitting while his owner is out of town, but I'm starting to wish I had one just like him.”

“They sure do grow on you. Well, have a nice day,” he said, and then gave Ballsack's afro a final tousle. “You take care now, Manolete.” The man stood up and walked across Ocean Avenue. I watched him go, thinking what a dumb name Manolete was and how glad I was to have changed his name. Then I realized there was no way that man could have known the old name. I leaned down in front of the big poodle and looked at his collar. It was written right there, but really small, on the front of the round metal tag, with an address that wasn't Dennis' on back. I guess this guy had looked at it. Still, it seemed like a pretty weird name to be able to say perfectly just from reading it. I'd sure never heard it before Dennis had said it.

18

Monday morning I stopped to see the writers on my way to work. I explained to them that I was doing research for my underworld real-estate drama, so I'd be volunteering for a while.

“That's convenient,” said Hat-Guy Leonard. “Didn't you say you wanted to make the beast that has two backs with that secretary?” All the guys laughed at me.

“I've got a higher purpose now,” I said. “Besides, I'm trying to get back together with my ex. I'll see you guys later.” I went in and grabbed a couple of coffees. Then I walked over to Gertie's office. Ellen was already talking on the phone. I walked in and put one of the coffees on her desk. She mouthed a silent “thank you” as she continued listening.

“Yes...Mmm hmm...Okay...I'll get him started,” she said into the receiver and then hung up. “Good morning Lonnie!”

“Good morning.”

“That was Gertie on the phone. She told me she wanted you to spend the first week getting familiar with the basics.” She stood up and took two huge binders off of a shelf behind her. She handed them to me with an apologetic look. I looked at the covers. One was called “Real Estate Principles” and the other “Real Estate Practices.” They weighed about ten pounds apiece. I took them over to the sitting area and used the coffee table as my desk.

I read over the folders for about an hour before I awoke suddenly with Ellen standing over me.

“Wake up, Mr. Sleepy!” she said.

“Whew...I need another coffee. You want one?” She shook her head no. I went and grabbed the biggest, strongest coffee possible and then returned to the binders.

It blew my mind that I was actually qualified to be an agent. I had assumed I wasn't, because whenever I saw pictures of the agents on their signs, they were always dressed up in nice clothes. I had always imagined that they were highly educated, but these books said you only had to be eighteen. It even said that you could still become an agent if you had a criminal record, which I guessed was why a large part of the binder was devoted to ethics.

I was amazed at how much time they spent talking about how dishonest it was to give fake estimates of property value. It was apparently the most serious offense you could commit in the business. If they had to talk about it so much, I assumed that meant it was a real problem. The entire chapter on ethics’ sole purpose was begging people not to do what everybody in L.A. did all the time: lie about money. They listed all sorts of penalties you could have if you did any of that stuff, but the worst seemed to be that you could lose your real-estate license. Gee, since that took a whole three months to get after your eighteenth birthday or release from prison, I was sure people really shook in their boots at that threat.

I kept hoping Gertie would call and make me go do some demeaning labor, but the phone never rang. I was forced to continue reading. My training continued like that all week. I arrived at 9am, read through the binders fighting not to fall asleep or being awakened by Ellen when I did, and then went home at 5, my brain so numbed that I could barely remember that I was only pretending to want to learn this stuff.

19

Friday night when I arrived home, my shit phone rang. I saw that it was Gertie, so I picked up and got ready to chew her out for screwing me over.

“Mr. Herisson,” she said, her voice loud and pompous. “I
have
spoken to Ellen. She
has
informed me that you
are
ready.”

“If you mean ready to claw my own eyes out from reading—”

“Shh! Do
not
speak!” she said, and it occurred to me that Gertie was doing what every character in a movie or TV show does when they want to sound mysterious or other worldly: they stop making contractions. What, am I supposed to believe that a vampire or elf or something doesn't have the ability to say “I'm” or “you're”? “I
am
going to suck your blood, after which you
are
going to be my slave!” Why do they do this? Maybe since they live forever, they aren't worried about saving time by speaking faster.

“You
will
go to the Getty Museum Rose Garden, where you
will
wait for me at the edge of the pool.”

“Yes. I
will
go there,” I said.

“Excellent. Goodbye—oh wait a minute. You're free tomorrow at 10, right?” she asked, followed by a deep smoker's hack.

“Yeah, no problem.”

“Wonderful. I
will
see you on the morrow,” she said, and hung up.

20

On the morrow
, I took the Mercedes north up the 405 to the Getty Museum exit. I was directed to an underground parking lot, where I crept down much more slowly than was necessary because of the jackasses who stopped their cars hoping for someone to come along and free up a spot. Why didn't they just drive down to the lowest level, where there were spaces? It's not like extra time in the elevator was going to kill them.

I parked the car and rode up the elevator. Within a few minutes, I was in the tram shooting up the east-facing side of the mountain. The highway below me was jammed full of cars heading into L.A., their brake lights flashing every couple of feet. In the hills on the other side of the highway, all sorts of swanky houses had been built on stilts on even the most unstable-looking slopes. There was no way I'd have lived in one of those mudslide magnets.

As the tram finished up its trip, the Getty museum came into view. I had always seen it from a distance, but I hadn't realized how enormous it was. The museum was actually a collection of huge buildings, situated on top of a mountain overlooking all of L.A. and the ocean. It was made out of white stones and marble, and there were fountains and statues everywhere. As I walked through the front doors, I had the impression that I had died and that this was the serene afterlife. And then when I asked the guy at the desk how much the entry fee was, he told me it was free. I couldn't help getting a big goofy smile on my face.