L.A. Success (7 page)

I started going through the pictures I'd taken of the real-estate office. Most of my photos were blurry versions of the photos of houses and condos that were posted up on the window. But occasionally I could see behind them into the office. No one was there. It was a small room with a desk and a couple of chairs for the customers. She had a big computer monitor on her desk, but not much else. In the back of the room there were some filing cabinets and shelves.

It was a little after four o'clock, and I was starting to get bored. Normally when you're on a stakeout, you're in a car and you have a partner who is in love with you who starts telling you all sorts of secret love-confession stuff while you're looking at something important in your binoculars. And then you answer something like, “hey, you know when we made sweet love that last time I was separated from my wife, but now we're back together so we can't do it anymore.” And she answers that she doesn't care, that you were great together and she had never felt as safe and alive as she had when she was in your arms and stuff. And then through the binoculars you see the perp whack someone over the head with a wrench, and so you get out of the car, pull out your gun and start running after the bad guy, guns a' blazin'. Maybe I'd bring Ballsack next time.

Okay, things were getting weird because of the coffee. I was thinking a mile a minute, imagining all sorts of shit. I suddenly had the desire to write down every thought that came into my head, so I took the pen and my little stack of paper and started going crazy. I was lost in my own little world of caffed-up writing and didn't see anything going on around me. My pen was starting to make so much noise that when I finally looked up I noticed everyone was looking at me. Four or five ugly-looking dorks with laptops had joined me at the outdoor tables, and they all had huge cups of coffee. I was about to yell at them and tell them I'd make as much noise as I wanted when the skinniest dork—a bald guy wearing jeans and a USC sweatshirt—started talking.

“Damn, the muse is with you today. I tried writing on paper for a while, but I couldn't stand the sight of my own handwriting. No matter what I wrote, it seemed like a bad idea. I would type my work up later, and it would need so much editing that I went back to typing directly.”

Then I saw that all the other dorks were also looking at me in admiration. They weren't pissed off about the noise. They were impressed.

“Well...I can't type very well. Plus, I got a thing with computers. You know—a naked-chick thing. Turns me into a drooling zombie for a while,” I said before I could stop myself. This caffeine was making my mouth go faster than my brain. One of the other dorks at his laptop nodded his head yes all serious.

“Same thing used to happen to me,” he said. “I had to have the wireless feature disabled. You remember that Nick Cage film where he keeps telling the bad guys to put the stuffed bunny down? Well, I wrote that whole movie as fast as I could while signed into a live porn site. Half of the lines in that movie I meant to type in the sex-chat window. That was when I knew I had hit bottom and had to do something about it.”

They all went back to typing. I looked at the pile of paper in front of me and saw that I had written about forty pages of god knows what. Several pages of it appeared to be drawings of me in super-hero costumes doing it with stick-figure chicks. I also noticed that it was now almost seven o'clock. If Gertie had come by here, I hadn't noticed. Damn, I had a new drinking problem.

“You guys here every day?” I asked.

“Whenever there's work to be done,” said the bald guy.

“Well then, I'll see you again soon,” I said and gathered up my things.

18

I drove back home. All the west-bound lanes moved along perfectly. In the other direction, the people who had to drive home to the east side sat blocked in mile after mile of traffic jams. I almost felt sorry for them, except that if they weren't there suffering, I wouldn't have fully appreciated what a lucky guy I was to have a house out west. Someone's always gotta pay.

As I entered Dennis' neighborhood, I saw my dad out walking the big poodle. I couldn't believe that he had decided to take him out all on his own.

I pulled in and got out of the car. When my dad made it over, we went inside. I could tell that he had been sculpting again because there were wrappers from the blocks of chocolate lying around. Ballsack licked at them a little, so I guessed he was hungry, too. I picked all that up, gave the big poodle some food, and turned on the tube for dad. I ordered a couple of delivery pizzas and then sat down on the couch. My body was aching from the caffeine ride it had been through. I really needed some food and a good night's sleep.

After dinner I walked home with Ballsack. Tommy said something like “I 'ave I-runned you cloziz” to me when I passed through the living room, but I was so tired that whatever he meant didn't register. I only grunted and kept going.

That night I dreamed all sorts of weirdness. I think the caffeine in my body was making my brain remember stuff. I dreamed about my meeting with Spieldburt the other day, but this time, since I wasn't wasted, all sorts of details I had missed the first time were coming back to me. I now remembered, for example, something I had asked him. This is how I remembered it in the dream:

“So Spieldburt, when you did that E.T. movie, did you ever think about how ridiculous a similar but reversed situation would be? Like, if a human scientist went to another planet and got stranded, would he be standing there going 'hmm...I have to improvise a complex intergalactic-communication device so that I can contact my scientist colleagues who left me here by accident—oh look! There's candy on the ground! I love candy! I should pick up the pieces slowly and pay no attention at all to where I'm going.' I mean, come on, was this the dumbest E.T. on the ship or what?”

“You have a sound point,” Spieldburt answered, stroking his beard. “I really could have used someone like you to point out these glaring contradictions in my film. Perhaps after you find out whether my lover is cheating on me you could read through some of my newest projects?”

“It would be a pleasure,” I answered.

19

I woke up the next morning and got ready as fast as I could. When I went into my closet to get a fresh Arnold, I saw that Tommy had ironed my clothes. Life just kept getting better and better.

I took my dad some fruit for breakfast. He was already up playing chess on the computer. He was really looking good nowadays, but I was going to have to buy him some more clothes and make him take a shower again soon.

I arrived at the Starbucks before 9am. Some of the writers were already there. We said hello, and I went inside to get a coffee. The same guy as yesterday was working, so I waited in his line. The name on his badge was Max. He remembered who I was.

“Okay, now imagine that Columbo is coming in for some coffee. Give me whatever you would give him,” I said.

The kid thought for a while and then grabbed a big cup and filled it up. No steamy, foamy stuff this time around.

“Dark roast,” he said. “Put two creamers and a pack of sugar in it, because Columbo has a soft side.”

I thanked him and did exactly that.

I went outside with the writers and took out my paper and pen. I was going to have to pretend to be writing something from now on if I wanted to maintain my cover. The guys looked at me with admiration, as if I were an old kung-fu master keeping an ancient fighting style alive.

This coffee was exactly what I wanted. It was rough at first, just like when you look at Columbo and think what an ugly guy he is.

I looked up from my coffee and noticed that the bald USC guy from yesterday was wearing the same sweatshirt again. In fact, all of them were wearing something they had worn yesterday. One guy had on the same hat. Another, the same scarf. I, of course, was wearing the same T-shirt. I started thinking that after this P.I. stuff was over, I'd have to give a try at the writing since I apparently fit the profile.

“I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Lonnie.”

They all told me their names. USC guy's name was Jake. Scarf guy was Al. Hat guy was Leonard. Then there was pocket-watch guy—it actually took me a few more times before I realized that this was his thing—whose name was Eddie, and old-Birkenstock guy, whose name was Jerry. I tried never to sit too close to Jerry. Occasionally, no matter where I sat, a gust of wind would remind me he was there.

At about 10am, a young woman walked up to Gertie's office. She took out a key, unlocked the door, and went inside. I saw the lights come on, but I couldn't see what she was doing from where I was sitting. I had barely started in on my coffee, but I really needed to go see what this chick was up to. I thought about going right up and talking to her, but then when I came here to spy on Gertie in the future, this chick might come over and say hi or tell Gertie that I was the guy who had been looking for her. No, that wouldn't work at all.

After a few more sips of coffee, my brain got into the right mode of thinking. I stopped pretending to be writing stuff and called Gertie's office number on my shit phone. The young woman answered.

“Gertie Elliot's office. Gertie isn't here right now because she's off doing it right! Can I help you?” she said in a perky voice.

“Uh...who are you?” I asked.

“This is Ellen, Ms. Elliot's assistant. Do you need to talk to Ms. Elliot?”

“Yeah...I was wondering about a house or something.”

“Great! I'll have Gertie get in touch with you as soon as she comes in. One second while I write down your number.”

I hung up as fast as I could. A couple of seconds passed, and my phone rang. It was Ellen. Damn caller ID. She must have thought we had got cut off. I answered it.

“Sorry about that,” I said. “Look, I'll call back later. I've got meetings all day today, so I don't want to be bothered. Don't tell her to call.”

“Oh. Okay. But call us as soon as you can.”

That wasn't very smooth, but at least I now knew that Gertie was supposed to come by the office today. All I'd have to do is wait around long enough, and that wouldn't be too difficult as long as I could keep myself occupied.

To stay in good with everyone, I didn't even have to pretend to be writing anymore because I noticed that Old-Birkenstock Jerry hadn't written anything at all today, and everyone was being much nicer to him because of it. He would sigh, grimace, and drum on the laptop, or write a few words with soft, irregular tapping on the keyboard and then delete what he had written with hard, regular pounding of the delete key. And everyone understood what he was going through without asking him anything. Pocket-Watch Eddy even bought him his next coffee. Swell guys, these writers. The less you work, the nicer they are.

At noon I was exhausted. I couldn't take the writers sympathizing with my lack of writing anymore. It was emotionally draining, and somehow it made me feel ridiculous, as if I were pretending not to be able to get it up around a bunch of impotent dudes just to be nice. And anyway, this writing crap didn't seem too difficult to me. I was thinking that I was going to come back after I was done pretending to be Dennis and write some serious shit. But for the meantime, I'd just write down descriptions of all the people who went into Gertie's office to talk with Ellen.

I was really getting into my descriptions when the kid from Starbucks, Max, came out to pick up the empty cups that had been left on the tables. He looked over in my direction and saw that I had already thrown my cup away. I thought he was going to be happy about this, but instead he came over and said, “Ummm, these tables are for customers only. You can stay here as long as you want if you keep buying coffee.”

This was getting expensive, this spying. I was going to have to bill Spieldburt for this. I went in and got another coffee. This time I asked for something inspector Clouseau would drink. I got an espresso, which wasn't cool because it was so small. I had to go back for another one every thirty minutes so I could keep sitting at the table. And although I had avoided running off to the bathroom so far, I couldn't take it anymore. I just hoped Gertie wouldn't blow through there while I was away from my post. Old-Birkenstock Jerry must have had to go too, because he got up and followed me into the restroom.

We took our positions next to each other at the urinals. I started going and had to hold back what would have been orgasmic-sounding groans. I bet he was doing the same thing, because even after twenty seconds we were still going strong. And then I noticed something. I could feel a fine mist hitting my flip-flopped feet. I had no idea whether this mist was coming from me or Old-Birkenstock Jerry, but either way, it was pretty clear that my feet were getting peed on. This was one of those things in life that I'd never be able to ask about, no “Hey Jerry, you aren't peeing on my feet, are you?” especially because if I could feel that, he had to be feeling the same thing, if he was paying attention. No wonder those sandals of his were smelly. I finished up and got out of there.

Maybe I was imagining it, but as I rounded the corner and headed outside, I thought I could feel my feet stinging. I looked down at them, stopped paying attention to where I was going and walked right into someone.

“Oh god, sorry,” I said and looked up into the eyes of Gertie Elliot.

She was wearing a green miniskirt and a pink, frilly blouse. She was showing a lot more leg and cleavage than I wanted to see, and that was saying a lot since those were things I usually didn't complain about seeing too much of. The thing was, she managed to set everything up so that you didn't have a choice but to look at her action. And when you have the impression that you're being forced to look at something you normally try to look at, you ask yourself why, and then you get really confused about the whole thing instead of just enjoying the view. So what I finally decided was that I wouldn't have normally wanted to look at her because she was out of my age group. It gave me the feeling I was doing something weird, looking at an old lady like that.

“Slow down there. Lucky for me there's a little cushion,” she said and put her hand on my belly for a second. Her breath floated over to my nose, and I could tell that she had been a life-long smoker. The smell was like a mix of old tobacco and rotting meat. This again gave me a weird impression. It was like she was hiding a bunch of nastiness behind an artificially sexy facade. But the stuff she was hiding kind of poked out all over, like the little whiskers she tried to cover up with foundation. I couldn't help imagining that if you took off all her clothes, everything would come loose and she would turn into a greasy, red-haired sea lion. One that would try to do you.