He did it.
Against all odds, while falling all the way down from a wonderful drunken high to the depths of fatigue and hangover, his head playing a symphony, his mouth sticky with the aftertaste of scotch-laden puke, the echoes of Stu Dobkin’s blackmailing tirade still bouncing off his cubicle walls, through all of that and in spite of that, our very own Jellwagger finished the entire data stack for Betsy.
There was just one small hitch, though. He couldn’t go home. It was already pushing seven in the morning. Sure, he could’ve taken the Red Line back to North Hollywood, but Shitty Shitty Bang Bang wasn’t there. It was still parked at Spago. And even if his car was parked in North Hollywood, he wouldn’t have had the time to get home, walk Chump E. Chips, bathe, change, and come all the way back. Jellwagger would simply have to continue working into today, do his absolute damnedest not to slip into a coma, and get to bed extra early tonight. And he couldn’t have any beer when he got home. Liquids approaching the color brown would be strictly verboten. In fact, if the name of the liquid didn’t start with W and end with A-T-E-R, he wouldn’t take a single sip of it. Not just his head, but his entire body felt wracked with abuse. His stomach felt like oatmeal, his limbs like phantoms of their former selves. And his dick. Good God did it burn like a bitch every time he took a leak. Since the end of the last episode, Jellwagger had probably gotten up to take a whiz no less than a thousand times. Every time he did, his piss not only looked and smelled like Lagavulin, but it absolutely fried his urethra to a crisp. And I do mean every time. He never got used to it.
As for the whole nothing-but-water thing, that would have to wait for tonight. If he was to survive this day, Jellwagger required coffee the way vampires required blood. And he required it now. Normally he didn’t bother with the café on the ground floor, as the stuff in the break room was usually strong enough. Not on this day, though. While the break room coffee was just normal old coffee, the café offered up both regular coffee for those who wanted an excuse to step away from their cubicles for a bit longer than they could’ve if they’d just made the short trip to the break room, and it also offered a whole slew of various concoctions and potions that could kick your ass from here to next week until the caffeine left boot prints on both ass cheeks.
It wasn’t even half past seven yet when he went down, so it never occurred to him that there’d be much of a line. Sure enough, the damned thing snaked out the café’s front doors and into the elevator lobby. The baristas, God bless each and every one of them, obviously had their operation down to a science, as it only took them ten or fifteen minutes to zip through the millions of customers in front of Jellwagger. When it was Jellwagger’s turn to order, it took another ten or fifteen minutes. Here’s why.
“Good morning, sir!” the barista said when it was Jellwagger’s turn. What threw him off kilter right off the bat was the way she greeted him. She sounded all surprised and whatnot that Jellwagger would actually be there. Then it occurred to him that of course she would be. He’d never been down here before, not once in all the four years he’d worked upstairs. While connecting these two mental dots, the barista’s frown sunk deeper, as if she were trying to figure out telepathically what Jellwagger was going to order. Even if she had that power, it would’ve been hopeless, for he himself had no idea about any of those drinks on the menu board above her head.
“Let me level with you here, babe,” he said. “Can I do that? I’ll let you decide what to make me, but let me tell you. I absolutely must have something that will kick my ass. You get me? Kick. My ass. I want a drink that shows no mercy. Can you do that for me?”
Her cute little smile sent that frown packing. How she managed to be so cute and chipper and smiley this early in the morning while helping all these grumpy, underslept white collar zombies would be a mystery to Jellwagger for the rest of his life. “Absolutely, sir. I would recommend a triple Americano.”
“Perfect. Just the name of it sounds awesome. The triple American. You make that name up yourself?”
“Triple Americano, sir.”
“Whatever. What’s in it? Just out of curiosity. I know I said I didn’t care, but this is something I’m going to be putting into my body. If you knew the kind of night I had last night, you’d know that I’m hardly in any shape to just dump anything down there, know what I mean?”
“Absolutely, sir. The triple Americano is three shots of espresso with steamed hot water.” She smiled. “And no, I did not make up the name. Now what size would you like, sir?”
“Hold on a second. That’s it? There’s no coffee in it?”
“Espresso is a kind of coffee, sir.”
“But you’re putting water in it.”
“Espresso is very strong, sir. People don’t drink three shots of it pure. The steamed hot water dilutes it a bit so that you can actually drink three shots in one serving. I assure you it will have the effect you desire.”
“So it’s like the coffee equivalent of a scotch and soda or something. The soda’s in there to make it not so nasty, but that doesn’t change the fact that the scotch is in there and will trigger an attack of morality the next morning while you’re trying to meet a deadline whether you like it or not. Am I warm?”
“Pretty much, sir. Now what size?”
His instinct was to say large, but Jellwagger had heard from one of his coworkers one time that caffeine stayed in your system a lot longer than you thought. You could have two or three cups of coffee in the morning, and by the time you went to bed that night, millions of hours later, you might have a tough time because that caffeine was still wiring your system. Jellwagger wanted to be sure he’d get to sleep early tonight, ideally as soon as he stepped in his apartment. The last thing he needed was to toss and turn because of the triple American or whatever. “I’ll take a medium, babe,” he said.
“We don’t have a medium, sir.”
“A small then. I can only have a small if you don’t have a medium.”
“We don’t have small, sir.”
“The thing is, babe. If I have a large, it might make me an insomniac tonight, and I can’t afford that.”
“We don’t have a large, sir. We have tall, grande, venti, and san clemente.”
“Tall, huh? That sounds ominous.”
“Here’s the tall.” She held up a cup for Jellwagger.
“That thing’s barely as big as a baby’s pee-pee. Don’t you have anything bigger? I need an ass kicking, babe. I told you.”
“Sir, we have three sizes larger than that. I’ve told you them already.”
“And you obviously assumed my memory was photographic.”
She held up three different-sized cups and indicated each one as she named them. What really stuck in his craw was that she named them just as fast as before.
“Okay here’s the deal, babe. I need something that will kick my ass. But at the same time. Are you hearing me? This is important. At the same time, I need to get to bed very early tonight. I need to sleep so soundly and so deeply that even if Chump E. Chips, my most loyal compatriot, comes in and starts slobbering all over my face, it won’t make a single bit of difference. So don’t give me anything that will have an effect on me past, say, five o’clock or so. Can you recommend a size?”
“The venti.”
“That cup reminds me of the trashcan under my cubicle.” While the barista was in the process of grabbing another cup, the young buck behind Jellwagger spun him around by the shoulders, grabbed the upper stem of Jellwagger’s tie, and yanked him toward his gritted teeth.
“Listen, retard. Look behind me. Go ahead. Look!” Jellwagger obliged. Behind the indignant youngster stretched a line that not only spilled into the elevator lobby, but reached the far wall before winding around on itself. “There are people who need their coffee. They need their coffee, and they needed it an hour ago. And yet here you are, babbling about small, medium, and large like someone who’s been living in a cave since the eighties. Get the fuck out of your cave, man. I’d punch you back into the eighties if I didn’t see that you obviously need your caffeine as well. In fact, you probably need it more than anyone else in this miles-long line.”
“I just don’t feel good, sir,” Jellwagger said. What else was he going to say? This youngster needed an explanation of some sort. “I needed to get something strong. I don’t want to be here. I just want to go home. I feel like shit.”
“Welcome. To the mother. Fucking. Human race, baby,” the youngster said before spinning Jellwagger back around to face the barista.
“Venti triple American,” Jellwagger said.
“Venti triple Americano,” the barista said while using a black marker to jot abbreviations on the cup. “Your name?”
“Jellwagger.”
The barista glared at our man, sighed, shook her head, and improvised an abbreviation for his name.
Jellwagger made the egregious mistake of taking a sip of his Americano during the elevator trip back up to Powell and Powler. If you’ve ever had an Americano, you’ll know that it’s not just hot water they put in that sucker. It’s water from the very tap of hell. You don’t take a sip of your Americano right after it’s ready. It’ll burn the very flesh of your mouth straight down to the core of your being, caffeinating your very essence for the rest of time. You’ve got to give it ten minutes minimum to be survivable by humans. Everyone knows that. Everyone, that is, except Jellwagger. He braved a slurp through the little slit in the top, swallowed it, and suffered the greatest agony of his life. The dozen or so very well dressed professionals around him kept their eyes either on the mirror doors or the digital floor numbers getting higher and pretended not to notice the suffering fool in their midst. Jellwagger felt the hell water’s imprint on the roof of his mouth for the rest of the day, thus ensuring he’d never forget this lesson for as long as he lived. Instead of ten minutes, he gave it a good half-hour before he took his second sip. When he did, it was all he could do not to emit orgasmic moans.
The caffeine combined with the pride of finishing that monster data stack to make Jellwagger sit a little more erect than he usually did, with his chin up. Son of a bitch, he did it. He spied on Pat Dinner just as Carla wanted. Instead of sulking over her winning that argument in the bathroom stall, he continued following Pat to such an expert degree that the billionaire decided he wanted to hire our man. And, to top it off like whipped cream on one of those coffee beverages downstairs, Jellwagger made it back to the office and finished Betsy Seth’s assignment. He didn’t want to disappoint her anymore than he did Carla. Or Pat, for that matter. Yeah, she was married. Yeah, Jellwagger didn’t have a snowball’s chance in a microwave of ever scoring with her, but that didn’t change the fact that she was gorgeous and had never been mean to Jellwagger. Oh yeah, and she was his boss.
Speaking of Betsy, obviously there was no way she could have known the lengths to which Jellwagger had gone to finish this assignment. As far as she knew, he’d worked four hours of overtime and had gone home to get a good night’s rest. Which was why, during the one and only time she walked by his cubicle that day, she didn’t even stop while saying: “Thanks for getting that done, Michael.” Sure, she made eye contact and smiled those wonderfully white teeth and afforded Jellwagger a good whiff of her perfume. But she never stopped. She thanked him and didn’t miss a beat in her quick step, just like the way you thanked the cashier at the grocery store as you hurried out with your goods because you’d gone there straight from work and could only think of getting home as fast as possible so you could kick back with a beer.
When Grant marched by for the first and only time that day, he actually stopped at Jellwagger’s surround and gave him the thumbs up. And he didn’t just stop at the surround. He walked right up to it until it was pressing into his ribs and he was leaning over a bit with the Grant Gaze mere inches from Jellwagger’s face. “All right, Jellwagger! Excellent work. And the wording of your e-mail was perfect. You can always tell who the writer is, can’t you?” Yes, you got it. Grant was going out of his way to thank Jellwagger. But for obvious reasons, right? If you recall the, ahem, compromising position in which Jellwagger found him the previous night in the office of one of the partners? Grant really had nothing to worry about, though. As Jellwagger told him last night on the way out to Spago, he actually liked him. And he didn’t like many others in the firm. Grant and Betsy topped the list, and it dropped off steeply from there.
“I’m not surprised you knew I was a writer. First of all, I’ve told you many times before. And secondly, I happen to be pretty intensely involved in a brand-spanking-new screenplay about a loner from Wal-Mart whom everybody underestimates, including and especially his own wife and child. And then, what do you know? He goes to Greenland and helps the Inuit people brush off the Danish yoke. I’m working on that as we speak, Grant. So of course you can tell I’m a writer. I’m at my literary best when I’m in the thick of a project about which my passion knows no bounds.”
“Yeah.” The Grant Gaze bore straight into Jellwagger’s skull with those parted lips and caged teeth. “Yeah.” Yet another pause. “Yeah.” Grant almost never did the whole “yeah” thing three times, and when he did, something was obviously wrong.
“We’re cool, Grant,” Jellwagger said, looking to either side to make sure no one was listening. “Like I said last night. All’s forgotten.”
“God damn it, Jellwagger, I was such a shit, wasn’t I? God damn it.”
“But then I went out right after that and may have surpassed you in the shit category.”
“Yeah. What do you mean?”
“I need to get back to this, kiddo. No sooner did I polish off that monster data stack than Betsy gives me a bunch of new shit for the next newsletter. She CCed you.” Grant was looking around.
“I’ve sort of been in a trance all morning, Jellwagger. E-mails haven’t been a priority. I don’t know, maybe Betsy knew that and sent that stuff straight to you.”
“She said you were working on something else.”
“Shit. I have no idea what that could be. You ever have the feeling that you just want to go home and do what you want? Like, I really want to go home right now and work on Shades of Cream. No, you have no idea. I really want to go home right now, lock the door, turn off all the fucking God damned lights, smoke a bunch of cigarettes, pick away at a tub of ice cream, and work on Shades of Cream. God, man, it’s such a gorgeous color. The fact that all the filing cabinets here are that color is the only reason I won’t quit right now.”
“Excellent. I’ll sneak in one night while Stu’s got you distracted and paint them all black.” Grant gave him the Gaze. “Joke! Come on, Grant. What the hell? I’ve got shit to do.”
“You tell me about John Lane, I think I’m entitled to tell you about Shades of Cream, Jellwagger.”
“How’d you know his name was John Lane?”
“Yeah.”
“Grant, come on. How’d you know?”
“Because you’ve told me, as you would say, millions and millions of times. It’s an attractive story, Jellwagger, but you’ve been working on it for months. Or, as you would say, you have been toiling on it since the beginning of time. But we’re cool, right? Everything’s cool?”
“What? Oh yeah. Sure. Like I’ve been saying for years.” Grant gave him the thumbs up and stomped away. Just as his boot pounding was about to pass out of earshot, Jellwagger heard him say:
“Yeah.”
Jellwagger didn’t feel tired all morning. Amazing, really. It was no wonder all seventeen thousand employees in the Sanwa Bank building took advantage of that café. You could have an all-nighter and get totally wasted and still work a full productive day thanks to one of their concoctions.
That theory went straight to shit as soon as Jellwagger got back from lunch. His stomach heavy with a chili dog, no sooner did he sit back down in his cubicle than he could barely keep his eyes open. Seriously, it was awful. Thank Christ Betsy and Grant had too much to do and that Stu, despite his blustering, was most likely too scared to confront Jellwagger again. Because if any of them caught him out for the count on the clock, that scotch-sucking billionaire and his carrot-topped madam of an ex-wife would be the only two employers Jellwagger had left. Speaking of which, it didn’t exactly help his exhaustion and irritability that after work he’d have to find a way back to Spago to get Shitty Shitty Bang Bang. God damn those rich people and their supposed problems. The next time he saw or spoke to either of them, he’d let them know exactly where they stood in his worldview. He was sorely tempted to get Carla on the horn this instant with her stupid walkie-talkie cellphone, but thought better of it just as he was fishing for the cell in his pocket. He was too tired to think of what to say.
Only one person in the world could rescue Jellwagger from his post-lunch napping instinct, and you know the New Jersey native’s name: Bruce to the Willis. That’s right. It was time for more of Civilization and Its Discontents by Sigmund Freud, narrated by John McLane. He had finished chapter five last night, just before catching Grant and Stu in flagrante. Maybe, just maybe, the words of Sigmund Freud, father of psychology, read by Detective McLane to boot, would help purge his brain of that memory. Let’s see how chapter six started.
“In none of my previous writings have I had so strong a feeling as now that what I am describing is common knowledge and that I am using up paper and ink and, in due course, the compositor’s and printer’s work and material in order to expound things which are, in fact, self-evident. For that reason I should be glad to seize the point if it were to appear that the recognition of a special, independent aggressive instinct means an alteration of the psycho-analytic theory of the instincts.”
This was fantastic! Just what Jellwagger needed to get through the afternoon doldrums. And listen to how Bruce said that last phrase, “alteration of the psycho-analytic theory of the instincts.” It was the way he said it, that John McLane tone, that would work perfectly in an action picture like Exit the Danish. It was exactly how he said “Welcome to the party, pal!”, and would be the same ass-kicking tone he’d use for the scene when he tells the head Danish bad guy what the score is. I mean the real score. That it was time for the imperial forces to pack their asses in rucksacks and head for Copenhagen.
It wasn’t until well into the afternoon, around three or so, when Jellwagger realized he hadn’t heard a peep all day from Carla. Didn’t that comet head want to know how things had gone last night with her ex? This occurred to him while taking a dump. The last time they’d spoken had been in the bathroom stall last night at Spago. He pulled out the walkie-talkie cell and confirmed that it was on and that the voicemail box was empty. Also in his pocket was the Spago pen he’d pocketed after signing that God damned receipt at the bar for his stupid God damned broth and German sausages. When he got back to his desk, Jellwagger placed it prominently in the pen holder on his surround. He positioned it so that it stood a bit taller than the other pens and that the word Spago would be visible in all its calligraphic glory to anyone walking by.
But still. No matter how beautiful that pen looked or how much the voice of Bruce Willis inspired him to be a screenwriter, nothing could stop five o’clock from rolling around with the prospect of spending yet another ton of money, this time for a cab to get back to Spago and his car. Down in the lobby he was walking toward the glass doors while the aspiring actor security guard flirted with one of the young hot administrative assistants from Powell and Powler whom Jellwagger knew for a fact to be committed to someone else. It wasn’t the gut-wrenching sound of that guy’s cockiness that stopped him in his tracks. It was the sight through the glass doors. A limo was waiting by the curb.
Of course the limo theoretically could’ve been for anyone. Tons of people worked in this building, and just about all of them were more important than Jellwagger. So technically the odds that this limo was for him should have been anywhere between miniscule and nonexistent. Yet something was familiar about the limo as well as the black-suited driver standing in front of it with his hands behind his back and his eyes glued to the glass wall next to the doors. It had been dark last night, and Jellwagger couldn’t remember if he’d even laid eyes on the driver or had time to notice anything about the limo. Regardless, the driver obviously recognized him because his eyes snapped in Jellwagger’s direction. He walked to the rear passenger-side door and opened it as Jellwagger came out.
Jellwagger stood for a moment staring at the driver, who stared back at him. Something in Jellwagger’s brain simply refused to let him believe this limo was for him. Soon the driver would realize his mistake and close that door and go back to standing with his hands behind his back and his eyes facing the glass wall until his real customer showed up. Perhaps, though, he could take advantage of the driver’s attention. “Think you could call me a cab?”
“Mr. Dinner sends his regrets for the third glass of Lagavulin,” the driver said. “If it’s any consolation, the third glass hurt him as much as yours did you.”
Jellwagger stood there like an idiot. God damn, he was tired.
“Please, sir. Traffic on Wilshire’s a bear. We should head out as soon as you’re able.”
“Where is he?”
“Busy.”
“Not that I really want to know. I’m in no shape for chores.”
“Please, sir.”
Jellwagger slid into the back of the limo and stretched out his legs as the driver shut the door and walked around to the front. He should’ve been beyond psyched to have all this plush leather cargo space to himself, but no sooner did the limo turn west onto Wilshire than Jellwagger couldn’t keep his eyes open to save his life. The setting sun didn’t help. The rays burst through the smoked windows and knocked our man out for the count.
It was dark when someone shook him awake. Jellwagger snapped opened his eyes to see the driver’s stubbled face inches from his.
“We’re here, sir,” the driver said.
“Already?”
“I’m not sure what you mean by already. It took an hour and a half. I’ve already paid the valet. Your car’s right over there.”
Jellwagger scooted over until he sat on the edge of the seat with his feet on the curb. Those same two valets were standing by their podium. They took one glance at Jellwagger and chuckled to themselves. He wanted to get up and ask to see if their cars were any better than his, but all he could think of doing right now was lying back down and going to sleep.
“You sure you’ll be okay to drive, sir?”
“Doesn’t his majesty have any chores for me to do?”
“His only instruction for tonight was to go home and get some rest. And if you don’t mind my saying, sir, I’d take him up on that. This may be the one and only time he’ll order you to sleep as opposed to give you something to do that’ll leave you sleep deprived.”
The cool air felt wonderful as he got to his feet. Sure enough, there was Shitty Shitty Bang Bang parked along the curb a few feet behind the limo. He never thought he’d be so ecstatic to see it. The driver handed him the keys. “So listen,” Jellwagger said. “There’s something I keep meaning to ask you.”
“Sir?”
“Who the hell are you?”
The driver held out his hand. “Name’s Flip. Pleased to meet you, sir.”
“You’re shitting me. Your name’s Flip? So let me get this straight. There’s you popping out of your mom’s belly. She’s psyched, your dad’s psyched. They’re parents now, this is so awesome. There you are, all tiny and squeaky and whatever. And your parents look at you and say with straight faces, ‘Why golly, Helen. Let’s call him Flip.’ Does that sound about accurate?”
“My pop’s name was Philip. They named me Philip Jr. To make it easier for Mother, she called him Philip and me Flip.”
“Amazing. And you just lay there like a doormat and took it.”
“Your name is Jellwagger, is it not?”
“Name’s Michael if you want to know.”
“Jellwagger?”
“Jellwag. It’s just that most people throw that extra G-E-R on there.”
“Oh okay. Yeah, that makes it better.”
“Fuck you, Flip.” Jellwagger’s eyes lit up. “Hey, alliteration. Fuck you, Flip. Fuck you, Flip.”
“Pardon me, sir. I must depart.”
“You must depart? I’ll bet you’re the only one on this watery ball called Earth who talks like that. Say listen, Flip. What the hell do you do?”
“I’m Mr. Dinner’s personal chauffeur, sir.”
“So wherever Patsy wants to go, and I mean wherever the hell he wants to go, he gets you on the horn and you take him. It could be to fucking Alaska. You take him.”
“One time on a whim he had me drive him to Grand Teton National Park. He wanted to get away for a bit. He doesn’t have to get me on the horn. I live on his estate. He can just knock on my door if he wants. Although come to think of it, sometimes he’s been known to call my cell even if we’re both in the house.”
“Money good, Flip?”
Flip shut the passenger door and walked around to the driver’s side.
“It’s just that I’m thinking about changing rackets, Flip. I’ve sort of outgrown the whole law firm data entry thing, know what I mean?”
“Have a good evening, sir.” He was about to get in when Jellwagger said:
“Hey Flip! Hang on, man. You know I was just kidding about the whole fuck you thing. I don’t really want you to fuck yourself. Sometimes I get sensitive about my name, that’s all. Not like you, though. Philip. What a nice normal name.”
“So is Michael.”
“You’re not going to snuff me out or anything, right? We’re cool and everything?”
Flip looked at him with a slight smile at the corner of his mouth. “Mother’s name wasn’t Helen. It was Wilhelmina.”
“Now there’s a name. I’ll bet she was hot. Was she a MILF, Flip?”
Flip got into the car and started it up. The limo’s engine was nearly inaudible. Yet Jellwagger sensed a lot of power behind it. Or was he thinking of Flip? “Aw shit. Flip! I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean it. I’m so tired right now, and when I get tired, I may as well be drunk. I say the dumbest God damned things.” The limo drove up Cañon and swung a left to head west on Santa Monica Blvd. “Hey Flip! I’ll make it up to you! You can fuck my mother if you want!” By now the valets weren’t even trying to be discreet about their cracking up.
To keep himself awake during the drive home, Jellwagger rolled down all the windows—yes the car was old enough that all the windows as well as the locks were manual—and blasted the A/C. He also blasted NPR and pretended to have conversations with the people babbling on it. This one show on right now always touched on various political, social, and economic issues going on in L.A. Tonight’s show, for instance, was about cancer-causing carcinogens that had recently been discovered in the reservoirs supplying L.A. with its tap water. At one point Jellwagger was screaming at the top of his lungs that no one in L.A. should ever be allowed to drink tap water ever again, whether or not it contained carcinogens. Thank God he was taking Coldwater Canyon back into the Valley instead of the 405 lest half the city see him go bonkers.
The first thing he did when he got home was kick off his shoes, scoop Chump E. Chips off the couch, and plop down with him in the lounger. Jellwagger kicked up the footstool attached to the lounger and became so comfortable he doubted if he’d ever be able to leave that chair for the rest of his life. “What the hell’s going on, Chump? I tell ya, something’s hit me, and I’m still too dazed to know what. Exactly this time 48 hours ago I was sitting right here, munching the microwave ‘corn and throwing down the brews and watching what have you. Did I have a care anywhere on this blue planet? I’m sure I thought I did, but I can’t imagine what it would have been now. And I had you on my lap. Who’d’ve thought the next time you and I had this bonding moment, I’d’ve gone through so much?” He closed his eyes and let his head fall back. “Chump, if you tell me you’ve been sleeping for the past twenty-three hours, I’ll kick your little ass. You read me, Chump? By the way, you no longer have the stupidest name in the world. That distinction now belongs to this big ol’ limo driver named…wait for it, Chump…Flip.” Jellwagger already felt a torpor of sleep draping over his brain. “Oh my, Chump. This is snooze-tastic. I can see why you chose this racket. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What the fuck!”
Jellwagger opened his eyes to see Neckman zipping up his fly in the doorway where the living room met the hallway. “Sorry, I had to use the can.” Jellwagger thought his heart had stopped and that any second now he’d pass out from lack of air and die. What calmed him somewhat was seeing how calm Chump was. In fact, while Jellwagger stared at him and marveled at his composure, Chump adjusted his head until his snout was aimed at Jellwagger’s crotch. “The boss wants to see you, Jellwagger. Let’s go.” Neckman moved toward the door.
“Chump, look. Look, Chump E. Chips. It’s a stranger. An intruder, Chump. There’s someone in your domain who doesn’t fucking belong here.” Without budging so much as a millimeter, Chump sniffed. Then he let out a huge gust of air that always sounded to Jellwagger like a sigh of boredom. He grabbed Chump’s head and forced him to turn in Neckman’s direction. “Bark. At. Him. You son of a bitch. Bark!” When he let go, Chump turned back to his master’s crotch, sniffed, sighed, and closed his eyes. “You know what’s maddening about dogs? I’m talking about male dogs in particular. Like Chump here. Don’t get me wrong, I love the bastard to death. But you know what just drives me up the drywall sometimes? It’s that, when you get real pissed off at him and call him a son of a bitch, it doesn’t mean anything. I mean, that’s what he is. A son of a bitch. You’re not insulting him, you’re just stating the obvious.”
“Get your ass up, boy. Boss wants to see you now.”
“For example, it would be like if I got real pissed off at you, which I am right now, and said something like, ‘You human being!’ You see? Does that faze you? No, of course not. That’s what Chump E. Chips hears when I call him a son of a bitch. Or a son of a whore. Or a gay beagle. Look at him!”
Neckman now sighed himself. He opened the door and motioned for Jellwagger to follow.
“Which boss are we talking about here, Neckfuck? I seem to be collecting them at the moment.”
Neckman sighed and leaned a hand against the doorknob.
“Would everyone stop sighing?”
“Listen, you scrawny little thorn in my ass cheek. Get up off your ass and let’s go. I don’t have all fucking night.”
“What, you got plans?”
“None of your fucking business, Jellwagger. Come on. Get the fuck up or I’ll knock your ass out and carry you out of here.”
This was simply unbelievable. After the last couple of days he’d had, it was simply unfathomable that he’d come home to Carla’s hitman threatening bodily harm. It was so incredible, in fact, that Jellwagger couldn’t help laughing his ass off. Really, all he wanted to do was sleep. He didn’t want beer. He didn’t want food. All he wanted was to stay where he was and sleep for as long as his brain needed. That’s it. How could that possibly be too much to ask?
Neckman obviously misinterpreted the reason for Jellwagger’s hysterics. After grinding his teeth, whacking the doorknob, and growling some profanity, he walked over, stood above Jellwagger with a sneer on his face, and clocked him square in the jaw.
When he woke up, Jellwagger felt two contradictory sensations. First, a party raged inside his head. Revelers were dancing and grooving against the inner walls of his skull, oblivious to the agony they caused him. Second, the sensation outside of his head, under it to be exact, was absolutely wonderful. It felt like he was lying on the most comfortable pillow ever known to humankind. In fact, maybe this pillow hadn’t been crafted by human hands. Was Jellwagger dead? Had Neckman bumped him off?
“You awake, skinny bitch?”
Apparently not.
“You reading me, Jellwagger?”
“Not now, Mommy. I’m sleeping. I’ll look for a job tomorrow. I promise.”
“You sicko stalker. Either sit up right now or I’ll have Neckman clean your clock one more time.”
“Oh yes! Please, Mommy! Have Neckshit punch me again so I can continue experiencing this divine pillow!”
A room-temperature liquid splashed across Jellwagger’s face and up his nostrils. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he licked some of it off his lips only to discover that it was white wine. After six episodes, I’m sure you’ve noticed that Jellwagger was strictly a beer man. He wasn’t a liquor man. The Lagavulin was literally a gut-wrenching reminder of that. Nor was he a wine man. If he ever had to drink wine, say for a family holiday gathering or what have you, then it would always be red, and he’d only sip about half a glass. He would never, ever, ever…never!...drink white wine, family holidays be damned. You couldn’t pay our pal Jellwagger even to sniff white wine, let alone sip the shit. What made this face splashing particularly horrendous was that a few dribbles of the green grape toxin crept up his nose and most certainly would have landed on his poor exhausted brain had he not sat up and sneezed it all out. Jellwagger sneezed several times and swore he could hear Carla’s chuckling behind the sneezing noise. “I need a frickin’ napkin or something, man!” he said, trying hard not to cry while he wiped the wine from his eyes. He almost didn’t recognize Carla standing by that side table with her ponytail, a lavender T-shirt that hid most of her pendant, and jeans. Wow, look at her. Wasn’t she just the most adorable little button? She was wearing hardly any makeup and could’ve easily passed for a college coed or something. She refilled her glass with the sinister white stuff, grabbed a thick bunch of those little square coaster napkins, and gave them to Jellwagger before sitting on the other end of the sofa with her legs and bare toenail-polished feet curled under her.
“Stop crying, you skinny bitch.”
Damn her. For whatever reason, her stupid taunt not only didn’t help Jellwagger stem his tears, but made them flow with more gusto. “I’m not!”
“Right. I’m sure that’s just more white wine pouring out of your eyes.”
“Never! That’s evil shit, and I could never be evil enough to weep the juice of green grapes! Ever!” He took about half the deck of napkins and wiped the tears, wine, and snot off his face with about as much grace as a pig bathes in mud and shit. Then he got a look at his surroundings. First of all, this burgundy sofa he and Carla were sharing was huge. It was also plush and comfortable as hell. The pillow he’d been worshipping before Carla drowned him in wine was a thick square affair, one of four, two on his side, the other two on hers. The sofa dominated this room that was about the size of Jellwagger’s den back in Van Nuys, the room where he shut himself in to write Exit the Danish. Two colossal cushiony chairs faced the sofa from the other side of the room, and the side table with all the booze on it was opposite a wall covered end to end with bookshelves. Jellwagger wanted to get up and see what kind of shit this cat read, but he didn’t have the energy. That was, in fact, why he was crying. As much as he loathed white wine, being doused with it shouldn’t’ve induced tears. It was just that, right now, Jellwagger was exhausted. Truly, all the poor man wanted to do was close his eyes and conk out for a good week or so. Yet between the two of them, Pat Dinner and Carla Houde seemed bound and determined not to let him do that. “If you’re not going to let me sleep, I need beer. I need it now.”
“Behind you, champ.”
Jellwagger turned and found both a bottle of Blue Moon and a pint glass filled with the stuff standing on ornate gilded coasters on a small table next to the sofa. The glass even featured a wedge of orange on the rim as if prepared by a professional barkeep. Just because he wasn’t in the mood to thank her out loud doesn’t mean he wasn’t grateful as hell. The glass was freezing to the touch. So she was one of those people who kept the beer glasses in the freezer too. Another check in the plus category for good ol’ Comet Head, but Jellwagger was in no mood to be nice to her.
“So why no photos?”
He stopped mid sip and stared at her. What the hell was she talking about?
“I told you to follow Pale Cock from Spago. Did you?”
“Hell to the yes. I was with him for hours.” He took another sip. “Wait a sec. What did you just call him?”
“I bought you that phone for a reason.”
“Speaking of which, what kind of name is Just Because for a whorehouse?”
She looked at him with what he could’ve sworn was concern. Jellwagger was trying his damnedest to be thorny, but it wasn’t fazing her.
“Look, I followed him. I was with him. He invited me to drink with him and his buddies for a million hours last night. It was on this awesome roof bar downtown.”
“Standard.”
“Standard what?”
“That’s where he took you. The rooftop bar at the Standard Hotel. So what did you two talk about?”
Jellwagger racked his brain, but the Blue Moon was too tasty to let him concentrate. “I’m not being facetious at all when I say that I so want to remember what we talked about. But for the life of me I can’t.” Suddenly he remembered. Pat Dinner had hired him to be his gopher, but he’d be dead on this sofa if he told Carla that. “I do remember this one Asian guy who thought I was a spy or something.”
“Sam T. Lee.”
“That boy wouldn’t trust me as far as he could throw back a glass of that absolutely disgusting Lava Drooling.”
“Lagavulin?”
“That’s the horrible shit, thank you.”
“Pale Cock treated you to Lagavulin?”
“What is it with that nickname?”
“Jellwagger! Listen to me. I don’t have time for your skinny bitch antics. Did Pale Cock? Treat you? To Lagavulin?”
“It nearly cost me my life and, more importantly, my job. But yeah. The Man with the Most Irritating Laugh on Planet Earth bought me not one, not two, but three! Helpings of Lager Poison.”
Carla sipped her wine and looked over at the two chairs. “Unbelievable.” She grunted a laugh and ran a palm up and down one of her calves. “Well. Congratulations, bitch. He loves you.”
“He’s gay?”
Her hand stopped. She looked back up at him and took another sip. “Did you have fun?”
“No. I told you. I don’t do liquor. I’m strictly a beer man. You know. I like you better.”
“So you’re having fun now?”
“Hell to the no. All I want to do right now, Carla? Right this instant? Is close my eyes and go to sleep. I went straight from getting drunk with Pat to going to work for fourteen hours. And I can’t believe you’re not going to pay me!”
“Reap what you sow, whore stalker.”
“I don’t mind you calling yourself a whore, but I can’t help but wonder about the whole Pale Cock thing. Care to explain?”
Carla’s eyes left his yet again as she sipped her wine until it was empty. She got a refill and came back to the sofa.
“I tell ya, Carla. If I wasn’t so fucking tired, I’d take this frozen pint glass and throw it at you and your cute ponytail. I don’t give a shit if you’re a girl.”
She kept her eyes on the sofa a moment longer. “Look, Jellwagger.” Her eyes moved up to his. “I know Pale Cock. Okay? I was married to him. For four years. I dated him for over a year before that. I know there are plenty of relationships out there that last much longer, but still, half a decade of living with someone, sleeping with him, getting to know every possible thing you can about another human being. I know Pale Cock. Believe me, I know how much of a charismatic, oily bastard he can be. Okay? He’s like oil. At first you think you need him. It’s like, you can’t live without him. But then once he clings to you, you can’t shake him off. You want so much to break free of him, but you can’t. Forget his laugh. You’ll get used to that the more you stalk him. But what’s impossible to get used to is how much of an expert oily bastard he can be. I don’t know what it is. Some people are just born with that skill. He could convince the happiest bitch on Earth to jump off a bridge. The man could even convince a nun to come work for me.”
Jellwagger smirked into his glass before his face went stone straight. “You’re not kidding, are you? I mean about the nun thing. He really did convince a nun to be a whore for you.” She avoided his eyes. Jellwagger closed his. “Please. Please. In the name of the God all nuns worship. Don’t tell me that tart who stole my virginity used to be a nun.”
“She used to be called Sister Mary Helena.”
“Oh my God! I got deflowered by a fucking nun!”
“Stefania abandoned the order years ago, Jellwagger. Relax. And besides, since when do you have religious morals?”
“I mean… I mean… She was so mean! For the sake of all that’s holy, Carla. If you want to run an order of nuns-turned-sluts, fine. But you know, men pay good coin for taco if they can’t get it for free. The least your dirty angels could do is be nice about it.”
“First of all, bitch. Are you listening? Stefania is the only former nun in Just Because. But you know what? Your smart-ass mouth has given me an idea. Maybe I should get more of them. Do you have any idea how turned on guys get at girls dressed as nuns or Catholic students? If you don’t, that could only mean you’re gay. Real gay. I know other gay guys, and even they admit that the whole uniformed schoolgirl thing is smoking hot. So you know what this means, Jellwagger? The jury’s still out on your sexual orientation.”
“Fuck off.”
“Oh, and secondly? You didn’t pay for your taco. Stefania fucked you for free because I told her to. I’ll be God damned if I have a thirty-one-year-old virgin stalking for me. That’s just as well. She says you were the shortest lay of her holy life. If it wasn’t worth her time, it most certainly wouldn’t have been worth your money. Not that you make any.”
“Where’s Neckdick?”
“Why?”
“If he comes in here and knocks me out, will I wake up back in my lounger?”
“I’ll let you go soon, Jellwagger. But listen to me. Drop the antics and listen. I really do need you to do what I tell you. You stalked me, and I could just as well turn you in. But I don’t need the cops in my hair and neither do you. You read me, Jellwagger? Just follow him. Don’t be his friend. Don’t let the oil cling to you, or you’ll never get it off. He can lay that oil on thick. It makes me worry about you. I’m not being facetious when I say that, Jellwagger. I worry what might happen if you let Pale Cock sucker you in. Stefania’s an extremely bright girl. Ivy League education, the works. If Pale Cock can persuade her to drop her nun’s habit and take up escorting, who knows what he could convince you to do?”
Jellwagger polished off his Blue Moon and held up his glass.
“You won’t be here long enough for a second beer. Okay? Now listen. One more time, Jellwagger. Use your God damned walkie-talkie. I bought it so that I could not only keep you on a tight leash, but so that you could take photos of Pale Cock. Keep your distance, okay? It’s going to be awfully tough to do what I tell you if you go joyriding in his limo. If that’s not motivation enough, try this: Sam T. Lee will wipe the floor with your skinny bitch ass. If Pale Cock doesn’t figure out your game, Sam T. Lee most certainly will. Shit, for all we know, he already has. Maybe he did when you were in the limo. Or maybe it was your clumsy-ass fall at the Standard last night. Way to entertain the whole crowd, Jellwagger.”
Jellwagger slammed his glass down on the ornate coaster, hoping to crack it or something. The coaster, like its owner, wasn’t fazed by his fury. “I knew it! You had Neckass follow me, didn’t you? Didn’t you? For the sake of all that’s devious, Carla. How could you do it?”
“How? Simple. I knew I wouldn’t be able to trust you right out of the gate. You stalked me and still expect me to think you’re going to play me straight? It’s sad. Part of me actually thought I’d scared you enough that you would just follow the instructions and leave it at that. But no. You became pals with Pale Cock. I didn’t think there was a virgin’s chance in my house that he’d like you. But somehow, someway, you found a way to screw it up. Listen to this, though. Okay? The next time I tell you to follow him, I’ll tell Neckman to lay off. I promise. I don’t want you being all paranoid because that’ll distract you from the job at hand. There will be no excuse next time. Just tail him for as long as I tell you, take a few shots, and then e-mail me a report with the photos attached. Simple enough?” She downed the rest of her wine and checked her watch. “One more thing before I let you go, and this’ll show you how much of a saint I am and that any nun should be proud to have me as a boss. I’ll let Stefania fuck you again. Okay? For no charge. Lord knows you need the practice.”
“I absolve you of that pun.”
“And you also need to cool off a bit. Not only have I never met someone as sexually ambiguous as you, but I’ve never met someone so wound up.”
“Gee, Einstein. I wonder if my being awake for forty-eight straight hours has anything to do with that?”
“We’ll be in touch soon. Okay?” Carla held his eyes for several seconds now, the longest stretch of eye contact she allowed since he got here. Then she got up and headed for the door. “Beware the oil, bitch. Beware the oil.” She walked out and closed the door.
Now what? Wait here for Stefania?
He was just about to get up and head for the door when he heard movement beneath the sofa. When he leaned forward to see what it was, he jumped to his feet, lost his balance, and fell into one of the giant chairs. He sat there dumbstruck while Stefania, dressed as a Catholic schoolgirl, crawled out from underneath the sofa. She stood up, took off her spaghetti-thin gold watch, and placed it on the table next to Jellwagger’s empty glass. While his brain threw itself against his skull for something to say, Stefania slid off her panties and kicked them against the bookcase. The tart went through all these motions as if appearing from under the sofa was perfectly normal. Just when he was about to ask her what she’d been doing under there, it struck him how young she looked. When she’d deflowered him in his apartment, he’d been too dazed by the whole experience to pay much attention to her face. Now, though, and thanks to the diffuse lighting from all the table lamps, Jellwagger couldn’t help but notice that she looked even younger than Goldie from Spago. “How old are you, youngster?” he said.
She walked up and straddled him on the chair. “Let’s get this over with.” She started unzipping him.
“Wait! I’m serious. How old are you?”
“I’m legal, okay? You want me to suck you off first, or can we just cut to the chase?”
“If you put that mouth down there, I’ll explode in ten seconds.”
“You flatter yourself thinking you’d last that long.”
With two or three strokes from Stefania’s long tarantula-leg fingers, Jellwagger was pointing north. She straddled him and, with two or three hip thrusts, made him climax in just about the same amount of seconds as last time. And yes, it was less than ten.
After slipping on her panties and putting her watch back on, she poured herself a glass of red wine and sat down on the sofa with her legs crossed. She sipped the wine and stared at nothing in particular.
About five minutes of silence passed before Jellwagger realized his pants were still undone. He tucked his limp member back in there and zipped up. “Is Neckman going to take me home or what?”
“I’m twenty-six if you really must know.” She shot him a sidelong glance before staring back into space. “If that makes you feel any better. Does it?”
Jellwagger shook his head and shrugged.
“You are without a doubt the single worst fuck I’ve ever had, Jellwagger. I know you’re inexperienced. I know this was just your second time. But that’s just it. It’s your second time, not your first. You’re supposed to be improving. This was no different.”
It seemed imperative that he come back at her with something, but he just didn’t have the energy. It was all he could do, in fact, not to fall asleep right there.
“If it seems bizarre to you that I was eavesdropping from under the sofa, believe me, it was bizarre to me too. But Carla wants me in the loop on what she’s having you do. I haven’t a clue why, but there you have it. She didn’t want you to know I was here so you wouldn’t be uncomfortable. Apparently she thinks you have issues with women. Like you’re intimidated by us or something. Maybe that’s why she thinks the jury’s still out on if you’re gay or straight. As a former nun, I should say that my gay-dar is pretty sharp. You’re not gay. You suck at sex, but that doesn’t mean you like guys. It just means you need practice.”
“I can’t believe I lost my virginity to a nun.”
“The sooner you accept it, the better.”
“How did that happen?”
“Carla explained it to you. Pat Dinner and everything.”
“Let’s hear your version.”
“Nah.”
“She never did explain the whole Pale Cock thing.”
“Isn’t it obvious? Pat Dinner’s cock is white as milk. Pale as a ghost. And, if you want my opinion, it’s about as insubstantial as a ghost too. He might be better in the sack than you, Jellwagger, but once you master your tool, you’ll be outperforming a billionaire.”
They sat there for another minute or so before Jellwagger asked, “So why exactly did they get divorced? And whose decision was it?”
Neckman came in. He looked at Jellwagger, then at Stefania. “Sorry I’m late. Thought I’d give you a few extra minutes just in case.”
“If you’d shown up ten minutes ago, you’d still be late.”
“Ouch!” Neckman said. “Jellwagger, don’t you know how to treat a woman? Whatever. Get off your bony ass and let’s go.”
“Are you going to knock me out?”
“Up!”
The mercifully light traffic on the 405 prevented the awkward silence from lasting too long. Jellwagger didn’t utter a syllable the entire time. Neckman almost went the whole drive without speaking, but just as he let Jellwagger off, he muttered something like, “This God damned job.” Or maybe it was “This fucking job.” At any rate, it started with “This” and ended with “job”, and Jellwagger was pretty sure the two words were separated by profanity.
No matter, he forgot all about it when he walked into his apartment. A voicemail was waiting for him from his sister Jo. “And now for a transcontinental greeting from your big sister, Jellwagger. I hope this finds you happy and healthy. Because if you’re not happy and healthy, my impending visit will probably be complicated. No, kiddo, your ears do not deceive you. I’m flying out tomorrow.”
To be continued...
