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“Bruno, what’s up? What’s going on? Are you…hungover?”

Unlike me David Koffman was an excessive episodic drinker and not a day-to-day juicer. There was no way he could not
get
what was going on with me. I thrust a trembling thumb down on top of the résumé and was finally able to blurt some words. “Bottom line,” I said, “that company was a total Chinese fire drill. If you want to know, the guy…the owner, was a foreigner. He spoke about five words in American. He wouldn’t know a cold call from the goddamn La Brea Tar Pits.”

“I see. I understand.”

“Swell. Can we move on?”

“Okay, but just below that in your job description you write that you ran a staff of three to five people? I’m confused. Was it three or was it five, or what?”

Sweat was now soaking my hair, forehead, and armpits. For some reason—beyond my control—my voice was getting steadily louder. I pointed back down at the page. “Confused! I was a supervisor,” I barked. “I managed trainees. Some weeks there were three and some weeks there were more than three—sometimes five. Sometimes more. Sometimes two. Sometimes one. Sometimes seven. Okay? Jesus Christ!”

“Okay, fabulous. And you did this supervisor job for how long?”

“It’s there in front of you typed out in bold New Courier twelve-point font!”

“Right, I see it. Two years. And what products did you sell?”

“Rare coins! Valuable! Rare! Coins!”

“Why are you so nervous?”

“You’re mistaken, David. You’ve misconstrued my enthusiasm as a sign of tension. I get warm sometimes. Sometimes I sweat. What’s the big deal?”

Koffman took a sip of tea. “May I suggest that we keep our voices down? We appear to be attracting attention.”

“Sure, no problem. Fine with me.
Fabulous.”

“Okay, let’s move on. Tell me about the precious metals aspect of the company?”

I sucked in air. I could feel my face reddening and I was beginning to experience the onset of two simultaneous physical sensations: Either (a) I was going to pass out or (b) I was going to shit in my pants. “That’s just more hyperbole, prevarication, and cocksnot,” I snarled. “Like calling the company a
consortium.
We didn’t sell precious metals. No such thing. We sold coins. You know, uncalculated old silver dollars and Buffalo nickels ’n’ shit. Krugerrands. Stuff like that.”

Setting my résumé on the table Koffman folded his arms. “What’s bothering you, Bruno? Is it a hangover or what? Just tell me what’s going on.”

It became apparent to me that I needed to murder this huge, tea-slurping faggot.

Leaning across the table I was an inch from his face. “Okay look, here’s the deal,” I blurted. “My Pontiac is parked down the street at a meter. Okay. That meter is about to expire. I’ve been here over an hour. Okay. This is Hollywood. Okay. Expired meter parking tickets here are forty-nine fucking dollars. Okay. And I’m about to get one. Okay! And additionally, I think I’m coming down with something. It isn’t a hangover. Possibly it’s the flu.”

Koffman rolled his eyes. “We’re almost done. Can’t you just calm down. I’ll pay the ticket. Your car will be fine. We were discussing your last job.”

“I know what we were discussing, David. I’m not a mongoloid imbecile.”

“Will you be straight with me about something: Have you been drinking this morning? Be completely candid, please.”

“Here’s what I’m saying, okay?” I whisper-yelled. “I’m saying that the owner of that company—the main guy—the prick that ran the coin place—was a Middle Eastern anal-retentive Taliban fuck. I lied, okay? They didn’t reorganize the company. I quit. I quit because I became aware that they were recording all our phone calls. Believe that shit? Recording calls! Every goddamn call!”

Koffman inclined his lanky body away from me, pressing his back against the red Naugahyde. He looked scared. “Soooo, you’re saying that you left that position voluntarily.”

“Yes, I did. I quit. Know w’amsayin’?”

“Okay, fine, but as far as I know there’s really nothing illegal about a company recording calls.”

“Hey, this is the United States of America if I’m not mistaken! Okay. We have laws relating to espionage and wiretapping here. The particular rectumshitbreath jerkoff I’m referring to was a vindictive Persian prick. A pernicious towelhead un-American alien pompous shitsucking dorf. And the sonofabitch beat me out of my final paycheck. Okay! Five hundred and eleven bucks. If that’s not the definition of a card-carrying cocksucker then I don’t know what the hell is?”

“I can see that we’re not on the same page here.”

“The page you’re on is the page I’m on. Ten thousand percent the same page. I promise you.”

“So, is it your car? Or the flu? Or are you upset about your last boss?”

“Okay, look, I’m sorry about the cocksucker remark, David. I apologize. Okay. It was uncalled for and off-the-cuff, completely out of context and inappropriate to our discussion. I’ll just say this: In my book a cocksucker can be male or female, anatomically. Cocksuckers are—let’s say—potentially interchangeable. That doesn’t make ’em right or wrong. I think we can both agree on the definition of the word cocksucker
as sort of neutral. Okay. I mean you yourself may or may not suck cock. That’s none of my concern. It’s a private matter between you and your conscience and any other consenting adult whose cock you might be sucking. What I’m saying is that it doesn’t necessarily follow that all homos must ipso facto be cocksuckers. Perhaps most are but who says we should throw the baby out with the bathwater. Right?”

On the table by the menus and the sugar shaker Koffman’s cell phone began to chime to the tune of “Dancing in the Dark.”

“Go ahead,” I said, still battling dizziness, gulping in as much air as possible, pointing at the chrome-colored chiming turd on the table, “answer your phone. I’ll go put some quarters in my meter.”

Big David was staring at me—ignoring his phone. He sighed deeply. Then, extending his thick arms, a benign expression infecting his face, he covered my hands with his massive paws in a misguided dumbfuck homosexual attempt to soothe me. “I know you’re upset, Bruno,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

Now I was impaled, pinned to the formica by a gay Hulk Hogan in a milkman’s uniform. “Okay, Jesus,” I howled. “Yes I am. I’m upset. I admit it.”

“Please listen carefully, Bruno. Just try to let in what I’m saying. I’m offering you an excellent opportunity—a live-in chauffeur manager position. Are you interested?”

“Jesus—of course I’m fuckin’ interested! I want the job.”

“Good.”

A minute or two later, as I was sliding across the booth’s fake-leather bench seat to get to my feet, somehow the trembling butt of my hand came down on the outer rim of my coffee
cup. Its contents were launched across the table and landed on the sleeve of David Koffman’s white jacket. It didn’t help seal the deal. It just happened.

I was half-sure I’d blown it until he phoned me the next day. One of his ex-lovers had been an active New York City AA guy. Based on that, in the end, Koffman must’ve decided he’d take a chance. His one condition was simple and straightforward: He knew I’d been drinking. He insisted that I attend twelve-step meetings.

“You and I have worked together before with good results,” he said. “I realize I’m taking a big chance but I’m betting with an opportunity like this one, you’ll clean up your act.”

“You won’t be sorry,” I said.

“Will you do it?” he asked. “Will you cut down on your alcohol consumption and go to meetings?”

“Absolutely. One thousand percent!” I shot back. “You can count on it. You have my word. And I’ll pay the cleaning bill for your jacket too.”

My new boss told me that we would sign a contract for the job. It would include medical insurance and a paid vacation and a 25 percent partnership after six months if I managed not to screw the pooch. Also, because of Koffman’s kinkiness for honesty, if I was somehow arrested and convicted of a crime, other than a traffic ticket, for any reason, the deal would be void.

That afternoon when I opened my e-mail, I saw something that drove me to my keyboard. I’d been receiving more than my
share of crazy spam solicitations from Africa. People telling me I’d won some fucking lottery or another, or that they wanted to split some inheritance or annuity or some goddamn thing. This one was from some conniving bitch impersonating a princess. Here’s the letter I wrote. After I finished it I bummed four stamps from Uncle Bill then took it to the post office:

T
he next morning, wearing the same puked-on tie from my interview, after paying the parking valet guy at the Beverly Hills Hotel almost ten bucks to relocate my Pontiac, I found the path to the bungalows and knocked on Number 104. I was sober except for slamming three Vicodin with my morning coffee on my way driving down Venice Boulevard.

A gray-haired giant wearing a monogrammed blue robe opened the door, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “Well, Bruno Dante. This is a surprise.”

“At your service,” I said, feeling the
vike
buzz kicking in. “I’m ready for my first day.”

“I wasn’t sure that I’d be seeing you today.”

“I’m better,” I said. “Ninety-nine percent. Fact is I had an excellent bowel movement this morning.”

Standing on the steps outside the bungalow, it was hard not to notice that my new employer’s robe wasn’t tied all the way closed. I caught a glimpse of what might roughly approximate the genitalia of a pastured rhino behind the terry cloth.

“Wait here,” Koffman said, then disappeared into the darkness. A moment later he was back with a wad of money-clipped bills in his hand and the robe cinched closed.

After peeling off several fifties Koffman held them out toward me. “There’s a men’s store on Hollywood Boulevard,” he said. “The Manhattan Tie Shop. At the corner of Cahuenga. Ask for the manager. His name is Octavio. He’s a doll. The store sells a three-piece polyester blue business suit—the perfect chauffeur’s uniform. They charge a hundred and seventy-nine dollars. Buy two. Have the store do the alterations while you wait. Then come back here dressed for work.”

“Ten-four,” I said, half-snatching the money from his hand, wanting to appear eager and confident. “I’ll be dressed for success.”

Again Buffalo Bill eyed me up and down. “Sooo, you’re okay, ready to start your new career?”

“Nothing equals a good dump. To my way of thinking taking a decent shit is a life-affirming experience.”

“How delightful.”

“So I’ll be driving you around after I get back with my new duds?”

“I’ve got a full to-do list.”

“Swell. Have you rented another limo?”

Somewhere in the room behind my boss a curtain came open and a sudden shaft of light illuminated a person—a young Latino guy—naked from the waist up, a foot shorter than Koffman and twenty-five years younger. The kid continued moving around and getting dressed for the rest of the time me and my boss stood shooting the breeze.

“I’m picking up a Lincoln Town Car,” Koffman went on. “You’ll drive me—us—around for the rest of the day and I’ll begin your indoctrination as the first Dav-Ko employee at the
California branch. Dav-Ko Hollywood. You’ll be paid in cash for the day.”

“Sounds good,” I said.

Koffman was never less than a hundred percent business. “I’ve been working with a Realtor,” he went on. “We’ve found a furnished duplex on Selma Avenue, near Highland, near Hollywood High. It’s the perfect launch pad for the new company. The bottom floor is commercial space—a former doctor’s office—and the second floor has two bedrooms and there’s a full kitchen. Granted, it’s not the most elite neighborhood in Los Angeles, but the property has a fenced yard and it’s clean and close to the freeway. And there’s off-street parking for a dozen limos…and the rent is fabulously reasonable.”

I knew the area. Years before, as a kid, I’d frequented the Baroque Bookstore, a block away on Las Palmas. Hank Chinaski and Jonathan Dante’s books were well represented at the Baroque. Red, the owner, had been a nice old guy too. But, aside from the Baroque Bookstore and Miceli’s restaurant across the street, most of the rest of the neighborhood was seedy and transient. A near slum in fact.

Koffman beamed. “I’m signing the lease this afternoon.”

“Ba-da-bing-ba-da-boom,” I said. “So I guess that’s that. Hollywood here we come!”

Koffman eyed me. “Are you okay, Bruno?”

“Clean and sober. Very okay.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. I’m completely committed.”

“I have your word on that?”

“Five thousand percent.”

“Okay then. Selma Avenue will be our first stop after you get back here and pick us up. I’m excited, Bruno.”

“You bet, David. So am I.”

“My New York astrologer says I’m coming into a Mars trine aspect. Excellent for business.”

“So, I guess that means I’ll be relocating sooner than later,” I said. “So I guess you’ll want me living there?”

Koffman was smiling. “Ten-four,” he said, imitating me. “When I leave Los Angeles you’ll be in charge. I’ll be entrusting Dav-Ko L.A. to you…if you prove yourself.”

“You have my commitment,” I said.

“We’re on our way, Bruno,” he grinned. “I can feel it.”

Then Koffman swung the door open. “I want you to meet Francisco, my lover. He’s from Guatemala. Say
hola,
Francisco.”

There was the kid across the room waving shyly and mouthing the word “hi,” now with his shirt on. About twenty-five. Black hair combed straight back and copper skin with the miniature body of a gymnast. Nice even teeth too.

But, as promised, I went to AA. My first meeting the next day was at a place called Architects of Adversity in West Hollywood. I looked it up on Google.

Five minutes into the deal while the leader is reading from the meeting format, two guys started screaming at each other. Guy #1 was mad. He appeared to be about eighteen minutes off crack and the leader made the mistake of read something about God in the format. #1 stood up and stopped the leader to protest.

Then Guy #2 told Guy #1 that if he didn’t like what he was hearing then he should find another meeting. So naturally now Guy #1 loses it. He picks up his folding chair and begins screaming fuck this and fuck that and knocks his coffee cup over on the table soaking some woman’s purse. Turns out this
is her best I. Magnin purse or some shit and now she’s pissed too because of the coffee stain.

Enough was enough. I decided to leave.

Outside, in front of the meeting hall, there’s a guy just lighting up a cigarette. He’s wearing a wool cap and a heavy black suede coat in the eighty-degree heat. I asked him for a light.

“That was pretty crazy in there,” I said. “Are all the meetings around here like this one?”

“Whatever, man. It’s cool with me,” he says back. “I’m just here to get my card signed.”

“So,” I ask, “what do you do when it gets like that? How do you handle it?”

The question amuses him. “Timing is the key,” he snickers. “I do the same thing every day. I come out here and smoke right after they read chapter five at the beginning. Then the speaker starts. I wait about half an hour and when I hear people clapping I know he’s done. I go back in. Then, after they sign the court cards and pass them out, I’m gone.”

“You don’t stay to hear what’s going on?”

“Yo, sixteen more meetings and I’m done. Free. My AA sentence is completed.”

“Okay. But what if someone like me shows up and doesn’t like what’s going on in the meeting?”

The guy scratched the top of his cap with the shiny end of his Bic lighter. “The key is, do you have a court card?”

“No. I’m just here.”

“Whoa! Don’t waste your time, bro. If I were you I’d go to the movies. Higher Power this and Higher Power that. It’s a group therapy circle jerk with Jesus in the middle.”

“C’mon, really?”

“No shit, dude. I’ve been to a hundred meetings. It’s
always the same. Nothing changes. Go to therapy or whatever but don’t waste your time here. I promise you.”

I tried one more meeting the next day. It wasn’t any better. I decided the guy was right. I took his advice. Every morning after that at eleven o’clock I’d tell David Koffman I was going to a meeting. I didn’t say that the
meeting
was being held at one of the local movie theaters or a bookstore or at a Starbucks.