Everything Is Perfect When You're a Liar (16 page)

“Well, if you'd like to go sightseeing or anything, I grew up here and I like taking people around.”

He was either a genuinely nice guy or a total murderer, but not both. Time would tell.

“Cool. Thanks. New topic: Do you know Leonardo DiCaprio?”

He laughed. “No.” I put on an ironic face, hoping he'd assume I was being sarcastic.

“Do you have the time?”

Steven checked his wristwatch. “Almost one.”

“Oh,” I said. “I have to go and meet someone. But give me your number.” I grabbed a pen and paper from my bag. Then, as I was writing down his number, LL Cool J's “Mama Said Knock You Out” came on.

“I'll call you,” I said, running onto the dance floor. I couldn't help myself—it was my jam.

My dancing was so intense and hard-core that people formed a dance circle around me. I'd started a dance circle at the Viper Room. This really was the “fuck it” time in my life. I was doing what I wanted to do.

Then some guy in the dance circle started doing Russian dance kicks at me. This was some kind of weird flirt dancing, and I wasn't into it. I hadn't trusted Russians since the '82 Tylenol murders in Chicago, when a story about Russian crime overlapped in the paper with a story about Tylenol and I somehow concluded that Russians were poisoning our painkillers.

I stumbled out of the dance circle, gave Bill Maher a high-five, and headed back to Aimee, who was laughing at the Blackheart.

“I can't have sex with you!!” she was saying as I sat down. “I was roller-skating to your music when I was in third grade!!”

“Let's go to the pizza place,” I yelled across the table to her. “I'm starving.”

Aimee slid out of the booth and Blackheart was already on to the next girl.

“Hold on!” Aimee said. Then she walked up to the one-way glass, banged her palms against it, and yelled, “JOHNNY? JOHNNY!!!!” Then she licked the glass.

We opened the door onto the street. It was strangely bright out there, despite the fact that it was almost one
A.M.
There was a large doorman standing guard nearby.

“Hey,” I said, tripping over nothing, then leaning against the wall with one arm. “Which way is Fairfax?”

The doorman pointed with his left hand. “You need a cab?” he said, cocking his bowling ball of a head to the side.

“No way. We're walking. See? I have my walking shoes on!” I pointed drunkenly at my platform boots.

As we headed down Sunset, we found ourselves walking beside a preppy guy in a button-down shirt.

“Hey, which way down Fairfax is Damiano's Mr. Pizza?”

He pointed to the right.

“How long will it take us to walk? It isn't that far, right?”

He crinkled his brow. “You're walking?”

We didn't know that walking in LA was as common as flying somewhere for breakfast.

“Yeah. Is it far?”

He nodded. “It'll probably take you about half an hour?” And preppy guy turned right and left us walking down Sunset.

Half an hour? Perfect. We'd sober up a bit, then be ready to sit and enjoy pizza.

But the walk got scary when I walked through a massive cobweb beside a very empty lot. All of a sudden I realized that
no one
was out walking, not even homeless people. At least there were crazy people out all the time on Hollywood Boulevard. There was no one on the street at one
A.M.
I didn't even see a hooker! And that worried me, because if anyone wanted a hooker, they'd probably come to us.

Then, just as I was worrying about being mistaken for a street prostitute, a Jeep YJ pulled up beside us. It was the preppy guy in the button-down shirt, and thankfully he wasn't there to be the Richard Gere to our Julia Roberts.

“Hey, get in the back. I'll drive you to Damiano's.”

We climbed into the back of the Jeep, stepping over the large dog on the floor.

“THANKS!” I shouted at the front of the Jeep from the backseat, but either he was ignoring us or he couldn't hear us over the wind and music. I looked at Aimee, pointing to my ear and rolling my eyes—the international sign for “He can't hear me
.
”

Preppy dude just kept driving. I leaned over and whispered to Aimee, “This is kind of embarrassing.” The dog was looking at me with his WTF face.

“Why would this be embarrassing?” But she yelled it too loud, and the guy turned around.

“Thanks for picking us up,” I said. “We didn't realize it was this far.”

He nodded. “It's on the next block.”

“He totally doesn't want to drive us,” I whispered to Aimee. “We're just stupid girls. We're going to be the
stupid girls he had to help out
when he tells this story!”

She spit her gum out the window. “So?”

Sometimes I wished Aimee was a little more like me. I couldn't explain everything to her—like why it bothered me that this guy probably considered us stupid losers—but at the same time I think we were best friends because our reactions were usually so different.

We hopped out of the Jeep in front of the pizza place. Before I could thank prepster again, he was gone.

Damiano's was stage two in my plan. Along with arranging to meet Johnny at the airport, I'd arranged to meet this girl Brit for pizza. She said she'd be wearing a plaid dress and moto boots, and lo and behold, there she was in the promised outfit, sitting on the bench outside Damiano's.

I was finally getting my lead. My Leo hookup.

Brit was a thin, pretty girl with long and mousy-brown hair. I was hoping maybe she was an ex-girlfriend of his who could coach me on his weaknesses.

“Brit?” She looked up and smiled. She looked frail.

“Hi,” she said, and stood up. She was almost six feet tall. “You girls are way cuter than I imagined.”

I'll admit it, we were pretty cute. Seventeen-year-old girls, great taste in clothes.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Aimee bumming a Marlboro off a hobo. Then I looked back at Brit and caught her picking at a pimple.
God, that's gross.
“Uh—what do you know about Leo?”

Brit sighed. “Are you crazy? Are you serious about this?”

I lifted my eyebrows. “I'm here, aren't I?”

Brit shivered and rubbed her arm. “He's a punk. You don't want to date him. Him and his friends are total punks.”

Oh my God, this information made me so happy. I was an asshole too! Leo and I
really were
soul mates.

“Where do they hang out?” I gasped, trying not to show my overwhelming joy.

She sighed again. “You're serious?”

Why this girl chose to show up and meet me was a mystery. She was starting to totally freak me out. “Well, here and the Hollywood Athletic Club,” she said, still fingering her zit.

“I'M STARVING!” Aimee yelled, throwing her arm around my shoulders.

“Are you guys going inside?” Brit said.

I nodded, opening my eyes really wide, in that “Yes, we're here to eat” look.

She reached into her bag, and as she was fumbling around a small box of chocolate Ex-Lax fell out. “I don't really eat,” she said. “That's why my skin is bad right now.” Was this girl for real? She arranges to meet us at a pizza joint, then drops the Ex-Lax and says, “I don't really eat”?

“Brit, did you really come all the way here to meet us for a minute, just to see if I was serious about meeting Leonardo DiCaprio?”

She shook her head. “No, I was across the street. My boyfriend is at Canter's, so I knew I'd be here anyway. Anyhow, good luck.”

We left Brit outside on the street with the hobos and her anorexia. I imagine her to this day still chatting online, sighing, thinking she's better than Leo DiCaprio while nibbling on her cocoa laxatives.

I knew Leo wouldn't be in the pizza place—Brit would have told me—but I still scanned the room like the Terminator. It was shoulder-to-shoulder crowded. Aimee snagged a booth from a couple on their way out, and I headed for the restroom. On the way, I passed Andy Dick in a back booth with three beautiful large women. I gave him a knowing wink for absolutely no reason except that I was drunk.

In the bathroom I looked in the mirror and was instantly reminded that I was drunk.

“Niiiiiice,” I said, giving myself a thumbs-up, solidifying the feeling of emptiness in my soul. I hadn't found Leo.

“This is stupid,” I whispered. “I'll check the Hollywood Athletic Club and then I'm done. Done. Just enjoy your trip, Kelly.”

I was squatting over the toilet, spraying pee all over the floor. A cockroach skittered past. “Oh my God!” I whispered, trying to pee on it.

When I got back to the booth, I found Andy Dick sitting with Aimee. He was writing on a napkin: “Oh, you're from Canada? You must know
D-A-V-E F-O-L-E-Y
.” I sat down beside Aimee, trying to figure out which one of us looked worse. “I just tried to pee on a cockroach on the floor in the bathroom,” I said. “Total accident. But I washed my hands
so good
.”

Aimee slid me my pizza. I folded the large slice in half and inhaled it.

“Do you guys like weed?” Andy said, sitting back and crossing his arms.

“Yeah.” Aimee nodded before Andy finished the word
weed
.

“Look at her, Andy,” I said like we were old friends. “She's a white girl with dreadlocks. What do you think?”

Andy pulled out a bag with a fist-sized clump of weed in it and put it in the middle of the table. “Voilà! For you, ladies.” Then he got up and walked away.

Aimee grabbed the weed and put it in her bag. Weed always finds us.

“What the fuck was that?” I asked, wiping the grease from my cheek.

“He just came over here while you were in the bathroom.”

“What, he just came over and gave us a big bag of weed? That's normal for him?”

“It's a lot of weed!” Aimee whispered loudly through a goofy smile.

I scanned the room again for Leo. How was I going to find him in a day and a half?

“I'm going outside for a cigarette,” I said, and stood up. Aimee was right behind me. Aimee bummed another two cigarettes off bums. Nearby, a guy was leaning against the wall, pulling Saran Wrap off his dick to show everyone his new tattoo.

“I think we should just enjoy ourselves tomorrow, go to the Hollywood Athletic Club to look for Leo, and then give up if he isn't there,” I said, passing the cigarette back to Aimee. She nodded in agreement.

Just then, Andy Dick came out the door with his women and started walking toward us.

“Hey,” I said. “You want to have some of this . . .
stuff
with us? The
stuff
you gave us?”

He threw his head back and laughed. “Honey? I've got a couple of ladies here who want to do a little more with me than smoke weed tonight. IF YOU GET WHAT I'M SAYIN!!!”

I got it all right, Andy. The whole sidewalk got it, thanks.

“Aimee, how are we going to get back to the hostel?” I said. “A cab? I don't have any money left.”

A man I assumed was the manager or owner of Damiano's had just come outside.

“You okay?” he said with a European accent and a look of actual concern. “Don't worry for him. You need something?”

“Yeah,” I said, putting out my cigarette. “A ride home.”

“No problem. Wait here. I'll come round and get you. I need to make delivery.” Oh my God. I'd always wanted to deliver pizza.

A minute later, he pulled up in a Volkswagen. Electronic dance music was blasting from the speakers. “WHOA! SORRY!!!” he said, turning it down.

His name was Vlad, he was Czech, and he had a pizza to deliver before he could drop us off at the hostel. I got in the passenger seat; Aimee climbed in back with the pizza.

The delivery wasn't for Leo, which bummed me out. Instead we watched as Vlad drove into Hollywood and pulled up to an apartment building. Then, a minute later, a woman on a balcony sent down two rapper-looking guys to get the pizza.

“It's probably Mariah Carey,” I said to Aimee, who was rolling a joint.

Vlad got back in the car.

“Hey, Vlad, do you want some pot?” she offered.

“Noooooooo,” he said. “I need to stay up and deliver. I have second job after this one.” He flashed his gold teeth at me. I gave him a soft “Putting up with this for the free ride” smile.

“I need to stay up all night, I do this!” He pulled out a bag of white crystals.

“Is that crank?!” I blurted out. I wasn't even sure what the fuck crank was.

“Yeah, it keeps me strong. Keeps me alive!!!”

He turned up the music really loud. Then he opened the bag, took out a crystal, and crushed the rock in a spoon. Just as he was about to snort it, he looked up at me, wide-eyed in the passenger seat.

“VANT SOME?!”

“Uh, no, thank you,” I gasped. “I don't have a second job tonight.” I put my hand up, as if to block him from throwing the meth at me.

He snorted the powder, put the bag back, and blasted away from the curb.

For the next few minutes, I felt like I was being driven by a five-year-old in a game of Super Mario Kart. We were speeding and hitting curbs to a techno backdrop, my hands sweating so much I couldn't hang on to anything in the car.

Then, as we spun around one corner, we saw trouble ahead: flashing police lights, a bunch of cops holding two guys up against a car.

With a look of seriousness, Vlad reached out and turned up the music. “Detour time,” he announced, pulling a quick right down a side road.

“Why? Because you're high on meth?”

Vlad laughed. “You're funny woman! We detour from LAPD. No point in get into cross fire.”

We pulled up to the hostel in the vibrating Volkswagen. Aimee and I got out as fast as we could, and Vlad zipped off into the night.