Technicolor Pulp (11 page)

“Well… I guess it’s too late now, isn’t it?”

Diane spins around and we follow her in, smirking past the constipated-looking Hercules at the door and up a flight of stairs.
At the top of the stairs is a swinging double door. I can hear all the “Oh REEEEEEEEAAALLLLLYYYYY” voices bouncing around
inside the club as we hit the doors. I lean over to Doobe and whisper, “I hear more high-winded laughing in there than in
a fucking hyena convention.” He breaks out with a barleycorned guffaw and Diane turns, “OK boys… We’re here,” as if the house
band’s about to go into our opening number, and swings open the door.

The Groucho Club is everything F. Scott Fitzgerald would’ve needed it to be. High crystal chandeliers, violins playing, champagne
glasses being ching-chinged and people, all pasty pale and very
british, laughing that laugh. Laughing that laugh that echoes and makes me wince. Laughing that laugh that comes from up high,
never low… Then there’s William.

Whenever I’m with a girl who’s hanging out with another guy, I get that same mental picture of him. Tall, clean-cut, plastic
hair, TV-actor smile. The kind of guy who irons his blue jeans and pairs his socks and invites his women camping and like,
snowboarding—all the things that he just really “grooves on.” I see Willi-boy and once again, my imagination has foiled my
ass. Willi’s about 5’4” with a semi-bald head, nothing but sidewalls and two regulation DAISY-brand BBs for eyes. He’s got
a body that would look good over a hanger—wire hanger, not wood.

“Jimi, this is William.”

“Pleasure,” he says and drops out a feathery paw for me to examine. I take the thing in my hand. I’ve held onto firmer soaked
toilet paper before. The kind of hand that’s never thrown a baseball or properly tickled a clitoris. Our eyes meet, and we
both shudder from that same “oh my god, you fucked her too” feeling. It runs up and down our arms while we shake.

“This is my buddy, Doobe Helms.”

“Oh… The one with the funny name… I’m William.”

“How Willi… How ya doin’? Diane tells us you’re a real kingfish in these parts,” Doobe says in his best Appalachian drawl.
I want to lean over and
kiss Doobe for such poignant icebreaking. Diane, etiquette metronome that she is, clears her throat and beckons the waiter.

“Scotch, the best you’ve got… A pair of them,” I call with a certain Doobe-goaded cockiness. I don’t know how long the civility
will last, so I figure I should order the good stuff right outta the shoot.

“So Jimi… Diane tells me you’re traveling through Europe.”

“Yeah… That’s about it… America’s getting to be a bit MUCH for me.”

“What is it… Exactly… That you do?”

“Nothing… Really… Exactly.”

“How interesting.”

“I guess…” taking a long swig of scotch. Doobe and Diane are back into one of their friendly raps across the table. It looks
like it’s me and Willi-boy doing the sophisticated “get to know you” convo.

“Do you like our city?”

“Yeah… I mean… It’s not like I’ve worked or anything since I got here… So of course it seems GREAT.”

I take another gulp of scotch. I’m beginning to hate this guy, William. He’s like a linen version of all the assholes I went
to college with. Diane and Doobe are chatting away still, and I’m stuck at this end of the table, playing 40 QUESTIONS WITH
TV EXEC MAN for free booze.

“How do your parents feel about the life you lead?”

“Well actually, Willi, I think that as long as I stay
out of jail… They just sort of stay quietly disappointed.”

“What do you tell them you want to do?”

“I guess be an actor mostly… I tell them I yearn for the stage… Oh yeah… And lately I’ve been telling them that I wanna be
a rock star. How ‘bout you? What do you do?”

“I create TV shows.”

“Now there’s a field that I could take home with me and throw out on the Christmas table.”

“Excuse me?”

“What I mean is, that’s the kind of thing Moms just love to hear… I mean as long as you’re good at it, I guess… You know…
Doing your part to keep the network ball rolling and everything.”

“My Mum’s dead.”

“You know… Isn’t it always that way.”

I’m through with this one. I don’t even care what the guy thinks. I’m not talking any longer. I figure the best thing to do
is to just start looking around the room, just act really distracted and I can escape from this pinstriped diatribe. There
are so many fine women in the room—all tall bitches. I’ve never been somewhere where Diane looked almost below average. But
in this room, she’s borderline spinster. Every time I turn my head, I get the feeling I’m drowning on the
Vogue
cutting-room floor. So tall! I figure there must be a little wooden clown in the ladies room that all the women have to be
taller than, like next to the roller-coaster rides back home. Most of the women
are with short goofy-looking guys, too. Some kind of justice bestowed on all the dweebs of the world, that they grow up to
lasso a few tall bitches. Sweet revenge for all the years of being picked last in the kickball draft at recess.

Diane ends up catching a nice little gin buzz, bless her soul, and takes control of the table, keeping us all laughing and
light. She’s the link. It’s a title she holds with relish, I’m sure. Doobe’s eyes have begun to take on the mist of lechery
I can’t help but notice. I think his little
tête-à-têtes
with Diane have sprung a rod in his slacks as well. She has us all under her spell.

The rounds of scotch never stop coming. I’m almost starting to like Willi. Every drop of scotch that tickles his throat jars
loose another standard kind of, “You guys live the life… Bumming around… I’m trapped in my world… I wanna take up the travelers’
life.” It’s a pretty common ailment amongst the ridiculously established; they tend to wax nostalgic about that one month
when they didn’t get a haircut and ate a handful of mushrooms.

“When I was in university… They called me ‘Wild Willi’ ‘cause on the weekends I became a bloody beast. I miss those feelings.
I miss that reputation, heehee.”

“I’ll bet ya do, Willi… Ya seem to have a little bit of a madman in you.” Anything to keep the tab soaring. These guys love
it when you tell ‘em that
they really should be poets and thieves. That they have the goods to go underground.

“Oh boys… Let’s go dancing now. I’m absolutely DYING to dance at the WAG!”

We all agree, and get up to leave. Willi’s left to handle the tab, and Doobe and I make for the door. I’m walking alongside
Doobe, slaloming After Six wear, when my eyes zoom in on what appears to be a cart, filled with the most lavish desserts my
Dairy Queen nigger-rich eyes have ever beheld. Forget about it! Unparalleled! Desserts like I’ve only dreamed of! And I hadn’t
really eaten much of anything in a coupla days. Life is only SO beautiful when you’re frying up spuds three times a day! Oh
lord. Oh my, oh my… To savor that sugar on my palate if only but for a second… Better than a night out with Ann-Margret and
Ursula Andress mainlining oyster oil… I can taste it… I want it… I can’t believe I didn’t squeeze a meal out of Willi, what
was I thinking?… It woulda gone so well with that top-shelf scotch… There’s tarte Tatin I’d murder for… Oh my… All flat and
luscious with scalloped apples floating in pools of goo… The sugar gleaming off the meaty fruit… The juice running off over
the crust rim… Little whipped cream flowerettes poised on top… Jewels on the crown… Chocolate cake so rich and thick… Chunks…
Floating across the tray… Stray cocoa icebergs of joy… Nuts on top the size of prewar brick… I see a cheesecake as big as
a mattress… Held hostage under swollen blueberries
and strawberries… Yelling to me… Jimi… It’s worth the gamble… Begging to be devoured… Pudding in baby-poolish bowls… It isn’t
fair… I want it… And I’m walking away meekly… Some rich jerk’s gonna leave half of it on his plate… It just isn’t fair… I
want it.

“Jump on it, Jimi… It’s yours, pal… I got ya covered!”

What I don’t realize is that Doobe’s been laughing at me the whole time, watching my eyes drool, and he knows what I want.
He can feel my granulated yearning.

“Do you think I can get away with it?”

“I KNOW you can!” Doobe says it, and I wanna hear it, so it must be true! I want it! I know I can do it, he’s right! I just
gotta make a clean sweep of it, that’s all! It would be easier if I could just shrink and stay for a day, but I can’t, I gotta
go for it now!

“Come on, now! Get on it!”

My heart speeds up and I look around one last time. No one cares. All these people are having fun. They don’t care if I take
a few for the road. It looks good… I can do it… One quick swoop of the hand catches a chunk of goo from off the cheesecake
and I jam it into my pocket… I can’t leave the mangled remnants down on the cart and I go back down once again… Jam into the
squishy pocket and give the culprit fingers a quick licking to hide the evidence… I look up at the crowd… All heads are pointed
at me… I remember the EF Hutton
commercials of my youth… It would be hard to get as much attention as I’m getting without brandishing a .357 wildly in the
air… The blank faces indicate it wasn’t a very good grab… I look back at the tray… It’s quite clear I destroyed the better
part of almost EVERY dessert on the cart… In my mind… I blame it on the scotch.

“You got it, buddy! Don’t let their looks deceive you! You got it good!”

We get outside and Doobe gives me a bittersweet patting on the back.

“Took a lotta guts in there, Jimi… I’m prouda ya!”

We look back inside to see a beet-faced William, talking to the maître d’, peeling bills off a huge roll, all under a shadowing
Diane trying desperately to salvage some face. I look back, shrug, hand some cheese goo to Doobe, and we both stuff our mouths.
It’s clear to me… Someone’s always watching.

The WAG reminds me of too many roller-skating rinks I hung out in as a delinquent tyke. Old chipped red wood, that stale smell,
scratchy music, old posters suggesting that THIS had once been a happening place. I can’t figure out why we’re here.
It’s so un-Diane. Either she’s trying to hide out while she’s with a couple losers like us, or maybe she lost a cherry here
and always comes home. It’s below a coffee shop that’s only open when the club isn’t—a gimmick. Anyways, little Willi’s still
ticked despite my snickering apologies. He’s turned his focus completely on Diane. It’s US and THEM. Diane’s taken on the
beauty that only rears its ugly head in the terminal stages of a binge. Even if she were plain, she’d look ravishing. I look
at her while she dances with Willi. Legs up to her ears, dancing more goofy than sexy, with Willi, that little tuba-eared
fuck.

To see me losing once again… I love her… I know that I do… Vulgar… My actions… My mind… All vulgar… Something about a jar
of Vaseline… A bullwhip… A stack of old comics… She’s my girl. Doobe’s busy dancing with some local tarts—bad makeup, the
gap-tooth, the whole bit. I wanna dance with Diane but my legs are frozen. I wanna run over to her and tell her that I love
her. I wanna be in a fifties movie with a butthead pal named Bronco who could start a fight and clear the bar, and I can run
away with Diane. I want everyone to stay in my little world… But they’re leaving me… I want Diane… I wanna kiss again… I’m
teeming… I have to act… I need a plan… OH FUCK IT… I run out onto the dance floor… Hands and arms flail at me.

“Diane… I love you… I can’t watch you dance
with this geek anymore… Come back to America with me… I do… I really love you!”

I might as well have pulled down my pants and pissed all over the dance floor. Diane starts to laugh.

“Jimi… You must be KIDDING… I’m sorry for all of this, William.”

Red seas will part and relationships will all close, as did the crowd around Diane and Willi. She won’t look at me. I know
this. I know that whatever it was, it’s over. I never understood it. I wouldn’t even care, if I had just known for a second
what it was. I don’t want it back. I know I can’t have it. I just wanna know what it ever even was. I stand out on the dance
floor for as long as I can, trying not to feel like I’m reacting to Diane, and then I go back to my beer. I look for Diane
ten minutes later and she’s gone. Doobe’s dancing with the tarts and I hit him up for money for another beer. Watch the crowd,
all dance without rhythm, but having a good time. I muster a smile.

“This’ll all be so fucking funny in ten years,” I tell myself. “I’ll look back and maybe she will too.”

Another sip and Doobe finishes dancing and joins me.

“What happened to Diane and Waldo?”

“They said they had to go… Something about getting up for work.”

“That guy was a fucking dweeb.”

“He was alright, Doobe… Actually… I think he was just Diane’s type.”

“Yeah… I guess you’re right… He was OK.”

Daylight creeps into the room with feet of lead. My eyes, or rather, the sockets that once housed my eyes, burn in welcome.
Instinct thrusts my hand into my pants and comes up barren. NO WALLET. There’s no reason for confusion, I’M IN A BIND. Things
were bleak in the past, but time has been good to the ugliness, and things have gotten bleaker. The hangover is a nice aside.
If I was at all spiritual, now would be the time to walk into the ocean with flowers in my hand. Instead, I walk downstairs
to hunt for stray hashish crumbs and a hot cup of tea. The pain born in my eye sockets is welting my toes now—COMPLETE COVERAGE.

“It’s all been a huge mistake… Things’ve managed to get worse.” It’s all kind of GROOVY with a polluted head but the pillow
cushions of the comfort zone are wearing thin now. Nothing left but fucking reality. BUTT-FUCKING REALITY.

A stroll to the bathroom for a leak. I look into the mirror and spy a rancid melon glaring me down. Fuck the eyes being the
window into the soul, my seething cheeks alone are reason enough to call for
an exorcism. I thought I left all my troubles behind in America. Wasn’t I the same guy who wanted to lose it all? Who wanted
to cleanse? To have nothing to lose? Fuck… That shit sounds good until the music stops and the lights go up! This is it… THE
END OF MY LINE. I’m waiting for Doobe to wake me up and kick me out into the streets! Homeless in London, that would be lower,
yeah, that would definitely be lower. This shit is bad. I can’t even find my toothbrush. Being at that point in life where
people you know say things with a wince like, “Yeah… Things haven’t worked out too well for Jimi… He’s havin’ a tough time
of it… Tough goin’ kiddo.” You’ve laughed at it in the movies and now… IT’S MY LIFE. It’s all someone else’s funny story in
a bar, that’s it. It’s not my life! This is someone else’s bad joke! I’m not a part of this! How long do I have to be somebody
else’s tragedy? Five years? Ten? Fifty? A lifetime? That’s a long time to come up short! I close the bathroom door and sit
down with my face… and the dreaded mirror.