tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50337845187902003072024-03-13T09:05:26.893-07:00Things I Hate To AdmitPulp fiction for noir people. It's a gritty world, get used to it.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10230648449521958270noreply@blogger.comBlogger455125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033784518790200307.post-34847840983813642232017-05-03T04:16:00.000-07:002017-05-03T04:16:12.384-07:00Sisters (Part 1) Jane was at home in Encinitas by seven p.m. Friday, much to our joy. The flight from Oakland to San Diego was easy, as was the cab ride up to Encinitas.... Almost. "White cab drivers are starting to piss me off," she grumbled into her bottle of Anchor Steam.<br />
"Please, unpack that statement," said Bekka.<br />
"Ugh! I call for a cab in Berkeley, or flag one down in the City, and if the driver is a Middle Eastern dude, I get in, give him the destination, and away we go. If the driver is white, he'll be all, 'You have the fare, right?' Duh, if I didn't have the fare, I wouldn't be getting in the cab, stupid. I've had some of them demand to hand over cash before they'll move! The fucking white cab drivers assume that a punk rocker is gonna ditch them on the fare. The Arabs and Afghanis and Egyptians don't give the mohawk a second thought.<br />
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"When I landed, I walked to the taxi line and got in the first cab. The fucking Archie Bunker at the wheel looks at me and asks where to, I tell him, '816 Neptune Street in Encinitas.' He says, 'That's a pricey ride.' Yeah, I know, I've done it before, it's gonna be over fifty bucks, and I tell him so. The asshole asks to see some money, so I held up some twenties. Then he says, "I'll hold that until we're at your address,' and reaches back and tries to grab the money out of my hand!<br />
"I told him, 'Fuck you, now you know I have cash, so let's roll.' He says he won't go anywhere unless I give him $100 to hold until we're in Encinitas, I told him to go fuck himself with a brick, I'll get in the cab behind us. I grabbed my bag and started getting out, and he starts spazzing on me. 'You take the first cab in line, and that's me!' No, I'll take the first cab whose driver doesn't treat me like a thief, fuck you Lumpy. I got in the next cab, and the Sikh at the wheel didn't give me a second glance. I told him where I wanted to go, and the only thing he asked me is if I minded giving him directions once we were off the freeway in Encinitas. I tipped him twenty."<br />
We headed out the door, headed to meet Feather and her little sister Glee at Evelyn's for dinner. Bekka had actually thought ahead and made reservations for eight o'clock, a wise choice, since there was no doubt Feather and Glee would be carded. Feather would be getting carded when she was in her thirties.<br />
It was easy to spot the two of them when we pulled into the lot at Evelyn's. Both were posing outside the front door waiting for us, smoking cigarettes. Feather's platinum blonde hair was about two and a half inches long, short enough to spike, but long enough to lay down. She had a total of ten earrings, plus a (studio-approved) gold hoop in one nostril. Her little sister's hair was fire engine red, and much shorter and choppier than the last time I'd seen it. She had also gained rings in her ears, one nostril, and one lip.<br />
Feather was nineteen, Glee was fifteen. Together with sixteen year old Fang up in LA, the three had started a band: Feather - guitar, Fang - bass, Glee - vocals, and a Roland TR-606 drum machine. They had practice space in a sea container sitting in the lot of a tow service in Santa Monica. Feather and Glee would drive up on Friday afternoons and the three of them would spend the weekend partying and making a hell of a lot of noise. Their main influence was Big Black, but their songs were faster. Also, young Glee had a talent for both disturbing lyrics and a wide vocal "range." She shrieked, she growled, she graveled the lyrics like a chainsaw through granite. Add to this Glee's penchant for jumping around as though trying to pantomime the lyrics, she was quite the kinetic front for the band.<br />
The first thing Feather and Glee did after hugs was hand Bekka, Jane, and myself cassette tapes. The J card was black with red lettering and simply said, "GASH - 6 Song Demo." The inside listed the tracks and credits, plus a P.O. box in Santa Monica for contacting the band. Feather said, "This is the result of what we did with Corolla a couple weeks ago. It was kind of interesting trying to find an agreement on what sounded best. Corolla figured we'd use her home studio, but we were concerned we'd lose a lot of the power we get playing in our metal box. What we did was lay the drum, bass, and guitar tracks at Corolla's, then we went to the practice space and Corolla recorded Glee inside, with her listening to the tracks on a headphone. We're pretty happy."<br />
As anticipated, our arrival was greeted with concern by the other patrons. Here comes four punk rockers, three female, and..... Oh my goodness, that's Becky Page. Strolling in like they own the place. There was more consternation when Bekka and I were recognized by the hostess --- eat anywhere on a regular basis for five years, they'll remember you --- and we were all shown to our table.<br />
Once we had our drinks, Feather said to Jane, "So, you and I are going to be lezzing out tomorrow afternoon,"<br />
"We'll be pretending to, anyway, a three-way with Roach," Jane grinned back. "Sue and I are having a straight girl-girl scene in the morning. What are your feelings on the subject?"<br />
"It's a little complicated," Feather said with a frown. "I, uh, enjoy the physical aspect of being with another girl, no matter who's doing what. At the same time, I can't imagine feeling any sort of romantic attachment to another girl, so I"m kind of loath to call myself bisexual. I'd never even pursue even a physical relationship with another girl, just for fun.<br />
"Another problem is that.... I'm doing the scene with you. We were pretty tight friends in my senior year of high school, and I'm afraid us being together, even on a sound stage, is gonna have a rather incestuous vibe to it."<br />
After a bit of consideration, Jane replied, "Okay, let me get something out of the way. I always thought you were hot when we were in school. I never let on, because I wasn't even getting the tiniest blip on my gay-dar from you. It didn't seem worth bringing up, I"d have just made you uncomfortable. That said, don't worry. I'm still a novice, and this will be my first girl-girl scene on camera, but I'll be professional. We're just two performers doing a scene. I could be anyone, okay?"<br />
"Oh, hey, you don't need to freeze up on me. Like I said, I like the physical aspects of being with another girl, I'm not gonna be faking anything, okay? You don't need to either. No air-rubbing, no fake tongue work, let's make this real. I just need to remind myself this isn't my old friend Jane from high school this is.... What was the screen name you chose?"<br />
"Debbie LaLaurie," said Jane with a gleam in her eye.<br />
"How did you choose the name?" asked Feather. "Is there a story behind it?"<br />
"Oh yes. Delphine LaLaurie is generally viewed as the first female serial killer in the United States. She was a rich woman from New Orleans in the early 1800s. Her mansion caught fire, and those responding found her attic had seven slaves she had been torturing. When slaves died from their torture, she buried them in the backyard. She managed to escape her outraged neighbors and split for Paris." Catching Feather's wide-eyed look, she continued, "It was either that or Annie Fugate."<br />
"Dare we ask?" piped up Glee.<br />
Jane elaborated, "Caril Anne Fugate was Charles Starkweather's thirteen year old girlfriend. Her parents were the first victims of their spree. You know who Charles Starkweather was, right?"<br />
"I do," answered Feather, shaking her head with a bitter chuckle.<br />
"Who is he?" asked, Glee.<br />
"I'll tell you later, sissy. You'll ruin your appetite if I tell you now."<br />
<br />
Both scenes went very well, Jane again amazing those present with her aggression and energy. Calm Steve, who was the director for the "Duane and Dolly" series, commented to me later, "If we put Jane and Melissa in a three-way, they'd probably kill the poor bastard they were working with. It's one thing to show enthusiasm, but those two can be maniacal."<br />
Melissa, a.k.a. "Melissa Delogo," was hanging around waiting for the end of the day's shoot. Her, Sue, and Gabrielle were going to get dinner and hit a bar that evening. commiserating on the current lack of romance in their lives. They had the same problem all girls in porn do: when meeting guys and revealing their careers, guys would either be put off completely, or far too enthusiastic. The first group would assume they were self-destructive drug addicts, the second assumed that life with them would be one long porn trope. They were being superstitious and going to a Del Mar bar called the Paddock to drink. This was where Jolene ("Missy Liscio") had met her beau eighteen months ago: he was successful, understanding of Jolene's career, and a gentleman. Maybe they could find three more just like him.<br />
Feather was headed out to pick up Glee and drive up to LA for band practice. Bekka offered, "The three of us could be your wing men, if you'd like. It worked out okay for Jolene."<br />
That worked for the three of them. We all had dinner at a Cantonese place in Cardiff, then headed for the Paddock. I'd agreed to lay off the booze, so we could all car pool in the Fleetwood. If need be, I could deposit people at home at the end of the night and leave their cars in Oceanside.<br />
Over dinner, the girls quizzed Jane on how school was going. She was having a relatively easy time with her classes. She wasn't skating, like in high school, but she was on top of things, getting As on quizzes. Regarding her classes at Haas School of Business, Jane announced, "The more I learn about the stock market, the less happy I am that it's the barometer for America's financial health. The stock markets --- all of them --- are in the hands of panicky dimwits. The markets inflate to stupid sizes, and when the correction finally comes, it's the end of the fucking world. No, it's a correction. Anyone here know about the Holland tulip mania?"<br />
Everyone confessed their ignorance. Jane continued, "Starting in the early 1600s, the tulip bulb market began to grow in Europe, and damn fast. Tulips were considered a luxury item in Europe --- they're indigenous to Turkey --- and the Dutch were the first to harvest them domestically, and also create fancy new hybrids. The reproductive cycle for tulips is kind of slow, so a futures market sprang up, with investors buying the rights to tulip bulbs that didn't exist yet. By the time of the crash, single bulbs --- or the shares representing them --- would be worth hundreds of florins each. For perspective, a skilled laborer might earn 150 florins a year.<br />
"Finally, in 1637, it seemed to collectively dawn on everyone, 'Holy shit, these are just flowers, they're not actually worth anything. They grow and look pretty, and that's it. So everybody began bailing out of the market at once, causing prices to plummet. All these people who had been worth a fortune on paper were back where they started from.... or worse, if they'd gone into debt based on their paper worth.<br />
"These days, tulip mania isn't considered a true economic bubble. It only dealt with a single commodity, and those investing weren't a large enough cross-section of society to have a heavy national impact. But it's a great example of how a market can be inflated far beyond its real worth, and how people can get their asses handed to them by investing. Except for one company, I will never own stock in any business at all."<br />
"Who is that?" asked Gabrielle.<br />
"Intel," Jane replied. "Intel trades on NASDAQ, they make computer processors, hardware. They're already a solid company. My hunch is they're going to explode between now and the millennium. Home computers are going to stop being the domain of dorks, and become as common at TVs in homes. The World Wide Web will drive demand. Intel are pioneers of processors that keep getting smaller, faster, and more efficient. They're already a market leader. It's the market itself that's going to explode."<br />
I noted, "Jane bought $25.000 worth on Intel stock in August. The worth keeps rising, slowly but surely."<br />
"And I don't check the worth daily. I have to keep my eye on the market in general just because of my classes, but for me, this is a long haul investment. I don't give a shit about dips. I am very confident that in eight years, Intel stock is going to be worth a hell of a lot more than it is now. The ride may be a bit bumpy, but big deal."<br />
I got one of the last spaces in the parking log of the Paddock. Jane and I were our usual punk rock eyesores, Bekka and Sue had their goth-hooker look rocking, and the other girls were sleek and fashionable, sexy but not sleazy. Once inside, we slid two tables together and ordered. I sat at one end while the single-and-searching girls debated strategy. The plan: hang around at the bar, fairly close to one another, but not engaging in conversation. They would look bored, and available. They'd see what happened after that.<br />
Evidently interaction with a member of the opposite sex was a team effort, as the booths and tables seemed segregated by gender. There was room at the bar for the three girls to lounge and give the impression of disinterest in the other two. Ah, here come two would-be suitors, leaving two friends at a table. They both approached Melissa (who wasn't in her Baptist Librarian dress, like usual) and inaudibly introduced themselves. There was brief chat, Melissa finally gesturing at Gabrielle and Sue. Both of them looked a bit concerned. Sue had the usual vague menace all decked-out goths have, and Gabrielle was in possession of large amounts of melanin. In a place like Del Mar, there's enough uber-rich closet racists around to gimp things some. Gabrielle didn't sound, talk, act, smile, gesture, inflect, or dress "black." She looked and sounded like the Valley Girl she was. (I once asked her to name her favorite jazz musician. After thinking, she said, "Chuck Mangione." Oh boy.)<br />
I already had dismissed the chances of these first suitors, as they looked like recently-graduated frat bros. They were dressed better, but they still had that vibe about them. There was a couple minutes talk, then the bros wandered back towards their table, looking cowed. However, not more than thirty seconds passed before three yuppies swaggered up. Pillars of business, with hair like plastic and suspenders holding their business casual slacks up. Their initial ruse was to act as though they all needed fresh drinks.... A blatant lie, the Paddock had fantastic table service. All three paired off and began talking to the girls. And talking, and talking, and talking. Actual conversation was inaudible, but their mouths kept running nearly nonstop. All three girls were getting that "This can't be happening" look, so I decided to monkey-wrench the routine.<br />
Gabrielle saw me approaching and loudly declared, "Oh, hey Lenny!" The other two chimed in. The yuppies turned to see who was being addressed, and didn't look pleased. One of them recognized me, he nudged his buddy and whispered something, which was passed on. Melissa craned up to kiss my cheek and said, "Hey, this is John, Jacques, and Josh. They're real estate brokers."<br />
I restrained myself and didn't crush any hands while shaking with them. One of them (Josh?) said, "You're Lenny Schneider, you run Inana Films. Quite a feat for your age."<br />
Shrugging, I replied, "Actually, at this point the business ops are in someone else's hands. The owner said he wanted me to do nothing except be creative, so I'm not crunching the numbers any longer. Now I crunch words and sentences and plots, plus acting as producer."<br />
"What brings you around here?" asked Jacques.<br />
"Pure altruism. I'm with five young ladies who wanted to have a few drinks. My Cadillac seats six, so I'm the chauffeur. I'm sticky with watery American beer, and that's it. So I've seen you've met three of my girls...."<br />
Josh answered, "We recognized Susan Black, but we're not familiar with Melissa Delogo or Gigi.... no last name."<br />
"She is Gigi," I grinned. There's only one of her, so that's all that is needed. So, real estate broker-age-ing. Is it fun?"<br />
"It has its elements of entertainment," said John with a patronizing tone. "Almost no naked women at our jobs."<br />
With a diplomatic grin, I stated, "To be honest, I have no idea what the difference is between a real estate agent and a broker. Is there a difference? Enlighten me."<br />
Jacques seemed to catch my diplomacy and answered with good will, "There is a difference. Brokers have continued their education past where agents stop. They understand more about real estate law and the ethics of the business. A broker has to pass a license exam more in-depth than an agent's exam. Brokers can engage in business independently, while agents have to be under the supervision of brokers."<br />
Here's a freebie," added Josh. "'Realtor' is a formal title. Realtors are members of the National Association of Realtors. They've agreed to abide by the organization's standards and code of ethics."<br />
Sue said, "Isn't there a basic set of standards and ethics to be an agent straight out the gate? One would like to assume that their agent isn't a thief or a racist, basic shit like that."<br />
"One would hope," answered John. "The NAR holds its members to the standards and ethics. Think of it like the ASE certification mechanics may have. A mechanic without the certification may be just as good, but you're guaranteed the ASE mechanic is competent."<br />
"Does commercial real estate have a higher number of independent brokers working in the field?" I asked. "When Inana was buying the---"<br />
"HEY!" came a voice to my back. "You bastard, you asshole! Imma kick your ass!"<br />
Pivoting to see the source of this outburst, I recognized two men standing about eight feet away. We'd met once before at the Paddock. The larger specimen was Richard Roswell, an heir to a fortune in aluminum. The smaller one was his lawyer. The last time we'd met, Roswell had propositioned Bekka, offering her a relative fortune to spend the night with him. I didn't appreciate my wife being called a prostitute, and physically demonstrated my displeasure. The upshot was Mr. Roswell announced his intention to use his super-mega-mondo-judo powers to kick my ass in the parking lot. Instead, I remained unscathed. He was the one headed for an ER, as I'd snapped his elbow over one leg and given him a concusssion. He was drunk then. He was drunk now. And the bar was a lot fuller.<br />
I gave a tiny smile and said, "Hello, Mr. Roswell. Hello, shyster. How are you this evening?"<br />
"Doin' great now," Roswell stated. "Now I got some plans for the night, I"m gonna crush some faggot-ass punk rock porn maker with a slut wife into dust. I'll give you five seconds to run like the pussy you are."<br />
Over my laughter, I responded, "We went through this exact tame shit the last time we met. I'll give you the same advice as before, which is to return to your seat, sir. What has changed since a year and a half ago?"<br />
"He's been mastering a whole new martial art," the shyster threw in. "He's heavy into aikido now."<br />
"That's nice. So, uh, now does he intend to drop me? Aikido is a piss-poor offensive art."<br />
Roswell boasted, "The first swing you take at me will be your last. I'll drop you, and I'll make sure you stay dropped."<br />
Jacques didn't like this distraction. He said, "See here, who are you? Why are your threatening this man?"<br />
"I'm Richard Roswell," came the drunken pompous reply. "This asshole here got the drop on me a while back, and he plays dirty. Fuckin' scumbag. He threw his hands at me...."<br />
"After you offered to pay my wife for sex," I inserted. "Never call another man's wife a prostitute, even obliquely. You deserved that slap."<br />
"Your wife is a fuckin' whore," Roswell shot back, so I punched him in the face, a decent blow.<br />
Roswell's head snapped back and he nearly lost his balance. He sputtered and crowed, "Bastard!"<br />
I rolled my eyes and said, "Are we going in the parking lot again?"<br />
"I'm gonna kill you, you fuckin' faggot!" he yelled.<br />
"I'll take that as a yes. Come on, stupid." I began walking towards the front door, trailing the three girls and the brokers. In fact, quite a few people began heading that direction, including Roswell and his shyster. We'd have an audience this time.<br />
I paused outside to light a cigarette and then drifted into the empty area of the lot. Then I stood there, waiting on Roswell. He walked over to a brand new Mercedes and theatrically doffed his jacket, then approached me, his feet wide as he walked. I stood and smoked. "I'll give you one chance to run like a pussy," he told me.<br />
I twitched my shoulders and said, "Heard it before. Do your worst, homeboy."<br />
Roswell approached me, his hands already in position to attempt a judo grab. I watched his approach. When he was four feet away, I flicked my cigarette in his face. He waved his hands to deflect it, and I used the distraction to punch him in the eye, hard. He squawked and backed away, squeezing his hit eye shut. "In aikido, you need an offensive maneuver to react to. I just gave you one. What was wrong with it?"<br />
Roswell bellowed and charged me, his rage overcoming his training. I bobbed my head out from the path of a fist, then put my own left fist into his gut. He wheezed and started to double. I stepped forward to work on his head, but he realized what was happening and threw himself backwards. I stayed where I was. He gurgled at me, "I bet you don't have the fuckin' balls to just swing straight at me. Go 'head, try and punch me in the face again."<br />
"Okay. Step on up." I said it as calmly as if he'd offered a stick of gum.<br />
He stomped up until he was three feet from me. He said, "Come on, you fa---" and I punched him in the face again. Just one shot, this time to his other eye. I heard someone in the crowd comment, "Damn, that is one fast right he's got."<br />
Holding his freshly injured eye, Roswell stood about eight feet away, growling and panting.. He looked like he was trying to come up with a strategy. I stood with my hands in my pockets, waiting patiently. A voice from the crowd said loudly, "Buddy, just give it up." Other voices agreed.<br />
An idea had been hatched. Roswell suddenly plunged a hand in a pocket, emerging holding a ring of keys. He got one, I believe the Mercedes key, into his fist, holding the metal between his knuckles. An old and somewhat effective strategy when caught unarmed. He charged me again, raising the key-spiked fist to swing. When he was close and swinging, I got my left foot behind me and leaned way back, out of harm's way. I pistoned my right foot into Roswell's knee. He began falling as I straightened, and I drove my left fist into his right ear. Once he was on the ground, I shuffled about six feet away, calmly watching and waiting.<br />
Another anonymous voice called to Roswell, "Bub, you're not getting any better. Drop it." Another said, "He's just gonna keep doing that to you. He knows how to fight, you don't."<br />
For my own position, I stated, "Richard --- Dick --- this is getting old. Go back inside and sit at your table again. I'll ignore you, and you ignore me. But I'm really starting to get annoyed."<br />
Roswell slowly got to his feet. After he did, he looked at me with hate and started to say, "You goddamn ---"<br />
"Don't start, Richard," I stated loudly. "I've held my temper, don't piss me off."<br />
"... goddamn faggot porn queer pimp, you're fucking wife's a whore, I'm gonna finish you goddamn piece of shit...."<br />
Now he was doing an unsteady Frankenstein walk towards me. I figured I'd rung his bell when I punched him in the ear. He had both fists balled, one still containing the long key. That was the second iteration I'd heard of "your wife is a whore" from his mouth, so I was a bit steamed. Also, I remembered an old adage about animals being twice as dangerous when they're injured.<br />
This time Roswell shot out his left hand to try and grab my jacket, followed immediately by his right fist looking to perforate my head with the clenched key. I knocked his left just out of line and dodged my head back, just far enough. I could feel the wind as his fist went past. His momentum and lack of equilibrium made his whole body pivot slightly away from me. I took that gap and drilled him in the nose. It began pouring blood immediately, Roswell howling in pain. He grabbed his face with both hands, backing slightly. His feet were still wide apart, so I went for the shortcut and kicked him in the balls like his crotch was sitting in a stand on the thirty yard line. He sharply drew in air, then doubled over.... but he was still standing. I kicked him in the face, then pushed him over with my other foot. Roswell laid there holding various painful parts of his body, making a strange croaking noise. I stood above him and said clearly, "I told you to not piss me off. I told you to let it drop. Now look. Mr. Roswell, you're kind of a fuckin' idiot." I saw the shyster standing like a mannequin, staring at his fallen buddy, and called, "Hey, Mr. Lawyer. Get his nibs into his car, and drive him home. He needs a rest."<br />
Several guys were coming over to tell me that, wow, you just kept dropping him, it was obvious he was way more worked up but you came out on top, how did you do that? I answered, "It's actually real simple. Okay, Roswell was feeling far more aggro and keyed up. That meant he wasn't looking at his situation objectively. I remained calm, and I was able to see exactly how he would be approaching me, every time." I smirked and continued, "It also helps that my confidence comes from having been dropped on more than a few occasions, taking an ass-kicking. Roswell puts incredible faith in martial arts disciplines, specifically judo and aikido. Judo is very formalized in competition, it has nothing to do with a real street fight. Aikido is a nice idea, but it's also limited. The idea behind aikido is you use an aggressor's energy against him. In practice, aidido only teaches you how to defend yourself from very specific types of attack.<br />
"Roswell seemed to have a mental blind spot. He deluded himself into thinking that I would make an offensive move identical to the ones he'd trained to counteract in aikido. Well.... Aidido doesn't have a response to a fast right to the face. I doubt they cover someone swinging a broken beer bottle, a baseball bat, or a kick to the yarbles. You heard the dude tell me to try and punch him in the face.... so I did, and I did it the same way I"d already punched him twice tonight. Personally? Anyone who thinks they're bad-ass because they're a black belt in whatever hasn't come across a veteran Hell's Angel, or a bartender where Hell's Angels drink. It's the dudes with scar tissue all over their knuckles who are gonna come out ahead against a black belt. Fighting, street fighting, is mean and ugly and vicious, there are no rules. You drop whoever's opposing you, period. And you're not gonna shake his fucking hand afterwards."<br />
"So how did you learn to fight?" asked one guy.<br />
I chuckled and raised my eyes skyward. "By being a complete asshole. That's the most honest and accurate answer I can give you. When you're living in a way where breakfast is three beers and a line of speed, you're selling dope for a living, and you really dig the adrenaline rush you get from a bar fight, you're not living healthy. You're an asshole. I'm still kind of an asshole, just a little bit, but I'm way more mellow than I used to be, five years ago."<br />
The same guy said, "No, what I mean is, um, how would I learn now to, uh....."<br />
Bekka's tinkling laughter sprang up from beside me. She told the dude, "I know how. There's a bar in National City called the Hi-Lo. Start going in there about three times a week, sit at the bar, order a drink, and start loudly talking about what pieces of shit Harley Davidson motorcycles are. The first person to walk up and tell you to shut your fucking mouth is your <i>sensei</i> for the night. Argue with him, When he finally swings on you, do your best to counter-attack, block, and get your own licks in.<br />
"When you regain consciousness, drive to the ER to check for concussion. Once the concussion is gone, go back to the Hi-Lo and do the same thing. When it finally works out that you're still standing up and your <i>sensei</i> is on the floor, you've learned how to be a good brawler."<br />
A couple of the guys looked confused, the others chuckled nervously and explained that the Hi-Lo is the bar the San Diego chapter of the Hell's Angels hang out at, they're always there. One of them exclaimed, "That's right, you hired some of those guys to work as security guards at your studios. How did that go? It didn't work out for the promoters who put on the Altamont Rolling Stones show."<br />
I said pointedly, "Well, first off, I don't pay my employees in beer. In fact, sobriety is a requirement. It's worked out very well. Twice now I've had HA take bullets while protecting the studio in La Costa, these guys really are as tough as they're rumored to be. Also, they're not dummies, they're got the same brains as anyone else. They're observant, they're quick, they can be diplomatic but also won't put up with any bullshit, and they're dependable. They have a lot of personal pride in working for Inana."<br />
"Why is that?" one of the dudes asked.<br />
"A couple things. First, they're all rabid Becky Page fans, they love Becky, and Becky loves them. When we met the Dago chapter, we went in with no front. We didn't try to be anything we're not, and we treated people in a natural way. Hey, they're a bunch of friends hanging around in a bar. The fact that Becky was obviously not slumming or treating them like zoo animals meant a lot to them. Becky can give as good as she takes when the jokes and ribbing start flying, and they love her for it.<br />
"So there's that, plus when I talked to the chapter prez, I told him I wanted HA working for me specifically because they're tough as hell, and I believed they had the brains for the job. The Angels aren't used to people coming up and making a natural assumption of intelligence. There was also sheer pragmatism. At this point, Inana Productions has ten Hell's Angels as employees, each earning $600 a week before taxes...."<br />
Bekka threw in, "Nine Angels, plus Mama Bev."<br />
"Near as dammit," I replied. "She may not have a patch, but she's HA."<br />
"Who?" asked someone.<br />
Bekka and I both laughed. "Mama Bev," I answered. "In outlaw culture, a 'mama' is essentially a concubine, a woman who's available to any club member who's feeling the itch. Mama Bev is around 310 pounds and has a face like a pit bull. However, the Angels say she is a virtuoso on the meat whistle, if you catch my drift. Mama Bev could suck the black off a bowling ball. Hey, if you're horny enough, that's a damn useful thing to have around."<br />
All the dudes chuckled at this glimpse into outlaw culture. One asked, "So she works for you as a security guard?"<br />
"Yeah. She mans the security shack at the front gate of our Oceanside studio. She sits in there with her Winstons and cans of Tab, grilling anyone who pulls up to the gate. She's got a checklist of visitors, and all Inana employees have pass stickers on their windshields, so they just get waved in. If she needs to use the can, or it's near lunchtime, she gets on the intercom and ---"<br />
There was suddenly a roar of engine. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of movement, shiny metal pointed towards us. I shoved Bekka towards the parked cars and grabbed the arm of the guy I was next to, swinging him in the same direction. Then I made my own dive for safety.<br />
The late model Mercedes didn't clip us. However, it did knock one dude roughly to the asphalt. Another went onto the hood, then rolled off near the driveway. Both men groaned with pain from the impact. I realized Richard Roswell and his shyster had been sitting in their car all that time. Either Roswell or the shyster saw me and Bekka standing there, and decided they'd even the score. No luck, they'd taken out two innocent bystanders. Me and the dude I'd thrown ran for the one at the driveway, Bekka and the other two went to check on the first one.<br />
The one by the driveway was pulling in air, hissing through his teeth. "Where do you hurt?" I asked.<br />
"Agghh... Right hip, he hit me hard right there..... Also left shoulder and.... neck.... God damn this hurts...."<br />
"Okay. Don't try to move, in case your hip is cracked. Your back is okay?"<br />
"Yeah.... When I fell off the hood, I.... ow shit.... I landed on my shoulder and neck..... Fuck..... I can move my head okay...."<br />
"Don't worry, we'll have the meatwagon here in a couple minutes. Stay still. Do you smoke?"<br />
"Sometimes...."<br />
I lit s Marlboro and gave it to him. "There, that'll give you something to think about, if nothing else. Don't move, just chill." I took off my jacket and rolled it up, then put it under the dude's head as a pillow. He thanked me. The guy I was with was frowning at my left armpit. Oh yeah, my Beretta was now exposed. I told him, "If you know any of my history, you know why it's there. And yes, it's legal. Just the same, do me a favor, Go in the bar and check to see if anyone has called 911 yet. If not, call. I'm gonna simplify my life by tucking this in my trunk." I slipped of the shoulder holster and jogged to the Cadillac, returning in thirty seconds.<br />
Bekka approached me quickly. "That guy took a solid shot. He says his ribs and his back hurt. We told him to stay still, no shifting. How's this gentleman?"<br />
"Bashed in the hip, hard. Neck and shoulder pain on the left side, from falling off the car."<br />
Staring out blankly at the street with her Sicilian Death Glare in place, she stated flatly, "That motherfucker. That goddamn motherfucker. I don't give a fuck how rich he is, he's not skating on this. Vehicular manslaughter or whatever, hit and run.... You don't purposely mow down pedestrians in a parking lot."<br />
My injured dude said, "Who is that guy? I guess yo know him....."<br />
"His name is Richard Roswell," I replied. "He's a...."<br />
Despite his pain, the dude chuckled. "Oh, shit. Lives in Rancho Santa Fe, right? Me too. I've never met him, but.... ow, shit.... everybody knows who he is. He wants a change in the neighborhood, he buys it. We.... aggh..... circulate through resident representatives all the time, 'cos they keep getting bribed by.... shit..... the bastard. There's such a thing.... oww..... as too much money. Roswell has it."<br />
"He's always had money, hasn't he?" Bekka asked.<br />
"Yeah. He's an heir."<br />
She chuckled and continued, "Well.... Lenny and I don't have nearly as much money as Richard Roswell, but we also grew up farily poor. We know how to live poor. If we lost all our money, it wouldn't be the end of the world, we've lived like that already. So if it takes every fucking penny we have to lock up Richard fucking Roswell for a while, we'll spend it. Make bank on that, pally."<br />
The injured dude turned his had a bit to look at Bekka. He smiled and said, "Yeah.... I've heard Becky Page has some serious chutzpah.... I believe you...."Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10230648449521958270noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033784518790200307.post-22350086785124179812017-05-03T04:15:00.002-07:002017-05-03T04:15:44.154-07:00Sisters (Part 2) The police sideshow started in. Ambulances had arrived, gingerly arranged the injured onto back boards, then gurneys, and split, lights flashing. Del Mar doesn't have its own police department, law enforcement is provided by the sheriff's department on contract. Four patrol cars arrived, the occupants getting out and behaving exactly how I expected them to: they immediately began antagonizing witnesses by treating them like criminals. And I knew, at the end of their shift, they'd sit around in the locker room and bitch about how uncooperative the public is.<br />
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Naturally, the deputies glommed onto me and Bekka. I had no doubt the name "Leonard Schneider" at the Northern Division of the San Diego Sheriff's Department equated to the name "Emmanuel Goldstein" in Orwell's novel "1984." I was the subject of the daily Two Minutes Hate, deputies and brass all focusing every bit of directionless rage towards Lenny Schneider. Schneider has been too close to far too many events, starting with his own wife being stabbed. Detective Donner, formerly of Encinitas PD, had been assigned the case, and immediately reached the conclusion that Lenny had stabbed his wife, felt a bit bad about it, and dialed 911. Donner had zero proof or evidence, it was just his cop's intuition telling him the young punk with the large bank account was dirty, so killing his wife was completely logical.<br />
And Schneider, that prick asshole, does his own detective work, finds the actual perp, and delivers the perp to Donner. The fucking nerve. Schneider had demonstrated "attitude" every time he and Donner interacted, from day one, and showed no signs of dropping it. So what if he'd proven himself innocent, like he'd claimed. Little bastard should have taken a plea, he'd have been out in ten years. Fucking little punk rock asshole.<br />
Ever since, Lenny Schneider, with his wife Bekka, would routinely become Persons of Interest in North County. Lenny, shot up on two different occasions at the porn studio he runs in La Costa. A dead body appears at the Schneider's unfinished residence. Bekka's car mysteriously blows up in the parking lot of their apartment complex. Another dead body at the porn studio. Religious zealots stalk Lenny and Bekka, who flip the script and begin chasing the zealots. When the zealots crash their car, they both commit suicide instead of talking to police. And on and on, just a long trail of annoying bullshit, and there's always one common denominator: the name Lenny Schneider.<br />
I explained to the deputies at the Paddock that Roswell and I had a "confrontation," which we moved outside for the sake of good manners. After our dispute was settled, Roswell and his attorney went to Roswell's Mercedes and sat inside. Ten minutes later the Mercedes started and accelerated towards those in the parking lot, including the presumed target, L. Schneider. Mr. Roswell had been drinking heavily, according to the bartender. What was the conflict about? "Some childish name-calling on Mr. Roswell's part," I answered.<br />
"Was this conflict physical?"<br />
"Yes, briefly. Mr. Roswell kept attempting to attack me, but was lacking in the discipline or coordination to do so. I would knock him away, he'd try again, I'd knock him away again. There were some spectators to all this, who kept yelling for him to give it up. He finally took their advice, I suppose."<br />
The deputy, named Schiff, tapped his pen on his notebook and said, "You know how I like it better, Schneider? I like it you beat the shit out of this guy. Him aiming his car at you was self-defense, he was afraid for his life."<br />
I gave him my Roger Moore smirk and said, "Well, I can't prevent you from coming up with bizarre fantasies. I will protest if you act as though they're true. You have a bar full of witnesses who will corroborate my story."<br />
This was a hedge on my part. I was assuming the witnesses were telling the deputies that Roswell had his own ass handed to him. This wasn't true, everyone else seemed to also be hedging, making neutral, nebulous statements. Yes, Schneider and Roswell had a verbal dispute. Yes, they went into the parking lot, many following them. There was "confrontation," the nature of which suggested that Roswell knew he was in no shape for physical violence. While there was no accord reached, the two parties simply went in different directions. No one thought about Roswell sitting in his car until it was too late. No, Mr. Schneider did not attack Mr. Roswell, quite the opposite. Schneider was trying to de-escalate the situation, using minimal amounts of physical force. Schneider's alcohol consumption at the Paddock: approximately eighteen ounces of Miller Genuine Draft.<br />
There was nothing to pin on me, the other witnesses said Roswell was drunk and picked a fight with Schneider, who defended himself but was not needlessly violent. Roswell was the instigator, start to finish. My deputy told me this with a sour note in his voice. Then he added, "But I'm not worried. You're gonna fuck up at some point, Schneider, and we'll be there for your fall."<br />
"Have you been talking to Detective Donner, deputy?" I asked. "The detective allows his personal views to color his professional activities. Very, very unwise. The detective makes mistakes because of it. My suggestion to you, deputy, is to disregard what Donner says about me. Think about it rationally: if I'm such a criminal fuck-up, how could I be so smart as to fool the entire sheriff's department for all this time?"<br />
Bekka added, "I also have a suggestion. Perhaps you should visit Mr. Roswell at his home, and get his own statement. I'll guarantee you he'll blather on about Lenny beating him up. No, Lenny defended himself. Also, the Mercedes E-Class he drives will have dents in the front bumper, grille, and hood. Those should be investigated. Good evening, deputy." She began her Royalty stroll towards the door of the bar, me in her wake.<br />
Inside, Sue, Melissa, and Gabrielle waved to me. They were each in conversation with individual men --- a positive sign --- but gestured Bekka and I over anyway. Gabrielle introduced the man she was speaking with --- an intense-looking goof wearing a driving cap and gloves --- as Nigel. His accent betrayed the source of the name. Nigel explained he was connected to the Del Mar racetrack, sorting out any difficulties between California, the U.S., and Europe. He said he spoke eight languages --- "Passably, anyways" --- and all of them were tainted by his East End accent.<br />
"I'm a lucky one," he explained to me. "When I was young, I was a complete mugg. I was a skinhead, although back then that din't mean you was a nationalist. But I figured I'd have the same fooking path through life as every other bloke did in my neighborhood: get in a bit too deep of a scrape and spend some time in Belmarsh, land a fooking menial job, get me girl preggo, and settle into a grind. Me week's high point would be three pints round the boozer with me old mates.<br />
"But when I was sixteen, an uncle I barely knew rang up me pa and said, 'You've got a boy, right? Old enough to work? Brains in place? I'd like to bring him up here to Cheltenham, give him job in me stables.' Me pa told him I didn't know any animals other than cats and rats, how would I be useful? Me uncle said, 'I've got to train 'im, don't I?' So, off to me uncle's stables in Cheltenham. I could barely ride a fooking bicycle when I arrived, and they wanted me putting steeplechase jumpers through their fooking paces! So, well, I fell off a lot, but I learned.<br />
"The best part was me uncle took me in a bit. His sons had pursued other things, wife was dead.... He was lonely, yeah, but he also wanted to share knowledge, share what he'd learned in a lifetime of racing. And not training, either, that's a duff, but the business, the politics, of racing internationally. Every night he'd tell me stories about all sorts of conflicts and dust-ups and intrigue that he'd observed in racing, all over the world. For me to understand the stories, he'd have to explain the differences between racing in different places, like how Australia has different rules the Britain, which has different rules than the Italians, who are different from the Swedes, and on and on. And I learned how things work in racing through these stories. It was the protocol he was passin' on to me, along with where you can run into a sore spot just by not following protocol. You know the hierarchy of racing from country to country, you know who to call first when you're trying to get somethin' done. That's what me uncle taught me."<br />
"International diplomacy as an oral tradition," I noted. "That's pretty damn cool, really."<br />
With a wide grin, Nigel said, "Me first job outside the stables was as an attache for international horse sales. Me job was to arrange the minor shit when transporting horses internationally: lodging for grooms and handlers, exchanging currency, transport, veterinary paperwork for inspections, all the fooking details. I was twenty-two, and the sales firm had hired me sight unseen, just based on me interview over the phone. I turn up at the office, tell 'em who I am, and got called a fooking liar. 'How old are ya, lad?' I told 'em, and why the rattle? You liked me answers over the phone. Turn me loose. If I fuck it up, you gimme the sack, but otherwise it won't matter. I stayed with 'em for five years. Then I went to the Jockey Club. They had me glad-handing all these geezers from all over the world, fighting through a lack of common language to communicate the basic rules of British racing, and import of horses. That's how I picked up me languages."<br />
His eyes wandered briefly to his left, and siezed upon Bekka standing next to me. His jaw dropped. "Cor," he commented. "You're Becky Page! Just standing there, listening to me rabbiting on! Good evening to you, Ms. Page, what brings you by?"<br />
"Besides my usual thirst for Johnnie Walker?" grinned Bekka. "I'm out with Gigi, Sue, and Melissa, being a bit social. My husband and I are their chaperones this evening..... Lenny? Where is Jane?"<br />
I pointed to a side room and said, "She found the pool table, so she's probably raising some funds. Hey, at least here, people aren't going to sweat losing $20 per game to the little shark."<br />
And on cue, Jane drifted up in search of a fresh bottle of Miller. "Finally lost one," she announced. "Still, I'm up $120 on the night."<br />
"Straight billiards or nine ball?" I asked.<br />
"Billiards. I swear, all these Herberts brag about how they had a pool table in their dorm or frat house, how they knocked down all challengers, and they can't even do a decent break."<br />
"You ever shoot snooker, young miss?" asked Nigel with a crafty grin.<br />
"Never," Jane replied. "I've never even seen a snooker table in person. I know the table is larger, and it's a very different game --- lots of red and white balls --- but hey, if there's a cue and balls involved, I'm in."<br />
"So you're a hustler with a cue, eh? Come down to the track some afternoon, ask for Nigel. I'll teach you snooker."<br />
"A problem there. I'm only in town for the weekend, I'm a student at Berkeley."<br />
Nigel puzzled over this information and responded, "Okay, getting into San Francisco isn't a bother for you, eh? Go to a place in the Laurel Heights district called Graham's Gallery. It's near as dammit as you'll find to a real pub in the States, full of expats like me. They've got snooker. You learn snooker, no one can beat ya hustling."<br />
This information brightened Jane considerably. "Ooh. Once I learn the rules, are the locals amenable to friendly wagers? Say, twenty bucks a game?"<br />
"Amenable? They'll expect it," cackled Nigel. "So girl, you know Miss Page here?"<br />
Wrapping her arms around our waists, Jane said, "Bek--- Becky and Lenny raised me through my last two years of high school, and helped get me into Berkeley. They are friends, they are lovers, and they are the most important people in my life." She considered Nigel and asked, "So, you know how to play nine ball?"<br />
"Oh yes. Are you offering a challenge? Maybe put a bit of the folding down to keep us interested?"<br />
"Twenty a game, winner breaks, double-taps count. Fair?"<br />
Sounded fair to Nigel. He, Jane, and Gabrielle got fresh drinks and went to the pool tables. No sooner had they walked off when Sue said, "Excuse me, Lenny? Could I prevail upon you to explain few things to this person?"<br />
Sue was gesturing at the dude she'd been talking with. She looked annoyed. The dude was a fairly hip-looking yuppie, like he'd been a DJ at his college radio station six years earlier. He had the sort of set-mouthed scowl usually associated with the morally righteous. When Bekka and I stepped closer, Sue continued, "Lenny, Becky, meet Brett. He has some illusions about what the adult video industry is like."<br />
"Such as?" I asked.<br />
"Little things like coercion, and enforced drug addiction, and white slavery, and child abuse, and institutionalized rape as a control activity. Since I've never witnessed any of these things myself, obviously I haven't been in the business long enough."<br />
"Would you consider ten years a sufficient amount of time?" Bekka asked Brett in a cool voice. "That's how long I've been fucking and sucking in front of video cameras. So where did you get your highly inaccurate information from?"<br />
Brett replied, "World magazine has run several articles on the pornography underground. So has Christianity Today. Both point to systemic abuse of women and children." He gave Bekka a judging glare and went on, "You're Becky Page. Your life and livelihood are wrapped up in pornography. I'm sure you've been witness to the abuses that happen.... In fact, they mention your studio by name!"<br />
"Is that so?" I queried. "Tell me, what are they saying about Inana Productions? You have me curious."<br />
With self-righteous confidence, Brett answered, "Inana Productions is a front for the pornography business. It...."<br />
He was interrupted by laughter. Sue chortled, "Um, Inana makes porn. We don't hide what we do. How can a business be a front when everyone in the world knows what's going on there?"<br />
"Okay, Inana releases pornography that's legal, for some reason, in this country. But World says that studio also produces a lot of stuff that is really illegal, really disgusting things. They talked about vans full of children being being delivered to the studios, and how everyone there is a drug addict so they're afraid to leave...."<br />
"Vans full of kids, huh?" I growled. Just as I started to step forward, Sue and Bekka grabbed my shoulders, holding me back. I continued, "Okay, you dumb motherfucker, do you know who I am?" He shook his head, so I pulled out a business card, an Inana Productions card reading "Leonard Schneider -- Big Cheese" and handed it to him. "You're talking shit about the studio I fucking run..... or more accurately, some magazine called World is, or Christianity Today is."<br />
Brett went pop-eyed. "You're.... Leonard Schneider? Oh my gosh. You're not in jail?"<br />
"No, I'm not," I said slowly and loudly. "Why would I be?"<br />
"Well, because of the things I just said. World says you've been arrested before, at your studio."<br />
"Technically, they're correct. The cops cuff you and detain you anytime you shoot someone, until the matter is cleared up. The only crime I've ever been convicted of is carrying a concealed weapon. Nine months of probation, and it was over with. So, I'm gonna guess both magazines have a rather evangelical bend to them? Brown-nosing Oral Roberts? They used to brown-nose Jerry Fallwood and Jimmy Swaggart, until they got busted hiring hookers, right? Tell me, Skeezix, you still have copies of the magazines which talk about my studio?"<br />
"Um, I believe so, I save back issues...." Brett gulped.<br />
I made a wolf's grin and said, "Well, now. Some of those back issues are worth quite a lot of money.... to me, anyway. I'll give you fifty bucks for every one of those magazines which have articles on pornography in them, whether Inana is mentioned or not. Do they ever talk about other studios?"<br />
"Yes.... You want to buy old magazines from me?"<br />
"Oh yeah. In fact, I think we should head over to your place right now, so we can start leafing through them. You could have quite a bit of extra cash by the end of the night."<br />
"What are you going to do with them?"<br />
Bekka chuckled darkly and queried, "Tell me, Brett, are you familiar with the legal concept of 'libel'? Depending on how these articles were written, the magazines are going be become intimately familiar with libel laws."<br />
"I'm, uh, not clear...." stammered Brett.<br />
Sue sighed and elaborated, "In a nutshell, it's not permissible to make shit up about someone and pass it off as the truth. Do it in print, it's libel. Say it in public, it's slander. They're civil violations, which means you won't get you thrown in prison, but you can get sued for everything you have, depending on the severity of the libel. So you're saying one of these magazines accused Inana of being child pornographers? Dare I ask how they reached that conclusion?"<br />
Brett was looking a bit shaken. "Um.... I think it was World magazine.... They said they hired private investigators to watch the Inana Productions studios, to see what was going on. They even had photos of a van full of children parked in front of your studio."<br />
I puzzled over this briefly, then grinned. "Did the van have the words 'La Questa Day School' on it?"<br />
"Um, I don't remember."<br />
Bekka and I both started laughing. "Oh, Jesus," I said. "Yeah, we did have a van load of kids at the studio one day, all around seven or eight years old. That van was from a private school, and was dropping off their students. They'd just dropped a neighbor kid, and the van threw a rod right in front of our place. The driver asked to use our phone, hey, no problem. Triple A said a fifty minute wait, and the school had to go rent a new van to get the rest of the kids home. So the kids weren't stuck sitting in a broken van in the sun all that time, we invited them to play in the back yard while they waited."<br />
"I remember that," said Bekka. "It was nice to goof around in the yard with those kids. Yeah, that was before we had any security, so if some gumshoe wanted to stake us out, we wouldn't have noticed very easily, unless he was right in front of the mansion."<br />
I continued, "So, a while later a different van came and picked the kids up, then a tow truck pulled the broken van off. I'd like to think these details would have been noticed by the PI staking us out. Or, the magazine decided to cherry-pick information, trying to make Inana look bad. Yeah Sparky, I definitely want to see these magazines, and buy them from you. We'll leave in a minute. You live locally?"<br />
"Just two blocks away," muttered Brett. "We can walk.... Look, I'm not trying to make any trouble, I'm just telling you what I read, you know?"<br />
"And what you read is libelous, against my studio and possibly against me and others. Yes, there is some really ugly, sick porn out there. The people who produce it aren't using normal porn studios as fronts. Speaking for the American adult film industry, I can assure you there is no coercion, no human trafficking, no exploited children, and no use of violence and drugs to control performers in the legitimate industry. If World magazine wants to track down the human traffickers and extreme porn, they need to do some investigating in places like Eastern Europe, places with universally corrupt governments. Some place like Romania, Latvia, or Bosnia, where legality is determined by one's ability to pay for it. Of course, that sort of investigation is far riskier than sitting in a car in North County San Diego, those assholes play for keeps."<br />
"So you're saying.... the, uh, legitimate pornographers don't produce the sort of material I've read about? They're not exploiting women?"<br />
"Spot on," I told him. "Okay, totally ignoring the moral aspects, look at it pragmatically: why would anyone bother? The legal risks are incredibly high, we're talking decades in prison, and there's not enough money to be made off it, certainly not enough to take the risks. I make damn good money legally. Producing illegal and extreme porn would be stressful, risky, and soul-crushing, all to serve a small audience. No one in the industry, even if they were totally free of a sense of morality, would think child or animal porn, extreme stuff, would be worth the risk." I thought a moment, and said, "So, I'm guessing you decided to chat up Sue, who told you what she does for a living. Wouldn't her willingness to say she's an Inana Girl be a tip-off that everything is above board, at least at Inana?"<br />
"I guess you're right.... I've just heard too many scary stories about that business," said Brett. "It did seem strange she told me point-blank she's, uh, a performer like that. I didn't know what to think."<br />
Sue said, "The simplest way of looking at it is we're fairly normal people with jobs in one of the stranger facets of the entertainment industry. You said yourself you're somewhat familiar with Inana just because of articles in magazines and newspapers. Inana is well-scrutinized by the media. It would be next to impossible to engage in the subterfuge you've suggested, the way the media hangs around at times."<br />
"Well.... They could be complicit too, covering for everyone..."<br />
Bekka growled, "No. Do not start with any fucking conspiracy theories. The last person to do that was Jerry Fallwood, and his wild ideas nearly got my husband killed. If we had something to hide, we wouldn't be trying to defend ourselves. We'd have left a while ago."<br />
I went and told Jane and Gabrielle that Bekka and I were going to be gone about forty-five minutes, hang out until we returned. Nigel was looking both amused and frustrated, as he'd already lost $40 to Jane, and would be losing another $20 within minutes. Bekka, Brett, Sue, and I headed out the door and down the block. Brett's place was a cottage a block away from the beach bluffs. Inside, he turned on a few lights and went to a bookcase against one wall, where he pulled out a couple stacks of magazines. He quickly sorted through them, pulling issues. Then he said, "I'm pretty sure those are the issues with articles on pornography in them. Take a look."<br />
The girls and I began reading. Any article related to porn was listed large on the magazine covers, with headers like "Exploitation and Abuse -- The Truth About Porn" or "How Porn Destroys Lives." I found the article in World magazine with a picture of the day school van in front of the mansion. The children had never gone inside the mansion, they would have had no clue the joint was anything other than our home. And what was said was libelous as hell: the article flat-out stated their investigator had observed children being dropped off at Inana Productions "for the purpose of producing more child pornography."<br />
"Listen to this," said Sue. "'The use of hard drugs is evident to anyone observing women who appear in the smut Inana releases. The strange behavior and odd fashion sense many of these women display speaks volumes, only heavy, long-term abuse of hard drugs would explain Becky Page's bizarre hair and clothing, not to mention her manic behavior in front of the media. Page and other women at this studio are being held in bondage by their own drug habits.... These habits certainly inflicted upon them by the studio.'"<br />
"Check this out," said Bekka. Reading aloud, she said, "'The anonymity and marginalization of the women at Inana Productions is even evidenced by their names. "Becky Page" does not exist, according to the California motor vehicles department and the IRS. Neither do Gayla Goode, Missy Liscio, Donita Dare, or Tawny Smith. These are women whose very identities have been stolen from them, ensuring that once their studio is done with them, they can be disposed of with no repercussions. While Ms. Page's notoriety demands she appear in public on occasion, the others seem to exist only in the shadows, their only proof of existence the filthy movies they are forced to appear in.'"<br />
Looking at an article in Christianity Today titled "The Porn Industry: America's Billion Dollar Shame," I read aloud, "At the major studios, the telltale signs of abuse are obvious in the women. Videos released by Hustler, Vivid, Skin Scene, and Inana all feature women engaging in the most shocking and lewd sexual activities imaginable, acts no self-respecting woman would dream of doing, not even in private. These studios institute organized rape sessions with the women, to break their spirits and accept the perversions they are forced into as 'normal'. No woman would enter into lascivious acts with both a man and another woman at the same time, or engage in anal sex, or other unnatural acts, unless some form of sexual brainwashing has happened. Prolonged and activity-specific rape sessions are how these studios get their women to perform in front of their cameras.'"<br />
"This one has an article specifically about Hustler Video," said Bekka. "We'll have company in the courtroom, they mention Larry Pelton by name, along with a few others."<br />
Sue started laughing. "Here you go, Bekka. 'Becky Page's public pronunciations of bisexuality are proof of how deep the brainwashing goes. Lesbianism is, of course, a symptom of mental illness, but one which can be treated. To claim a sexual interest in both men and women simultaneously goes beyond the pale. Such desires cannot occur organically, even due to mental health problems. Page's espousal of bisexual interests can only be the result of long-term psychological manipulation and abuse. Not even the insane would conceive of holding dual desires like this.'"<br />
I flipped to the front of a copy of Christianity Today, so I could scope out their publication stats. It was a bit disturbing: they had more subscribers than US News and World Report. Both Christianity Today and World were monthly magazines, not weekly like Time or US News, but the demand seemed to be there for the monthly issues. I looked at Brett and said, "Thank you. You've inadvertently provided me with a new way of spending my spare time. Both magazines are getting subpoenaed this coming week. They'd better have both incredibly deep pockets and the most venal lawyers in the world. I doubt they do, especially the lawyers. Any civil lawyer working in the adult entertainment industry is going to be a shark."<br />
Brett looked a bit crushed. "So none of that stuff is true?"<br />
"They did spell the name of the studio correctly. Beyond that, it's all bullshit."<br />
In her nurturing voice, Bekka said, "Think about it. Didn't the claims being made seem a bit outlandish? If they were true, wouldn't everyone involved be in jail already? Or do the writers for these magazines believe they're somehow smarter than an entire police force?"<br />
Sue commented in a sarcastic voice, "No, Bekka, Inana has bought the cooperation of every cop in every jurisdiction in Southern California. I'm not sure how, but we did."<br />
"If I was gonna buy a cop, I'd want more than willful ignorance," I stated. "I'd want some major ass-kissing. Like loaning me his patrol car for a few hours a day, so I can run around and raise hell."<br />
"Do I even want to know what you'd do?" giggled Sue.<br />
"Mostly just harassing motorists. I'd pull over every Hyundai I ran across, just so I could yell at them for buying a car with a ceramic engine. Drivers of jacked-up four-by-four trucks would be quizzed about the size of their penises. And anyone with a Perot bumper sticker gets pulled over, just so I can walk up to them and point and laugh."<br />
I handed Brett $250 cash, scooped up the magazines, and turned to leave. The three of us were almost to the door when he called Sue's name. She went back to him, while Bekka and I stepped out, giving them their privacy. Sue rejoined us after about three or four minutes, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. "Fucking head case," she muttered.<br />
"What's up?" asked Bekka.<br />
"First, he wanted to quiz me again if you two monitor my words and actions. You were outside, but he still whispered this, in case you had me wearing a wire. He still seems mostly sure I'm a victim of white slavery, I've just been 'property' so long I'm well-trained. This didn't stop him from trying to make a pass, though."<br />
"You're kidding."<br />
"I wish," moaned Sue. "First repeatedly state I have no will of my own, then hit on me. Smooth, Rico Suave. I wonder if he was half-hoping he was right, and I'd be totally malleable, he'd be able to talk me into anything."<br />
Gesturing at the magazines in my arms, Bekka said, "Have you formulated a plan yet?"<br />
"Only for Monday," I responded. "On Monday, I'm calling both magazines and asking to speak to their legal departments, or whatever comes close. I will tell them precisely who I am, where I am, and why I'm calling. They both get one chance at settling. Each one donates $50.000 to the SoCal AIDS Coalition, and run retractions --- front and center --- in the next issues. The retractions will explicitly state they made everything up, the articles are bullshit. If they refuse.... well, I plan on beating their asses like gongs. Bald-faced libel? They're screwed."Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10230648449521958270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033784518790200307.post-15094280475136537552017-05-03T04:15:00.000-07:002017-05-03T04:15:06.376-07:00Sisters (Part 3) Ring, ring, ring.... "God bless, this is World magazine, how may I direct your call?"<br />
"To your legal department," I replied. "My name is Leonard Schneider."<br />
"One moment."<br />
Hold music, a couple clicks, then "Wilcox, legal. Hello?"<br />
"Good morning, Mr. Wilcox," I greeted him. "My name is Leonard, or Lenny, Schneider. Do you recognize the name? Any clue as to who I am?"<br />
First silence, then a quick gasp for air. Another couple moments while he collected his wits. Then, "I believe so. May I help you?"<br />
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"Depends on your ability to make executive responses. See, I've come across some rather libelous articles your magazine has published, which mention both me and my company. The articles state as fact that I am a criminal, a rapist, a child molester, a torturer, and purposely drug women. None of this shit is true, but World magazine has put out this bullshit as statements of fact.<br />
"Two choices, Chester. The first is to settle with me. Settling will be cheap and expedient, then it's all gone. World settles for fifty grand, which is donated to the Southern California AIDS Coalition, The magazine also runs a retraction and correction, which will take a full page, front and center. The other option is I file suit against the magazine for libel. If I have to do that, we're looking at multi-millions in demanded settlement. The libel is obvious, I have the time, and I have lawyers who eat live goats for lunch, in one swallow. So, which is your preference?"<br />
"I.... cannot make a unilateral decision at a moment's notice, I need to talk to some people...."<br />
"Oh, absolutely," I said in a soothing voice. "I know you need to consult with other people, you need a little time. It's just after ten right now. Call me back by noon. If I don't hear back from you by then, I'll assume you prefer to go to court, and I'll start the ball rolling in that direction. You'll be hearing from the firm of Caputo and Leone in Los Angeles, they'll be representing both Inana Productions and myself, as an individual. Do you understand? Let m give you my direct line...."<br />
I read off my phone number to him. He asked, "How did you locate these articles?"<br />
"A guy in a bar tipped me off to them," I replied. "It's always a bit disturbing when you meet a stranger who assumes you're a violent woman-hating child-abusing criminal. Knocks the suds out of your beer, know what I mean? Why did you assume I'd not locate the articles? World magazine is sold at news stands, it's not a private mailing."<br />
He didn't answer, simply saying, "I need to discuss matters with other staff here, goodbye." He hung up in my ear.<br />
After that, I had the same conversation with Blake, a legal department flunky at Christianity Today. Blake was even more shocked I had learned of the articles involving Inana, curious as to why I would even be associating with anyone who would read their magazine. "Well, gosh Blake, Christianity is a fairly popular faith in this country. If the Zoroastrians had run the same articles about my studio, odds are I wouldn't know it. But associating with Christians is pretty easy, even in Southern California. All you have to do is leave the house. So I've gotta ask, were you gambling no one connected to Inana would ever learn about what was written? There would somehow be a sort of informational rift, which would keep us walled off from each other?"<br />
He didn't have an answer either, and hung up.<br />
Neither called back at all, so I got on the phone to mafia civil attorney Matt Leone --- Stefano's dad --- and let him know Inana Productions would need his services, I'd fax the relevant articles from each publication to his office. He was amused by the prospective legal battle. In his Brooklyn grunt, he said, "Okay, I'm Catholic, but I know to keep my faith the fuck out of business, you know? I got a hunch these magazines are gonna be sending a herd of fucking jackalopes into court. When you're in front of a judge, the last thing he wants to hear about is you broke the fucking law based on a higher authority, you know? I'll try to not stomp on their balls too hard."<br />
<br />
"Well! I'm being recognized," said Jane over the phone that afternoon. "Two guys stopped me yesterday, and three stopped me today. They were all, 'Uh, uh, have you ever, uh, made porn?' I sure have, Sparky, which of the 'Naughty Novices' tapes have you seen? 'Uh, all of them.'" She paused, then squealed, "I signed my first autographs today! That felt so cool!"<br />
In Papa Bear mode, I asked, "Did they all mind their manners?"<br />
"Oh yeah. They all seemed pretty nervous, actually. All of them did ask why I'd decided to make porn, so I explained that I understood how production worked beforehand, and felt I had what it takes to be an Inana Girl. You might want to let Bekka know, she has competition. Instead of fixating entirely on Becky Page, these guys mentioned Becky, Feather, Skye Tyler, and Sue in the same breath. Becky Page may no longer be supreme leader."<br />
"And that'll be fine with her. You've seen how things have been through her mega-stardom days. Bekka --- Becky --- will be more than happy to share the spotlight."<br />
"She's one of the two female leads in your 'Three's Company' parody series, right?" Jane asked.<br />
I told her, "Yeah, her character's name is Joan. She'll be the 'Janet' of the trio. The new girl with the massive rack, Melissa, will be playing the 'Chrissy' role. Andy is 'Jack.'"<br />
"Andy has pretty much dropped his real estate gig at this point, huh." Jane said it as a statement.<br />
"He has. Shit, he's twenty-eight, he's not old, he'll be a reliable performer for years. Also, he's in front of the cameras three or four days a week now, and seeing good money. Studs appearing in the series' are getting a higher pay-out than if they were just doing loops, like $450 per half-day shift. To save time and keep the energy flowing, we're doing both dialogue and action at the same time, it's not split up like when we're in production for a feature."<br />
"All four series have made their first releases, right? Any idea how they're doing?"<br />
I sighed and shook my head. "Three of four are winners. 'Pulse of Night' is lagging. Reviews were mediocre, like, 'low-budget loop compilation' mediocre. We've already got the next tape's episodes in the can, and we're in production for those following, but.... I don't know. None of us writers like working on 'Pulse of Night,' there's no base to work from. The studs and sluts are sleepwalking through their roles, the viewing public doesn't care.... I'm ready to pull the plug, but I don't have any ideas that could replace it. So it's gonna be a placeholder for now, we're not losing money on it."<br />
"Maybe do a spin-off from another series?" Jane suggested. "Like, give Feather's character Dizzy from 'Duane and Dolly' her own show...."<br />
Dizzy. Ditzy. Ditzy blonde. A happy-go-lucky blonde ditz who works in an office....<br />
"No," I asserted into the phone. "You just gave me an idea, but it's not about 'Duane and Dolly.' Madison from 'Temporary Pleasures' is going to be the main character in a sitcom, an office comedy. It's perfect, right now Ellen is just holding a supporting role in 'Co-ed Housing,' she's not busy. People loved her in 'Temporary Pleasures,' she could resurrect the role, play Madison the airhead again, only for a half hour at a time.... She'll still be a temp, and keeps getting circulated into different positions in the same office. Hilarity ensues. Shit fuck shit, I hope Mallory and Erica can pull off the writing, I don't know if I'd want to pull Eddie the Jew out of the sound stages to have him writing...."<br />
"Oh.... Oh, hey! That could really work! Do you know 'Temporary Pleasures' is kind of a cult movie in Silicon Valley?"<br />
"Do tell. Expand."<br />
Jane chirped, "Okay, the computer science geeks, the ones majoring, have enough self-awareness to know that no matter how ingenious or high-powered a project might be, outside observers see them and write them off. The comp. sci. majors know they're going to be cubicle monkeys when they start their careers, white collar non-entities sitting on task chairs all day, in big cubicle farms. They also know Silicon Valley at least makes up for the drudgery with good pay.<br />
"While Silicon Valley is all about computers, the general office culture is the same as everywhere else. White collar workers in Silicon Valley and South Bay love 'Temporary Pleasures.... Also Pleasanton, Walnut Creek, San Ramon, any town with lots of office parks and white people.' They love seeing their culture lampooned, they love the characters.... They just really relate to the movie."<br />
My eyebrows went up. "They're getting laid that much down in Silicon Valley?"<br />
"Okay, maybe they don't really relate to the sex.... But the drones feel like the script was written just for them, it was a personal gift from Inana and Becky Page and Skye Tyler. I guess the humor is dead accurate, and lampoons without being abusive, you know? There are plenty of Madisons in the world, maybe not as oversexed.... But people identify with different characters. 'Temporary Pleasures' is a movie people geek out over, sort of like 'Monty Python and the Holy Grail.' You can get your whole office to bust up just by quoting a punch line. Pretty cool, huh?"<br />
"Yeah...." I pondered, then said, "If what you're saying is true.... pulling Eddie out of the stud pool and giving him an office would make it worth everyone's time. He really was the fucking brains behind that movie. I came up with the plot structure and framework, I invented the characters.... but it took Eddie to have all those sharp barbs come out in the dialogue. We also worked on character traits, shit people don't see consciously, that can give a good or bad impression about the character."<br />
"If you do this, will the original cast be back in their roles?" asked Jane.<br />
After chewing on my bottom lip for a few moments, I said, "I don't know. Instinct tells me no. Remember, Madison is a temp. Why would she still be at that company? We'd have Ellen as Madison, of course, but.... If she was at a new company, I could get a lot more exposure to a lot more Inana people, especially our newer arrivals. It could be something of an ensemble cast. Not everyone would have hardcore scenes every episode, but they'd at least get speaking roles on a regular basis." After more consideration, I said, "The sets would be a pain. We don't have access to the office space we did when we made the movie."<br />
"But with the new sound stages, you'll be able to replicate a cubicle farm much easier. You've got the room, you've got the lighting.... You'll be okay, Campbell and Green haven't let you down yet, right?"<br />
"Fair enough. Okay, I'm gonna run this idea by Angel and Bekka, see what they think. Angel isn't happy with Inana having a mediocre product --- neither am I --- so dumping 'Pulse of Night' with something that should have a built-in draw makes a lot of sense. Talk to you later."<br />
Jane quickly said, "Oh, one last thing. I really miss the taste of your cum in my mouth, so I'm probably going to fly down again this weekend, okay?"<br />
I chuckled into the phone and replied, "No problem, fuck toy. Love you. Later."<br />
"I love you too, master. Bye now."Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10230648449521958270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033784518790200307.post-62266976302559674822017-05-03T04:14:00.001-07:002017-05-03T04:14:27.150-07:00Sisters (Part 4) Jane had a routine down. No matter what classes she had in the morning, she would be at Haas for her undergrad classes every day. Her classes started at 1:30, and she was invariably out of her last morning class at just after noon. She'd hit one of the small restaurants on Oxford Ave. for a bite to eat, get a large coffee, then walk to the business school, where she'd park on the small grassy area just outside the business library. She would sip coffee, smoke Newports, double-check any work she needed for her class that day, then thumb through her reading material. She read Barron's, Fortune, and the Wall Street Journal. The only time she broke this routine was when she would head straight home to meet either Kristen or Nadir for a quick nooner.<br />
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The other Haas business students were adjusting, slowly, to her presence. Her piercings, blue mohawk, and sex bomb fashion sense made her stick out at Haas School of Business; other students dressed like they were vacationing investment bankers. She was the subject of plenty of gossip, due to a couple incidents. Number one was on the first day of her Analytics class, when she explained there was already a job waiting for her after graduation: running a high-end escort service in LA. It was true, Don Vito told Jane the woman currently running the business would be retiring around the same time Jane graduated.<br />
The other was in Business Administration 10. The class had been told to come up with an independent business that would double in size within five years, while not increasing its debt load. Jane turned in a five year plan for opening a brothel in New South Wales, Australia (brothels are legal there). The professor thought she was taking the piss, and called her out on it in front of the class. Jane explained she was very serious, deflating every objection the professor lobbed at her. Both the professor and her fellow class-mates were amazed at how well thought-out her plan was.... And more than a little shocked an eighteen year old punk rock girl would be making serious plans to open a whorehouse in a foreign country. The professor asked if sex permeated all her thinking. Jane answered yes, and is there a problem with that?<br />
So Jane would be settled in her usual spot on the lawn patch, thumbing through the WSJ and smoking a Newport. (She'd figured out the business library had fully private bathrooms: a locking door and no stalls. She could go in one, lock the door, and hit her glass pipe a few dimes on days she wanted a lift. Meth smoke billowed out of the potty's exhaust blower.) Other students would walk by and call a greeting, but not many would actually stop and chat. Topics of discussion Jane felt perfectly comfortable with were the sorts of things other students only felt comfortable with talking about behind closed doors, with close friends.<br />
Now, it turned out there were more than a few guys at UC Berkeley who knew Jane quite intimately. She had made four hardcore loops over the summer for Inana, and they appeared in the studio's series of "Naughty Novices" tapes. Inana's videotapes sold like beer at a football game, if a tape had the words "Inana Productions" on it, the public bought it. So some male students had seen the easily-recognizable Jane sucking and fucking in porn loops. They's spot her and stammeringly ask if she'd ever, uh, you know, made a dirty movie at some point. Or several dirty movies. Jane would smile and respond, "You mean the 'Naughty Novices' videos? Yeah, that's me. And they weren't dirty at all, personal hygiene is job one on a porn set. So, what did you think?"<br />
"Ahh.... Wow. That really was you, huh. Um, I liked it...."<br />
"Thanks! I had a lot of fun making those loops, easy work and good money. I got $3000 for about sixteen hours work, not too bad. Oh, I'm also gonna be a semi-regular in a series of Inana videos called 'Duane and Dolly.' The first tapes are already out, they're great. Good comedic stuff about horny suburban stoners. My first appearance will be on shelves in another two weeks."<br />
"So.... You're still making porn? While you go to school?" she'd be asked.<br />
Jane explained, "Yeah, I fly down to San Diego, where the studio is, on Friday evening, spend Saturday working, then fly back up here Sunday night. I'll do two short fuck scenes plus the dialogue, and we'll wrap around four in the afternoon. Then, off to party with my friends! The fuck scenes are pretty short, so I'm getting $1200 for a full day. Heh, I might be the only UCB undergrad whose bank balance goes up over the course of the school year."<br />
"You really like making porn?"<br />
"Oh yeah! It's fun.... And not 'fun' like how you're thinking, either. I'm a really horny person, but I'm not a nympho. Doing hardcore is really just a very specialized acting skill, at least doing it well. It's fun the way being in an improv group is fun, you know?"<br />
The guy would briefly digest this, then say, "Wow.... Um, I'll see you in class," and walk off.<br />
On this day, she was reading the newest Fortune magazine and feeling amped from the meth she'd smoked ten minutes earlier. Two dudes, jock types, were walking past slowly. One elbowed the other and said in a not-low-enough voice, "See? There she is! Let's go talk to her!"<br />
They approached Jane, who immediately assigned them the names "Biff" and "Tank." They strolled over to her, Biff saying, "Hey, uh, are you a student here?"<br />
"At Haas?" Jane responded. "Yep. My Business Admin 10 class starts in about a half hour. You're also Haas students?"<br />
"Yeah.... Hey, have you ever, uh, worked in show business?"<br />
"More or less. I made a few hardcore porn loops over the summer for Inana Productions, they showed up on a series of tapes called 'Naughty Novices.' And I'm gonna be a semi-regular in a series of episodes of the series 'Duane and Dolly,' my first appearance will be on a tape that'll be out in a couple more weeks. Is that what you meant?"<br />
Tank and Biff chuckled a bit nervously and nodded their heads. Tank said, "So you're a porn star, and you go to Haas?"<br />
"I'm a bit loath to call myself a 'star,'" Jane smirked. "I'll wait until I can't walk down Telegraph Avenue without being asked for autographs before I call myself a star. But hey, it's easy work, it's fun, they pay me well, and it's an excuse to fly home on weekends."<br />
"Would you work for me?" asked Biff. Tank brayed with laughter.<br />
Jane cocked an eyebrow and queried, "You have a studio? What's the name of it? Where do you do your production? Are you knocking out loops, or do you produce any features?"<br />
Biff wasn't expecting this line of questioning, and took a moment to respond. "Um.... Yeah! We have a studio, right here in Berkeley! We're, uh, Epsilon Delta Productions."<br />
Detecting bullshit, Jane rolled her eyes and said, "Uh huh. Is that so. Never heard of you. Who's your distributor?"<br />
"We're just starting out," said Tank. "But we want to start filming right away."<br />
"Where are you doing your production?" Jane repeated.<br />
"Over on Warring Street, near Channing. It's a big house...."<br />
"It's a frat," Jane said flatly. She let a few beats pass, then asked, "So, you're going to make porn in a fraternity house. You're aware you're setting off my bullshit detector, right? Do you have equipment and lights? Who's directing, who's producing? Do you have studs with experience?"<br />
"Oh, I got experience!" crowed Biff.<br />
"Really? I don't recognize you. Tell you what, bring me a copy of your CV in the industry along with a performance proposal. I'll read it, then talk to your director and producer. We'll go from there."<br />
This was not the direction Biff and Tank were expecting the conversation to go in. Some slut with a mohawk was acting like making porn was.... like a normal business. They glanced at each other, then Biff pressed forward. "Oh, uh, I'm directing and producing. You'd be working with the two of us."<br />
With more sarcasm in her voice, Jane replied, "Really, now. Tell me, is your name Paul Thomas? Or Joey Silvera?"<br />
"Huh? Um.... no...."<br />
"Then you won't mind me questioning your ability to produce quality video. Those two, especially Paul Thomas, can handle performance, directing, and producing all at once. They've been in the industry for years, they know what they're doing. Gosh, if I didn't know better, I'd assume you two just want to get into my pants, and thought you'd found an excuse. Am I off my mark?"<br />
Trying to play along, Tank said, "Hey, we're totally serious! We've got a video camera, we're ready to go!"<br />
Jane shook her head slightly with a pitying smile. "All right. So, a two-in-one scene with you two. I don't do anal, so it would be a two-in-one, not a DP scene. What are you paying?"<br />
"A hundred bucks!" Biff announced proudly.<br />
There was a brief pause while Jane stared at Biff. Then she began laughing loudly, and continued for about ten seconds. She stopped, lit a fresh cigarette, and cackled. "One hundred dollars? That's enough to get me to take my boots off for a half hour. You've got to be kidding. Have you been able to find any other girl to work for that money, and how desperate of a situation was she in? Try again, add a zero to that amount and we'll talk. And I'd want to see where we'd be working before I'll sign a contract. Oh! We'll also need to exchange blood test results, too. I'll assume you already have a private lab on contract. You know, since you're producing professional adult video."<br />
"Blood tests?" exclaimed Tank. "What the fuck for?"<br />
"Chlamydia, gonorrhea, herpes, syphilis, HPV, hepatitis A through C, and of course HIV/AIDS. The usual."<br />
"AIDS? What, you think we're faggots?"<br />
The amusement was disappearing from this conversation. Jane responded, "No, I think you're a couple of horny idiots. And you're goddamn right I want blood test results. John Holmes was straight, and he died of AIDS. Or there's Ryan White, who was diagnosed when he was thirteen and a virgin. You exchange fluids with someone, you're at risk, period. Both Ryan White and Elizabeth Glaser contracted from blood transfusions. Glaser passed the disease on to her unborn daughter, who died in 1988. Why the fuck am I explaining this to UC Berkeley students? I thought you had to be smart to get into this school." She purposely blew a plume of smoke up at Biff and said, "Look, this has been amusing, but you're wasting my time. I'm a performer, not a prostitute. Drop the bullshit and aim your dicks somewhere else."<br />
With hostility, Tank said, "You're not a whore? You have sex for money, what else would you be?"<br />
"And you just confirmed my suspicion that neither of you know shit about making hardcore," Jane shot back. "Would you little boys like me to give you the Cliff Notes version of how producing a fuck scene works? I'll warn you now, you may not want to learn, especially if you really enjoy porn. Porn is like hot dogs. If you enjoy either one, never watch them being made. And just for reference, any continued assertions that I'm a whore will guarantee your day really goes to shit, get me?"<br />
"Oh yeah? What are you gonna do?" sneered Biff.<br />
Jane gave him a psychotic look and answered, "Pull out seven of your teeth. And pull out seven of his teeth, too. Not right now, but it would happen in the near future. Wouldn't that suck?"<br />
The two bros understood what Jane meant, the tale of the four frat brothers who'd all had teeth pulled out was still a topic of discussion around Fraternity Row. They glanced at each other, then Tank said, "You're one nutty bitch."<br />
"Please, explain your conclusion," Jane said with tinkling laughter. "I may be something of a bitch, fair enough. It only comes out when I'm annoyed. And why am I nuts? You two tried to pretend you were interested in doing business with me, tried to give me a song and dance about doing some performance work. You only want in my pants, and that'll never happen. I've rather selective of who I fuck, and neither of you meet my criteria. So if I'm a nutty bitch, you two are horny dimwit jocks, and pathological liars. I'm a nutty bitch, you two are moronic creeps. I'd say we're even."<br />
Now Biff and Tank were in uncharted territory. Here was a female, and obviously a freshman, who didn't get upset when insulted. She shot back insults, instead, and put her mind to the task. They had no response, this was outside their lexicon of understanding. To fill the time, Jane attempted a bit of diplomatic distraction by asking, "So, where are you in your studies? Are you both aiming for MBAs?"<br />
"Uh, yeah," Biff answered. "You're a freshman?"<br />
"Yep. Just cutting my teeth. Any plans for after you graduate? What year are you both in?"<br />
Tank was eyeing Jane with genuine curiosity. "We're both juniors. I'm planning on aerospace as a career...."<br />
"I'm going into investment," said Biff. "My dad is a fund manager, so I kinda understand the mutual funds market already. How about you?"<br />
Jane began snickering. "If I tell you, you'll get the wrong idea," she said.<br />
"You're gonna start a porn studio," smirked Tank.<br />
"Nope. I'll be starting off running an escort service in Los Angeles, the job is mine as soon as I graduate. The service is owned by a family friend, and he wants me behind the big desk as soon as I have my MBA. High class place, $1200 for an evening, and that doesn't include special services. But you're getting a very high class woman. She will be able to talk about the stock market, sports cars, the Forty-Niners, and politics. She knows which fork to use, she's dressed to the nines, and she'll be gorgeous. The business office is in Beverley Hills for a reason."<br />
Now they both looked amazed. "Whoa.... Are you serious? $1200 for a night?"<br />
"Uh huh," Jane grinned. "And as I mentioned, special services aren't included in that. Count on another $1200 if you want her next to you when you wake up in the morning."<br />
"So, like, these are high-end prostitutes?" asked Biff.<br />
"When you're spending that amount of money, you're not getting a prostitute. I prefer the word 'courtesan.' And the agency does not condone any such activity on the part of its escorts. If some arrangement is made between the escort and the client, it's their business, not the agency's..... Although the girls provide a fifteen percent 'gratuity' to the agency when these private arrangements happen. It's on the honor system, but the girls are good about putting in their vigorish. The agency takes good care of them, in too many ways. We process credit cards for the girls, when the client wants to, ahem, 'tip' them. And if a client tips a thousand dollars, what business is it of the agency?<br />
"This is not an agency someone would call up just because they're horny. When you have some sort of social event where you want a beautiful, intelligent, well-mannered woman at your side, Patrician Escorts of Beverley Hills has been in business since the mid-Seventies. We've been investigated on several occasions, but no employee or contractor has spend one minute in jail because of the investigations. We run a legitimate business."<br />
The two frat bros stood and slowly nodded, absorbing all this. Biff finally snickered and said, "'Legitimate business,' huh? Isn't that the phrase mobsters use to describe their businesses?"<br />
"And the descriptions are accurate, usually. There may be other things happening at the businesses, but if a member of Cosa Nostra owns, say, a paint store, it's going to be a real paint store, not some empty front. Patrician is a very profitable enterprise, and stays clean.... Mostly. The girls aren't shaken down for that fifteen percent, it's a voluntary contribution, to help with any of a long list of problems one of the girls might run into. Sort of like an insurance fund."<br />
"How do you know all this?" asked Tank. "Are you in the mob?" Both jocks burst into laughter.<br />
"Don't be silly," sane said in an airy manner. "Do I look Italian or Sicilian? No, I can't be part of Cosa Nostra. I'd only be an associate.... But associates can go far. Look at Meyer Lansky."<br />
"Who?" asked Biff.<br />
"Look him up," Jane responded. "He was one of the pioneers in Las Vegas back in the Fifties, I'll put it that way. He was messy, though, and far too violent. But he did help turn Las Vegas into the town it is.... or used to be. Now all the hotels and casinos are corporate-owned, and it's bullshit. The mafia would steal $100, but put fifty of it back into Vegas. The corporations steal $100 and keep it all."<br />
Biff and Tank still felt out of their element. Some weirdo chick with a blue mohawk, who seemed to know a lot about some very unusual things.... The porn industry, the mafia, escort agencies, Las Vegas.... And seemed totally unafraid of them. She seemed a little too smart, and too wise, and too brave to be a freshman. A <i>girl</i> freshman, at that.<br />
A girl stuck her head out the door of the library and said, "Hey Jane! Ten minute warning."<br />
"Thanks, Monica," Jane called back. She started to put away her magazine and cigarettes.<br />
"What was that?" asked Biff.<br />
With a smile, Jane explained, "Ten minutes until 1:30, when my classes start every day. Monica and I have an arrangement, she lets me know when it's time to head to class. That way, if I'm absorbed in reading or something, I'm not late." (Jane left out her end of the bargain: two free hits of Smiley Ecstasy every Friday for Monica.)<br />
As she stood and shouldered her book bag, Jane said to the bros, "Anyway, I'm going to make damn good money running Patrician, enough to start investing. I won't bore you with the details, but I have a plan and a strategy in mind for how I invest, and what in. Can I tell you a secret?"<br />
"What?"<br />
"I plan on making Warren Buffett look like he runs a shoe shine stand. By the time I hit menopause, my goal is to have the economic and political power to play with the industrialized nations of the world like Lego. I'n going to rule the world, for all intents and purposes."<br />
Both bros began to chuckle, but the sound had a nervous tint to it. "You're gonna rule the world, huh?" said Tank.<br />
"The important parts of it, yes," Jane answered. "The United States, Europe, Russia, India, Japan, Korea, much of South America, Australia.... I have no interest in any sort of 'one world government,' but my influence will be unavoidable. No first-world nation is going to make any big decisions without consulting me first. In the United States, I will be the final arbiter for who the Democrats and Republicans nominate for the Presidential elections. The conflict between India and Pakistan will end, because I will tell both countries to cut the shit or suffer the consequences. And when I finally retire, I'll buy the entire fucking Baja peninsula from Mexico as my own semi-personal ranch. I'm not evicting the people already there. They'll just have to adjust to a different government, a benevolent monarchy, ruled by me.<br />
"And when I die, you will be able to hear the collective sigh of relief from around the world. I don't plan or marrying, or having children, and my will is going to have thousands of beneficiaries. My legacy won't continue past me, I'm not Kim Il-Sung, and there won't be a Kim Jong-Il or Kim Jong Un. The world will be free again --- as free as it ever has been, anyway --- and autonomy will return to the nations of the world."<br />
"Why do you want to rule the world?" asked Tank.<br />
In her airy tone, Jane said, "Oh.... You know.... Just for funsies, I guess. I'm not a control freak, really. I just like the idea of being able to manipulate things any way I damn well please, just because I feel like it, or it seems to be a good idea. The nations of the fucking world will play nice, because I"m going to make them. And maybe, when I finally die, they'll realize the peaceful relations I arm-twisted them into is actually pretty nice, and stick with it."<br />
Tank and Biff just stood and stared. Jane stepped onto the concrete, saying "Anyway, first things first. I'm off to class. Toodles." She skipped towards the main building of Haas.<br />
Biff looked at his bro and said, "She's not a nutty bitch. She's a scary bitch. For real."Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10230648449521958270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033784518790200307.post-64171132188732934062017-05-03T04:14:00.000-07:002017-05-03T04:14:00.877-07:00Sisters (Part 5) "Oh, I tell ya, this thing is a hoot," said Gladys Krebsbach from behind the wheel. We were rolling down San Vicente Blvd. towards Fourth St. in Santa Monica. "The man I bought it from had it set for storage. Wheels off, fluids and gasoline drained, tarped, and sitting in his garage." She laughed. "Heck, he was asking so little for it because he'd stored it correctly, but figured anyone interested wouldn't want the bother of getting it running again. I wrote him a check then and there, then Fang and I took a good long look at it, then went to Pep Boys and bought a new battery, oil, Dextron, coolant, and a big gas can. We got everything filled, hooked up the battery, and the darn thing fired up like it had just come off the assembly line! We got the wheels on and rolled out. I tell ya, I think that man was mighty disappointed to see this thing leave his garage under its own power."<br />
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"This thing" was a 1970 Chevelle SS, the LS6 package. A red and white coupe with a massive 454 motor under the hood, cranking out 450 horsepower. Gladys slightly regretted it had the slush-box transmission, but admitted, "Having to work the bear-trap clutch they always put on good cars back then would have raised Ned with my hip." She had owned the Chevelle two weeks now, selling her Lincoln Town Car. Gladys was sixty-eight, another Minnesota transplant, and was just beginning to live her life.</div>
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In fact, Gladys Krebsbach was now Gladys Sims, she'd returned to her maiden name after the divorce from Roy Krebsbach, processed meat king of Minnesota. Gladys was a lesbian, and always had been. She'd had a girlfriend for three years while in college. But after graduation, the two had returned to their respective home towns, leaving Gladys heartbroken. She was from a small town in upstate Minnesota, it was 1957, and she felt the obvious social pressures. Relocating to Saint Paul, Gladys had met Roy Krebsbach, a successful man, a solid citizen. He had proposed, and she accepted. They had two children, Gladys had fallen into her expected role of wife and mother, living in well-to-do comfort and a position of community respect. And Gladys hated herself the entire time, for denying who she truly was. "Over and over, I pretended to enjoy having a penis inside of me, and every time I did, another small piece of my soul died," she had confessed when we first met.<br />
It was a chance encounter. Without going into details, Bekka and I were in Minneapolis to meet Mallory for the first time over a long weekend. On Friday we met Roy Krebsbach in the bar of the hotel we were staying in. It was not a pleasant interaction. On Sunday we were having brunch in the hotel restaurant when Gladys spotted "Becky Page" and came over to shake hands Mallory and Jill were also present. In her friendly Midwest way, Gladys dropped hints about her orientation, then finally came out and told us who she was, and what her life had been like. She meant it as a warning to Mallory and Jill: get out of Minnesota, get out of the entire Midwest. Gladys' story was heartbreaking: she had denied to the world who she was her entire life. Her husband Roy drifted deeper and deeper into alcoholism over the years. She went to PTA meetings and volunteered at church and made tuna hotdish for dinner every Wednesday, and hated herself for her cowardice.<br />
Her children were her saving grace. They were the source of love in her life, what kept her from descending into addiction or suicide. Now, obviously, the children --- a boy and a girl --- were now married and raising their own kids. Roy had done everything but install an IV line into his stomach, to pump in bourbon at a constant rate. When she met the four of us, we all provided contact information. Jill and Mallory were the ones who stayed in touch with her, especially after moving to Venice Beach. Gladys came out to visit (without Roy), and during her stay, made the big decision: out herself, get a divorce, and move to LA, just like Mallory and Jill had. She may have been a bit past the age for wild romance, but she wasn't too old to finally establish her own identity.<br />
Her divorce proceeding only took one month. Settling alimony took over a year. Gladys knew how much Roy Krebsbach was worth, both as an individual, and as the CEO and part owner of Krebsbach Processed Meats (est. 1922). She didn't want to screw Roy, but she also felt that the decades of loyalty and support she'd provided him was worth something. Roy, on the other hand, knew Gladys did have some money of her own, in the forms of inheritance and a trust. His first "bid" for monthly alimony payments was.... $100. A month. Things didn't get any easier from there.<br />
Finally, after months of living in a furnished apartment she loathed, Gladys was able to leave Minnesota. She contacted a property management company we'd recommended and located a place to live, a three bedroom house on the north side of Santa Monica, bordering Pacific Palisades. She wanted the room for when her children and their families came to visit, plus a garage to hold a couple cars. Gladys drove her Lincoln Town Car from Saint Paul to Los Angeles almost totally unfettered. She had two suitcases and a milk crate full of stuff. That was it. Her life in California would be completely new, even down to clothes.<br />
Inspired by the gym bunny sense of style Jill had, Gladys dropped her dowdy plain dresses, sensible shoes, and pearls in favor of either biker shorts or sweat pants, t-shirts, running shoes or Doc Martens, and a heavy silver chain around her neck. She began collecting a few piercings, too. I won't lie: the first time I saw Gladys in biker shorts, I thought, "Daaang.... I hope and pray Bekka looks even half that good at sixty-eight." Gladys had a butt that thirty year old women would be jealous of, the result of day-long walks, nearly every day for years.<br />
In Saint Paul, the news of her outing came as a surprise to all, and reactions were varied. Gladys' son and daughter were surprisingly cool about it. Her son's feeling was that if Mama was finally admitting to being a lesbian, good for her. She had still been a wonderful parent, and he loved her as he always had. Gladys' daughter went one step further, saying she'd sort of suspected about Mama since the daughter had been in high school. Nothing she could place a finger on, just.... a feeling....<br />
The congregation at her Lutheran church was astounded, and not a little appalled. The Lutherans might be the original Protestants, but they still have the "God hates us all" attitude of the Catholics. What had happened to Gladys that prompted her to make this announcement? Mental illness? A sudden desire to be offensive to Our Lord? A Satanic spell put on her while in California? (This last one had a surprisingly strong bit of traction.) All everyone knew was that dear Gladys Krebsbach, devoted church-goer and volunteer, had declared she was a sexual deviant, and always had been. She'd never acted on it, but she said that was how she'd always felt.<br />
Plenty of people from the church, folks she'd known for decades, came to talk to her. Many of them made the mistake of talking to her like she was a stubborn teenager, essentially saying, "Get that stupid idea out of your head." Gladys would laugh at them, then say (with some fire in her voice) that this wasn't a whim. This was not a passing fancy. She was not nuts. So please, be a dear and shut your fucking mouth, okay? Real good, then. Others asked if something was "wrong" with her relationship with Roy. "Oh heck, Roy is the same booze-hound he's always been. If you're hinting at us having trouble in the sack, well, things are actually a bit better these days. Roy drinks so fucking much these days his dough doesn't rise any more, do ya catch me? Fine with me. I have never been sexually attracted to men. Every time Roy and I fooled around, I was faking it. I was pretending to be the good wife I'd always been told I should be. Well, you know what? To heck with it. I can't lie to myself for one more day, and I won't lie to others. If I don't start to have a life of my own, one of my own making, I never will."<br />
<i>But, you know the church's position on homosexuality. What you're saying you're interested in is an affront against God, and....</i><br />
"Oh, please, do shut the fuck up. Look, I gotta tell ya something: I'm just as God made me. He made me so that I was attracted to women, not men. And here I am, denying God's own design for the past four and a half decades! Okay, I know what you want to say next, that I'll have to answer to God when I pass on. You know what? My suspicion is God will be happy I've finally stopped hiding who I am from the world. I believe God would be angry with me if I went to my grave still living a lie."<br />
<i>What about your family?</i><br />
"The kids are fine with me. The grand-kids are fine with me. My parents and aunts and uncles are all dead. I was an only child. That only leaves Roy, and I ran out of patience with Roy a long time ago. He's been having an affair with a man named Jim Beam for years now, they sleep together every night."<br />
<i>What!?</i><br />
"Oh, never mind."<br />
<br />
Gladys cut over to Wilshire Blvd. and turned east. This stretch of Wilshire is wide, two lanes in each direction, but not heavily traveled through this stretch. Through traffic used either Santa Monica Blvd. or Interstate 10. At a stoplight, Gladys checked the cross street for Johnny Law, then did a brake stand: she rested her left foot on the brake, hard enough to engage the front brakes but not the rear. Then she hit the gas with her right foot, doing a massive burnout. It was an old street racing trick to get the rear tires hot and sticky, better for launching off the line.<br />
Our light turned green, and Gladys laid into the throttle. The Chevelle shot forward, the engine winding out. All that horsepower was being put to good use, I was guessing the 0-60 time was under six seconds. We were absolutely flying up the boulevard. A half-block ahead, the stoplight went from green to yellow. Gladys flat-footed the accelerator, and the Chevelle shot forward with a roar. We were through the intersection before the light turned red, moving about 85 mph.<br />
This hot-rodding was not new for Gladys. She had been born with a lead foot. For the duration of her marriage, Roy had bought her a new car every other year, anything she wanted.... supposedly. Roy would veto her choices if he didn't like them, preventing her from ever owning a Mercedes, a Volvo, or an Alfa Romeo. Gladys learned how to game Roy, though. She wanted serious muscle in anything she drove, especially when the Muscle Car era kicked in around 1965. She would know what kind of car she wanted --- say, a Dodge Charger --- and knew Roy would refuse to purchase such a hot rod for his wife. So, she'd do some research and find another car in the maker's line-up with similar specs. In the case of the '68 Charger Gladys wanted, the Plymouth Satellite was available with the same choices of motors and transmissions, only the Satellite was more subdued-looking.<br />
So, in 1968 Gladys went to the local Chrysler (Mopar) dealer, where she showed great enthusiasm for the Dodge Charger. Oh, heck no, Roy would protest. No woman should be driving anything that fast, and think about how much gasoline it'll burn through. Keep looking, wife. Gladys would then wander over to a Satellite with a base 273 V8 and express mild interest. Far more sedate in appearance, Roy would give his okay. They'd go into the showroom and start debating about what features Gladys wanted. She'd tell Roy she wanted to "sleep on it," she'd return to the dealership in the <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY2nQ6YQefRlY8wXapFSsQLzuVplIX16FwgrEfXM4d34SX4Pq-lnf-XKexcC_YXe2VNfAEsqxJe025PuLOzZ1QUj_BwR2TUgpXJFPSK44Y2-HY3CvW3jR0darl7FmZCkZ-864qsN6KGpB-/s1600/plymouth_satellite_1968_pictures_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY2nQ6YQefRlY8wXapFSsQLzuVplIX16FwgrEfXM4d34SX4Pq-lnf-XKexcC_YXe2VNfAEsqxJe025PuLOzZ1QUj_BwR2TUgpXJFPSK44Y2-HY3CvW3jR0darl7FmZCkZ-864qsN6KGpB-/s320/plymouth_satellite_1968_pictures_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1968 Plymouth Satellite, four door.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
morning while the kids were at school to mark off her optional equipment. Roy would always insist she forgo air conditioning, due to the expense, "and it just murders your mileage." The next morning, Gladys would specify how she wanted her new Satellite to be: four speed manual transmission, the big-ass 425 V8, four doors (she still had to carry the kids, after all).... And air conditioning, dammit. On the rare occasions Roy was a passenger in her car, she'd just not use the AC. What Roy didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Her new Satellite would arrive two weeks later, and Roy simply assumed it was the same sedate model they'd taken for a test drive. She'd done this with every car Roy bought her, although on a few she'd have some aftermarket additions put on, like a four-barrel carb and a Thrush exhaust system. Roy never noticed, and Gladys would have a hot rod.<br />
<br />
We rolled on Wilshire until it crossed Santa Monica Blvd, where we turned left and headed for a place simply named "Girl Bar." I would be getting the stink-eye while I was there, as I was both a testosterone carrier and very hetero in appearance. Being accompanied by Becky Page and "Auntie Gladys" would be a mitigating factor. Girl Bar was a lesbian bar in West Hollywood. It had been opened in 1990 by Robin and Sandy, two expatriate New Yorkers who saw the need for a dyke-only club in LA. It had been a hit almost from day one. Gladys was there about four days a week, arriving in the early evening, while it was still uncrowded and fairly quiet. That was fine with her, she wanted conversation, not cruising. She would stay for a few hours, alternating between soda and glasses of burgundy. She would take her leave once the place started to really fill up, it was just too chaotic of a scene for her, especially on weekend nights.<br />
We went in and sat at Gladys' "usual" table, in an alcove near one end of the bar. The table afforded a good view of the bar and the dance floor. The bar was very long, Gladys told us they would have four bartenders working on busy nights. It was only about 6:30 on a Friday. The DJ wouldn't be there until nine, and the cage dancers were also absent. Maybe fifteen women were occupying space at the bar, in groups. Dice cups banged on the bar. As we walked past the bar, several girls called, "Heya, Auntie!" at Gladys, then gave Bekka and I looks of confusion.<br />
We sat, and a waitress drifted up. She gave Gladys a squeeze on a shoulder and a cheek kiss, saying, "Glass of burgundy to start off, Gladys?" Then her eyes focused on me, and they weren't amused. She pointedly said, "Good evening, sir. You are aware this is a predominantly lesbian venue?"<br />
I wasn't in the mood to be patronized. With an expression of cartoonish shock, I said sarcastically, "Really! Do tell! Golly, I never would have guessed such a thing existed, especially in West Hollywood. Did you need to get special permits from the city to open?" The waitress's eyes narrowed. I dropped the sarcasm and said, "The fact that I'm here with my friend Gladys --- this young lady here, wearing the Lambda Defense Foundation t-shirt, --- was a bit of a tip-off. So was the name, the decor, and the Ani DiFranco album playing. Any chance you've got the latest Chromewagon release sitting around? I'm in the mood for some rock and roll."<br />
The waitress said in a cold voice, "Sometimes men come here, and have.... inaccurate and nonconstructive ideas ideas about our clientele."<br />
I shrugged and said, "Yeah, well, one of the hallmarks of our species is the ability to be willfully ignorant. Fuck 'em."<br />
Her own voice dripping with freezer frost, Bekka said, "Tell me, honey, will an openly bisexual woman get belittled here? Or does your clientele have more class than that?"<br />
The waitress seemed to have not realized that Becky Page was sitting next to me. She literally jolted and said, "Oh, no, that's fine, Ms. Page, you are welcome here. No one will judge you based on your orientation, queer, straight, or bi, everyone is welcome at Girl Bar."<br />
The frost still in her voice, Bekka continued, "Really? You seemed to be a bit judgmental with my husband."<br />
Now the waitress looked at me with a smile that betrayed surprise and embarrassment. She asked, "You're Leonard Schneider?"<br />
"Someone had to be, and I drew the short straw," I replied.<br />
"Oh! Um, I apologize, I didn't mean to, uh.... I wasn't trying to be hostile, uh...."<br />
I gave a genuine smile and said, "No worries. Here...." I handed her my bank card. "A burgundy for Gladys, a bottle of Tecate for my wife, and I'd like a double Johnnie Walker over ice. Hold on to the card, we'll let you know when we're ready to cash out."<br />
"So, you two are friends with Gladys?" asked the waitress.<br />
In her Minnesota drawl, Gladys chuckled and said, "Oh, heck. If it weren't for these two, I'd still be in the closet, and living in Saint Paul. Lenny and Bekka are a hoot, don't cha know." She went on to briefly encapsulate how we'd met, our mutual friends Mallory, Jill, Erica, and Fang, and her hope of somehow meeting and networking with other elderly lesbians. "I love coming here, I love the camaraderie, but.... Oh honey, I'll warn ya now, menopause can be the dickens. It's called 'the change' for a lot of reasons, you bettcha. There's things I'd like to talk about with another queer woman my age, they'd understand what I was saying better.... It's also a generational thing,, too. How old are you, dear?"<br />
"I turn twenty-four in January," answered the waitress.<br />
Gladys gave her a sad smile and said, "Okay then. See, you and I sat and talked about anything we wanted, you'd probably write me off as a rambling old biddie. I first voted in 1952, I pulled the handle for Adlai Stevenson. That election started Eisenhower's first term. It was a very different world back then, the South had the Jim Crow laws, everyone was worried about Communists infiltrating the government.... Homosexuality was considered a mental illness.... I'd talk about things I went through back then with you, but a young woman wouldn't understand what life was like back then."<br />
The waitress didn't verbally respond, she stood frowning and slowly nodding her head, her eyes fixed on the middle distance. She suddenly seemed to snap back into reality and said, "I'll be right back, let me get your drinks." She strode off, frown of concentration still in place.<br />
The frown was gone when she returned. She smiled at Gladys and said, "If I arranged you to meet two women your age, both lesbians, would you be cool with that? They don't know each other, I don't believe. But I'll bet the three of you would hit it off. One is sixty-seven, the other is seventy. I met them when I was doing some volunteer work for Equality California downtown. I thought it was really cool that dykes that age were not only out, but politically active."<br />
"I would love to meet them," Gladys beamed. "What do you know about them?"<br />
"I believe they were both in the same boat as you, they were married and hated it. I got the impression they both left their husbands when they were younger than you, though, like in their forties. Um, they'er political progressives --- big surprise --- one lives in Culver City, the other is right here in West Hollywood. Um, what I can do is call them both and ask if they'd like to come here tomorrow afternoon, so they can meet someone. I'll tell them a bit about you.... You're not a Republican, right?"<br />
"Oh, goodness no!" Gladys laughed.<br />
"Would that be cool? Meet them here at, like, four tomorrow?"<br />
Gladys looked at me and Bekka. I responded, "Go for it. We'll go and watch Jill lift at Muscle Beach with Mallory."<br />
"Maybe all of us can meet for dinner around seven," said Bekka. "We could go to 5110 for lasagna, some Italian soul food."<br />
Gladys gave the waitress her okay. The waitress practically danced away to the bar, so she could use the phone. We settled into general conversation for a while. After fifteen minutes, the waitress returned and announced the two women, Denise and Abby, would be at Girl Bar come four o'clock. Bekka said to her with a grin, "You enjoy being a matchmaker, don't you?"<br />
She actually turned a bit pink and replied, "Yeah.... I know enough people that I can always find a good match for someone.... But I'm not trying to help Auntie hook up with someone right now. If that does happen, hey, great. But she said she wanted to make some dyke friends her age, so I'm doing what I can."<br />
"And it's lovely of you, dear," Gladys said warmly. "I don't know how to repay you."<br />
"Don't be a stranger. I always feel better when I walk in and see you sitting here. You give me hope, you know? I see you and think, Auntie Gladys has had to deal with a lot of shit in her life. But now she's out, she's happy, she's here, she's doing okay."<br />
Gladys tried to look exasperated as she said, "Oh, go on with ya. I spent forty-five years lying to the world, pretending I was a good suburban housewife. I was a coward."<br />
"Oh, please! It was the Fifties, and you were in one of the rectangle states! Of course you were closeted. That's not cowardice, that's fucking survival, you know? Don't talk shit about yourself, Auntie. You always knew who you were, deep down. You didn't try to lie to yourself by saying it's just a phase, or God will hate you, or whatever. You survived, you escaped, and now you're partying in LA all the time. Now, are you all ready for a fresh round?"<br />
We sat and talked, slowly consuming our drinks. After about an hour, I went across the street to a taqueria and got us some dinner, which we ate at our table. The club was slowly but steadily filling up, almost all the tables around us were occupied. Over the sound system, the music changed from pop to dance floor fodder, and was cranked up a bit higher. And it seemed like every girl in the place came over to say hi to "Auntie Gladys."<br />
Gladys seemed to be aware that I'd be treated with muted hostility if my presence wasn't explained, so she would immediately tell new arrivals that these were her dear friends, Bekka and Lenny, people who were very important in her life these days. "If it weren't for these two, I'd still be back in Saint Paul living a lie," she'd state. "They're the ones who first got me down the path out of the closet."<br />
The presence of Becky Page brought universal joy to the club. Everyone seemed to be a fan. Of course they all thought Becky Page was totally hot and edible, but she also was viewed as a sexual liberator. Becky Page was open about her bisexuality (which nobody seemed to mind) and was also a proponent of polyamory. Becky Page encouraged open and honest discourse about sexuality, espousing the idea that sex should be part of ordinary discourse, in public. Humans were driven by sex, we should be able to talk about it with anyone, in a casual way: hi, my name is Bob, I can't wait until I'm with my significant other this evening because I'm feeling horny as shit. Jerked off at work twice today, and I'm still going crazy, you know? (So when you jerk off at work, do you go in the bathroom or just do it at your desk, keeping subtle? I do it at my desk, hey, so long as I'm not disturbing others, what's the difference?)<br />
About half the girls recognized me without an introduction, thanks to different appearances in the glossy magazines. I wasn't a big fan of what had been written about me. In every article, the tenor seemed to be, "Can you believe THIS is the guy who revolutionized the way the world thinks about hardcore pornography, and movies in general? Look at him!" Lenny Schneider was a street thug who seemed to have a savant-like gift for writing and producing movies with huge amounts of hardcore sex in them, Schneider is the creator of the "smart porn" genre, he's the husband of Becky Page, he rose up from nothing.... And we suspect he might be rabid, or at least still feral.<br />
The vast majority of girls were totally copacetic with my presence. It was mostly just an association thing: if Auntie Gladys says I'm okay, I must be okay. And wow, I'm married to Becky Page but have no problem with polyamory, with Becky having a female lover. Did I have any male lovers? "Nope." Why not? "I know from personal experience it's just not me. I've had a couple dicks in my mouth when I was younger, and the physical aspect was nice enough, but.... I felt no real connection to the guys I got together with. It was me and a couple different friends fooling around with each other. Sure, we were bi-curious, but mostly we were just horny as shit, and it was nice having someone you could call up and tell, 'I'm ready to blow a gasket, would you blow me?' And the other person would say sure, come on over in about a half hour. It was release, not romance."<br />
"How old were you?" asked several girls.<br />
"Nineteen, twenty. The perfect age for sexual pragmatism if you're a guy."<br />
One girl, a couple years younger than me, sat down with us and asked, "If you hadn't had your friends back then, would you have hired a prostitute?"<br />
I started laughing. "No. No, I wouldn't."<br />
She seemed confused, and even a bit annoyed. "Why not?"<br />
"Just.... my own personal feelings," I shrugged. "Paying money for sexual interaction has always felt a little weird to me. Sexual activity feels like it's being reduced to a humdrum, meaningless function, like getting your hair cut. I'm hardly a prude, I don't think there has to be some sort of massive emotional bond between two people for them to fool around, but.... I want to know someone's name, you know? I want to have had a couple minutes of regular conversation with them, just enough so that the person.... is a person, not an object."<br />
After a moment or eyeing me suspiciously, the girl said, "So, a double standard for you, then."<br />
I gave her the same look back and replied, "You wanna unpack that for me?"<br />
"Look at what you do for a living. It's really precious you like the women you fuck to be people, but when it comes to your career, you could care less. You objectify and exploit women to make money."<br />
I was beginning to get mad. "Is that so?" I asked the girl sitting across from me.<br />
With a sneer, the girl said, "Yeah. Basically, you're a pimp."<br />
Bekka tapped the girl on the shoulder. When the girl swiveled her direction, Bekka said, "Look at my thumb," holding her left thumb out at eye level to one side. When the girl did, Bekka punched her in the face hard enough to make the girl's chair rock backwards. Bekka turned back towards the table, shaking her right hand and commenting, "Dizzy bitch."<br />
The girl keened and shrieked loud enough to attract the attention of others, including a large woman with a flat top and a black t-shirt which read "SECURITY." across the front and back. She looked a bit confused as she stopped at the table saying, "Hiya, Auntie G. Um, is there a problem here?"<br />
"She hit me!"the girl cried, gesturing at Bekka.<br />
The realization that "she" was Becky Page sank in with the bouncer. Bekka was calmly sitting, puffing a cigarette and holding her beer. The bouncer said, "Is this true, uh, Ms. Page?"<br />
"It is," Bekka calmly confirmed. "She insulted my husband, and in a way that is particularly egregious to the both of us. The little darling here should be glad she's not male, Lenny would still be working away if she was."<br />
"What did she say?"<br />
"She called him a pimp. Maybe she doesn't mind throwing around the word, but in the adult entertainment industry, it's a lot like using the word "nigger" in Compton, or insinuating all queers are child molesters. Understand? It's not merely insulting, it's offensive and a challenge to my husband's honor. No one questions my husband's honor."<br />
The bouncer considered the girl (who had stopped sniveling), then me, and finally looked at Gladys, asking, "Auntie G., what happened?"<br />
With her warm Minnesota voice, Gladys replied, "This girl here stopped to say hello, and the course of conversation somehow turned to Lenny's sexual history. When Lenny said he had never hired a.... lady of the evening, she told him he was a hypocrite, given his career. Are you familiar with who Lenny Schneider is?"<br />
After frowning at me briefly, the bouncer's eyebrows went up in recognition. "Yes, he runs Inana Productions."<br />
"You betcha. Well, gosh, she seems to have a low view of Lenny's career, and believes Lenny abuses and degrades the girls he hires. That's silly, I tell ya, Lenny is salt of the earth. She called Lenny, uh, a very mean word, and Bekka hit her."<br />
Looking at me, the bouncer said, "What did she call you, sir?"<br />
"She called me a pimp," I answered. "And Bekka is somewhat mistaken. If a man had said that to me, I'd have pulled him outside first, then hit him. More room to work, and you don't bug the other customers."<br />
"I know all about how women are treated in porn!" the girl stated loudly. "You exploit women, you're no better than some sleazy street pimp!"<br />
The bouncer immediately moved to get between Bekka and the girl. Bekka didn't pivot, but looked at her and said, "I.... am going to correct you. I doubt you would pay any attention to Lenny, if he responded, but you will listen to me....."<br />
"Ms. Page...." the bouncer said in a warning tone.<br />
"I'm not going to throw any insults back, I'm simply going to point out where she is wrong, and why I feel insulted too. First, by calling Lenny a pimp, the implication is that I'm a whore. I'm a performer, not a prostitute. Next, Inana has had some of the same performers for years now. If they were being abused, would they stick around?" The girl started to open her mouth, and Bekka said, "And any conspiracy theories about white slavery, drugs, or mind control are baseless, don't waste your breath.<br />
"You don't have to look too hard to find a studio that treats performers poorly, fair enough. But Inana treats everyone with respect and dignity, by design. We ask a lot of our performers, that's why Inana came to be so well known. Inana Girls are fantastic actresses and performers, do you really think they'd be if they were being abused? Have you ever seen one of our films?"<br />
With a pouty voice, the girl said, "Yes.... Both 'Bewitched' movies. And 'Succubus.'... But I only watched them for the girl-on-girl scenes."<br />
"Okay, then you've seen the quality of performance we get...."<br />
"Yeah, with women working together! I'll bet they have to be bullied into doing those straight scenes!"<br />
Gladys looked amazed. She said, "Why the heck would you think that?"<br />
The girl exclaimed, "All hetero intercourse is rape, just like Andrea Dworkin says!"<br />
The rest of us, including the bouncer, groaned at this. I rubbed my face with my hand and said, "Oh, honey. You're gonna make me do something that really hurts, which is defend Andrea Dworkin. That line is bullshit, Andrea Dworkin never said it. Neither did Catharine MacKinnon, or Robin Morgan, or Kathleen Berry. Believe me, I've got plenty of issues with the radical feminists, but I won't misquote them." I sighed and said, "I'm gonna guess you picked up your views of porn from MacKinnon and Dworkin, right? I would love to have them visit the Inana studios and meet our performers, and watch us work. That would blow a lot of their hypotheses out of the water.<br />
"So far as how porn affects society, well.... Shit. I hear the same things from the religious right. And besides, if Inana's movies are so exploitative, why do Women's Studies groups keep watching the damn things? Why has Bekka done three keynote speeches on college campuses in the last year?"<br />
The girl swung her head at Bekka. "Are you serious? What were you talking about? What schools?"<br />
"San Diego State, UC San Diego, and UCLA," Bekka answered. "At all three schools, the Women's Studies programs asked me to speak, and I covered a wide-ranging variety of topics. Everything from performance to Inana's scripts, to how production works, to my marriage, and my sex life in general. I tried to dispel as many myths as possible."<br />
The bouncer cut in and said, "Look, are you two going to to after each other again? Tell you what, why don't you...." she indicated the girl. "... come sit at the bar for a while."<br />
Gladys averred, "It's getting late, up towards my bedtime, so we'll be taking off. We didn't mean to cause a fuss."<br />
Addressing the girl, Bekka said, "Really honey.... Insulting someone's significant other, no matter who they are, can be unhealthy. Tell you what. I know for a fact that the Women's Studies program at UCLA videotaped my speech, and my Q&A session. Go see if they'll let you watch it. I don't claim to represent the whole industry, but you'll understand Inana Productions better."<br />
I added, "Something else to keep in mind? Right now, we have a writing staff of three. Me, Mallory Ollafsen, and Erica Larsen. Um, and as a tiny bit of trivia, both Mallory and Erica are full-bore dykes. There is no questioning what side of the fence they're on."<br />
Bekka got a bright look on her face. Looking over my shoulder, she said, "Speaking of...."<br />
Looking behind me, I saw Mallory and Jill approaching. Bekka, Gladys, and myself stood to disperse hugs. The girl took in this scene in amazement and confusion.... And then added some worry while looking at Jill. We briefed Mallory and Jill on what was new (leaving out the recent assault), telling them we'd be eating at Angel's trattoria the next night, if that was all right. Gladys would hopefully have a couple new friends with her.<br />
Mallory and Jill noticed the girl sitting there, and their smiles faded some. Jill said, "Are you friends with this chick?"<br />
"We just met a little while ago," I answered. "We've.... had a bit of conflict."<br />
The bouncer stepped up to Jill, our six foot four body "sculptor," to say hello. Jill was the world's only Minnesota Amazon. She was a bodybuilder in theory, she was well-muscled, but didn't have the massive bulk a lot of lifters develop. Her body was still feminine. The bouncer's heft was still sort of a work-in-progress. She explained to Jill that a minor fracas was being diffused between Bekka and the girl. "You know her?" asked the bouncer.<br />
"Yes...." Jill responded with frost in her voice. "After seven or eight drinks, she has some trouble with personal boundaries. Also with determining when there's an attachment between two people."<br />
Mallory added, "I'm very flattered the little darling thinks Jill is hot, but she expresses her attraction a bit too directly on the dance floor.... and does not react well to being rebuffed."<br />
Bekka chirped, "Well! It would seem being presumptuous is a rather involving hobby for her." She went on to encapsulate the conflict which had taken place, then said, "Perhaps you two could briefly sit with her and explain a bit about Inana Productions, and Lenny. She is under a lot of inaccurate conclusions about both."<br />
"I'll buy you a pitcher of Miller, to chat over," I offered.<br />
Mallory and Jill glanced at each other, then Mallory said, "That would be lovely, Lenny." They sat down across from the girl, who looked like she had just been shoved in a lion's cage. We said our goodbyes and stepped over to the bar to pay off the tab and have the beer sent over.<br />
The waitress processed my card and handed me the slip to sign. While I did, she asked, "Do you three know that babe you were sitting with?"<br />
Gladys responded, "I've said hello to her, but have never spoken with her before tonight. She was.... a bit of a handful, don'tcha know."<br />
"I believe it," said the waitress with an eye-roll and a smirk. "When she's sober, she likes to get on the soapbox and preach about 'patriarchy' and 'rape culture,' total early Seventies feminist invective. Then after an hour or so of solid drinking, she's got her hand on every ass on the dance floor, like a horny teenage boy."<br />
"Boy howdy," observed Bekka.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10230648449521958270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033784518790200307.post-8508228510359543882017-05-03T04:13:00.002-07:002017-05-03T04:13:43.572-07:00Sisters (Part 6) We were in Santa Monica again. This time, we were at a union hall waiting for music to start. There was a punk rock show happening that night, three bands. The Dwarves headlining, BadTown Boys second, and Gash opening. This would be their first show in front of an audience, quite a feat to pull off. They'd passed out a ton of demo tapes, and one fell into the right hands.<br />
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Fang had wanted a foot pedal for the Roland TR-606 drum machine Gash used in lieu of a human drummer, allowing her to pause in the middle of a sequence, and jump from one sequence to another without having to walk to the machine itself. The shop where they'd bought the pedal was an indie place, whose manager was a serious music fan. He was the one promoting this show. After having met the girls and hearing the demo, he called Fang and offered her the gig, a thirty-five minute set. In fact, he'd knocked off his own band from the opening spot to put Gash on instead. "What the hell, we're playing the Whiskey the next Friday anyway," he explained.<br />
Feather, Fang, and Glee were at first a bit alarmed at how obliging Dale the manager was. He may have sensed their alarm and explained he was the guitarist for a band called Queensland, a queer-core band similar to Pansy Division, only with a harder sound. Dale felt the dyke-rock bands had a better sound, he loved Tribe 8 and Chromewagon, and pushed his band to develop a harder edge. He assured the three girls, "Even if I wasn't a fag, I still have more class than to chase after anything ten or fifteen years younger than me. You're probably gonna have to put up with a lot of lechery in the lifetime of your band, but don't worry about it coming from me or my friends."<br />
The show would be documented on videotape. Rich and Sally agreed to man a couple stationary cameras, while Calm Steve used a portable rig. We'd found a video camera that was as compact as a consumer system, but had the quality we wanted. I'd spoken with Dale, who agreed to allow us to record the show and even get a four-track recording off the sound board, with one stipulation: all three bands be taped, and also provided with copies of the finished product at no charge. Fine with us. It would be a side project for Bekka, who was focusing more heavily on editing. We told Dale we'd have a complete tape available in about a month following the show.<br />
At Feather's request, flyers and other promo did not mention that Inana Girl Feather was a member of Gash. She wanted the music to stand on its own. If she was recognized, that couldn't be helped, but she didn't want people to think this was some sort of glamour project of hers. Gash's sound was far too abrasive for mainstream popularity, and the three just wanted to have fun. How far the band got was totally up in the air. With Glee only being fifteen and a sophomore in high school, their options for playing live outside California on weekends were limited. All three managed to keep the stars out of their eyes.<br />
The show started at 8:30. Gash and the Inana people arrived around six, to set up cameras and get a good feel for the space. The hall had a maximum occupancy of 460, a decent sized room for a punk rock show. Dale had put on shows here before, and advised us where good locations for the stationary cameras would be. He assured us his sound man was talented, and had recorded live remotes in the past.<br />
The Dwarves and the BadTown Boys both arrived within five minutes of us. All three bands wanted to get their sound checks over with, so a bit of pre-show partying could take place. Each band sort of staked out an area backstage to leave equipment. The Bad Town Boys had two guitars and a sizable drum kit, so they had the most room. Gash walked in with their own equipment: bass and guitar slung over shoulders, Glee carrying the Roland and the half-stack it played through. I was hefting Fang's Marshall amp, Erica and Bekka were carrying Feather's. We were eyed by the respective bands as we entered: three teenage punk rock girls, two older punks (Erica and I), and --- what the hell? --- Becky Page. I ran back outside and grabbed the two small amps for the drum machine: it emulated a stereo sound, and needed both speakers to not sound "flat."<br />
Erica was wearing her DYKE jacket, Bekka was her usual slutty goth garb, I looked the same as I always did (boots, black Ben Davis, t-shirt, and my studded-and-abused denim jacket). Feather and Fang looked pretty casual --- jeans, Doc Martens, and t-shirts --- while Glee was very much in theater mode. All three girls had gone to town on their makeup, but Glee was wearing a boy's dress shirt with no bra, Chuck Taylors, and a pair of those tiny Speedo shorts women's beach volleyball players wear. She also had the cable from a computer printer tied around her neck like a noose, and her hair was at its most chaotic. It looked like it had been cut with a weed whacker, dyed bright red, and spiked . Her makeup was so heavy she looked like a raccoon.<br />
We set everything down and said a collective hello to the members of the other bands. They were easy to tell apart. The BadTown Boys were very clean-cut, in matching leather jackets and short hair. Good looking lads, obvious products of the Los Angeles area. The Dwarves were hairier and more anarchic. Each band was familiar with the other, but had never met before. Conversation was casual but a bit guarded. The arrival of the opening act gave a bit of common ground: total unknowns, three teenage girls, and for some reason Becky Page is with them. Not to mention the goon in the denim and the Queer Nation escapee.<br />
"You still need to unload your drums?" asked one of the BadTown Boys, who I'd later know as Greg. He and brother Chris were the founders of the band.<br />
"Already covered," said Feather, holding up the drum machine. "We hired Big Black's old drummer, his name is Roland."<br />
"Oh Jesus, a Drumatrix!" exclaimed Vadge, the drummer for the Dwarves.<br />
Blag Dahlia, the Dwarves' singer, heckled, "So are you playing old Devo covers?"<br />
Fang, five foot six of skinny punk rock lesbian attitude at sixteen, said, "No. We do a couple early Black Flag covers, 'Big Dick' by NoMeansNo, and one S.O.D. cover, even though S.O.D. are fuckin' assholes. You're Blag, right? We also cover the song 'Let's Fuck,' but since you're on the bill tonight, we're leaving it out of our set. So are you boys gonna bust out with some Isley Brothers tunes, or just your standard one-two-fuck-you hardcore?"<br />
Both bands burst into laughter, the BadTown Boys louder than the Dwarves. HeWhoCannotBeNamed, the Dwarves' guitarist, responded, "Naw, we're just gonna play one long medley of Al Green songs. We still need to get dressed in our shiny suits."<br />
"So where are you guys from?" asked Tim from the BadTown Boys.<br />
"Right here in Santa Monica, more or less," replied Feather. "I'm Feather, guitar, this is Fang, bass, and this is my little sister Glee, our vocalist. Me and Glee are from San Diego, but we come up here to practice every weekend....."<br />
Salt Peter, the Dwarves' bassist, exclaimed, "Hey, I thought I recognized you. You're Feather, you're the porn star. So I guess you've kept playing guitar after making '180 Strokes Per Minute,' huh? And you even brought your girlfriend with you! Hello, Ms. Page!"<br />
Bekka gave her royalty smile and said, "Ms. Page is here with her husband, Lenny. Feather, Fang, and Glee are friends or ours, so we wanted to see their first live gig. This is Lenny, the man of my dreams, and this is Fang's girlfriend Erica. Who are all of you gentlemen? I'll try to keep the names straight."<br />
The band members all introduced themselves individually. When they finished, Blag asked, "How the hell old are you three? You look like kids."<br />
Fang replied, "Feather is nineteen. I'm sixteen, and Glee is fifteen. That's our chronological age, anyway. For better or worse, all three of us have some fucking mileage. Our home lives were total shit, you know? All three of us escaped as soon as we could."<br />
Catching Fang's accent, Tom (bass -- BadTown Boys) asked, "Are you from Wisconsin?"<br />
"One state over. Minnesota. Minneapolis isn't too bad, but me and Erica had to get the fuck out of the Midwest." Fang gestured Erica over and continued, "In LA, we can do shit like this in public and nobody freaks out." She wrapped an arm around Erica's neck and the two deep-kissed for several seconds. "Assholes in the Midwest get all bugged when they see that."<br />
Gesturing at Erica, Blag said, "You're older than her, huh?"<br />
"I am," Erica replied, a bit of challenge in her eyes. "I'm twice her age. Funny how love works, you know? I wasn't expecting to be seduced by a teenage girl at my age, but I was, and.... We've rolled along with it since. Fang got emancipated and we moved out here at the end of the summer. We're free now."<br />
There were a lot of quiet "whoa" noises when Erica announced the age difference between her and Fang. Further discussion was interrupted by the sound man walking in and saying it was time to do sound checks, who was going first?<br />
Greg from the BadTown Boys said, "Have Gash go first. They're using a drum machine, so getting their levels will be fast." This sounded wise to everyone else. Gash pulled amps into place, plugged in, and fired up. Fang instructed the sound man that the Roland would need two mics, and that was it. They went through individual levels first, then the sound man told them to start playing. Gash launched into a fast one, an original named "Oceanside's A Drag." To wit....<br />
<br />
<i>I know a place where jarheads are swarming</i><br />
<i>A low-rent town sitting right on the sea</i><br />
<i>Check-cashing storefronts and bald-headed grunts</i><br />
<i>Oceanside sucks the tit of the military.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Oceanside's a drag</i><br />
<i>Awash in olive drab</i><br />
<i>When I go, I want to leave</i><br />
<i>It's a place that shouldn't be</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Liquor stores and used cars</i><br />
<i>Flag-waving honky-tonk bars</i><br />
<i>To comfort the leatherneck hordes</i><br />
<i>Oceanside grew like a cyst</i><br />
<i>At the Pentagon's request</i><br />
<i>Try not to look too bored</i><br />
<br />
All this was delivered at breakneck speed, they lyrics shrieked and barked by Glee, who launched into her usual spastic mime impression as soon as the music started. Jekyll became Hyde, the tiny fifteen year old girl was a bellowing dervish. Everyone who had been backstage was standing on either side of the stage, listening and watching. Fang and Feather did a lot of their own jumping around, but Glee's antics were something to see. She had a lot more room to move around here, compared to the sea container they practiced in. She flailed and threw herself around, gesturing constantly with her free arm, berating an audience that wasn't there. When the song jolted to a stop, the onlookers cheered and clapped with surprising gusto.<br />
The sound man declared himself happy with the results, and said for the BadTown Boys to set up for their check. As Gash pulled everything back offstage, Blag stepped up to Glee and said, "So I gotta follow you? Fuckin' great. You always throw yourself into it like that?"<br />
Glee considered her response as she unplugged cords from the Roland. "Well.... Like we said, this is our first live show, so I'm probably going to put more energy into it when we're doing our set. Any suggestions?"<br />
"Yeah. Make sure you've got a few bottles of water onstage with you, you'll need 'em. And always watch where the edge of the stage is, so you don't fall off."<br />
"I was probably going to stage dive at some point...."<br />
"Okay, great. Diving is one thing, falling off is another. I've twisted ankles because I was too close to the edge and just stumbled off into the audience." Blag stared at Glee a bit more. "So, that was you while you're holding back. Just.... try to not hospitalize yourself, little girl." Blag walked backstage to where the rest of the Dwarves were.<br />
<br />
As a gesture of goodwill, I had pizza delivered, and Erica ran to the liquor store for a couple cases of Miller. Between this and my dispersal of free Ecstasy, both bands were friendly with Gash and their hangers-on. We had explained the deal we had going with Dale, where each band would get a master-quality tape of the show, which they could use any way they wanted.... Almost. They could use their own footage how they wished. Permission would be needed to use the footage of other bands. They were rather impressed with our efforts to video the show. Bekka pointed out that we had a hell of a lot of video equipment at our disposal, and documenting Gash's first show seemed like the right thing to do.<br />
Naturally, Bekka and Feather were the focus of attention. A two-for-one deal on porn stars that night. Given the tenor of the Dwarves' songs, I was mildly concerned attitude would carry over into the band's interaction with Bekka and Feather. Blag was a smart-ass, and quick-witted, but never got crude. He asked Bekka if she had any musical aspirations.<br />
"No. None. Most people don't seem to notice, but in '180 Strokes' I never actually play that damn guitar. I'm seen strapping it on, or taking it off, or tuning it, but I can't play a note. As a front-woman, I don't think I'd have the energy that Glee does. Or Lynn from Tribe 8, or Dolly from Chromewagon. And my voice isn't good enough to just stand on stage and sing."<br />
Fang and Erica's relationship was explained to a rather enthralled audience. Erica said, "From age eleven to age thirty, I had repressed my own sexuality. I was a mousy little Midwest girl, then a mousy little housewife and mother. Something happened when I was thirty years old. It struck me that I spend a lot of time idly making suicide plans, I hated my life. Fortunately, I was able to add one and one, and realize it was my self-repression that was the culprit. So, I outed myself to my husband and family and got divorced.<br />
"The thing was, now that I'd admitted my own dyke-hood, I was still this mousy little thing, only I was hanging around in lesbian bars a few nights a week. I'd sit there and hope someone would talk to me, but people rarely did. It's possible to be queer and still be painfully shy. Meeting Fang was a revelation. I had never met anyone like her. She was a fifteen year old girl who was totally fearless of the world. She announced her sexuality through a bullhorn, she dressed how she wanted, she acted how she wanted.... And for some reason, she thought I was hot. She was the one who made me realize I was still behaving with a mind-set of 'What will the neighbors think?' Fang made me stop fearing the world, she made me stop worrying about whether others found me offensive because I'm a dyke. Especially in the Midwest, people would be offended by me no matter what I looked like or how I behaved. I stopped trying to kiss the rest of the world's ass, and it's because of Fang."<br />
Over the neck of his beer, Salt Peter announced, "Damn, it's like some kinda exploitation movie from American-International.... A quiet housewife seduced into the tawdry world of punk rock and lesbian sex! Lesbians brainwashed this poor woman, and punk rock finished the job!"<br />
Around ten past eight, Bekka, myself, and the Dwarves piled into their van to pass around a glass pipe. I was congratulated on my quality of meth. Blag said, "Don't keep loading the fuckin' pipe over and over. We'll literally sit here and smoke ourselves into coronaries if we're allowed. And then we won't play, and we hate disappointing our fans."<br />
HeWhoCannotBeNamed said, "Hey Becky, I wish we'd known you were gonna be here."<br />
"Why is that?" asked Bekka.<br />
"We'd talk you into getting naked, covering yourself in stage blood, and go-go dancing for us during our set." The van shook with laughter.<br />
Bekka came back with, "Half of me is also disappointed at this lost opportunity. The other half of me says you boys can't afford my rates."<br />
"You mean you wouldn't do it just for the artistic statement?" I teased.<br />
"Um, artistic statements like that aren't supposed to happen at all-ages shows."<br />
"924 Gilman in Berkeley would allow it," suggested Salt Peter.<br />
Blag chuckled. "Yeah, the day care of the damned has all sorts of shit happen on stage. I mean, the fuckin' Insaints play there off and on. Compared to the shit Marian does onstage, I'm about as threatening as Paul Anka."<br />
We exited the van and went inside. Both the Dwarves and the BadTown Boys were out in the audience, eager to see Gash perform. I checked with my camera operators. All three were happy to be there (and not just because of the free Ecstasy). Capturing live action, totally unscripted, requires an operator to constantly assess what is happening, and try to capture the most relevant action. I warned all three that Glee was definitely the most kinetic performer that night, and to remember getting good footage of Feather and Fang was important. The still cameras were back and to the sides of the stage, well out of the impact zone of the slam pit. Calm Steve would keep moving around to capture as many angles as possible, while also avoiding the pit.... Or at least not ending up in the middle of it with $2400 worth of camera equipment.<br />
The house lights dimmed, the stage lights went up, the crowd gave mild applause as the three girls walked on stage. Glee pulled her mic off its stand and announced, "We're Gash, we're local, and we've only existed for two months, so sorry if we fuck up a lot. If we do, whine and bitch to your fuckin' friends tonight at Okie Dog."<br />
They launched into their first song, a cover of "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0bBb-c6IpEE">Big Dick</a>" by NoMeansNo. Most of the song is the same somewhat complex bass line repeated over and over in the original. Feather added guitar accents, expanding the sound without changing the power of the original version. Most people in the audience recognized the song from the first notes, and began to cheer. When the vocals kicked in, Glee jumped right into her routine, trying to act out the lyrics while jumping around and belting out the words. Her eyes were too wide, her face contorting, as she pantomimed the song:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="background-color: white;">Like a monkey in a zoo,</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">you're half gorilla too</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">When you pound it with your fist</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">and make it real stiff</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">Big Dick</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">Gotta cover your mistakes</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">your bloody out-takes</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">So you dip it in the wine</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">and make a holy sign</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">Big Dick</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">Big Dick! Come quick</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">Big Dick! Come quick</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">Well, you're running up a tree</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">you're trying not to scream</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">then you're pounding on your chest</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">like you whipped the best</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">Big Dick</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">The rivers of the blood</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">you've spilled have turned to mud</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">Now the flies are buzzin' round</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">don't they make a loud sound</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">Big Dick</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">Big Dick! Come quick</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">Big Dick! Come quick</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">It won't be long</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">till those bad bits are gone</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">It won't be long till those bad bits are gone</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">Now we're sitting by the fire but Daddy's getting tired</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">'Cause he drank the whole crock</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">now he's got a limp cock</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">Big Dick</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">Big Dick! Come quick</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white;">Big Dick! Come quick</span></i></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: , "arial" , sans-serif;"><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /></span><br />
<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: , "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If people weren't paying attention before, they were by the end of the song. The bass line is a real bastard to play, I've been told, but Fang nailed it all the way through, pick banging into the strings. The look of fiendish concentration and joy on her face matched the sound well. The audience was pushing up close to get a better view of the band. The first hardcore boys began starting the pit up front, and were joined by more, boys and girls. When the song finished, the audience went nuts. Glee had thrown herself onto her back, lying flat on the stage, when the song came to an end, so Feather stepped up to her mic and simply said "Thanks" to the audience.</span></span><br />
<span style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Glee jumped up and announced, "Here's a good song by a shitty band, it's advice that should be handed out more often in this world." And with that, Gash threw itself into a cover of "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d9DUqjNMZ60">Kill Yourself</a>" by S.O.D. (They really were assholes, a bunch of racist New Yawk guidos.)</span></span><br />
<span style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div class="verse" style="box-sizing: border-box;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Can't take it, never could<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Time to end it, wish you would<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Friends and family, they're all gone<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Life for you is just a con<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Dig yourself a hole in the ground<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Push up daisies six feet down<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Take a dirt nap, buy the farm<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Inject a bubble in your arm</i></span></div>
<div class="verse" style="box-sizing: border-box;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Kill yourself, kill yourself!<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Why don't you kill yourself?<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Don't rely on no one else<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />End it all just kill yourself!</i></span></div>
<div class="verse" style="box-sizing: border-box;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Life is just a one way ticket<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Everyone must go around<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Here's a bucket go and kick it<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Slit your wrists without a sound<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />When you go don't make a big deal<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />No dramatics, don't overplay<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Cause don't you know that we'll all feel<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Better once you're gone away</i></span></div>
<div class="verse" style="box-sizing: border-box;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />You're a loser, there's nothing left for you<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />A worthless loser, at everything you do</i></span></div>
<div class="verse" style="box-sizing: border-box;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Kill yourself now!</i></span></div>
<br />
This time, Glee jumped off the stage and straight into the edge of the pit, where the five foot three dervish grabbed a random slam dancer by the shirt and began hollering the lyrics into his face, while still pantomiming the lyrics. A very direct affront, This was another song most of the audience was familiar with --- S.O.D.'s first album had appallingly high sales for the speed metal genre --- and the random punk she'd decided to abuse shoved her away. She stumbled backwards.... Then launched herself into the pit again, grabbing a different punk, pulling him to a halt, and verbally abusing him. This guy's solution was to pick Glee up and throw her back onto the stage like she was a length of firewood. Glee didn't miss a beat in the lyrics.<br />
The timing was just right for Glee to crawl from where she'd landed to the edge of the stage and find another victim: this time, a trendy-looking girl right up front. She grabbed the trendy by the hair and delivered the last three lines of the song into her face, eyes wild, flecks of spittle flying. The trendy girl tried to disentangle Glee's hand from her hair, to no avail. She tried backing away and only ended up dragging Glee along with her. After bellowing out the last line, Glee stretched forward and kissed the trendy on the mouth, obviously trying to wedge her tongue in the trendy's mouth. Glee finally gave up --- the song was over --- and let go. The trendy girl shrieked and sniveled, backing away from the psychotic little girl who had attacked her. Feather and Fang walked up to where Glee was lying on her stomach and pulled her to her feet. Feather grabbed her mic and said, "That's enough of that, baby girl."<br />
Glee grabbed the mic back and said, "Aw, but I wanted to taste what she had for dinner." The audience, already going nuts, got even louder at this announcement. Glee was covered in sweat, panting slightly, eyes huge, a feral, teeth-bearing smile on her face.<br />
And so things continued for another eleven songs. Glee stayed on stage until the set was finished, then took a running dive straight into the audience, crowd-surfing for about thirty seconds before being deposited back up front. Fang calmly announced into her microphone, "Thanks. We're Gash, we'll have tapes for sale by the side exit in about five minutes. Later." And with that, the three began breaking down and dragging equipment off stage.<br />
A guy next to me started saying, "Holy fucking shit. Holy fucking shit. Holy fucking shit...." over and over. I looked at him and realized I recognized him., He was Bam-Bam, the singer for a band called the Guardians. They'd had some break-out success, playing really big venues and getting air time on the radio, sort of like San Diego's version of the Offspring. I nudged him and introduced myself.<br />
After brief pleasantries, Bam-Bam declared, "I have got to get them in line-ups, I want them opening for us. That was fucking psycho, their singer is like a female GG Allin. They sound great, too. You know them?"<br />
I replied, "I don't know how much porn you watch, but Feather, the guitarist, is a performer for Inana. Her breakout role was as Itsy in 'Succubus,' and she starred in '180 Strokes Per Minute....'"<br />
"God damn, that was her!" Bam-Bam exclaimed. "I was thinking that yeah, she does look like the chick from those porn movies, but was sorta dismissing the idea, you know? Whoa. Um.... Can you introduce me? We've gotta play some shows together."<br />
We began walking towards the side of the stage, me prepared to wave my "all access" hand stamp at the bouncer to get back stage. Bam-Bam asked me, "How old is their singer? Is she just, like, really small?"<br />
I chuckled and said, "That's Glee, she's Feather's little sister. She's fifteen years old, and I doubt she'll get any bigger. Think about how tiny Feather is."<br />
Backstage, the members of Gash were knocking back beers before schlepping equipment and going out to sell tapes. They set their bottles down, equipment ready to be muscled out to Fang's massive Chevy Impala. (With no drum kit, everything fit in the trunk.) They were getting ready to do the heave-ho when the guys from BatTown Boys walked up and said, "Please, allow us." The BadTown Boys grabbed the amps, leaving Feather and Fang with their instruments, and Glee holding the TR-606. Such gentlemen. Fang led them out to the Impala, unlocking the trunk and instructing them how everything would fit inside, if arranged correctly. When the trunk was closed, Greg smiled and said, "You realize, we're gonna look boring as shit after you three. You're a hard act to follow."<br />
The boxes of tapes were snatched from the back seat and Gash turned to head back inside. I stopped them and briefly made introductions. They knew who Bam-Bam was, and didn't fan-girl out on him (with a bit of effort). Bam-Bam laid it out, plain and simple. He wanted Gash opening for the Guardians at every opportunity, and wanted them on their spring and summer tour. National, plus Europe, Japan, and Australia.<br />
Three teenage girls gaped. Glee finally stated, "Whoa."<br />
Fang, with a lifetime's practice at not trusting people until they'd proven themselves, cocked an eyebrow at Bam-Bam and said, "You're shitting us. You saw us play our very first fucking live show just now, and you want us to go on tour with the Guardians. You're shitting us."<br />
"No bullshit," said Bam-Bam. "You're tight as hell musically, and you put on an incredible show. Right now we're working on a new album, but we're playing shows in SoCal off and on, and I want you opening for us. And we're hammering out the details for our tour next year right now. We're hitting the road in May, covering the US, then heading for Europe. I want you all on the bus with us, then on the plane. You'll blow people's minds."<br />
"We don't even have a real release yet, just our demo tape...." said Feather.<br />
"So, I'll talk to Brett at Epitaph and get him to take you on, just for a one-album contract. That way you'd have a release going into the tour, and you wouldn't be saddled with a major contract.... Or maybe you sign with Fat Wreck Chords. Fat Mike is easy to get along with, and Epitaph does his distribution."<br />
We began walking towards the hall. Feather said, "Shit.... Um, we're gonna have to talk about this. I mean, when does your tour start? You said May? Glee is a fucking high school sophomore, she can't miss the last five or six weeks of school...."<br />
"Oh yes I can," Glee declared.<br />
"No, you can't," Feather shot back in a "and that's final" tone of voice. To Bam-Bam, she stated, "And I'm going to have my own obligations, too. Lenny, what's going to be happening in the spring and summer with Inana? Is 'Duane and Dolly' still going to be in production? What about features?":<br />
I had to laugh. "Oh, Jesus. Right now, we've got the scripts for 'Duane and Dolly' completed for production through the end of February. We start pre-production of 'Nerdy Girls' on January second, and beyond that, shit.... Me and Mallory and Erica are always knocking script ideas around, it remains to be seen.<br />
"Personally? If you want to do the tour, I say go for it. I can re-work 'Duane and Dolly' so that Dizzy is on hiatus.... Hell, I could drop Jane in as Limp-Dick's temporary love interest, she has the summer free, so far as I know. You're not on contract, and you'll always be welcome at Inana, so don't worry about blowing your position."<br />
Feather looked at Bam-Bam and asked, "Do you have exact dates yet?"<br />
"Shit, I do, but I don't have them in my head," said Bam-Bam. "I can call you tomorrow and tell you. Generally, our tour will run from mid-May until the last week of August.... You know, I don't want to jam up Glee's schooling. We're gonna be on the road in the US for a while, you could hook up with us later in the tour."<br />
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," stated Fang candidly. "Um, can we have anyone travel with us?"<br />
"Well.... who? You guys are a three piece, we usually count on four members, plus roadies and techs.... Who did you want to bring?"<br />
"My girlfriend. I'll introduce you in a minute, she's around someplace."<br />
Bam-Bam laughed. "If she wouldn't get bugged being stuck in a tour bus with four beer-drinking, farting, foul-mouthed dorks, plus three roadies and techs, sure, bring her along."<br />
There was a table sitting near the fire exit of the hall, reserved for Gash to hawk wares. The other two bands had vinyl, CDs, and t-shirts. Gash had their demo tapes. Nonetheless, there were about ten people loitering by the table, waiting to spend money. Once it was obvious they were open for business, more new fans came over. Glee's normal demeanor seemed to be a bit shocking, fans seemed to take it for granted her psychotic behavior was a permanent fixture of her personality. She would explain, "Hey, hand me a microphone, and I'm a different person."<br />
And who should wander by but the trendy girl, accompanied by her trendy boyfriend. The girl had a more stud-covered Cyndi Lauper thing going on, while her boyfriend made Milo Aukerman look hardcore. The girl spotted Glee, strode up to her, and began to flip out. "Oh my God, you are, like, sooo gross! You tried to French me! You are, like, a total freak-monster, you should be in an institution!"<br />
Glee smiled and said in a calm voice, "Are you saying you've never had another girl's tongue in your mouth?"<br />
"Of course not!"<br />
"Not even for fun?"<br />
"Of course not! Gross!"<br />
Fang stepped up and said, "Why is it gross? I love having another girl's tongue in my mouth. One girl in particular, for a while now."<br />
Bam-Bam smirked, "Boopsie, it's a punk rock show. Sometimes odd and disturbing things are going to happen. Do you know anything about the headliner tonight?"<br />
"Who's headlining? I've never heard of any of the bands playing tonight," declared Boopsie.<br />
This brought on a wave of laughter at the table. Erica leaned her head on Fang's shoulder and commented, "Look at the bright side, honey. Anyone else trying to tongue-fuck your mouth from the stage will be a straight guy. And by the way, I love having this girl's tongue in my mouth." She started nuzzling Fang's neck, sliding one hand inside her t-shirt.<br />
I threw in my own two cents. "Really sweetie, homophobia is well out of fashion. Besides, Glee was trying to get a reaction out of you, not seduce you. Your reaction surprised the hell out of me."<br />
"I'm not homophobic!" Boopsie asserted. "I don't care if a girl, you know, like, is into other girls. I just don't want them trying anything with me."<br />
"But you are aggressively straight," observed Glee. "Why would a dyke make a move on you?"<br />
"Because I'm straight, and I'm hot! Lezzie girls would all totally want me, and they know they can't have me, but they'd try, you know?"<br />
More laughter erupted. Erica looked up from her nuzzling and said, "Um, honey? You don't do a thing for me."<br />
"Me either," said Fang in a somewhat breathless manner. She gave Boopsie an objective looking-over and said, "You're not bad, but you ain't all that, sister. Unless you have a tongue like an anaconda, you don't have anything special. Then again, I'm in love, so my judgement may be a little clouded."<br />
Now Boopsie scoffed. "What, you're in love with her? Oh, I am so sure...!"<br />
"We're in love with each other," Erica stated. "What's the problem with that?"<br />
"That is so bogus. Like, girls can't fall in love with each other."<br />
' It wouldn't have worked better if we'd planned it. Everyone around the table, including some random folks, loudly demanded, "And why the fuck not?" in one voice.<br />
The dude with Boopsie recognized the seeds of an angry mob. He tugged on her arm and said, "Hey, let's go up to the 7-11 before the next band starts."<br />
Boopsie ignored him completely, stating unequivocally, "Well, duh. Human beings fall in love so the species will continue. If humans don't fall in love, they won't have sex, which means they won't, you know, conceive. And since two girls can't conceive with each other, how can they fall in love?"<br />
It took everyone a few moments to sort through this convoluted logic. Finally Bekka queried, "Um.... Are you saying that two human beings can't have sex with each other, unless they're in love? Am I following you correctly?"<br />
"Exactly!"<br />
There was another pause while this was digested.... then the table really blew up with laughter. Boopsie stood there with a confused smile, like she was was hearing an in-joke everyone else understood. Bekka caught her breath and asked, "Oh, honey..... Do you recognize me?"<br />
"Well, duh, you're Becky Page," answered Boopsie.<br />
"And you're aware of how I make a living?"<br />
Acting patronized, Boopsie said, "Yes.... You make porno movies. Duh."<br />
"Do you believe that every person I have sex with loves me, and I love them? I spend a lot of time with penises inside me, but I only love the owner of one particular penis. Yet somehow, the men I have sex with in front of a camera manage to get the job done. How do you explain this?"<br />
"Um...."<br />
Feather muttered, "This should be good."<br />
A light bulb went on over Boopsie's head. "Well.... It's not like they need to stay madly in love with you forever! They're only in love with you for a little while, then they stop."<br />
Once again, everyone was stunned into silence. Finally some random dude waiting to buy a cassette prodded, "So you're saying that an emotional state as strong and involving as romantic love can just be.... turned off, like a faucet? We can choose, on a whim, to start or stop loving a particular person? You're saying that being in love is a totally conscious, objective, and rational choice, it's as emotionally driven as selecting a new car to purchase."<br />
Boopsie stated, "Oh, buying a new car is totally emotional. It's like, is this car cool? Does it look cool? Will I look cool driving it? Will my friends think I'm a total dorkus if I buy this car? There's, like, a lot of things to consider." She took our mute staring as a sign we were fascinated by her wisdom and went on, "Anyway, yeah. Girls can'f fall in love with other girls, guys can't fall in love with other guys. It's science."<br />
"Really." Erica regarded Boopsie evenly. "So, the incredible emotions I feel for my girlfriend --- the empathy, the passion, the sense of connection, the trust, the caring --- don't exist. That's what you're saying. I'm imagining it all. Pray tell, why would I do that?"<br />
"Because you have an urge to make God angry by defying the natural order of things. You want to taunt God, and try and prove He doesn't know everything...."<br />
"That's it!" Fang bellowed, and began moving out from behind the table. Erica grabbed Fang's neck, and was simply dragged along behind her. Fortunately, Fang also had to circumvent Bam-Bam and I. We each grabbed a shoulder and brought her to a halt..<br />
The trendy guy grabbed Boopsie's arm and began pulling her off. "Come on, we're going, we gotta get the hell out of here," he declared. Boopsie resisted some, protesting, "What? What?" as they headed for the door. We all watched them go.<br />
"Okay, no more kissy-face with the crowd," Glee declared.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10230648449521958270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033784518790200307.post-34143080860289461882017-05-03T04:13:00.000-07:002017-05-03T04:13:06.858-07:00Sisters (Part 7) I got a chance to talk to Bam-Bam about his father between sets. Bam-Bam's (real name: Benjamin) dad was a long-time nemesis of mine, Detective Richard Donner of the San Diego Sheriff's Department. Donner had been looking for a way to bust me for years, ever since Bekka had been stabbed. Donner decided I was the culprit, and refused to do any real investigation. It took the efforts of me and a mafia enforcer named Paul to crack the case, delivering Bekka's assailant to Donner on a platter, complete with a recorded confession.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
A year ago, Donner had more or less confessed why he loathed me. I was a punk. Punk, the music genre, was offensive noise. Punk rockers were obnoxious party gladiators who wasted every opportunity afforded to them in life, preferring to swill beer, abuse drugs, and go out of their way to offend everything good and decent in the world. Donner's point of reference for this was his own son, who had good grades all through school --- even after getting tangled up in that punk rock shit --- but rejected college in favor of pursuing a living in music. His son's band was the Guardians, his son's nickname was Bam-Bam, the lead singer for the Guardians. It didn't matter that his son's band was now relatively successful, living off their music. And they were fairly comfortable, too, no more ramen for dinner, no more living in their tour van. Bam-Bam and his girlfriend had a nice apartment in Westwood, he drove a three year old Taurus, his bills were paid.... The Guardians had "made it."<br />
This meant nothing to Donner. His son had thrown away his life. He somehow earned a living yelling into a microphone, belting out smart-ass lyrics and jumping around like a goon. Benjamin could have gone to college, then moved into a secure career, anything he wanted. No, he wasted his intelligence and opportunities to try and be a rock star. Donner's son was nothing but a disappointment to him.<br />
I explained, in some detail, the different interactions Donner and I had over the last four years, and why Donner found me so reprehensible. I explained that I'd advised Donner to get over it: his son wanted to be an entertainer, and had actually become successful at it. Not many people pursue dreams like that and make a go of it. Donner should be proud of his son. I'd given this advice over a year ago. If Ben didn't mind me asking, how was his relationship with his father?<br />
Ben stared at a spot on the floor about ten feet away, dead silent. He finally said, "Now that I think about it.... my dad has actually gotten a little better over the last year. He's been the one to call me on a few occasions, usually it was me calling him and Mom, letting them know what was going on with me. He'd always ride me about how I"d fucked up my life. I'd point out that things were tight for me, I was living off what I did, I wasn't the drug addict he expected me to become, I was healthy.... Yeah, he's called me, and asked how things are going with the band. And he didn't say 'Good job' or anything, but he also didn't criticize me, either. I figured he'd finally reached a state of acceptance.<br />
"My dad has always been a cop first. Being a cop was priority one, ahead of his family. When I was a kid, he couldn't even ask me how my day at school was without turning it into an interrogation. It fucking sucks saying this, but...." Ben paused briefly, so he could bite his lower lip and clear his throat. "... but I don't think my dad ever loved me, or Mom. He married my mom because it was expected of him, as a career cop. Him and Mom had a kid because that's what married couples do. But me and Mom were just distractions to him, expenses he had to take care of.<br />
"When I first discovered the hardcore punk scene.... Shit. That was in ninth grade. Of course, it was a sign I had turned into a drug addict. He'd talk that shit to my face. I"d learned a long time earlier that yelling at him was pointless, so I'd smile and say, 'Okay, if I'm on drugs, search my room. Have the K-9 squad sniff around for drugs anywhere in the house. I'm happy to provide a piss test or a blood test. You give me ten dollars a week allowance, how am I supposed to support a drug habit with that money?' I actually started working harder in school, just to prove him wrong. And when the Guardians first got together, I invited him to watch us practice, anytime he wanted. He could show up unannounced, fine with us.<br />
"Really? My dad bought the bullshit about the hardcore scene, the garbage that would bet printed in the Tribune. The cops had their own bullshit fantasies, too. You know that cops in San Diego are convinced there's a suburban street gang called the 'Iron Maidens'? Hey, the headbangers have the same sense of fashion, they all have Iron Maiden patches on the backs of their jackets. Obviously,it's not music fandom, it's teenage organized crime. And goodness me, some of them smoke marijuana! Heavens to betsy!"<br />
I interjected, "Yeah, I remember some of the shit the Copley papers published. Where we are right now? This isn't a rock and roll show, it's a Satanic rite. The peace symbol is actually an inverted cross with the arms broken, to signify contempt for Christianity. Punks are an organized street gang. Shit, if that was true, why haven't I gotten paid yet? Nobody told me when and where the gang meetings were being held. I'm guessing I missed out on a lot of awesome sex and drug orgies...."<br />
Ben laughed at this. "Yeah, we both missed out on the good times, I guess. Did your parents ever give you grief over the girls you dated in high school?"<br />
I shrugged. "Meh. A little. They understood the motivation behind the look, the whole anti-fashion thing. They even understood the feelings of social alienation, that the scene was a purposeful thumb in the eye of the 'nice' kids, the preppies. They still thought my girlfriends were scary, no matter how nice they behaved. But they never gave me shit about them."<br />
"Lucky you. One of the few times I really got into it with my dad was in twelfth grade. I brought a girl I was dating over to the house, just so they'd put a face to a name, you know? Trying to do the correct thing? The next day my dad called her a slut. No reason for this pronunciation, he just decided any female who looked like that must be a slut. I told him to watch his fucking mouth, he had no reason, and no right, to say that about her.<br />
"I told him, 'You don't call the girls I know sluts, and I won't call your friends on the force pigs. Fair enough?' He yelled the only reason he wasn't grounding me was that would mean I'd be in the house all the time, and I could spend as much time away from home as I felt like from then on. Fine with me. Two days later I get woken up by him and a couple cop buddies with dogs. Dad finally accepted my challenge to search my room for drugs. I smiled and said, 'Fine with me.' They didn't find anything in my room, so they checked out the whole damn house. The only thing they found was my mom's Valium.<br />
"The K-9 cops who did the searching looked kind of embarrassed about being there, they knew it was just my dad trying to use the force to settle a personal conflict with family. And the best part was that my mom actually stood up to my dad, for once. After the two cops said the house was clean, my mom started yelling, 'Are you finally satisfied that your honor roll student son isn't on drugs?' My dad acted like it never happened at all.<br />
"So.... Sorry my dad's shitty attitude has jammed you up in the past. I guess I'm kind of the reason. How long has it been since you've had to deal with him?"<br />
"Over a year," I responded. "You probably remember the last time I got shot, it was all over the news. When the Bible freaks attacked the studio in La Costa....."<br />
"Yeah, yeah," Ben said. "Damn, I heard you nearly died.."<br />
"Nearly bled out, yeah. And Bekka thought I had died. She freaked out. There were four gunmen in the studio. Bekka saw me in a pool of blood, not moving, and thought I'd bought the farm. She had her own Colt in her hand, and she grabbed my Beretta and charged the fuckers, just blasting away with both guns at the same time. She dropped all four.... And then she had to be restrained from executing them where they were. All four were wounded but alive. Bekka was going to blow their heads off, one at a time."<br />
"Whoa. She'd have been the one going to prison then, huh?"<br />
"Or the funny farm. She was totally out of her tree, from what she told me, her and other people. She thought I'd been killed, and was screaming and yelling, she was bashing her head into the floor.... Her bodyguard had to pin her down until the EMTs could shoot her full of Thorazine."<br />
"Damn," commented Ben. "So what did my dad do then?"<br />
"Well, he was an investigator into the incident, of course. He showed up at my hospital room that night, wanting to grill me. My director and another guy were there, and they basically told him to fuck off, I was still half in the bag from anesthesia. That was when I finally told him to spill the beans about what about me bugged him so much. He started talking about how his son had thrown away all the chances he had in life so he could be in a punk rock band. I asked him which one, he said, 'The Guardians.' I told him his son had pretty much grabbed the brass ring, so far as making a living in the entertainment industry, especially as a musician. He grumbled some and split."<br />
At that moment, the Dwarves launched into their first song, negating all conversation. We stepped forward to watch the show.<br />
<br />
Before leaving, an incredible amount of contact information had been exchanged. Ben had provided his personal information, plus phone numbers at Epitaph Records and their management company. In return, he received numbers for Fang and Feather, my office line at Inana, and the email addresses for both me and Erica. He made it clear this wasn't just a whim on his part. He saw what a splash the band could make, and wanted to harness that energy.<br />
We all sat around in Erica and Fang's apartment in Venice Beach, nursing beers and pondering the future. Bekka stated, "Personally? Touring with a successful rock and roll band is definitely one of those life experiences nobody should pass up. Do like Bam-Bam said, join the tour late. They're hitting all forty-eight states, and the tour is running from mid-May until the end of August.... You'd be able to get in a good chunk of exposure in the US, then cruise Europe."<br />
Erica said in a sad tone, "I don't think I should go. I'd be jamming up Inana too much, there's no way the studio can only run with two writers...."<br />
"Or...." I pondered. "I give you a loaded phone card, you bring your typewriter and fax machine with you, and we make a contact schedule. All you'd need to do is keep track of Pacific time and maybe buy phone jack adapters, depending on what country you're in."<br />
"I'd still feel bad. I'd be running all over the planet, pretty much having a paid vacation, while you and Mallory are stuck in the grind...."<br />
"You're letting your Midwest guilt complex come out, stop it," said Bekka. "Okay, Lenny works a lot. So do I. But Tootsie, we both make a hell of a lot more money than you. Our free time may be limited, but once we do have the opportunity to take a vacation, it's gonna be a doozy. And Lenny just said, he'll expect you to be working too."<br />
"What's a Midwest guilt complex?" asked Glee.<br />
Fang smirked and replied, "It's an ingrained thing with anybody raised in Protestant or Catholic faith. Basically, you get trained into not allowing yourself to have a lot of fun all at once. Midwest people, especially in Minnesota, believe that having a total blast angers God, it's bad for the soul. So you catch yourself analyzing how much fun you're having at any given time. Are you having a lot of fun? Then you're being frivolous. God hates it when people don't have a certain percentage of misery going on. To forget that misery is to snub God."<br />
Erica added, "Minnesotans would outlaw orgasm, given the chance. Or at least put a levy on it. The state tax board would collect $12.95 for every orgasm a person has in a year. Teenage boys would automatically be registered as tax evaders when they turn eighteen, they'd all owe tens of thousands of dollars to the state."<br />
"I try to make sure Tootsie owes the state of Minnesota about $400 every week," said Fang with a leer.<br />
Glee groused, "So, you're saying people in Minnesota will be doing.... whatever.... for fun, and then start beating themselves up for it? 'Cos they think they'll go to hell if they have 'too much' fun? That's stupid. And fuck God."<br />
Feather elbowed her sister sharply and said, "Mind your manners, baby girl. You know damn well Bekka is a Christian."<br />
Bekka smiled and said, "No worries. The god I believe in is a very different god than the ones the Lutherans and Catholics in Minnesota believe in, from what I can tell. God in Minnesota is angry, vengeful, petty, and narrow-minded. We were all made in his image? Then why is it everything we say, do, or even think pisses off the Minnesota god? The statement 'Fuck God' is a bit broad, but I'm in full agreement with 'Fuck that particular interpretation of God.'"<br />
Both Fang and Erica were grinning at this. "I take it you've heard Mallory expound on the subject," said Erica. "And the thing is, she's a Minneapolis native. Her parents went to church on Christmas and Easter, and that was it. But the spiritual masochists who live upstate really chap her hide."<br />
I averred, "Well.... Jill is from upstate. And they've both mentioned what AM talk radio is like in Minnesota. In the Bible Belt, people will yell that it's time to kill all the fags and dykes. In Minnesota, they soberly state that those who 'sin against God' --- queers --- need to be complete social outcasts, totally shunned from everyone else. I mean, the frame of mind they have upstate is alien to me. The overarching message is that your only hope of salvation in the next world is a life of self-denial and low-level misery in this life. God only loves people who are constantly unhappy."<br />
"At least Minneapolis is fairly human.... right?" said Bekka. "I mean, there's an open queer scene, there's a pride parade...."<br />
Fang seethed, "Every fucking year, the parade starts ninety minutes late because someone has phoned in a bomb threat and the cops have to sweep the area.... Not to mention the clots of anti-gay picketers chanting and singing hymns. They'll always be surrounded by cops, too, so no one can get at them.<br />
"Also, every six months or so a band of drunk yahoos will decide to stake out one of the queer bars and watch for anyone leaving alone, late at night. Not to mention all the bullshit in Loring Park a couple years ago...."<br />
"What was that?" asked Feather.<br />
"Aw, shit. Loring Park sits just west of the convention center, south of downtown. It's been a gathering spot for queers of both genders for a long time. It wasn't a cruise, exactly. People were cruising, but they'd meet up and go somewhere else. You didn't have guys sucking dick in the bathrooms all day, you know? I'm sure there was some action late at night, but whatever.<br />
"Over the last few years there have been a rash of attacks at Loring Park, and a few murders. The fucking cops have had an attitude of 'Well, that's what you get for being a fag' and don't work on investigating. Of course, that's when they're not beating up dudes outside gay bars themselves."<br />
I sighed and said, "Yeah, well.... Overall, things are better in LA or San Francisco. Don't get too relaxed, though. LAPD has some of the worst yahoos in law enforcement. Just ask Rodney King. And I guarantee there's plenty of LA cops who will give you a ration of shit for being dykes."<br />
"Well, at least San Francisco ---" Erica started.<br />
"Also has a poison police culture. The thing is, in SF it's the police against everyone. SFPD has no real political allies in city government or in the communities. The most they can hope for is indifference. Mostly people treat them with restrained distrust. It goes back to the White Night riots, when Dan White was practically acquitted for murdering Mayor Moscone and Harvey Milk. Most of the riots were in the Civic Center area, that's where cop cars were being torched. But the cops decided they'd get revenge by going down Castro Street that night with black tape over their badge numbers and trashing bars. They were beating the shit out of people who had nothing to do with the riots, except most of the rioters were queer. It was gay-bashing, straight up, performed by uniformed officers of the San Francisco Police Department. That was the straw that broke the camel's back. The cops were acting like petty thugs. Why the fuck should anyone trust them?"<br />
"Is there anywhere in the country with honest cops?"<br />
"Yeah, there is," I responded. "Berkeley. Berkeley PD has a requirement that anyone who wants to be a Berkeley cop must have a college degree, a Bachelor's degree at least. They don't even care what your major was. You just have to have demonstrated you have the brains and commitment to get through four years of college. The upshot is that Berkeley PD doesn't have any fucking dummies on the force. You can count on a basic level of intelligence.<br />
"Also, Berkeley being Berkeley, the cops have years of practice at dealing with the mentally unstable. They always aim to de-escalate situations. Say you and a couple friends are being stupid in public. You're smoking a joint on the sidewalk, two of you are getting ready to fight, whatever. Any other cop is gonna stomp up yelling, 'What's going on here? You three, put your hands on your head!' Just totally creating drama. A Berkeley cop will see you smoking a joint. He'll just walk up and say, 'Can I see that?' Yes, officer. He'll look at it, and grind it into the sidewalk. Then he'll smile at you and say, 'Come on, guys, really,' and walk off again.<br />
"The same situation in Oakland? You and your friends are going to spend the next forty minutes cuffed and sitting on the curb, while they run your names over the radio. Don't talk to each other, otherwise a cop will get in your face. Obviously, you're planning something. And if one of you has more weed, he's going to jail for possession with intent to sell, an 11300.<br />
"And with Oakland PD, it doesn't matter who you are, or what you look like, or what the situation is. They're gonna be hostile and combative, no matter what. I walked up to one once in a gas station to ask directions, I figured a cop would know the best route to where I was headed. I'm a white guy with a flashy hot rod --- the Falcon --- and I'm walking up to him with a smile, saying 'Excuse me, officer?' And he snaps at me like I'd said something about his mom, you know? I asked him for directions, and he wants to play Twenty Questions before he'll answer me. Why am I going there? Who am I meeting? Where am I from? What am I doing in Oakland? He finally gives me the directions, I thanked him, and took off. I'm standing outside the restaurant I was headed to, waiting on Riley to show up, and the damn cop rolls by real slow, eyeballing me and the Falcon. Like I was somehow, in some way, up to no good. Oakland cops all need to switch to decaf.<br />
"At least with Oakland cops, the hostility is front-loaded. They make it clear they hate anyone not wearing a badge. LA cops will come off relaxed, then just switch gears for no reason and be super aggressive. And this is during a traffic stop! They'll ask for your license and insurance, totally casual. They'll run your name like usual, come back and give you your ID back, then decide you driving forty in a thirty-five zone is the most morally reprehensible thing they've ever seen, and begin yelling in your face. He'll be standing there yelling about how you need to learn to read the goddamn motherfucking traffic signs, asshole, and you're thinking, 'Someone skipped their Lithium this morning.'"<br />
"So LAPD will fuck with you for no reason?" asked Fang.<br />
"They'll try to pick a fight, yeah. If you get pulled over in LA, keep your facial expression totally neutral. Don't even smile. Do what they tell you. Don't try to start a conversation. For Christ sake, don't try to debate them. Speak when spoken to, speak calmly, and keep your hands on the top of the wheel at all times. They think every civilian is a charter member of the Charles Starkweather Appreciation Society, and assume you need the slightest excuse to go ballistic. And they'll dig for it, too, trying to pick a fight. Don't let them. Just calmly nod. 'Yes officer, no officer, yes, it was my mistake sir, yes officer.' Find your place of Zen and stay there until you've parted ways.<br />
"I'll never understand anyone who takes a job that involves dealing with the public, when they hate the entire species.... Except for other cops."<br />
Erica said softly, "The Santa Monica cops I've dealt with have been nice."<br />
Bekka chuckled and asked, "The ones on bicycles that are on the boardwalk, like near Muscle Beach or the pier?"<br />
"Yeah...."<br />
"The city of Santa Monica knows to have emissary cops in tourist areas. They're there more as chamber of commerce representatives than law enforcement."<br />
"I wonder what cops in Europe will be like," pondered Glee. "Or Australia, or Japan."<br />
"Oh, Japanese cops will be delighted to meet you and your sister," I noted.<br />
"Why?"<br />
"For once, they'll be dealing with Americans they can tower over."Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10230648449521958270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033784518790200307.post-56170546575382450012017-05-03T04:12:00.002-07:002017-07-19T01:19:51.370-07:00Sisters (Part 8) So, our series had changed around a bit. "Pulse of Night" was dropped, and nobody minded. Viewers didn't care (and didn't buy), the reviews had been flat, performers considered appearing in it (there was no set cast) tedium, and none of us three writers could figure out a way to keep things lively from episode to episode. Some of the episodes were great.... And the next episode would have totally different characters, no way of continuing the good karma.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
Fortunately, Erica and Mallory had been farting around with scripts for what would become "Temporary Pleasures -- The Series." Both had a sharp ear for good satire, and understood the culture of working in your standard "cubicle farm" office. They ret-conned the story line a bit --- at the end of the movie, Madison (Ellen/"Sky Tyler") is being hired away from the temp agency to become the Chief Financial Officer of the company she'd been contracted with. Madison was a twenty-two year old airhead, a ditz who could barely operate a copier. Her rise to the top had been brought about by sheer luck and happenstance. Madison keeps getting moved into positions of more responsibility, despite the protests of her overseer at the office, Ivy (Becky Page).<br />
Madison's hiring is announced at a company-wide pep rally-style event. The rest of the board room thinks it's a brilliant move: a twenty-two year old CFO? And a female one? How bold and progressive looking. Madison is called up to the mic so she can say a few words, her now-former boss Ivy stands at the back of the crowd with her face in her hands. Madison says a few platitudes, then announces, "And as my office manager and chief adviser, I'll be promoting Ivy Xandros to join me! Ivy, come on up!"<br />
Ivy walks up onto the stage and reluctantly joins Madison on stage, not amused at all. The two step to one side, while more pontificating goes on at the mic. Ivy hisses, "So, throwing a bone to your old boss?"<br />
Madison is smiling, but her face is riddled with panic. She replies quietly, "Ivy, I need you, like, really bad. Um.... I don't know what I'm doing! I don't know how the heck I got here! I don't even know what 'CFO' stands for! You gotta help me!"<br />
"Oh! Now you need my help! Why on earth should I help you? Why shouldn't I just let you dangle in the breeze until you fall? I'd end up doing your job for you, you fucking dimwit."<br />
"Look, I know," responds Madison. "Um, what I thought we could do, to make it more fair, is every payday we'd sign our paychecks over to each other, okay? You'd get my salary, and I'd get yours."<br />
"In other words, I'd do all the work and get none of the credit," huffs Ivy. "Just your salary. I'm not seeing a plus side to this."<br />
"Ivy.... Do you know what my yearly salary is gonna be? Before bonuses?"<br />
"No."<br />
Madison whispers in Ivy's ear. Ivy's eyes both go very wide and stay that way. She smiles and says in a friendlier voice, "Then again, there is a certain peace in anonymity. Dimwit, you've got yourself a puppet master." They shake hands, then stand side by side.... Each grabbing the other one's butt. Madison replies, "I know I'm no rocket surgeon, but I'm not stupid."<br />
"Still debatable, dimwit."<br />
Madison looks at Ivy, who's looking out at the crowd with a politician's smile, and says in a low voice, "We're gonna have a private office suite. Betcha that within a week, I can make you come with my mouth in under three minutes."<br />
Still looking forward, Ivy calmly replies, "I'll keep a stopwatch on my desk."<br />
<br />
Anyway....<br />
Erica and Mallory didn't continue the story from there. In the series, Madison (still played by Ellen, who we wanted in a lead role) is still a temp worker, only at a different company. Bekka already had a lead role in our drama, "Co-ed Housing," and they didn't want Ellen's role being diluted with Bekka's presence. Ellen would continue on as the happy-go-lucky nympho airhead she always had been, cheerfully boffing any co-worker she interacted with, male or female. The satiric edge the movie had would be preserved, scripts liberally peppered with jabs at the white collar world.<br />
"Co-ed Housing" was also changing. It was something of an ensemble cast, revolving around some of the residents of a college dorm: six sets of roommates, three male, three female, all of whom were trying to find love. Structurally, it was a lot like "Beverley Hills -- 90210," only in college and with no parents or piles of money. "Co-ed Housing" was being expanded from a half hour to a full hour, allowing more room for episodic plot development and also to get more screen time for the full cast. Too many cast members were missing a couple production cycles at a time, for the simple reason they had nothing to do. With a full hour to play with, all the cast members would at least have some screen time every episode, even if they didn't have any hardcore action.<br />
Our two other comedies, "Duane and Dolly's Place" and "Knock, Then Enter" were humming along nicely. I was responsible for "Duane and Dolly," Erica handled "Knock, Then Enter," and Mallory took care of "Co-ed Housing".... or had. While writing a full hour of content was actually easier --- scenes didn't feel rushed or abbreviated --- Bekka (who was producing) had been throwing in a lot of material, to the point where Mallory told me Bekka deserved a writing credit. Bekka was also producing "Knock, Then Enter," and "co-producing "Temporary Pleasures" with me. I produced "Duane and Dolly's Place," being the one most comfortable with how the show should feel.<br />
"Duane and Dolly's Place" was about your standard eighteen year old suburban stoner dude (Duane, played by new Inana arrival Stuart K.) and his stoner girlfriend (Dolly, played by Susan Black), who lived in the semi-converted garage of Duane's parents' house. They paid no rent or utilities except for the phone. Duane's primary source of income was dealing weed (among other things), Dolly held a series of part-time jobs. She never got fired, every business she worked for would suffer a major calamity and close, leaving her unemployed: the manager would drain the bank account and run away to Mexico, the owners would get caught up in an organized crime sweep, a runaway truck would demolish the building, and on and on.<br />
The garage was the sort of party pit most suburban stoners want to have. Friends (and customers) would drop by to "just hang out, you know?" A wide variety of hard rock and Eighties metal would always be playing on the stereo. Duane and Dolly were permanently horny for each other.... and anyone else in sight. The running gag was that they would claim to have split up early in the episode (usually due to their lack of fidelity) but be back together by the end. With the fairly constant intake of drugs they both did, they'd forget about splitting until someone reminded them. They'd shrug and continue in whatever sexual activity they were involved in.<br />
Other regular characters were "Limp-Dick," (Roach), "Dizzy" (Feather), and Mr. Wilkes (Sean, a.k.a. "Sean Clay"). The first two were punk rockers, the third was Duane's next door neighbor. Mr. Wilkes was an urbane, swinging, hip, upwardly-mobile black guy around thirty who was a BMW salesman and liked to party. Mr. Wilkes was always trying to expand Duane's taste in music by playing Miles Davis, Ramsey Lewis, and Herbie Hancock for him.... Duane and Mr. Wilkes both agreed that rap sucked, though. Mr. Wilkes felt that a "long-term relationship" was one that lasted past the "sell by" date on a carton of milk.<br />
Limp-Dick was Duane's best friend, and by far the more grounded of the two. They were the same age, but Limp-Dick had a paternal instinct for Duane, who had the scatter-brained demeanor most people who start their day on the bong do. Limp-Dick worked at a bowling alley and dealt meth for a living, also keeping Duane and Dolly high. His girlfriend was Dizzy, a dervish whose ADHD was the stuff of legends. The only thing she could focus on for longer than ninety seconds was (of course) sex. She worked at a local theme park, spending her days dressed as a cartoon chipmunk, a role which was actually aided by her hyperactivity.<br />
Drug humor (and use) was rife in the series, the smoking and snorting of drugs treated as casually as drinking a soda. All five characters were oversexed (of course). Limp-Dick and Dizzy had an "open relationship," screwing anyone they came across. So did Duane and Dolly, but they would constantly insist on their undying loyalty to each other. Mr. Wilkes never had a girlfriend who showed up more than two episodes in a row, and came in all ethnic backgrounds. Mr. Wilkes never got together with Dolly, but did with Dizzy a few times. Each time it happened, Mr. Wilkes would be shown walking into the garage the next morning, looking a bit stunned and shell-shocked. "That girl ain't human," he would assert. "My lord, she is not of this earth." (Limp-Dick would look up from the TV with a smile and say, "Yeah, she has some energy." "Like a hydrogen bomb has energy," Mr. Wilkes would state.)<br /> Jane was going to be a semi-regular on the show, as a punk rock girl named "Hole." Her character was a classic grifter, the concept of earning an honest dollar was repugnant to her. While she wasn't a thief (you could leave your wallet on the coffee table and not worry about her being around), she preferred cons, hustles, and scams to employment, and had the cool, cynical attitude seen in gun molls from old Warner Bros. noir films. Of course she's oversexed.<br />
Mr. Wilkes was an off-and-on target for Hole. He was successful, and he sold BMWs for a living: she knew there must be some way to exploit him for money. If Dizzy rattled Mr. Wilkes in bed, Hole terrorized him. There was a similar running joke with a "morning after" shot of Hole and Mr.Wilkes walking into Duane's garage. He would stagger in, wearing a torn t-shirt, underwear, and one shoe, slack-jawed, hunched over, incoherent. Hole would be her usual cocky, confident self, more or less leading Wilkes around by the hand and saying, "So it's okay if I borrow your car all week, right sweetie?" (Mr. Wilkes, of course, drove a late-model BMW.)<br /> Mr. Wilkes: "Uhh.... muhhh...."<br />
"Thanks, honey. I already pulled the keys off your ring."<br />
Duane and Dolly would prop Mr. Wilkes on the sofa, Duane commenting to Hole, "You're gonna kill him at this rate."<br /> Hole: "Don't be silly. I haven't purchased any life insurance on him. Yet."<br />
There was one more "main" character, who was heard but never seen: Duane's dad. Duane had reversed the doorknob on the door between the house and the garage, effectively locking his parents out of the garage. His dad would holler messages through the door at full volume ("Duane!! Don't forget to take the goddamn trash cans out to the curb tonight!!" "Duane!! What are you and your goddamn pervert friends doing in there!?"). This high-volume communication stayed the same, regardless of the message being passed. ("Duane!! Your mother thanks you for the Mother's Day flowers, they're goddamn lovely!!")<br />
"Knock, Then Enter" was a semi-parody of "Three's Company." If Jack, Janet, and Chrissy had been sexually compulsive libertines, and had dropped the coyness with each other, that's what "Knock, Then Enter" was like. They screwed each other, plus just about anyone who came in contact with them. A running joke was that it was hard for them to get pizza delivered, as "Janet" and "Chrissy" would double-team the delivery guy, delaying him for an hour, causing their address to get black-listed by the pizza place.<br />
While creating the characters and situation structure, we'd made "Jack" bisexual. Hey, if it was okay for the girls, why wasn't it okay for "Jack"? Angel and Vinny nixed that idea. "California, New York, Boston, Miami, we could get away with it. But too many of our customers are in Flyspeck, Iowa, you know? We'd just scare the shit out of them."<br />
The humor in "Duane and Dolly" was subtle, stuff that made you smile and nod, usually. "Knock" was the source of yuks, and "Pleasures" prompted knowing cackles. What we were proud of, was we stuck with the tradition I'd started, that of the sex flowing organically through the script. Despite the copious suck and fuck content, it never felt like the story was coming to a halt so the hardcore could take place. Obviously, the sex ate up plenty of screen time, and didn't contain lots of expository dialogue, so the amount of actual "writing" needed for any episode was less than that in a regular network sitcom or drama.<br />
<br />
We three writers were also pounding away on features. January second was scheduled to be the start of pre-production for "Kitten and Mink," a parody of Seventies crime dramas. "Starsky and Hutch" was the primary influence for our structure, but we also stole from "Mannix," "Barnaby Jones," "Rockford Files," "Cannon," and various Blaxploitation films. We'd already scored two coups: the location of a red and white 1975 Ford Gran Torino.(like Starsky and Hutch drove), and Antonio "Huggy Bear" Fargas saying he'd love to do a cameo as his most famous character. We already had the joke laid out: "Buggy Hair" would lay out a long stream of jive talk at another black guy (a dweeb named Herbert), whose reaction was, "... What?"<br />
"So, are ya homeys wid' dese two honky chicks? Where yo' crib?"<br />
"Ahh...."<br />
Mink (in Herbert's ear): "He asked where you're from, and are you a friend of ours."<br />
"Oh, gosh! I'm from Kenosha, Wisconsin, I'm out here attending BIOLA. These two ladies are helping me find my uncle."<br />
Buggy Hair: (frowning) "Say what?"<br />
Kitten: "He from da Rust Belt, he's schoolin' to be a preacher man, We keepin' our eyes jimmey fo' some fambly of his. Yeah, we homeys."<br />
Running jokes would include a few car chases (all of which would end with the same stock footage of a car exploding while driving over a cliff, a la Mannix), the use of a mood ring as a lie detector, a hijacked shipment of Billy Beer, and during sex scenes, the dearth of pubic hair on female performers. The men they were with (all sporting huge bushy mustaches) would stop and stare in shock, asking, "Did you.... shave? Did you have chemotherapy?" (In Seventies porn, vast puffy afros of bush was preferable, women using mousse and a hair dryer to create the look of more volume.) The song "Afternoon Delight" would come on the radio, and someone would comment, "Man, the Starland Vocal Band is gonna be around forever, they're geniuses...." The Gran Torino would have special outlets in the dashboard, for the two female leads to plug their curling irons in. And Pop Rocks would be consumed compulsively.<br />
In the spring, we'd be getting in gear for our most expensive feature yet, the sequel to "Succubus." Tentatively named "Lila's Exodus," just the logistics would be a nightmare. "Succubus" had been filmed entirely in the desert of Imperial County. we essentially monopolized two motels for a month. We'd be back out in Imperial County.... Along with Inyo, Yuba, and Sutter counties. "Succubus" had under four weeks of live production time, while the sequel was probably going to be over seven weeks. Communities in Sutter and Yuba counties were guarded about their enthusiasm for our presence. Small Steve and I had scouted our locations, parlayed with private land owners, and made tentative arrangements with the counties for things like traffic control and security.<br />
The residents (except the ones who were making money off us) were nonplussed. They'd heard about what chaos Hollywood could create when filming on location. Traffic would be a mess, and so would the countryside, after we left. In nearly any interaction, locals would be treated like trespassers. They'd pull shit like shut down a main road for six hours to get ninety seconds worth of film.... and that would end up being cut out! The damn county, they just want the damn fees they'll get for letting those fools film up here. Trying to kiss Hollywood's ass, and hang around with Becky Page.<br />
"Wait, what?"<br />
Yeah. They're making the sequel to that big Becky Page movie "Succubus." I guess just about everyone who works for her studio is gonna be in this one, like before.<br />
"So, uh, Skye Tyler will be in this? And that girl Feather? And, uh, Susan Black? All of 'em?"<br />
Ought to be.<br />
"Huh." A pause. "Maybe I'll stop by the county administration building this week when I'm in town, find out the shoot schedule. Never seen a movie being made. Who knows, maybe they'll need an extra or something, somebody to walk across screen...."<br />
You damn fool. All right, which one of 'em is it you're all hot and bothered about?<br />
"I have no idea what you're talking about."<br />
Uh huh. Which one?<br />
".... Ella Belle."<br />
<br />
One community seemed annoyed enough to actually write letters to Inana. They said the same things: I'm a resident of Oregon House, CA, I understand your studio will be filming in the area come springtime, and no sir, I don't like it. We got sixty letters from Oregon House expressing their displeasure. They'd tried to get the country to rescind our use permits, and the county (damn fools) wouldn't budge. The denizens of Oregon House wanted to express their concerns directly to us, apparently for the catharsis of it.<br />
Only three actually objected to a pornographic movie --- parts of it, anyway --- being filmed locally. Some concerns seemed really out of left field: how and why would we be affecting water quality in local streams? How would we disturb animal migration paths? Mostly though, the concerns were litter, noise, disruption of traffic, and environmental damage. Everyone suggested we find somewhere else --- anywhere else --- to work. Nebulous threats were bandied about in regards to making life difficult for us.<br />
I considered that. It would be very easy for anyone with a car to totally sabotage our shooting all damn day, if they wanted. Park as close as possible and lay on the horn every twenty seconds, destroying our audio recording. One prick in a light plane could also trash the job. I discussed my concerns with Small Steve, Bekka, and Angel, then made a suggestion: Inana Productions calls a community meeting, and the four of us go to allay fears all evening. And make it clear that We Are Not Hollywood. We could humanize Inana, answer any questions, and assure people we weren't going to trash the area and split.<br />
I got 7.5 minute BLM topographic maps of the areas we'd be working in, had them color-copied and blown up, and did some marking on them. Small Steve and Bekka researched what migratory animals would be on the move when we were there, and any possible environmental concerns, like endangered local species and flora. (The spotted owl was listed as a local resident, and also some sort of rare mouse. Our instructions: "Don't chop down any trees, and don't dig any holes. Otherwise, you'll be fine.")<br />
Angel contacted Yuba County and asked about the city government of Oregon House. There was none. "How would I go about organizing a community meeting?" he asked.<br />
"Put flyers up at the post office, and local businesses," was the advice. Great.<br />
Several correspondents had included phone numbers in their letters. It was time to reach out and touch someone. We re-read the letters with numbers and decided to try a gentleman named Clint Harper, whose letter was erudite and had no misspellings. "So who calls him?" asked Bekka.<br />
The three men in the room gave her wide smiles. She huffed, rolled her eyes, and said, "Fine, whatever."<br />
"It's damn important fan service, baby," said Angel.<br />
Bekka dialed and waited a couple moments. Then, hello, Mr. Harper? Good afternoon, my name is Bekka Schneider, most people know me by my screen name, Becky Page. Yes, that's me. No, it really is me. You included a phone number in your letter to Inana Productions, which is how I got a hold of you.... What? Um, I hate to disappoint, but at the moment I'm wearing Levis, a t-shirt, and Doc Marten boots.... Yes, I do have underwear on, and to save you the trouble of asking, I'm also wearing a fucking bra. Mr. Harper, I'd like to talk about.... No. No. Mr. Harper, that is not why I'm calling..... Goodbye, you asshole.<br />
Bekka slammed the phone down and said, "Let's try contestant number two. Hopefully the next one won't think I've taken up live phone sex as a charity project."<br />
Bill Ballmer answered on the second ring and was far more cooperative. Bekka explained what we wished to do, but had no idea how to go about it, and was hoping he could be of assistance. This time, I was listening on an extension. Ballmer said, "The where will be easy enough. We got a community hall at the corner of Rices Crossing and Rices Texas Hill Roads. So, uh, when?"<br />
"We'd like to be up there on the first Saturday of December. Would there be any conflict that you know of?"<br />
"Naw, not this time of year. Grapes are dormant, crops are in, everybody's hunkering down for winter. Hold on, lemme look at a number...." He disappeared briefly, then read off a phone number. "That's Joan, she runs things over there. So uh, what else can I help you with?"<br />
"This will be a bit more of a bother," said Bekka. "Once we can confirm use of the community hall, would you be willing to make a flyer, copy it off, and post it in the area where residents will see it? It should tell people that anyone concerned with Inana Productions filming in the area can come to the community hall on such-and-such a date, where they can talk directly with the producers, director, and owner of Inana Productions. We'll be showing everyone precisely where we'll be working, and approximate dates and times. We don't want to be a disruption, we'd rather people share their concerns with us directly, so we can address them."<br />
"No bull?" asked Ballmer.<br />
"No bull. We won't be monopolizing any public areas, we will have traffic control around roads we'll be using, and much of our work will be happening on private land...."<br />
"Whose land?"<br />
I spoke, since I knew the answer. "We'll be doing a lot of filming at Mr. John Davies' place. He has a farmhouse and some outbuildings that will be perfect for what we're doing...."<br />
Ballmer laughed. "Shee-it. John's place is a dump, it ought to be condemned."<br />
"Which is why it's perfect for our needs. We wanted what appeared to be a farm that had been abandoned to the elements for fifteen years, and that's what the place looks like."<br />
"How much are you paying him?"<br />
"$2500 for three days of usage, plus an extra $600 for three horses," I replied.<br />
More laughter from Ballmer. "Well, that ought to keep the old bastard in Jim Beam and Skoal for a while. Don't put nobody too heavy on those horses, them nags'll break in half. Where else are you gonna be working?"<br />
"Um...." I scoured my brain. "Candlewood Way, Yuba-Nevada Road, and Scott Forbes Road. Those are the ones we'll need to be putting traffic breaks on while we film. We want to ensure people they won't see delays longer than twenty minutes...."<br />
Ballmer found this highly amusing too. "You can delay all you damn please out there, that's the boonies. Nobody's out there at all, I'll be damned if there's three residences on either Forbes or Yuba-Nevada. Anybody driving around out there ain't up to no good, so screw 'em. Just tweakers looking to party somewhere." He snorted through his nose and said, "See, I think people were worried you was gonna be blocking off Marysville Road, or Rices Crossing, jamming up the through roads. Shit, I'll start spreading that word tomorrow, that'll make people breathe easier. Damn county won't tell anyone what the hell is happening, where you'll be working or when."<br />
"Sounds like bull," said Bekka. "We're happy to let people know where we'll be, and when, and what we'll be doing. Our only request is we be left alone, more or less. We're trying to convey an utterly desolate place, an area that's been abandoned for a long time. Traffic noise won't help." She paused. "Tell you what. We'll let any autograph hounds know where we'll be after we break every afternoon. Is there a good bar in Oregon House?"<br />
"Nope. You gotta drive all the damn way into Hallwood for a bar, and that place is a sty. You want a drink, stop by the market and keep the bottle in a bag, like everyone else."<br />
"All right then. We'll stop by your local market --- I'm guessing there's only one --- every afternoon around six, when we're headed to our motels. We're doing some night filming, but we'll still want a break around that time. Anyone wants to meet us can do so then. Oh! Uh, tell me.... Do you know a gentleman named Clint Harper?"<br />
"I do," came Ballmer's response. "Why do you ask?"<br />
In a sweet voice, Bekka asked, "Is Mr. Harper single?"<br />
"Nope. Been married forty years, if it's a day. Why?"<br />
"In lieu of exchanging information, as you and I have done, Mr. Harper instead expressed great curiosity about what I was wearing, if I had underwear on, and what I was doing with my free hand while we spoke. I could tell what he was doing with his free hand, at least until I hung up. He seems to be a very lonely man."<br />
This bit of news set Ballmer to laughing hard, for two minutes straight. Ballmer enjoyed a good laugh.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10230648449521958270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033784518790200307.post-63067551345766041242017-05-03T04:12:00.001-07:002017-07-19T02:27:39.851-07:00Sisters (Part 9) ".... So you see how this could be a very beneficial arrangement," said Ian Hollis of the pay cable channel Cinemax. "So, are you on board? I can fax you contracts to sign in five minutes."<br />
I laughed into the phone. "You're kidding, right? A major deal like you're talking about, and you'd have contracts ready in five minutes? Do you have any idea how many details we've gotta cover? Don't expect my signature on anything for at least a couple weeks.... And it won't be just my signature you're after. There's no way in hell I'd even start an agreement like this without talking to Angel, the owner."<br />
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"The who?" queried Hollis.<br />
"Angel Morelli, majority owner of Inana Productions. He's my boss. I may be the Big Cheese around here, but I'm ultimately just an employee. Did you think I own this joint?"<br />
"It's the impression I've had," Hollis responded, sounding a bit annoyed. "I've never heard any mention of a silent partner."<br />
"He's not a silent partner," I chuckled. "Angel handles the long view and the okay on major products. He is the final arbiter, and he knows exactly what's going on around here. But Angel also owns five other adult studios, as well as a couple other businesses. You're in LA, right?"<br />
"Yeah."<br />
"You familiar with 5110 Century Park West in Century City? The Italian place? That's his. If we're gonna be negotiating, plan on spending a bit of time there. Even if we end up yelling at each other to fuck off, you'll at least have had a few damn good meals." I paused. "You know, the longer I think about it, the more curious I am about the contract you said you can fax me in five minutes. You already have a contract ready, for a deal between Inana and Cinemax."<br />
"Yes, I do," bubbled Hollis.<br />
"What does it say?" I asked.<br />
Hollis' voice took on a dishonest purr, like a used car salesman trying to unload a Mercedes whose block was cracked. "Really, Mr. Schneider, this deal isn't all that complex. For two years, Inana Productions produces fifteen episodes of each of your four series, which Cinemax will have exclusive rights to. Cinemax will ---"<br />
I cut in. "Um, excuse me? What the fuck did you just say? Cinemax holds exclusive rights? Yeah, no. You've already told me you're going to pixelate out the genitalia and hardcore action. You'd better believe Inana will be holding ultimate control of the different series, tapes of the series will be available, un-edited, through mail order and in the video stores. No, Cinemax is licensing the use of the series', and that's it. I don't give things away for free, at least not things I put my heart and soul into."<br />
"How sentimental," said Hollis in a sneering voice. "Okay, fine, Cinemax is the only entity the series' will be licensed to. Inana will retain ownership, and Cinemax holds all the rights for two years. Inana will receive ---"<br />
I growled into the phone, "Oh Jesus Christ. I hope you simply misspoke when you said Cinemax holds 'all the rights.' That covers a lot of territory, and I have a hunch that I'd not be willing to cede all that territory." A thought struck me. I suddenly made my voice friendlier. "Tell you what, Mr. Hollis, why don't you fax me this contract you've already got prepared, and I'll take a look at it. If I see something I think needs changing, we'll go over it, you know, hash things out."<br />
"Absolutely, Mr. Schneider," Hollis chirped. He was sure I was almost on his hook, he'd be reeling me in shortly. "Tell you what, you read over the contract, sign it, and fax it back. Any issues you have can be corrected and written in later. How does that sound?"<br />
Like a complete con, I thought. I said out loud, "Works for me. Send that fax."<br />
Four minutes later the fax machine in my office kicked into action. It spit out three pages and stopped. I took a glance: the machine had paper, it wasn't jammed, and the display said the fax was complete. So, the contract for a deal between a broadcaster (Cinemax) and a production company (Inana), which would cover four separate series and last two years, fit on three pieces of paper.<br />
Silly me, only two. The first sheet was a cover page. The "contract" was written in a clumsy version of Legalese, like the author was a junior high kid pretending to be a lawyer. The actual stipulations were crafted in a very nebulous manner, which could easily be interpreted to greatly benefit Cinemax. Basically, the contract was written in a way that would give Cinemax everything, leaving Inana holding an empty bag for two years.... Oh wait, the two year time frame would actually restart for the first year's series when Cinemax received their final second season episodes.<br />
One of the most insulting things about the contract was what Cinemax thought was a fair price for 120 original episodes of programming. I punched at my calculator for a couple minutes and realized we would be losing money on production alone. Okay, some ventures are produced in the red, but their plan was to make a mint off merchandising.... But since Cinemax would hold "all the rights" to the four series for three years, we couldn't sell a thing, not without having to give Cinemax a large percentage of our gross.<br />
As I was thumping calculator keys Bekka breezed in. "What's shakin', lover?"<br />
"Dealing with a prick," I muttered, not looking up from the calculator.<br />
"Your calculator is being a prick?"<br />
I sighed and handed Bekka the fax, explaining who it was from and what it was supposed to do. "Read it, and tell me the bastard doesn't think I'm some kind of dimwitted asshole," I told her.<br />
She read it over and set it down. "Yeah.... Whoever sent you that seems to be working on the presumption that you're a dunce. Who is he again?"<br /> "A Mr. Ian Hollis, of Cinemax. Me and Angel agree that Inana and Cinemax working together would be mutually beneficial, they'd air the series videos in their late-night slots, but with the hardcore blurred. Hell, Angel was gonna call them next week and try to get the ball rolling, this Hollis prick called me out of the blue. But if this is how Cinemax thinks they can treat us, all bets are off. We'll just wait until the Fox Network starts airing porn, or something." I looked at the numbers I'd come up with. "Jesus, we'd be losing our shirts if I pretended that was a real contract...."<br />
"Try and talk to someone besides the moron who sent you that fax," Bekka advised. "I'll see you at lunch, I have to run over to La Costa." My wife breezed out.<br />
I rang back Hollis, saying into the phone, "Hello, Ian baby."<br />
"So shall I listen for my fax machine?" Hollis asked.<br />
"No.... No, not yet. Just a few things we need to clear up. Tell me, Ian, what do you know about me?"<br />
"What do you mean?"<br />
In an airy manner, I told him, "You know, basic bio information, what you've read about me, what sort of person I am. I'm just curious. With a celebrity wife, I sometimes wonder how well I'm known to the general public."<br />
"Let's see.... You're twenty-five, about six foot, and into the punk rock thing. You're married to Becky Page. Um.... You wrote and produced the first ten or so features Inana released, so you're pretty darn smart. Oh, and you like Johnnie Walker Red."<br />
"Is that all? You hold no other opinions of me? Looking at the contract, it's obvious you think I'm a fucking idiot."<br />
Silence from Hollis, then a bit of fake indignant annoyance sputtered out. "What the hell do you mean by that?"<br />
"The contract has such broad reach, has so few details, that it could easily be interpreted to say that Cinemax holds the right to all four series for three years, during which it can do merchandising, theater showings.... Hell, you could duplicate your own copies of the videos. What you're offering to pay me demonstrates either you are stupid, or you think I'm stupid. And of course your instructions were to sign the contract and fax it back, and we'd fix any details later. Um, no, you can't amend a signed contract after the fact.<br />
"So does Cinemax have a real interest in doing business with Inana? Or was this just a way to pass the time this afternoon, seeing if you could reel in a sucker?" I paused, then asked. "Do you read Variety?"<br />
"Yeah...."<br />
I made an evil cackle. "I figured you do. You've read all the mean things the mainstream studio honchos have said about me, you've seen my picture. I'm gonna guess you figured I really am the halfwit thug Mancuso and Diller and the rest say I am, that I'm numb from the neck up. Cinemax would get 120 episodes of original hardcore for next to nothing, and could profit in a lot of ways, and Inana couldn't say a thing about it. You'd have a signed contract from Leonard Schneider.<br />
"You figure that I'm young, and Barry Diller says I'm a lout, so you can pull a hustle on me, and a sizable one. Sorry, no, that's not the way things work on my planet. And I don't like people who question my intelligence." My voice got louder. "Answer me this, Ian. Does Cinemax want to do business with Inana Productions or not?"<br />
He didn't yell or curse me back, but instead kicked into a sharp bored voice saying, "Look Schneider, you're down in San Diego, playing around at running a damn porn studio. I wasn't going to waste too much time with you, I figured you really are as dumb as you look. Okay, maybe you do have a brain cell or two. Yeah, Cinemax would love to work something out with Inana, your studio's garbage has everyone all ga-ga. Don't worry, my next contract will be better, but Schneider?"<br />
"Yeah?"<br />
"I'll still rob you blind. Maybe you're not entirely stupid, but you're not that smart, either. Shit, you pick fights with the studio executives here in LA, like a drunk street criminal. You piss those guys off, you're cutting your own throat You may be a savant as a film-maker, but you're a dummy, overall. You've destroyed your career in Hollywood."<br />
"My goodness," I shot back. "So I'm now finished with a career I'd never started? All those times I said 'Fuck Hollywood,' and the executives should all kill themselves, I wasn't kidding. I wasn't trying to attract attention to myself. I was asked my feelings on a subject, and I answered honestly.<br />
"This may come as a surprise, but these days I don't sign a fucking room service slip without having it vetted by a couple lawyers. Um, I'd have caught your phrases and weasel words myself, plus the added layer of protection from the lawyers. If Cinemax is serious, you and I will have a nice meal together, just the two of us. You and me, we'll eat, drink and talk, and I'll see if your brain has rolled back into place. Any more comedy routines, and your afternoon will start to take a downturn."<br />
"Oh, what are you going to do, Schneider, beat me up?" giggled Hollis. "Gonna prove you're just the violent punker criminal you appear to be? Is that your solution to everything?"<br />
"Hardly," I replied. "But I've noticed, with a lot of LA and Hollywood types, it's the only thing that gets them to pay attention to what I'm saying. LA people, Jesus. An entire tribe of snotty, condescending jerks with the most baseless superiority complexes ever witnessed. Minnesotans live up to their passive-aggressive rep, but you LA people take the cake. Do you know how much deep shit you all would be in if you were anywhere else on the planet? I mean, the very first time you interact with me, you try to rip me off. Now you've been talking shit, like I'm supposed to put up with being insulted by you, for some reason. Literally, anywhere else in the country you'd be missing teeth right now, if we were face to face. LA people confuse poor manners with 'being honest,' elitism with nonchalance, and a big mouth with wit.<br />
"Be at 5110 Century Park West tomorrow at 12.30, we'll have lunch. Feel free to bring a friend. I'll be bringing one, a girl named Terry. Bring a date, bring a friend, bring a bodyguard for all I care. You say Cinemax wants to do business with me. I'll decide if that's true tomorrow, it depends on your actions, words, and behavior. If I think Cinemax is serious, we'll set up a real business meeting for Monday. If I think you're yanking my chain, patronizing me, or otherwise treating me as though I have no honor.... Well.... Anyway, we'll eat out on the patio, surrounded by other people."<br />
I almost could hear Hollis directing a supercilious look at his phone. "The patio, huh?" he asked. "Guess what, I've eaten at 5110 before, have you? I figure that maybe you're cousins with one of the kitchen workers, and they might get you seated.... But not on the patio, you're full of shit. Tell you what, let's make a little bet. A thousand dollars says we're eating with the tourists in the main dining room tomorrow. You got a grand?"<br />
"I do," I replied. "What the hell, let's make it five grand."<br />
A few ticks slipped past, then Hollis said, "You're that confident."<br />
"You'd better believe it."<br />
Another handful of ticks, then, "Never mind, forget it. See you tomorrow." The phone was clattered into its cradle. I drummed my fingers briefly, then called Terry and Bekka to know of my business meeting the next day.<br />
<br />
Terry the Terror and I drove up in Jane's Cutlass. Normally we'd have rode the putts, but I wanted some conversation as we drove. "You think this motherfucker is squirrely?" asked Terry.<br />
"I think he's a Los Angeles native," I responded. "He's got a lot of behaviors in common with Ron Haley, you know? He automatically assumed I'm a moron, and --- since he's so smart --- decided to rip off Inana, big time. When I called him out on it, he didn't have the slightest sense of recrimination. Instead, he started the same bullshit Haley did, verbally abusing me, putting me down, and acting like it's my duty to sit there and take it. I explained that anywhere else in the country, he'd be getting an attitude adjustment, but I don't think he believed me."<br />
"Why the fuck are you dealing with this dude at all?"<br />
I ran my fingers through my hair, and said, "Because it could potentially be very lucrative. Conceptually, Inana and Cinemax's late-night department working together should be golden for all concerned. Cinemax would be drawing more subscribers by being able to announce they have original programming from Inana Productions and Becky Page. The sex and the genitalia will be pixelated when the episodes air, but Inana will have the uncensored tapes available. And if any of the series picks up a solid following, we'll all have a great opportunity for merchandising. Shit, they can carry some products, we'll carry others in retail shops. Oh, and tapes are released for sale before the episodes on the broadcast are shown."<br />
The day before, Terry and Bekka had put on sort of an impromptu signing at the Smut 'N' Stuff in Mira Mesa. "Becky" signed autographs, and gently prodded customers about what they thought regarding the four series. Overall, a positive response. The two comedies seemed to be the most popular. Bekka's personal hunch was that if the series was more female-friendly, the series "Co-ed Housing" would rank higher, women would want the emotional involvement that came with the drama. "Pulse of Night" really was falling flat, no question about its replacement now. This surprised me, I figured anyone who just wanted a good suck and fuck loop starring Inana Girls would be pleased with "Pulse." Nope, people pointed out that it was just like a loop, with maybe a dozen lines of dialogue mixed in.... As if that was a bad thing. It seemed that anyone looking for Inana's videos wanted genuine entertainment, not merely wank-fodder.<br />
We arrived, turned the car in to the valet, and landed on a bench outside the entry arch. Hollis arrived in the usual Los Angeles native manner, "fashionably late." About fifteen or twenty minutes late, just at the point when the person who's waiting starts to wonder if they've been ditched. I had no clue what Hollis looked like, it was safe to assume he'd recognize me, even if I'd still been blonde in my last Variety photos. (My hair was blue now.) A 5-Series BMW shot into the valet driveway way too fast, coming to a halt with a screech of rubber. The valets opened doors, and the occupants got out.<br />
The passenger was a thirty-ish bleached blonde woman, looking like the white girl in a Benneton ad. She stood on the walkway and waited for the driver, who seemed to be giving instructions to the valet tasked with parking the car. Finally, I got a look at him. 100% Hollywood player. Blow-dried and moussed hair (lightened some), pastel sport coat over a red t-shirt, creased Levi 501s, and top-siders. One eyebrow was cocked up, and his mouth held a teeth-baring grin. Even from that distance, the teeth seemed unnaturally white. This seemed to be his default facial expression, it stayed that way as he spotted and approached me, attache in hand.<br />
Terry is a pure gold Biker Bitch. Boots, tight black jeans, Jack Daniels t-shirt, sleeveless flannel shirt, bandanna, hair braided and held captive in a black leather wrap at the back, and cheap wraparound shades, just like mine. I was in my usual Doc Martens, Ben Davis, t-shirt, and abused, stud-covered denim jacket. The jacket had seen better days, I'd been shot while wearing it three times. It was a talisman at this point, I'd wear it until it rotted. My hair was about an inch and a half long, slightly spiky. I had three rings in one ear, two in the other, and a ten-gauge septum ring in my nose (a.k.a. a bull ring). I was pretty recognizable.<br />
I nudged Terry and we stood, watching them approach, puffing our respective cigarettes. Hollis got up close and said, "Hello, you must be Leonard! I'm Ian Hollis." (He didn't extend his hand, and neither did I.) "This is Ambrosia, a friend of mine."<br />
The blonde nodded at us loosely, then said, "Oh my God, he really does look like that."<br />
I ignored this and said, "Lenny Schneider. This is Terry Patton, she's part-time production crew and part-time bodyguard for my wife."<br />
"Your wife?" asked Ambrosia.<br />
"I know her as Bekka Schneider. The rest of the world knows her as Becky Page."<br />
Hollis started giggling. "Are you really going to hold on to that fabrication?"<br />
A bit lost, I said, "What?"<br />
"The whole tale about Becky Page being married to her producer, Lenny Schneider. It's a fantasy your studio concocted, for whatever reason. Becky Page would not be married to.... you."<br />
I stared at him briefly, then said, "You know what? I'm not even going to bother arguing with you at the moment. That will waste time and energy. We're here to discuss specific things, and I have an odd feeling you're going to try the old debate strategy of keeping me distracted and annoyed by constantly trying to pick fights over irrelevant subjects.... Like who my wife is. Let's go in."<br />
The doorman swung the heavy glass doors open for us. giving me a smile and saying, "Good afternoon, Mr. Schneider."<br />
"How ya doing, Ray?" I responded. "Still lifting?"<br />
"Oh yeah. I'm benching about 210 now, and I'm getting more defined where I want to be. Thanks for introducing me to your friend Jill, she's a fantastic trainer. Enjoy your lunch, sir."<br />
Two couples were standing at the maitre'd's podium. They were together. And they were obviously of the Midwest tourist class. Bruno the maitre'd, 120 pounds of raging queen, wasn't allowing them in.... Well, he wasn't telling them that, merely smiling and telling them it would be about ninety minutes before a free table. His eyes lit on me, and he broke off with them mid-word to come and greet me. "Hello, Mr. Schneider! It's been weeks since I've laid eyes on you, sugar. Four, on the patio?"<br />
I put my hand out to shake. Bruno felt the twenty I had palmed as we shook hands, and my palm was empty when I took the hand back. Bruno trotted down to find a table. The tourists had all pivoted to watch him as he left his podium to greet me, then go out onto the patio. They were making sounds of confusion and annoyance. "What is he... Of all the.... We were here first...."<br />
All of them were glaring at me. With my shades still in place, I said, "I have reservations, Bruno knows me. I eat here a lot."<br />
All four were in sneakers and sweat pants, the two men had fanny packs. One of them scowled and said in a shallow Southern twang, "They'll allow you to eat here dressed like that?"<br />
Terry and I both giggled briefly. I replied, "Well, you know, there is a certain cachet and style about my sense of dress. Um, to be frank? Y'all are in sweat pants and cheap running shoes. I seriously doubt Bruno will allow you to eat here, dressed like that."<br />
Terry added, "Besides, Lenny here has been shot while wearing that jacket three or four times. It's his fuckin' good luck denim."<br />
"That doesn't sound like good luck to me," commented one of the women.<br />
"Well, fuck.... He's still alive, isn't he?"<br />
The other man asked, "What were you doing, that you were being shot at?"<br />
I gave an airy look at the ceiling and said, "Oh.... You know. Driving on the local freeways." I pointed out different holes and rips. "This was on the 405. This one was on I-10. This was on I-110, right in Compton."<br />
"But why were people shooting at you at all?"<br />
Terry knew how to play this game. She answered, "Aw, who fuckin' knows most of the time, dude. Some motherfuckers wanna loot your car. There'll be four of them in a big American car. They'll pick a victim and shoot them. If the driver isn't fuckin' killed and the car crashes, the driver is gonna at least pull the fuck over and try to ring 911 on their cell phones. But the crew will jump out of their own fuckin' car and swarm the victim. They steal the stereo, of course, and take anything and everything else of value. They search the driver. If the crew ain't happy with what they got, sometimes they'll throw the poor motherfucker, living or dead, into traffic. Ba da bing, another missing persons report filed. The fuckin' traffic on the freeways will pulverize your entire body into a long red streak in about a half hour. Even your teeth get ground to powder. CalTrans will spot the places where fuckin' people were smeared and use a pressure hose to clean the shit up late at night, when traffic is light."<br />
I continued the tall tale. "Or, maybe someone thinks you cut him off or was otherwise rude. He can't handle the blow to his ego, so bang bang bang. Gang members go 'hunting' for fun. The gang will choose a model of car to 'hunt' that day, everyone gets in cars, and they all go out on the freeways to look for anyone driving that car. When they spot one, they're start blasting away at it, putting as much fuckin' lead into the car as possible. The driver is killed, of course. They just do that shit for fun, though, they're not looting cars."<br />
"And, you know, there's a whole fuckin' lot of wingnuts in California," Terry went on. "Thank fuckin' Reagan for that. He closed the mental hospitals to save money and turned all the looneys out on the street. Well, shit, that was in the early Seventies. There's a whole fuckin' underground culture of seriously mentally ill people in California. The majority are homeless. And at this point, they're reproducing, you think crazy people don't wanna get laid? So you'll have two fuckin' nuts living in an overturned dumpster, and they've got a kid now, and their kids have inherited the craziness from both parents.<br />
"So there are some motherfuckers on the freeways who are seriously unhinged. They can't even process the concept of 'killing' or 'murder.' They'll steal a fuckin' car and drive the fuck around in it all day, shooting at random people, until they run out of gas. Then they'll abandon the car and go the fuck home."<br />
"There's also the crooked cops, and the survivalists, and the racists, and on and on," I elaborated. "The cops are the worst. Meth addiction is nearly universal in the California Highway Patrol. So these cops all need extra money to score dope, and they'll shake down random motorists. Sorta like Chicago cops, but way more aggressive. Pull you over, do the usual bullshit with your license and registration, and they'll ask straight up how much cash you have on you. Sometimes, if they don't like the answer, they'll just pull their guns and shoot you in the head where you sit. <br />
"Me, I learned a trick. While the cop is still at my window, I'll tell him, 'Gosh, officer, I'll let you know I have drugs in the car right now, I won't hide it.' The cop will ask where, I'll tell him in the glove box. I keep an eight ball of dope in there, for exactly this purpose. The cop says he'll look for himself. He gets in the passenger side and digs through the glove box. He'll find the dope, palm it, then tell me he can't find anything, I'm clean. I'm free to go."<br />
"Fuckin' CHP is off the hook these days," said Terry. "They might be the scariest thing on the fuckin' road. All the CHP officers are totally tweaked the fuck out, they'll go for a couple weeks at a time without sleeping. So naturally they're on edge and jumpy. They've become this psycho fuckin' vigilante group, funded by the state. Some of them don't even have homes anymore, they'll basically live out of their fuckin' patrol cars. They'll use the bathrooms in fast food places to wash and shave. Then it's back the fuck out on the road, just constantly cruising, cruising, cruising, twenty-four hours a fuckin' day. They'll make traffic stops and shit, respond to dispatch, but.... You'll see the lights in the mirror and pull over. You'll check the mirror again and realize the CHP car has a fuckin' blower, a supercharger, sticking out of the hood. Seriously, patrolmen will customize their fuckin' squad cars. And the patrolman will walk up. Unshaven, reeking of meth-sweat, he'll have hacked the sleeves off his uniform shirt. Also, along with his usual sidearm, he's got a fuckin' MAC-10 hanging across his back by a strap. You'll barely be able to understand what the fuck he's saying 'cos he's gritting his teeth so hard from being spun out."<br />
I continued, "And they all have this really twisted sense of duty. They think they're the Knights Errant or something, on a holy quest to keep California's freeways safe. It's rare to see more than two running together on a freeway, but they'll hang out as a group. They have their radios, so five or seven will say, 'Hey, let's go get some beer and head for the city park!' Holy fuckin' shit. Crips only wish they were that scary, when they're all in one group. They'll drive straight into the middle of the park, get out, and party for a few hours. Just drinking beer and snorting meth off their trunk lids, yelling and hollering like drunk bikers. When the beer is all gone, then they start, ahem, patrolling again.<br />
"Yeah, if you're driving, and the CHP lights you up? Just stay as calm as possible. Smile, slow motions, simple and clear responses to questions. You've got a heavily armed feral animal demanding to see your license and insurance card, you know? Don't even dream about trying to bolt. First off, you can't drive faster than radio signals. Also, the patrol cars have a sub-frame under the bodywork. They can use their cars like a fuckin' battering ram, and do. If they're pissed at you, and it's the right layout, they'll hit you until you're disabled, then get a running start and knock your car --- with you in it --- onto the surface streets below. In too much of LA, being white, unarmed, and on foot is a death sentence. You're not gonna live to see dawn. The locals will feed your bodies to their fighting pit bulls, to make them like the taste of human blood."<br />
The four tourists stared in horror at Terry and me. Terry got one last jab in. "By the way? All the looters and muggers and fuckin' gang bangers would like to thank you for wearing fanny packs. That way, all your good expensive shit, plus your money and fuckin' credit cards, are in one spot and easy to carry."<br />
"How do you stand it?" asked one of the men in a quavering voice.<br />
Terry and I looked at each other in mock confusion. I said, "Well, shit. It's just what life is like, you know? Both of us are SoCal natives. It's all we've ever known. We both think it's funny as hell when we meet people from out of the area, and they're wearing religious symbols.... like that one." I pointed at the small gold cross around one woman's neck and gave a wolf's grin. "There is no point to life, there is no meaning, there is no God.... You try to keep alive, and have as much fun as possible, 'cos it might be your last day on earth. Our lives revolve around guns, fast cars, sex, violence, drugs, more sex, and loud music. God is dead, he got rolled in Lawndale by a pipe-head for the loose change in his pocket."<br />
"Think about the most intense fuckin' adrenaline rush you've ever had," smiled Terry. "Now imagine that feeling never going away! If you can do that, you can kind of understand what the fuck our lives are like. Hup, Bruno is ready for us."<br />
Bruno was standing patiently, waiting for us with a smile. I started to move towards him, and he led out out onto the patio to a table. He asked, "So what terrible lies are you telling the tourists now?"<br />
"About the culture of death that is Los Angeles. Especially the freeways. I convinced them the CHP are some sort of tax-funded band of marauders at this point. The patrolmen are all tweakers, and they're always wanting to score, so they'll shake down random motorists."<br />
Bruno squinted about sixty feet away, to where his station was. "They seem to have flown the coop," he observed. "Once again, thank you, Lenny."<br />
"No sweat, sweetie," I said, giving him a maiden aunt kiss on the cheek. Benny, our waiter, replaced Bruno at the table. He smiled and greeted me cordially. Having learned from repetition, he stated, "Double Johnnie Walker over ice for Mr. Schneider, and three Budweisers for Miss Terror." Terry and I nodded our assent. Addressing Hollis and Ambrosia, he asked for their drink orders. A white wine spritzer (Ambrosia), and a Bartles and Jaymes wine cooler (Hollis, God help us all).<br />
We waited for the drinks to arrive in silence, glaring at each other through our sunglasses.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10230648449521958270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033784518790200307.post-13650794015465909452017-05-03T04:12:00.000-07:002017-07-19T08:54:37.286-07:00Sisters (Part 10) We sipped our drinks and considered each other across the table. I know Terry and I always subconsciously asked the same question when meeting new people: can I drop this person? I had absolutely no worries about Ian Hollis. There was no doubt in my mind that he would sneeringly insist that physical violence was the tool of the simpleminded and vulgar, someone who was unable to defend an intellectual position. Ambrosia also had the look of a Los Angeles native: I didn't need to see her eyes to know they were communicating to the world how bored she was at the moment, especially with the present company. Ohmigawd, a punk rocker and a biker chick. Eww. The sort of people they have in hellholes like Upland and Fontana and Lake Elsinore, complete white trash.<br />
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I broke the ice first. "So, Ian darling. Have you written a new contract proposal? Actually use your brain when you wrote it this time? Something that won't insult my intelligence?"<br />
Hollis smirked, "I'm a bit surprised you didn't come up with a lawyer, someone to help you with the big words. Instead, you brought Biker Barbie here."<br />
"You didn't answer my question. Did you bring a real proposal today? Yes or no."<br />
He seethed and said, "Yes."<br />
I gave a wide smile. "Well, let's take a look. I'm assuming this will have a lot of the minutiae addressed, details hammered out." I added, "I'm surprised you brought Valerie Valley with you, instead of both a lawyer and a bodyguard. I'd have paid for the bodyguard's meal. We'd have fed the lawyer by throwing scraps on the floor."<br />
"Let me guess, you have no use for lawyers," asserted Hollis.<br />
"Depends on the situation. Lawyers under my employ are always the most wonderful human beings in the world, a cross between Mr. Rogers and the Dalai Lama. Everyone else's lawyers spend most of their days at the bottoms of ponds, sucking mud for nutrients. Anyway, lay it on me."<br />
Hollis lifted the attache and pulled a sheath of papers out. At least the size was improving. Reading through it was a slog, Hollis had doubled down on the Legalese, no sense using four words to express yourself when you could use twenty-two of them Latin. I chuckled and kept reading. Okay, he'd corrected the problem with the duration of Cinemax's period of use. He'd created different categories like "Merchandising," "Video Sales," "Live appearances,' and "Spin-offs." Wait, what?<br />
Oh dear. Hollis felt that having leased the rights to some video, he was entitled to have an equal voice in the creative process.... including the creation of spin-offs. I had the feeling Hollis was pretty much clueless about all four series, he'd read the back of the video boxes and that's it. While I was going through the twenty of so pages, Hollis said, "Is there a problem, Lenny? Too many big words? I want to order lunch, not wait while you struggle with written English."<br />
I flicked an eye up at him, lazily gave him the finger, then returned to the contract. "Go ahead and order. Terry and me have the menu memorized at this point. It's all fantastic, too. Don't bother with the distractions, sweetie. Lemme guess, you were on the debate team in college and picked up the tricks of manipulating an adversary, right? Hold your water, mind your manners, and wait until I'm done."<br />
Terry removed her shades.... Then shot a hand across the table and grabbed Hollis' sunglasses, yanking them off. She set them on the table. Now she could get a better look at the man across from her. Two or so years of being the bodyguard for a celebrity, a sex symbol, had taught her how to eye-lock people. Remember having staring contests when you were a kid? This was the same sort of thing, but the goal was to break the other person's spirit.<br />
Terry's eye-lock on Hollis was as flexible as the Transamerica Tower, and weighed more. With a placid face and voice, she stated, "You're beginning to work my nerves. Drop the insults against Lenny, motherfucker. They kind of annoy me."<br />
Hollis gave Terry a judging look for a moment, then said, "So, you're Becky Page's bodyguard? Is this ego on her part? Why does she think people are trying to hurt her?"<br />
"And just over a year ago, four tried to murder her in the studio," replied Terry. "Don't tell me you never heard of that. I was in on the action. Four motherfuckers with rifles and shotguns had Bekka and Lenny pinned. Lenny took a couple rounds, Bekka thought he'd bought the fuckin' farm. I was at the top of the stairs, and I was providing cover fire.... And here comes Bekka, her own gun in one hand, Lenny's Beretta in the other, and she ventilates all four of the motherfuckers. I had to hold her back, she was gonna fuckin' execute them right on the floor. She thought Lenny was dead, and was out of her fuckin' skull."<br />
"Really?" asked Hollis. "Why did she care?"<br />
I looked up at this. Terry was briefly stunned into silence, then said, "What the fuck sort of question is that? She thought her fuckin' husband was dead! Man, why are you so dumb?"<br />
Hollis made himself sound amused by this comment. While he was laughing, I re-stacked the contract proposal and slid the pile away from me. I stated to Hollis, "I'm assuming I can keep this copy."<br />
"No, that's the original," Hollis answered.<br />
I started snorting with laughter. "Wait, hold on. So.... This is the only copy of a document which is needed to enact a business deal? There's some sharp planning, Skeezix. Oh well, it's a piece of shit, it's as useless as the joke I saw yesterday. You're not learning, and you're wasting my time. Start one and stop the other."<br />
I whacked the papers. "Yesterday, you tried to ponce off a pathetic joke of a proposal on me. Not only was it vague, it was purposely so. It would have given Cinemax total control of four Inana productions' series. This thing here uses a shitload more words, but says the same things.... In Latin, on a few occasions.<br />
"You did make a bit of headway into one aspect of a contract which is needed: enumerating the various possible merchandising possibilities. Also setting solid dates for production deadlines." I sighed. "But beyond that, it's the same bullshit, only it's the extended dance mix version. Cinemax would have the rights to everything, Inana gets nothing, except two years of work with no payoff, at any point. You packed the whole thing full of triple-negatives, weasel words, and pompous bullshit. I asked yesterday, and I'll ask again: Do you think I'm dense? You must, if you thought I'd see this new piece of shit totally differently from the old one.<br />
"Really, at this point I'm getting fed up. I'm dealing with some mook from Cinemax who insists the company wants to do some business with Inana, But twice now, the mook has insulted me and my intelligence. We hadn't spoken for twenty seconds when you lobbed your first insult at me today, for no real reason. You insulted me just to be insulting, you wanted to get me annoyed. It's an old sports mind-fuck game, get the opponent rattled, watch the performance suffer.<br />
"Mr. Hollis? You are out of chances. You're going to engage in discussion with the main guy at Inana Productions --- me --- to work out a contract. The contract will discuss Inana's creation and production of a total of half hour mini-features. The contract also covers various points involved with production and delivery schedule, marketing, merchandising, and possibly involve live appearances by the stars.<br />
"So I have two yes or no questions for you. Do you think I'm a fucking idiot, and are you capable of thinking about, and talking about, business? Can you talk business with me, or just talk shit?"<br />
Hollis' confident smirk was in place. In a magnanimous tone, he smiled at me and said, "Lenny, my friend, I have no doubt that you're an idiot. You are capable of spotting patterns, and analyzing them.... But most mammals are. You've displayed a higher level of intelligence than I expected, that's all. And I'm always happy to talk business. I'll try to keep things simple, for your sake, when I do. I've been willing to sign a contract for two days now, you're the one who's been obstructing things." He shook his head sadly. "I've been more than generous with you, with my time and knowledge. You may end up blowing this deal, due to your own limitations."<br />
I nodded my head slowly. "Uh huh. My limitations. Right. My refusal to sign anything has nothing to do with you coming up with these lame, one-sided bullshit proposals that would give Cinemax everything and Inana nothing except debt. And for the last two days I've had to deal with a smug, patronizing bag of shit with a wildly inflated sense of self. One of those lames who always thinks he's the smartest guy in the room. I'm going to ask you for the last time: are you willing to engage in some rather dry but constructive talk? Or will your massive ego keep getting in the way?"<br />
I received a pitying look from Hollis. "Lenny, my friend.... I'm quite sure I'm the smartest person at this table. There's no question about it. I've given you an opportunity to save face and accept your fate easily, but you keep being obstinate and difficult. No matter what we end up signing, the upshot will be that Cinemax gets everything, Inana gets nothing. You'll sign, because you like to pretend you are smart, and capable of running a business like a big boy. But Cinemax will always have the upper hand, when it comes to contending with tiny outfits like yours. Really Lenny, you're like a prisoner struggling against his guards as he's walked to the firing squad. Relax, and accept your fate with a bit of dignity, show that much self-respect. But you can't win against me. You're a small-time criminal from San Diego, and you need to yield to your superiors." Hollis slid the contract over, thumbed through it to the right page, and pointed. "Sign right there, Lenny. Stop embarrassing yourself by pretending you're intelligent, or understand how to operate a business. You're only making your own life difficult."<br />
I smiled benevolently at Hollis while grabbing my salad fork. The fork was violently stabbed down onto the contract proposal, millimeters from Hollis' pointing finger. He jerked his hand away. Benny was drifting past, and I waved at him. I asked, "Excuse me, Benny, is Mr. Morelli in his office?"<br />
"He is, Mr. Schneider," Benny assured me. "Would you like me to get him?"<br />
I said, "Actually.... I'd like to meet him in his office, me and a friend. Do me a favor, run ahead to tell him Lenny would like to show off the garden to a friend, and I'd like it if he'll join us. We have a business deal to discuss."<br />
Benny grinned widely. "Absolutely, sir! I'll let him know you're on your way." Benny trotted off.<br />
I turned to Terry and said, "Me and his nibs here will be gone a few minutes. Talk to you in a few." I kissed her.<br />
I gestured to Hollis to follow me. As we walked, he said, "You're only going to embarrass yourself in front of your own boss. He'll never trust you again."<br />
"What you just said makes no sense," I responded. "I'm introducing someone Inana may do business with to the owner.... Although us doing business looks less and less likely."<br />
"You'll be demonstrating your own incompetence and weakness," came she smug reply. "You can't make a decision without having someone holding your hand. You're supposed to handle things on your own, and you have to waste your boss's time instead. He doesn't want to see you, why else would he keep you well out of sight, down in San Diego?"<br />
I changed subjects. "You know, we've got a lovely garden here at the trattoria. You really should see it, the experience can be life-changing. Angel and I will walk you through."<br />
Angel's door was open when we walked up. Seeing me approach, he grinned and stood, giving me an Italian man-hug. "How are you, Lenny?" He took in Hollis. His lips still curved, but the smile in his eyes turned to ash. "You've got something going on with this man?"<br />
"Oh, I do, Angel. This is Ian Hollis from Cinemax. He approached me with an offer of putting all four series on late night at Cinemax. They'd blur the hardcore, but otherwise broadcast the episodes unedited. We're looking at fifteen episodes a year from each series, for two years. Then go from there. I can think of some great opportunities that could grow out of this arrangement."<br />
"Do you two have a contract framework yet?" Angel asked.<br />
I gave Angel a Mr. Rogers smile. "Well.... We've run into a few problems. See, Ian Hollis here is a motherfucking sociopath. In a few ways, he's actually an even bigger asshole than Ron Haley was. Mr. Hollis first gave me a so-called contract that was a whopping two pages long. The gist of it was Cinemax gets everything, Inana gets nothing. I told him he was an idiot for showing me this first contract, and told him to meet me here today if he was serious about working with Inana."<br />
"I've only been trying to help Lenny," came Hollis' smug smirk. "I'm concerned he thinks balancing the checkbook at a porn studio makes him a businessman. I'm sure you've had to put out plenty of Lenny's fires."<br />
Angel glared at Hollis for a long moment. "No, none at all. He's the fucking reason Inana is an international phenomenon. Lenny, you were saying...?"<br />
"Mr. Hollis has spent much of our time together aiming little personal jabs at me, constantly questioning my brains, telling me how I'm not bright enough to do what I've been doing for the last several years. It's a psychological trick, a mind-fuck, constantly wearing on a person all day by making allusions to their obvious lack of worth. And he will also state he's my friend, so I can trust him, right? Really, this is the sort of brainwashing bullshit religious cults use on the new arrivals. Just like Ron Haley, Mr. Hollis always believes he's the smartest guy in the room. Angel, I think I should continue my talk with him in the garden, a nice pastoral setting. Would you like to join us?"<br />
I was sure Hollis didn't catch the predatory glint in Angel's smile. "I'll be glad to, Lenny. Let's go."<br />
We went through the kitchen and out the back door. Then we went into the "garden." This was a misnomer. The "garden" was actually a large dumpster bay made of concrete block, with seven foot high walls. The service alley had nearly zero traffic, and no buildings looked out on the garden. It was private, it was quiet, and you could make a lot of noise without anyone hearing you. To sum up, if somebody needed a good beat-down, but nothing too severe, nothing that would need the attention of the family's enforcers, the dumpster bay was the perfect spot. Spend fifteen or twenty minutes explaining the facts of life to some dick-head who needed a lesson, kick him loose, wash up, then hit the trattoria's bar.<br />
Hollis followed Angel to the gate to the "garden." Angel opened the gate and stepped in. Hollis, confused, hesitated, so I shoved him forward hard. He stumbled into the bay, I closed the gate. Angel moved to block any efforts towards going back out again. Hollis looked around, searching for egress. I stepped towards him, and he began to back.<br />
I said, "Ian honey, you worked my last nerve. You used all your chances. You said you wanted to talk business, but all you do is talk shit, straight to me." I looked over at Angel and said, "Angel, we've talked about the sort of mind-set LA natives can have. Mr. Hollis is a prime example. Bloated ego, overconfident, completely lacking in empathy, only out for himself. The type who jerks off while looking at his own high school yearbook picture." Angel chuckled at this.<br />
Turning back to Hollis, I said, "The worst part about LA natives is they think they can say anything they want to other people, with no blow-back. Anywhere else in the country, the first thing I'd have done today would have been to punch you in the face, God knows you'd earned it. But I was going to be diplomatic, see if your attitude and words improved when face to face with someone. Nope, you got worse. What a fuck-up, Ian. What a fuck-up on your part.<br />
"I have bad news. I'm not from Los Angeles, I'm from San Diego. And Angel is a native of Queens, New York. I'm comfortable in saying both of us believe you need a better grasp of American culture, outside the vacuum of Los Angeles. And remember: what's about to happen is all your fault."<br />
I pulled a pair of police gloves out of an inside jacket pocket. An enforcer named Paul had scored them for me, they had a strip of sandbag across the knuckles. It was like having a sap sewn to your fist. Even as I was pulling them on Hollis was saying, "Lenny, really. You're going to beat me up? Are all your problems solved in such a childish manner? No wonder you're lonely. I hate to think what your poor wife's life must be like."<br />
I started laughing when I heard this. "Oh, now my marriage is real? You said earlier that my marriage to Bekka was a sham, a fake. Now it's real. Shit, you're not even good at being a sociopath. They can keep their stories straight. Angel, check your watch, I want five minutes. Terry and the blow-up doll this asshole brought with him are still at our table, I don't want to be too long, my tortellini will be waiting."<br />
Stepping towards Hollis, the gravity of the situation seemed to suddenly dawn on him. He tried trotting backwards, but ended up backing into a dumpster. I put my left fist into his ear. He howled and cowered. My right went into his chin, bringing him erect again. He held his arms up in front of his face, so I gave him a couple shots in the ribs on his left side. He threw himself to one side, then tried to dive for the gate. Angel blocked him, grabbed him by the arms, and spun him towards me, his arms pinned behind his back by Angel.<br />
I grabbed Hollis by his collar and went to work on his jaw and skull, my blows punctuating what I was saying to him. "Look Hollis (POW), you are the reason (POW) this is happening to you. (POW) This is entirely your fault. (POW) You thought you could manipulate me (POW) and play on my insecurities (POW) to gain an advantage. (POW) That's bad enough. (POW) But you also wasted my time (POW) by not even pretending to (POW) try and get business done. (POW) You made the assumption (POW)...." I switched hands, and started in on the other side of his jaw. "... that I'm some sort of half-wit (POW) who only got where I am through luck. (POW) Even after what brains I have (POW) were demonstrated to you (POW) you didn't get a clue (POW) and take me seriously. (POW) Tell me something (POW), is Cinemax interested in working with Inana (POW) or not? (POW) Yes or no."<br />
Angel let go of him, Hollis got grabbed by both collars and swung around, pushed against the wall of the dumpster bay. Panting and blubbering, he said, "Yes."<br />
I grabbed his chin and pushed his head up. "Look at me. Look at me. So presumably the higher-ups at Cinemax felt that Cinemax and Inana could work together on producing original material, or use the different series we're making now. Then they gave you the assignment of brokering a deal. Am I on the ball so far?"<br />
"Yes...."<br />
"Do your bosses know how you treat people you're going to be in negotiations with? Is your bullshit actually part of the fucking corporate culture at Cinemax?"<br />
"... No...."<br />
"Uh huh. So you decided to treat me like shit because.... Why? Did you think your strategy would work?"<br />
He didn't reply, so I drove a fist into his forehead, knocking the back of his skull into the cement blocks behind him. "Answer me!" I yelled.<br />
There was a tiny flame of defiance in one eye as he said, "Yeah. I've read about you. You're an idiot savant. You're a good writer and producer.... But it's obvious you're just some white trash thug from down south, a nobody. If you were smart you'd improve your image.... Stop driving those stupid hot rods and riding motorcycles.... You're a savant, no matter how good you are at making dirty movies you don't have the smarts to run a business. That's obvious."<br />
I heard Angel's dark chuckle from behind me. "But even after your mistake was pointed out, you held on to your low and inaccurate view of Lenny."<br />
I queried, "What did I tell you yesterday? What did I tell you today? I told you to drop the bullshit, sit down, and get down to business. Instead you doubled down. So once you form an opinion of someone, no matter how wrong it is, you keep it frozen in your brain, no matter what. Ian honey, you need to learn how to be more open-minded and flexible, to not pass judgement on people so easily. Especially on people you don't know. You tried, in your passive-aggressive manipulative way, to fuck with me. Something I learned a long time ago is, never fuck with people you don't know. You think you have an adversary? Get to know him before you launch an attack. Well, let's start back in on your lesson...."<br />
I flung Hollis into the middle of the dumpster bay, then went after him again. He'd use both arms to block where I was hitting, so I'd hit somewhere else. He'd block his face, I'd go after his stomach and ribs. Then we'd switch places. After about ninety seconds of this, he fell down, curling into a fetal position and sniveling, arms over his head.<br />
Poking with the toe of a boot, I said, "Get up. Fight back," He kept sniveling, and I connected with my boot harder. I yelled, "Get up! Fight back! What is wrong with you? You haven't even tried to defend yourself. What sort of man are you?"<br />
Angel walked over and lifted Hollis upright. I put a couple more shots into each side of his head, and he just kept sniveling and whining like a puppy. Then I stopped. I grabbed his chin again and said, "You're pathetic. What the fuck is your problem, why won't you defend yourself?" No answer. "I mean, Jesus Christ, you must have gotten in a fight when you were in grade school at some point. You won't even try as hard as a fifth grader to defend yourself?"<br />
At least Hollis stopped the sniveling. He just stood there, shooting hate at me with his eyes.<br />
"So what do we do with this guy?" asked Angel.<br />
I considered, then said, "We deliver him to his bosses at Cinemax. Truss him with duct tape, dump him in his trunk. You drive his car.... or better yet, his girlfriend drives his car, you ride shotgun. Me and Terry will follow. We'll get his boss, or bosses, down to his car and hand him over, we'll explain the situation to them. If they see the light, Cinemax and Inana can go ahead and parlay. If they squawk, we'll explain a few things to them, so they don't drop a dime on us. He's not hurt, I made sure of that. Just bruised. I kept away from his face on purpose."<br />
I told Hollis to hand over his valet stub. Angel had a pair of cuffs on him, so I attached Hollis to a dumpster while Angel went in to talk to Terry and Ambrosia, then pick up the BMW. A few minutes later, the 5-Series rolled down the alley, followed by the Cutlass. Angel tossed me a roll of duct tape, so I gagged Hollis with it, then bound his ankles. Terry and I carried him to the BMW and put him in the trunk.<br />
Ambrosia was in shock. Yes, she did know where the Cinemax offices were. Their LA offices were actually a satellite, the main offices were in New York. Ambrosia's eyes were wide and her jaw was set as the unknown lanky Italian escorted her from the passenger seat to the driver's side. He got in and handed her the keys, and we rolled out.<br />
Cinemax was housed inside a standard glass box office building in Sherman Oaks, near the intersection of the 101 and 405. Terry stayed with Ambrosia while Angel and I went in. At the front desk, Angel told the receptionist who we were, and that we'd like to have Ian Hollis' boss --- or better yet, bosses --- come downstairs, we had things to discuss. Mr. Hollis is with us, out in the parking lot. He is the reason we'd like them to come down.<br />
After five minutes an elevator dispersed two generic white guys. They spotted us, and appeared to recognize me. They approached, looking a bit baffled. After introductions and hand-shaking, one of them said to me, "You had a lunch appointment with Ian, right? And you said he's here, but in the parking lot?"<br />
"Yes," I replied. "Please come with us, we'll explain as we walk."<br />
Strolling through the lot, I said, "Mr. Hollis has been extremely adversarial with me, both yesterday on the phone, and again today at lunch. He says Cinemax wishes to work with Inana Productions, but given his behavior, I'm wondering if that is true. Is it true?"<br />
"Yes, absolutely," said White Guy One. "Inana is known for quality adult video, and is releasing what can best be described as TV show-duration videos on tape. We'd like to license the broadcast rights from Inana, they'd be shown in our late night slot. While showing these videos as-is wouldn't work, we would blur or pixelate genitalia and sexual activity, leaving the shows otherwise untouched. Surely Ian told you all this?"<br />
"He did. He also told me I'm a mental lightweight who has no place running a business, that Cinemax will screw me and Inana in any deal we make, and I'm too stupid to do anything about it. Your Mr. Hollis has a serious attitude problem, and if he represents how Cinemax deals with potential partners, I have no compunction about telling you both to suck my dick. Mr. Morelli and I have tried to do a bit of coaching with Mr. Hollis, in the hopes he tones his behavior down. That's why we're out here."<br />
We got to the BMW. Angel pulled the keys out of his pocket and opened the trunk. There lay Hollis, his eyes bulging. When he saw his bosses standing over him, he began making muffled noises. The two White Guys stared into the trunk in horror. White Guy Two trembled, "What.... what the hell is going on here?"<br />
I smiled widely and explained, "Well, when a person behaves badly enough, for long enough, bad things can happen to them. Mr. Hollis didn't want to work on hammering out a deal with Inana, he wanted to insult me, play mind games, and try to rip me off. I got tired of all three by the time we'd ordered lunch.<br />
"Your little cum-boy here first faxed me a.... Well, <i>he</i> said it was a contract. It was actually two pages of bullshit, the upshot of which was Cinemax would hold all the rights to a whole hell of a lot of Inana's work, and Inana wouldn't even get paid enough to cover production. He faxed it to me and tried to cajole me into signing right then. I believe he thought I'd be all ga-ga over doing business with a big important company like Cinemax, I'd sign anything put in front of me in my excitement, no matter what it said. 'Gosh and golly darn! Jeepers, Cinemax wants to work with little ole me! What a goddamn motherfucking honor! I'm gonna come in my fucking pants, I'm so flattered!' That's what he seemed to expect, anyway.<br />
"I told him to shove both pages up his ass, and to meet me for lunch today if he wanted to get serious. He claimed to be serious, but he wasn't Cum-boy here still thinks I'm stupid. Today he handed me a twenty-something page proposal contract, which at least had more detail to it. Only thing is, it would still have screwed Inana. Hollis believed that I'd get flustered by all the reading. God knows, he made it a bit difficult to translate into English. He threw a lot of weasel words, triple negatives, and random Latin into a blender and pushed 'Whip.' It's like a Nolo Press publication as read by a dyslexic. I read through it --- cum-boy hectoring me for taking so long --- and, again, told him to shove the contract up his ass and get serious.<br />
"Nope. Cum-boy began heaping sugar-coated abuse on me, trying to cut me down in the nicest way. Always lovely to have someone with a smile and a warm voice take sixty words to imply I'm an dumb asshole. So, I got my boss, Mr. Morelli here, and we took him out behind the restaurant we were at, where I spent a few minutes punching him around and explaining why I was so upset. I made it clear that me beating him up was his own fault, he'd brought it on himself. Cum-boy didn't want to do business, he wanted to try and jerk me around and treat me like some goofball. He repeatedly insulted me and my company, and didn't expect any blow-back. So, uh, I had to correct him. Not sure yet if cum-boy has taken the lesson to heart."<br />
The two White Guys moved to reach in the trunk, Angel and I blocked them off. Now Angel said, "We're gonna make something real fucking clear. If Cinemax does want to work with Inana, it will approach us in a professional manner, it will treat Inana, as represented by Leonard Schneider, with respect. You'll send someone else to make a deal. If we have to deal with this mook again, I'm gonna pull his eyes out and skull-fuck him. You keep Ian Hollis well and far away from us, send a real businessman, a professional, to do the job. And have your HR department do some heavy-duty counseling with this mook, he needs it. Lenny, let's get him out."<br />
We lifted Hollis out of the trunk. I pulled the tape off his mouth while Terry used her Buck knife to cut his legs loose from each other. He stood there, red-faced and panting. I gave his cheek a gentle slap and said, "See, if I'd been malicious, I'd have wrapped the tape over your nose, too. You'll be fine."<br />
Hollis began bleating at his bosses, "There's no way in hell we can do business with these people, they're psycho! They beat me up and shoved me in my own trunk! That's how they treat people they do business with! No way can Cinemax work with Inana, they're dangerous and crazy! Let's go inside, we need to call the police!"<br />
Angel, Terry, and I all chuckled. I said, "Dropping a dime on us would be a horrible mistake on your part. We'd be out in three hours, no matter what the charges. You took your beating, you took your humiliation, now you're clear. So, man up and let it drop.<br />
"We're psycho? You're a sociopath. I have no problem making a deal with Cinemax, so long as you aren't involved, Ian. I was putting up with your bullshit, hoping you'd get your shitty attitude and pissy manners out of your system. And I kept putting up with your bullshit until I was sick of it. Maybe now you understand that running your dumb fucking mouth can have a negative impact."<br />
Turning to Hollis, White Guy Two asked, "Ian... This is a highly unusual situation, so I have to ask. Just what was it you were saying, and why? This.... whole situation.... was somehow provoked, I can't imagine the heads of a multi-million dollar production company attacking someone for no reason. What happened, that things went downhill so badly?"<br />
Now that he was on his home turf, Hollis was feeling a bit more secure. He said in a soothing voice, "Look, Lou. You read the trades, you read Variety, you know who Lenny Schneider is. I mean, really. Look at him. From what I've read about Mr. Schneider, it was easy to ascertain he's a savant. He may make porn that is unprecedented in its popularity, but...." Hollis paused to chuckle. "Again, look at him. Tell me that.... person..... right there is going to be a savvy businessman. Tell me that person, but for the grace of God, is someone who should have any more responsibility than pushing a broom in a warehouse. Think about what's been said about him in Variety, by the Hollywood studio heads...."<br />
I interjected, "Other statements made by Hollywood big shots include 'Ishtar is gonna be box office bonanza!' and 'Denny Dillon is the next Goldie Hawn.' Get me?"<br />
Hollis ignored me and plowed on. "Lou, Marcus, this may sound a little cruel, but it's obvious to me Mr. Schneider is a person who is.... He has no business in business, okay? He looks like a drug addict, that should be a big hint, and his manners are horrible. Somehow he ended up in a position of power, making dirty movies that got popular for some reason. <br />
"You both know me, I always have the best interests of Cinemax in mind. I saw an opportunity to get us far ahead of the other premium film channels, at a low cost. All right, it could be argued I'd be taking advantage of an intellectual lightweight to do so, but.... Hey, maybe whoever put Mr. Schneider where he is would learn a lesson about hiring the unqualified. I'd have landed us two years --- two years! --- of original programming, full and clear. Easy street. Two years of original Inana Productions material, which we'd totally control! We'd be in great shape!"<br />
From behind me, I heard Terry snort derisively and say, "And if it weren't for those meddling kids.... Right cum-boy?"<br />
"Stop calling me that," Hollis grumbled. "What does that even mean?"<br />
"I dunno, it just sounds good as a fuckin' insult, you know?" answered Terry. "Yeah.... I may not know what the fuck a cum-boy is, but I know you are one. Somehow, it fuckin' suits you."<br />
I said to the White Guys, "Well. Now you know how cum-boy --- excuse me, I mean Ian --- feels about me. He doesn't hide his feelings, either. I've dealt with him for two days now, lunch was the final straw. And the thing is, cum-boy here still thinks I'm stupid, even though I keep proving him wrong. I did yesterday with that lame-ass two page contract, and.... Shit, hold on, his attache is in the car, I'll pull out the one he brought today. Maybe the old one is in there, too."<br />
I grabbed the attache out of the back seat, then used the trunk as a desk. The White Guys drifted closer, as did Hollis. "Hey, stay out of there! You can't...."<br />
Hollis was coming towards me, but got body-checked by a grinning Terry. He stopped and stared at her. She puffed her Camel in his face and said, "Your input is not needed at this time. Now go stand quietly over there, motherfucker," she said, pointing at a spot six feet away.<br />
I began pulling papers out of the attache haphazardly, knowing what I was looking for and not giving a fuck about the rest. First I found the long contract, then the two page one. I handed the short one over to White Guy One, and told him, "Go ahead, look it over. Then tell me how it's not an insult to my intelligence."<br />
The two of them read it, Angel looking over their shoulders. They were done in under two minutes, then they turned to stare at Hollis. Neither of them spoke for a moment or two. Finally White Guy One said, "Ian.... Did you really fax this to a company we want to set up a relationship with?" He handed over the "contract."<br />
Hollis glanced at it and replied, "Well, yeah."<br />
It suddenly struck me the White Guys weren't just a bit annoyed, they were really fucking pissed off. White Guy Two stated, "We tasked you with the assignment of setting up a deal with a video production studio --- a successful one ---and cultivating what we want to be a long-term relationship with them. And you sent the studio <i>that</i>, and told them you were serious?" He rubbed his face. "And you were surprised it was rejected?"<br />
"Mr. Schneider said you were trying to pressure him into signing it immediately and fax it back," mused White Guy one. "You've gotta be kidding, Ian. That would be reckless stupidity on their part. That thing is a bad joke. Were you expecting any response besides contempt and annoyance?"<br />
"He told you already," I reminded them. "He thinks I'm an asshole, he thought I'd be all enthralled by being approached by Cinemax and sign anything I was told. And here, flip through this one. It's the same bullshit, only he took twenty pages to say it. It'a a well-enumerated blueprint of how I was gonna get fucked by Cinemax."<br />
The White Guys (and Angel) began skimming through the contract. While they did, I casually intoned, "See, this was the trigger for why cum-boy ended up shoved in his own trunk. Anyone else would have thought, "Gosh, maybe what I've read about Lenny Schneider in Variety, all the shit Frank Mancuso and Barry Diller talked about this guy is wrong, he does have a few brain cells.' Anyone else would have stopped fucking around and got to work for real. No, cum-boy still thought I was an imbecile, and gave me that to look through at lunch. And when I asked him what the fuck his problem was, he starts insulting me and talking shit. Just sitting there smiling, calmly telling me to my face how I'm stupid, I'm incompetent, I should just sign this thing because no matter what happens, Cinemax is gonna fuck me over, and I won't be able to do anything about it since I'm so stupid.<br />
"Where I'm from, you say shit like that to someone, you're picking a fight. Straight up, no doubt. Cum-boy insulted me yesterday. Then, when we met face to face, he kept doing it, over and over. And...." I started laughing. "Aw shit. I gotta say, the look on his face was priceless when me and Angel took him out behind the restaurant, and he realized what was happening. He honestly looked confused! Golly, Ian, when you spend two days antagonizing someone, they might get just a tad annoyed with you, and have a reaction stronger than being a whiny little bitch back. Yeah, I punched him around for a while, it was obvious speaking to him did no good."<br />
The White Guys took a look at Hollis. "He doesn't look hurt," observed White Guy One.<br />
"Good manners on my part," I explained. "I never hit him in the face. Although I know he has a headache. Also.... Hey cum-boy, open up your shirt."<br />
He slowly did as he was told, glaring at me like an angry toddler. The White Guys gawked, his torso was a vast pallet of bruises. "So long as he keeps his shirt on, nobody needs to know that some dummy from San Diego put him on the ground," I finished.<br />
Everyone stood in silence briefly. Then White Guy Two said to me, "You alluded to the movie studio executives holding a low opinion of you. I don't follow the studio gossip in Variety, what's all that about?"<br />
Terry answered in my stead. "Aw, Jesus!" she said with a grin. "Short answer? The big dicks at the major studios were feeling butt-hurt about losing ticket sales to Inana. Seriously, Inana Productions and Becky Page were hurting their bottom line, consumers were buying fuckin' porn videos instead of movie tickets. So the fuckin' big dicks at Paramount and Columbia began bitching about some young dude from Dago, some scumbag, jamming them up by making fuck films everyone wanted to see.<br />
"The fuckin' press asked Lenny for a response. He told the executives to suck his dick, Hollywood was all bullshit and they knew it. Haw! He said they should all kill themselves! That just made them even more fuckin' butt-hurt. So they always go off about, 'Ooh, look at Leonard Schneider, he's a scumbag because he makes porn, he's just some dumb-ass brawler, Lenny Schneider is a stupid criminal, look at him.' And so the press asked Lenny for a response to their response. Aw shit, Lenny laughs at the executives and says he doesn't give a fuck what they think of him, and by the way, they should all go kill themselves.<br />
"Yeah, all the dumb motherfuckers at the major studios keep trying to convince everybody that Lenny is just some dumb-shit, a total fuckin' stooge. If cum-boy got that impression of Lenny without meeting him, that's where he got it from. He didn't look at Lenny's fuckin' history at Inana, or the block-fuckin'-buster movies he's written and produced, cum-boy seems to assume God's own fuckin' wisdom comes out of Stanley Jaffee's mouth."<br />
The White Guys again turned to Hollis, and now they stepped closer. White Guy One sighed and said, "Okay Ian, first things first. This...." He held up the second contract proposal. "... is a satire. It's what a writer at Spy Magazine would come up with if he wanted to make fun of entertainment industry contracts. Honestly... I can't believe you'd show that to <i>anyone</i> with a straight face, much less to the CEO of a company we want to form a partnership with."<br /> Angel chortled and said, "Lenny isn't CEO. He's the Big Cheese. Says so on his office door and business cards. Hey, what's in a title?"<br /> "So, what I'm hearing is you let Hollywood gossip dictate how you dealt with a possible new partner of Cinemax. You acted in an incredibly unscrupulous manner, based on that gossip. Even when it was clear the gossip about Lenny Schneider wasn't true, you doubled down, and continued to act --- while representing Cinemax --- in an unethical manner."<br />
He picked the second contract back up, and waved it at Hollis. "Right now, I am praying that Mr. Morelli and Mr. Schneider are feeling very benevolent with Cinemax, God knows they have no reason to be. Cinemax is interested in pursuing a long-term relationship with Inana Productions. Ten years from now, I want our viewers changing the channel to us at two a.m., so they can see the latest episode of whatever series Inana is producing for us, or with us. We want long-term viability, not to screw people over for two years, then cut bait." He finally gave in to the urge and shouted, "Dammit Ian, what the hell is wrong with you?"<br />
"I saw an opportunity to make an easy score...." Hollis protested. He sounded like he was fourteen.<br />
White Guy Two shot back, "Cinemax is a premium cable channel. We want long-term viability, not 'easy scores.' Ian, how long have you been with us? Six years? After that long at Cinemax, you should understand how we operate. I wouldn't give a damn if Leonard Schneider wanted to have lunch at Chuck E. Cheese and sing camp songs, he's the person to talk to at Inana Productions. That talk would be respectful, and mannerly, and honest, and ethical." He shook his head and stared at the asphalt. "When we go back in, our first stop will be at HR. You know the culture here, and you know we have some ethical standards. I want to find out why you seem to have attempted to sabotage a prospective partnership, one with a successful studio."<br />
White Guy One addressed me and Angel and Terry. "I'll let you in on a secret. A partnership between Cinemax and Inana has been bandied about in the board room ever since you released 'Dangerous Desires.' It was one of those blue sky, 'Wouldn't it be great if?' ideas. Then you released your current series of videos, and the grand poo-bahs in New York said, 'We've got to get together with them, what they're doing is perfect for our late night programming.'"<br /> "And I'll let you in on a secret," said Angel. "You were going to be getting a phone call from me next week, to suggest the same thing. Mr. Hollis beat us to the punch, almost by chance."<br />
"Don't worry, you'll never see or hear from Ian again. On Monday, I will have a rep contact you both, just to make introductions and throw around ideas, totally informal. Cinemax and Inana can both get an idea of what we'd like from the other one. We'll draft a solid outline of an equitable contract, have some meetings, hammer out the details, and hopefully Inana Productions will be producing, or co-producing, original material for the Cinemax late night lineup."<br />
Angel gave his deep chuckle. "Perhaps a year from now, we'll have every adult in America willing themselves into insomnia.... or learning how to program their VCRs."<br />
We all shook hands, except Ian. He was busy glaring at the bumper of a car. White Guy Two said, "This has been.... a very unusual afternoon. I've never been in the position of having a company rep returned to me in the trunk of his own car, gagged and cuffed. Then again, I've never had a company rep apparently try to... <i>sabotage</i> us like this, antagonizing a prospective partner until that person feels a mafia-like response is needed. If you wanted to send Cinemax a message, it was received loud and clear. Don't worry, no one at Cinemax will be playing any more games with you." He looked at me and smiled, "I've read your interviews in Newsweek and Us. I guess you did come from a rough background, before starting work at Inana."<br />
I stuck a Marlboro in my mouth and said, "My background was only as rough as I made it. I'm a white suburban punk, and I have been since age twelve. I don't pretend to be something I'm not, for anyone. And just because of the way I was living, and the people I was around, I don't put up with people talking shit to me for very long. If I'd met Ian in a bar someplace, as a total stranger, and he'd started in with me the way he did over the last two days? Jesus, I'd have put my foot so far up his ass his breath would smell like shoe polish. Frank Mancuso calls me a stupid, violent thug. Ian ignored the last two words of the description, I guess. Kinda dumb of him, since five years ago I really was a violent thug."<br />
He looked over at Hollis and said, "Yeah...." He sighed and continued, "His future at Cinemax is iffy right now. While I'm not saying I condone how you handled him, at the same time he's very much acting at odds with how we run our business. We like to think Cinemax has respectable values as a company. We like taking a long view. And we like cultivating solid relationships with other companies we want to do business with. Maybe it's old fashioned, but I think I sleep better at night.<br />
"Ian will be talking with HR. He can explain to them why he did what he did when dealing with Inana and Lenny Schneider. His future with Cinemax will be determined by his answers. If he thinks that abuse and head games are a good way to conduct business, well...."<br />
"Maybe Cal Worthington will hire him," I suggested. "He can try to belittle people into buying a used car."<br />
White Guy Two burst into laughter at this idea.<br />
<br />
Driving back to the trattoria, Terry said, "That chick Ambrosia talked with me a little, while we were waiting in the fuckin' parking lot."<br />
"Oh?" a queried.<br />
"Yeah. She didn't say anything straight out, but the gist of what she said was that motherfucker has always been an egomaniac, big time. One of those dudes who always thinks he's the smartest guy in the fuckin' room. They're not dating seriously, she gave the hint that he's a good lay, but that's as deep as they go, really. He was telling her she'd love having lunch with him today. Not only were they going to a really high-class place, she'd get to watch him totally destroy some dumb motherfucker just by talking to him. She asked what he meant, and he said some fuckin' shit about learning how to psychologically manipulate people, by saying things in a certain way.<br />
"Cum-boy told her he was gonna score a fuckin' coup at work. He knew Lenny was dumb as a fuckin' post, so he'd just talk rings around him and get him all pissed off and confused, then get him to sign the fuckin' contract. And he'd do it by chiseling away at Lenny's self-esteem, Lenny would think cum-boy was his only friend in the fuckin' world by the time lunch was done. I started laughing when she told me that. I told her, 'This motherfucker doesn't know jack shit about Lenny, if that's what he thinks.'<br />
"Ambrosia was the one who wrote that long contract, I guess. She works as a paralegal. He told her the information that had to be in the contract, and told her to write the most confusing fuckin' legal contract in the world, something you've gotta digest one line at a time because of all the double-talk and happy horseshit, taking thirty words to say something when you could say it in five. She's kinda pissed at him. He promised her he'd pay her $500 for her work --- she stayed up way late last night writing the fuckin' thing, and hated doing it --- as soon as it had Lenny's signature on it. Not only did it not get signed, we pretty much scared the shit out of her. Angel comes up and tells us we're leaving, and he has cum-boy's valet ticket. Then we pull around and put cum-boy in the trunk, Angel, she said she was trying to start conversation with you, but you wouldn't talk while we were headed to Sherman Oaks, you were pretending you were alone in the car.... Yeah, she was freaked."<br />
"I wasn't in the mood for idle talk," shrugged Angel.<br />
I asked Angel, "So, what are your current feelings about conducting business with Cinemax?"<br />
He thought a moment and replied, "We're gonna take what they said seriously, for now. They say Hollis was way out of line, they don't do business like that. Okay, fine. You know they'll expect us to be on guard with them for a while. If they play straight, wonderful, I know we could have a good arrangement with Cinemax. And even if playing games was part of their standard procedure, they won't play games with us. They just saw what happens when we're not in the mood for games."Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10230648449521958270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033784518790200307.post-13619737039322156392017-05-03T04:10:00.003-07:002017-05-03T04:10:44.376-07:00Sisters (Part 11) On December fifth, what amounted to Inana Productions' brain trust got on a charter flight at McClellan-Palomar airport in Carlsbad and flew into the Yuba County Airport, located in a burg called Olivehurst. A Hertz office sat at the end of the driveway, where we picked up the Cadillac Brougham we'd reserved. In theory, we were seven hours early for our engagement at the Oregon House community center, but Steve and I wanted to show off locations to Bekka and Angel.<br />
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We started down in the valley. First stop, the metropolis of Meridian, a town which straddled the Sacramento River southwest of the Buttes. Meridian was a really beat-down looking kind of place, and would be perfect for the valley settlement and bazaar. From there, up North Meridian Rd. to Pass Rd, pointed back east. Pass Rd. ran through the Buttes and provided access to an area called Brockman Canyon, great rough terrain, perfect for our needs. We continued east, merging with Butte House Rd. and going back into Yuba City.<br />
From there, we slouched in our seats and pointed towards the mountains. Angel wanted to see the waterfall where the final scene in "Succubus" was shot for himself. He couldn't quite believe someplace that beautiful actually existed in nature, at least not in California. We made the drive to Camptonville, about an hour drive, and pulled up at Crystal's place.<br />
Crystal was an interesting specimen. When I first met her, she was the only punk rocker for miles around, and a train wreck of a human being. Her meth addiction rode her hard --- she banged her dope --- she was on probation, her young daughter was in the custody of her mom and step-dad by court order, and she'd have blown goats to score a quarter sack of shit. And there was her sister Mojo, a hippie chick who'd followed the Dead for a few years and returned home with serious acid damage. She would not speak, unless directly asked a question. Their parents owned a large chunk of the north end of Camptonville, where the waterfall was located.<br />
I'd decided to try a little social experiment. Like everyone else who bangs their drugs, Crystal had an encyclopedic knowledge of every meth dealer in a hundred mile radius. The dope they got through this stretch of the Sierras was garbage, total bathtub crank. Everyone I shared with was highly appreciative of my shit, which was lab-fresh from my friend Boss. So.... I wanted to see what would happen if Crystal was provided with one hell of an opportunity. I gave her, totally free, one pound of meth, a triple-beam scale, and a reliable car (a three year old Ford Taurus SHO). Beyond basic advice --- deal to dealers, not consumers, don't try to tweak and work, keep your shit together -- she could do as she damn well pleased. I told her the price to re-up on a pound was $10K, providing a gross profit of $6K, if she worked things right. She could come down to San Diego, re-up, and keep on supplying the northern Gold Country with quality shit.<br />
She worked things right.<br />
The change in her was astounding. She went at the business of wholesale dealing of meth with purpose, establishing herself as the chick with awesome dope (who was also reliable). Her personal use actually dropped, she realized that if she wanted to keep her shit together, she couldn't do shit all the time. She was a far more relaxed, reserved person. Even her personal style had changed. She dropped the leather micro-skirts and ripped t-whirts in favor of black women's Levis and masculine-looking blouses. The hair went from Froot Loops color to jet black. At this point, she was shifting five pounds a week, running her business like a delivery route. She covered a lot of ground, so she let her customers know what days she would be in their area. Precious, her daughter, was returned to her, and Mojo took over the job of daytime parenting with surprising ability. Crystal's goal was to be clean and sober, and out of business, by the time Precious was in seventh grade. Crystal estimated she would have saved enough to live fairly comfortably for the rest of her life.<br />
Also, Bekka and I turned Crystal into one of the world's raunchiest porn stars.<br />
She had a fantastic body. She also had hepatitis C, which put the kibosh of her ever being an Inana Girl.... or so we thought. One night we were discussing the various sub-genres in porn, and the subject of bukkake came up. Bukkake was a Japanese invention. Without providing too much detail, bukkake is a gang-facial. One women, a shitload of guys. The woman remains still (usually kneeling on the floor), the guys step up and take their turns, one after the other. Personally, bukkake was bizarre and odd, but definitely not sexy: how obsessed can a person be with male bodily fluids?<br />
Bekka had half-jokingly suggested Crystal could pick up some extra money by being the center of attention in a (Inana-produced) bukkake video. Since no actual sexual activity occurred between a bukkake queen and the men, there was no chance of the girl spreading anything, and they guys would have had blood tests. Where, when, and how much? asked Crystal.<br />
So, Bekka's first gigs as a producer/director was making bukkake videos, half hour loops, which were packaged under the banner of "The Adventures of Cum-Crazy Crystal! (Directed by Becky Page!)" Even fellow members of the industry were aghast at Bekka's new project. Bukkake is, by its very nature, raunchy, crude, and rather gross. Bekka captured the action with loving detail, and edited the rough video into a half hour of pure filth, stuff that really did rank as "obscene" under the Supreme Court's ruling: there was absolutely no way anyone could claim these videos had any redeeming qualities whatsoever. The videos had the flimsiest set-ups for Crystal and her "slaves" (the eighteen guys who got $75 and lunch for ejaculating on a stationary woman), beyond that, it was a video of a punky-looking woman who acted rather enthusiastic about being slowly drenched with semen. We worked it out once. Crystal got $1000 for one hour and seventeen minutes of her time, including makeup, hair, and a shower afterwards.<br />
We picked up Crystal and went to her parents' place. From there, we borrowed her step-dad's old Isuzu Trooper for the trek down to the stream, and the waterfall. While Angel marveled, Steve, Bekka, and I knocked around ideas for arrangement and blocking of the scene we'd be shooting here. The final scene of "Succubus" was rather seminal. It showed a fuck scene with Lila (Becky Page) and the Lone Scavenger (Roach) on a grassy bank by the stream, the waterfall in the background. It was about 4:40 at the end, with no dialogue, just well-done background music. Really, the finished scene as a montage of various acts.... but also shots of Lila and the Lone Scavenger kissing, holding each other, caressing.... It was a hardcore sex scene that actually conveyed love and did it well. Even the money shot was special. Bekka had the acting talent to make a money shot look like a deeply emotional experience. It's immediately followed by the two embracing, and staying that way. Fade to black. Women, and not a few men, told me that yes, the final scene was sexy.... but also put a lump in their throats. "You reminded me why it's called 'making love,'" one woman told me.<br />
Crystal promised she'd come down the hill to Oregon House to be at the meeting. We headed that way ourselves, so show the locations we'd be using. Under further consideration, the community's concerns about traffic and noise and destructive behavior were really off-base. Obviously, the county knew where our exact locations would be, but would't provide that information to the local residents. Oregon House is damn uncrowded, and rather spread out. There are only two "main" roads, Marysville Rd. and Rices Crossing Rd. All our shooting would be miles away, there would be zero traffic interruptions for the residents.<br />
Finally, we headed back into Marysville, in order to hit up a liquor store for six cases of beer, six cases of bottled water, Coke, Sprite, Dr. Pepper, and ten bags of Chex Mix. We'd been assured there was refrigerator space at the community hall. We arrived ten minutes before "Joan," the ersatz caretaker of the hall, arrived. She looked surprised at our presence: I was my usual punk rock self (not a lot of people with blue hair in Oregon House in 1992), Small Steve as in his Levis, Nikes, and pocketed t-shirt, Bekka was in a slightly more modest version of her usual style (her blouse was opaque, the slit in her skirt didn't go too high), and Angel was in a sport coat and tie. More relaxed for him (no three-piece Italian suit, like usual), but I had a hunch a tie would difinitely set him apart. In fact, Joan asked him about it. His response was a shrug and, "I'm a businessman from Queens, New York. If I showed up here in Levis, Tony Lama boots, and a flannel shirt I'd look like I was trying to be something I'm not. I don't want to insult people like that."<br />
Joan observed the huge amounts of beverages we were moving in and commented, "I know plenty of people are talking about this meeti<br />
ng, planning to come. Everyone is concerned about delays on the roads, and environmental damage, and litter, and...."<br />
"And that's why we're here," I said. "We want to ensure people they don't have anything to worry about, and that's not just an entertainment industry asshole saying, 'Trust me.' Here...." I had just finished using thumb tacks to hold the topographic maps to the wall on the left side of the stage. "Here's Marysville Road. Here's the road into town, the one right outside. Here is the location of the farm we're sub-letting for a few days. And here are the three roads we'll be filming on, and will need traffic control. Odds are, we're gonna be working, and people won't even know about it."<br />
The woman immediately brightened. "Oh, you won't be anywhere near where people thought you'd be! You'll be down on Yuba-Nevada, and Scott Forbes? There's not a soul around out there. Why are you filming out there?"<br />
"This is post-apocalyptic adventure. We want things to look desolated. Shooting on maintained, clean two-lane blacktop would be a contradiction."<br />
"What about making a mess? Is the county, or the community, going to be picking up after you?"<br />
"Absolutely not," chimed in Bekka. "The only things we'll be leaving behind are tire tracks, nobody will know we were ever here."<br />
"We're aware of the reputation Hollywood has of trashing locations they shoot at," said Angel. "We're not from Hollywood."<br />
"Well, you're from Encino," teased Steve.<br />
"And you live nine blocks from Richard Nixon," Angel shot back. "We've both got neighbors we're not very proud of."<br />
I stated, "We're part of the entertainment industry, but not being around Hollywood means we've never picked up any of their bad habits. To be blunt, we've never learned how to be assholes, it's just not in our character. We'll pick up after ourselves, just 'cos it's the right damn thing to do."<br />
"I have a personal concern," said Joan. "Is there going to be any, uh, nudity? Or sexual activity?"<br />
We all began laughing. Small Steve said, "Nowhere on public land. There will be on some private property we're using, but that will be well out of eyesight of the public, unless someone goes to great lengths to spy on us."<br />
Now Joan switched gears. "I've seen a couple of your movies --- 'Good Girl/Bad Girl' and 'Miss Treatment' --- and was impressed with what was accomplished. They were witty, intelligent comedies, whether they're porn or not. I'm wondering.... Why do you make porn at all? Your studio seems to have the talent to create 'normal' movies. Why have all the sex?"<br />
We all glanced at each other briefly. I finally said, "At this point, it may just be force of habit." Everyone broke up.<br />
Bekka asserted, "Because it's an intrinsic part of the art we create. When Lenny first started writing and producing features, his primary goal was to have adult hardcore video that simply didn't insult the intelligence, like almost all of it did...."<br />
"In a nutshell, I couldn't figure out why hardcore features were always so crappy as movies." I explained. "I didn't want to start a new form of cinema or have a bold artistic statement, I just wanted to prove --- to myself, if no one else --- that you could make an adult feature that didn't suck as a movie."<br />
"And damn, but did he pull that off. Inana seemed to have a collective realization that it's possible to entertain people on multiple levels at once. You can have a movie that isn't just a distraction, but is intellectually engaging.... and at the same time, you can stimulate the libido, provide that gut-level thrill many people experience watching porn."<br />
"Another aspect is how our movies appeal to both genders," said Steve. "A few years ago, it was a fairly easy statement to make that most women really didn't care for pornography. Well.... I wondered why. I started asking women I knew what turned them off. Was it the simple sight of two people engaged in sexual activity? That wasn't the problem. The hang-up was women didn't like HOW the activities were portrayed. A lot had to do with basic production style. There was also the sex acts themselves, and how they were approached. And a very big concern was porn seemed to bend itself backwards to appeal to every base male fantasy, as often as possible.<br />
"In a less specific way, a big objection was that porn portrayed male fantasies from a male perspective. Women didn't want some sort of feminist porn, or female domination. They just felt it would be possible to have a hardcore sex scene that was produced from a gender-neutral perspective. In most porn, women were there for the specific physical pleasure of men. Why not balance that scale some?<br />
"So, I began adjusting things in how I shoot scenes. A big one was I pulled the cameras back some. You watch a scene from Inana, you're watching two people having sex, not getting an anatomy lesson....."<br />
"Some videos, you can tell what brand of IUD the girl is wearing," chuckled Bekka.<br />
Steve continued, "Without getting too graphic, uh, we began blocking our scenes so both partners would be having fun. Most porn, it's the woman servicing the man, as it were. We started arranging things so there was mutual enjoyment, you know? To be blunt, we'd block scenes so both partners would be getting off, not just the man."<br />
"That was the cruncher," said Bekka. "All of a sudden.... May I be a bit graphic?" Joan gave her approval. "Okay, think of the standard oral sex scene in porn. It's almost always the woman going down on the guy. and a lot of the time literally on her knees in front of him. Hey, guess what? A guy can go down on a girl from the same position! Why not show a woman just standing there enjoying herself, while the guy is the active partner? That's an obvious example. Steve and Lenny started really talking to our female performers and asking them, 'What can a guy to to you that totally rattles your rafters, you know?' And we'd tell them, and that stuff would get put into the mix. The upshot is that at this point, a fuck scene --- pardon the expression --- in an Inana video is about two people working together to have fun, not just one person satisfying the other. See what I mean?"<br />
I put in my own two cents. "Ultimately, there are always going to be people of both genders who are offended and horrified by the sight of graphic sexual activity. They don't like it, they don't want to see it, period. But to be frank, they're in the minority. It's been pointed out by anthropologists that humans are the only species who, if confronted by the sight of other humans engaging in sexual activity, will stop and watch, for no practical reason. Humans just like watching other humans going at it. Heh, we're happy to stand there and watch, going 'Wowww....' It's fun to us."<br />
"So, that's why we do what we do," said Bekka. "We satisfy the intellectual craving for absorbing entertainment, but also satisfy a common primal urge at the same time, and do it well, in a way that both genders can appreciate."<br />
Sounding a bit shocked, Joan said, "I just realized.... Watching the two Inana movies I've seen, the sex didn't bother me the way I was used to being bothered. In fact, I may have dismissed the sex as tacky without really processing it, just force of habit. 'Well, it's a sex scene in a porn movie, so of course it's going to be gross.' I should watch those movies again...."<br />
Then a guy in a forty-eight gallon hat and bib overalls stepped in. He saw Joan and said, "Evening, Joan. So, them Hollywood people here yet?"<br />
Everyone, including Joan, burst into laughter. I stopped long enough to offer the man a beer.<br />
<br />
The community hall was packed, SRO, by our seven o'clock start time. People were grateful for the beverages. I started off by pointing out on the maps where we'd be working, and for how long. This brought about a huge sigh of relief, we would't be jamming people up for hours while we shot a scene. Steve explained we wouldn't be altering terrain or cutting down trees, for any reason whatsoever. We would have zero negative environmental impact. Bekka allayed fears about us leaving a mess behind, saying, "I know it's easy to say we're not going to make a mess, but.... the most I can reassure you of is, we're not jerks. Honest. Wherever we're working, the only sign we've been there at all the next day will be the tire tracks."<br />
By eight, the audience was out of questions. The queries ranged from the basic ("How long will you be around?") to the bizarre: One man began going off on how the chemicals used to make motion picture film was a toxic hell-broth, it could poison soil like bleach, any film would have to be removed completely.... Steve finally cut him off. "Sir? Sir...? Sir? Um, we don't use film. We shoot everything on videotape, and the tape stays in the cartridges it comes in. Just like a regular VHS tape."<br />
"Oh. Well, that's okay, then." The man sat back down.<br />
Like any gathering in a rural area, folks weren't going to just take care of business and go home again. Being in a large gathering of your neighbors was an occasion, so people hung around and talked. So did we. Naturally, Bekka signed autographs (for men and women). I was quizzed about the story line of the "Succubus" sequel --- even in this small town, people seemed to be familiar with Inana's catalog --- and said it sounded like quite a project. Also, how did I accomplish what I had at such a young age? I'd answer, "My secret? Never ask permission to do things. I started making the movies I did because I thought it would be fun, and needed to be done. If I'd told anyone else in the adult film industry what my plans were, everyone would have said, 'You can't do that! That's impossible!' I'd have had that bias in the back of my mind, and probably screwed up."<br />
You came up with the whole "Smart Porn" thing....<br />
"Aw, shit. Newsweek thought up that name, not me. I'm flattered people like Inana's features. But honestly, my only original goal was to make adult features that weren't crappy movies. The industry has released an ass-load of features since the mid-Seventies, and I can think of two that are watchable: 'Cafe Flesh' and an auto racing-themed one called 'Fast Cars Fast Women.'<br />
"For my films, the breakthrough was 'Bewitched,' Given how long I wrestled with that script, it damn well better have succeeded! I had a basic plot outline and a lot of ideas, and I realized how fun it would be to pose little intellectual puzzles and brain-teasers throughout the movie. The plot structure sort of loaned itself to that concept. Okay, fine, no one had ever made a damn dirty movie that pretty much required viewers to flex their brains while watching it. But I never thought to myself, 'I'm doing something revolutionary.' It was a much simpler, 'This will be fun to watch, and for more than the usual reasons.' And things just kept going from there."<br />
You know, you people weren't what we expected at all.<br />
"Really?"<br />
Well.... We were expecting real slick movie studio types. We also figured you'd be bringing a bunch of lawyers with you, to threaten us.<br />
"Nope. We're not from Hollywood, literally or figuratively. Me, Bekka, and Steve are from San Diego, and Angel is from Queens, New York. Honestly, it never occurred to any of us to bring a lawyer here. What the hell for? It was a situation where we'd solve a problem, and put people's minds at ease, just by coming up and talking with the residents of the area. We'd address concerns, and if there was a sticking point, we'd hash things out until we'd reach a compromise.<br />
"I knew we'd be coming up here, for a scene like this, when I received letter number fifty from an Oregon House local.... And the thing is, all the letters we received were civil. Nobody was screaming about how we should all eat shit and get cancer, or whatever. People had concerns, and there was a lot of commonality in those concerns, so addressing the community, in person, just made sense. I won't lie, though, I was a little worried we'd have an angry mob of anti-pornography protesters here, objecting to us working in Oregon House at all."<br />
(Looks at the floor.) Yeah.... Well....<br />
"What?"<br />
Some of the, uh, more devout Christians probably aren't overjoyed with Inana working in the area. A few years ago, you probably would have had a few protesters. But these days.... My God, you were nearly killed just over a year ago, weren't you? Nearly shot to death by folk who thought they were doing God's work. I think for a lot of people, that jarred them out of the pious sorta mind-set they were in, trying to hold everyone to a very strict and narrow moral code. When those men attacked your studio, it hit home for lotsa folks: there's people out there who are so pious, so zealotic, they believe it's just fine to commit murder in God's name. That's.... That's just wrong. God is almighty, if He has a problem with Leonard Schneider or Becky Page or Inana Productions, He can take care of the damn problem himself. He doesn't need yahoos with rifles committing.... uh....<br />
"Jihad? Acts of terrorism in the name of the Lord?"<br />
Yeah. I guess that is accurate. Huh.<br />
"Tell me, did you used to watch Jerry Fallwood's show, before he self-destructed?"<br />
(A pause.) Yeah. Yeah, I did. And after he went off the air, I realized I didn't miss him one darn bit. I was actually a happier person.not having his voice in my head. I all but stopped watching his show about a month after that big scene at your studio. It struck me that four armed men, who claimed strict allegiance to Fallwood, had tried to murder you and Becky Page.... And Fallwood never said a damn word about it on his show! A big news story like that, and one that was connected to the Crystal Chapel, and he doesn't have anything to say? That made me mad. I realized those men thought they were doing exactly what Jerry Fallwood wanted them to do, and Fallwood won't talk about it at all. That made me mad.<br />
And after a while, I realized how much better I felt, not watching his show. Finally it hit me like lightning, and hurt just as bad: I spent a lot of time hating people I'd never met, who'd never done a thing to me, because Jerry Fallwood had told me to hate 'em. And I took him at his word, never bothered to question him. Fallwood said the gays are all perverts and sinners, so hate 'em, and I did. But.... heck, my cousin Vance is gay, and he's salt of the earth, a good honest man. He lives in Burlingame, works for San Mateo County. Him and his, uh, partner have been together for years and years. They ain't hurting anyone. And dammit, on Sundays they go to church, they're Methodists. You know what Fallwood's response to that news would be? There must be something wrong with the Methodists, too, so start hating Methodists!<br />
Um, I'd never seen any of Becky Page's movies, but I knew people who had, and there was nothing wrong with them. Fallwood said Becky Page was a tool of evil.... But he never really explained how. What, for, you know, making a living with her body? First off, Mary Magdalene wasn't sellin' Avon to make a living, okay? But she was the first to proclaim the Resurrection. And anyway, how can Becky Page hurt me? If I have a problem with her movies, seems the simplest thing to do is not watch 'em. Problem solved.<br />
I hated the homos, I hated Becky Page, I hated the Catholics, I hated the Moos-lims, I hated rock musicians.... 'Cos I'd been told to, by a man on my TV, who said he spoke God's word. I think he lied, I think he was lying the whole darn time. Then he got caught out having, uh, weird sex stuff going on, and paying for it with the Chapel's money. I'd given up on Fallwood by the time that came out, and I couldn't help but laugh. I know what's gonna happen when Jerry Fallwood meets his Maker. The Lord won't have a problem with the sex stuff, he wasn't hurting anyone, not really.... But I'll bet God is mightily pissed over Fallwood's lies, and especially over the hypocrisy. That level of hypocrisy is gonna chap God's hide, and I don't think even Fallwood can talk fast enough to get out of that unscathed.<br />
I chuckled. "I'm going to guess God will also be angry about fomenting all that hatred. Especially towards gays and lesbians. He's gonna tell Fallwood, 'So, you think I've got a problem with the queers? If I did, wouldn't you wonder why the hell I keep building 'em?'"<br />
Have you ever hated anyone?<br />
"Yeah. The Belgians."<br />
The Belgians?<br />
"Yup. I figured everyone has some source of irrational, unjustifiable hatred, and I wanted mine to be unique. So, fuck the Belgians. Those weirdos put mayonnaise on their french fries, did you know that? Screw them."<br />
Uh.... You're kidding, right?<br />
"About hating Belgians? Yes. The mayo on fries thing is true, though."Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10230648449521958270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033784518790200307.post-88806100138486311582017-05-03T04:10:00.001-07:002017-05-03T04:10:23.081-07:00Sisters (Part 12) Jane sat on the grass outside the Haas business library, her customary place at the customary time. She was feeling perky from a few hits off the glass pipe in the women's room, and was scanning through the Wall Street Journal for anything tech-related. She took a drag off her Newport and sipped some Mountain Dew. Another twenty minutes until class, then the weekend would start. She had a busy evening ahead: bring Nadir back to her place and fuck him, shower, then meet Riley, Hunchback, and Harpo from Oakland HA at Blake's for a beer or five. From there, the Angels would head back to the clubhouse and Jane would take a cab to 924 Gilman. If Nadir didn't take care of her itch, she'd try to lasso a punk rock boy into the sack, get a room at one of the shitty motels on San Pablo Ave. and exploit the poor kid until daybreak.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
"Hey, Naughty Girl!" came a call.<br />
She looked up and saw two jocks she'd interacted with once before. She didn't know their names, she called them Biff and Tank. They were juniors, and also Haas students. By their current direction of travel, she assumed they were headed into the main building, so she gave them a half-smile and a vague wave in greetings, then went back to the Journal.<br />
Fifteen seconds later her mental radar told her someone was walking directly towards her. No, two someones, Biff and Tank. Biff again called, "Hey, Naughty Girl!"<br />
Jane nodded in greeting and replied, "Good afternoon, Boring Boy. What's up?"<br />
Tank snorted in laughter at Jane's little zing, Biff whacked him in the arm. Then he said, "So, you wanna make some money?"<br />
She aimed a curious frown at Biff and responded, "How much money? For doing what? Where? Will I be violating state or federal crimes? Do I need my gun? Will I have backup? What time frame? What organization? Who will be my capo?"<br />
Both bros lost their smiles as Jane machine gunned the questions. Tank regained his first and said, "No, remember what we were talking about last time? You making porn with us? We're still interested."<br />
"I'm sure you are," Jane said levelly. "But interest does not equate to ability. Please, don't waste my time or your breath by laying the same deal on me again. You don't have a studio, you don't have a business plan, you don't have equipment, you don't have money --- that's a biggie --- you don't even have fucking blood tests. You're just two frat boys with hard-ons and a camcorder. Say goodnight, Gracie."<br />
"No, we've got our shit together now," exclaimed Biff. "There was a spare room in the house, and we converted it into a sound stage. We've got lights, and a second camera. And we can pay you more, too."<br />
Her forehead crinkled, Jane asked, "Um.... How big is this new sound stage? General dimensions?"<br />
"Oh, you know, just, like, normal bedroom size."<br />
"The ceilings are about normal height?"<br />
"Yeah...."<br />
Jane suppressed a giggle. "And you put in a light rack, suitable for shooting video. Full color spectrum, plus floods."<br />
The jocks glanced at each other, then nodded. "Oh, of course."<br />
Now Jane couldn't hold back a snicker. "So, have you been in this room with all those lights on?"<br />
"Yeah...."<br />
"For how long?"<br />
Tank frowned and said, "Um, I dunno, maybe a couple hours...."<br />
Jane gave up manners and began laughing out loud. "You're either lying to me, or you're both giant lizards. With a full rack of stage lights, plus a 5K flood light or two, the temperature in that room would quickly rise to what is considered perfect for baking corn bread. You would be soaked in sweat in five minutes, miserable in ten minutes, and suffering heat stroke in twenty minutes.<br />
"I don't think you caught on the last time we spoke. I've been around the production of adult video since I was sixteen. Just through osmosis, I have a very good grasp of both the business and technical ends of the industry. You can't snow me, you can't fool me, and you can't bullshit me. I refuse to believe you have a full light rack anywhere in your fucking frat house, much less installed in a spare bedroom. Boys, you are now officially wasting my time. Goodbye."<br />
Biff started, "Hey, we're gonna---"<br />
"Buh-bye now."<br />
"We got---"<br />
"Buh-bye."<br />
Tank snapped, "Bitch, we'll give you $400 to fuck us both, okay? And we get to video it, we'll be able to prove we fucked some slut from the porn industry."<br />
Jane lit a fresh Newport and studied the two. Then she said, "Tell me, boys, how old were you when your parents just started giving you cash instead of presents on your birthdays and Christmas?"<br />
Biff replied, "I was fourt--- Hey! How'd you know that?"<br />
"Because both of you are under the impression that you can get yourself into, or out of, any situation, so long as you throw enough money at it. You had to have learned that lesson somewhere, and from your parents is an obvious guess.<br />
"It's a little sad, really. Both of you have decided --- for some reason --- you want to fuck me. No man has ever had to pay me for sex in my life. If a man displays style, and charm, and class, I'm actually really damn easy to get in the sack, and I take pride in rocking the world of any man I sleep with. And I've had two men at once, and loved it. They both had charm and style and class.<br />
"You two.... Jesus. You're still laboring under the misapprehension that money will get me to drop my drawers, and I've corrected you on that once." Jane looked at the sky and rubbed her chin. "All right, I do have my price. Five grand will get you one hour with me, both of you at the same time. I will promise you it will be an experience that you'll never forget. But $400 to pretend we're making a video is still far, far under industry standard. My suggestion is that the next girl you both become fixated upon should be treated with some decency. Stop dressing like the terminal preppies you are and turn on the charm. Show respect, but keep your hustle up. You may get further.<br />
"With me, you've reached the end of the line. All passengers off, no transfers will be honored. Go away now, stop wasting my time. Goodbye."<br />
Tank spat, "Why shouldn't we just pay to fuck a slut like you, we're offering $400 for your pussy. You think you're worth more? You're just some slut who makes porn."<br />
Jane stood up. leaving her book bag on the ground but keeping her purse over her shoulder. "The last time we spoke, I warned you about applying the words 'slut' or 'whore' to me. I made it very clear how I felt. Yet here you are, calling me a slut." She stared into Tank's eyes until he looked away, then continued. "I am not going to contend with either of you, for any reason, ever again. I am not joking. You both need to turn around and walk away, with your mouths shut. You do not acknowledge my existence, you pretend I don't exist. Go. The fuck. Away. Now."<br />
Jane's voice was totally controlled, even. Her facial expression was as blank as a sheet of drywall. She wasn't yelling, she was perfectly calm. This unnerved the jocks far more than if she had screamed or yelled. They gave each other nervous glances. Then Biff scraped up a smile from somewhere and said, "What if we don't?"<br />
In the smooth tone, Jane said, "My right hand is currently inside my purse. If I'm forced to take my hand out of my purse, within fifteen minutes both of you will be headed to the hospital, and I will be headed to jail. All three of our lives will become much more difficult, in many ways. Do you want that to happen? I don't. And you don't, either. I will not say it again. Go. Away. Now."<br />
Biff and Tank looked at each other again. Biff gestured with his head. They both turned and walked towards the main hall of Haas. Jane could just barely hear one of them mutter, "Fuckin' psycho slut." Tank was wearing sweatpants, which had three Greek letters across the ass: Delta Epsilon Theta. She'd have to remember that, she could pick Kaitlyn's brain for intel on that house.<br />
<br />
After class got out, Jane hiked across campus to Bancroft and College Ave., jumping on a 51 bus, which would drop her off at Clark Kerr Campus Housing. Home of Nadir, her kama sutra plaything. She had befriended him at the beginning of the year, and ended up stealing his virginity. They'd gotten together a few more times since, and every time Jane was impressed by the shy East Indian comp. sci. major: He wasn't hung huge, but well, and he had incredible stamina and self-control, as good as Lenny or Roach. He would also suggest positions which sounded odd when described, but would turn out to be very, very enjoyable. Jane had asked him, straight up, if he was using moves listed in the kama sutra. Nadir had rolled his eyes and said no in a tone that told Jane to drop the subject.<br />
Jane's nipples were getting hard just dialing Nadir's room from the office at Clark Kerr. Her lover Kristen was wonderful, but dammit, Jane wanted cock. Period. A real one. Nadir answered the phone, and Jane said, "Hey stud! You ready to swing, baby?"<br />
Nadir paused briefly, then said in a slightly mechanical voice, "Hello, Jane. Ah, I'm afraid I won't be able to join you this evening. My parents have come to visit."<br />
A ringing started in Jane's ears. Nadir had not mentioned their impending arrival. Great, his H-1B Visa-holding parental units were here, and cock-blocking her. (Cunt-blocking her?) In a voice tinny with annoyance, Jane said, "You didn't mention they would be here this weekend. You're making my pussy very angry."<br />
Still holding the same robotic voice, Nadir replied, "I wasn't aware they were visiting, they arrived about ten minutes ago, telling me they wanted to surprise me."<br />
"Oh, happy fucking day," Jane growled. "Yes, this is quite a surprise. Um, I"m gonna guess they're in the room with you, so you can't talk freely. Am I correct? Yes or no."<br />
"Yes."<br />
"I remember at the beginning of the year, you said you'd love it if you parents had a chance to meet me. Well, here's the opportunity. Don't worry, I will tamp down my sexual frustration and be polite and diplomatic. Bring 'em down, I"ll be at the top of the driveway smoking five cigarettes at once."<br />
Nadir paused again, but when he spoke this time his voice was far more natural. "Yes, that's a good idea. We'll see you there." Click.<br />
Jane went out front to wait. And wait. She was stomping out her second cigarette and getting ready to call Nadir back when he arrived with two older Hindi in tow. The man was dressed like a preppy, except for the sandals. The woman was in a Sari. Nadir's face held the tension of a thousand active bomb squad techs. It was obvious he was trying to communicate with his eyes, trying to beam a message into Jane's head. He said, "Hi, Jane. This is my father, Ishaan Reddy, and my mother Anaya."<br />
It was evident Nadir's parents had not expected to have to interact with this.... person.... even as they approached. Yet their son had stopped here, and indicated that this was his friend Jane. Both parents seemed to be frozen, not even breathing, and staring at Jane. She put a demure smile on her lips and extended a hand. "Good afternoon, lovely to meet you. How was the trip up? Did you drive, or fly?"<br />
Ishaan stepped forward and briefly rattled Jane's hand, saying in a thick accent, "Hello. We drive, we leave this morning early." He seemed to take in all five foot five of Jane: cherry red ten-hole Docs, skintight black leather pants, a red bustier (displaying plenty of decolletage), six spike bracelets down one arm, her bondage collar, and her necklace of frat boy teeth. Her blue mohawk was about four inches long, and she'd bothered to fan it up that morning. As usual, she'd tried to emulate the Becky Page makeup as closely as possible. To round it all off, her book bag (a strapped canvas bag from the USMC surplus store in Oceanside) had a small pin on the front, which read "I'd Rather Be Eating Pussy."<br />
"How.... did you come to know my son?" asked Ishaan. He sounded like he was having to force his voice to remain calm.<br />
Jane smiled and said, "Well! At the beginning of the year, he was sitting next to me in Comp. Sci. 101. It was obvious Nadir didn't belong in that class, he was way ahead of what would be taught. Only thing was, UCB had no facility to determine what class he should be in. Nadir pointed out to our instructor that being in the class was a waste of everyone's time, and the instructor basically said, 'Well, sucks to be you.'<br />
"I thought that was total bullshit and called the instructor out on it. Okay, so Nadir may not have formal education in computers, but he knows his shit up and down.... I guess you started teaching him computer science straight out of the womb. So I told the instructor that if UCB didn't have any way to analyze where in the Comp. Sci curriculum Nadir belonged, then it was time to think one up. I told the instructor, 'Fuck it, let Nadir take last spring's final exam. If he blows it, you'll know where he really stands, and if he aces it, then you goddamn better kick him upstairs, you know?' Me and the instructor went back and forth a little, and he finally agreed he'd let Nadir take the final that afternoon. If Nadir was as smart as he looked, he'd crush it, and the instructor would help figure out what courses Nadir needed."<br />
Nadir explained, "Jane is the one who made the instructor blink, as it were. It felt very strange. Here I am, in my first class on my first day of college, and a girl I've never met is advocating for me with the instructor, in a very aggressive manner. We had barely spoken, but Jane pushed my case like I was family.""<br />
"Why did you challenge the instructor, on behalf of my son?" asked an open-mouthed Ishaan.<br />
With eyes and smile both very wide, Jane gleefully asserted, "Well sir, I did it because it was the right fucking thing to do."<br />
Looking quite peeved, Mr. Reddy asserted, "How was this correct? You demanded special exceptions be made for Nadir, the harmony of the university's---"<br />
"HAH!" Jane erupted. "I remember Nadir telling me about this the next day. He told me you were angry with him, you said he should have stayed in the class and not disrupted things. You said something about Nadir being 'disharmonious' with the structure of the curriculum." She eye-locked with Nadir's dad in silence. Once Ishaan looked away, Jane continued, "Mr. Reddy, I'm not trying to be offensive, but.... That is total fucking bullshit, what you laid on your son. Disharmony, in a college curriculum? This is advanced education, not a fucking coral reef.<br />
"Even looking at the situation totally objectively, getting Nadir into the right courses for his knowledge was the right thing to do. I know you're probably very aware what tuition is here at UCB. Jesus Henry Christ, for what this school costs, you're goddamn right they'd better be willing to get flexible. Nadir staying in Comp. Sci. 101 would have been a waste of his time, the instructor's time, the resources of the course.... and the money YOU paid for tuition. Nadir would have literally wasted hundreds of hours of schooling, going over shit he's probably known since before his balls dropped. No, you don't always play by the fucking rules, okay? Sometimes you gotta stomp on some toes and kick some asses to get things done, especially when it really is in the best interests of everyone concerned, not just yourself.<br />
"Fuck harmony. We're at UC Berkeley to get an education, a good one, not play along with bureaucratic bullshit. This isn't the balancing point of the universe, this is college. I advocated for your son to try and make sure every goddamn minute he's in a classroom at Berkeley is useful, and valid, not a waste of his time. And hey! It worked! So go Nadir, and what the fuck, go me. Okay?"<br />
Ishaan looked at Jane, literally in a state of shock and awe. He finally stated, "Ms. Osborne.... You are a very unusual young lady."<br />
Both Jane and Nadir started laughing. Jane managed to say, "Yes, it's been noted on several occasions."<br />
His laughter dying down, Nadir told his father, "I cannot lie. When Jane sat down at the desk next to mine in the computer lab, I was terrified. As you can tell, Jane has a very unique sense of style, to me, she looked like a morally ambiguous female superhero. Then she turns to me and tries to start a conversation! From the first moment, anyone meeting Jane will know she will never be a soothing influence on the world around her...."<br />
Jane snickered and said, "Oh.... I wouldn't say that. I know how to do some very soothing things. You know that, Nadir baby. Like when I use my fingertips and tongue, and uh...."<br />
Nadir quickly stated, "Anyway, I sat in my first class, on my first day, and listened while this girl I didn't know browbeat and out-argue our instructor into giving me a chance to prove my knowledge, so my placement in the Computer Science curriculum would be of benefit to me. And that day, she bought me lunch! We talked as we ate. I asked Jane if she was worried about the instructor putting a target on her back for the rest of the year. In so many words, father, Jane made it clear that she was not worried at all. If the instructor tried to make her life difficult, she would do the same to him.... and persevere. Jane Osborne is not a college freshman. She is a force of nature. If anything in this world frightens her, I don't know what it is."<br />
"Mimes," Jane asserted.<br />
"What?"<br />
"Mimes. Street mimes. Creepy, silent, gesturing motherfuckers, I hate 'em. Okay, maybe it's more loathing than fear. But I will go out of my way to avoid them."<br />
For the first time, Nadir's mom spoke. With a quavering voice, she asked, "May I ask if you have chosen a major in your studies yet, Miss Osborne?"<br />
"I'm a business major," replied Jane. "I got into Haas School of Business, and I'll be leaving Berkeley with an MBA. That's the goal, anyway."<br />
"And.... how do you spend your free time? Do you have a hobby?"<br />
"Hmmm.... Playing electric bass counts, I guess. Oh, I'm learning conversational Tibetan, I get tutored four evenings a week."<br />
Having a good grasp of Asian geography, Ishaan wondered about this declaration. He asked, "What will you do with this skill? Will it aid you in business, somehow?"<br />
"Oh, hell no," Jane cheerfully replied. "I have zero intentions of finding a practical use for semi-literacy in a language spoken by the most repressed people on earth. But learning Tibetan will satisfy my Foreign Language requisite for my Bachelor's degree. Thanks to the Chinese occupation, not a lot of Tibetan natives emigrate, so running across native Tibetan speakers is very rare. The couple who tutor me are a youngish couple from the Nagqu prefecture. They walked --- freakin' <i>walked</i> --- from Nagqu, through Nepal, and then into India, finally landing in New Delhi. From there, the Red Cross hooked them up with the US Consulate, who gave them refugee status and moved them here to the Bay Area.<br />
"What they did took major balls. They estimate the walk was about 900 miles. They were able to hitchhike once they were in India, at least. A lot of the time, until they got out of Nepal, they would hide during the day and walk at night. They would literally eat grass and bark, they nearly starved to death. The Thokmays, Ngawang and Pema, told me that after they got into India, they were walking along the road to New Delhi. They were someplace, uh.... Campirganj? Am I saying that right?"<br />
Nadir's dad said, "Yes. Campirganj, a town in <span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.870588);"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Uttar Pradesh province. Near the Nepal border."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.870588);"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Jane smiled and said, "Okay. Ngawang and Pema said they were both just skeletons at that point, people would avoid them because they looked like they were dead. They'd crossed the border two days before, but were still leery of interacting with people. Pema said they were walking that third night through that town, and a woman came out of a market and saw them. They didn't speak Hindi, the woman didn't speak Tibetan, but they each knew a few words in Nepalese, and were able to communicate who they were and where they'd come from. The woman told them to wait and went back in the store. They were both scared, they thought the woman was going to call the cops on them. But she came out and gave them a liter container of badam milk, a package of chapati bread.... and two bottles of Coca Cola. It was literally the first 'real' food they'd eaten in over three weeks. Their stomachs were so shrunken, it took them three days to eat it. But it was the first act of kindness they'd had since leaving home, and they'll always be grateful to that woman."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.870588);"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "Jane is also a refugee," smiled Nadir. "She's originally from Florida, her parents threw her out when she was sixteen."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.870588);"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "Oh? And why is this?" asked Anaya.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.870588);"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "They caught me in bed with a boy," Jane stated with a smile. "The thing is, it wasn't my regular boyfriend, it was just a guy I thought was hot. That made them really mad. So, they threw me out. I stuffed a day pack with what I could, and got on Greyhound headed for San Diego. I knew I wanted to be in California, but I only knew two people out here, Lenny and Bekka Schneider. You'd probably know Bekka as Becky Page, her screen name...."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.870588);"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "You know Rebecca Page?" asked Ishaan.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.870588);"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Jane was unable to stifle a laugh. "Um, it's Becky Page, not Rebecca. It's a screen name. Yeah, we met when I was fourteen. They were on their honeymoon in Florida, we just happened to bump into each other on a dinner cruise. We started writing, keeping in touch, so when I decided to head out here, I wanted to see them, at least for a couple days.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.870588);"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "To be honest? I'd pretty much resigned myself to working the stroll in Hollywood, just another fucking runaway teenage whore. Lenny and Bekka made me an offer: if I went to school, got good grades, and helped around the house some, they'd take care of me. They helped me get legally emancipated and enrolled in high school, and ta da, I was sort of their adoptive teenage daughter.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.870588);"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "Living with them was wonderful. Sometimes it could be really wild, but it was wonderful. Crazy shit seems to happen around those two, and I'd be a part of it. But they loved me and took care of me. They must have not fucked up too bad, I made it into UC Berkeley, right?"</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.870588);"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "Jane has led quite a life," Nadir opined. "She drives an American hot rod and rides a Harley-Davidson, she lived with Becky Page and her husband in a house on the beach, she's toured Europe, she's made a few porno vid---" He cut himself off, looking chagrined.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.870588);"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> In a polite but prying voice, Ishaan asked, "Excuse me, you have.... engaged in pornography?"</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.870588235294118); font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "Yep, sure have," Jane smiled. "I made four half hour loops over the summer, and I'm going to have a semi-regular role in a video series Inana Productions is releasing. It's fun, it's easy work --- to me it is, anyway --- and the pay is great. The people I work with, on both sides of the camera, are wonderful. Basically, every stereotype you hear about adult video was </span>disproved<span style="font-family: inherit;"> by my experiences at the Inana studios."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "Had Ms. Page coerced you into engaging in this activity?" asked Anaya.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "Quite the opposite! Her and Lenny had both tried to discourage me from even trying it. I'd wanted to try performing since I was sixteen, way too young. They finally told me they'd let me make a loop after I turned eighteen, just so I'd stop bugging them. Even then, they kept hammering on about what a drag it was going to be. Okay, what shows up on video and what happens on the sound stage are two different things, but I still had fun.... And it was the performance that was fun, not the acts. Well, those were fun too, but...."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "None of this bothered you?"</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Jane fixed Anaya with a stare while she lit a Newport. "No. After living with Bekka and Lenny for two years, and being around people from Inana, I had a pretty good grasp of how things worked. It's not sex, it's performance. What is on the screen doesn't reflect what happened in real life." She paused, then said, "Okay. You two have seen 'Star Wars,' right? How much of what was on the screen in 'Star Wars' actually happened in real life? Did George Lucas actually build a Death Star in space, then blow it up? Are there space ships in real life? The closest thing I can think of that compares to the storm-troopers would be the LAPD Tac Squad, and they only wish they had laser guns.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "Making professional-quality adult video is serious business. Not just anyone can do it. You're not just getting laid in front of a camera. If you have any grasp as to how movies are made, the same processes go into making adult films. What works out to a half hour of video takes about two and a half hours to produce.... And that's just the sex. Think about the movies Inana makes. They're full movies, right? There is a hell of a lot of work involved in making an Inana feature. I'm proud to say I have the talent to appear in Inana's videos, both as an actress and a performer."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Nadir added, "Mama, Papa, I'm sure you've read the articles about Inana Productions and Becky Page and Lenny Schneider in Time and Newsweek. They are the ones who created the 'Smart Porn' genre of films, adult movies with intelligence. They are the reason it is no longer a shameful thing for anyone, men or women, to say they watch pornography. I'm sure you've read the interviews with some of the other Inana Girls. They are intelligent, happy women with unusual acting careers. Jane has the same career, sort of. She is a student full-time, but also performs part-time. Given what she's paid, I don't blame her a bit."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Jane stepped closer to Nadir's parents and said gently, "Look, don't worry. I'm not corrupting your son in some way. Yes, I've talked about working with him, but the talk the talk is actually kinda dull. I mean.... Hey Nadir, remember me talking about Bubba the gaffer?"</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Nadir started laughing. "Oh yeah!" To his parents, he said, "The last time Jane worked, they were having terrible luck with the lights on the sound stage. They kept blowing bulbs, or something. The upshot was their gaffer --- the light tech --- spent the last forty minutes of shooting hanging from a light rack fifteen feet above the stage. He was just dangling there, waiting for the next damn light to blow, so he could crawl over and replace it immediately! The director finally calls 'Cut and wrap,' and three seconds later Bubba loses his grip and falls onto the stage! Thankfully, he wasn't hurt."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "He missed landing on Sally, our camera operator, by about six inches," giggled Jane. Then she got a bit serious and said, "But see, when I talk about work with Nadir, that's the stuff I talk about. I'm not giving him a blow-by-blow recounting of the action, I tell him about stuff that's actually interesting, you know?" Glancing at her watch, Jane said, "Hey Nadir, looks like time for dinner to me. Can I take you and your parents out to eat? We can hit that vegetarian place in Rockridge you like."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "It's a bit expensive...." Nadir started.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "And you've seen my bank balance," Jane shot back with a smile. "Come on, I'll call Green Cab, we'll roll down and get some dinner. Come with me."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Nadir said to his parents, "Will you allow Jane to treat you to dinner tonight? There is a restaurant in the Rockridge neighborhood of Oakland, just south of here, that has wonderful vegetarian food." Looking at Jane, he said, "It's a twenty minute walk, to hell with the cab. We can just hoof it."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "Okay, point taken," Jane replied.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Ishaan frowned (again) and asked, "Wait, we will be walking.... through Oakland?"</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Firmly affixing a smirk on Ishaan, Jane said, "Yes, we will. This may surprise you, but not all of Oakland is a slum, there are some very nice neighborhoods. We'll be walking through one of them, straight down College Avenue. Now, if we were going to get good barbecue, that would be another matter. The best barbecue places in Oakland are in 'hoods where being armed is just common sense, not a pose. Especially for blue-haired white girls."</span></span><br />
Nadir announced he wanted to call his roommate to let him know he'd be gone for a while. Jane followed him into the Clark Kerr office. Nadir spoke with his roommate and headed back towards the front door, Jane behind him. Before he got there, Jane grabbed his arm and swung him to the right, pushing him into the alcove for the restrooms. She forced him against the wall and got her tongue in his mouth. He reciprocated. After several seconds, they broke off.;<br />
With her manic grin on, Jane told Nadir, "At midnight there will be a Green Cab sitting at the top of the driveway, waiting for you. I'll be in the back, also waiting for you. You will get in the cab, which will transport us to the Marina Marriott. Once there, we're getting a room. And once inside the room, you'd better have your fucking clothes off within thirty seconds. Do you understand?"<br />
Jane had noticed that, when she "bullied" Nadir like this, his smile had been getting a little more confident with time. The smile he had now was rather reassuring to her: she was no longer scaring the shit out of him. He said, "I'll be waiting.... Although I may be leaving early in the morning, depending on what plans my parents have. You probably think I"m being a big wuss, trying to keep up appearances with my parents, but...."<br />
With a quick smooch, Jane said, "Don't be a chicken butt. You're an eighteen year old freshman, and your parents' only son." Her smile receded a bit. "I'm kind of jealous. Your parents like clinging to the illusion their son will always be this ray of purity or something. At least until graduating college. No one has ever held that illusion of me. Sometimes that makes me a little sad." She shook her head and rebuilt the smile. "Come on, we have to go convince your parents that the bullets don't start flying as soon as we cross Woolsey Street."Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10230648449521958270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033784518790200307.post-39873587638724532432017-05-03T04:09:00.003-07:002017-05-03T04:09:58.073-07:00Sisters (Part 13) It was a hell of a crowd that descended on Angel's trattoria. There was just no way we would be on the patio, we'd be inside using banquet seating. Those present were Erica, Fang, Jill, Mallory, Glee, Feather, Bekka, Gladys, and two new friends of Gladys': Betty and Norma. They were both lesbians about Gladys' age, and had been introduced by a waitress at Girl Bar, who knew them from some activist work she'd done. The three had met at Girl Bar that afternoon and got along like a house on fire. I'd offered to take the whole crew out to dinner, if Gladys and the two other women were amenable. Gladys called me from the bar and said she'd love to have dinner with these women. I gave her instructions to the trattoria and told her to be there around 6:30.<br />
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Not only was I the only one present with both an X and Y chromosome, heterosexuals were outnumbered, two to one.... And that included putting Bekka in the "straight" category. Just our arrival caused consternation, especially when Fang, Erica, Feather, and Glee arrived. They'd taken Fang's behemoth of a '71 /Chevy Impala, a massive brutish vehicle with oxidized blue paint and a 454 cubic inch motor. Seeing this thing approaching in your rear view, you would move over to let it by. You could be at the wheel of a half-track, and you'd let Fang by. All four had the hardcore punk look going, especially Erica and Fang. Both had been "collecting" piercings since arriving in Los Angeles --- they'd met a piercing tech who was willing to do work on underage Fang after hours --- and had a bit of surgical steel in them, in various parts of their bodies. They had agreed to both get their clitoral hoods pierced on the same day, so they'd both heal at the same rate and be ready to jump back into their usual frenetic sex life at the same time.<br />
The valets were not amused. A hulking slab of Detroit iron with bad paint, dispersing four punk rock girls.... One is wearing a Queer Nation muscle shirt with no bra, another is in a leather jacket with the word "DYKE" across the back in pink, five inch high letters. And.... Oh my God, that's Feather, the Inana Girl. The four joined us at the benches next to the entrance. The valets looked and nodded: okay, Lenny Schneider is here, that's right. Yeah, these are definitely his friends.<br />
Gladys, Betty, and Norma arrive a couple minutes later in Gladys' Chevelle hot rod. They were in high spirits. Gladys was smiling widely, while the other two were laughing out loud. After introductions had been made, I asked what all the mirth was about. Norma said, "Good lord, this old lady is a demon at the wheel! Riding with her is definitely an E-ticket attraction!"<br />
"Are you showing off at the wheel again, Auntie?" asked Fang.<br />
With her grin still in place, Gladys said, "Well, ya know, they were asking about the Chevelle, so I kinda put it through it's paces. I wasn't starting up any hoo-hah, okay? Just a demo of the sixty foot time and a couple drifts.."<br />
To elaborate to the new women, Fang said, "It't totally sick. I'm sixteen, and Auntie Gladys has faster fuckin' reaction times than me. Never worry about being a passenger with her, even when she is hot rodding it."<br />
We went in. Spotting me leading this ensemble, Mr. Smith the maitre'd gave me a worried look over the shoulder of the tourist he was busy abusing. Instructions were to seat Lenny, Bekka, and any friends they had with them on the patio, the exclusive section of the trattoria. Tourists would never be seated out there. Hollywood stars could eat at the trattoria in peace, they'd be seated on the patio. Anyone else out there would be too cool to ask for an autograph. And now I was showing up with ten women at once.<br />
I stepped up to reassure Mr. Smith. "Don't worry, honey, we'll be in the banquet seating. I'm not expecting you to seat this menagerie on the patio."<br />
All 120 swishing pounds of Mr. Smith looked relieved. "Thanks, babe. Load off my mind. Let's see, there's.... eleven of you." He gestured flamboyantly at the girls and women, loudly preening, "This way, ladies!" Marching into the depths of the main dining room, Mr. Smith began singing "We're Off To See The Wizard" as he let us on. I drew in last, Bekka at my side.<br />
I hadn't realized we had been followed. A hand suddenly clapped on my shoulder. I spun towards it, to find myself looking at an angry middle-aged tourist. He was wearing a Colonel Blake fishing cap, a Hawaiian shirt, Action Slacks, and knock-off running shoes. Fanny pack? Of course he was wearing a fanny pack. He had a hook nose, grey hair, and was pissed off.<br />
"What the hell is this?" he demanded. "Me and my wife and friends get told ninety minutes wait for a table, and you people just waltz on in? That little faggot ignored us so he could take care of.... you! What the hell is this?"<br />
I dead-eyed him and said in a bored voice, "We had reservations, now move the hand or get it broken." I started to turn.<br />
He grabbed the shoulder and pushed, trying to spin me back his way. I grabbed the hand and twisted it in a come-along maneuver. pulling downwards, forcing him to bend and grunt with pain. I stopped when he was on one knee. Even from there, he did have some guts. He snarled up at me, "I tried to get reservations, they said they didn't take 'em here! What's your story?" I let go of his hand and he stood up again.<br />
Bekka told him lazily, "While America likes to pretend it's a classless society, who you are and who you know still count for a hell of a lot. Especially in Los Angeles, and definitely in high-class Los Angeles restaurants. Mr. Smith, our host, knows us and knows who we are, so we receive preferential treatment. This is one of the very few places where I take advantage of it. QED. Don't try to tell me you don't have similar behavior where you're from."<br />
"Where is home, sir?" I purred.<br />
"Tuscaloosa, Alabama," he said proudly. "Home of the Crimson Tide. I'm an offensive coach for the team."<br />
I made myself look confused and said, "Um, you lost me after the word 'Alabama.' You're a coach for what, again?"<br />
"The Crimson Tide! University of Alabama! Bear Bryant's school, ya gotta know that!"<br />
Bekka said brightly, "Oh, college football! Now I understand!"<br />
"You do?" I asked.<br />
"Yes. College football is what they have in lieu of actual education at a lot of schools in the country. It tends to be very profitable for everyone except the players, and provides the sort of 'bread and circuses' spectacle many places need as a distraction for the local residents. Lots of civic pride is taken in college football, to distract from the blinkered existences most of the locals endure."<br />
I nodded sagely. "Okay, like the Florida Gators, where Jane's scumbag dad works." Turning to the Coach, I smiled and stuck out a hand. "Hello, Lenny Schneider. I guess we both work in the entertainment industry."<br />
Coach looked baffled. "What? No, like I said, I'm an offensive football coach."<br />
"And college football is a source of entertainment. It costs money for people to see your team play, right? They sit and watch while the team does.... Whatever it is they do? That's pretty much the definition of entertainment."<br />
Bekka continued, "And I'm sure there are plenty of places in Alabama where you, your fellow coaches, and members of the team are treated with great deference, getting preferential treatment, getting service the plebes will never see. I'm sure every Waffle House in Alabama will always have one booth empty, no matter how busy they are, in case members of the Lavender Tide show up."<br />
"Crimson Tide," Coach corrected tersely. He scowled at Bekka saying, "I know you. You're that dirty picture lady, Becky Page. They give you special treatment here, for what you do?"<br />
"I'm a successful entertainer," Bekka shrugged. "Why wouldn't they?"<br />
"I remember hearing about you on Jerry Fallwood's show," graveled Coach. "Disgraceful."<br />
I stepped in Coach's face, our noses inches away. "Hi, I'm her husband. The guy who got shot up by Fallwood's zealots just over a year ago. Nearly bled to death, a 30.06 round does some damage to the human body. Two of them, even more so. I have this terrible feeling you're gonna have something incredibly stupid come out of your mouth, on the subject of the woman I love. You have no idea how angry that will make me. You need to return to the front, collect your wife and friends, and make other dinner plans. Just trust me on this, okay?"<br />
I had four inches and some weight on the guy. His voice quavered, but he still had the balls to say, "Or what?"<br />
There was a clicking noise to our side. Bekka was standing there with her Colt leveled at Coach's head, a comfortable two-hand grip. The barrel of the Colt Defender was six inches from Coach's temple. She was flicking the safety on and off, over and over. Click, click click, click.... Bekka said, "Or you will learn just how cheap life is in Southern California. No one will ever find your body. And yes, we've made it happen before. So, you were just leaving.... right? And not having any stupid ideas about ringing the law to complain about the dirty picture lady pointing a gun at you? Just walking away quietly, to find dinner somewhere else?"<br />
A trickle of sweat ran down Coach's face. The only muscles in his body that moved were in his jaw, as he said, "Yeah."<br />
Bekka holstered her pistol and said brightly, "Well! Nice meeting you, coach! You have a nice evening, buh-bye, now."<br />
Coach walked quickly away, just as Mr. Smith came around the corner looking for us. "Didn't I leave a big enough trail of bread crumbs?" he asked.<br />
"Sorry, we got distracted by a fellow diner," I said. "Would-be diner, anyway. The tourists who were up front are leaving.<br />
Mr. Smith beamed, "Lenny, Bekka, you sweethearts. Always running off the degenerates for me. What tactic did you use this time? Did I miss another good bit of improv theater?"<br />
"This one wasn't theatrical," Bekka pointed out. "We used a mixture of sarcasm and violence. In fact, if the police arrive, looking for Becky Page and her husband, try to signal us so we can hide in the walk-in cooler."<br />
"Oh my." With a sly look, Mr. Smith said, "I don't want to know, do I?"<br />
"Probably not."<br />
"I swear, if you two ever get bored with making all that hot porn, I'll bully Angel into giving you jobs here. You two would be paid to do nothing except frighten tourists into leaving all day. Yes, I'm a snob, yes, you two are geniuses, and yes, I want the fanny pack foot brigade the hell out of my restaurant. $400 a day each sound good? Plus meals?"<br />
We'd been walking and talking, arriving where the rest were seated. I looked at Fang and Erica, and a light bulb went on over my head. I said to Mr. Smith, "You know.... If you're serious, I may be able to help. Let me work on it for a few minutes, you may have your Tourist Deflection Squad sooner than you think. Not me and Bekka, but people just as effective. I'll walk up and talk to you in a while."<br />
Mr. Smith gave me his sly, in-the-know smile and said, "Talk to you soon, sugar."<br />
We had two waiters, a tall blonde twink named Julian and another guy I didn't know, but who had the same gay porn star look as the rest of the wait-staff. They collected drink orders and scuttled towards the bar. I turned to Erica and Fang and said, "So tell me, are you two familiar with improvisational acting?"<br />
They shrugged and said, "Yeah, sure."<br />
"Okay, great. How would you two like part-time jobs working here?"<br />
"Are you serious?" asked Erica. "I've never done restaurant work. What would we be doing?"<br />
Bekka responded, "Horrifying people into leaving before they're seated. If you've never guessed, this place thrives on snobbery. The trattoria is very popular with the Hollywood set. They can eat in privacy, talk about anything they want, and never worry about being approached by fans. The hoi polloi eat out on the patio, the plebes are seated in the main dining room.... if they're seated at all. The maitre'ds will go to great lengths to avoid seating tourists anywhere in the trattoria. They can't just say, 'You're tourists, get the fuck out,' but they'll delay them so long the tourists give up. But even then, they're occupying space in the bar or at the entrance."<br />
I continued to elaborate. "Me and Bekka, or sometimes me and Terry, have managed to terrify groups of tourists into leaving in the past. We've done it just by telling ugly stories and acting in inappropriate ways. We were only amusing ourselves, but Bruno and Mr. Smith and the other maitre'ds loved us for it. We'd removed an eyesore from the trattoria much more efficiently than they could.<br />
Mallory was giving us her amused, suspicious smirk. "Okay guys, you like terrorizing people, I know that. Remember what you did to our property manager?"<br />
"Who picked up two more sets of clients from us later," I pointed out. Erica and Fang went through Rod, so did Gladys. Okay, we gave him a thrill...."<br />
"You terrified him! Bekka drove down Lincoln Boulevard at eighty-five like a maniac! So how did you terrify tourists here?"<br />
"Let's see...." said Bekka. "Okay, one time I put on an airhead voice and made allusions to all the bestiality porn I'd been making recently, claiming to be Becky Page's double. Another time, when I wasn't recognized, Lenny and I claimed to be brother and sister, from a mega-rich family in Bel Air, then started making out. When the tourists asked us if we were really brother and sister, we explained that yes we were. We'd been in love since we were eleven and twelve, respectively. Our sexual activities ate up a good six or eight hours a day, and we were trying for our first baby. They said that was horrible, so we started going off on how repressed Americans are, we wouldn't get a second glance in Europe. They also left in disgust."<br />
"Terry and I told stories to one group about the constant violence in our lives, and the lives of most other people in LA. We explained that getting on the freeway was essentially entering into a death match with every other driver, and how the CHP had devolved into a bizarre, state-funded vigilante squad made up of hardcore tweakers who would work for days at a time. CHP patrolmen pretty much lived in their cruisers. They were all major meth addicts at this point. They'd shake people down for money so they could buy more dope, but also had a weird law-and-order bend to them, like the Knights Errant of the freeways. They'd stay awake for days and days, spun as shit, just constantly cruising. The cruisers had been modified with superchargers and body armor. And of course, every other motorist was either a thief or a murderous psychotic. Terry and I told them we made our living as drug mules, and also offering "protection" to fancy businesses like the trattoria. Our lives were nothing but guns, fast cars, sex, drugs, and death. There was no meaning to life, all you could do was survive, so have as much fun as possible, 'cos you could be dead in an hour.<br />
"Another group were informed Terry and I got preferred seating because we were the drug dealers for the trattoria. Everyone who works here is high as shit on something all day. Meth, junk, Ecstasy, LSD, whatever. The management wanted their workers happy, so they kept us sweet by feeding us for free whenever we wanted. We had the best shit, we always had it, and we were reliable. I explained the Mr. Smith acted like a queen, right? That was just his personality that day. He was so far gone on drugs you never knew who you'd be dealing with, one day to the next. Today he's a queen, tomorrow he'll be a Bronx longshoreman, the day after that he'll be Charles Manson. Oh, and since most of the kitchen staff are junkies, they'll bang their China White while they work, and would sometimes get blood in the food.... Hey, it's pasta sauce, who's gonna notice? When the tourists asked about the celebrities who ate here, and if they knew, we said they did. To Hollywood types, totally blasé about everything and always looking for a thrill, they liked the idea of risking contracting hepatitis or HIV from eating at a restaurant. Just a little bit of thrilling gamble, you know?"<br />
"All this will happen right up front," said Bekka. "Mr. Smith, or Tristan, or whoever will spot us coming in and break off from whoever's in front of him so he can glad-hand Lenny and locate a table for us. The tourists get pissed, and ask just who do we think we are? We make shit up, and scare them into fleeing." She focused on Erica and Fang. "So. Do you think you two could subtly frighten tourists into leaving a restaurant? You couldn't use violence, or really outlandish behavior. You'd have to come up with ways of creeping people out enough they'd want to flee the area."<br />
Fang and Erica looked at each other with raised eyebrows. Then Fang smiled at us and said, "I think we could freak people out...." She made her eyes huge and wild. She turned back to Erica and said in a spacey, creepy voice, ".... Couldn't we.... <i>Mommy</i>....?" and began licking Erica's neck.<br />
"Fang, that is absolutely horrible and creepy," said Bekka. "I love it, perfect." The rest of the ladies burst into laughter.<br />
I threw in, "When they ask what you do for a living, explain you haven't worked for years. You keep marrying these very successful men, who always seem to die within a year of the wedding. Just enough time to have bought life insurance and get a new will written. What rotten luck you've had."<br />
"I know," said Erica. "I'd tell woman tourists I'm a writer for a new, all-lesbian version of Cosmopolitan, and I'm interviewing women at the trattoria. I'd start with a couple softball questions.... Are you married? What is your age? Then, 'When you're fucking your girlfriend with a strap-on, do you pull her hair and talk dirty to her?' 'What? I don't have a girlfriend, I'm married to a man!' I'd give her a condescending look and say, 'Of course, honey. So, do you prefer being a domme or a submissive with women you fuck? Do you and your mistress always use the same safe word, or change them? What is the frequency of your prison rape fantasies?' And on and on."<br />
Fang exclaimed, "Oh, I know! I won't speak at all, but I'll be your sub. Every now and then you just snap orders at me, and I do 'em. 'Go to the bar and get me a beer.' 'Massage my legs.' 'Suck your thumb.' Shit like that. And explain to the tourists that you're training me for the woman who owns the restaurant. The owner bought me.... I dunno, in rural Latvia or some shit.... and you're doing the training, because the owner's current girl is almost twenty years old, so it's time for a new one. Yeah, casual references to white slavery should send people packing."<br />
"And if they ask what will happen to the old girl, tell 'em she has a new job lined up already," I suggested. "She'll be on the creative staff at Cosmopolitan, a fashion editor."<br />
"But only if she's a good girl," murmured Glee with a grin. Everyone burst out laughing.<br />
"Okay, this is getting creepy," said, Norma. Her smile had a nervous twinge to it.<br />
"That's the idea," Bekka replied. "Creep people out so they leave."<br />
"It's a pretty elitist attitude to have, personally," said Betty.<br />
"Absolutely! It's elitist, it's snobbish, it's exclusionary.... And it's aimed at a particular sub-set of potential customers."<br />
I continued, "The trattoria doesn't interview people when they walk in, asking if they're tourists. Show up dressed like you have every intention of eating at a high-class restaurant, hey, fine. But if you show up looking like you're headed to Disneyland for the day, you've gotta go. Matching sweats, cheap Nike knock-offs...."<br />
"Fucking fanny packs...." added Bekka.<br />
"... Instamatic camera hanging from your wrist.... No, they do not want you here, period."<br />
"Why not just have a dress code posted?" asked Jill.<br />
Bekka and I both snickered. "Because too many people who the trattoria wants as clientele would refuse to adhere to it," Bekka answered. "Does Lenny look like he should be getting preferred seating in this joint? Much less the rest of us? I've seen Don Johnson on the patio wearing a muscle shirt, cut-offs, and Birkenstock sandals. I've seen Winona Ryder barefoot, in jeans and a sports bra, brandishing a hangover so bad it was contagious."<br />
"Michael Douglas in a paint-spattered boiler suit," I intoned. "Sharon Stone, looking like 1973 puked on her. Rick Moranis and Dave Thomas both so geeked on coke they were looking at their menus upside down. Harrison Ford dressed like the King of Disco, and with a woman who was definitely not his wife. On and on. See, the trattoria is a haven for Hollywood people. They can come here, have great food and excellent service. And most importantly, be left the hell alone.<br />
"There's a few other places that are even more exclusive, but you can't just drop in on a whim, like people can here. Those places would stonewall God if He didn't have a reservation and a tie. The trattoria is purposely more easygoing and friendlier. Demi Moore could show up covered in blood and wearing a dress made of pork chops, and the trattoria will seat her, because she's fucking Demi Moore. So a dress code wouldn't work. The selective enforcement would be too blatant, and that's bad press."<br />
"What puzzled us was how tourists were learning of the trattoria to begin with," Bekka stated. "Angel, the owner, has done a good job of keeping the trattoria out of the show biz press. You'll never see paparazzi shots taken here. Pull a camera out within a hundred yards of the trattoria, you'd better have a gun and a badge in your other hand. They've asked tourists who told them this would be a good place for dinner, and it's a mixed bag. Some tour guide will be wise to the place, or a hotel desk clerk. Um.... Angel can get a bit heavy, when he wants to. He and a couple friends once spent several days visiting local hotels and motels, speaking to managers, and telling them in no uncertain terms that the trattoria was not to be suggested as a good place for a meal by anyone employed at the hotels and motels.<br />
"See, the type of tourist we're trying to run off are exactly the types who want pictures and autographs with the stars, and the stars come here precisely so they can avoid that shit, without having to make reservations three weeks in advance. I remember the first time I ate here. Lenny brought me. Jack fucking Nicholson was sitting fifteen feet from us, and Lenny had to nudge me, and tell me to stop staring. Yes, staring at someone is intrusive. If stars want to be recognized by the public while they eat, their opportunities are endless. If they want stellar but anonymous service, they come here."<br />
Fang asked, "So.... When would we work? How many hours a day, and when?"<br />
"Beats the shit out of me," I replied. "I'll need to ask Mr. Smith what his plans would be. And, of course, if he thinks Angel would go for this idea."<br />
Bekka snickered, "I already know Angel think's it's awesome. You know his sense of humor, he loves it."<br />
I excused myself and went to the entrance. Mr. Smith was standing at his podium, no customers. I asked if he could spare five minutes. He said absolutely, honey, let me get someone up here to stand in my place. He waved down Benny the waiter, who in turn retrieved the bar back to fill in for Mr. Smith. Walking back towards the banquet seating, Mr. Smith said quietly, "I always hope someday you'll ask for fifteen or twenty minutes of my time alone, honey. I'll be more than happy to oblige."<br />
Chuckling, I said, "Come on, Mr. Sm--- Daniel. You're barking up the wrong breeder. Been there, done that, had fun.... and it just ain't me, you know? Although I am flattered."<br />
At the table, Mr. Smith told Erica and Fang they'd be wanted, ideally, for the dinner hours Friday through Sunday, plus lunch hours Monday through Friday. This would be very informal, no schedule at all. "If you can do it, peachy. If not,well, we'll survive. I have no problem calling the imaginary dress code on people, and if Don Johnson comes in wearing his cut-offs --- and honey, it always brightens my day when he does! --- the tourists can bitch at me, fine. I'll point out that he's Don Johnson, and you're not. Toodles, sweetie.<br />
"Doing that all the time, though, that's gonna turn into bad press sooner or later. The movie stars are enough of hypocrites that they'd stop coming if the papers were bleating on about how the trattoria is snobby and elitist. So deflecting the tourists while keeping the trattoria's reputation unsullied is where you'd come in. So a couple tourists ran into a couple horrible people in the foyer of a snazzy restaurant. Can't blame the restaurant, now can you?"<br />
He quickly elaborated further. The idea would be to scare a specific small group of people into leaving, not everyone present, so whatever was done would have to be subtle, not noticeable to others waiting on tables. "So, you'd have to interact with the tourists fairly intimately. No yelling, no outlandish behavior. From a distance of six feet, Bekka and Lenny would look like they were engaged in a normal conversation. You'd have to seriously eavesdrop on them to realize what poison is being poured into the ears of lumpy Midwestern yokels"<br />
Erica got a positively evil look on her face and said, "Midwestern yokels, huh? Yeah.... I believe Fang and I know exactly what brands of poison to pour."<br />
"Oh?" Mr. Smith's eyebrows went up.<br />
Fang elaborated, "Sitting right here, you've got five dykes, and we're all expatriates from Minnesota...."<br />
Betty inserted, "Five and a half. I'm from Wisconsin.... although I've been in California since 1972."<br />
"Okay, right on. Yeah buddy, we can scare the shit outta square-state assholes in two minutes, just using words. Tell 'em we're early for the all-dyke Ladies Night the trattoria puts on twice a week, how in an hour every muff-diving dagger in SoCal will be showing up and looking to get laid. They don't mind nudity among fellow patrons, right? Or sex acts on the tables? We could play the same scene, only claim the Church of Satan has their weekly bash that night. Nudity, heavy metal, and animal sacrifice."<br />
Erica stated, "It would be hard to not tee off a little bit if I met Minnesota tourists. Just straight up telling them, 'Yeah, Fang and I are a couple, we just moved out here to California, and we did so because we were sick of being around people like <i>you</i>. Go home and play with your fucking pull-tabs. Freeze to death every winter, battle pigeon-size mosquitoes every summer, and choke to death on your own self-repression."<br />
His eyebrows still up, Mr. Smith said, "A bit too hostile, honey. You'd be starting an argument, not freaking them out."<br />
With a chuckle, Fang said, "We'll tell 'em we'd have liked to stay in Minnesota, but Ordo Templi Orientis isn't active enough out there."<br />
"That being..." pressed Mr. Smith.<br />
"The fuckin' OTO, dude. The weird fraternal organization Alistair Crowley created. You know, 'Do what---'"<br />
" --- thou wilt shall be the whole of the law," most of the rest of the table enjoined. I noticed I wasn't the only one rolling his eyes while reciting the line.<br />
Fang continued, "The OTO isn't Satanic. They're more like a weird and creepy version of the Freemasons. But they may as well be burning goats or whatever, if you ask anyone in the Midwest about 'em. And of course, Ozzy Osborne wrote the song 'Mr. Crowley.' Yeah, claiming to be OTO would freak the shit out of people."<br />
Snorting with laughter, I said, "I got invited to an OTO mass once. By the end, all I could think was, 'Jesus, you people are trying way too hard to piss off your parents.' Sorry, I wouldn't join the OTO for the same reason I'd never join the Masons, It's just ritual-based bullshit, they may as well be the fuckin' Catholics." I paused, then said, "Okay, the Catholics don't have sex magic rituals. But still...."<br />
<br />
Mr. Smith returned to his podium. I asked Betty, Norma, and Gladys how they'd gotten along.<br />
Norma laughed. "It was nice being around another old lez who's also not another old activist. I know Gladys is a lifelong Democrat, and for now, that's all I need to know."<br />
Betty tittered, "It feels like a lot of us dykes sort of.... retire after a certain age. We're too old for the bars and clubs, none of the girls at a lez bar want to hear some old dagger rattling on about estrogen therapy."<br />
Resting her hand on Gladys' arm, Norma stated, "I'm glad to meet Gladys. Me and Betty have known each other for years, on and off, hanging around the same lefty-feminist-dyke political scenes in LA. Talking to someone not involved in politics was a breath of fresh air this afternoon. Okay, Gladys is only recently out --- and God bless her for that! --- so she's never been around queer or feminist politics before." She stared at her drink. "And in a general way, she didn't miss a thing."<br />
Feather gave Norma a look and said, "But the feminist activists, and queer activists, got a lot done. You can't say your efforts were wasted."<br />
"No.... But we also caused some damage. Especially in the early Seventies. There was...." She took a sip of her Chablis and cleared her throat. "I believe a lot of perfectly nice people got hurt, due to the tenor of feminist theory back then. I've always known I was a lesbian. I stayed in the closet, then married a man in 1968. And while I wasn't happy with my sex life, I really did love him, George was a great guy. He wasn't a chauvinist, he saw our marriage as an equal partnership. We were still fairly young, and politically aware, even if we weren't marching in the streets every weekend.<br />
"I got radicalized in 1971, and Jesus Christ, did I buy in. All men are pigs, castrate them at birth, blah blah blah. I turned into a damn harpy, and George was in the firing line. He tried to get me to be reasonable and drop the invective. He'd read the literature, and try to have a calm discussion with me about it, saying, 'I can understand the points of A, B, and C, but D, E,and F are divisive and counterproductive. How were these conclusions reached?' I'd just snap at him and tell him he'd never understand because he'd never be a woman. That was my constant defense, 'You're not a woman, you'll never understand.' After a while he started yelling, 'Well, start explaining! Educate me!' And I'd stomp off, calling him a pig over my shoulder. I finally came home one day to find a note saying, 'Dear Norma, fuck it. Love, George.' He'd taken $200 our of our savings and left with a single suitcase. And it struck me: I didn't blame him a bit. I'd turned into the sort of loudmouthed bitch hardhats made jokes about.<br />
"Anyway, I left LA for San Francisco, and stayed out of politics until the early Eighties. Then I started watching fags I was friends with drop like flies, and the government didn't seem to be putting much effort into figuring out what was going on. So.... dust off the bullhorn and paint fresh placards. And even after HIV/AIDS was isolated, the government didn't do much of anything to dispel all the misinformation about it. People were wearing masks on MUNI, in case some fag started coughing! Queer restaurant workers were being fired, it was too risky to have fags work around food. Finding solid information was a genuine headache, and informing the public was an even bigger one. Seriously, by 1984 medical science understood just how damn hard it was to contract HIV, but they did a piss-poor job of explaining it."<br />
Gladys said quietly, "And it also demonstrated who some people in this country would rather listen to. Scientists are high and mighty, over-educated, they think they know it all. Too many people would rather listen to preachers. According the them, AIDS was God's way of punishing the homos, and that was that. And when other people got infected, well, it was time to round up the homos into camps, wasn't it? Oh, I heard it and heard it from Roy. One of his favorite old lines is, 'Science doesn't know everything.' I'd point out that of course they don't know everything. If they did, they'd have stopped by now." We all burst into laughter.<br />
With a smile, Feather said, "My science teacher said anyone who wanted solid proof from science should only study two fields: mathematics, and alcohol distillation. Everything else is a theory, and always will be. And he also explained that the word 'theory' is misused. When most people use the word 'theory,' they mean 'hypothesis.' You know, coming up with a logical answer to a question by running it through your brain.<br />
"But thinking shit up isn't science. Okay, you think you figured something out. Great. Now it's time to test the idea and see if it holds up. That's where people lose interest in science, because doing that shit is boring and takes forever. It also means your hypothesis can end up being proven wrong, an nobody likes being proven wrong. The fuckin' Creationists can be proven wrong by studying the research done, the fossil history, carbon dating, all that crap. But the Creationists will just argue that they only need to study the Bible to prove themselves right. Everything in the Bible is completely true, and anything the contradicts it must be the work of Satan or something. Fuck that."<br />
This prompted a burst of laughter from Gladys. "Hoo boy! I tell ya, to hear Roy go on about evolution would be a hoot, if it wasn't so sad. Yes Roy, dinosaur bones were placed in the earth by Jesus to test our faith. Shut the fuck up, Roy, and have another fucking drink."<br />
We talked about this and that over our meals. Waiting on aperitifs, Betty asked me, "I have to ask. Are you comfortable right now?"<br />
I thought about the question briefly and replied, "Well.... My boxers are riding up on me a little, but beyond that...."<br />
"No, I mean, you're the only man in a group of eleven people, and the only straight man at that."<br />
I snorted and said, "You know what, ma'am? I've been having dinner and conversation with ten intelligent people. What the hell would I have to complain about? Trust me on this, or ask Bekka. If someone had said something I felt was idiotic, I'd have said something. I can pretty much guarantee if I'd met Norma in 1972, our conversation would not have gone smoothly. I don't claim to be the world's most sensitive guy, all I ask is people back up their statements with reason. In 1972, I'd have probably told Norma that if a radical feminist wanted to impress me, they can write their name in the sand, if you catch my drift." There was a burst of laughter.<br />
"Beyond that, hey, we're not 'men' and 'women.' We're people, we were all graced with the same grey matter. It's how a lot of people use that grey matter that bugs me. There's a lot of fuckin' idiots in the world, who wrap themselves in their bigotry --- sexism, racism, homophobia, whatever --- like it's a down comforter. And the hardest thing in the world is getting people to get rid of their comforters. If they do, they're not comfortable any more, they'll have to learn new things, and they might be made to feel uncomfortable.<br />
"What I know is I'm sitting at a table with ten people who are intelligent enough to actively use their brains, and also brave enough to admit when they were wrong about something. That takes courage. Too many people burrow deeper, rather than admit they made a mistake."<br />
"I almost never make mistakes," Glee said proudly.<br />
There was a lot of snickering. Bekka commented, "Yes, fifteen year olds are almost never wrong about anything. Ask one, they'll tell you it's true. Fifteen year old girls should run the universe."<br />
"You made a mistake two days ago," Feather (Glee's big sister) asserted.<br />
"What?" questioned Glee.<br />
"You were convinced --- absolutely convinced. --- that Brussels sprouts were just tiny cabbages. I had to get the produce manager at Safeway to point out your mistake."<br />
There were too many good manners in play for everyone to start laughing out loud, it would have hurt Glee's feelings. However, there were a lot of red faces, inwardly-clenched lips, snorts, snickers, and tongues being bitten for a minute.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10230648449521958270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033784518790200307.post-13988440457479902772017-05-03T04:09:00.001-07:002017-05-03T04:09:36.140-07:00Sisters (Part 14) "Delta Epsilon Theta house?" Kaitlyn repeated. "What did you want to know about them? Why do you care?"<br />
"Purely curiosity," Jane said to her roommate in a dismissive tone. "There's a couple of them who are also Haas students. Juniors. We were talking a bit."<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
"The Delta Epsilon brothers are mega-smooth. They're all hotties, too. They're, like.... Other fraternities will throw blowout keg ragers, right? These guys throw great parties too, but everything will be really classy, you know? Instead of open kegs for five bucks, Delta Epsilon will charge ten, but have kegs, plus a full bar and a professional bartender. And catered food! Their parties are invite-only." Kaitlyn snickered. "Unless you're hanging around outside, and one of the brothers sees you and thinks you're hot. And you also meet the dress code. That's how I got into a party of theirs about five weeks ago."<br />
"Sort of like getting into an exclusive nightclub," Jane mused. "Meet the 'hot-or-not' criteria for the guy at the door, you get in. Lovely."<br />
Kaitlyn glared at Jane. "Why do you care? You hate the Greek system. You'd like to wreck all the fraternities, frat brothers have more class than you and you hate them. They'd never go for a weirdo like you, so you hate them. You know I'm right."<br />
Jane smiled warmly at her roommate and responded, "Okay, let's work from there. I know you're aware of the videos I made over the summer...."<br />
"Yes...." Kaitlyn sighed. "God, you are so gross and sleazy."<br />
"Funny, last week I was perverted white trash. Anyway. plenty of people are aware of those videos. I think Inana could make a two hour tape of paint drying and it would sell by the truckload. I've had people approach me off and on to ask if that was me in the 'Naughty Novices' videos, and get an autograph...."<br />
"You're signing autographs?"<br />
"Sure am."<br />
"Because you made some sex videos?"<br />
"Evidently," Jane replied. "And don't forget, I'll be gone next weekend. I'll be down in San Diego shooting more video for the 'Duane and Dolly's Place' series. But continuing on, two of these Delta Epsilon bros recognized me.a couple weeks ago. You're right, Kay, they are slick. They tried to convince me they're producing video out of their frat house. Unfortunately, every question I posed to them they got wrong. They know nothing about the adult film industry, or even video production. Jesus Christ, they thought $100 would pay for a two-in-one scene with me. I pointed out they were a zero short."<br />
"A what scene?" Kaitlyn asked.<br />
"A two-in-one. One girl, two guys, all three busy at once. The girl spends most of her time on her hands and knees, so she can blow one guy while the other fucks her doggy style. Don't confuse it with a DP, or double penetration. That's when the girl has one guy up her pussy, the other up her ass. It takes a bit of coordination to ---"<br />
"Oh my God, that is the most sick thing I've ever heard. You just made that up. No girl would ever do that, you're just being your usual gross self."<br />
Jane laughed at Kaitlyn. "Um, cupcake, I can get on the phone with a girl how routinely does DP scenes, I can call her right now, if you wish. Or, just ask nearly any guy about it. It's not exactly a rarity in hardcore porn." She swigged from her beer and said, "That's not the point. I was just wondering about who these guys are. The first time we talked, we'd seemed to have reached a state of detente, there was no real hostility, and I thought I'd disabused them of the idea of trying to make a video with me. It was obvious they just wanted to get in my pants.<br />
"Friday they talked to me again, and tried to con me on the same bullshit. Also, they had $400 now. I finally got them to admit they just wanted to pay me for sex, and were rather annoyed I'd called them out on it." Jane snickered. "I actually gave them a price, if they were so keen. Five grand would get both of them with me, at the same time, for one hour. I wasn't able to elaborate that outside the unlocked door would be a Hell's Angel with a stopwatch and a billy club. When one hour was up, the Angel would come in the room and all activity would cease.<br />
"So, they rambled the usual frat boy bullshit about how I must be a slut and a whore because I make porn videos, blah blah blah, $400 should be enough. I told them they'd now wasted my time on two occasions, I was sick of this game, and it was time for them to leave. I even inferred that if they didn't fuck off, I would send them to the hospital. They finally took the hint and left."<br />
Kaitlyn rolled her eyes and said, "Oh, right. You're gonna beat up two fraternity brothers at once. I'm so sure."<br />
Jane grabbed her purse off the coffee table and reached in. She pulled out her butterfly knife and flipped it open. Kaitlyn stared nervously at the blade. Jane commented, "This is always in my purse. I don't always carry my Beretta, but my butterfly is always with me. It's even modified, check it...."<br />
She flipped the knife so he was holding the blade, the handle pointed at Kaitlyn. Jane gestured for her to take it. She said, "Check it. I had a real blade cut into mine. Normally, butterflies are meant to be daggers, you just keep stabbing. I can stab with mine, but I can also slash. And I know the hone of the blade is sharp, because I never use it as a utility knife. Blades don't go dull unless you use them."<br />
Kaitlyn frowned down at the knife in her hand. She examined both sides of the blade, determining which side had been beveled. Then she picked up a sheet of paper off her desk and sliced at an edge with the blade. The paper cut quickly and smoothly, a very clean cut. She studied the knife, realizing that the handle was also what sheathed the blade when it was closed, the handle was in two pieces. She held one half of the handle and tried to flip it closed. The knife clattered to the floor. She picked it up again and asked, "How do you do that?"<br />
Jane took the knife back and flipped it shut. "You mean that? It's just the opposite of opening it...." She flipped the butterfly open again. "... like that."<br />
"You spin it so fast, I can't see how it's done!"<br />
"It's just.... It just takes a bit of practice," Jane sighed. "I'll show you some other time."<br />
"I should call the UC Police on you for having that in your purse," Kaitlyn said in her Spoiled Child voice. "You'd probably get expelled."<br />
Regarding her roommate levelly, Jane dropped the knife back in her purse. She slowly exhaled, then said, "No, cupcake. That would be an incredibly bad idea on your part. It would be a disastrous decision." She sat up straight. "Kaitlyn? Cupcake? I never really bully you, now do I? Christ knows you're an easy target, and sometimes you almost seem to be daring me to, but I don't. Until now." She locked eyes with Kaitlyn and said, "If you did anything to jeopardize my education at Berkeley, or get me jammed up with the law, your life would be a shambles in a very short amount of time. Any direction you turned would lead to disaster. Chaos, misery.... poverty.... Everything in your life would turn to shit, and stay that way for a long time. I can't say in what ways, because I don't know. But your life would be ruined, and you wouldn't be able to pin a fucking thing on me. Am I making myself clear?"<br />
Kaitlyn stared at Jane with a face that showed both defiance and fear. After a few moments, Jane said, "All right, I'll accept silence as assent. We're getting off the fucking point anyways. So far as you know, cupcake, does the Delta Epsilon house have an Enemies list, like those jackasses I dealt with at the beginning of the year?"<br />
"I don't think so, I've never heard of one," muttered Kaitlyn. Then she snapped her head up and said, "Why? Are you gonna fuck with Delta Epsilon? God, you are so stupid! Are you ---"<br />
"Shut the fuck up, Kaitlyn. No, I'm not gonna fuck with them. I don't care about them. I want to be left the hell alone. I told those two bros to just forget me, forget we've ever spoken. I'm just one more student out of 30,000 at the educational la-la land known at UC Berkeley. I am not going to engage them, and I want to make sure they won't engage me.... Or if they do, it's just two idiots, not their whole fucking fraternity in on the game. Do you think Delta Epsilon, the whole frat, would make me a target? Or are they too smooth for that?"<br />
Kaitlyn started to scowl at Jane.... then actually gave a coy smile and looked down at the coffee table. "I wouldn't worry about them. The guys at Delta Epsilon pride themselves on being really suave, total gentlemen players. If these two guys let their brothers know what was going on with you, the other guys in the house would probably give them shit. A Delta Epsilon member paying for sex? No way. Girls pay them, you know?"<br />
"Fascinating," Jane chuckled. "Maybe the house should try to get a Zagat rating. The finest selection of gigolos in East Bay." A thought suddenly dropped in Jane's head. Her brow creased, Jane asked, "Did you say you went to a party at Delta Epsilon five weeks ago?"<br />
"Yeah."<br />
"You're sure about that?"<br />
"Yeah.... Oh shit."<br />
Now Jane's face settled into an expression she'd seen on Don Vito's face, and Angel's face, and Bekka's face, and Lenny's face. A riddle had just been solved, and the answer wasn't funny. Her head nodding slightly, Jane stated, "Five weeks ago this last Saturday, I rode with you in a fucking ambulance to Alta Bates ER, because you'd been drugged at a party. Specifically, you'd been drugged and raped at a frat party the night before. You spent the night at the hospital while your overdose level of Rohypnol worked its way out of your system."<br />
She leaned forward, hands on her knees. "And because you are a <i>silly fucking bitch</i>, you stonewalled both Berkeley PD and UCPD as to where you'd been Friday night. Your rape kit results showed semen from five different men. Five motherfuckers gang raped you.... And for some reason which I can't fathom, you protected them. You were drugged and gang raped, and your stupid-ass twisted goddamn fucking sense of class loyalty and privilege makes you protect your attackers." Jane drank down the rest of her beer, over half a bottle. "You know what, cupcake? You will never call me 'sick' again. Or perverted, or gross, or sleazy, or weird. You have me beat, hands down, on any accusation like that."<br />
With a sigh, Jane got up to grab another beer from the fridge. Cracking it open, she lazily commented, "Well, another mystery solved. I'd better contact Velma and Shaggy and Fred and.... Dammit, the red-haired bitch...."<br />
"Daphne," Kaitlyn muttered.<br />
"Thank you. Yep, tell 'em to fuel the Mystery Machine and hit the road. Gosh, I can't wait until the next mystery. Can you?" There was no response. Jane counted to ten, then said in a calmer voice, "Kaitlyn, would you like a beer?"<br />
"Yes please," came the murmured response.<br />
Kaitlyn accepted the Miller from Jane, who had an Anchor Steam in her own hand. (Kaitlyn didn't like Anchor Steam, it tasted "really strong and icky.") Kaitlyn took a long pull off the beer and gazed into the middle distance. Then she glared at Jane and said, "You're gonna do something to Delta Epsilon, aren't you? Now that you know? I know you are, you hate the frats." Jane looked at her roommate with a placid expression. Kaitlyn continued, "Okay, so maybe I didn't tell the cops what happened. It was the right thing to do! Those guys could have had their lives ruined because of one dumb mistake!"<br />
With a vicious smirk, Jane said, "A.... mistake? No, it wasn't a mistake. A mistake is when you go to do laundry and forget to bring quarters with you. A mistake is when you leave the coffee maker on all day. For five assholes to put drugs in a girl's drink, then carry her someplace private, then strip her, then take turns raping her does not count as a mistake. That is a hell of a lot of planning. In legal parlance, there is provable intent. Ding ding, wrong answer, would you like to try again?"<br />
"Leave them alone. It's my problem, not yours."<br />
"Oh.... I wouldn't say that. It may not be my problem, exactly, but it is a problem, however you slice it, for any human with two X chromosomes in the area of the UC Berkeley campus. Those guys look around at half the species and don't see women, they see pussy life support systems. Women aren't people to them, they're targets. Dartboards for dicks. A man who commits an act like they did to you is showing he has no basic empathy for women. Contempt at best, hatred at worst.<br />
"I don't feel threatened by frat boy rapists. I've protected myself in the past, I'll probably have to do it again, and against some way meaner motherfuckers than the rich honkies who inhabit the Greek fraternal system. They don't worry me one bit."<br />
"You'll leave them alone?" Kaitlyn asked suspiciously.<br />
With her warmest smile, Jane said, "Come on, cupcake. I'm one girl. Okay, I'm kind of tough, but I can't battle an entire frat house. And no, I can't call in my HA friends, either. I'm sure there are some members of the club who I could contract with, but I can't afford them. Look, you can put a fucking tracking collar on me if you want, keep tabs on me every second of the day. Other than stopping at International House for coffee sometimes, I have no reason to be anywhere near Frat Row. Relax."<br />
Kaitlyn drank more of her beer and said, "'Kay." Then she grabbed the remote and turned on the TV.<br />
<br />
The next afternoon, Jane was in a phone booth at Albany Bowl. The bowling alley had vintage phone booths: dark wood construction, roomy, a padded seat, a counter, even a hook for a purse or jacket. Dead silent, too, a blessing inside a bowling alley. Anyone outside a booth would never be able to hear a conversation inside. Jane fed quarters into the slot and dialed Bel Air. She wanted to talk to Uncle Vito.<br />
She'd brought two rolls of quarters with her. Much of the discussion had eaten up one roll. She had stated her case, making it clear to her close friend Vito that she wasn't the one who had been hurt, it was her roommate. Yes, the awkward cow with entitlement issues. Just the same....<br />
Don Vito pondered in silence briefly, then said yes. He would extend a courtesy to Jane. He knew what tack to use. His gravelly, 80 year old chuckle came down the line. "People believe Cosa Nostra to be utterly free of morals," Vito said in his rumbling Italian accent. "Bullshit. Their minds would boggle at the things the family has done in the name of morality. No profit, no protection, simply striking a blow for basic decency." He paused briefly, then asked, "When does winter break start at Berkeley?"<br />
"The seventeenth," Jane replied. "About four and a half weeks away."<br />
"All right. Things will proceed before then. That is what I can say at the moment."<br />
"So, when are you going to come up and visit, Vito? I've missed you so much. The few times I've been able to come south, I've been busy at Inana."<br />
Vito paused. Jane knew that he was staring a piece of empty space about two feet in front of him, at sternum level. She could hear the gears in his mind whirring. He finally stated, "I believe.... What I shall do is travel with the strike force, when they head for the Bay Area. I would greatly enjoy a bit of time in San Francisco, it is a city I have always enjoyed. And I know from experience you make an excellent travel partner. Would you join me in San Francisco the weekend of the.... Eleventh? We will stay in the Mark Hopkins, see sights. I greatly enjoy Chinatown, as well as Little Italy. Also, I would enjoy meeting your friends, the rock band...."<br />
Jane's eyes went wide. "You mean Chromewagon?"<br />
"Yes, that is them. You told me about them, and my curiosity was raised. So, I went to a record store on Melrose Avenue and purchased their album. Jane, you will probably believe this the raving of a foolish old man, but I enjoy the album greatly. Such cathartic energy! Is is <i>marveloso</i>."<br />
Now Jane was in a state of near-shock. She said, "Well, I'll call Dolly and see if her and the girls are free that weekend, we can hang out.... You wouldn't be bothered hanging out with them? They're kinda wild."<br />
"And you are not, dear girl?" In her mind's eye, Jane could see the smirk on Don Vito's face. "No, I will not be bothered, being in the company of four Sapphics. Not even Sapphics who play punk rock. I will enjoy the experience." Vito suddenly changed gears. "You have mentioned your roommate will suspect your involvement in any.... activity.... which happens in Berkeley, involving this organization. To allay suspicions, I will meet you at your residence, and meet this girl Kaitlyn. We will take a taxi from Berkeley to San Francisco and check into the hotel. We will eat dinner at their lovely restaurant. I wish to walk the Embarcadero that evening. Now that the eyesore which was the Embarcadero Freeway is gone, it will be a lovely view again. When we decide to retire to the hotel, we shall stay up late. I will call for room service at a late hour, and you shall accept and sign for the delivery. Then, in the morning, we will have breakfast in the hotel.<br />
"Except for a few hours, your whereabouts will be easily documented, your location can be confirmed by witnesses. Jane Osborne will have been in San Francisco. There will be no questioning that. <i>Capsici</i>?"<br />
"<i>Capisco</i>, Don Vito. <i>Ti parlerò presto, mi amor. Ciao</i>."<br />
"<i>Ciao, caro figlio</i>."<br />
<br />
Headline, Oakland Tribune, 12/12/92<br />
<h3>
Frat House Burns in Berkeley<br />11 Injured -- Arson Suspected</h3>
<div>
The Delta Epsilon Theta fraternity house on Warring St. in Berkeley succumbed to flames early this morning. A quick moving fire which investigators say is indicative of arson reduced the structure to ash and charred brick, all the way to the foundation. The fire was first reported at 3:31 by a resident across the street, who called 911 and ran to wake the occupants of the fraternity house. Fraternity members had to dive through flames and leap from third-story windows to escape the blaze, accounting for the injuries.</div>
<div>
"They were very lucky," said arson investigator Dale Thomas. "There is no question in my mind this was arson, due to the total destruction of the structure. Accelerant must have been used to ensure the level of destruction achieved. When the neighbor first reported the fire, it was burning on both the north and south sides of the building. By the time he got across the street, all four sides were in flame. The front door was locked, so the neighbor used a brick to smash through a sliding glass door to one side and alert the residents, pulling the fire alarm."</div>
<div>
Injuries consisted of second-degree burns, the worst being on one fraternity member who was burned on both legs. There were also cuts from glass and sprains from jumping from the high windows.</div>
<div>
Looking at where the fraternity house used to be, chapter president Scott "Scooter" Randolph said, "This is.... very hard to process. The entire house is just gone, completely. I was told arson is suspected, for the whole house to go up like it did. I mean, we're just a fraternity at UC Berkeley. We weren't one of the 'rager' houses, the parties we threw were pretty low-key events. Who would hate us this much? Who have we ever hurt?"</div>
<div>
CONTINUED ON PAGE A-8</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Jane dropped the paper back into the rack at the news stand and rejoined Don Vito. "Something interesting in the paper?" Vito asked.</div>
<div>
With a wide smile, Jane answered, "No, nothing special. Just a house fire in Berkeley near campus. Come on, Unky Vito, let's catch a cab to Dolly's place. She'll be waiting."</div>
<div>
As they rode towards Fell St., Don Vito quietly commented, "The school of Berkeley is very large. You cannot protect every young woman from attackers."</div>
<div>
Jane pondered this and replied, "No.... but I can hope to remove the sense of security attackers have. Deprive them of their secluded spaces, the locations where no one can see or hear them. Rapists don't do it once and say, 'There, I'm happy.' They continue, over and over, until they are either caught or die.... or something jolts them out of their behavior. Rapists inflict fear and terror. Suffering it themselves may make them think twice."</div>
<div>
"I will pray you are correct, dear child. Now, let us think of happier things."</div>
<div>
"<i>Un'idea eccellente, cara</i>."<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, in East Bay....<br />
The four strike squad members were awake, active, and eating breakfast. Just four wise guys, legitimate businessmen, who had a small task to take care of in the Bay Area. Two of them had used the "bank by phone" system on their accounts and verified that yes, Angel Morelli, the new Don of Southern California, had deposited their bonuses. This was money above and beyond their salary as strike squad members. Not only were they operating outside their turf, this was <i>Un favore per un amico</i>, a favor for a friend. Not business related at all. In fact, they were aware this was a favor for Don Vito's young friend Jane. She was still the mascot of the strike force, carrying her photograph was considered good luck by the members. Individually, the SoCal mafia speculated on the nature of Jane and Vito's relationship. None would ever speak their thoughts on the subject aloud. That way could lead to a much shorter life span.<br />
And in Berkeley, Kaitlyn Larson-Hires stomped up Dwight St. and turned right on Warring. The paper hadn't lied, the house was gone. The lot was surrounded by POLICE LINE - DO NOT CROSS tape. Other residents of the neighborhood stood around, staring at the blank spot covered in ash, quietly making comments to each other. Kaitlyn could feel herself vibrating. Her brain was stuck in a loop: she did it. She did it, somehow. Jane did this. Jane made this happen. She did it. Jane did it.<br />
Kaitlyn's stomach suddenly roiled. She staggered over to the corner of the lot and puked. Satchel Page never threw anything that hard. A foreign student from across the street asked if she was okay. She made vague noises about breakfast not agreeing with her, and started back towards the residence hall.<br />
Never in her life had Kaitlyn felt so terrified. There was surely no proof that Jane Osborne had put the torch to the Delta Epsilon house. Just as no one would connect her to the incident at Delta Tau Theta. Four members had multiple teeth yanked out with pliers one night. They couldn't keep their stories straight as to what happened, or where. Delta Tau had been one of the serious rager houses, the party never stopped.... until a couple months ago.<br />
Jane Osborne had gotten into it with a Delta Tau bro, a senior named Rex. Delta Tau had an Enemies list, which was the collective hobby of the frat members. Anyone on the list gets harassed. If the offense was bad enough, the Enemy would be harassed into leaving school completely. Well, some weirdo punk rock cunt named Jane had punched Rex in the face. Bros don't take shit like that from hos. Jane Osborne would be leaving UCB, and if she refused, well....She'd wish she was dead.<br />
But things didn't work out that way. Jane was still a Berkeley student, while the fraternity seemed to have lost its will to live. Or something. None of the members would say what had happened, they refused to discuss matters at all. But they had re-evaluated themselves as a Greek fraternal organization. Someone remembered that hey, fraternities are supposed to do charitable work. The national charter said their focus was diabetes research. Well by God, the members of Delta Tau Theta, Berkeley chapter, threw themselves into it. They were fundraising fools now, along with distributing literature and volunteering at a couple health clinics in shitty parts of Oakland.<br />
Kaitlyn knew what really happened, and would never have it confirmed. Jane was friends with the Oakland chapter of the Hell's Angels. When Delta Tau's harassment started, all she had to do was pick up the phone and ask for a favor. Oak-town HA did the rest. Kaitlyn even asked a couple of bros if it had been the Angels, both had just shook their heads and looked away. Jane denied it, there was no proof.... But the tooth-pulling incident had happened, and like magic, the name Jane Osborne was removed from the Enemies list. In fact, a couple days later the Enemies list was abolished completely. Delta Tau used to be the hard-asses at Berkeley. Someone, or something, had kicked them soft. And Kaitlyn knew that somehow, her roommate Jane was behind it.<br />
Now this. The fire.<br />
Jane was in San Francisco, visiting with her rich "Uncle Vito." She'd left the room number at the hotel, in case Kaitlyn needed to call her. After seeing the morning paper, Kaitlyn called. 8:14 is not a happy hour for any college students, especially on a Saturday, but Kaitlyn called anyway. The operator put her through to the room. Moments later a groggy-sounding Jane spoke into the phone. Kaitlyn hung up. Okay, Jane was in San Francisco, fast asleep. There would be no way to place her in Berkeley, starting a fire, five hours earlier that morning. But Jane did it, somehow.<br />
It wasn't yet eleven in the morning, but Kaitlyn went to the room of a senior she knew who would buy alcohol for her. They walked to the liquor store, and the senior purchased a pint of peppermint schnapps for Kaitlyn. He didn't ask questions, the little chick looked stressed as hell. Kaitlyn went back to the apartment, cracked open the bottle, and chugged a couple swallows. She could still feel herself shaking.<br />
And a new thought was running through her mind. My roommate isn't human. Jane Osborne, punk rock weirdo, was not of this earth. She was a vengeful god. Or a demon. Something. All Kaitlyn knew was that anything that annoyed or upset Jane was destroyed. She rained torture with one hand, fire with the other. Jane fucking Osborne was the most powerful being in the world. And Kaitlyn lived in the same room with her.<br />
She quickly capped the bottle of schnapps, set it on her desk, then ran into the bathroom so she could puke again.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10230648449521958270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033784518790200307.post-37348999446837356252017-04-03T20:43:00.002-07:002017-04-03T20:43:30.298-07:00Groove (Part 1) I had given up on trying to train Stefano.<br />
It was October, year of our Lord 1992. The previous August, Inana Productions had expanded in a big way. Angel Morelli, the owner and my boss, bought a giant warehouse in the city of Oceanside that spring. It now held four sound stages, offices, editing suites, and all the other facilities for conducting video production. Less than half the warehouse space was taken up by the operation, even after our set decorators emptied out the self-storage spaces we'd kept our props and furniture. Angel wanted to be able to expand further without having a third location, and he got it.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
With the new studio came new performers and production crews. The roster of people working for Inana doubled overnight, a serious logistics challenge. Inana would have four productions running at once. All the people, all that scheduling, all those paychecks.... And Angel wanted me being creative, coming up with ideas, writing scripts, and functioning as a producer. No way could I handle everything myself, like I had been Angel didn't want me having to handle the nuts and bolts of running a studio, he wanted me concentrating on keeping Inana the most successful, respected, and talked-about pornographic video studio in the world. I'd turned Inana from just a small studio in North County San Diego into a creative powerhouse, the studio who had turned hardcore porn into valid entertainment.<br />
Inana Productions had created a whole new genre of film known as "Smart Porn." Essentially, Smart Porn came about because I thought almost all porn features sucked. Why were hardcore features such garbage? Terrible writing and stories, lousy acting, shoddy production work, features only existed as an excuse for the sex. I considered that bullshit. Out of this contempt and general creative restlessness, I learned the basics of screenwriting and began knocking out scripts. Inana's first real feature, "Lust Instructor," cost $280,000 to produce, it got good reviews and sold well enough that Angel (and his cousin Vinny) gave the approval to continue making full features My fourth feature was a film named "Bewitched," a story about an insane witch who releases a "love spell" into the world, which causes genuine chaos. I beat my brains out over the script, then me and my director worked closely with the performers to get their roles tight. This was the first porn film with professional special effects in it.<br />
The general public went nuts.<br />
Word of mouth spread the news of this hardcore porn video that, yeah, had the usual sucking and fucking.... But was also intellectually satisfying, a truly good movie. I'd written the script in such a way that there were some serious brain-teasers, small mental puzzles to keep viewers interested. I'd also written it so the sex and the plot were intertwined, they flowed naturally together. The upshot: a hardcore porn film which attracted and fascinated viewers who had never bought porn in their lives. Old, young, men, women, everyone became fascinated with "Bewitched." In the adult video industry, sales of 500,000 copies on one year was considered a blockbuster. "Bewitched" sold five million copies in six months.... And the rate of sales kept increasing.<br />
Meanwhile, I kept writing and producing. The mainstream media picked up on the success of "Bewitched" and began reporting on Inana Productions, as well as its star, Becky Page, a.k.a. my wife Bekka. By the following spring, we had another three releases out (our total production time was blazing fast, compared to Hollywood) and all three were selling even better than the previous ones. Becky Page became a mainstream celebrity, albeit one who carried a feeling of danger. Teenage and college age girls were copying her goth-inspired fashion sense and haircut. She showed up in People, Us, Time, Newsweek, plus on the TV networks. After the release of our ode to "Road Warrior," a feature called "Succubus," People magazine took the plunge and actually began reviewing our releases (and favorably). Other magazines followed suit. In the summer of 1991 Newsweek did a cover article on the studio, and also coined the term Smart Porn. The meaning was that while the visceral, gut-level pleasure people take from watching hardcore was there, the film also had the intellectual satisfaction of a good movie. Smart Porn engaged the brain and the libido at the same time.<br />
Angel felt it was my vision and creativity that got Inana where it was, and with the massive expansion, he didn't want me stuck at my desk wrangling the thousand daily details which kept the studio operating. My job would now be to stay creative, period. To accomplish this, he hired his nephew, Stefano Leone, to take over my spot as the COO of Inana. Stefano was twenty-three, a recent college graduate with a major in business, and the child of fellow mafioso.<br />
Stefano was also a stereotype nerd: thick glasses, rumpled shirt, crooked tie, pocket protector, nasal voice, and a huge fan of tabletop role-playing games like Dungeons and Dragons. He was about as mafia as Mr. Rogers. Stefano was highly rattled when he first started at Inana: our performers tended to not bother with clothes until they were leaving for the day, which meant he was constantly being confronted with incredibly beautiful naked women, no matter where he was at the studio. For the first two weeks, he stuttered like Mel Tillis and poured sweat like a marathon runner.<br />
Another big problem was he had a sense of hierarchy. Inana didn't really have one. I may have been The Boss, but I expected no deference from anyone. When Angel informed me of Stefano's arrival, he made it clear that while Stefano would how hold my job title of COO, I was still higher up the food chain than him. Also, Stefano may have the acumen to run a business smoothly, he would still be The New Guy at the studio, and would have to earn respect from everyone else. He didn't know dick about the culture of Inana, or how video production worked, or how porn was made. It didn't matter he had the job title and the private office, he would be Stefano, not Mr. Leone.<br />
"Stefano may have your old job title, but you're still in charge at Inana," Angel told me. "Make sure everyone understands that. You are the final arbiter."<br />
"So uh, what is my new job title?" I asked. "I mean, you're the owner, Vinny is CEO...."<br />
"Aw Jesus," grunted Angel. "Shit, I don't know. Think one up."<br />
After a bit of thought, I said, "So, is 'The Big Cheese' a job title?"<br />
"No reason why it can't be. Yeah, you're The Big Cheese at Inana from now on."<br />
Three days later I went to my new office in Oceanside to find my door now had a name plaque mounted on it reading, "L. SCHNEIDER - THE BIG CHEESE." On my desk was a box of new business cards and a ten pound wheel of Gouda.<br />
<br />
So Stefano was adjusting (slowly) to the culture at Inana. Not too big a deal, as we had a ton of new performers and crew doing the same thing. The lack of a social pecking order threw new arrivals off, they expected the same stratified scene as in LA. Nope. For performers, the attitude was that if you'd passed all three of our interviews, you'd already proved yourself. You were an Inana Girl, and welcome aboard. The newbies were expecting a lot of aloof attitudes, not warm smiles, handshakes, and introductions.<br />
Also, Inana's stars didn't act like stars. They didn't have their own private showers and dressing rooms. (The exception --- sort of --= was Bekka, who had her own office. But the reason for this was her increased time spent working as a producer, plus vetting scripts.) Inana's stars --- Becky Page, Ella Belle, Skye Tyler, Feather, Susan Black --- were supposed to breeze into the sound stage moments before shooting commenced, only acknowledging the existence of the director and producer. Becky Page should not be showing up on a day off bearing homemade pesto and crackers to share with everyone. Skye Tyler shouldn't be on her knees in the performer's lounge, throwing dice and doing a hilariously vicious impression of Ronald Reagan getting a blowjob. Susan Black shouldn't be wandering around, still in her wet-suit top from her mid-day surf, trying to scare up people for a pub crawl of the local Marine bars.<br />
Our egalitarian attitude was obvious, and Stefano behaved accordingly..... Except around me. Then, he went into Toady Mode. If we were walking somewhere, he would remain a half-step behind me, making conversation difficult. At one point we were sitting in my office talking, and I stuck a cigarette in my mouth. He almost instantly held a lighter up for me, to fire up my Marlboro. I thanked him, then it struck me: Stefano didn't smoke.<br />
I'd also catch him being a yes-man, eagerly agreeing with anything that came out of my mouth. I purposely called him on it one day by setting him up. I suggested that Inana would start releasing its tapes in the Betamax format, the video equal of the eight-track tape. Inana had never released on Betamax, only on the VHS format. I babbled some lame garbage about how we were ignoring a share of the consumer market. Stefano readily agreed, saying, "Yes, Betamax has higher picture quality."<br />
"Barely," I replied. "Betamax has 250 lines of resolution, compared to 240 lines on VHS. Tell me, how many people do you know who still use a Betamax machine?"<br />
"Oh! Uh...."<br />
"And answer honestly."<br />
Dead silence.<br />
"Exactly. Betamax is dead, dead, dead. What I just suggested is incredibly stupid. You're a smart guy, you must have seen the inherent flaws in what I said."<br />
"Uh, it did seem a bit far-fetched...." said Stefano.<br />
"So why didn't you say something?" I asked.<br />
"Well.... You're the boss...."<br />
"Uh huh. So what? Dude, if I say something stupid, you're supposed to say back, 'Lenny, that's stupid, what's wrong with you?' Sometimes your uncle will have an idiotic idea, and I"ll call him out on it. He'll try to defend it briefly, but will realize I'm being contrary because I have the interest of Inana Productions in mind, I'm not being a dick to my boss. Dammit, we run a porn studio. If I want my ass kissed, I'll write it into a script and put myself on the board as a performer in that scene. Okay?"<br />
"Yes sir."<br />
"(*sigh*) Lenny. Not 'sir,' Lenny. Cops are the only people who call me 'sir,' usually while leaning on the door of my car asking if I know how fast I was going."<br />
Now, on this day, Stefano had driven from our La Costa mansion to Oceanside for a couple reasons. First was to give me a general briefing on how the week had gone. The second was to deliver a check to one of our newer performers, Jenna Ng. Jenna had a fairly unusual hobby: she repaired old clocks. Grandfather clocks, cuckoo clocks, anything with a pendulum, really. She'd tried to pick up some money by offering an out-call repair service, but hadn't had much luck. "Everybody wants an old geezer with a beard working on their heirlooms, not some twenty-one year old slant bitch from Garbage Grove."<br />
Angel had one hell of a grandfather clock in his home in Encino. The damn thing was nearly eight feet tall and had been built in Roxbury, MA by Simon Willard in 1798. It was a gorgeous hand-built tower of mahogany and brass, and had been as dead as a turd for over twenty years. By sheer chance, Angel heard Jenna talking about her hobby and mentioned his dead antique, and would she mind coming up to Encino to take a gander?<br />
Jenna flipped her wig. "Oh my God, a 1798 Willard longcase? Holy shit, damn right I wanna see it.... Sir. Does it have the original mechanics? A lot of clocks would break, and the owners would just replace all the mechanisms with newer and cheaper stuff. How much did you pay for it?"<br />
"My father paid thirty grand about twenty-eight years ago," Angel answered. At that price, the damn thing better be legitimate."<br />
"That would be the right price for an original thirty years ago," Jenna breathed. "Helluv rad. Mr. Morelli, I would be so totally stoked if you let me do a bit of exploratory work on that sucker. If I can get it working without having to fabricate any parts, your Willard will be worth about $100,000 today."<br />
The upshot was that on Wednesday, Jenna had shown up at Angel's house around noon, carrying a couple cases of esoteric tools. Angel showed her the clock. She stood and stared briefly with a smile on her lips. Then she said, "<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">Khốn, bạn là của tôi!" ("Bastard, you are mine!" in Vietnamese) and swung the front open like it was the portal to Narnia. Angel left her to it. For six hours, Angel and his wife Angela heard tapping, soft squeaks, metal pings, and the occasional "</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dơ bẩn" (shit) or "</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">Rác rưởi" (junk) muttered from the interior of the clock. Briefly there was the odor of a soldering iron. They were just about to ask Jenna to join them for dinner when she called, "Mr. Morelli, can you come here a minute?"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Angel walked into the hallway. Jenna stood next to the clock with the same confident, low-wattage smile a successful obstetrician uses after a ten hour delivery. The front of the clock was open, and the pendulum was swinging, making a steady tick.... tick.... tick.... tick. On the clock face, the small second hand slowly went in a circle. Angel checked his watch, the time was correct. He said softly, "My Christ.... How did.... what was wrong?"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> With a wider grin, Jenna stuck a hand in her pocket and said, "The big problem was this bad boy." She flipped a small flat round object at Angel. It was a button reading "McGovern - Eagleton 1972." She continued, "That somehow worked its way down to a secondary drive spring, then ambulated the friznist onto the southern hoo-hah and cloistered the Gatling shaft." (That's not what Jenna said, but it's what Angel heard.) "It was also really filthy. But be happy in knowing this is an all-original Willard, and a beautiful example. For God's sake, insure it! It's worth more than my parent's house!"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Angel and Angela thanked Jenna profusely over dinner. Angel asked what he owed for the work. Jenna demurred and said, "I'd kinda feel bad charging you. For me, it was an honor just to work with a vintage piece like that. Um, twenty bucks for gas?"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "Uh huh," grinned Angel. "You're working on Friday in Oceanside, right? Morning or afternoon?"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "Both. We're knocking out a lot of the newest episode of 'Co-Ed Housing.' I have my dialogue plus a quick oral scene, clothed."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "Watch for a delivery around lunchtime. It'll, ah, it'll be your gas money."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> So now Stefano and I are stepping into the performer's lounge a little past noon, him holding an envelope with "J. Ng" written across it. He looks nervous. He always looks nervous when he has to venture into the lounges, at either facility. They are chaotic, crude, noisy, anarchistic, and somewhat messy. The rest of the building will be as orderly as a Marine barracks, but the lounge is like something from a scene in "Animal House." </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Here in Oceanside, the lounge is a separate room, and a fairly large one. There are sofas and chairs, a pool table, two soda vending machines set to give free product, a stereo, big screen TV, and coffee tables with black glass tops. These tables will always have clean areas on them, only covered with traces of powder. On one wall are two custom-made dart boards. One has televangelist Jerry Fallwood's face on it, the other is of radical feminist Andrea Dworkin. The fridge holds leftovers, lunch sacks, and loads of beer. A large stack of empty pizza boxes sits in a corner, four feet high. There is graffiti on the walls, comments like "I sold my soul to Becky Page, and her check bounced" and "Stallion's SAG reg. name is 'Allan Smithee Jr.'" About thirty pairs of women's panties are stapled to the ceiling. A Teddy Ruxpin doll dangles from a noose, wearing a gimp mask. The Red Hot Chili Peppers play from the stereo; the TV is displaying a hardcore loop from the Seventies, muted. And in a glass care, undisturbed on the wall, is a bong and a bag of weed. The glass says, "In Case Of Reality, Break Glass." Drug paraphernalia is scattered casually around.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Another thing about the performers' lounges (a misnomer, anyone can use them) is that so long as I am inside a lounge, I'm just a dude named Lenny, who works at Inana like everybody else. I have no authority, and I will not discuss work with anyone while inside (although I've been known to wait in ambush just outside). I'd advised Stefano about the small lawless zones, but he ignored me, it would seem. He went into the lounge at the mansion looking to talk to Ellen (Skye Tyler) about something.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Stefano walked up to where Ellen was sitting on a sofa and said, "Excuse me, Ms. MacPherson?"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "What's up, sweet-cheeks?" Ellen responded, brightly, sniffing back the cocaine she'd just snorted.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "My records show you haven't made your quarterly payment for your health insurance." (Inana didn't have employees except for a few, everyone was a contractor. However, we'd enrolled in Kaiser, with the agreement everyone would pay what would be deducted by a "normal" job offering health insurance.) "Is this an oversight on your part, or...""</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Wide-eyed, Jolene said, "You're Lenny's replacement, right?"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "Um, yes...."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "Oh, thank God! Lemme cadge a line of meth from you, 'kay? My ass is dragging." Seeing Stefano's mystified look, Jolene continued, "Wait a minute. If you're Lenny's replacement, you must have some high-powered dope on you, and plenty of it. You don't have any fucking crank? What sort of replacement are you, then? You're not wearing a gun, either! I'll bet you don't even fuck your wife on your desk with the door open, so everyone can rate your performance! You're not Lenny's replacement, you're just.... some guy!"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Stefano decided to ignore this and said to Ellen, "Ms. MacPherson, did you want to remain enrolled with Kaiser?"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Trish gasped and said, "Oh my God! He's talking about business! Work! Toil!"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> After a few seconds silence, Tawny screamed "Heretic!"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> And Stefano was tackled by five Inana Girls, two Inana Boys, and a gaffer. He was scooped up onto their shoulders and carried back to his office, the mob chanting, "Burn the witch! Burn the witch!" Once in the office, Stefano found himself handcuffed to his desk chair, gagged with duct tape, and his feet tied to the legs of the chair with his shoelaces. Ellen wrote a check for her insurance and taped it to his forehead. He remained that way for ninety minutes, until Small Steve came down from the shoot. Steve looked at Stefano and said, "You wanted to talk shop in the lounge, huh?"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> And the next week, the damn fool did the same thing again, trying to quiz Gayla about her request to only be scheduled for mornings. This time they also covered his eyes and turned the radio to a Mexican station, so that he had to listen to <i>banda</i> and <i>Tejano</i> tunes until rescued.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Now, in the Oceanside lounge, Stefano glanced nervously around him as we entered. I spotted Jenna across the room and pointed, then we headed towards her. She was angrily glaring down at her hand. As we got closer, I realized she was staring at a glass dope pipe and muttering, "</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">Trá»™m kẻ trá»™m vô Ãch" (Worthless thieving scum) over and over. When we got to her, Stefano said, "Excuse me, Ms.... Neeg?"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Jenna's head whipped towards him. I quietly blasphemed. In the San Diego area, with its high Vietnamese population, the surname "Ng" is like "Smith" or "Jones." And it's pronounced, "Eng." Jenna tersely corrected Stefano, then seemed to realize I was there. She said, "Oh, Lenny, thank God! Look, shit, I need a favor. Um, I got ganked last night. I tried to score a gram of shit, and it's cut all to hell with fucking Anacin! Look at my pipe!" The pipe's bowl was full of charcoal-like chunks. "Um, I know you said you don't deal, but do you know where I could score in the next forty minutes? Something real? You know I don't tweak at work, I just wanted a bit of an energizer for the scenes we're gonna do, you know? You have any clue?"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I frowned at the carpet briefly, then said, "Lemme see what you have."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> She handed me a plastic seal with about a gram of chunky white powder in it. I unceremoniously dumped it onto the floor, then pulled out my vial and filled the seal from it. Jenna brightened greatly at this, saying, "Oh, you sweetheart! Are you serious? You lifesaver, you totally rock!" Then, in a softer voice, "After we wrap this afternoon, I'll blow your brains out in your office, I'll make you come so hard you'll travel through time...."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I kissed her forehead, then smirked, "A simple thank you will do. I told you, I don't run around behind Bekka's back. And even if I did, you'd still have 136 pounds or enraged Sicilian aiming at you. Look, um, if you need to score, talk to Roach. He doesn't deal, but he's willing to help out his friends and coworkers, you know?" Looking at Stefano, I asked, "Hey, do me a favor and grab that propane torch sitting on the table over there." He scurried off.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Jenna looked exasperated and said, "Roach? Aw, come on. He's a jerk! He made fun of my car!"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Her car was a 1989 Honda Accord, which had been lowered and given giant wheels with low-profile tires. It was Tide orange, sounded like a beer fart under acceleration, and had a giant wing on the rear. I didn't quite keep the sarcasm out of my voice when I replied, "What about your car did he make fun of?"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "He said the wing is stupid!"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I gave myself a couple seconds, then answered, "That's an Accord, right? Front wheel drive? The point and purpose of a wing like that is to create down-force. Um, don't take this personally, but uh.... Creating down-force on the rear of a car with front wheel drive is.... stupid. And dangerous. I'm sure he wasn't trying to be mean, he was just pointing out some basic physics to you."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> With an eye-roll, Jenna said, "The wing only works at high speed, like over 125. I almost never go over 85, I'm not about to lift the front end at speed."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "Okay.... Then in that case, all you're doing is adding an extra sixty pounds of fiberglass to your curb weight, for no reason. That seems silly, too." I sighed. "Look, Roach is a wrench-head, and I'm a hot rodder. We both value function above all else. That damn wing is antithetical to function. Your car seems to be ostensibly set up for autocross. You ever watch autocross competitions?" She said yes, every now and then. "You ever see a competitor with a wing like that? No, you haven't. They've got air scoops in the nose to generate down-force up there. That is function." I paused, then said, "Roach is a really, really good guy. I promise you, he only commented on that wing because he was concerned. It really could make the car incredibly dangerous if it was put into full effect. I'm gonna tell you straight up, get rid of the damn thing, it's pointless. But anyway, start a conversation with Roach, on any subject but your car. You'll see within three minutes he's an incredibly awesome dude. Trust me."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "Is he really in the Hell's Angels?"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I snickered and replied, "To wear the colors and not be H.A. is akin to walking through Compton with a sign saying, 'Send The Coloreds Back To Africa.'" Relieving Stefano of the torch, I lit it and began super-heating the bowl of the pipe, burning off the crap on the inside. Stefano watched this with curiosity. When the bowl was clear again, I shut off the torch and began waving the pipe around to cool it.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "Thanks, Lenny," said Jenna. "So Roach is a mellow dude. Okay, that jibes with what other girls have said about him."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "What are they saying?" I queried.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "That he's totally awesome to work with, just like.... Okay, he's one hung bastard, right? Other girls have said that he'll introduce himself, a total gentleman, then suggest they do sort of a test run before the cameras roll. He knows he's hung and that he could cause some pain, so him and the girl will try a few basic positions so he knows where her limits are, you know? So no matter what angle he's going in at, he won't be bashing into their cervix or whatever. And he stays with those limits when they're filming! And at wrap, he'll hug the girl, give her a pat on the back, and thank her for working with him. Again, a gentleman."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "He is," I assured Jenna. "Roach really, truly loves women. He ---"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Jenna cut me off. "Oh, he's a player. Great."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "Nope. Not at all. You know our fluffer Dawn, the tiny blonde? That's Roach's girlfriend. They've been together about a year and a half now. Roach is totally loyal to Dawn, he loves her to pieces, you know? It's like, Roach appreciates the contribution femininity makes to the human condition a hell of a lot more than other guys do. I know for a fact he prefers the company of women over men." I chuckled. "Girls who meet him say the same thing a lot of the time: 'He actually pays attention to what I'm saying!'"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "Actually, that would be nice," said Jenna, taking the now-cool pipe from me and starting to load it. She sighed. "Just having a man would be nice, period. I don't want to date a Vietnamese dude. All the ones my age are either aiming at being the next Bill Gates, or being as big of gang-bangers as the Crips or Bloods. Black and white dudes all want me to be this cute little dainty submissive object, the whole 'ornamental Oriental' thing. Fuck that shit. I grew up in goddamn Garden Grove --- Garbage Grove --- in a four bedroom ranch house with seventeen relatives packed in. Like all our neighbors, we'd destroyed the front lawn to put in a vegetable garden. You'll hear how the Boat People are having a harder time integrating into American society than other immigrant groups have. Well, shit! The other immigrants put the effort into integration, adopting American culture and social behavior!</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "My parents think I hate my family, which is bullshit. I don't hate my family, I hate that my family insists on living like they're rice-farming Vietnamese villagers. In Vietnam, it's perfectly normal to have three generations all crammed under one roof. In the United States, it's weird, people want their room and their privacy. So why does my family still resist that little tenet of American life? My grand-dad was one of the Boat People who really did kill neighborhood cats and dogs, thinking they were there to be eaten. Shit, he want to jail for it. My dad was four years old when he arrived in the United States, an age where you're gonna absorb a lot about the world around you, and grow up in tune with that world." Her voice went higher. "So why the fuck did my dad serve nine months in jail, at the age of twenty-seven, for doing the same pet-killing bullshit grand-dad did? He knew it was illegal, and he even knew it was a major social offense, like jacking off on the bus. He offended his new neighbors. And he did it anyway.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "And to cut off any devil's advocacy, the family wasn't starving. Dad had a good job working for the Parks and Rec department in Yorba Linda. But just like far too many other of us goddamn Boat People, he knew the rules of his adopted home and ignored them anyway, acting like he was back living in the paddies.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "My parents want to know why I'm not acting like a good Vietnamese girl. Guess what, Mom? I'm not fuckin' Vietnamese! That may be my ethnic background, but I'm an American, so fuck you! I'm doing what my parents should have, which is becoming part of the society I live in, not mentally walling myself off and pretending we're all still in the jungles, having to defuse left-over land mines to clear a field for planting, and killing anything not on two legs for food. 'Oh Jenna, you have rebelled.' No Mom, I've adapted. I'm part of the world I live in." She finally flicked her Bic and began heating the bowl of the pipe.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I nodded and replied, "An interesting contrast to how Bekka was raised. Her parents are both Sicilian war babies, they emigrated to the U.S. in their early twenties. Her mom and dad would talk to each other in Italian, but would only speak to Bekka and her brother in English. They worked, on purpose, at correcting accent and pronunciation differences, so their kids wouldn't have even a trace of Sicilian accent picked up from Mom and Dad. They wanted their children to be totally American, so they worked at it, and succeeded."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "I was kinda lucky," Jenna pondered. "I had friends whose families didn't just land in Little Saigon and stay there. Their parents worked at malls and banks and public schools, all over Orange County. Just due to immersion, they adapted. I remember the first time I saw MTV. Oh my God. Even the fucking commercials were fascinating to me.... Mostly because I was seeing them on a damn color TV set, not the twelve inch black-and-white piece of shit my family would all huddle around.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "I'll admit, by the time I was fifteen, I was being a total cunt to my parents. 'You have to sit with grandmother!' No Mom, grandma's fine, I'm heading to the mall. 'You have to help tend the garden!' Hey Mom, how about you get a real job, and just fucking <i>buy</i> some food, like everyone else in this country? 'You confuse your grandparents when you talk to them, you speak Vietnamese with an American accent.' Yeah, big surprise there, Dad. I'm an American. Go figure. Your Mom and Dad have been in the U.S. since 1975, why haven't they learned any fucking English? Why do you have a Vietnamese accent, Dad? You've been in this country since you were four. Maybe if you want to be so isolated from the country you fucking immigrated to, you all never should have left to begin with."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I shrugged. "Well, it's not like Vietnam was the happiest place to be in 1975. The whole political structure...."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Jenna started laughing. "Shit. My family comes from a long line of subsistence farmers. You know, hicks. Vietnam is one of the most invaded pieces of land in the world. If it wasn't the Chinese, it was the Thais, or the Koreans. No one would have given a fuck if the people who ran things in the cities called themselves Communists, or Democrats, or whatever. For 1800 years, strangers would show up in the Vietnamese villages and announce that this was now a territory of such-and-such country. Everyone would say, 'Oh. That's nice.' Then they'd get back to work in the paddies, because it really didn't matter, it didn't affect how they lived. To your average Vietnamese villager, the concept of 'politics' was so abstract it was silly to them. The Viet Cong were weirdos with guns and slogans, and who didn't have the good manners to pick up a damn hoe and get into the fields to work, like everyone else. Sooner or later, they'd go away again, so they really didn't matter in the long run. Not to a paddy-dwelling rice farmer."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> After taking a fourth hit off the pipe, Jenna announced, "There, I"m good. You want another couple puffs?" I shook my head. She looked at Stefano and said, "Hey Shylock, I just realized we left you out of circulation. You want a few hits? Knock yourself out." She held the pipe towards him.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Stefano said with a tremor, "Um, no, although I am curious.... Neither of you seem to be out of it now, after smoking that stuff...."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Feeling a bit mystified, I said, "Dude, it's meth. It's speed. We're amped up, not nodding off. You know what meth is, right? You went to college, I'm surprised you never ran across it before. Christ knows amphetamine is a student's best friend, especially right before finals."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "Well..... University of San Diego is a Catholic college. The penalties for using drugs were really stiff, so I don't think many people used them. Um anyway, Ms., uh.... Nee...?"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "'Eng,'" Jenna corrected loudly.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "Just say 'Jenna,' dude," I chuckled.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "Yes, okay...." Stefano held out the envelope he'd been toying with all that time. "Mr. Morelli sent this down for you, and asked me to deliver it directly to you."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "Drinks are on you tonight, girl," I said with a quiet smile.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "I told him I just wanted gas money," Jenna protested. "How much is in here?"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "I have no idea. However, I will say Angel Morelli is a generous man. The drinks may be on you all damn week."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Jenna opened the envelope, pulled out the cashier's check inside, and gasped. I looked over the top of the check and read the amount: $5,000, payable to Jenna Ng. She stared at me, eyes and mouth both wide open.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Using a wider smile, I commented, "Yeah, like a lot of other bosses, Angel will ignore you sometimes. But when he does, it usually works in your favor. When Angel is happy with your work, he lets you know, and in a very pragmatic way."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "I can't keep this," protested Jenna. "I didn't earn this."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "According to Angel, you did. To you, it was just an antique clock that needed fixing. To Angel, you solved a problem in his life.... And I know the clock you worked on. I've never seen it run in the entire time I've known Angel. If you're not gonna keep it, may I suggest some charities which would love it? There's a no-kill animal shelter locally that Bekka and I support. There's the San Diego Rescue Mission, the Larkin Street Youth Center in San Francisco, the Southern California AIDS Coalition, a whole shit-load of women's shelters...."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "I'll keep half. The other half I will donate. The AIDS Coalition, you said? Yeah, them. I'll send them half this money and a request they start printing pamphlets in Vietnamese and Cambodian. Fuckiin' Southeast Asian dudes will drop a twenty on an AIDS-infected crack whore and contract HIV. They go to the doctor, then deny the truth. 'No, only homosexuals get that, I'm not a homosexual, whatever is wrong with me will go away.' Then they go home and continue to fuck their wives bareback. HIV/AIDS is a problem with us refugees, and mostly due to ignorance."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I nodded slowly. "Heavy. Yeah, do it. Heh, Roy Cohn died of AIDS in 1986, and who would ever have guessed he was gay?"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "Who?"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "Okay, you know who Joseph McCarthy was, right? The guy that started the Communist witch hunt in the early 1950s? If you look at McCarthy in photographs from the hearings, there's this weaselly-looking asshole who always seems to be leaning over and whispering in McCarthy's ear. That was Roy Cohn. He was probably one of the most miserable bastards to ever live. In the 1970s he was one of the most vitriolic campaigners against gay rights, but his private life was like hidden camera footage shot at a glory hole in a bus station. He liked his guys young, buff, and more than one at a time. Roy Cohn was a complete and total asshole."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Stefano suddenly made a squeaking noise and froze in place. I looked in the direction he was looking and saw his reasons for distress: Sue and Toxica were approaching, big smiles on their faces. Both girls seemed to simultaneously enchant and terrify Stefano. They were both taller than him, even without their boots. Sue had her slutty goth-girl look going, complete with skirt slit to the hip and plenty of "I'm Dead" makeup, like a zombie hooker. Toxica was, ostensibly, a punk rocker. She was more like a punk rocker as constructed by a team of marketers and public relations goons. Her appearance was very studied, the unkempt look actually thought out ahead of time. If Christian Dior and Macy's teamed up to design and create "punk rock," Toxica is what the finished product would look like: outlandish, racy, a bit of attitude, but no real threat or challenge to anyone (least of all authority).</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Pill and Feather were a bit peeved at me for bringing Toxica on as a performer. When I'd brought Pill and Feather on, I'd told them to grow out their hair and dye it to a relatively natural color. Feather also had a safety pin through her cheek, which I insisted must go. They were both punks, and I kept railing about how we couldn't sell hardcore punk sex bombs to Middle America. And now I have a girl with Day-Glo-hued hair and lots of red patent leather miniskirts. Double standard much, Lenny? I pointed out that Toxica was to hardcore punk what Domino's Pizza was to Italian food: a vague relation in a couple spots, but beyond that.... Toxica had no facial piercings, and a total of five earrings. She had (ugh) a rose tattoo on her upper right arm, and that was it for ink. And when I'd tried to talk music with her, I was drawing blanks on all but the biggest bands. She had no idea who Operation Ivy was, or the Bad Brains, or MDC, or.... She'd probably bought two Dead Kennedys albums in high school and left it at that. Oh well, at least she did have a rather brash, outgoing personality and sense of fun.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Stefano had assumed the same defensive position as a deer or a rabbit, which is to stay dead still, in hopes an attacker won't notice you. No such luck here, Toxica stepped up next to him and exclaimed, "Little Stevie! Ready to clear your brain this weekend?"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Sue announced, "We're trying to recruit as many people as we can to go creepy-crawling with us tonight. We haven't figures out where we should go, but Bekka's coming and said she'll hand out free hits of Smiley to everybody once we decide. As always, pack a spare liver."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "You're going to do what tonight?" Stefano questioned, curiosity overwhelming him.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "We call it creepy-crawling. We'll go to a party zone, like the Marine-dominated strip of bars in Oceanside, or the tourist dives in Old Town, or down Midway Drive to hang with the sailors, or up to Del Mar and mix with the landed gentry. Really, it's a pack of porn sluts...."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "And studs," said Demetrius, passing by with a smile. "I'm in tonight too."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> ".,.. behaving in unsettling and lewd ways, to the dismay of the locals. Nothing too crude, but we dance on the edge of legality. Loud conversations about various sex acts, groping each other, girls making out on the pool table.... And anyone looking askance will be greeted with a 'What? What?' sort of attitude back. What's wrong with how we're behaving? We're like this all the time at our day jobs. What do we do, they ask? And we tell them, in great detail. Really, we live up to the stereotype of adult performers being tactless and sexually compulsive. And we will defend ourselves to the last breath with anyone who complains."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #212121; font-family: inherit;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> Toxica added, "On Halloween, the goal is to scare people. The goal tonight is to creep people out, you know? We pick someplace with a good concentration of bars and a </span></span><span style="color: #212121;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">homogeneous clientele, and adjust our behavior accordingly. Get it?"</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #212121;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> "I'm in," said Jenna. "How about you, Lenny?"</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #212121;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> "Nope," I replied. "The English Dogs are playing at the Diver's Club. I've been looking forward to this show for a couple months. Bekka doesn't like the band that much, which is why she'll be with you."</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #212121;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> With a shaking voice, Stefano asked, "Um, is it okay, uh, if I go too?"</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #212121;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> Slightly confused, Sue said, "Well, yeah. Of course. We're all meeting at the mansion at 7:30. We'll hash out where to go, pile as many people into as few cars as possible, take our doses of Smiley, and head out. It's a bit of cathartic fun Bekka, Jackie, and I originally started. Yeah, come along. It's not a Ladies Night thing, there'll be a few other dudes around."</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #212121;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> "And we'll be taking.... 'Ecstasy?' What does it do?"</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #212121;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> Everyone glanced around at each other. This was a rather naive question from anyone employed in the adult entertainment industry. Jenna finally said, "It makes you very, very happy. You have energy, and something of a gung-ho attitude. You sort of feel like you're up to any challenge or adventure. Um.... Dude, it's fun, don't worry. And no, you won't feel spaced out or disoriented. You'll be fine."</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #212121;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> "And Bekka gets the best!" gushed Toxica. "She gets a kind called Smiley, it's incredible. For a while, you have this happy, peaceful feeling that the world totally makes sense, you can sense there's an order to everything, and if you just study hard enough and fast enough, you'll know how everything works. You'll be able to comprehend the functioning of the entire universe."</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #212121;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> Everyone fell briefly silent. Sally, the recently-promoted director for Production Unit Three, drifted up and said, "Or, you're just horny as shit and in a really terrific mood for ten hours. One or the other." Everyone broke up laughing. Sally continued, "Just the three I need to see. Jenna, Sue, Toxie, Alice wants to do a bit of touch-up on your makeup and hair before you start your scenes. Roll on down, ladies, time's a wasting."</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #212121;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> "Got it, Sally," Jenna and Toxica replied, Sue nodding. They began drifting towards the door. Sue turned around and said, "So, 7:30 at the mansion, Little Stevie. See you there?"</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #212121;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> Stefano gathered his voice and rattled, "Yeah, um, I'll be there. I'll dress.... different.... too, okay?"</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #212121;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> "Come as you are, sweetie, however you feel. Later." Sue went out the door.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #212121;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> Stefano stood there audibly breathing through his mouth for a few moments, then asked me, "Am I gonna die tonight?"</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #212121;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> "Odds are against it," I assured him. "Don't french kiss any wall sockets or Marines, and you'll be fine. Have fun, I'm headed to my office. Later." I headed towards the door. Stefano seemed rooted in one place, his mouth still open. He finally said, "Later," and walked out of the lounge.</span></span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10230648449521958270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033784518790200307.post-40626918495109749222017-04-03T20:43:00.000-07:002017-04-03T20:43:05.433-07:00Groove (Part 2) Fang had a valid California driver's license, and she had her own car. It was time to cruise.<br />
She absolutely loved her car. It was a 1971 Chevy Impala four-door with the 454 motor and oxidized blue paint.... The spitting image of the car Harry Dean Stanton drove in the movie "Repo Man." The two-ton bomb was the largest car Chevrolet ever made, eighteen feet long from bumper to bumper. While a lifetime of Los Angeles sun had trashed the paint, the interior was almost showroom condition, down to the AM radio. This wasn't too surprising, as the Caprice only had 42,000 original miles on it.<br />
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Erica was indulging in a hobby she'd had back in the Twin Cities: haunting estate sales on weekends. To her, estate sales were like yard sales, only with better shit. She quickly learned to select which sales to hit by the location. An ad for an estate sale in Lawndale will offer "Antiques!" This will translate to the deceased having an incredible collection of fast food collector's cups. Not even good ones, like a full set of Star Wars cups, just random memorabilia.<br />
There was a listing for an estate sale up in Pacific Palisades. Erica was a bit wary: a rich neighborhood like that would have high-quality junk, but they also tended to price things way too high, for some reason. She'd seen a fifteen year old 15" TV listed for $90, and had felt it was her duty to tell the man running the sale (the son of the deceased) that a brand new one could be had for $110. The man sniffed and pointed out that this one was a Zenith, a solid American television. "This is built to last, compared to those flimsy, lightweight Japanese TVs."<br />
Erica replied, "Uh.... Yeah. This thing weighs so much because it's loaded with vacuum tubes, not transistors. If this sucker blows a tube, it's junk. You can't find vacuum tubes anymore, the people who still use them have to hunt them down. Besides, it's supposed to be a portable television. Isn't lighter a better thing? Twenty bucks."<br />
The man was insulted by this offer. Was Erica just another slave to the Japanese? Why wouldn't she support the American economy? From there, they had a wide-ranging argument revolving around consumer demand, jingoism., technology, and planned obsolescence. Erica finally got fed up, told the man to go piss up a rope, called to Fang, and split. After they drove away, Fang said, "Thanks for keeping that old asshole distracted for a while."<br />
"What do you mean?" Erica asked.<br />
Fang reached in her jacket pocket and extracted a good-sized stack of baseball cards in clear plastic envelopes. She said, "You know me, I'm no fuckin' thief, but that dickhead deserved to have some of his shit lifted. These cards are some serious vintage, going back to the Forties. The next time we're in San Diego, let's hit a collector's shop and dump 'em. They're gonna be worth a pretty penny."<br />
"Fang! I can't believe you felt...."<br />
Cutting Erica off, Fang calmly continued, "There's a couple of cards in here that'll pull some major dough. They're both Jackie Robinson cards. One's from a cigarette pack, Robinson playing for the the Kansas City Monarchs in 1945, a Negro League card. The other is a bubble gum card of Robinson playing for the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1948. Gee whillikers, Tootsie, those two alone should pay for that bondage swing we've had our eyes on. Tell you what, to honor where the money for the swing came from, we'll sing the national anthem before we use it."<br />
Erica laughed and said, "We'll have a seventh inning stretch, too."<br />
Now they were headed to another estate sale in Pacific Palisades. While they weren't looking for anything in particular, they were also discerning, not just buying stuff for the hell of it. Arriving at the address, Erica anchored her '71 Plymouth Road Runner at the curb a few doors away, the closest she could get to the address. The house itself was an anomaly compared to everything else around it, a modest house on a large lot. The neighbors all had large, ostentatious homes. It was clear this was one of the last original settlers in Pacific Palisades. When the Palisades was first created in the Twenties, it was just another offering of building lots for sale, streets and utilities in. Middle class home-builders would weigh the proximity to the beach versus the Palisades' relative isolation, at least back then. All the lots were of a generous size. Fast forward thirty years, and people realize that the Palisades isn't choked with smog, has lots large enough to put up one hell of a large home, and was just a quick shot out Interstate 10 and up Pacific Coast Highway. Original houses were torn down and replaced with mini-mansions. The area got snootier and snootier, and now is an enclave for the well-to-do.<br />
This wasn't an area which would greet two dyke punk rock girls with open arms. Especially these two, who looked savage even for hardcore punk. Fang had found a piercing studio which was rather lax in checking IDs, so she'd started collecting facial jewelry: septum, eyebrow, nostril. Across the back of Erica's leather was, in ten inch high pink block letters, simply the word "DYKE." A leather miniskirt showed off the tattoo work she had on her legs, and she was wearing a bondage restraint collar with a three foot leash attached at the back. Fang's sense of dress was just as disturbing.<br />
Walking up the path to the front door, Fang nudged Erica and gestured at the driveway. "Check it, Bud from 'Repo Man' is here! That's the car, right there!"<br />
"And it's for sale," Erica observed. "Wonder how much they want for it. I dunno, it looks kinda thrashed."<br />
Fang frowned and said, "Naw, just the paint is shot, like they never garaged it." She did an <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5hddEMPZ19pKgmuiFt_4KTK1qmrsNB2wiLfwWYtQ1l-rTGL0B33EhFcpiazgQTrUpIHUKgG_x-FFk3-YmTleo5pA1tK63W45-GfTNtS2a687EO5xmD3WCd6nzv7nYZYGsHlcVWmknfoFc/s1600/1971Impala.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5hddEMPZ19pKgmuiFt_4KTK1qmrsNB2wiLfwWYtQ1l-rTGL0B33EhFcpiazgQTrUpIHUKgG_x-FFk3-YmTleo5pA1tK63W45-GfTNtS2a687EO5xmD3WCd6nzv7nYZYGsHlcVWmknfoFc/s320/1971Impala.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A whale spotted in the LA River.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
orbit around the car. "No body damage or signs of body repair, so it's never been hit.... And look inside, the upholstery and carpet are like new!" More poking around on Fang's part. "Michelins with good tread....No rust underneath..... The concrete below it is clean, no oil spots.... Let's see what they want for it."<br />
The two stepped inside, and immediately brought everything to a standstill. There were nine or ten people in the living room, and all of them turned to silently gawk at the new arrivals, with varying degrees of alarm. Erica rolled her eyes and used the sudden silence to request, "Who's the one putting on this sale? We want to talk to you a minute."<br />
A woman with an unsettling resemblance to Nurse Ratched from "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" stepped forward slowly and asked, "May I help you?"<br />
"Yeah, hi, we wanted to ask a few questions about the Chevy you have for sale outside."<br />
The woman brightened immediately. "You're interested in the car? Wait a moment, let me grab the keys, I'll tell you about it." She dodged into another room, then returned and led Erica and Fang out front. She said, "Good, maybe you two will want it. If I didn't sell it by the end of the day, I was going to have a junkyard take it away."<br />
"Uh.... It runs, right?" asked Fang.<br />
"Yes.... and fairly well, I suppose. But good lord, that giant American V8 just sucks down gas like you wouldn't believe. And it's so huge and heavy! Why my mother insisted on keeping it all those years, I'll never know."<br />
A spark of interest flashed inside Fang. "Was your mom the original owner? When did she buy it?"<br />
Nurse Ratched said "My father bought this car for my mother as an anniversary present in 1971. It was the first new car she'd ever had. My father would get a new car every four years, and the most recent one would become Mother's. She was so overjoyed when Father bought her this, maybe that's why she insisted on keeping it through two oil crises. And by some miracle, she never had any trouble with it. Hard to say that about an American car."<br />
Erica took the keys and unlocked the driver's door, sitting down. Fang called for her to pull the hood release. Frowning at the mileage, Erica asked Nurse Ratched, "How many times has the odometer turned over?"<br />
"What do you mean?"<br />
"Right now, the odometer says 42,188, plus three tenths. I'm guessing the true mileage is actually 142, 188...."<br />
The woman started laughing. "No, I can assure you, that is the total mileage, right there. My mother drove to do her shopping on Wednesdays, to church on Sundays, and the occasional jaunt into Hollywood to visit Macy's. This car has never been outside of Los Angeles, that I know of. If my parents were going to travel by car, my father would drive, and they'd take his car. Given what a wasteful beast this thing is, I'm glad it was driven so little."<br />
From under the hood, Fang yelled, "Hey Tootsie, come check this out!"<br />
Erica stepped up next to Fang. The engine and bay were almost totally clean, just enough dust and grime that it hadn't been recently steam cleaned. Fang pulled dipsticks and demonstrated the oil and transmission fluid were both clean, as well as the air filter. Fang said, "That's the goddamn 454 motor. It's never gonna be as quick at the Plymouth, but it's have some balls. The usual three-speed Turbo-Hydramatic tranny, no big surprise there. Let's fire it up."<br />
Erica got back behind the wheel and turned the key, just a bit of pressure on the gas. The engine caught in two seconds, setting in a very smooth idle. Fang stood and slowly nodded, lighting a cigarette as the engine warmed. After a minute, she grabbed the throttle body and revved the engine. Good response, no delay. It was well-muffled. She closed the hood and stepped next to the driver's door. "Can we drive it?"<br />
"Well...." Nurse Ratched looked nervous.<br />
Erica said, "Princess, this is gonna be your ride, for the most part. You take it for a spin, and I'll wait here." She stood up.<br />
Fang gave Erica a quick kiss and ass-grab, saying, "I'll be back in ten minutes. I'll drop down to PCH and open it up for a couple miles, see how it handles." She sat down, closed the door, and backed confidently out of the driveway.<br />
Nurse Ratched was giving Erica the same smile usually employed by defendants in court addressing a judge. She seemed flustered. "Well! I guess you two really are interested in that old car. Um, I'm a bit curious.... If it's not too rude of me to ask....."<br />
Chuckling, Erica said, "Ma'am, we're two dykes in love. Full stop. We're recent transplants from Minnesota, now we live in Venice Beach. Fang --- Fiona --- is one of the most amazing women I've ever met, she can handle anything the world throws at her. And my God, she's a sexy little thing, too, she revs my engine like you wouldn't believe. Every day I love her even more, and she loves me.<br />
"Minneapolis, where we're from, isn't a hick town, but being out of the closet and open about it still has some risks. People still believe being queer is some sort of lifestyle choice, a conscious decision a person makes. That's bullshit, you're pretty much born wired either queer or straight, and there's not much you can do about it. Being here in Southern California is such a liberation for us both. We can walk down the street holding hands, or kiss on the corner, and nobody's calling the fuzz to complain about public obscene behavior, performed by two women deviants. So if we seem a bit aggressive with each other, that's part of it. We're enjoying our freedom. Another factor is we're still in our honeymoon phase, I guess. I know I can't get enough of that little hottie."<br />
"Thank you for being open with me," said Nurse Ratched. "I'm curious about something, though. I've heard you refer to yourself as a, uh, 'dyke.' And 'queer.' I was under the impression those were insults, offensive language used by bigots."<br />
"Oh, absolutely!" laughed Erica. "It's a two-fold sort of thing. First.... Okay, two black guys can call each other 'nigga,' but the word is forbidden from use by a white guy. 'Nigger' is an abusive word. Really, those who have suffered the abuse have earned the right to throw the word around with each other, and not have it mean anything.<br />
"So far as 'dyke' and 'faggot' and 'queer' go, those are the epithets of bigots. Younger gays and lesbians decided to embrace the words on purpose, to help neuter the bigots. If some asshole yells 'Faggot!' at a queer dude, these days a lot of dudes will turn around and say, 'You're goddamn right I'm a faggot, you got a problem with it?' Just straight-up challenge would-be queer-bashers. The basic message is, we're not afraid of your words, calling us names won't hurt us, and if you think we're afraid of you, you're gonna end up learning a lesson.<br />
"Older gays and lesbians hate the sea change in language.... But they also don't care much for the younger gays and lesbians, either, the ones who have embraced the old epithets. The AIDS epidemic caused a new wave of homophobia to break out. The old guard think the young queers are nihilistic and cynical. Well, duh! There's a whole generation of queers who had to grow up with the idea that sex can now kill you, if you're not killed by queer-bashing rednecks first. So younger queers will deliberately act obnoxious, sort of as a defense mechanism, and the use of language is part of that self-defense.<br />
"Personally? I painted 'DYKE' on my jacket for a few reasons. First, I came out of the closet late, and I've sort of had an urge to establish who I am in a direct way. No nuances, no shading, I'm a fucking dyke and I'm happy with who I am. It's also a dare. A homophobic asshole is gonna hate me whether I call myself a lesbian, a Sapphic, or a dyke anyway. Well, I just showed they can't use words to hurt me. Go ahead, call me a dyke. I've got the word in huge letters on my jacket, you think you can bug me by saying it out loud?<br />
"Lastly, it's.... I guess a public declaration, in no uncertain terms, about my orientation. When I first outed myself, it was to my husband. Then to my lawyer, my husband's lawyer, and the staff of a civil courtroom in Minneapolis during my divorce. But while finally admitting to myself I'm queer got me divorced, I was still living like the mousy little housewife I'd been for the previous eight years. I'd go to the lesbian bars, and other chicks would wonder why some high school librarian showed up.<br />
"Meeting Fiona --- she goes by 'Fang' --- jarred me out of my cowardice. Being around her, it was like I got a transfusion from her, she gave me some of her courage. And a big part of that was no longer being afraid what other people might think of me. I was still carrying around a lot of bullshit from my youth, a lot of 'What will the neighbors think?' shame about my sexuality. In the Midwest, far too many people mentally translate the words 'gay' or 'lesbian' to 'pervert,' 'deviant,' and 'sinner.' Everybody taught me when I was growing up that if you were a homosexual, you were a bad person, in many different ways. I just hated the idea of people assuming I was a bad person, when I wasn't.<br />
"It took Fang to point out I was worried about having the respect of people who would never, in a million years, give me respect. I could cure cancer, rescue the President from an assassin, and create world peace. It wouldn't matter to some people, I'd still be one of those Godless sexual deviants, a lesbian, a bad person. Fang's attitude is appeasement doesn't work. You only end up destroying yourself. Announcing to the world a major aspect of your personality right off the bat makes everyone's lives simpler, and it's better manners, too. You're being totally honest with strangers, you're not acting like you have something to hide. Fang has a lot of insight for her age."<br />
"How old is she?" asked Nurse Ratched.<br />
"She's sixteen--- " Erica locked up, then tried to calmly correct herself. "I mean nineteen. She's nineteen years old. Anyway! You haven't said how much you're asking for the car."<br />
Nurse Ratched regarded Erica briefly, then smiled and said, "Given how old it is, and the terrible mileage it gets, and just how totally outdated it is overall, I'm not expecting much. Would $300 be too high?"<br />
Forcing herself to keep composed, Erica muted the mocking victory music in her head and tried to look thoughtful. "Gosh, I don't know.... Like you said, it's pretty old. We'll also want to put a real stereo system in..... How about $200?"<br />
"$250."<br />
"$220."<br />
"Deal." The two shook hands.<br />
A minute later, the huge Impala pulled back into the driveway, sounding as smooth as ever. There were some squeaking noises as the car bounced a bit at the sidewalk. Fang bounced out from behind the wheel, all smiles.<br />
"This thing is awesome!" she announced. The motor and transmission are strong, that's for sure. It runs really quiet, too. A couple problems, though. The steering is pretty mushy, like the front wheels have gone into curbs a few too many times. Also, the turn signals don't work, but it might just be the fuse. I'll check...." Fang popped the hood again.<br />
"What kind of mileage does it get?" Erica asked Nurse Ratched.<br />
"Oh boy. Maybe thirteen miles per gallon. It's horrible on gas."<br />
"That is pretty damn low, even with the 454 motor," said Fang. She pondered a moment, then spun the wingnut on the air filter housing off and lifted the housing. "Okay, this would explain it. Why did your mom drop a four-barrel Holley carburetor onto this beast? From what you said, she didn't sound like the type to want the extra juice."<br />
"My father had it installed," Nurse Ratched explained. Mother's previous car had been a 1967 Plymouth Barracuda, and she'd gotten used to having that sort of power. She told Father this car was sluggish, so he had that thing put on."<br />
Fang stared at the carb, then put the air filter housing back in place. "I'm going to be an adult, and have a stock two-barrel carb reinstalled. That should help a lot with the mileage. It'll still be quick enough.... Hey Tootsie, that'll be a good excuse to roll down to San Diego and visit Roach! He can put it in for us, we can party down there some! Maybe hang out with Becky again!"<br />
"Bekka," corrected Erica. "Yeah, that works. So I take it you want the car...."<br />
"Oh, fuck yeah! This thing rules! Cat we get it? Do we have the money?" Fang stepped closer to to Erica and said more softly, "I'll spend a week being a good little girl, or a bad little girl. Your choice."<br />
"We have the money, we're getting the car," Erica smiled. Fang squealed with joy, and Erica kissed her quickly but deeply. "We only need to pay for it and fill out the pink slip. Shall we?"<br />
Walking back to the front door, Nurse Ratched asked Fang, "How old are you?"<br />
"I'm nineteen," Fang replied forcefully. "Why?"<br />
"Just curious." Addressing Erica, Nurse Ratched queried, "And how old are you?"<br />
"I'm thirty-two," Erica responded. "Yes, we know there's a bit of a gap there. I don't think of it as a May-December romance, more like April-August, if you follow me."<br />
Fang added, "And we gotta correct people sometimes. They'll think Erica decided to seduce some innocent teenage girl. Bullshit, I was the one scamming on her! Heh, it's pretty wild, we've been together six months now and the sex just keeps getting better! We were fuckin' like bunnies right from the get go, and...."<br />
"T.M.I., princess," Erica interrupted with a smile. "If she wants to know, she'll ask."<br />
"Sorry.... Although, I gotta say, you know who gives me hope? Becky --- Bekka --- and Lenny. They've been married five years, and they still got it going on, big time, even with Bekka's career. You'd think she'd be kinda burned out on sex."<br />
"Who is this?" asked Nurse Ratched.<br />
"Our friends, and Erica's bosses, Lenny and Bekka Schneider," explained Fang. "You'd know Bekka as Becky Page. Erica is a writer for their studio, Inana Productions. You know who Becky Page is, right?"<br />
Nurse Ratched's eyes got a bit cold. "Indeed I do. My husband is a rather arduous fan of hers, believe me. And you say you two know her?"<br />
"Well, we're not super tight, but we hang together every now and then. They live down in San Diego. Haw, hey Tootsie! We gotta take them up on their offer to go party in Tijuana sometime soon!"<br />
Erica replied, "We'll have to check with INS to make sure your emancipation allows you to cross the border first, I don't want to....." She suddenly stopped talking. The three of them were in the kitchen of the house, Nurse Ratched digging through a file full of papers for the Impala's pink slip. She stopped searching and looked at the two of them.<br />
Wish a bit of sharpness in her voice, she asked Fang, "How old are you? Really?"<br />
Erica and Fang both stared at the floor. Finally, Erica said, "Oh, fuck it, babe. Tell her."<br />
Fang sighed and said, "I'm sixteen.... But I'm emancipated! The state of Minnesota declared me a legal adult! There's still some shit I can't do, like get into bars or vote, but I'm an adult! That's how I was able to move to California with Erica. We didn't want to be apart, you know?"<br />
Now holding the pink slip, Nurse Ratched said, "I was curious about that. You still look like you're sixteen, dear." She waited a couple ticks and continued, "And you two are in love."<br />
"We are," said Erica. "To me, Fang is a woman, not a girl. In a lot of ways, she's a much stronger and smarter person than I am."<br />
"And I was the one chasing Erica, not the other way around," Fang stated. "I knew she was older than me, but..... I didn't care. I thought she was awesome, period. There was affinity between us almost from the first moment we met, you know? And don't get any stupid Freudian ideas going, I don't have some weird Mommy issues. At first, Erica was a hot chick, then I got to know her, and she's now a really awesome hot chick."<br />
After a moment, Erica noted, "I knew Fang was much younger than me.... But she's also led a much fuller, more adventurous life than me. I used to try and chastise myself for getting hung up on a teenage girl, and I couldn't make it stick. Her chronological age is totally irrelevant in how I feel about her. Fang is this smart, tough, graceful, beautiful woman I was lucky enough just to meet, and I'm even luckier she found it in herself to love a mousy, spineless bitch from suburban Minneapolis."<br />
Fang threw an arm around Erica's neck and said, "Drop that shit, Tootsie, you know I hate it when you trash-talk yourself. I'm gonna keep reminding you of how awesome you are every fucking day until you believe me." She kissed Erica deep and hard, then let go. Then she said to the other woman, "Okay, yeah, legally her and me being together isn't supposed to happen. Statutory rape and all that shit, blah blah blah. Yeah, let somebody ring Johnny Law on us. They can't convict her if I don't testify. They can't prove we fool around, and I'm not gonna say we do. A goddamn judge can chuck me in the clink for contempt, I don't care. I'm not gonna let anything happen to the woman I love, right?"<br />
Erica leaned over and kissed Fang on the neck, while keeping her eyes on Nurse Ratched. Fang just stared at her, with a defiant look. Nurse Ratched looked at them both and finally said, "You two are fiercely loyal to each other, aren't you?"<br />
"You got it, honey," Fang replied. "Erica can walk through hell, and I'll be at her side every step of the way."<br />
"I see." Nurse Ratched studied them again briefly, then her face softened and she said, "For two people to be so compatible is very rare. For them to meet, and fall in love, is almost unheard of. Most people will go through their entire lives without ever meeting the person they really, truly should be with, the odds are just too long. I'm very happy for the both of you." She held up the pink slip and said, "Now then, we just need to fill this out. Whose name is the car going to be in?"<br />
Erica said, "Fang's. It's going to be her daily driver, I have my Plymouth hot rod. Heh, we're already used to cars with poor mileage, the Impala won't bother us a bit."<br />
They completed the paperwork, Nurse Ratched writing a bill of sale on a sheet of flowery stationary. Fang asked her for a paper clip, then went out to the car. She was back in less than three minutes, announcing the signals worked, it was just a fuse. Nurse Ratched took Erica's check with a smile on her lips but trepidation in her eyes. The check number was very low, as Erica had only had the Western Savings account for one month and did most business with her debit/Visa card. She assured Nurse Ratched the money was definitely there, writing porn scripts was quite lucrative.... Doing it for Inana Productions was, anyway. She gave Nurse Ratched an Inana business card with Lenny's office number on the back, as a bit of assurance.<br />
"Congratulations, princess, you've got your own wheels now," Erica smiled at Fang. "You won't have to borrow the Buzz-Bomb from me anymore."<br />
"Well.... Maybe every now and then, just for shits and giggles," Fang smiled back. "You know how much fun that thing is to drive. But tell you what, when we travel from now on, we're taking the Impala. It's way more comfortable, totally cush. like you're driving the living room sofa. Anyway, shall we see what else there is for sale here?"<br />
"We shall, princess," Erica replied.<br />
Nurse Ratched said, "You two are into the whole punk rock thing, correct?"<br />
"Why, yes. Yes, we are," smirked Fang.<br />
"I have some record albums you may want to take a look at, they were my son's. He was sort of into punk rock when he was in high school and college. Now he's married and has a career, and he told me to sell them this weekend, if I can. Otherwise, donate them to Goodwill. He just doesn't want them anymore, he says he worries his kids will find them and play them if he keeps all those records around, and he doesn't want his children hearing a lot of that stuff. He said that, uh...."<br />
"Lemme guess," Fang said with a vicious smile. "He said he's outgrown that shit, right?"<br />
"Ye-es, something like that," wavered Nurse Ratched.<br />
Holding her own vicious smile, Erica said, "Poor boy. He's an adult now. I used to be an adult, but I gave it up, and now I"m a happier person. I wouldn't wish adulthood on an enemy. Sure, let's take a look."<br />
Nurse Ratched led them to the family room, where there was a row of LPs sitting against the wall, about three hundred albums. Both girls dropped to their knees and began reading titles. Fang had the more expansive knowledge of what they were looking at, and quickly became very excited.<br />
"Holy shit! He's got the Dead Kennedys' 'Too Drunk To Fuck' twelve inch, and it's the Cherry Red pressing! Wow, there's a ton of stuff from LA bands in the early Eighties, like the Human Hands and Tuxedomoon.... Oh my God! He's got both EPs from the band Riot Squad!"<br />
"Who are they?" asked Erica.<br />
"Riot Squad was an LA band that was only around for a couple years, around 1981, I think. Their lead singer was a ten year old kid! I used to have, like, a fifth generation tape of them."<br />
"This guy definitely liked the LA scene," observed Erica. "The Nardcore scene, too. I swear, if Mystic Records released it, he bought it. SST Records, too, he even has both Saint Vitus albums. From what I've noticed, he seems to have stopped buying records around 1985. I wonder why?"<br />
"Because he became a big boy," sneered Fang. "He's probably at home right now listening to fucking U2 or the Human League."<br />
"He took care of his vinyl," noted Fang, pulling the record out of a sleeve. "These discs are in good condition." She slid out another record and said, "Oh my God...."<br />
"What's up, princess?" asked Erica.<br />
"Look at this."<br />
Fang was holding up a copy of the Sex Pistols' "God Save the Queen," It was the twelve-inch single pressed by A&M, who held a contract with the band for a whopping six days before buying out of the contract, and destroying nearly every copy of the 25,000 singles pressed (but not yet released). John Lydon says he doesn't own a copy.<br />
Swiveling her head around the room, Fang saw Nurse Ratched had left. There were a couple duffers laboriously reading the spines on books in the opposite corner. Fang leaned close to Erica and explained that coming across this record was like finding the punk rock version of the Hope Diamond. She gingerly slid the interior sleeve out, then the vinyl out of it. The record looked pristine.<br />
"Shit, fuck, fuck, shit," Fang said with quiet intensity. "We have got to get this. Either this woman's son forgot he owns this, or he really is a dumbass. This record is just crazy insane rare, I don't even want to know how he got a copy. Fuck fuck fuck, we've gotta ask how much she's charging for these records, and we can't tip our hand about this one."<br />
Erica considered briefly and said, "I'll ask her how much she wants for the lot. If it's less than $1400, we grab them all. There's some great stuff here, and some stuff I've never even heard of before. Lemme go collar her." She stood and walked into the living room. Fang began arranging her face into one of mild interest.<br />
"There's some really fun stuff here," Erica was saying to Nurse Ratched as they walked back into the room. "How much was your son hoping to get for each record?"<br />
"He said anything I got for them at all would be fine," Nurse Ratched answered. "He really doesn't care about them. I've heard him say they remind him of when he was stupid, so they hold zero importance to him. I haven't given it much thought myself, and when I asked him, my son said they're all just obscure bands that no one will even remember these days. I don't recognize the names of any of those bands. I'm surprised to meet someone who does."<br />
"How much for all of them?" Erica asked casually. "We'll just buy them all at once."<br />
"Oh, gosh..... Is $100 a fair price? There's quite a few of them."<br />
Erica stared at the woman with her mouth open. She finally looked down and shook her head. "No. A hundred bucks is not a fair price. I'll pay you $400 for the lot, I'd feel like I was stealing them if I only paid $100 for this collection. Would you like a check written to you, or your son? And again, I'll give him a reference or two if he wants. My home address is printed on the checks."<br />
"$400? My son will be delighted!" exclaimed Nurse Ratched. "Are they really worth that much to you?"<br />
"We're pretty avid music fans," Fang smiled politely. "We'll take a lot of enjoyment out of all this music, you know?"<br />
Erica wrote a second check. Nurse Ratched recruited her husband to help move the records to the trunk of the Impala. Hubby was a middle-aged honky goofball with a vacuous grin and the habit of starting every sentence with the phrase "Okie dokie;."<br />
"Okie dokie, ladies," announced the husband as the last of the records were deposited in the trunk. "Gotta say, I'm glad someone bought those things. I wasn't looking forward to dragging them down to the donation box. But I'll tell you ladies, when you first walked in, I was afraid you were there to do one of those 'home invasion' robberies, haw haw! Are you ladies as tough as you look?"<br />
"Well, we're not ladies...." started Erica.<br />
"... And we're as tough as we need to be," finished Fang.<br />
Utterly oblivious, the husband continued, asking, "Okie dokie. I've been wondering, you both have earrings installed all over your faces! Didn't it hurt?"<br />
Erica (who had more surgical steel inserted than Fang) sighed and said, "Well, first, a correction. My piercings aren't in my ears, right? Then they're not earrings. And yes, body piercing hurts like hell, briefly. Then you get your brain flooded with endorphins, and you are high as hell for about forty minutes, a totally natural high. I'm going to get a labret put in, and...."<br />
"A what?"<br />
"It's called a labret, and no, I don't know where the term originated. Simply, I'm having a stud put in the space right here....." Erica pointed at the space between her lower lip and chin. "Also a cheek piercing. After that, I'm probably going to keep any more installations private."<br />
Fang exclaimed, "Oh shit! You just reminded me, that girl Boopsie, who did my piercings? She's looking for someone who wants erotic piercings, and is willing to have the entire procedure photographed. She says whoever does it will get the piercing and jewelry free, and she'll even pay $200 for their time. Tootsie, your pussy is aesthetically flawless, you should go for it. The pictures are gonna be used in a training text. Your face won't show up, and you can use an alias in the text credits."<br />
Erica smirked at her young lover and shot back, "Well, I have been considering getting a few erotic piercings, but there's a problem. A certain naughty little girl has spend the last six months turning me into an orgasm addict. If I get a hood or labia piercing --- or both --- the after-care instructions say absolutely zero sexual contact for about ten days. No sucking, no licking..... I'm not even allowed to rub one out myself! And given that little girl's penchant for eating me like a pie several times a day, I think she'd be feeling deprived too. It's still in the consideration stage."<br />
The husband was looking at both girls with simple-minded confusion. "Uh, what are you talking about? More piercings? I'm lost."<br />
Fang patiently explained, "Erica has been bandying about the idea of getting a few erotic piercings....."<br />
"Erotic piercings?" asked the husband. "You mean, like.... piercings that are sexy, somehow? Okie dokie, then.... How does that work?"<br />
"It works quite easily. Erotic piercings are any jewelry installed on your genitalia, or your nipples. Basically, she (or me) can get her pussy pierced in a way that increases sexual pleasure, once it's healed. The most common female erotic piercing is having a ring installed on the clitoral hood, but labia piercings are popular too. I think a lot of chicks who are into bondage realized they can get some hoops put on their labia, both sides, grab some bootlaces, and have their physical restriction managed at a very intimate level." She paused and stared off into space briefly, then continued, "Oh wow.... having your pussy being held, like, wide open by your dominant partner..... And they could just do anything they wanted, right there..... Wow...;.."<br />
Erica was frowning at Fang, then her eyes went wide and she said, "Oh, okay..... I just got a visual about how that would work. Oh my God, that could be such a rush, such an experience..... Holy shit....." She also began staring into space.<br />
The husband said with a frown, "You're talking about women getting earrings put on their, you know, hoo-hahs.... And for fun? That's crazy! What sort of women would do that to themselves?"<br />
"You're in the company of two of them," grinned Fang. "We're kind of unusual. Both of us like B&D, but we like both sides of it. We trade off on who's the domme and who's the sub. One night, I might want to be the controller. The next night, I might want to be controlled. Erica is the same way. So, we trade off. Some nights we're both in the same sort of mood, so we leave it out completely and just have some straight-up fun, no role-playing involved. We love each other, and if one of us felt the other was only going through the motions of some domme or sub action, not really getting off on it, we'd have a hard time enjoying ourselves too."<br />
"So, you two are, um, a couple...?"<br />
"Indeed we are, sir," Erica answered.<br />
"And you're in love?"<br />
"You got it, Sparky," said Fang, challenge in her voice.<br />
The husband's face split into a wide grin. "Okie dokie, that's all right, then. I'm happy for you both."<br />
This was not the response either of the girls were expecting. Fang recovered first and offered a diplomatic, "Uh.... thank you, sir."<br />
They went back inside and poked around a bit, but only saw one thing worth picking up:a crock pot, priced five dollars. They paid cash for this. Then the girls headed back to Venice, each at the wheel of their own cars. Not having a magnetic pass-card for the gate into the complex, Fang simply tailgated Erica in, pulling into the other reserved spot for their unit. <br />
They arrived just as their least-favorite neighbor was headed to his car. He was a grinning sad-sack named Garrity, he lived below them, and he watched his porn with the volume up way too high. He was also a bit confused about what the word "lesbian" entailed. Garrity knew what a lesbian was, but was under the impression it might be a temporary condition, curable with heterosexual intercourse finally done "right." Garrity was a "circulation manager" for the LA Times. In other words, he wrangled paperboys. Forty-ish, thin on top, skinny except for an impressive beer gut, and always one day overdue for a shower, Garrity was another Midwest transplant. He'd arrived from Waterloo, Iowa two years earlier.<br />
Garrity's face brightened when he saw both of the les-beens getting out of their respective cars. (His own set of wheels was a 1978 Plymouth Volare, a vehicle built in the unique period of Detroit history when American iron had to stop for repairs more often than gasoline.) He beamed in a lecherous manner at Fang and said, "So! Got yerself a car now, huh?"<br />
"Sure did, Garrity," Fang muttered as she headed to open the trunk.<br />
He followed Fang to the rear of the Impala, and looked at the trunk as she put in the key. "Hey! You could fit six wetbacks in there, if ya need, haw haw! You could make extra money, moving them wetbacks from Sandy-Eggo to the Central Valley! Whatcha got in there?"<br />
Fang turned, glared, and said, "Six dead Hawkeyes. The cemetery won't take them, so I'm gonna make extra money by selling them to the people who make Alpo."<br />
Garrity didn't catch the insult, he'd been distracted by Erica's legs as they approached. His attention was then consumed by her rack, and after a moment he realized that Erica was also present, not just the more interesting parts of her. "So yer, uh, <i>gurlfriend</i> has a car now, huh?"<br />
"Nothing gets past you, Garrity," Erica observed. "'71 Impala with the 454 motor and a four-barrel carb. Low miles, too. Possibly the best $220 I've ever spent."<br />
"Wait, how much? What's wrong with it?"<br />
"Not a fuckin' thing, so far as I can tell," said Fang. "We picked it up at an estate sale in the Palisades. Some little old lady drove it twice a week until she died, it's only got 42,000 original miles on it. Her daughter thought of it as an old car with shitty mileage, so she was giving it away."<br />
"I'll give ya $300 for it," proclaimed Garrity.<br />
"No you won't. It's mine. Early bird gets the worm, and all that shit."<br />
"What's all that?" asked Garrity, looking in the trunk. "Record albums?"<br />
"You can't be fooled, can you?" said Erica. "Another good score we made. There's some choice stuff there. Now excuse us, we've got to start moving them upstairs."<br />
"I'll help you! Save ya time!"<br />
Erica and Fang looked at each other, rolled their eyes, and shrugged. "Knock yourself out," said Erica.<br />
Each of them grabbed an armful of albums and began trekking across the lot and up the stairs. Fang juggled out her keys and opened the front door. The three of them headed in, Garrity gawking around like a tourist at Disneyland. He took in a couple posters and observed, "Hey! Yer Becky Page fans, huh? But don't she like guys?"<br />
"That would explain her marriage to one," said Erica. "Her husband is my boss. Bekka is an amazing woman. Also, she's bisexual, not straight. Bekka likes boys and girls both. Here, put those on that empty shelf on the gorilla rack."<br />
The first load of albums was deposited, and the girls turned towards the door. They got that far when they realized Garrity wasn't with them. He was thumbing through the records with a look of puzzled annoyance, finally commenting, "I never heard of any of these bands. What the hell is this stuff? China White? Ill Repute? The Adolescents? Uh.... The Mentors?"<br />
Fang looked over and saw Garrity holding a copy of the Mentors' "You Axed For It" in his hand. "This somma that Satan music?" he asked.<br />
Cackling with joyous laughter, Fang said, "Just good ol' American heavy metal, Garrity. You'll love the Mentors, I'll make you a tape."<br />
"What sorta things do they sing about?"<br />
"Oh.... You know..... Songs about girls they like, the usual stuff you'd expect from any rock and roll band."<br />
"Huh." Garrity followed the girls downstairs for another load.<br />
Once the records were racked and the crock pot was in the kitchen, Garrity stood and looked around the living room, taking in the Becky Page posters again ("I keep meaning to buy one myself!"), the Nagel prints, the impressive sound system, the leather recliner with wrist and ankle straps.... Then he wandered off into the rest of the apartment. Fang got an enraged look and followed him. He'd walked into the spare bedroom, which served as both Erica's office and impromptu fun dungeon. Random sexual accouterments sat around, and a day bed with four sets of handcuffs attached to the frame was against the opposite wall. Fang walked up behind him and said, "What the fuck do you think you're doing, Garrity?"<br />
Garrity said, "Um.... Okay, this is an office. Where do you both sleep?"<br />
"What?"<br />
"One of you sleeps in the main bedroom, right? Where does the other one sleep?"<br />
Feeling a bit baffled, Fang said, "Uh, we sleep together, Garrity. In the same room, in the same bed. I thought we made it plain as fucking day when we moved in that Erica and I are a couple. Are you still unclear on our relationship?"<br />
Garrity had a befuddled look about him. "Okay, you're les-beens, I get that. But you two sleep in the same bed?"<br />
"Yeah. What the fuck, Garrity? How many couples do you know that sleep separately from each other, outside of 'I Love Lucy'? Did your parents sleep in different rooms? Did you and your ex-wife sleep in separate places? Wait, don't answer that, I don't wanna know. Why would we not share a bed?"<br />
Garrity's voice got soft and conspiratorial, like a junior high kid telling his friend he'd found his dad's stash of Hustler magazines. "Okay, I know being a les-been isn't illegal, not in California, anyway. But isn't you two sharing a bed, you know, against the law? I won't say nothing, it ain't my business, but won't you go to jail if the po-lice find out you two are sleeping in the same bed at the same time?"<br />
It took Fang a few moments to stop staring in amazement at Garrity and reply, "No. No, we won't. It's not against the law for two women to fall asleep in the same bed at the same time. I can promise you that."<br />
"Okay." Garrity looked at the floor briefly, then said, "I just, I kinda worry about you two a little. There's some mean folks in the world, you know? Not everybody's as open-minded as me. I know you two are happy together, I wouldn't want you to get in trouble just for being, you know, the way you are."<br />
Fang took a moment to absorb this. Then she actually smiled at Garrity and said, "Thank you for your concern. We know there's mean people in the world, that's one of the reasons we got the fuck out of Minnesota. Don't worry about us, we'll be fine. But I appreciate your concern."<br />
"All right." He paused, then continued, "Okay! I was headed for the video store, gonna find something good to watch tonight. You take care, now."<br />
Garrity was at the doorway when Fang gave a small prod. "I'm surprised you didn't comment on the handcuffs on our day bed."<br />
He shrugged and replied, "Aw hell, me and my ex-wife used to play around like that too. No big deal." He continued through the apartment and out the door.<br />
Erica gave Fang a questioning look as she came into the living room. She settled next to Erica and gave her a kiss on the side of the head. "This state is starting to scare me," Fang said.<br />
"How?" Erica asked.<br />
"Just when I think I have someone pegged as being a complete fuckin' asshole, they turn out not to be. They're actually okay. California is messing with my asshole-radar."<br />
Erica kissed Fang back and said, "We'll take you to Radio Shack on Monday for re-calibration."Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10230648449521958270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033784518790200307.post-78106411005579702312017-04-03T20:42:00.002-07:002017-04-03T20:42:51.945-07:00Groove (Part 3) There were eleven Inana folks gathered at the mansion Friday evening, all looking forward to getting high on Ecstasy and wreaking havoc in public. Present were Bekka, Sue, Toxica, Jenna Ng, Demetrius, Pill, Andy, Sally, Melissa, Jolene, and Stefano. The hits had been distributed and washed down with the first beers of the night, everyone chatting and batting about ideas for which neighborhood in San Diego to terrorize. The collective porn people were feeling gung-ho already.<br />
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Well, almost all of them. Stefano was a ball of apprehension. This was very, very new to him. First off, with the exception of Sally, everyone present made a living engaging in various sex acts on sound stages.... And Sally was a director and camera operator, she was quite used to seeing the whole spectacle. Stefano had watched loops being produced on two occasions, and had nearly fainted from discomfort both times. The casual, objective way action took place was as big of a shock as the actual intercourse. He'd been around naked women two times in his life, and both times it was just him and the girl, alone. He'd been at Inana for a month now, and still wasn't comfortable with the constant nudity of either gender.<br />
Also, Stefano was very much intimidated by the Inana Girls. Sixteen years of Catholic schools had not prepared him for the personalities of porn stars. The concept of "modesty" seemed to be utterly foreign to the women at Inana. Catholic girls were (mostly) quiet, a bit shy, easy to make blush. Every interaction he'd had with the women present had cowed him. They'd been aggressively friendly when first meeting him, clothed or nude. Given their fashion sense, Toxica and Sue would have had him terrified if they'd been walking down the street towards him, as total strangers. Directly interacting with either one had been even more nerve-racking as dealing with the bullies in high school. Both had been perfectly friendly, but.... My God, they were like superheroes out of a dirty comic book. So was Bekka, the famous Becky Page. At least Lenny wasn't there that night.<br />
He'd washed down his hit of Ecstasy with his beer, like everyone else, then stood and tried to look like he belonged there. The others looked fashionable, if not a bit risque. Stefano had gone home and changed into Dockers, a U2 concert t-shirt, and Adidas, far less formal than how he looked during the day. He was the only one at Inana wearing a tie, except for when his Uncle Angel was down from LA to check on things. Even then, Angel would be in a $3000 tailored suit. Sue and Bekka had thier goth-hooker look going, Pill and Toxica were the stereotypes of "punk rock sluts," Demetrius was urbane black hipster, Jenna, Sue, and Sally were in pretty straightforward club wear. Melissa was wearing one of her modest wool skirts, but with a pair of fuck-me pumps and a silk sleeveless blouse, good and tight, showing off her lack of a bra. Andy was in a black dress shirt, stone-washed Levis, and Doc Marten creepers. Stefano felt like he may as well be wearing a flashing sign saying "NERD."<br />
Stefano stood near Demetrius, Sally, and Bekka as the three talked about various aspects of their current project, producing episodes of "Co-Ed Housing." This was one of several half-hour mini-features Inana was making, the episodes like in any TV series. "Co-Ed Housing" was an ensemble drama set in a college dorm, following six sets of roommates (three male, three female) as they searched for love as undergrads. This being porn, the "love" they were searching for was well-documented on video.<br />
"So how many episodes do you honestly see happening?" Demetrius asked Bekka, who was acting as producer for the series.<br />
"Totally up in the air right now," Bekka answered. "It's going to depend on our reviews and public response. Mallory and I have knocked around the idea of expanding 'Co-Ed Housing' to a full hour. There's a chance of having the series like s dirty version of '90210,' you know?"<br />
"It just seems like there's not a lot of room for character development..."<br />
Sally interjected, "Remember, the series' are more or less replacing our loops. Getting lots of suck and fuck on video will always be the main priority. The longer it runs, the more your character will get nuanced, don't worry."<br />
Bekka added, "And if you have an idea to expand the story line, or for the plot of an episode, say something to me and Mallory. We'll kick around your ideas and see what we come up with. Just keep in mind the suck and fuck is the priority, like Sally said. Really, we're making thew world's smartest jack loops. The ratio of dialogue to sex will always remain about thirty percent to seventy percent. You'll get your acting chops in, but this is still jack fodder."<br />
Whacking Stefano on the arm with a smile, Sally said, "Hey Stevie, you've seen the scripts, right? What's your feeling on how to handle 'Co-Ed Housing'?"<br />
Stefano's mouth opened as if to speak, with a half-grin. He froze like that as he racked his brain for details about the scripts. The other three looked at him patiently. He finally managed to get out, "Ah.... With twelve main characters and only a half hour's time, um.... Maybe not have, uh, all the characters involved each episode. Uh.... Unless you do go up to a full hour. But.... Maybe only have focus on a few of the characters each episode? Would that work? I'm not sure, I don't really know what to say...."<br />
"Good point," Bekka said with a thoughtful frown. "No sense in trying to cram everybody in each episode. Maybe some characters only have a few lines of dialogue in passing each episode, and work up a fuller plot around just a couple characters. Good point, Stevie."<br />
"That would allow the characters to get more refined," observed Demetrius. He sighed. "I have to keep reminding myself, this is porn. I'm making porn. Shee-it, I should just be glad I'm working, and have something a little more interesting to do than loops. You say the series will replace loops entirely?"<br />
"That's what we'd like," Sally replied. "Inana's features created such a huge market, and so many fans, it's what we feel should happen. The fans of the features were hungry for more of our stuff, so they'd pick up our loop videos, and hate them. They didn't want just suck and fuck, they wanted more complete entertainment. So, that's why Lenny thought up the idea of doing the series'. The series' episodes would keep our features fans interested without alienating people who want loops. None of the series will ever be terribly involved, I don't think. For God's sake, look at 'Pulse of Night.' For anyone looking for straight-up jack fodder, that's gonna be the go-to series. Except for the two staffers --- and the running oral sex joke with the two of them --- it's just going to be the coupling of the week on 'Pulse of Night.'"<br />
(It should be noted that "Pulse of Night" was set in one of those twenty-four hour yuppie gyms, late at night. Anyone who's inclined to go work out at three a.m. is going to have an interesting perspective on life. The series would simply have two (or three) people meeting at the gym and getting busy, no set cast at all.... Except for the two employees working at that hour. These two, male and female, would pass the time by going down on each other at the front desk. The running gag was while one staffer was standing at the desk being eaten, they'd have to interact with a customer, the other staffer refusing to stop for the duration. Imagine having to converse with a customer, face to face, while out of sight someone is doing highly creative things to your genitalia with their mouth. Each episode would have this running gag happen, about four minutes of screen time.)<br />
"So what's your favorite series, Stevie?" Bekka asked Stefano.<br />
Once again, Stefano had to forcefully make himself speak. He finally choked out, "Uh.... 'Knock, Then Enter,' I guess...?"<br />
"What do you like about it?"<br />
(Oh shit oh shit oh shit....) "It's uh.... I like that it's sort of a parody of 'Three's Company,' you know? I believe people would have liked if the series had dropped the coy flirting between the three main characters and had some sparks fly...."<br />
Bekka laughed and said, "That's why Lenny and Mallory created it! They both felt 'Three's Company' not only needed more sexual tension, they figured it would be fun if the three roommmates just gave up being coy and started constantly fooling around, like they should have been. Jack, Janet, and Chrissy as total libertines. My only complaint is the humor is as simplistic in 'Knock, Then Enter' as it was in 'Three's Company.' I like the more subtle stuff Lenny is coming up with for 'Duane and Dolly.' It's not hyuk-hyuk funny, just humor that makes you grin a lot, you know?"<br />
Stefano worked up the courage to say, "Um, I'm kind of lost when it comes to 'Duane and Dolly.' There seems to be a lot of drug humor, and uh, that's never, uh, I've never really, you know...."<br />
"Really, it's just Lenny making fun of your average suburban stoners," said Sally. "Think back to the stoners you knew in high school."<br />
"Um.... There weren't any at my high school. Not that I know of, anyway. I went to Catholic school, we had to wear a uniform. Uh, if anyone was doing drugs, they kept it well-hidden at school."<br />
"Oh. Oh, wow. Well.... Lenny is having fun with some pretty archetypal products of American suburbia, the wasted youth." Sally sighed and continued, "Okay, maybe you didn't go to school with them but I'm sure you know the people I'm talking about. The headbangers, the heavy metal fans...."<br />
Realization hit Stefano. "Oh.... They always have long hair and acne, and wear Iron Maiden t-shirts? They call everyone 'dude'?"<br />
"Spot on," Bekka smiled.<br />
"Okay, yeah. There were a couple guys like that in my neighborhood. I tried talking to them a couple times, and they always would end up telling me I was into, uh, 'fag shit.' It's like they never heard of Dungeons and Dragons!"<br />
The other three burst out laughing. Demetrius said, "Role-playing games would be far too intellectually taxing for your average pot-head. Some of them were probably into RPGs, but they kept it a secret. Tell me, do you still play?"<br />
"Yeah," said Stefano. "Although these days I'm more into the MERP system, Middle Earth Role Player. Are you familiar?"<br />
"I am. Love the concept, love the system even more. How often do you play?"<br />
"Well.... I ducked out on my usual match tonight. I play with a few people from home, I'll drive up and spend the night at a friend's place. 'Home' is Sherman Oaks. Um, I called and told them I was feeling too tired tonight to make the drive. I, uh, wanted to see what it would be like to be around, um, you people...." Stefano trailed off.<br />
"I'm flattered!" Bekka exclaimed. "You really want to hang out with the dorks and weirdos from work in your spare time?"<br />
"What?" queried Stefano. "You people are really cool!" He got embarrassed, and said quietly, "Well, you know what I mean...."<br />
The other three began laughing again. Sally asserted, "Oh, please! We are so not cool!"<br />
Demetrius elbowed Stefano and said, "Hey man, not only am I a black man who grew up in Northridge, I'm a black man who was a hardcore gamer! Not a lot of other black dudes in the world spend their free time sitting around pretending to be a mage or an elf, you know?" He paused and said, "We ought to set up a game down here. Find a few more like-minded people and see how it goes. Start off with one-shot games, and if the interest is there, have some marathon campaigns. Some Tolkein-based role-playing sound good?"<br />
"Uh, yeah," said Stefano nervously. "But, um, you'd really want to run a campaign with me? I'm just, you know, kind of a nerd.... Do you think people around here would actually be interested at all?"<br />
Bekka responded, "Well, I know Ace and Bubba are gamers, they're into AD&D. I'm not sure if they're familiar with the MERP system or not. And there's plenty of other people around Inana who would like the diversion. They'd be noobs, but they'd pick it up quick. I'm in, I'll bet Lenny would be up for it...."<br />
Demetrius nudged Stefano again and said, "Man, with you, it's like your nerdiness is front-loaded, you know? Shit, we all a bunch of nerds around here. We're just nerdy for different stuff. Sue is a nerd for surfing. You know what Jenna does for fun? Fix old clocks. How is that not nerdy? Me, I'd love to start gaming again."<br />
"I'll go toe to toe with anyone on the planet in Star Trek trivia, original series or Next Generation," said Sally. "I've been going to the cons since I was fourteen."<br />
Stefano's eyes suddenly glinted, and he said with a bit of assertiveness, "Okay.... What is the frequency of Pon Farr?"<br />
"Every seven Vulcan years, and despite rumor, Vulcans can mate any time they want, not just during Pon Farr. Sex during the state of Pon Farr is ritualized," Sally responded confidently. "Try me on a hard one."<br />
"What the hell is Pon Farr?" asked Jenna, drifting up.<br />
Both Sally and Stefano began giggling like seventh grade girls. Sally said, "In the Star Trek universe, Pon Farr is, essentially, a state of frenzy for Vulcans. It's like both male and female Vulcans sort of freak out for a while every seven years, and.... Okay, you'd say Spock was a master of control and rational thought? That shit goes out the window. When in Pon Farr, Vulcans have the restraint of drunken college students on Spring Break in Miami."<br />
Sue's voice suddenly rang out, "Attention, fellow deviants! We should figure out where the hell we're going tonight! What area sounds good?"<br />
"Let's hit the jarhead bars here in Oceanside," suggested Jolene.<br />
Melissa responded, "Naw. I hate having to remember to not use big words when I talk to people." Everyone laughed.<br />
"Old Town?" said Andy.<br />
"Probably not a good idea," said Bekka. "Too many bartenders will remember us from a few weeks ago, and haven't forgiven us yet."<br />
"How about downtown, the Gaslamp District?" offered Sally. "A good mix of tourists and local yuppies, easy walking distance from one place to another.... We park in one of the all-night garages, we'll be good to go."<br />
"The downside is lots of cops," said Sue. "We'd have to keep it a bit reined in, you know? No getting tits out in the bars."<br />
"So we flash, not go topless," said Jenna. "Besides, one flash from Melissa or Jolene is as good as me being topless the whole time, with these tiny things." Everyone laughed.<br />
"We leave now, the first good rush from the 'E' will hit us just as we're parking," said Toxica. "We'll be in just the right mood."<br />
So the Gaslamp District in downtown San Diego was agreed upon. The Gaslamp District was the result of a major gentrification effort by the city, to help draw tourist dollars downtown. Until the early Eighties, downtown San Diego was really low-brow. Horton Plaza, with its fountain, was the focal point of existence for every wino in the area. Broadway was lined with titty bars, tattoo parlors, peep shows, and porn shops catering to the Navy swabs. Plenty of hookers working out of the SRO hotels. It was an exercise in sleaze.<br />
Now, "Horton Plaza" was a large shopping mall. The skin shops on Broadway had been squeezed out. And the Gaslamp District was home to trendy and tony bars and restaurants, all with a turn-of-the-century feel. A Smut 'N' Stuff store was the last source of porn in the area. Both the tourists and cubicle-dwellers from downtown packed into the area, especially on weekend nights. Downtown is flat and compact, so you can visit a lot of different places with little physical exertion (or having to move your car).<br />
Car-pooling made the most sense. Bekka was driving Lenny's Fleetwood, to aid with this. Sue had her own Sedan De Ville. It was agreed that so long as the more narrow-butted among the revelers rode up front, all eleven would fit in the two Cadillacs. Bekka (at the wheel), Jenna, and Pill occupied the front seat of the Fleetwood, with Toxica, Stefano, and Melissa in the rear. Stefano was in the middle, sandwiched by the two scary girls. Stefano sat and hoped he wasn't sweating too audibly. To try and break the ice, he said to Toxica, "So, um, you're into the, uh, whole punk rock thing, huh?"<br />
Pill immediately inserted, "She's just another fucking poser. A fucking fashion tramp."<br />
Toxica sighed quietly and said, "Yeah, fair enough. I'm a poser."<br />
"Huh?" said Stefano.<br />
"I was never that deep into the hardcore scene. But when I started my career, I wanted to be memorable, I really wanted to stand out but still have appeal. It's all about building a brand, you know? Just like Bekka did with Becky Page...."<br />
Bekka inserted, "Except Becky Page wasn't built by me, not really. Okay, I had the haircut and the goth fashion sense and the shaved pussy, but the whole mystique about Becky Page was created by my fans and the media. And I'd had my look for eight damn years of doing loops before anyone gave a shit."<br />
"But it worked," said Toxica. "I've told you what an influence you've been on my career." Turning to Stefano, she said, "Look, if I was seriously hardcore punk, I'd have a hell of a lot more ink and piercings. My hair would be shorter and crazier, maybe even a mohawk. I wanted a wild look, something that felt sorta dangerous, but wasn't too threatening. To be a star in any arena of the entertainment industry, you've got to be accessible to Middle America. If I had piercings everywhere and lots of ink, I'd just scare the shit out of the doofuses in Indiana or Kansas or wherever. So.... I kept my look toned down. I really am a poser bitch, and my look is a sham. I like my look, but I'm not a serious punk rock girl like Pill or Feather."<br />
Pill said, "Oh Jesus. When Feather was first campaigning to work at Inana, she had a safety pin in her cheek, and she looked like she'd had her hair cut by a spastic with a pair of pruning shears. My hair was about the same, and with four different colors at once. Lenny had to tell us both we had to tone it down, for exactly why you just said: we'd be scaring everyone not in Los Angeles, San Francisco, and New York City. Feather had been bugging Lenny to hire her about five months before her eighteenth birthday, she'd show up at the mansion and try to sort of just hang out. Lenny told her if she showed up for her interviews with the safety pin still in her cheek, he wouldn't even bother with her. She showed up with her hair in a choir-boy cut bleached blonde and no safety pin. Good enough."<br />
"But Elspeth had a mohawk in 'Rocker Girls'...." said Melissa.<br />
"Which Lenny paid her two grand to get," replied Bekka. "She had a good second lead, so she got that pay, plus the two grand for the mohawk. Really, she rendered herself pretty much unemployable until her hair grew back out.... And even then, she cheated! She got a damn good wig, totally natural looking, and worked in that for a few months until she had hair again."<br />
"So.... I guess me getting my clitoral hood pierced would cost me my job, huh," asked Jenna.<br />
Bekka considered and replied, "If you got a small, delicate hoop installed, something.... Well, feminine.... you'd be okay. If you had a big-ass ten-gauge ring with a huge lock-bead on it put in, that would be a major problem. You'd be fine if you were working at the Dirty Angel studio up in Van Nuys, but...."<br />
"What's that?" asked Melissa.<br />
"Dirty Angel is another studio Angel and Vinny Morelli own, it's their kink studio. B&D, medium-grade S&M, fetish, domination, that sorta stuff. Heavy body mods are a-ok around Dirty Angel, they encourage it. At their other five studios, we're going for a vanilla feel. Inana may be the famous one, but our sex is still pretty vanilla."<br />
"Wait, Angel and Vinny own six different studios?" asked Jenna.<br />
Bekka replied, "Yeah. There's Inana, there's Dirty Angel, there's Man-Crush, which is their gay studio, and.... I can't even remember the names of the other three. They're just cranking out standard suck and fuck loops, nothing special. Remember, Inana was just another loop studio for years, until Angel gave Lenny the job of running the place. It was Lenny that made Inana what it is."<br />
Stefano was feeling scandalized. "Oh my God. My uncle owns a gay porn studio?"<br />
"Sure does. Man-Crush has been a good investment."<br />
"How did that happen? Why did he decide to to make gay porn?"<br />
Bekka laughed. "Because it was a good fucking investment, why else? Gay men like their porn as much as straight men, and happily spend plenty of money on it. It's a major part of the industry, why would Angel and Vinny ignore it? It's just business."<br />
"Should we explain the concept of 'gay for pay' to Stevie?" chuckled Melissa.<br />
"What's that?" asked Stefano.<br />
The whole car burst into laughter. Lighting a cigarette, Toxica said, "It's real simple. You don't have to be gay to appear in gay porn, you only have to be able to get your cock hard. John Holmes did gay for pay. So has Peter North and even Ron Jeremy. There's plenty of studs who've done gay porn, just for the money. They're not gay in real life, they want a damn pay check, you know? And if that means having another man sucking your cock --- or sucking another man's cock --- then what the hell, you know?"<br />
"Oh.... wow. I don't think I could ever, uh...."<br />
"Most men couldn't," said Pill. "But like we keep telling you, Stevie, it's called performance for a reason."<br />
A few miles passed in relative silence. Pill was just about to start fiddling with the stereo when Stefano piped up with, "Can I ask what's probably a dumb question?"<br />
"Lay it on us, Stevie," said Jenna.<br />
"Um, this drug Ecstasy, uh.... What's it going to do to me?"<br />
All the girls started to laugh, but quickly cut themselves off, realizing Stefano would just feel like they were making fun of him. Jenna said, "It's going to make you feel very, very happy."<br />
"Okay...."<br />
Elaborating, Pill replied, "Ecstasy gives you energy, euphoria, confidence.... You feel happy, you feel self-assured, and you're just fucking overjoyed to meet everyone you come across. You're going to have fun just being around other people."<br />
"What other drugs have you taken?" asked Bekka.<br />
After a pause, Stefano said, "Um.... none."<br />
"Really?"<br />
"Yeah. I just.... I've always heard bad things about drugs, and they always seemed really scary and intimidating, you know? And I didn't like the idea of just, I dunno, sitting there staring into space for a long time."<br />
Melissa snorted, "Okay, then never try heroin, or any opiate. I'd say the same thing about smoking weed, but that sort of varies from person to person."<br />
"Great, now I feel like a total cunt," groused Bekka from behind the steering wheel. "You'd gotten this far in life without taking drugs, and here I am handing you fucking Ecstasy like it's no big deal. I feel like I corrupted you."<br />
"Oh, hey," Stefano protested. "If I didn't want to take it, I wouldn't have. It was like, okay, I've never done this, but everyone else seemed totally fine and relaxed about taking it, so I figured, 'Hey, how bad can it be?'" He paused. "I guess it's kinda weird to have never taken drugs in your life, huh."<br />
Pill leaned over the seat and said, "You know who Frank Zappa is, right? And how crazy his music can be? Frank Zappa smoked pot once in his life. He drank one beer in his life. When he smoked pot, afterwards he thought to himself, 'Well, that was three hours I could have spent working on my music,' and never touched the stuff again. He drank a beer, decided he didn't like the taste, and never touched another drop of alcohol. Frank Zappa comes up with the most insane art and music, and his mind is pretty much unfettered by any drugs. So it may be unusual to stay totally sober your whole life, it's not a bad thing. It's pretty cool, actually."<br />
Melissa put a hand on Stefano's knee. "Tell you what, Stevie. Hang with me tonight. If you start feeling odd or out of control, you can just sit and talk to me, tell me how you're feeling, and I'll help you interpret it. Remember, Ecstasy is an experience, but it's not a trip, like LSD or mushrooms. You won't feel out of control, if anything, you'll feel the opposite. But if you do feel a little weird, you and me can just find someplace quiet to sit and talk. Is that okay with you?"<br />
Gratitude flowed through Stefano's brain. "Yeah. Thanks a lot. Thank you." Another pause. "So, uh, what's the plan tonight?"<br />
Giggles filled the car. "Fucking with people's heads," answered Toxica.<br />
"Okay.... How?"<br />
Pill responded, "Look. We're a bunch of porn sluts. While the Inana Girls do have some respect in the world, ultimately we're still thought of as a bunch of sluts. We hear it all the time, in fan mail and in the media. Bekka, Sue, and Jackie figured out one night that there's a lot of cathartic release in living up to our reputations, and in a really outlandish way. You think we're exhibitionist nymphos and sluts, because we fuck on camera? Fine, we'll show you just how wild we can be! We started going to places with a real white-bread, homogeneous clientele and.... Not acting sleazy, but being very open about who we are and what we do, treating our jobs as just the most normal thing in the world. A group of auto mechanics will talk shop over a few drinks, right, and not really care who's listening? Why shouldn't we? We'll drag people around us into our conversations.... Only we're discussing anal sex, and how to take a good money shot, and all the other details of our jobs."<br />
"Most people don't consider casually chatting about deep-throating a guy normal conversation," giggled Toxica. "Or arguing about whose nipples get longer when stimulated.... And then having a comparison. We treat it like perfectly acceptable topics and behavior to engage in public. And if someone is bugged and lets us know, we'll be utterly confused about why they're bugged. Hey, we're just talking about work, no big deal. What's the problem? Don't <i>you</i> compare the flavors of different men's semen you work with? It's just a way of razzing people for the fun of it."<br />
"Um.... I'm not sure I'll have much to contribute," Stefano said nervously.<br />
"Don't worry," said Jenna. "Just sit and look natural, like you hear this shit all the time, you know?"<br />
Pill snickered, "And you do hear this shit all the time! You've eaten lunch with us enough to get used to it!"<br />
"Well.... I'm trying," Stefano mumbled. The rest of the car burst into laughter.<br />
<br />
Downtown, the two Cadillacs pulled into the Horton Plaza parking structure. Most places in the Gaslamp District would validate their parking stubs, especially with the number of drinks ordered. Getting out of the Fleetwood, Stefano felt.... energized. On top of the world. Totally confident. He was going to spend the evening in the company of porn stars, women other guys would be nervous about being with.... But hey! These were co-workers, not strangers! They were work friends, people he was around all the time, why should he be nervous? (He was also glad he'd tied a flannel shirt around his waist before leaving home. Downtown San Diego is right on the water, and got chilly on autumn evenings.)<br />
The first destination was Broderick's Saloon, a notorious tourist trap. Male employees wore spats and striped vests, the garb on the females would best be described as "frilly." Ragtime piano played resoundingly. The place was already pretty crowded, but the crew managed to find two tables and drag them together, right in the thick of things. Other patrons took in their arrival with questioning looks: hey, that's Susan Black, and.... Oh my God, that's Becky Page! And these other girls look familiar too, for the most part. There was plenty of nudging and pointing coming from the tables and booths around them. Seating was packed in tight enough other patrons would be able to eavesdrop without any effort.<br />
While walking there, Melissa had advised Stefano that one of the effects of Ecstasy was a much higher tolerance for alcohol. While he shouldn't start pounding shots like they were Kool-Aid, he could pretty much knock back beer all he wanted without worrying about developing too heavy of a buzz. Stefano said candidly, "Okay, great. You know, I was worried I was going to have a lot of anxiety tonight, you know, hanging around with everyone, but I feel fine. I'm not a heavy drinker, and I figured I'd need a few drinks to relax.... But I feel okay. I'm really happy to be here with everybody." Melissa smiled at him and rubbed his shoulder.<br />
When the first round of drinks arrived, general talk and gossip about work started. Jolene said to Toxica, "So you did a scene with Roach this week for 'Pulse of Night,' right? Had you worked with him yet?"<br />
Toxica replied, "No.... But I'd been given warning. I mean, everybody talks about what a gentleman Roach is, and it's true, but.... Holy shit, we're on the sound stage, we're about to start the fuck scene, right? He finishes getting prepped and turns around. Oh my fucking God. All I could think was, 'I agreed to do an anal scene with that thing?' Jesus Christ, he could be a dog to death with that cock!"<br />
Demetrius added, "Oh yeah. I seen Roach in action, and damn! He could put a lot of brothers to shame!" The table cracked up.<br />
"What's scary to me is that Roach and Feather work together all the time, and they always do anal," said Jolene. "I'm an anal queen, but I told Lenny straight out, 'No way is he going up my ass.' And Feather is, what, five foot two and maybe ninety-five pounds? She takes him and purrs like a cat while she's doing it!"<br />
Jenna smirked, "I swear, you anal queens gotta be kinda crazy. You really dig that? I tried once, when I was still in LA. Hey, $1400 for that? Sure, I'll try. That was the first and last time, no way."<br />
Smirking back, Melissa gestured at Bekka's glass and said, "Anal is like scotch. You either like it or you don't. Just a matter of personal taste, I guess. I won't lie, I'll take Roach up my ass with smile every time."<br />
Sue added, "Me too.... but not as a DP. The first time I worked with Roach, it was a DP scene with him and Chip, and he was the one up my ass. Oh shit, I was sore for two days. If him and Chip had been the other way around, I'd have probably been okay, but...."<br />
"Excuse me."<br />
Everyone turned to look. The voice had come from a yuppie, about thirty years old, who looked like he'd walked into Macy's and said, "Dress me like a hipster!" He was with a woman about the same age, and dressed in the same manner. Sally smiled at the yuppie and said, "Yes?"<br />
"What are you all talking about?" he asked.<br />
"Just talking shop," Jolene said casually. "Who takes it in the ass and who doesn't, and who we take it in the ass from. A co-worker of ours is one hung bastard, he can really challenge some of us...."<br />
"He can challenge us during straight sex!" exclaimed Pill. "Unless you're hollow, like this chick." She elbowed Melissa. "So did you have your gag reflex surgically removed, or what?"<br />
The yuppie woman queried, "You're talking about.... anal sex?"<br />
"You got it," said Jolene brightly. "Why, what's up?"<br />
The two yuppies took in the crew, then locked on Bekka. The man said, "Hey, you're Becky Page! So.... You're all in porn?"<br />
"Yes, we are," Jenna assured him. "Not all of us are in front of the cameras, though. Sally here is a director and producer, and Stevie is the main guy around the office, he keeps the studio running as a business, you know?"<br />
Andy said modestly, "Just for reference, neither me or Demetrius take it in the ass."<br />
"Not yet," said Sue. "I'm gonna have you in a strap-on scene sooner or later!" The crew burst into laughter.<br />
"Start paying us studs like you ladies get paid, and I'll think about it," said Demetrius.<br />
Stefano was feeling brash enough to swig at his beer and say, "So what do you two do for a living?"<br />
"Uh, we're realtors," the man said.<br />
"Do you have a local office?"<br />
"No, we're from Boulder, Colorado."<br />
Jolene blurted, "Hey, that's where Mork from Ork landed! Right on!" The crew broke up with laughter.<br />
The woman said, "I have to ask. Do you often have discussions about sexual activity in public?"<br />
Everyone made a show of glancing around at each other. Finally Bekka said, "Well.... Yeah, I guess so. See, we've had a long week, so now we're out to have a few drinks and blow off a little steam, talk shop. To you, we're talking about ass-fucking. To us, it's just business, okay?"<br />
Sue continued, "Besides, it's still just a basic aspect of human sexuality. Some girls like it in the ass, others don't. But generally, sex is a universal common denominator with human beings, and it's our livelihood. Why hedge about sex in conversation, regardless of location? We know there aren't any children around, so what's the biggie?"<br />
"It would feel strange to hire someone who could engage in sexual activity without being able to discuss it," finished Bekka.<br />
From another side came a voice saying, "Hey Becky, are you hiring? Can I show you my qualifications?" Followed by braying laughter.<br />
All eyes now pointed in that direction. Three dudes in their mid-twenties were at the next table. All had the "overage frat bro" look about them, three guys who were kicking off their careers with loftier job titles than incomes: Junior Executive Assistant Manager of Regional Sales. The one closest to the crew was grabbing his crotch while his friends laughed.<br />
Bekka put on her I-Am-Royalty smile and asked, "Why are you holding yourself like that? Are you afraid someone may try and steal it? Or do you just like to remind yourself of it's existence?" Her table's turn to laugh.<br />
"Naw, I was gonna tell you about my work experience, baby," the Junior Executive replied.<br />
"I'll bet he has a very short.... resume," quipped Stefano, to more laughter.<br />
One of the other two snapped at Stefano, "Mind your own business, four-eyes."<br />
And Stefano heard his voice say, "'Four-eyes?' What is this, fifth grade? Can't you do any better than that? Lemme guess, next you'll jump up to seventh grade and call me a faggot. Gosh, how can I survive a rapier wit like that?"<br />
"He must be a faggot," commented the first one.<br />
"Are you a faggot?" challenged the third Junior Executive.<br />
Now Stefano heard his voice again, and also felt his face shift into an amused sneer. He said, "Why, did you want me to fuck you?" The crew laughed again. Stefano heard his voice say with gleeful contempt, "Jesus, you jocks get locked in your heads around ninth grade and stay there. 'Faggot?' I mean, if I was gonna insult you three, I'd try and stick with what evidence I have and call you all halfwits and spineless bullies. I always wondered, back in school, how come it always took three of you to stuff me in a locker? You were all bigger than me, what were you so afraid of that you had to operate as a team? None of you ever had the balls to do anything unless you had your friends backing you up, you were all just the football coach's catamites." The crew now broke into hoots and cheers.<br />
The three Junior Executives were staring at the skinny, bespectacled geeky guy at the next table in bald-faced shock, mouths open. One of them finally said, "What the fuck is a catamite?"<br />
In a clear and formal voice, like a female George Will, Toxica stated, "In ancient Greece, a catamite was an adolescent homosexual with an attachment to an older man. Usually the relationship was rather pragmatic. The man would sexually exploit the youth, the youth would receive rather pricey gifts and favors from the man.... Like being moved to the first string of the sports team the man coached." (Loud snickering broke out.)<br />
Junior Executive No. One graveled, "Nerd, you're looking to get hurt if you don't shut up."<br />
And now Stefano felt his eyes get big and wild, the sneer getting wider. His voice said, "Damn right I'm a nerd. I build computers for fun. I play Dungeons and Dragons. I was on the Chess team in college. What's your point? Now I'm out of college, and you know how I spend my work weeks? I'm surrounded by beautiful naked women, I run the business end of a porn studio. Funny thing, sometimes talent and ability win you a really sweet gig.<br />
"I have no doubt any of you three could beat me up, you're all bigger than me.... But I also have no doubt none of you are willing to try by yourselves, you'd just rat-pack me, three on one. Any of the three of you willing to go outside with me, alone? Just the two of us? Yeah, you'll probably come out ahead.... But we'll both be going to bed tonight with a headache."<br />
Several Inana Girls realized that all sound and movement had stopped around them. Stefano and the three Junior Executives were being watched closely, no one even breathing. After a few moments silence, Demetrius said (in a very un-Demetrius-like voice) "Muthatfuckas, you need to get the fuck out. My boy ain't playin' wit' you."<br />
The three glanced quickly at each other. Then the first one quickly stood and threw money on the table. The other two also stood, and they began walking towards the door, all of them keeping a close eye on the floor in front of them. Everyone watched them go, until they were outside. When the door closed behind them, the entire Inana crew broke into howls and cheers, everyone reaching over to whack Stefano on the back. Demetrius kept saying, "Damn...! Damn...! Damn...! This is my boy, right here!" Stefano smiled and looked modest, swigging at his Heineken.<br />
"Nice Ice Cube imitation, Demetrius," commented Jenna.<br />
"Actually, I was going for Chuck D.," he responded.<br />
The male realtor said, "You people don't mess around, do you?"<br />
Bekka replied, "We can't afford to. We can give no quarter. If we do, we start giving away tiny bits of our souls, and eventually we have lost ourselves. Enough people in the world hate us for who we are and what we do that we cannot suffer the slings and arrows."<br />
"Everyone in our industry always has the awareness of being hated," said Pill. "No matter what our job is, anyone in adult entertainment carries a target on their back, you know? We have to defend ourselves. Like Becky said, we can give no quarter."<br />
Another round of drinks was ordered, Stefano requesting a double Hennessey over ice this time. After the drinks arrived, he leaned over to Melissa and quietly said, "You said I could talk to you if I needed. Um, if it's not too much trouble...."<br />
Melissa grabbed Stefano's hand and stood up. They grabbed their drinks and headed for the relative solitude of the alcove in front of the bathrooms. Once there, she said, "What's up?"<br />
Stefano drew a couple deep breaths and said, "I can't believe I just did that."<br />
"Oh? Why not?"<br />
"It's just.... That's not a part of my personality."<br />
Melissa put a hand on Stefano's shoulder and said, "Yes it is, Stevie. You've just never let it out before. I have a hunch that's a speech you've probably wanted to deliver for a long time, and you finally had the opportunity." She smiled wider and said, "Another effect of taking Ecstasy can be self-discovery, finding parts of you that you didn't know existed. It turns out our dear Stevie is much more clever, and much tougher, than he suspected. Tell me, what were you thinking when you turned your tongue on those three jocks?"<br />
Frowning vaguely at the floor, Stefano said, "I was scared.... But not really? Does that make sense? I was thinking that sure, one of them would take me up on my challenge, and I'd probably get beat up.... But it didn't matter, because I would know I'd faced a challenge like that without backing down or running away. I've been beat up before, and by three or four guys at once. One guy wouldn't be able to do as much damage, and I'd get in a few licks myself for once. It was like, I'd be facing up to my fears, and that outweighed being scared."<br />
"How do you feel right now?" asked Melissa.<br />
"Oh wow," Stefano chuckled. "I feel great. I feel wonderful."<br />
"I'll bet I can make you feel just a little better than that," said Melissa. She put her hand on Stefano's neck and pulled him close, and began to kiss him. He was stunned with shock for about a half-second, then responded. The two stayed locked like that for nearly two minutes, Melissa finally breaking away.<br />
"Where do you live?" asked Melissa.<br />
"Um.... I have a cottage in Cardiff," said Stefano, catching his breath.<br />
"Oh! A cottage! Totally detached, no common walls like in an apartment. Very nice. That means if I followed you home tonight, we could make a lot of noise without disturbing your neighbors, and them complaining to the police. Would you mind if I followed you home tonight? I'll be a good girl. Or not. I've been told that when I'm bad, I get even better."<br />
Stefano's only conscious thought was, Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.... He managed to say, "That sounds great," in a voice much more relaxed than he expected.<br />
She held him by the shoulders, looking into his face with a curious expression. "Will I be your first? I can't tell."<br />
"My first...? Oh. No." He looked at the floor and said, "You'll be my second. I hope that's okay. Um, I'm not really.... We only did it a few times, I, uh...."<br />
"Well! Time to send you to boot camp! I'll try to help you make up for lost time."<br />
Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy....<br />
<br />
Back at the table, it had been agreed they'd have one more round here, then head for a yuppie dive two blocks away called The Windrift. After that, to TGI Friday's for snacks and more drinks. Round off the evening by hitting the Smut 'N' Stuff to critique sex toys and browse videos. Bekka noted, "On a Friday night, it's probably going to turn into an impromptu signing. That store is always packed on weekend nights."<br />
"Maybe you and Sue can give us new bitches some leftovers," quipped Jenna.<br />
"Oh, your time will come," said Sue in a sing-song voice. "And then you get to decide whether you love it or hate it. Being recognized gets a little intimidating."<br />
Walking to the Windrift, Bekka, Jolene, and Sue taught the rest a chant the three of them had come up with on one of the earliest creepy-crawl excursions, when it was just three or four girls out blowing minds. Everyone picked it up quickly. Soon the street echoed with the sound of eleven adult video minions chanting,<br />
<br />
<i>We are the sluts of the USA</i><br />
<i> We are the sluts of the USA</i><br />
<i> We can suck 'em</i><br />
<i> We can fuck 'em</i><br />
<i> We can bust a nut</i><br />
<i> We wouldn't have it any other way.</i><br />
<br />
This was done three times. The fourth round was altered in the last four lines:<br />
<br />
<i>You can suck 'em</i><br />
<i> You can fuck 'em</i><br />
<i> But don't fuck with us</i><br />
<i> Because we're gonna really make you pay.</i><br />
<br />
The Inana crew tried to teach this to their fellow patrons at the Windrift, but not many felt like joining in, no matter how loud or how often it was put forth. "It's far more catchy than 'Anchors Aweigh,' admit it!" Toxica and Pill insisted to a handful of sailors at a table. "Not everyone can be a swab, but anyone can be a slut. It's a truly unifying song for our country." After an hour, the bartender insisted the Inana crew leave, or explain themselves to the police: patrons were lukewarm to the idea of judging a "Who has the most aesthetically pleasing vulva" contest, even the single guys.<br />
"Why not have the guys with you do the judging?" asked one brave soul.<br />
"Man, when you see 'em all day, they start to look the same," said Demetrius.<br />
At TGI Friday's, fried things were consumed, along with a few rounds of Jaegermeister (Sue and Bekka abstaining, as relatively responsible drivers). This choice of beverage seemed to irritate Andy. "Jaegermeister is bullshit," he declared. "It's proof of how well marketing can work. If you go to Hamburg or Berlin and walk through town at night, you'll see homeless drunks hunched in the alleys, just like anywhere else. They'll all have their bottles in paper bags close by. You know what they're drinking? Fuckin' Jaegermeister. It's German wino swill. But some asshole marketer realized that, damn, the United States doesn't have any high-powered booze that tastes like bad Ouzo, saw how little the crap costs, and built the marketing campaign. Now look at us! Shit, we should get revenge by marketing Night Train to the Germans as fancy-schmancy stuff."<br />
"Not Night Train, Boone's Farm," said Demetrius. "You could convince the German yuppies different flavors go best with particular foods."<br />
"That won't work," protested Jenna. "I don't think Germany has any Taco Bell franchises. Or Arby's."<br />
If nothing else, the patrons at TGI Friday's were more amenable to learning "Sluts of the USA."<br />
At Smut 'N' Stuff, the Inana Girls loudly debated the pros and cons of various sex toys, lamenting there were none available which ran on chainsaw fuel. Going through the videos, Bekka was happy to find a copy of "Fast Cars Fast Women," a feature from 1981 which actually had a decent plot and a real budget (although the performances were still crap). Bekka, Sue, and Andy were all recognized and asked for autographs. In a strange turn of events, a half dozen sailors went into major fanboy mode over Sue. Yeah, Becky Page is great, we love her, but.... Oh holy shit, it's Susan Black! The dark angel of hardcore porn! Bekka had also signed autographs for the squids, but it was Sue they were enamored with, enough so that all three guys sort of drifted closer to Sue, in case a bit too much ardor was displayed.<br />
"Is your star beginning to fade?" Sally teased Bekka.<br />
"Shit, I hope so," Bekka replied. "Someone else can draw the psychotics out of the woodwork for a while. After two assassination attempts, I'm perfectly happy becoming yesterday's news."<br />
<br />
Back at the Inana mansion, Demetrius grabbed a sheet of paper and marker from Stefano's office, and made a sign: "Let's Do Some ROLE-PLAYING! (No, not that kind.) Tolkien-based RPG group starting -- be a Mage, a Scout, a Fighter, a Bard, a Cleric, or a Ranger! If you thought Dungeons and Dragons always sounded like fun, but hated the math and slow play, this is the RPG for you! Contact Stevie (in L.C.) or Demetrius (O'side). Orcs need not apply." He made a copy to put up in the lounge at the Oceanside studio.<br />
And Melissa followed Stefano home, him driving his '92 Olds 98 (a graduation present from "the family"), her at the wheel of her battered but beloved '78 SAAB 99 Turbo. They went inside his cottage, and within ten minutes Melissa was demonstrating some of the more esoteric coital arrangements. They were interrupted around 4:30 in the morning by the police.<br />
A neighbor had complained about the noise.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10230648449521958270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033784518790200307.post-2808676475142981962017-04-03T20:42:00.001-07:002017-05-10T12:07:12.637-07:00Groove (Part 4) Rico Carelli met me at the door of his office, all smiles and arms outstretched for an Italian man-hug. I gave him one, then introduced the baby ducks I had in tow. Behind me were Trish Carreza and Feather. Both were in the market for new cars, and Rico could deliver them nearly painlessly. He'd put other performers at Inana behind the wheels of brand new Cadillacs; if he had his druthers, the parking lot at our Oceanside studio would look like his new vehicle storage lot in Anaheim.<br />
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I had been Rico's first Inana customer. The vehicle I'd been driving was a then-late-model Acura, which was as cursed as the Hope Diamond. It collected bullet holes like shopping cart bums collect aluminum cans. The only glass that hadn't been replaced at least once was the window of the passenger door. If someone had taken that one out, I'd probably be dead. The Acura was zippy and fast and fun, but lousy for any long-distance driving. And it garnered no respect on the freeway, just another flimsy-ass Jap piece of shit.<br />
Rico and I were part of the loose association of Legitimate Businessmen known as Cosa Nostra, or the mafia, or simply the family. We helped each other out, what goes around, comes around. I told Rico what I wanted, and he made it happen. A Cadillac Fleetwood, a whale of an "old man" car.... Fitted with bulletproof glass all the way around, armored body panels, a beefed-up suspension, and a hot motor. In black. Dearborn took care of the first, second, and fifth requests, Rico made the third and fourth happen, plus fabricating in dual exhaust. The Police Interceptor package resided under the hood, an option illegal for civilians to have, but Rico made it happen. The suspension got anti-sway bars and aftermarket shocks, which provided surprisingly good handling for a vehicle that size. No one would expect a whale like the Fleetwood to have a 0-60 time of six seconds, but mine did. I could drift the damn thing around a 270 degree cloverleaf ramp with minimal body roll, totally stable. And it was as comfortable as any other Cadillac on the road. All this at factory cost.<br />
I kept providing Rico with two small favors: whenever I saw him, I'd flow him fifty or so hits of lab-fresh Smiley Ecstasy, which he and his wife loved. (He'd also give them to the salesmen at his dealership as bonuses.) On top of that, I pushed anyone at Inana who was making noises about getting a new car towards getting a Cadillac. In fact, I could get any performer in a Cadillac, regardless of credit history or trade-in value. Being young and female, most Inana Girls had fairly green credit: no blemishes, but no major transactions either. Sue was twenty years old and had never even financed an order from Fingerhut. Rico got her in a brand-new Sedan de Ville, complete with bulletproof glass (it's also a fantastic way to soundproof a car). If an Inana Girl had worked for me six weeks, that was good enough for Rico, and he'd kick ass and stomp balls with GMAC to get their loan approved, at the lowest interest rates they offered. The girls, for their part, were diligent with making their payments, often paying off the car early.<br />
Rico invites us in and offers us a line of coke. Despite his fandom of stimulants, Rico Carelli measures about five foot nine and tips the scales at 260 lbs. The scary part: he used to be really heavy, like around 330. A cardiac event made him cut some weight, cut back on the cigars, and quit working ninety hour weeks. He still has plenty of stress, though. Along with the Cadillac dealership, Rico is a major dealer in the hot car market. His customers are all overseas, mostly in South America and Asia. A client will let it be known that getting a hold of, say, thirty late-model Porsche 911s would just be boffo. Rico puts his team of professional thieves to work, they round up the cars, the dealership's carriers move them to the docks at Long Beach. Rico shakes hands with some bastard in military garb and reflective sunglasses, who gives Rico a suitcase full of large bills. Wash, rinse, repeat. No, no stress at all in that gig.<br />
Rico started out as a car thief himself. One of the hangovers of that gig is.... Well, you've probably heard the phrase "Drive it like you stole it." Rico doesn't just drive like a car thief, he drives like an <i>Italian</i> car thief. The only laws Rico observes at the wheel are those dictated by physics. And --- proving that God likes a good thrill show --- his driving record is spotless.<br />
So here are two pint-sized porn stars interested in owning Cadillacs. Feather will be trading in a four year old Toyota, Trish has a five year old Honda. Feather is only nineteen, but has the financial advantage. She started working for Inana four days after her eighteenth birthday, so she could escape form the perverted hell that was her home as quickly as possible. Her mother is an alcoholic floor-walker at Nordstrom's, her father is a miserable scumbag piece of shit who is, in theory, a realtor. He hasn't been in his office for nearly two years, so far as Feather knows. He literally does nothing all day but sit in his recliner and jerk off to porn in the living room. This hobby had been in play while Feather (and her younger sister, Glee) still lived at home. Neither could invite friends over to the house because Dad would be in his chair, dick in hand, hardcore blaring out of the TV. Then he started acting in a creepy and predatory manner towards hi daughters.....<br />
Feather told her mom she would be leaving as soon as possible after her eighteenth birthday, and taking Glee with her. Mom asked how she'd accomplish this. Feather told Mom, "I'm going to be a porn star." Mom told her good luck and poured more Southern Comfort in her coffee. Feather did what she said she would, having made enough money to rent an apartment in Carlsbad and buy a shitbox of a car in two weeks. She bullied Mom into signing the papers making Feather the legal guardian of Glee. Ever since, she's send Mom money to make the mortgage payment every month. The cable and phone and water and power might get turned off, but her parents won't be homeless. For a punk rock girl, Feather had one hell of a work ethic. She was also very conservative with money. The first thing she did was apply for one of those sub-prime credit cards with 30% interest, and purposely ran up $1000 on it.... Which got paid off in four months. With this little foothold into the world of finance, she went to her bank and got a real credit card. The shitbox was soon replaced with the Honda. Feather is still paying her parents' mortgage, but has a $20,000 IRA appreciating nicely, a similar amount in a savings account, and a high-balance checking account.<br />
When Trish started at Inana, she literally had nothing: a garbage bag full of second-hand clothes, some basic toiletries, and about $90 cash. No home, no car, no bank account, nothing. Her life in LA had turned into a shit sandwich. I won't go into the details of how we met, but they were a bit harrowing. She'd been performing in LA, knocking around from studio to studio like everyone else. She asked to take the interviews at Inana, so I put her up in the living space on the top floor of the mansion while she did. Trish was the first Inana Girl with any sort of history in the adult film industry, which helped her a lot. Poor luck seemed to follow her, though. The apartment building she moved into was condemned by the county, putting her back on the street. The Honda was the third car she'd bought in about sixteen months, the first two suffering massive mechanical failure out of the blue. Her luck of late had seemed to improve: a nice apartment in San Clemente, and a romance with executive director Small Steve Stillman. But her credit was pretty much nonexistent at the age of twenty-four, except for her checking account.<br />
Rubbing his nostrils, Rico told both girls, "You don't worry about that stuff. I do. You find something you like, you tell me what it is. I get an appraisal on your trade-in, stomp on some dicks at GMAC until I get the answers I want, you drive home in a new Cadillac at factory cost and five year financing, low payments all the way through. So long as you're with Inana, your credit is golden with Carelli Cadillac. Now, let's go look at the '93s."<br />
Down on the showroom floor, Trish was drawn to the Seville, while Feather was attracted to the Eldorado. Rico gestured at two salesmen and pointed to the girls. "Each of you, take one. These are friends of close friends, and their credit is fucking golden, capiche? Answer their questions, give 'em the grand tour, take 'em out for a test drive in what they like. Treat 'em like fucking royalty, get me? Go." The salesmen scurried towards the girls. Rico looked at me and asked, "Either of them want any special features, like you or Sue did?"<br />
"No clue," I replied. "Neither of them know what my Fleetwood has, so I don't think it would occur to them to request a Police Interceptor package or bullet-proofing." I paused. "So have you seen much of Sue?"<br />
Rico gave an easy-come, easy-go smile and said, "She came up and saw me off and on for about six months after she bought her Sedan de Ville. Things just kinda tapered off, you know? We're just too different of people."<br />
"Gee, really? Imagine that. I can't imagine why a wop car thief and a goth surf betty half his age wouldn't have a lot of affinity. Their lives are so parallel." Rico smirked and made a rude gesture with his thumb.<br />
"So Inana has expanded in a big way, from what I hear. How are things rolling?"<br />
"We're getting in a groove," I replied. "I've got lieutenants now. There's no way I could manage things by myself, and Angel wants me to focus on just being creative. We've got double the number of performers now, double the production crew, we're trying a new format of producing video.... It's pretty crazy. Angel's nephew is the new COO, focusing strictly on keeping Inana, as a business, running. We're going to have multiple productions happening at once, so we hired an executive production manager to keep track of everything. Really, he's a better juggler than Penn Gillette. Bekka is still performing, but is also a producer and occasionally even a director. And I've got two full-time writers now, besides myself. Here's a bit of an oddity: the best porn script writers I could find are both lesbians from Minneapolis. One, Mallory, was a friend who I already knew had writing talent. In turn, she tipped me off to a friend of hers, Erica. Now they're both living in Venice Beach and cranking out really good hardcore scripts for Inana. Their sexual preference doesn't seem to color their ability to come up with juicy hetero plot lines, they're both fantastic....."<br />
My pager went off. I glanced at the number, and frowned. It was my friend Lawrence Pelton, a big-wig at Hustler Video, and leaving his private office number for the call-back. Lawrence wouldn't be hitting my pager if he just wanted to chat, he had information to pass on. I asked Rico where I could make a private call from. He said to use his private office upstairs, and handed me a key.<br />
Sitting at Rico's desk, I dialed Lawrence. "There you are, Lenny," he said in his gravelly, marble-mouthed voice. "You remember Ron Haley?"<br />
"How could I forget that charming man?" I replied.<br />
Ron Haley was a megalomaniacal, loud-mouthed, offensive, borderline sociopath whose former employer was Leisure Time Video, one of the major adult studios. At his request, I met Haley for lunch about eighteen months previous. He verbally abused me, Inana Productions, Becky Page, and every decision I'd made since puberty, then had the gall to try and (1) offer me a job, (2) try to hire Bekka away from Inana, and (3) offered to buy the entire studio. He was the reason Trish worked for Inana: she had been a Leisure Time girl, but Haley had shown up to our lunch date with her when she was half-comatose on China White. Then he'd abandoned her at the restaurant. She told me what was up when she got straightened out, so Angel and I took her under our wing.<br />
Two more of Haley's flaws were a massive overestimation of his abilities, and a very bad habit of claiming connections he didn't have. Haley claimed to be mafioso, which I found hilarious. The mafia really, really doesn't like it when people falsely make this claim. As an associate of the family, it was easy to determine Haley had no such connection. After Trish joined us down in La Costa, Haley had called up twice, both times threatening to kidnap both Trish and Bekka. Bekka is full-fledged mafioso. The mafia likes it even less when you threaten to kidnap a made man (or woman). Haley showed up at the studio with a shotgun. Spike, our Hell's Angel security guard, and myself disarmed him, then held him for collection by the real mafia. Even after me beating the shit out of him and tying him to a chair, he still insisted on running his mouth. A couple of rather tough Cosa Nostra operatives collected him from the studio, and he hadn't been seen since. He survived three days of "attitude adjustment," then was dropped off in Las Vegas with $1000 and the clothes on his back, with the instructions to never enter California again.<br />
As he was doing all these threats under the color of Leisure Time's authority, a few wise guys paid a little visit to their offices. They explained, in no uncertain terms, that Ronald Haley would no longer be under the employ of Leisure Time Video. After briefly demonstrating just how annoyed the wise guys were with Haley, the others at Leisure Time agreed that Haley's connection to the studio was at an end. Ever since, Leisure Time has been very deferential to Inana Productions.<br />
Anyway, Lawrence continued. "He fell off the face of the earth after tangling with you, right? Well, he's resurfaced again. Bob Gould from Leisure Time called me about forty-five minutes ago to say Haley had shown up at the offices that morning, and was on the warpath. Bob said he looked like he'd been living in his car, he was yelling and making threats against just about everybody in the industry..... But especially you. I was also someone Haley seemed to have a problem with, which is why Bob called me. Haley was yelling about some goddamn conspiracy between the mafia, Inana Productions, and every girl performing in the industry, something like that."<br />
"Was he armed?" I asked.<br />
"If he was, he didn't display a weapon. Leisure Time hired an armed guard after Inana got shot up last year..... Hell, I think every damn studio has. The guard tried to grab Haley, but he managed to dodge him and run out of the building. The guard went after him, and saw him take off in some Japanese piece of shit, a blue hatchback. Maybe an old Mazda GLC, or a Dodge Colt, something like that. Bob also said Haley was loaded on something. He was yelling like a drunk, but he didn't move like a drunk. Who knows."<br />
"Did Bob say if he made any direct threats against me or the studio?"<br />
Lawrence gave one of his hacksaw chuckles. "From what Bob said, Haley was swearing to kill everyone over the age of twelve living south of Point Conception. But you and Inana Productions kept coming up in his ranting, over and over." Lawrence paused. "And, uh, also Bekka."<br />
I thought briefly. "Any clue why he showed up at Leisure Time, if he didn't want to pose a threat to them? You'd think if he was capable of wreaking havoc...."<br />
Cutting me off, Lawrence said, "Haley seemed to be under the misapprehension they'd be happy to see him. Everyone in the goddamn industry is corrupt except for his buddies at Leisure Time, apparently."<br />
"I wonder why he suddenly crawled out of his hole, and began showing up in public. And why he has a grudge against me and Inana in particular."<br />
"Well, hell. If he read Variety about a month ago, he'd know about how Inana has expanded, and by how much...." A phone in the same room as Lawrence rang faintly. He said, "Hang on, Lenny, lemme get this real quick." He set the receiver down.<br />
I heard Lawrence say hello, then brief silence. He suddenly yelled, "What!?" Another pause, followed by, "Aw, shit. This is bullshit. I can't believe this...." Pause. "How many? Who?" Pause. "Okay. Yeah, thanks for letting me know, I gotta make some calls, big time."<br />
There was a clunk as Lawrence picked up the receiver again. For a few moments I could hear his slightly labored breathing. Finally he said, "Lenny. That was Chance Bolton over at Vivid Video. Haley showed up at their production studios in North Hollywood about a half hour ago." Another pause. "He had a shotgun, and he used it. Four wounded, three seriously, including Larry Bennett. Chance says Larry probably won't make it."<br />
"God dammit," I said forcefully. Larry was someone else in the industry who had started out as a nemesis, but turned into a friend. I forced myself to not choke up until after I was done talking on the phone.<br />
"Haley took someone else's car. They didn't see him drive up, he walked up the driveway. The car he took is a brown Audi 80, a '91. Hell, at least they know what he's in now, including a plate number." For a few moments, there was just the sound of Lawrence's labored breathing. Then, "Shit. I'm sorry, Lenny. You and Bekka have spent too goddamn much time in your lives dealing with fuckin' nut-cases waving guns. Look, you and yours get someplace safe, and stay there until this asshole Haley is taken care of. Where are you right now?"<br />
"Carelli Cadillac in Anaheim," I answered. "Bekka should be in her office at the new facility. I'll call her and let her know whassup."<br />
"Yeah. Get that girl safe. I got calls to make, I'm gonna get going...."<br />
Then there was the sound of a hollow boom in the background.<br />
"What the fuck was that?" I yelled into the receiver.<br />
"A shotgun, hang on...." There was a loud clunk as Lawrence dropped the phone onto his desk. I heard a metal file cabinet drawer open, then slam. A few moments silence, then a faint yell, saying, "Pelton! Motherfucker!" And another boom. Then, nothing.<br />
I began yelling impotently into the phone, "Larry! Lawrence!! LARRY!!" After a few moments, I heard Lawrence yelling, "Lenny! You still there!? Haley blew a hole in me,... Shit.... Lenny, watch your ass! Haley's off his rocker...."<br />
Then, nothing.<br />
I stared at the silent receiver in my hand, then screamed, "FUUUUUCKKK!!" I pushed down the button to disconnect, then dialed Bekka's office number in Oceanside. Nothing. Next, her pager, putting in my own pager number plus "666911," our private code meaning shit has hit the fan in a big way. Then I dialed the cell phone in the Falcon. Bekka picked up on the second ring. "What's up, baby? Did you just page...." There was a pause as she checked the display on her pager. She must have seen the 666911, because her next words were, "Shit. What's going on?"<br />
"Ron fucking Haley is back in SoCal," I panted. "He's got a fucking shotgun and he's using it, I just listened to him blow down Larry Pelton. God dammit...." I choked back tears and panic. "He's after us. You, me, the studio. Where the fuck is Terry? Find her, get her by your side, and hole up at home. This isn't a fucking drill. Um, I'm in Anaheim still.... Shit, I've gotta make some calls. Fucking Haley is on a major revenge trip, he shot people at the Vivid studios, including Larry Bennett, and God dammit, I just fucking listened to the motherfucker take down Larry Pelton.... Shit...." I started to break down.<br />
Bekka's calm voice came through the receiver. "Lenny. Lenny. What kind of car is Haley driving, do you know?"<br />
This gave me something tangible to focus on. I drew in air and said, "A 1991 Audi 80, brown. I don't know the plate."<br />
"All right. Right now I'm at the UTC mall. I'm going to page Terry first. Then I'm going to call Angel and Vinny, whoever answers the phone, to have them put the family on alert, a pest named Ron Haley we exiled is back in California, and he's violent. You call both studios and send everyone home, including the security, ASAP. When I get a hold of Terry, I'm going to have her meet me at her apartment in Ocean Beach. We'll stay there. You go there too, once you're back in the county. Shit.... Feather and Trish are with you, aren't they?"<br />
"Yeah, they're admiring new Cadillacs," I replied.<br />
"You drove them up?" Bekka asked.<br />
"Yeah. Their cars are in La Costa. I'm going to drive them both straight home, they can get their cars when we get this shit sorted out. When you talk to Angel, make it clear Haley is extremely fucking dangerous, he's on a revenge trip and he doesn't care who he hurts. Anybody spots him, they drop him, period. He's a fucking rabid dog at this point."<br />
"How did you find out all this was going on?"<br />
I drew in air deeply and told Bekka, "Larry Pelton paged me. He found out Haley had shown up at Leisure Time, and wanted to let me know Haley was talking a lot of revenge shit about me and you and Inana, and the rest of the fucking industry..... Babe.... I heard Larry take a round.... He started yelling at the phone Haley had shot him, and I needed to watch my ass....." I gasped for air, trying to again tamp down the fear and panic and tears. Then I continued, "Babe.... Pray for Larry Pelton and Larry Bennett while you wait for Terry to call you back. They need it right now."<br />
"I will, sweetie," Bekka said with steel in her voice. "Let's hang up now, we've gotta make some calls. I love you, goodbye." (*click*)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10230648449521958270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033784518790200307.post-24957886445207564232017-04-03T20:42:00.000-07:002017-04-03T20:42:08.853-07:00Groove (Part 5) Lawrence Pelton survived. Larry Bennett did not.<br />
The shootings in Los Angeles were major news, of course. The local news in San Diego opened with the story, and so did the national news. Mr. Ronald Haley, a former executive at adult film studio Leisure Time Video, first entered the production area of Vivid Video in North Hollywood. He shot four people (two Vivid executives and two performers), stole a car from an uninjured employee, and left. Then he went to the offices of Hustler Publications on Wilshire Blvd. and La Cienega, entered the business offices of Hustler Video, and shot another three people (two executives and a security guard). Despite knowing Haley's work history, talking heads kept wanting to connect Haley's outburst with the gun battle at Inana Productions a year ago. Police sketch artists rendered, from descriptions, a man who looked like an unshaven Hunter Thompson. The jacked Audi was being searched for, but finding a fairly generic-looking car in Southern California was like spotting a single goldfish in a pet shop's feeder tank.<br />
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After hanging up with Bekka, I did what seemed like the only sensible thing: I got high as shit. I pulled my dope vial out of my pocket and, instead of loading a bowl, about a thirty weight was poured directly onto Rico's desk. This was crushed with the round end of my Zippo, scraped into a ragged line with my pack of Marlboros, and snorted using a rolled-up Post-It note. It had been a while since I'd snorted any dope, and the burn caught me off-guard. My eye watered and I grunted in pain. While I was doing this, someone began pounding on the door to the office. I got up and opened the door to Rico, who was giving me a funny look.<br />
"You okay?" he asked. "My secretary came downstairs and told me you're in here screaming obscenities."<br />
The burn was fading, the rush was hitting strong. "No, I'm not okay," I said. "I just listened to a friend of mine being shot. Rico, I am fucked up right now. Do me a favor, go downstairs and tell the girls we're leaving, like, now. Major shit has happened. Someone the family exiled has popped up again, and he's running around LA with a shotgun blowing fucking holes in people. Friends of mine. I've gotta get back on the phone."<br />
First I dialed Stefano in La Costa. I told him, "This is important. Don't ask questions, just do as I say. Go up to whatever sound stages are active, walk in, and tell everyone they have to leave immediately. Inana is under threat of an attack, everyone needs to leave now. They can shower at home. Get everyone out of the fucking mansion, including yourself and our security. The building will be empty and locked within ten minutes. Am I clear?"<br />
Stefano would have made a good soldier. He responded, "Got it, Lenny. I'll get everyone out. Call me later and let me know what's going on."<br />
"You'll be able to see if you watch the news tonight," I told him.<br />
In Oceanside, the phone at the main desk rang five times, and was finally answered by Goose, one of our Hell's Angels security workers. He was stationed in a bulletproof glass box extending from the front door to the building. Nobody got past him unless their name was on a list of Inana workers, vendors, appointment-holders, or gods. I was actually glad it was him answering, Gina would have wanted to play Twenty Questions.<br />
"Goose, Lenny. This is no bullshit. Clear the fucking building, everyone is going home right now, and I don't give a shit what they're in the middle of. We've got a nut in LA with a shotgun that's already blown holes in people at two different adult studios up here, and Inana is one of his targets. Clear the building, lock up, chain the gate, and go home. Nothing with a pulse should be on the property ten minutes from now. Understand?"<br />
My H.A. security took two seconds to process what I'd said, then replied, "Yeah. A nut with a shotgun in LA is going to target the studios, get everyone out on the double. I lock up tight, chain the gate, and go home myself. I'm on it. What's this bastard driving?"<br />
"It's a '91 Audi, brown, but he was in Beverley Hills as of less than ten minutes ago. I don't want anyone saying, 'Oh, let me finish up what I'm working on, then I'll leave, we've got ninety minutes.' No. Everyone out, now, because Lenny fucking said so. If you need me, hit my pager, I'm in Anaheim right now, but I'm headed back south in just a couple minutes."<br />
Goose said, "Yo Lenny, you okay? You sound a little off."<br />
With another deep breath, I replied, "No, I'm not okay. I just listened to a friend of mine get shot over the phone, I don't know if he's alive or dead. Also, I just snorted up a thirty sack of shit, because if I hadn't, I'd be too busy sniveling and bawling over my friend to take care of things. I've got Trish and Feather with me, they're being driven straight home. I want zero chance of anyone at Inana running across this guy. Shit, Spike knows who he is, his name is Ron Haley. Spike watched me stomp him at one point. Ask him about the mental stability of Ron Haley, he'll tell you that random fucking shotgun murders are probably par for the course."<br />
"Where's Bekka?"<br />
"Currently sitting in her Falcon at UTC mall, using the phone. When she gets a hold of Terror, she's going to meet Terror at her apartment in Ocean Beach. I'll be headed there myself. And my pager is going off..... Shit, it's Angel. I gotta go, later."<br />
"Later, Lenny."<br />
I dialed Angel's number from memory, he picked up on the first ring. "What the fuck is going on?" he asked. "Bekka was saying some crazy shit about Ron Haley running around with a shotgun shooting people? Gimme the full story."<br />
As best I could, I tried to give him a near-verbatim accounting of my phone conversation with Lawrence Pelton, up to when Lawrence was shot. Somehow I held myself together while I spoke. I finished with, "La Costa and Oceanside are being emptied right now, there will be no one at either studio facility. Bekka will be at her bodyguard's apartment, I'm headed there too.... Although I am highly tempted to stake out one of the places and watch for Haley to show up. He shot my friend Lawrence. I'll happily plug the piece of shit in the back, just to have the world be rid of him. Throw his body in my trunk and dump him out in the Superstition Mountains in Imperial County. Coyotes will strip him clean in three days."<br />
"The studios are already going to be watched," said Angel. "We're assigning some guys from the strike force to stake out Oceanside and La Costa, two each, both in their own vehicles.... No, I'm changing that. Oceanside gets three of the guys to watch it. There's too many wide empty streets around there. If Haley spots the strike force guys, he'll bolt."<br />
"Personally, you should use your law enforcement contacts in both LA and San Diego to see if they're making any progress," I suggested.<br />
"I got pigeons in both sheriff's departments who have instructions to let me or Vinny know if Haley pops up anywhere. Oh, by the way, you and Bekka will both have company, close company, until Haley is out of circulation. You're both getting armed bodyguards. These are Secret Service-quality guards, too. They'll take a bullet for you, if need be." I started to speak, and Angel cut me off. "And don't worry, you're not getting guys like Nicky. They barely even speak, much less moralize on their wards. You and Bekka could set fire to a loaded school bus, these guys wouldn't judge you."<br />
"Anyone I know?"<br />
"Maybe. One guy is Joey Falcone, or 'Joey the Fisherman.' the other is Frankie No-Neck. You know him, right?"<br />
"We've met," I observed. "Safe to assume you want Bekka and I back at home, and not in Ocean Beach."<br />
"Spend the night with Terry or in a hotel, and be back home by ten in the morning. That's when your two guards will arrive."<br />
We signed off. Rico was leaning in the frame of his private bathroom, exhaust fan on so he could puff a cigar. He said, "I think I get the gist of what's going on. That mook Ron Haley, the asshole from Leisure Time Video, has popped back up again, even after he was exiled. And he's using a shotgun to mow people down. And worst of all, he harbors a major grudge against you, your wife, and Inana. How am I doing?"<br />
"That's the size of things," I replied. "Right now, Haley has every cop west of the Rockies looking for him, along with the mafia. I know he's headed towards the Inana studios, there's too much hate there for him not to." Tired of dwelling on the subject, I said, "So how goes the car hunt?"<br />
"Both girls are downstairs filling out their loan applications. They each decided the other girl was looking at the better car. Now Trish wants the Eldorado and Feather wants the Seville. Both are getting customized options, so their cars will be coming from Dearborn in about two weeks. And like everybody else at Inana, they're gonna put in real stereos after they have their cars. Hah, I always tell my salesmen to not try and get anyone under fifty to take a Delco stereo installed. Delcos are friggin' garbage for anyone who truly likes music. The geezers --- the vast majority of my customers --- are only gonna be listening to either smooth jazz on FM or Rush Limbaugh on AM, they're fine with a Delco. But I make sure young customers are told, 'Hey, GM won't ship a Cadillac with no radio at all, which sucks, so just get the basic AM/FM and put a good stereo in when you have the car.' I've heard how you and Sue and Missy Liscio...." Jolene. "... blast your tunes. You'd hate having a Delco."<br />
"What other options are they getting?" I queried.<br />
"Both want leather seats, in a fawn-skin shade of brown. Trish wants the navigation package, with the digital compass and all that. Feather is going full-bore, she's getting a black Seville STS with the Northstar engine, fully loaded. The Eldorado comes with the Northstar standard. Those new engines crank out 295 horsepower, these cars are pretty damn quick. Um, the main office would stomp on my dick for saying this, but I told them both to not bother having the cellular phone installed. The way cellular technology keeps advancing, a cell phone that's permanently wired to the dashboard is gonna be a relic in another year."<br />
Feather and Trish were both still working, so I went outside for a much-needed cigarette. When I went back in, they'd finished and were watching Rico nervously as he read over the applications. He smiled at them and said, "Okay, great. I've gotta get on the horn to GMAC now and get you both approved, it'll just be a few minutes." Rico disappeared into a small back room.<br />
Both girls eyed me curiously. "Lenny, are you okay?" Trish asked.<br />
"No, I'm not," I answered. "I'm not going to go into great detail, but there's a man with a shotgun running around loose in Southern California right now. He's already shot seven people that I know of, two of whom are friends of mine. I also know he really, truly despises me and Inana Productions, so he'll be headed towards the studios. I've already sent everyone home, and to not go near either facility until they get the go-ahead. The guy is a former big-wig at Leisure Time.... Shit, Trish, it's Ron Haley."<br />
"What?" Trish squeaked.<br />
"Remember all the bullshit I had to contend with, dealing with Haley? Because of some specific threats he made at the time, Angel's, ahem, 'family' dealt with him. He was given $1000 and driven to Vegas, then kicked loose with nothing but the bread and the clothes on his back, along with very serious instructions to never enter California again, for the rest of his life.<br />
"Haley has returned. He shot four people at Vivid's studios in North Hollywood, then went to Hustler and shot three more." I left out my hearing Lawrence Pelton take a load, while I sat on the phone. "Haley has decided the entire industry has done him wrong, and particularly me. I honestly believe he's on sort of a suicide run. He's not going to stop until he's killed."<br />
"That shouldn't take very long," observed Trish. "Remember, Ron always assumes he's smarter than everyone else."<br />
"Yeah, well.... He's not engaging in dialogue. He's literally blasting away at people with no words or explanation. He's hit Hustler, he's hit Vivid.... Any clue if he has any more grudges up here in LA?"<br />
Shaking her head sadly, Trish replied, "When you're the smartest man in the world, you know everyone you talk to should immediately do as you say, there should be no questioning or arguing. All the moronic recalcitrant peons who question your wisdom are now on your shit list, right? God, Ron would be talking to someone at another studio on any subject at all, and try to lay down edicts to them. They'd laugh at him, the two would argue, then yell, and ta-dah, Ron Haley has a new enemy. And it's not just the person he argued with, it's the entire studio. Obviously, they keep that moron around, so they must all be morons, and will be treated as such." She took a gasp of air. "You probably didn't notice, but Ron wasn't at the 1991 Eroticon, or at the AVN Awards Expo. The other muckety-mucks at Leisure Time told him to stay home. He'd spend the weekends getting in fights with every other vendor and studio present, he'd make Leisure Time look like assholes. Ron is smart enough to know he doesn't get to sign his own paychecks, so he sulked at home. But there isn't a studio, big or small, that Ron hasn't antagonized at some point."<br />
"And he's sure they're all plotting against him," I pondered. "Collectively."<br />
"Lenny.... What did you do to him? Where did he disappear to? I figured Angel had given him cement shoes, you know?"<br />
"In retrospect, we should have. Okay, here's the deal. Ron had already irritated me and Angel when I met him for lunch. The he called me a few days later, telling me to drive you back to Leisure Time.... Like you have no say in the matter. I laughed at him. He said I had five days to bring you back, or else.<br />
"So he calls back five days later, drunk, and begins yelling how he's just going to come to Inana and kidnap you and Becky Page, then kill me. I told him to come on down, I'd be looking forward to his visit. He showed up the next morning with a shotgun. My security had already been alerted to watch for his BMW, so we knew when he arrived. I ambushed him and got the shotgun, then took him inside. He starts in on how I'm a total pussy, he could take me in a fight, blah blah blah. I say, 'Fine, let's do this.' We go back out front and I stomp him in nothing flat. I broke his cheek, I broke his teeth, I kicked him in the head.... Me and Spike drag him back inside and tie him up to wait for whoever Angel sends to collect him.<br />
"And the stupid motherfucker is still talking shit! Totally having an attitude. He started his bullshit about how his mafia connections would kill me for this indignity, so I laughed and told him that soon, he would be meeting real mafioso, up close and personal, and they didn't like him. I pointed out that wasn't it a bit odd I hadn't called the cops? He'd walked into a business with a loaded shotgun, and we just beat him up, then tie him to a chair? And finally, the Clue Fairy visited Ron Haley. A couple of the family's enforcer types came and got him, he went through about three days straight of 'attitude adjustment.'<br />
"Angel must have figured Haley had gotten the message, otherwise he'd have just killed him. No, Haley lucked out, he got a Vegas exile. He...."<br />
Feather cut in, "Why do they drop off people in Vegas? And what's the money for?"<br />
In response, I said, "Vegas is a town where anyone can get a job, doing something, for a living wage. You may be making beds in a hotel or washing dishes, but you're working. Remember, it's nearly a four hour drive from LA to Vegas, and that time will be spent reinforcing the idea that your current life is over, completely. You have your wallet, the clothes you're wearing, and that $1000 cash, that's all. The idiocy of trying to come back to California will be explained over and over, in loving detail. I suppose a lot of people headed straight for the Las Vegas Greyhound station when they were dropped off, to head for someplace with family or friends. But in Vegas, you can have a quiet, simple life. You have enough money to pay for a cheap motel room for a couple weeks, buy some clothes, buy food, get a toothbrush and razor.... Then you can get a job, of some sort. You may have twenty million dollars in gold coins buried in your old backyard. That doesn't matter, you can't get to it. You are starting your life from scratch.... But that's better than being dead, right?"<br />
Trish asked, "So it's a kinder, gentler Cosa Nostra? They do this exile, instead of killing you?"<br />
"Depends. Some people do get killed. It depends on how hot of water you got into with the family. In the old days, they really did just kill enemies all the time. But the problem with that is two-fold. First, now you have a body to get rid of, and that's a lot harder than you think. Also, there will be more than a few people with direct knowledge of the murder. These people are all potentially witnesses. Some low-ranking mafioso might tie one on in a bar some night and brag that he knows what really happened to so-and-so, and he can even show you where the body is buried. One of his fellow drunks might be an off-duty LAPD captain. No, exile is simpler, and has the same effect: you're rid of the motherfucker, unless he thinks he can outwit and out-dodge the entire SoCal mafia. This almost never happens successfully.<br />
"Anyway, Haley survived his attitude adjustment, and seems to have done as he was told.... Until today. I'm not sure what sent him off the deep end, and why he's trying to commit mass murder. My friend Larry suggested Haley learned of Inana's big expansion and just flipped out. To Haley, Inana's continued success has got to be the ultimate injustice. Like your wife leaving you for your best friend, and the next day they buy a winning Powerball ticket. Haley hates everything about Inana. According to Haley, in a right-thinking world Inana would go belly-up, I'd become a petty criminal, and all the Inana Girls would become streetwalkers. This hasn't happened, so he's going to correct that injustice. Trish, let me rephrase my earlier question. Are there any other studios Haley would see as truly deserving the shotgun treatment?"<br />
Looking glum, Trish, slowly shook her head. "I honestly don't know. It's hard to say how he'll feel about other people. I mean, he met you once face to face, and developed the vitriolic hatred he did......"<br />
I chuckled and said, "Ah, but not only does Lenny Schneider represent a lot of things wrong with how the world works, Lenny also stole one of his bitches. You. Lenny Schneider, according to Haley, is a scumbag who somehow lucked into this massive success, and did it by operating a porn studio in a manner diametrically opposed to how Ron thinks a studio should be run. Then, the movies Lenny Schneider produces become mega-hits, completely altering the landscape of adult entertainment. To have the success of Inana will mean having to emulate Lenny Schneider, in many ways. To Haley, that is too big and too bitter of a pill to swallow. The public success of Inana, and Lenny Schneider, would be like letters your ex-wife sends you from Bermuda and Tahiti, telling you what a wonderful time her and your former best friend are having. Very quickly, you'd hate the bitch. Well, Ron Haley hates me." I turned, walked to the wall of the office, and banged my forehead into the drywall, loudly. "I'm sick of the subject, for the time being. So you're both getting cars you like?"<br />
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Feather gushed, "Oh Lenny, I'm getting a black Seville STS! They've got one on the lot, let me show you...." She stood, grabbed my arm, and dragged me towards the exit, Trish following in our wake.<br />
Stopping next to a pretty slick-looking Cadillac, Feather said, "This thing has every fucking bell and whistle Cadillac puts in a car! I turned down the cellular phone on Rico's suggestion, though, and I'm going to get an aftermarket stereo, a Pioneer or Alpine. The salesman said the stereos GM puts in their cars are pretty crappy. I took it for a test drive, and it's way quicker than you expect a Cadillac to be, it's so awesome. Hey Trish, let's show him yours."<br />
We walked over to a white Eldorado, another pretty slick-looking piece of machinery. Trish commented, "This one is also pretty quick, and has all the toys. We're both getting leather seats, <br />
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not cloth, so both cars have to come from the factory. Rico didn't have what we wanted in stock." She looked at the ground. "I'm not letting myself get too excited. Something is going to go wrong. My credit report is pretty lame, there's no way GM will finance me...."<br />
"Do you have any bankruptcies or repossessions?" I asked. She said no. "Then you're golden. Rico can get any Inana Girl financed, barring those two events. Sue bought a Sedan de Ville after five weeks at Inana, and she had absolutely no credit whatsoever. She had a checking account and a couple utilities in her name, that was it. Rico got her in a car anyway."<br />
We had just stepped back inside when Rico came bouncing out of the credit office, all smiles. "Girls, you're golden. I pointed out to GMAC that you're contractors with Inana Productions, and that helped a lot. None of the other Inana people I've set up have even been late on a payment, and these days, everybody knows who Inana Productions is. So, this is Friday the sixteenth. Be back here, with your trade-ins, on Thursday the twenty-ninth. You'll be driving home in your new cars. I'll even have them filled before you arrive. Sound good?"<br />
Both the girls did their best to hug Rico. There was a lot of mass to try and get one's arms around. They thanked him profusely, and promised to never ever miss a payment. "That's all I need to hear, girls! I know Lenny is anxious to get back down to San Diego, so I'm gonna say goodbye now. See you in two weeks."<br />
The three of us got in my Fleetwood and took off. Feather averred, "Rico is great. He's such a teddy bear. I like him."<br />
I looked over at her. She had a rather crafty, calculating look in her eyes, with a light smile. I said, "So, did Rico mention Mrs. Carelli at any point?"<br />
"I saw the wedding band. Guys never notice that detail. Girls always do. Remember in sixth grade, when they had the half-assed sex ed classes, with the boys in one room and the girls in another? That's one of the things the girls were being instructed about. That, and how to adjust one's sexual enthusiasm based on the quality of the restaurant the boy took you to that night."<br />
"How to manufacture explosives out of tampons and crushed Midol," giggled Trish.<br />
I told the girls they'd be getting dropped off at home, their cars would sit at the mansion for a day or two. "Until I have a lock on the location of Ron Haley --- either a jail or a graveyard --- Inana is closed, period. Anyone at either La Costa or Oceanside will have a target on their back. Tell you what, use cabs to get around for the next couple days. Get receipts, and give them to me. I'll reimburse you, okay?"<br />
Around San Clemente my pager started blowing up. I took twelve different pages in fifteen minutes. Looking at the display, some of the call-back numbers were familiar, the home numbers of Inana performers and crew. Small Steve paged me three times. Dropping off Feather first, I asked if I could use her phone, to at least get Small Steve off my back. She acquiesced. When Steve answered the phone, I hissed, "Hey Steve, it's Lenny. Please tell me what is so urgent that you paged me three times in five minutes."<br />
"Dude!" Steve exclaimed. "Dude, dude, dude! Guess where we're going in January!"<br />
This felt like a non-sequitur compared to the rest of the day. I wasn't up for guessing games. "Steve, I'm having an incredibly shitty day. Everything sucks. Tell me where, and why, and in a short amount of time."<br />
"Lenny, you and me got invitations to the Sundance Film Festival! They want both of us to serve on a couple different panels each, and --- check this! --- they're going to be having a symposium and review of Inana's features! Some of our features will be screened, they're going to have an interview with the two of us, and an audience Q&A session after the screenings each night. You, me, and Inana, we're gonna be fucking legit! People will stop saying we 'only' make porn, you know? We're gonna be recognized as genuine filmmakers."<br />
"Which films are they screening?" I asked.<br />
"Um.... 'Bewitched,' 'Bewitched II,' 'Dangerous Desires,' 'Temporary Pleasures,' 'Succubus,' ''Blood-Stained Kisses,' and 'Miss Treatment.' They're gonna screen them over three days. On the day there's only two films, they'll do our interview in front of a live audience."<br />
I drummed my fingers on the counter. "Is there a contact name and number?" I asked. "I've got a few questions."<br />
Steve's voice got tight and angry. "What questions, Lenny?" he hissed.<br />
"First, why the fuck is the Sundance Film Festival held in the mountains of Utah, during the winter? Why is it in Utah at all? Given Bekka's creative input, why isn't Becky Page invited? Given my history with Hollywood, do they really want me, of all people, being forced to interact with film industry lifers? And most importantly, am I going to have to drive to Wyoming to get a fucking scotch?" I caught my breath and continued, "Maybe I'm feeling a little paranoid and on edge today --- who would blame me --- but it feels like they've got an ulterior motive to get us out there. What do those honky assholes <i>really</i> want out of us?"<br />
"Lenny.... Don't you fucking dare sabotage this. I'm not sure what's going on today, but you sound stressed as hell. I give you good news, and you see a trap. If I give you this number, do you promise to be as diplomatic as possible on the phone?"<br />
"I give everyone a chance, Steve, you know me," I answered. "It's second chances I'm not as generous with."<br />
"Okay," Steve sighed. "Her name is Lillian Haste, her number is (310) 555-8274. For God's sake, Lenny, please don't unload on her, I'm sure she's a perfectly nice person. She's helping organize a film festival, not scoring crack for Frank Mancuso." He waited a couple ticks. "So.... the studios are under threat again. Who this time? Another Bible zombie?"<br />
"Nope. A former employee of Leisure Time Video, a miserable prick named Ron Haley. He seems to have snapped. He used a shotgun on four people at Vivid, then went to Hustler's building on Wilshire and dropped three. I have two friends who, if they're not dead already, probably won't make it through the night. Shotguns tend to really put messy holes in people. My friend Lawrence Pelton got dropped while I listened on the phone, Steve. I heard a shotgun over the phone. Larry went to investigate, I guess with a gun of his own. This motherfucker Ron Haley just blew a hole in Larry, no talk, he just called Larry a motherfucker and fired. And I had to sit and listen to it happen, and there was nothing I could do, I couldn't help defend Hustler, I couldn't even give comfort to Larry. Fuck me, Steve, I've dealt with this asshole motherfucker Ron Haley before and I'll do it again. Larry said Haley has a major grudge with me, he hates my guts, and there's no question he's after me as well.."<br />
"Jesus, Lenny.... Man, I'm really sorry. You and Pelton hung out together sometimes, huh?"<br />
I sighed, "Yeah. Lawrence was an altruist. He never begrudged Inana for its success, he was happy someone in the industry had broke the ground we did, and had it pay off. Remember last year, when we picketed Jerry Fallwood? He was the guy who organized it. Lawrence has always felt the industry should be more cohesive. Yeah, there's gonna be competition, but everybody should get along, and form a united front. He believes if ideas were exchanged openly, everyone would get ahead."<br />
I chuckled softly and continued, "Never tell Angel or Vinny this, but Lawrence and I have swapped ideas and given advice to each other when we're working on projects. Our last couple features, both of us have read the other's scripts before they were even in production. We've gotten good ideas from each other. I know that's not supposed to be done --- Hustler is our competition, right? --- but what's good for one studio is good for all of them. Now the major adult studios are putting out intelligent, well-performed features, which will keep people interested, which will boost the entire industry. That's how Lawrence sees things, and I agree with him, one hundred percent."<br />
Steve was quiet, then said, "Once you've landed for the night, try and track down Mr. Pelton. Right now, you don't know if he survived. This may sound callous, but I think you'll sleep better ,knowing one way or the other. Try and track him down."<br />
"I'll do it. I'm gonna get going, Steve. I'll keep you posted. We're gonna be using the phone tree to put out information, so stick close to the phone this weekend. Later, man."<br />
"Take care, Lenny."Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10230648449521958270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033784518790200307.post-22412794274174488202017-04-03T20:41:00.003-07:002017-04-03T20:41:51.798-07:00Groove (Part 6) After I dropped off Trish, the radio got tuned to 770 AM, KNX News Radio, the CBS affiliate in Los Angeles. The shootings were being discussed almost nonstop, only interrupted every ten minutes for the all-important traffic reports. Both Pelton and Bennett had been taken to local hospitals, their current status not yet known. Executives from Vivid and Hustler were holding a joint press conference at five. at the Hustler building. Neither had said much more than the standard "it's a shock and a tragedy" statements.<br />
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Leisure Time had released a statement saying that Ron Haley had shown up at their offices that morning and seemed agitated, but not violent. They would never have guessed at his next course of action. Haley was an old hand in the industry, but had quit unexpectedly just over a year ago and had disappeared, with no explanations. Leisure Time's prayers were with Larry Bennett, Lawrence Pelton, and their families.<br />
In Ocean Beach, Terry buzzed me in the building and I went up. Bekka and Terry both hugged me when I walked in. "I'm just glad Haley started in LA, and not down here," said Bekka.<br />
"You'd better believe it," I replied. "Heard any news?"<br />
"Angel says the family has soldiers on alert all over SoCal. They're watching the freeways and major surface streets for any brown Audis that come along. Really, Haley better hope the cops find him first. There's a 'shoot to kill' order out on him."<br />
I told them what I"d heard on the radio. "I'd like to get a hold of someone from Leisure Time who was present for Haley's appearance this morning.... Shit, I have Jerry Alvarado's home and pager numbers in my Rolodex in my office." I pondered a moment, then said, "I've gotta go up to Oceanside. I need my Rolodex, I need my telephone tree information, there's the scripts I've been working on...."<br />
"Bull-fuckin'-shit if you're going to one of the fuckin' studios," said Terry. "It's a fuckin' Friday afternoon, traffic will be all kinds of fucked, and there's nothing that can't wait. This motherfucker is too reckless to not get popped real fuckin' quick. My guess is he'll be off the street by morning, so fuckin' chill."<br />
"Yeah. Chill. Two of the best and smartest guys in the industry, friends of mine, got shot today. I don't know if they're alive or dead. You got any Johnnie Walker here, Terror?"<br />
"Nope. I don't keep any alcohol in my fuckin' apartment, at Drummer's request. Yeah, he's been sober a fuckin' year now, but he still doesn't want the temptation, you know?"<br />
"Let's walk to the bar," suggested Bekka. I could deal with a drink or three myself."<br />
We headed out to the dive bar on the main drag, two blocks walk from Terry's building. Once we were at a table and holding drinks, Terry asked me, "So, you're working on the fuckin' sequel to 'Succubus.' How's that going?"<br />
"It's gonna be pretty epic," I replied. "The shortest answer I can give you is Lila and the Lone Scavenger have found a place to settle, and return to their old turf to find the pirate band, in order to talk them into relocating. Hijinks ensue."<br />
"Aw, c'mon, gimme more than that!" pleaded Terry. "Tell me a story, Uncle Lenny!"<br />
All right. Okay, it's a year later. Lila and the Lone Scavenger --- he's finally given a name, Jacob --- are in the foothills of the Sierras. There's a place called Oregon House, about twenty miles outside of Marysville, that I'm basing the area on. It's low enough for good soil, but high enough there's plenty of game to hunt. For some reason, there's no one else around, all these farms and vineyards have been abandoned. So, they pick a farm, put in crops, and are settling in. There's a settlement down in the valley floor, and the valley is slightly populated with folks farming and raising animals. Jacob and Lila go to the settlement every couple weeks to barter. Most people are leery of them, they still look like the marauders they used to be.<br />
"They're happy, but they're lonely. Lila suggests they return to the badlands and find the pirate band, to convince them to relocate and homestead, just like had been mentioned in the first movie. Jacob thinks that's a good idea, so they start planning the trip. They still have the Lone Scavenger's Mustang, but don't use it often, they have horses now.<br />
"A few days before they're going to leave, Lila goes down to the kitchen --- they're living in an abandoned farm house --- to see some food they'd left out is gone. Someone has been in the house. They go outside, and Jacob sees some plum pits on the ground underneath a tree. They stop, and hear light snoring. They look up in the tree and can just make out a figure sleeping on a branch. Lila throws a rock at the figure, who falls out of the tree. It's a girl.<br />
"The girl is gonna be played by Jane, mohawk and all. She'll turn out to be this weird, sorta feral girl who has survived on her own since she was a child. She can't adapt to living in a community, she has literally wandered all that time, with a satchel of possessions and a crossbow. She's a whiz with the crossbow, it's how she's managed to feed herself. If she wants a fire, she makes one like an Indian, with a stick and notched board and tinder. And she almost never speaks. The girl's only concept of 'society' comes from an old copy of Cosmopolitan' she carries with her, she uses ash as makeup, so she has black rings around her eyes. And, of course, the mohawk.<br />
"The girl explains her parents were homesteading in what was Washington state when they were killed by robbers. She's been alone since the age of eleven, and has walked from Washington to California. When she's around any sort of settlement, she'll steal to survive for a little while, hiding from everyone, and move on. Her social maladjustment is much stronger than Jacob's ever was. They invite her to live and travel with them, she'll no longer have to kill possums and steal to survive. So, the three of them head back to the badlands.<br />
"They find the pirate band when the pirates try to waylay them. Lila and Jacob's offer to settle and relocate is greeted warmly. There hasn't been any discontent in the band, just an overall feeling of, 'Is this all we're ever gonna be?' They decide to take the plunge and emigrate to the Summerlands. The band barters off their collected booty in exchange for tools, fuel, ammunition, and other supplies. They also convince a few men to join them. Remember, everyone at the local bazaars know who the pirates are, and what they do, so they're not exactly loved. The only reason they've never been attacked is because they're well-armed.<br />
"Okay, so the band starts off on this great pilgrimage.... And right now, details are sketchy. They'll have some adventure on the trip, I know that. They'll also run into conflict at the settlement in the valley, they're all obviously marauders, and no one wants to do business with them. Those people are trying to rebuild civilization, and dealing with criminals isn't high on their list of priorities, so the pirate band has to explain they're going to be homesteaders in the hills, they're going straight.<br />
"I know how I want it to end. It'll be three years later. Jacob, Lila, the feral girl, all the pirates, and their men are gathered together for a community meal and, uh, sort of a sex party. They're still highly sexed, and they have no real concept of monogamy. Lila and a couple other girls will be holding babies. The general vibe is that they've made it, they're self-sufficient and happy. Oh, and the feral girl and Itsy are a couple now. The end."<br />
Terry asked, "So how come there's no other fuckin' people where Jacob and Lila settle, if the land is so good?"<br />
"It'll be explained that after the world collapsed, bandit gangs pretty much ran rampant through the area. Everyone who lived there were fairly isolated, and sitting ducks for marauders. The bandits just killed everyone off within the first couple years. In the intervening time, the legends of the area grew, and no one will live there because it was seen as a place of evil. The valley residents think the area is haunted, and populated by the bandits. Jacob and Lila found this area and agreed to settle before making contact with the valley people, so they never knew of these legends.<br />
"Also, the valley people are leery of Jacob and Lila anyway. Lila no longer has her Uzi, instead she wears a pistol belt with two automatics on it. Jacob has a shotgun on his leg, like Max in 'Road Warrior.' It's what they're used to, and especially when going to barter at the bazaars. So not only do they look like marauders, when they tell people where they've settled, everyone assumes the worst about them."<br />
Bekka asked, "I know you and Mallory were knocking around ideas about how many vehicles the pirate band ends up taking with them. Figured it out yet?"<br />
"We're not sure. My best idea was that they trade off a couple of the raid vehicles, plus the moving van, in exchange for.... Okay, you know the vacuum trucks they use to clean parking lots? Like, Toyota trucks with a big tank on the back? They'd get a hold of one of those, and set it up to hold fuel for all the vehicles. Then they pretty much trade off most of what they have to fill the tank. That way, they can get back to the Summerlands.<br />
"Oh, you know how in the first movie, Lila put the kibosh on homesteading for a real simple fact, that none of them knew how to grow crops? They'll barter for the knowledge. Also, a few of the men they recruit to join them are from farms, so they know what to do. Jacob and Lila were damn lucky, when they found a place to settle, the farm land hadn't completely gone wild and fallow. There were still gardens and farms where what had been planted continued to grow, so they were able to suss out how to dig rows and plant. They were growing tomatoes and corn and beans, plus there were some fruit orchards around. They did know how to preserve meat, so they'd take down a deer and jerk the meat."<br />
"This is gonna be a fuckin' epic," said Terry. "Do I even wanna know how long production is gonna last? And where?"<br />
I couldn't help but laugh. "Oh, shit. We'll be back out in Imperial Valley, we'll be in the Sierra foothills, we'll be in the mountains, we'll be in the Central Valley.... I'm thinking eight to ten weeks. And it's gonna cost even more than 'Succubus.' There's a good chance me, Mallory, and Erica are going to finish this script and give it to Angel, who will totally nix the idea. Between production time and the fact that the movie is gonna be one long location shot, he might just say no way, it'll take too much of our resources."<br />
My pager started shaking, the display showed Jane's number. I excused myself, got five dollars in quarters from the bartender, and rang her up. "Lenny! You're okay!" Jane cried.<br />
"More or less, yeah," I shot back. "Why?"<br />
"My shithead of a geology instructor tells me he heard there were shootings at two different adult studios in Southern California, and the bastard acts like he can't remember any details! He doesn't remember the studio names, or where in SoCal they were, or the names of the victims.... And no, I'm not allowed to use the damn phone. I called the Oceanside studio and it just rang and rang, which really scared me. Thank you for calling back so quick, where are you?"<br />
"In our favorite bar in Ocean Beach. Yeah, it was Hustler and Vivid that got hit, and I know two of the victims. I am very highly stressed right now. The shooter is a motherfucker named Ron Haley, who hates me with a passion, I have no doubt I'm on his hit list, along with all of Inana. Both studios are empty, I sent everyone home. But rest easy, pet, I'm fine. Bekka and I are gonna hang out with Terry for a while, then get a hotel room. Angel is sending down two guys from the strike force to act as guards at home, just in case Haley has figured out where we live. We'll be okay, promise." A thought struck me. "So how would your instructor know you'd care about a shooting at a porn studio in SoCal?"<br />
Jane scoffed into the phone. "Aw, at the beginning of the semester, we all did a 'What I did on my summer vacation' routine, to sort of introduce ourselves to the rest of the class. I told everybody I partied with you guys, hung out with Uncle Vito, made four porn loops, and practiced my surfing. I wasn't thinking everyone would latch onto the porn loops thing, but I ended up talking for, like, ten minutes, trying to explain about what it was like, who you guys are, and on and on. Now the asshole likes to razz me in class off and on. I talk shit to him back, but he won't let it drop. It's like he wants to keep the idea that the freaky girl with the mohawk did porn fresh in everyone's minds."<br />
"Uh.... huh." I considered this briefly. "Maybe I should have a chat with him at some point."<br />
"You know what, Lenny? For any other instructor, I'd tell you to not let it bug you. This guy, though, come up and visit. Don't get thrown in jail, don't beat him up or anything, but if you make him nervous and get him to find a different target, that would be great. I'm bored in his class anyway."<br />
"Why did you take geology to begin with?"<br />
With a cynical giggle, Jane replied, "Some sort of applied science credits are needed, they're a requisite course. Geology is also known as 'Rocks for Jocks,' it's a no-brainer class, super easy. By taking geology, I'm fulfilling my science requisite and can concentrate on my important classes."<br />
"Smart thinking," I observed. "You know, I still haven't met your roommate, and I'd like to stick my head in and visit Riley from the Oakland chapter. I just might come up and visit. Fly up tomorrow morning, we can hang out, I'll have a chat with your instructor on Monday, and fly home Monday night. Sound good?"<br />
"That would be so awesome, Lenny. Hey, uh, let's get a room at the Marina Marriott for the weekend. We can destroy one of their beds together. I need a good, solid fucking or twelve, I'm going crazy."<br />
"You can't find any action up there?"<br />
"Not like I get from you," Jane sighed. "Too many boys up here are looking for girlfriends, and I make it clear I'm playing the field for now. And guys I have hooked up with are.... Dammit, they're boys. I've tried to talk Soda Pop to come up and visit, but he says he's a foreman at the garage now, and he's working six day weeks. His bosses are all Berdoo H.A., and won't cut him any slack. They tell him he shouldn't be making a seven hour drive for pussy, blah blah blah. The local boys are nice, but they're just not cutting the mustard."<br />
I said, "Okay. Tell you what. Lemme talk to Bekka, see what she says, and I'll call you back around nine to let you know what's going on. She may not want me to leave, what with all the trouble we're having.... Or, she might think it's a boffo idea, I'll be out of the line of fire."<br />
"'Kay.... Hold on.... " Jane held her hand loosely over the mouthpiece and talked to someone in the room. She sounded annoyed when she got back on the line. "My roommate would like to know if you plan on sodomizing me over the arm of the sofa the entire time you're here." (In the background, I heard a shrill voice say, "I didn't say that!")<br />
"Uh.... Assure the little darling the most she'll have to put up with is you giving me an 'I've Missed You' blowjob when I first get there.... Although I will get your face sticky."<br />
Jane held the phone away, I heard her say, "Don't worry, Kaitlyn, all that's gonna happen is he's gonna have me suck his cock when he gets here, and come all over my face. No big deal, we'll both have most of our clothes on." ("Oh my God.... You're serious, aren't you?") "Lenny is my master, and I like making my master happy." ("You are such a fucking pervert. Don't talk to me.")<br />
After I stopped laughing, Jane said in a soft voice, "Okay, you are definitely giving me a facial when you first get here. I'll blow you in my sleeping loft, so she doesn't have to watch, but after you come, I'm going straight into the living room. I hope I drip cum on her textbooks."<br />
"I'm guessing things are still rocky with you two," I chuckled.<br />
"Yeah.... It's like she starts to warm up and get human, then catches herself and reverts back to her usual condemning, elitist garbage. I'll tell you more later."<br />
"I'm on a pay phone, so I'm gonna get going. Be by the phone at nine."<br />
"I will, master," Jane breathed like a phone sex operator. "I always obey my master."<br />
"Later, fuck toy." I hung up.<br />
Back at the table, I was just in time for a fresh round. I explained the plan to Bekka, who said it sounded like a good plan. We'd call Southwest Airlines from Terry's and find flight times from San Diego to Oakland. One catch: Bekka wanted me present when our two mafia bodyguards arrived, so I wouldn't be flying out before noon. It's an hour flight, so that was fine with me.<br />
Bekka suddenly said, "Hey, where's Drummer?"<br />
"Out on one of his fuckin' neighborhood strolls," said Terry. "He's still the fuckin' eyes and ears of Ocean Beach. He used to be the smelly-ass drunk everybody purposely ignored. Now he's just some old guy that people ignore just as easily."<br />
As if on cue, Drummer appeared at the table, giving us greetings. Bekka said, "Have a seat.... Um, if being in here won't make you uncomfortable...."<br />
"I'm fine in a bar," Drummer said in his screechy voice. "Never drank in bars, too damn expensive. Bars are for people to be social, and I wasn't a social drinker. No temptation fer me here.... Although if you could buy an old bum a Coke with jalapenos, I'd be grateful, missy." He cackled. "When I'd get tempted would be if you three decided to walk down the jetty with a twelve pack. I'd be staring at every sip all three of you took. Just the association of the place, you know?"<br />
We got Drummer his Coke (with five jalapenos) and briefed him on the day. He stared off, rubbing his chin. Then he said, "Don't underestimate this bastard. He ain't no <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/San_Ysidro_McDonald%27s_massacre"><b>James Huberty</b></a>. Huberty, he killed all them folks, then just hung around inside the McDonald's, like he was waiting fer a police sniper to git off a shot, like one did. Huberty was on a suicide run. This feller Haley keeps doing strikes and splitting. He don't wanna die, I don't think."<br />
The rest of us absorbed this information in silence. Terry finally said, "Okay, operating on the assumption Lenny is a fuckin' target, do you think Haley is gonna take his time, and wait until he can find Lenny?"<br />
"Oh yeah. Damn and shit, any idea if he's got a bankroll? Friends in the area? You said he's driving a stolen brown car. I'll bet he's in a different stolen car by tomorrow, he'll know what he's driving is being watched for. He'll jack another car, drive it fer a while, then do the same thing again. Don't be watchin' fer that brown Audi to pop up again."<br />
Drummer had an excellent point. I chewed on my bottom lip and thought things through. Then I said, "We need to lay a trap."<br />
"How?" asked Bekka.<br />
"Fairly simple. Park cars at the mansion, make it look like there's people there. One of them will be my Fleetwood, another will be the Falcon. You've been photographed with the Falcon, and that picture was in Newsweek. He'll pull up, think we're open for business, and head in. But the only person inside will be a strike force sniper, at the top of the stairs with the front door in view. Bang bang, no more Haley."<br />
"Okay, when do we do this?"<br />
"We'll set it up for Monday," I answered. "Angel can get some strike force guys down in the early morning. A couple will drive our cars, the rest can just leave their own cars there. They can car pool to the house and kick back until the sniper calls and says the deed is done."<br />
"Pretty fuckin' slick," observed Terry. "But what if he goes to Oceanside instead?"<br />
"I'll bet he'll be checking both locations all weekend," said Bekka. "He may figure that we'll assume enough time has passed, with no incidents, that he's fucked off somewhere. And who knows, maybe he'll be picked up sometime over the weekend." She looked at her watch. "Let's head back to your place, Terry. I'd like to see the news."<br />
We paid our tab and headed back to Terry's apartment, getting inside moments before local news started. Not much had happened in San Diego that day, as the shootings were the top story. We settled on Channel Ten, the ABC affiliate. They had footage courtesy of the Los Angeles ABC station, the anchorman telling us that both Pelton and Bennett were still in surgery, but no one held out much hope. Apparently someone at Leisure Time had come through with a photo of Haley, taken maybe two years earlier at a party. Ronald Huberty, age 44, last seen driving a stolen brown Audi, plate number 2HHS577. If spotted, report his location to the police, do not attempt to confront or contact him.<br />
The anchor continued on and let the world know it was a year ago, almost to the day, that local adult film studio Inana Productions had been attacked by gunmen. It remained to be seen if there was a connection between that incident and the events of today. I grabbed the telephone and Yellow Pages, looking up and dialing Channel Ten. When I got through, I asked to speak with Pauline Fawcett, this was Lenny Schneider. The person on the other end asked what it was regarding. I reiterated my name and told him it was regarding my possible murder. The penny dropped for the guy, and I was put on hold.<br />
A couple minutes later Pauline greeted me. "So what do you think of what happened?" she asked.<br />
"I think I have two friends in the industry that aren't going to survive. Lawrence Pelton, of Hustler, and Larry Bennett of Vivid Video are both good men. I pray they live. So far as Haley goes, I'm going to give you a scoop, Paulie, but I'm not sure how you'll use it. Both Inana Productions and myself are on Haley's shit list. I've had personal interaction with Ron Haley, and I know for a fact he hates me, big time. With me, it's a personal thing for him. Haley might think the other studios screwed him over, but I don't think he had any grudges against individuals at Hustler or Vivid. Me, he hates on a personal level. <br />
"I won't lie, I'm getting the hell out of Dodge for a few days. Bekka will be in the area, but not necessarily at our home, and will have three armed bodyguards with her at all times. Both of Inana's studio facilities are shut down until Haley is off the street. Hopefully that's sooner rather than later."<br />
"Where are you going?" Pauline asked.<br />
I chuckled and said, "I'll say the Bay Area, and leave it at that. I'm going to visit some friends. Tell me, will there be any updated information on Bennett and Pelton on the eleven o'clock broadcast?"<br />
"If there's anything new, we'll be reporting it. So, you don't believe there's a connection between the Moral Militia shooting at Inana last year, and what's going on today?"<br />
"None whatsoever. Those pricks a year ago were religious zealots. Ron Haley is a motherfucker who assumes the only reason he's not God is that he was too good looking for the job. Haley is a narcissist, a blowhard, an egomaniac, and possibly a sociopath. He's always the smartest guy in the room, just ask him. No, he is not on any sort of moral crusade. This is his own revenge trip. And I honestly believe he expects he will get away with it, he'll ride off into the sunset and start a new life under an assumed name."<br />
Pauline pressed, "What were the circumstances for you interacting with Haley?"<br />
I considered my words, then said, "Haley, representing Leisure Time Video, wanted to make a business deal with Inana Productions. The deal he offered was genuinely insulting, and I said so. He didn't like a twenty-four year old punk rocker from San Diego back-talking him --- remember, he's the smartest guy in the room --- and shot his mouth off. He didn't like it when I laughed at him in response, and he let me know I was on his permanent shit list. Others in the industry have told me that yeah, Ron Haley carries grudges, and for a long time. Sorry babe, no details beyond that."<br />
"Fair enough. Lenny, thanks for calling me. You'll help clarify our story, so far as Haley's connection to Inana. I'm going to pass the information along to the LA affiliate, if that's all right."<br />
"Fine with me. I'd like the whole truth out there, and I didn't like the idea of people believing these shootings were somehow connected to the Moral Militia shootings last year. But you're the only station I'm calling, the other networks can get the news from you."<br />
We signed off, me promising to call Pauline when I was back in town, whether Haley had been apprehended or not. My next call was to Southwest Air, for flight times the next day. Hey, a flight leaving San Diego at 12:50 p.m., landing in Oakland at 1:55 p.m. I paid for a ticket over the phone with my Visa card, to be picked up at their desk. Then I called Angel to make my suggestion about setting up an ambush. He saw the wisdom in this, although there would be two operatives present, both of them snipers. They could spell each other. He'd lay out a plan, I'd call him tomorrow night for details. Angel was glad I wasn't going to be around for a couple days. "We'll have this mook Haley off the street by then, one way or another."<br />
The four of us headed to Roberto's for some dinner. Mexican soul food, SoCal comfort food, carne asada burritos, Mexican rice, and quesadillas. We ate back at Terry's, then sat around and shot the shit for a while. I was glad the subject of the shootings seemed to be avoided. Around 9:30 Bekka and I headed for the Radisson hotel in Mission Valley. We set a nine a.m. wake-up call, and told room service that the sooner a pint of Johnnie Walker Red appeared in the room, the better. Time was of the essence.<br />
By eleven Bekka and I were buzzed, naked, and catching our breath from a good Christian fuck. "Gonna make Jane come like that, too?" Bekka asked me.<br />
"I'm gonna try damn hard. She makes it sound like the Bay Area is totally void of any decent male lovers."<br />
"Maybe all the good ones are also gay," said Bekka. "Although if that was the case, I guess it wouldn't matter."<br />
"Hopefully I can carry her over until Winter Break," I said.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10230648449521958270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033784518790200307.post-87248262778102967682017-04-03T20:41:00.002-07:002017-04-03T20:41:36.455-07:00Groove (Part 7) Bekka, Terry, and myself were at home in Encinitas about 10:20 the next morning, waiting on our two mafia bodyguards, Joey "The Fisherman" Falcone and Frankie No-Neck. They arrived precisely on time, both looking sharp in dark grey suits, every inch the mafioso professionals they were. Both had a single suitcase and a single briefcase, them explaining they also had garment bags in their cars --- fresh suits --- but were otherwise prepared for a while. Joey laughed, "My wife doesn't like when I have assignments that keep me away from home for several days. She really hates this one. I'm gonna be the personal bodyguard to Becky Page!"<br />
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Bekka said, "I will happily call your wife and assure her your chastity is not at risk.... In fact, she has met me before. You were present for my ceremony, when I was inducted into the family. You introduced me to her later. Gloria, is that her name?"<br />
"That's her. Don't worry about it, she's just being catty for the exercise of it, you know? Although I'm not gonna let her know Lenny won't be around for a couple days."<br />
Frankie No-Neck asked me, "So how's Gator Bait doing in college? She needs to send us new pictures, she's still our mascot, you know? How's she doing?"<br />
"Just great so far," I answered. "She's finding it more of a challenge than high school was, but likes it, she wants the challenges. All her classes are going well.... Although on Monday, I have to go talk with one of her professors. He's singled her out and giving her grief, for no real reason. I need to tell him he needs a better hobby."<br />
"What's he hassling her over?"<br />
I took a split second and realized the members of the strike force may not know about Jane's foray into porn over the summer, and may be upset to learn of it. I hedged. "Her appearance, and her association with us. The usual bullshit about what life with Becky Page must have been like. Berkeley, the city, has a huge counterculture, nobody would think twice about a girl with a blue mohawk. Berkeley, the university, is preppy central at this point. What the place was like in the Sixties is totally dead, and the school likes it that way. So Jane doesn't blend in well on campus."<br />
Frankie No-Neck considered this, and told me, "If this mook doesn't educate from you, let Don Vito know. He'll send a more direct message, make sure he does get educated."<br />
Inwardly I cringed. The idea of mafioso hanging a target on a UC Berkeley professor was unsettling, the two worlds were too far apart. Fifteen minutes in the presence of an enforcer like Paul, even with no actual physicality, would have Jane's professor flushing himself down the toilet by the end of the day. I said I'd let Don Vito know how things went.<br />
I took the Plymouth to Lindbergh Field. I had three grams of dope taped in a seal to the inside of my left ass-cheek, and would find someplace to buy a pipe in Berkeley. (I'd forgotten Jane had been sent, via private courier, an pharmacopoeia of illicit drugs when she'd moved up in August. 250 hits of Smiley Ecstasy, a quarter pound of magic mushrooms, Valium, Vicodin, and a half ounce of meth. She didn't use meth the way Bekka and I did (which was a good thing), and had said even with sharing the stuff, there was probably three grams gone from the half ounce, at the most.)<br />
On the ground in Oakland, I remembered a horrible fact of life about the Oakland airport: there was no taxi stand. Airport security didn't want vehicles sitting at the front curb for any reason. Spend more than fifteen seconds ejecting a passenger and their luggage, they'd be riding your ass to move along, you should have had your mushy goodbye at home, get that car rolling. I assumed their security were utterly impervious to being called motherfuckers at this point. Anyway, to get a cab, you picked up one of the courtesy phones just inside the main doors. The phone automatically dialed to whichever cab company you'd picked up the phone for....<br />
.... And it was a complete lie. There were eight cab companies in the central East Bay, and all eight were owned by the same people. All eight companies were dispatched from the same office. The cabs were "serviced" at the same garage, and whatever company a driver worked for on any given day was by random assignment. It didn't matter what the name on the cab was, it was still the same company. This monopoly made life much simpler for Alameda County and its municipalities, and guaranteed shitty service, shitty vehicles, and starving drivers. After all, what were you going to do? Call someone else for a cab? (The exception was Berkeley, which had two independent cab companies. However, they couldn't expand beyond Berkeley city limits. The city of Oakland would not issue them permits to use Oakland taxi stands, and they could not get airport permits, either.)<br />
So I grabbed a random phone and requested a pick-up, checking afterwards for the name of the company. Yellow Checker, said the sign above the phone. The dispatcher said five minutes. I stood and waited in the correct area with one other guy, a businessman type, in a suit, even on a Saturday. I nodded greeting and lit a cigarette, then asked how long he'd been waiting. "Fifteen damn minutes," he groused. "They said five minutes over the phone."<br />
"Which company?" I asked.<br />
"Um, Central Yellow or something like that. Central something. Who did you call?"<br />
I told him Yellow Checker, but it didn't matter. I explained the total lack of competition in the livery services of Oakland, then asked where he was headed. "Um, Berkeley," he answered.<br />
"Perfect, me too," I said. "I'm headed to south of campus, Dwight and Ellsworth. How about you? We'll split the fare on whatever cab shows up first, screw the second driver. Where are you headed?"<br />
"The west side of town, Sixth near University," he replied. He seemed a bit nervous in his reply.<br />
"What awaits there?" I asked.<br />
"Just..... meeting some people." Now he seemed really nervous.<br />
I stood in silence briefly, then the Clue Bus arrived. I asked, "Headed to the Steam Works?"<br />
His head jerked towards me, then turned back towards the driveway. In a barely audible voice, he said, "Yeah."<br />
As far as I knew, the Steam Works was the last open gay bath house in the Bay Area. The AIDS panic had decimated the bath houses in San Francisco, between pressure from the city and rapidly dwindling attendance, they'd all gone belly-up. I had no idea if there were any bath houses in South Bay or Silicon Valley. The Steam Works was THE place to cruise. You could get a locker, a private room, a private room with a TV (showing an array of almost all gay porn), or a private room with TV and a fuck swing. It had been explained to me the front half was for socializing, where the steam room and spa and gym equipment were. The back half was where you went to cruise: dimly lit, with glory hole booths and porn playing on big-screen TVs, lots of small alcoves to hide out in. Up front, it was considered in bad taste to sport wood. In the rear, it was expected.<br />
I told him, "Well.... Have fun. Enjoy your day. It's a Saturday, it'll be crowded."<br />
He looked at me out of the corners of his eyes. "Have you been there?"<br />
"Me? No. I sucked a few dicks when I was younger, but it's just not my thing. Live and learn, you know? Cruising never had any appeal anyway, I was always with somebody I was already friends with, and, well, things just happened. So where are you from?"<br />
The businessman seemed to relax slightly. "Spokane," he answered.<br />
"No scene in Spokane? I know it's not Seattle, but I thought Spokane was a pretty big town."<br />
He emitted a sigh. "Spokane isn't small.... But it's conservative, it revels in its rural roots. What happens in Spokane would be easily spotted."<br />
I glanced down. I was standing on his left. He was wearing a wedding band. "Been to Steam Works before?" I asked.<br />
"Yeah. A few times. Business trips."<br />
"On the weekend?" I chuckled.<br />
He stared out in silence, then actually chuckled. "What the missus doesn't know won't hurt her. She's never asked about the days I travel on."<br />
"Well, have fun, and play safe. When a fucking cab gets here, we'll split the fare from here to Sixth Street, I'll cover it from there. Good enough?"<br />
"That's fine." After a couple moments, he said, "I'm glad you're not hostile."<br />
I grinned and said, "So long as you're not into children, animals, or violence, it doesn't bother me. I'm straight, but not narrow. Just play safe, like I said."<br />
"Thanks." He was still too worked up to actually look directly at me.<br />
Moments later a cab pulled up. The name on the door was Oakland Checker. The driver, who looked like a Nepalese yak herder, rolled down the window and said, "Mista Yates?"<br />
"That's us," said the businessman. We got in, putting our meager luggage on our laps. We told him we were going to separate addresses in Berkeley, his first. Fine with the driver. Up the 880, onto the 980 through the MacArthur Maze, and onto 80, jumping off at University. The driver looped around onto Sixth St. and dropped Mista Yates off at the door to the Steam Works. The businessman looked at the meter and handed me some currency, then quickly jumped out of the cab. As we took off again, I looked down at what he'd handed me. It was six twenty dollar bills, nearly three times what the meter would be when I was let out on Dwight Way.<br />
Rolling up the street to get back on University, the driver commented, "That place, da funny men go dere."<br />
"Really?" I exclaimed. "The funny men?"<br />
"Yah. Da men, dey like otter men, you know? Funny men."<br />
"Oh, I see. Is there anyplace funny women go?"<br />
The driver frowned in concentration, then said, "Not I know of.... Oh, wait. Bar on Telegraph, sout' end of town. Da White Horse. Funny men, funny women, both go dere. Busy place weekend night." He gave me a questioning look in the mirror. "You look for funny women? Dey not like guys, why you look for dem?"<br />
"I'm not," I answered. "I was just curious."<br />
We turned right on Sacramento. The driver said, "I pick up from dat bar, when I work at night. Da funny men, they good. They quiet, we go to ta address, they pay. Da funny women, oh! Dey wanna kiss, wanna touch each otter. I tell 'em, you don't do dat in my cab, an' you know? Dey laugh an' ignore me. No tip at end of ride. Damn funny women."<br />
"What are they hurting? Leave 'em be, they'll probably tip better than the funny men. If you don't wanna see them, tilt your mirror up. No big deal, you know?"<br />
"You like da funny women?<br />
I snorted. "Actually, I'm friends with more than a few of them. A couple are employees of mine. When you're picking them up at night from the White Horse, they're just drunk, they're acting like most drunk people do. You're not gonna tell me that when you pick up a guy and a girl from a bar, they aren't all over each other, too?"<br />
In the rear-view mirror, I could see the driver glaring at the road. "Yeah. okay. Maybe if I ignore da funny women, dey tip. Dey can't hurt me if dey doing dat in back."<br />
A thought struck me. "How long are your shifts?"<br />
"Twelve hour. Sometime fourteen. Six day week. I don't work Tuesday. Usually. Sometime dey call me in, driver sick, driver quit."<br />
"Huh. I'm not sure how familiar you are with restrictions on commercial drivers, but that's illegal. Your company can't keep you on the clock more than twelve hours straight, and no more than sixty hours a week. Tell your bosses to either drop you to ten hours a day or five days a week."<br />
"Yah. Otter driver, dey tell boss men same ting, get fired. I got wife, I got boy. I work, no matta what."<br />
We pulled up in front of the residence hall. The driver reached to stop the meter, but I said, "Let it run for a minute, I want to ask you a couple questions. Where are you from?"<br />
The driver eyed me in the mirror, then said, "Tibet. Bad place. Da China, dey come, say 'Tibet ours now.' Da Tibet, we have no way to fight dem. Me, my wife. we leave. We walk t'rough Nepal, into India. Get to New Delhi, no work. Too many India people no work, so a Tibet man work even less. We see Red Cross workers in da street, talk to dem. Dey say we ref.... refu-gees, dey amaze to learn we walk from Tibet. Dey get hold of America cons.... consultant...."<br />
"Consulate," I corrected.<br />
"Yeah, dat. Red Cross, consulate, dey get us visa for US. If I work, we stay. Red Cross fly us to San F'isco, we stay wit' otter refu-gee, learn bit of English, get driver license. I drive truck in Nepal, I know how to drive, I drive long. Da cab comp'ny --- dis one --- have ad in paper, so I take job. Here now twenty mont's. Live in Oakland, da Fruitvale. It not safe, but more safe den on street in New Delhi. We have place, food, water and power work, not cold. It okay here."<br />
"Any goals? What would you like to do with your life?" I asked.<br />
The driver considered, then grinned for the first time. His answer: "Kick da fokkin' China out of Tibet. I wanna do dat."<br />
I laughed and said, "You're in good company in the Bay Area. There's plenty of people who want to do that." I let a few ticks go by and continued, "And if you're working seventy-two hour weeks, you'll never have the time or energy to do what you want. How much are you taking home every week? How much money do you make?"<br />
"'Bout $300."<br />
"And how much in tips?"<br />
The driver shrugged. "Dat wit' tips."<br />
I stared at the driver in the mirror. Finally I said, "This is not my place to say, and it's probably just as rude to say in Tibet as it is here, but.... Dude, you're getting fucked. This goddamn cab company is screwing you, big time. Tell your boss to suck your dick, and find another job. Anything else. Even fast food would be s step up."<br />
The driver scowled at his still-running meter. "Den I not have a job. INS find out I not at work, dey take visa, send us to Tibet." His eyes went down. "We go back, China say, 'You run away, you no good, you go in p'ison.' No good."<br />
"Shit," I muttered. I stuck an unlit Marlboro in my mouth and punched at my brain. A few seconds later, I had an idea. One that could work. I told the driver, "Kill the engine, but go ahead and leave the meter running. I have an idea. Do you think you could teach an American how to speak Tibetan?"<br />
The driver swiveled his head and actually looked straight at me. He said a word recognized universally: "Huh?"<br />
"I'm here to visit a friend of mine, a girl. She's eighteen, she goes to UC Berkeley. Very smart. If she's amenable, I'll pay you $600 a week to teach her how to speak Tibetan. Just a couple hours of teaching a day, maybe four days a week. She learns a foreign language, you make decent money, and you'll have the time to find a good job. Or hell, take some classes at the local community college, learn a trade. You'd be an employee of my company, your checks would have all the necessary taxes taken out, totally above board. What do you think?"<br />
After ten seconds of open-mouthed staring at me, the driver said, "I dunno. You hear me talk, you know I don' speak English too good. My wife, she speak English good. She talk to otter women in building, go to shop, t'ings like dat. No one talk a lot wit' me when I drive cab. My wife, she talk wi' many people, she talk English good."<br />
"Okay, so I hire your wife. The INS shouldn't give a crap about who it is working, just so long as someone is working, and you're not applying for welfare and food stamps, you know? Then you could definitely go to school. Hell, every damn community college I've ever heard of had an auto shop, you ever work on cars or trucks?"<br />
"Oh yah. Da trucks I drive, dey old, break. Gotta fix, usually on side of road. I fix car, truck."<br />
"Okay. So, what do you think? I hire you --- or your wife --- through my company to teach a girl how to speak Tibetan, for double the money you're making now, and for maybe ten hours a week. You can save some money, and look for a better job, or go to school."<br />
Another pause, then the driver said another universally-recognized phrase. "You shitting me."<br />
"Nope," I promised. "Come on, follow me for a second, you can talk to your future student."<br />
I got out of the cab, and waited for the driver to do the same. He did so, with some reluctance. Probably he was worried about me walking off and leaving the meter unpaid. I led him into the foyer of the residence hall, found Jane's buzzer, and pushed it. She responded immediately.<br />
I told her, "Jane, come on down, I've got someone I want you to meet. This is kinda important, get your ass down here." She said okay and disconnected.<br />
Thirty seconds later she was in front of me and the driver, who was pop-eyed looking at her. Between the blue mohawk and the leather bustier, Jane was not a common sight anywhere in the world, but particularly not in Tibet. I said, "Jane, this is my cab driver....." I didn't know his name.<br />
The driver picked up on this and said, "I am Ngawang Thokmay." After a pause, he said, "My wife is Pema. My son is Michael."<br />
I had to ask. "You named your son Michael?"<br />
"Yes. He six month old when we get to New Delhi, no papers. Consulate want name. I t'ink of Red Cross man who help us, say 'Name is Mike.' Dey ask, 'You mean Michael?' Yah, yah. dat it. My son grow up in 'Merica, he have good name for United State, okay?"<br />
"Got it," I smiled. To Jane, I said, "You have a foreign language requisite for getting through school, right? Would Tibetan be an acceptable language to learn?"<br />
Jane laughed and replied, "Given the political climate in Berkeley, I'd be amazed if it wasn't. Why?"<br />
"Ngawang --- or his wife, or hell, both of them --- could tutor you in Tibetan. You'd learn a bunch of the language skills before next year, and breeze through your language requisite." Jane was giving me a mystified look, so I elaborated, "Look, it's like this. Homeboy here is getting royally fucked by his job, they're screwing him. He's here on a visa, so he can't quit. They have no money, and if they apply for support, INS will ship them back to Tibet, where the fuckin' Chinese will put them in prison for fleeing the country. What I can do is hire him or his wife as language tutors. I'll hire 'em through Inana, so the job is totally legit. pay them $600 a week, they come up and tutor you a couple hours a day, four or five days a week. Ngawang and Pema get out the the hole they're in, he can find a better job or take some vocational training. They'll be better off. See what I'm driving at?"<br />
Jane went from wide-eyed surprise to a smirking grin. She said, "Lenny, you found another random person to help in a random way, didn't you? At least you're not trying to get him in front of the cameras."<br />
"Uh, no. I don't think he'd go for that, a little too much culture shock, you know? So, are you willing to learn Tibetan?"<br />
Jane giggled and said, "Sure, why not? I'm not sure how much use I'd get out of it after I graduate, but it could be fun. Certainly an interesting party trick, if nothing else."<br />
I turned to Ngawang and said, "Okay, she's willing to be a student. You, your wife, or both of you can teach her how to speak and write Tibetan, for better money and fewer hours. You'll have the job through May. Is that acceptable to you?"<br />
Ngawang looked at me and asked, "Why you do dis?"<br />
Jane laughed, then told him, "Because it's the right thing to do. I don't know the whole back story, but if you're in dire straits, and Lenny here runs across you, he's gonna work like hell to help you. It's his own little way of inflicting justice upon the world. Don't worry, you can trust Lenny, he's not gonna screw you over. And I'd love to learn Tibetan."<br />
The upshot was Jane ran up to her room to get some writing paper. The three of us went out to the cab, where a whole lot of information was exchanged. I was a bit surprised when Ngawang said, "Oh, Inana. Dat was goddess in Sumeria. Dat da one?"<br />
"Spot on," I replied. I got the address and phone number of the Thokmay family. Ngawang got Jane's full name, address in Berkeley, and phone number. He also got my full name, number, and both the P.O. box and street address for the Inana studio in Oceanside. It was agreed he would be an employee (not a contractor) of Inana Productions as a language tutor, receiving $600 a week for his (or his wife's) services. I copied down his driver's license and social security card information, to fill out his I-9 and W4 form for the IRS. To aid in his quick departure from the cab company, Inana Productions would be sending him a "welcome aboard bonus" of $500 by FedEx. The paychecks would be sent out every Monday by mail. Ngawang and/or Pema would tutor Jane at her place, or at Moffitt Library, from seven to nine Monday through Thursday, starting a week from this Monday.<br />
Ngawang looked at the two of us, plus the paperwork we'd created, and looked very happy. He was escaping from one hell of a rut. I told him, "So now, I'm gonna teach you a bit of English, for you to tell your boss tomorrow morning. Walk in, smile, and say, 'Suck my motherfuckin' dick!' Then leave."<br />
He grinned and said, "Oh, I know dat one. I drive cab in Oaklan', I hear plenty of time."<br />
<br />
I paid the fare off with the $120 the closet case from Spokane had given me, telling Ngawang to have a pizza delivered with the extra. Walking up to her room, Jane said to me, "Jesus Lenny, don't you have a knack."<br />
"What do you mean?" I asked.<br />
"You come across people in shitty situations, and decide it's your fucking moral duty to help them out of their travails. And hell, a lot of the time they end up making money for you! You hired Donna, and Jolene, and Gayla as performers because their lives were disaster areas. Now they're stars. You did the same thing with Crystal, up in the Sierras. Now she's the star of what is possibly the raunchiest non-scat porn produced in America. Just how well are the 'Cum-Crazy Crystal' tapes selling, anyway?"<br />
I rooted through my brain, then replied, "A new tape every two months.... We're moving about 1.5 million tapes in those two months. Not bad for a niche product. And one with no damn redeemable qualities whatsoever. It's strange, if you think about it. Bekka is known for some of the most stunning, graceful, beautiful performances in adult film.... And the stuff she directs is solid gold raunch, total filth, and totally indefensible as art. But by God, she does a good job of it."<br />
Inside her room, Jane wrapped her arms around me and kissed me deeply. I reciprocated. We stayed like that for several moments, until we were interrupted by a loud and pointed sigh behind me. We broke apart and I turned. There stood a girl of Jane's age and size, but lacking the stellar rack and curvy hips. She had dark blonde hair in a standard-issue preppy style, a sweater with Greek lettering on it, jeans, and a facial expression like Ruth Buzzi's. I figured it must hurt to purse one's lips like that for so long.<br />
I strode towards her, saying, "Hi, you must be Kaitlyn. I'm Lenny, the guy Jane was living with in Encinitas for the last couple years. You've already met my wife...."<br />
The nose went up in the air. "Yes, Becky Page. So you're married to her? How can you be happy married to w woman like that?"<br />
Fixing a wide grin, I queried, "A woman like what? Please, enlighten me on what my wife is like."<br />
"She has sex with other men for a living.... And women, too. How can she be married to anybody? She's turned you into a cuckold, and you don't mind?"<br />
In a voice filled with lazy amusement, Jane said, "Leave it the fuck out, Kaitlyn. I've explained this to you in the past. What Bekka does in front of a camera isn't really sex, it's just acting, performance. Besides...." Jane got next to me and began grinding herself on my leg. "... Lenny and Bekka have sort of an open relationship. Lenny has Bekka. But he also has me. I'm his fuck toy, his little pet, and have been for a while. Actually, I'm kind of both their fuck toys. But Lenny was first, and the most frequent." We deep-kissed again briefly.<br />
Jane broke apart from me and headed towards the fridge. She said to Kaitlyn, "In fact, I promised a little something to Lenny when he got here. We'll be in my alcove for a little while.... Unless you care to watch."<br />
"What are you going to do?" hissed Kaitlyn.<br />
"Suck Lenny's cock so long, so hard, and so well he won't be able to remember his own name. Would you like to watch? Maybe pick up some pointers?"<br />
I assured Kaitlyn, "It's true. Jane could get a grant from the NEA for her prowess. Reaching heaven when I die will be a let-down after being blown by Jane."<br />
Handing me a beer, Jane continued, "So. Are we going to hide in my alcove, or can we stretch out on the sofa? I'm not taking any of my clothes off, and Lenny is only dropping his pants to his knees. Did you want to be witness?"<br />
"You are both so totally gross," said Kaitlyn, nose even higher in the air.<br />
"You've gotta be kidding," I laughed. "Judging by the runes on your sweater, I'm guessing you are connected, somehow, to the Greek fraternal system. Frat boys sure seem obsessed by oral sex..... Well, being on the receiving end, anyway. If you're not blowing your boyfriends, how are they kept docile and cooperative?"<br />
"I know how to ---!" Kaitlyn cut herself off, then said, "Just go in your room. And don't be all sick and noisy! And why does he have a beer?"<br />
"He's going to be drained of a lot of fluids," Jane stated. "He'll need the beer to get them back." We went into Jane's private space.<br />
We were engaged for over twenty minutes. Jane knew me well enough to get me going crazy, then back off some, then start up again. I finally growled loudly, "Girl, make me come, now." There was just enough room beside her bed for me to stand and Jane to kneel in front of me. As she promised, she took my load like a porn star earning the big money. And given how worked up she'd gotten me, she was fairly well drenched.<br />
I pulled up my pants and zipped up. Jane gently wiped at one eye, but otherwise left her face splattered. I'd finished my beer, and Jane wanted one, so we headed out into the main room. Kaitlyn was slouched on the sofa, watching a rerun of "MASH." As we walked in, Jane said, "There, we weren't too loud, were we?"<br />
"No, I guess not, you...." Kaitlyn trailed off and stared at Jane. "What do you have..... Oh my God..... Oh my God! You are so fucking gross!"<br />
Jane said, "What? What?"<br />
"You've got his.... stuff all over your face! You are sick, you are totally sick!"<br />
Her voice and expression totally serious, Jane said, "I like it when Lenny comes on my face, it makes me feel really sexy and special. Besides, it's fantastic for the complexion. I haven't had to buy Clearasil in ages." She smiled. "Anyway, I forgot to bring a towel with me when we went in my alcove. Let me grab a beer, and I'll wipe down. Terribly sorry to offend, cupcake." She drew a finger across her cheek, then stuck it in her mouth. "Mmm. Lenny always tastes so nice."<br />
Kaitlyn threw herself back against the cushions and glared pointedly at the TV. Jane and I hooked a couple more beers and chatted briefly, then she went and grabbed a towel and began wiping down. She looked at me and asked, "Did I miss anywhere?"<br />
I grabbed a corner of the towel and swiped across the side of her head. "There, all good.... Oh, uh, you got some in your hair."<br />
Jane felt her mohawk, found where I'd hit, and began working it in. "Just like mousse," she commented.<br />
To Kaitlyn, Jane said, "Cupcake, you'll be overjoyed to learn you'll have the place to yourself until Monday afternoon, after classes. I'll be staying with Lenny at the Marina Marriott tonight and tomorrow night. Lenny needs to help me catch up on my fucking, I'm way behind schedule." She sighed. "Maybe I was hoping for too much out of college boys. I guess I was. They were still high school boys until a few months ago, weren't they? They haven't grown up enough yet. And the seniors treat me like I'm jail bait, I can't get one interested in taking me for a test drive. How do you cope with it, cupcake?"<br />
"Do not try to drag me down to your level," Kaitlyn hissed. "I'm getting along just fine."<br />
"And your wrists and fingers have never been stronger," I observed softly. Jane burst into laughter.<br />
Jane called Green Cab for a pick-up, and we were ready to go, Jane had packed a duffel bag and had her textbooks for Monday in her book bag, ready to go. As we headed for the door, Jane said, "See you Monday, cupcake. If Riley, Buzzy, or Hunchback call, we're at the Marriott and will stop by the bar around seven. If Bekka calls, tell her I'm already feeling better, if not a bit sticky...."<br />
"You sicko," inserted Kaitlyn.<br />
".... and I'll be returning Lenny undamaged. If Nadir, Potato, Mimi, or Dodge call or stop by, tell them I'm hanging around with my criminal friends, and to get a hold of me Monday night. Anyone from Gilman, I'll be there tonight, but I'm not sure what time. Thanks, cupcake. See you later."<br />
"Just go!" Kaitlyn yelled. We did.<br />
We were just stepping out the front door when we were approached by three guys and a girl. Jane introduced them as Dodge, Mimi, Potato, and Justin. Dodge and Mimi were standard-issue Bay Area hipsters (which are about forty times cooler than SoCal hipsters), Potato was skinny, with spiky, truncated dreadlocks above a mulatto complexion, and Justin looked like he'd been designed and clothed by a committee of anarchists, all from different time periods over the last three centuries. He said, "At last, we meet the famous Lenny! You've been quite a figure of legend around these parts."<br />
"Do tell," I replied.<br />
Mimi cut in with, "I hope Jane has expressed how much she misses you. She has expressed it to us quite a bit. From what she says, you're a sexual virtuoso, a creative genius, and a defender of all that is good in the world. Quite a lot to live up to."<br />
Jane proclaimed, "And he just defended good today! His cab driver from the airport is a guy from Tibet, a refugee who walked all the way from Nagqu, Tibet through Nepal and into New Delhi. Him and his wife walked all that way! The guy is getting screwed by the cab company he works for, so Lenny made him a deal, basically, Lenny took him on as an employee. I'm gonna be learning how to speak Tibetan, this guy and his wife are gonna tutor me. I'll have a major jump start on my foreign language requisite next year, and this Tibetan dude will have a decent income, plus the time to find a better permanent job, or go to school or whatever. Tell me that's not righteous."<br />
The four stared at me with raised eyebrows. "An interesting strategy," said Potato. "Find exploited workers, one at a time, and hire them to do something they understand, no matter how common it seems to them. Do you do this often?"<br />
"Well....." I started.<br />
Jane cut in with, "Usually, it's girls he meets. He turns them into porn stars."<br />
"Oh, really," all four said at once. I glared at Jane.<br />
Mimi said, "Oh, yes! Duh, that's right, you run Inana Productions. So you recruit women you meet by chance into adult film stardom?"<br />
"It's happened a few times," I replied. "Donita Dare, Missy Liscio, Gayla Goode, Susan Black.... And uh, another couple girls who are now part of the production crew. Also Roach, I suppose. Really, I'll run into people who are in ruts they want out of, and tell them, if you think you could hack the work, take the interviews, I'll see how you do. It's worked pretty damn well so far."<br />
"Dawn was homeless when you found her!" said Jane. "Now she's living in Encinitas with Roach, she's happy, she likes herself again.... Remember her self-loathing trip? It's gone now."<br />
"She's still pretty damn tweaky, though," I noted. "When she dies, we'll have her cremated and her ashes distributed in a series of glass pipes."<br />
Justin mused, "So you rescue women.... by getting them into the porn industry. I thought it worked the other way around."<br />
I stared at Justin briefly, then concentrated on getting a cigarette in my mouth, in silence. Jane looked in my eyes and didn't like what she saw. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, Mimi beat her to the punch by saying, "Justin, shut the fuck up. I know you know exactly who this guy is. You own some of his fucking videos, so don't be a hypocrite! You don't think what you just said might be interpreted as a tiny bit insulting to him?"<br />
Jane continued, "Lenny rescues women by making them Inana Girls, or at least giving them a chance to be an Inana Girl. You heard me explain about the interview process at Inana, so I'm not going into that. But everyone at Inana --- everyone --- is treated with respect. God help the stupid asshole who calls a performer 'bitch' within earshot of Lenny. Inana doesn't rely on drugs, desperation, pressure, abuse, or coercion to get performances. It relies on a supportive atmosphere, the allowance of performers to preset limits, and open communication. The studio pays an industry standard, plus bonuses. And the best part? At this point, any Inana Girl can hold up a video she's in and say, 'That was me,' and be proud of it." She let a couple ticks go by, and said, "And Justin? Remember what happened the last time you heard somebody verbally abuse Lenny within my earshot?"<br />
Justin regarded Jane levelly, but there was naked fear in his eyes. "Yes, I do. And I remember what happened to him a week or so later. What a frightening thing to have happen. I wonder about the sort of person who would do that to anyone, let alone four college students."<br />
Jane put on a tight, polite grin. "Gives one pause, doesn't it? Well.... Like Dirty Harry Callahan said, 'A man's got to know his limitations.' Maybe none of the Delta Tau brothers did. They believed themselves gods.... And the angels came to correct them."<br />
There was a three second stare-off between Jane and Justin, then Justin broke off and he stepped towards me, hand out, saying, "I'm sorry, I phrased that in a very rude way, I didn't mean to insult you. I know Inana is a reputable studio, I don't mean to cast aspersions on it."<br />
"No problem," I said, and immediately changed the subject. "So what are you people up to tonight?"<br />
"Avoiding frat row like the plague, for one," said Dodge. "It's Rush Week. Boola boola, whoopty shit, decide which herd of identical white people you want to be around for the next four years. Thankfully, the heathen scum over at Cloyne co-op are throwing a party too. Three bands, three dollar keg charge, and the usual brand of hedonism associated with the place."<br />
I was puzzled. "Okay.... And this will be different from a frat party.... how?"<br />
Even Jane giggled at me. Mimi said, "First off, the bands Cloyne will have playing will be good. Looking at the list of bands that have played Cloyne parties is like a who's who of the East Bay punk rock scene. Yes, there is beer, but getting shitfaced is a major faux pas around there. If you're getting hammered, people will be steering you away from the keg and encouraging you to eat something, not egging you on until you pass out. And the big thing is, a girl can go to a Cloyne party without an escort and not be worried about her safety, you know? There's a ton of drugs around Cloyne, but Rohypnol is not one of them."<br />
"Point well taken," I said. "Thank you. Is there any restriction on non-students showing up?"<br />
"If there is, I've never heard of it," said Potato. "I've been going to parties at Cloyne Court for, shit, ten years now. You'd think someone would have noticed the yella boy who still hasn't graduated."<br />
Jane and I looked at each other and shrugged. "Dinner, then the bar, then.... Cloyne or Gilman?"<br />
"You left out a major event in your scheduling," said Jane. "First furniture-destroying, mind-bending sex. Then dinner, the bar, and.... Yeah. Cloyne will have some novelty. I haven't been to a party there yet. I've walked past the place, but it's just a big, rambling building from the outside. I didn't try to go in, because I don't know anyone who lives there, I'd pretty much be breaking and entering.... Or at least being incredibly rude."<br />
"What bar are you going to?" asked Dodge.<br />
"It's a place called Connor's on East Fourteenth, deep in Oakland. Some friends of friends spend their time hanging out there, when they're not out terrorizing the citizenry or performing unnatural acts."<br />
"Hey, Connor's.... Isn't that---"<br />
Jane cut in. "What time will things get going at Cloyne tonight?" she asked.<br />
"Um, probably around nine," said Mimi. "But it won't get really jumping until midnight. That's another difference between the frats and co-op parties. At the frats, everybody is passed out drunk by three in the morning. A good Cloyne party can go until sunrise, and beyond."<br />
I nudged Jane and said, "You still have all those, uh, party favors we sent up? We should bring them along."<br />
"Excellent point," Jane agreed. "Wait here for the cab, I'll be right back." She headed for the door, then reconsidered. "Hey, you guys wanna get high tonight? Come on up with me." This sounded just spiffy to the others, They followed her in.<br />
Five minutes later, Jane was back downstairs just in time to see the cab turn off Ellsworth onto Dwight. We settled in the back seat, telling the driver to head for the Marina Marriott. As we rode, Jane said quietly, "I'm really not comfortable about bringing up H.A. around those four, especially Justin."<br />
"What's up?" I asked.<br />
In a slightly halting manner, Jane told what had happened in her personal life recently. First, punching out Justin's roommate Rex. Finding out Rex was a member of the Delta Tau Theta fraternity, who cultivated a bad-ass image and kept an "enemies list,' which Jane was entered onto for punching Rex. She had apologized to him through Justin, but that didn't seem to matter. The M.O. for Delta Tau when dealing with women on their list was abuse and intimidation: two or three would corner the girl and begin yelling insults and epithets, telling her she needs to drop out of Berkeley and become a whore, or else. This did not work on Jane when they tried it the first time. Instead, it brought on an ER visit for one of the bros, to get his arm stitched up where Jane had stabbed him with her butterfly knife. Her would-be tormentors told her exactly who they were, and why she was a target. It was also made clear that if she was still in the city of Berkeley by tomorrow sundown, her life would be one of pain. Days-long gang rape was alluded to.<br />
Okay. Delta Tau believed they were tough guys. Jane knew real tough guys. She contacted Riley, the Sargent-at-Arms for the Oakland chapter of the Hell's Angels. He told her to sit tight at home until he picked her up. While she waited, she received a obscene and threatening phone call, and again had her butterfly knife in play, running off a bro armed with a bucket of animal blood (the plan: re-enact that one scene from the movie "Carrie"). Riley and the rest of Oakland H.A. agreed this was bullshit, Jane was a Little Sister, a friend to Angels everywhere, and no punk-ass honky frat-boy pukes were gonna make her life difficult. A raiding party showed up at the Delta Tau house that night. Rex, the two tormentors, and the blood thrower were fingered by Jane (the house population having been rousted and brought downstairs), and brought forward. While the rest of the bros watched, each of the four had seven teeth extracted with a pair of pliers. The teeth were given to Jane, who would have them made into a necklace. Collectively, Delta Tau House of UC Berkeley realized that nah, they weren't tough guys after all. They'd met the real thing, and had no stomach for that kind of action.<br />
As Rex was Justin's roommate, and both lived in the same building as Jane, Justin had suspicions. The story Delta Tau stuck with was the four bros missing teeth had been attacked by crackheads in downtown Oakland late that night..... Or was it Satanists in San Francisco's Tenderloin? (They didn't keep the story straight enough.) But they were keeping very mum about the truth, understandably so. Having the Hell's Angels slightly peeved with them had cost four bros their front teeth. If Delta Tau sicced the cops on H.A., the Angels would be very angry.... And no one wanted to think about what the responding action would be. But Justin had a suspicion that Jane was responsible, somehow, for the impromptu dentistry among the Delta Tau brothers.<br />
"Riley and other H.A. have been over to visit," Jane explained. "People know who my friends are. I just don't want anyone to get too suspicious about the boys, and drop a dime. That could make things very messy. Justin has --- as you saw --- a bad habit of acting without thinking. He's like a lot of hardcore computer geeks, he has no real grasp of what is and isn't an appropriate thing to say in a situation. And he might think he's helping things if he laid out his suspicions to Oakland PD."<br />
I thought about this, and finally declared, "Huh. Okay, you know what? I'm not even gonna get into you owing a favor to the Oakland H.A. You're a big girl, you'll figure something out. This guy Justin.... You say he talks like he did to me, to everybody? No sense of restraint? And he's a computer geek?"<br />
"More than a geek," Jane replied. "He's an ubermensch, he eats binary and shits operating systems. This is his senior year, and he's going to get a master's --- at least --- in Computer Science. He'll be one of those pale, creepy dudes you see shuffling out to their cars outside the Lawrence Berkeley Labs."<br />
"My gut reaction is he has Asperger's Syndrome."<br />
"Huh?"<br />
I smiled. "Okay, sorry, I'd better explain. Asperger's Syndrome is a defined level of the autism scale, one fairly high up. Some Austrian dude, Asperger, defined it in the Forties. It's sort of a high-level, very functional form of autism. Asperger's sufferers thrive on mechanical, repetitive actions and single-minded zeal.... Like writing code for a computer. They don't seem to have empathy for others, they suck at non-verbal communication, and they tend to be klutzes, always tripping on carpet lint or chipping their teeth eating yogurt. It's a diagnosis that is more easily found in children, since their interactions with others are pretty simple and straightforward. Most people just assume adult sufferers of Asperger's are total dicks, and leave it at that." I thought a moment. "What kind of music does this dude listen to?"<br />
"Oh boy, he's all over the map," Jane said. "He'll play an album side of 'Joe's Garage' by Frank Zappa, follow it up with some GBH, move on to early Brian Eno, and conclude with the Skatellites. He says his favorite band is Naked City Orchestra, the John Zorn project. Why?"<br />
"Well, damn. That pisses on a hypothesis I had. I was wondering if maybe all raver brats fall into the autism scale. They can stay interested in the same repetitive sound, or sounds, for hours at a time."<br />
"Duh, Lenny. That's just drugs."<br />
We went into the Marriott, checked in, went to our room, smoked a bowl of dope, got naked, and engaged in the most debased, animalistic, profane-laden sucking and fucking one could imagine for the next two hours. Jane finally said she was spent, she had enough, she'd be sore for days if we kept it up. "Mission accomplished?" I asked.<br />
"All systems go," she replied. We showered and dressed, then went downstairs to get a cab to East Oakland.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10230648449521958270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033784518790200307.post-4592181535706291412017-04-03T20:41:00.001-07:002017-04-03T20:41:19.921-07:00Groove (Part 8) At Jane's suggestion, we went to the barbecue place next door to the Hell's Angels' bar in East Oakland, bringing our pork sandwiches and beans and greens and bean pie inside, to eat at a booth. That way we could accompany our meal with a beer. Budweiser, of course. Like every other collection of outlaw bikers, the Hell's Angels knew there were really only two kinds of beer: Budweiser, and That Other Shit. When in Rome....<br />
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Riley knew to expect us. As soon as he finished his game of nine ball, he joined us at our booth. The bar was still quiet, it wasn't even eight o'clock yet. Maybe ten other Angels loafed at the bar or shot pool. The jukebox was still playing at a gentle level, The song changed tracks to "What's Your Name" by Lynard Skynard, causing me to begin dripping caustic fluids from my mouth and shoot lasers out of my eyes.<br />
"You didn't pick this fucking song, did you, Riley?" I asked.<br />
"Nope. Why?"<br />
"Just.... Trying to gauge someone's utter and complete inability to grasp the idea of anything original. This song, 'Stairway to Heaven,' and 'Purple Haze' all need to be retired. No, not retired. Taken behind the barn and shot in the head. They are done, through, kaput, finished. There are tribes in darkest Africa, totally untouched by the outside world, who know this song. It's overplayed, and it's worn out its welcome. There is no reason for anyone to ever listen to 'What's Your Name' again, we all have it memorized by now. Play anything else from Lynard Skynard's catalog, please! Except for fucking 'Sweet Home Alabama.' That one can go die too."<br />
"You don't like Skynard?" said a voice above my right shoulder. I looked up and saw an Angel I knew as Monk standing there. I couldn't tell by his expression if he was amused or annoyed.<br />
Making the same face back, I replied, "No, I'm fine with Lynard Skynard.... Except for two songs. And those songs aren't bad songs, per se, it's just that the constant repetition of them, over and over, years on end, has made me hate them. Think of living in an apartment next door to someone with a loud cuckoo clock, you can hear the thing every fifteen minutes. At first it's kinda cool. Then your brain desperately tries to tune it out. And finally, you chop down your neighbor's door with an ax and set the fucking clock on fire. Follow me? I enjoy all of Skynard's catalog, with two exceptions. Those two are like nails on chalkboard to me. Anyway, how's things, Monk?" I put out a hand to shake.<br />
"Rollin' along," he said, gesturing at Riley to scoot over so he could sit down. "Old lady's in jail for three months, her fuckin' probation officer gave her a surprise piss test and she was dirty. It's bullshit, she was arrested for receiving stolen property. What's that got to do with dope?"<br />
"It's an unjust world, bub," I replied. "Why is the federal government drug testing its employees who aren't operating heavy machinery or flying jets. Like I give a fuck if Walt the postman smoked a joint over the weekend."<br />
The place began to fill up, other Oakland H.A. spotting Jane and me and coming over to say whassup. Jane was a Little Sister, and under the wing of the fucking Sargent-at-Arms. She was to be cuddled, not groped. We knocked back our beers at a leisurely pace. Both of us had mentioned to Riley and Buzzy we had another obligation that night, so we'd be splitting around eleven. At 10:45 I walked up to the bar and asked the bartender to call me a cab. The bartender stared in amazement, while the Angels on either side of me burst into laughter.<br />
"What's the comedy?" I asked the one on my left.<br />
"That's right, yer from Dago," the Angel said. "Bubba, right now yer in East fuckin' Oakland, at East Fourteenth and Sixty-Fourth Avenue. Three blocks from a housing project called Hegenberger Village. It's a lovely little area. Sorta like California's version of Cabrini Green. And the rest the neighborhood sucks too."<br />
"Why do you think they let us occupy space around here?" laughed the Angel to my right.<br />
"Huh," I asserted. "Okay, fucking lovely. Me and Gator Bait got here by cab. Any suggestions how we should get the hell back to Berkeley? If someone's got a car, I'll gladly pay them for the ride, that's fine with me. Fifty bucks to drive us to Berkeley."<br />
The Angel on my left said, "How 'bout a couple of us just double-pack you to the Coliseum BART station, gratis? Grab a train bound for Richmond, get off at Ashby, Berkeley, or North Berkeley, you're set. Ain't stylish, ain't private, but it works. And it beats the shit outta being a white boy on foot in this neighborhood."<br />
"A stellar idea, and an offer I will take with gratitude.... Although we don't have helmets."<br />
This prompted more laughter. "Scooter trash with no helmets are the least of the concerns for Oakland cops. Shit, they figger if we crack up, we'll kill ourselves, and we're one less worry. Don't sweat it."<br />
The Angel (whose name was Iggy) grabbed a buddy (Mad Mike), telling him the two of them had a quick errand to run, getting Little Sister Gator Bait and her bro Lenny, from Dago, over to the BART station. We went out to the street, where the Angels fired their putts to warm. We were standing there, finishing cigarettes, when a car going past had a passenger yell, "Fuck you, peckawoods!"<br />
The Angels didn't even bother to turn their heads to look. "Fuckin' coons," one of them muttered.<br />
Jane and I swung onto our respective bikes, then the pilots mounted up. The BART station was just a few minutes away: down East Fourteenth St. to 66th Ave, then to San Leandro St. Nothing happening at the Coliseum tonight, so no heavy crowds. This was also the BART station which served the Oakland airport. There was a shuttle service between the two places for those too broke to afford a cab. The passengers were easy to spot, they were the ones clutching their luggage with death grips.<br />
We fed the machines and got our tickets, then went through the stiles. Up on the platform, it was much quieter. The display overhead told us it was 11:02 and the next Richmond train would arrive in six minutes. I poked a cigarette in my mouth to kill time, but Jane gestured at the NO SMOKING signs on the walls. "What the fuck? We're outdoors," I complained.<br />
"Yeah, well.... People in the Bay Area are a lot more anal retentive about smoking than they are in SoCal. I've noticed that in a few places. Berkeley is the worst. I light a Newport standing on a fucking public sidewalk in Berkeley, there's people who give me a look like I just unfurled a Nazi flag. Your average Berkeley nonsmoker has a shitload of self-righteous zeal, and has a vast overreaction to what is, at its core, a small tube of smoldering dried leaves. They really hate it when you point that out to them, too."<br />
"I've heard that shit," I commented. "'Do you know what's in cigarettes?' Yeah, shredded dried leaves and a couple preservatives. If you want me to tell you the fucking chemical breakdown of a tobacco leaf, forget it. Tell you what, dick-nose, lemme go over to your house and figure out what sort of chemical hazards you're harboring. You want to cut down on pollution? Insist military planes meet emissions guidelines...."<br />
"There are no emissions guidelines for aircraft," Jane pointed out.<br />
"That's half my point. See, tiny little paper tube of burning plant matter isn't the problem. It's just the one assholes like to snipe about, because they can see and smell it. A valid concern has turned us into a nation of petty, annoying little quibblers. Looking at the big picture is hard, and scary, and you have to really think about it! It's easier to be a little bitch with a stranger smoking a cigarette, or your neighbor having a barbecue with charcoal, or people in the mountains who use wood stoves to heat their homes. Knock all those out, and it won't even make a dent in air quality."<br />
We could hear the train coming. The overhead display said 6 CAR TRAIN, so we shuffled closer to the center. There were maybe seven other people waiting to get on. Just as the weird electronic-sounding hoot of the train's whistle was going off, I heard feet stomping on metal, and someone yelling, "Dudes! Dudes! It's here right now, hurry up!"<br />
And three young men throw themselves onto the platform. They're wearing shorts, Nike tennis shoes --- the actual shoes made for playing tennis --- baggy t-shirts, sunglasses, baseball caps, and amazed expressions. They're also carrying duffel bags in one hand, and lacrosse sticks. It's obvious they've just arrived on an airplane, as they fit in with East Oakland like I fit in at a gathering of Rastafarians.<br />
One of them hustled up to me and asked, "Dude! Is this the train back to Berkeley?"<br />
"Yeah," I deadpanned.<br />
"Where in Berkeley does it stop?"<br />
This puzzled me: how had he departed Oakland airport without taking BART there to begin with? I answered, "Three places. The Ashby stop is on Ashby Avenue near Shattuck, the Downtown stop in on Shattuck between Addison and Allston. North Berkeley is, um, around Sacramento and Cedar. Where do you want to be?"<br />
"Fuckin' home, man!" one of the others said. "Um, Warring and.... Dwight? Or Channing?"<br />
"Between the two," the third lacrosse sporto said. Addressing us, he elaborated, "The Sigma Pi house."<br />
Jane (who had memorized the Berkeley city atlas more thoroughly than I had) said, "Oh yes, down the block from the Oscar Wilde co-op."<br />
The three lacrosse jocks fixed Jane with looks of both surprise and annoyance. They had to break their concentration, however, as the doors to the train were opening. We all got in, the lacrosse jocks acting like it was the last train leaving East Berlin in June of 1948. They landed in some seats which faced each other, we planted ourselves in a forward-facing set ten rows away.<br />
One of the jocks was doing an imitation of a prairie dog. He kept raising up and staring at us, then dropping down again. We could hear muttered conversation. After about the seventh time, he yelled, "Hey!"<br />
The other five people on the train looked up. Jane said in a quieter voice, "What?" She was ignored. She said "What?" a bit louder, then gave up and gestured impatiently with her arm. The jock approached. Stopping where we were seated, he looked at Jane and said, "Are you in porn?"<br />
With a look she stole from Bekka, Jane replied, "I have been, yes. Why? Are you a fan of the 'Naughty Novices' series from Inana Productions?"<br />
The jock, a bony guy with blonde hair, seemed a bit surprised his question hadn't resulted in hurled invective or a slapped face. It took him a moment to recover, then he said, "Yeah, that's where I seen you! The 'Novices' tapes, you're on a couple of those. You're with that dude from that one Becky Page movie, um, the one with all the fucked-up cars...."<br />
"'Succubus'?" I gently prodded.<br />
"Yeah, that's it." He seemed a bit lost as to go from there. "So, um.... Are you.... still working?"<br />
"No, I'm a full-time student now," Jane answered. "I made four loops over the summer between graduating high school and starting at Berkeley. I'd wanted to try performance since I was sixteen --- possibly younger --- and Lenny here let me give it a shot. For reference sake, this is Lenny Schneider, the man who runs Inana Productions. Anyway, I made my first loop with Roach, decided it was easy and fun, so I made three more. Some extra spending money for school."<br />
"How much did you make?"<br />
"$950 per loop. That breaks down to $750 for the scene, plus an extra $200 for taking the money shot as a facial. Not bad for a morning's work. On the sound stage around 8:45, off at noon. Shower, eat lunch, socialize, then go home and surf. If I didn't have goals that demand a college education, I'd work as a porn star in a second.... At least for Inana, anyway."<br />
From further up the train, one of the other lacrosse jocks yelled, "Ask her if she wants to party!" The yelling bro and his pal busted up with laughter.<br />
Jane instructed Blondie, "Tell your friend that yes, I do. That's where I'm headed right now. Call me small minded, but I have a hunch your idea of a party is very different from mine. Thank him for the offer, though. I know where the three of you are located on Warring Street, just up from Oscar Wilde co-op."<br />
Blondie frowned and asked, "Hey, how come you know about that place? You're not, like, a dyke or nothing, are you?"<br />
The fixed stare Jane focused on Blondie lasted five or six silent seconds. She finally said, "Well.... The Oscar Wilde house is on UC Berkeley-produced maps of the area.... In fact, your fraternity house is also shown. It's one of the larger housing co-ops, and their parties are legendary, I can't wait for one. And, to use your vulgarity, I'm half-dyke. I'm bisexual, although my hetero side is the dominant one. Do you have any more questions, or may I ask one?"<br />
"Um.... Okay...."<br />
"Are you and your friends drunk?"<br />
"Huh?"<br />
"You heard her," I needled.<br />
Blondie gave an aw-shucks smile and looked around the car. "Aw, well, we been down in San Diego, at a series at San Diego State, you know? SDSU is the major rager! We got there Wednesday afternoon and everybody just dove into the whole scene, you know? Warm sun, beers, honeys, the beach, everything. SDSU is so awesome, no wonder it's ranked one of the highest schools in the country over and over."<br />
I chortled briefly and said, "You are aware Playboy's 'Top Ten Party Schools' annual list does not reflect academic standing, right? SDSU and Chico are two places for those either too stupid or too poor for a UC school. Are you listening to yourself? You go to UCB and you think San Diego State is a better place. Jesus. I hope you're still hammered, because you're demonstrating a horrible lack of reason."<br />
He got vaguely defensive. "Yeah? What do you know about San Diego?"<br />
"I grew up in San Diego, Skeezix," I shot back. "I still live in Encinitas. Inana Productions has two studio facilities, one in La Costa, one in Oceanside. I've lived in Clairemont, El Cajon, Logan Heights, Kensington, and Mission Beach. Yeah, I know State. It's a great campus, if you think making your foreign language requisites means drinking both Heineken and Sapporo on the same weekend. People think SDSU is there for higher education. No. SDSU is there to delay adulthood an extra four years, only you're not living at home and it's easier to spot for beer.<br />
"One of the good things about SDSU is they do have some great bands play, either at the amphitheater or Montezuma Hall. I've been on campus plenty of times, at all hours of the day and night. Everything about the place seems to announce, 'Attendance at SDSU means you will live every stereotype of being a college student possible. It's not about education, it's about living out a slow-moving fantasy.' And their frat row, Jesus...."<br />
"What's wrong with the frat row there?" demanded Blondie. "They rock!"<br />
Jane burst out laughing, and so did I. With a bit of effort, I expounded, "You have got to be kidding me! Holy fuckin' shit! I don't give a fuck if they throw parties that are a cross between P.T. Barnum and Caligula, they're bums. You look at one of those houses and it tells the world, 'We're all too busy getting drunk and scamming pussy to have self-respect. We live in the sort of dump usually associated with Detroit crack houses, not colleges.' Seriously, think about this. If you let your chapter house get as run-down and trashed and terrible as the ones on SDSU's frat row does, the university would be looking to shut you down and kick you out. You know that for a fact, don't lie. And when your national charter calls the school to ask what's going on, all the school would do is send them a photograph.... And the national charter for Sigma Pi would say, 'We no longer have a chapter at UC Berkeley.'<br />
"But I like to think, just by dint of having the moxie and intelligence to get into Berkeley, you would also have more pride than those bastards in San Diego. You know something's amiss when Hell's Angels --- yeah, those guys --- ride down Frat Row and think, 'What a shithole.' They've got pride in what they have, which is usually damn little. But the collective property of a chapter, be it a clubhouse, a garage, a business, tools, whatever, will be cared for, because H.A. knows it's the right thing to do. And trust me on this, Hell's Angels know how to fuckin' party."<br />
"You guys hang around with Hell's Angels?" Blondie asked suspiciously.<br />
Jane shrugged and said, "Well.... Yeah. Due to one thing and another, we got introduced to the San Diego chapter, a.k.a. Dago. We hit it off with them, really damn well, and after a couple more visits, we were told they thought we were good people, we could come down to the bar or wherever the party is anytime we felt like. So, we made friends.<br />
"Then last year's Labor Day, we went on the big run to Pismo Beach, where we were introduced around and made friends with people from chapters all over the West. That included the Oakland chapter. Their Sargent-at-Arms, Riley, clicked with us, so we hung out a lot that weekend. Now that I'm going to school up here, I'll go down to visit the Oakland chapter, hang out at the bar. I'm what's called a 'Little Sister.' Basically it means, 'This chick is righteous, don't jack her around or try to hustle her, she has friends here.' In my case, friggin' Riley. So I go down, or a few of the brothers will come up and we'll hang out at Blake's. Tonight, we found out cabs won't go into the neighborhood where the chapter bar is, so we both got double-packed to the Airport station, in order to get home. If you're bored and brave and don't mind losing teeth, go ahead and check out Andy's Saloon, at East Fourteenth Street and Sixty-fourth Avenue. Sit politely at the bar, drink your beers, and see if someone starts a conversation with you. Don't feel snubbed if they don't, H.A. is as insular as Shinto monks."<br />
"Teeth missing?" Blondie suddenly snapped to attention. I think Jane and I both realized the slip of the tongue that had just come out, and around the wrong sort of person.<br />
I covered, "Oh, yeah. Teeth missing, black eyes, broken nose, cracked cheekbone, dislocated jaw.... Angels fight hard, they fight mean, and they don't stop until the other person has stopped moving. Here, go like this...." I made a fist and held it up in front of me. Blondie did so. I looked and said, "Yeah.... If you decide to visit Andy's Saloon, be at your most deferential without being fawning. Just act like you happened to be in the neighborhood and wanted a beer, no clue as to who would be there."<br />
Blondie's other two friends came up to see what was occupying their friend's time. A prick who would look perfectly natural wearing a yachting cap (I named him "Skip") asked, "What's up over here? So hey, we've seen you in porn. Are you still making porn? Where can we see more of you?"<br />
Jane replied, "Yes it's me, not at the moment but that may change in the spring, and if you have the 'Naughty Novices' tapes I'm on, all four, that's all. As I was telling this guy, it was a way to pick some extra spending money for school over the summer. Beat the hell out of mowing lawns."<br />
"So how do I make that sort of money over the summer?" blared the third one, a surprisingly heavyset guy for a lacrosse player (I named him "Lumpy").<br />
I looked him in the eye and said, "Have two X chromosomes."<br />
I got a confused look back. I didn't want to give a lecture about genetic determination of gender, so I changed my answer to, "Be a woman. That's how you make good money in porn. You don't make good money in porn if you're a man. You're too easily replaced."<br />
"Why is that?"<br />
Jane rolled her eyes and said, "Oh Jesus. Because it is far easier to find men willing to appear in porn than it is to find women willing to do so. Especially for women, it takes a certain type of personality to make it as a porn star." She considered and giggled. "If more women had that little bend in their personality, there would be no need for the Equal Rights Amendment. The chauvinists would be too damn scared to oppose women."<br />
"They think SDSU sucks," Blondie complained to his friends.<br />
"And since I'm a San Diego native, I feel I'm qualified to make that statement. It's a fucking college campus, not Club Med. You shouldn't go to college thinking, 'Am I going to have a shitload of fun?' No, you're supposed to be there to become well-rounded and knowledgeable and employable. You want to go to a lot of parties? Quit college and become a rent-a-clown."<br />
"Here's something else I'm curious about," said Jane. "Um.... Have none of you been on BART before tonight?"<br />
All three laughingly confirmed this was true.<br />
"Okay.... How did you get to the airport to go to San Diego?"<br />
"We rode the Bears bus," said Skip; "The whole team was in San Diego, but we decided to, you know, have sort of a layover. It was such a rager the first two nights we had to see what a weekend night would be like." He looked at his two friends and they all started laughing.<br />
"I can't wait to hear it," breathed Jane.<br />
Lumpy drew near and announced to both of us, "Some of the dudes from the San Diego Sigma Pi chapter took us to Tijuana! Oh man! I barely remember walking back across the border early this morning. The San Diego brothers were telling us we had to help them find 'the donkey show.' It's where...."<br />
I cut him off with a derisive snort. "I know what the donkey show is supposed to be. It doesn't exist, your buddies sent you on a snipe hunt. If it did exist, I would know about it."<br />
"Yeah? And why izzat?" asked Blondie with his own note of derision.<br />
I considered my words before responding. "Because how I live, and people who I'm associated with, would demand it. It would be my business, literally. To salve your wounded hearts, I can assure you there is pornography of the activities which would happen in a donkey show.... Just don't expect to run to the local porn shop and find it. But such things have happened, and there is photographic evidence." I gave another few ticks. "So, how did things go down there?"<br />
It was raging," said Lumpy. "The last place I remember being in was some sort of strip club. When the dancers weren't on stage, they'd actually work the fuckin' audience, and suck your dick for twenty bucks! Shit, we were down for that. But I guess 'cos we were all pretty sloshed, it was like, as soon as I got close to coming, the chick would ask for another twenty 'cos I'm taking too long. I ended up getting eighty bucks in, when I realized I was down to, like, fourteen dollars. I finally just told her sorry, ain't gonna happen."<br />
Jane and I were both turning red and snickering into our fists. Jane managed to chuckle out, "Yes, those girls are very talented."<br />
"What do you mean?" asked Skip.<br />
"Okay. Those girls have sucked a hell of a lot of cock in their lives. They're good at telling how far along a man is, if you follow me. So when they know a dude is getting pretty close to coming, they announce the five minutes is up, they need another twenty. Of course, this knocks the guy's progress back, and she's covering old ground.<br />
"The bar girls have to be good at sucking cock. If they were doing a mediocre job, they wouldn't keep guys interested. Guys would just be telling them to get lost after the first twenty. These girls can gauge how close a guy is to coming, and adjust accordingly, to string him out as long as possible. You got played, boys. Don't feel bad, though, now you know better."<br />
"So where were your buddies from San Diego during all this?" I asked.<br />
"Oh, they were up towards the front at a table, drinking beer and watching the show," said Lumpy.<br />
"Did they know you three were getting sucked for bucks?"<br />
"That's whey they moved to that table, they said they wanted us to have some privacy."<br />
I sighed and put my face in my hands. "No. See, boys, your fellow Sigma Pi in San Diego are not your friends. They were playing you, big time, for their own amusement. A common term for people like that is 'motherfuckers.' If those dudes are your friends, you don't need enemies."<br />
"Now I wonder what they got out of you," pondered Jane.<br />
"What do you mean?" demanded Blondie.<br />
"If they looted your gear, or went through your wallets for credit card information, or...."<br />
Lumpy said, "Oh. Yeah."<br />
"What?"<br />
"Um, we spend all our cash partying in TJ, um, we needed air fare, plus a little money for food and getting on this train, and shit....."<br />
"Go on," I prodded.<br />
"Oh. Well, all three of us have credit cards attached to our parents' accounts. We can't use them like ATM cards, we can't get cash with them, and of course when we do use the cards, our parents can just look at the monthly statement and see where we used to cards. So, we weren't about to use the cards in Tijuana bars, you know?<br />
"So the brothers in San Diego said, 'No problem, we'll loan you the cash for air fare. You get the cash back from your bank accounts and send it to us.' Um.... But they wanted to, uh, hold our credit cards as collateral." Silence. "Hey, we hit the bank Monday morning, they have their money back Wednesday and mail us our cards, we have the cards back Friday! No big deal!"<br />
Jane and I were staring at each other and very slowly shaking out heads. I had to ask. "Tell me, why didn't you just use your ATM cards at branches of your banks in San Diego to get air fare, if you have the money in the bank?"<br />
Skip said, "Well, they told us that not only was it Saturday, so all the banks would be closed, San Diego has a weird law about the operating hours of ATMs. They aren't allowed to operate from midnight on Friday until six a.m. on Sunday. It has to do with cutting down on sailors getting ripped off by prostitutes or something...."<br />
In a low growl, Jane said, "And this made sense to you."<br />
"Uh.... Yeah."<br />
Somewhat louder, "It made sense that a major urban area like fucking San Diego would have a bizarre and arcane law in place, governing the operating hours of ATMs, to try and stop low-level crime aimed at sailors. Nothing rang false about this information."<br />
"Hey, they're Sigma Pi, they wouldn't rip off fellow Sigma Pi brothers!" protested Lumpy.<br />
I gave all three of them a steady, singular look, one after the other. Then I said, "Boys, the very first thing you do when you get off this train is find a pay phone with a phone book, so you can call the theft alert number for your respective credit cards. Report the cards as stolen, and hope your pals in San Diego haven't maxed out all three cards yet. What sort of limits do the cards have?"<br />
"Since it's, you know, technically my parents' card, it's whatever the limit is on them. Um, I think.... $60,000 or something? My parents have good credit, so Visa lets them run high balances."<br />
"They had good credit, anyway," Jane muttered. In a louder voice, she said, "So! People at SDSU have sent you on a wild goose chase, humiliated you, stolen all your cash by proxy, and defrauded you. Tell me more about what a wonderful place San Diego State's Frat Row is. You got ganked by fellow fraternity brothers, and they probably still haven't stop laughing. First task is to get those cards deactivated...."<br />
"My parents will be so pissed if they think I lost the card, or it was stolen!" whined Blondie.<br />
"And they'll be way more pissed when their Visa or MasterCard is drained dry!" shouted Jane. "Get those cards deactivated. Get some fucking sleep. Then work on getting some revenge. All three of you got fucked by your own brothers, no lube. Fuck them back."<br />
"How?"<br />
"That's up to you three. You know these assholes, we don't. You'd know their weak spots. You'd know their weaknesses. You'd know the skeletons in the closet. Exploit weaknesses, erode the foundation, and collapse the house. Get me?"<br />
The three of them stood and silently nodded like mental patients, staring at the ground. All of a sudden Blondie says, "Hey. Didn't you say you go to Berkeley?"<br />
"Yes, I did. This is my freshman year. I'm a business major, I'm a Haas student."<br />
All three choked on their own spit. "You're a student at Haas?"<br />
"Indeed I am. Since I intend to rule the world through economic brute force before I begin menopause, Haas has a lot it can teach me. Boys, I intend to make Warren Buffet look like a news stand operator when it comes to wealth, and I will make Idi Amin look like Gandhi when it comes to hubris. In chess, players learn to look multiple moves ahead. This is a wise strategy, but after a while I won't need it, because I'll own the playing pieces, the board, and the fucking table the game happens on. In forty years, you may see me on the news --- or on a currency --- and think, 'Hey, I met her on a BART train one night in college.' And I'm sentimental enough to look you up. I'll buy the three of you the Maldives, you can rotate whose turn it is to use them."<br />
Conversation ground to a halt just before the 19th St. station in downtown Oakland. The lacrosse jocks just took seats where they were, sort of staggered up and across from us. The train began to fill a bit at 19th St., 12th St., and also at MacArthur. It was about the sort of people you'd see using BART at that hour on a Saturday: young, urban, and mostly black. This held all the meaning of a copy of "Dianetics" to me. The jocks, however, were a bit spooked. The train was not only filling up with Black People, but Black People.... from Oakland!<br />
As people boarded and sat at the MacArthur station, a black guy, around thirty, stopped next to where Jane and I were sitting. He was dressed fashionably, but needed a shave, and a lower BAC. He looked at me and said slowly, "Hey man, I know you."<br />
"Really?" I asked. "Where from?"<br />
He smiled in a groggy way (I wondered if it was more than just alcohol) and said, "I seen you in Newsweek. You the dude who makes those Becky Page movies. Shit, thass right, you married to the girl, too. Dang. How's it going, dawg?"<br />
"No complaints here," I replied. "Up from San Diego visiting friends. Becky is at home, she had business to take care of this weekend. This is Jane. She goes to UC Berkeley."<br />
"Dwayne," said the man, putting a hand out to Jane. Then he repeated himself and offered me his hand, too.<br />
"What's your favorite Becky Page movie?" Jane asked.<br />
"Dang. Aww..... Whass the name of it.... Oh, shit, 'Dangerous Desires.' That one is off the hook! Dang, a triple-X movie with a car chase and shoot-outs? That shit was gangsta, you know what I'm sayin'?"<br />
"That was the whole idea," I told Dwayne. "I wanted it to be gritty as hell. Have you seen the sequel, 'Blood-Stained Kisses'?"<br />
"Naw.... I know it's out, but I ain't seen it yet. What's it about?"<br />
"Okay, Becky's character from the first movie has started her own agency. She's scraping by at first, doing auto repossessions and process service to get by. Her first big case is a murder case. A wealthy family wants to find their adult son's murderer. The son was found naked and strangled with a pair of fishnet stockings behind a notorious 'meat market' of a singles bar. The further Becky digs, the deeper she finds herself in different sexual subcultures in the anonymous Southern California town she's in. While kink wasn't the reason or focus of the sex in the film, there's more kink in this one than other Inana movies. It's fun as hell, and it'll keep your brain moving. I put just enough clues into the script that if someone is really paying attention, and has an analytical mind, they can solve the mystery before Becky does. Not too much sooner, but enough to make a person feel kinda proud of themselves, you know?"<br />
"Right on, right on," said Dwayne.<br />
Jane added, "To me, what was funny was.... Okay, Becky, as the detective, is following leads that are taking her into all these twilight sort of sexual cultures. She's around the fetish scene, and the domme-submissive scene, and the bondage scene. She's cruising a domme-sub club, looking for a particular regular, a male submissive. So she's in serious black leather, of course, along with the boots and the whip on her belt. Oh my God. You would not <i>believe</i> the amount of fan mail we got saying, 'You have to get Becky in leather again! We don't care how flimsy the excuse, dress Becky up like a domme again!' We could put a whole new twist to Becky's career, it would seem."<br />
Dwayne laughed at this, then said, "So, Becky Page all in black leather, like them women who whip their men and shit? Dang." He grew briefly silent, then laughingly declared, "Oh yeah, I got to see this movie! Dang!" We all laughed. Then the horn sounded for Downtown Berkeley, and Jane and I stood up. We shook hands again, and left the train.<br />
As we walked towards the turnstiles, I checked my wallet and swore. I'd spent all my small bills, and the local taxi drivers were unswerving in their insistence of, "Driver Only Carries $5 Change." Jane checked her cash, and had a few fives and ones. The lacrosse jocks started to go past, then Skip stopped when he saw us. "Oh wow, when that colored guy stopped and started to talk to you, I didn't know what to think! What did he want? It seemed like you talked to him a while."<br />
"'Colored guy'?" queried Jane with contempt.<br />
I answered, "He was a fan, he recognized me from a picture in Newsweek a while back. Um.... You guys know who I am, right?"<br />
Blondie stammered, "Um.... You said, um.... I was busy talking to <i>her</i>!"<br />
"Lenny Schneider, Big Cheese of the adult video studio Inana Productions," said Jane. "Also the man who has given me unconditional love for over two years now. We also love each other in a more direct way, but that's no one else's business."<br />
"So what did that colored guy want?" pressed Skip.<br />
"The black guy," I said pointedly. "This isn't 1954. He was a fan, that's all, he just wanted to say hi and tell me he likes my movies. Easy enough to start a conversation from there, so we did. He loves 'Dangerous Desires,' but hasn't seen 'Blood-Stained Kisses' yet. He will be soon, though."<br />
"But what did he want?"<br />
I was getting confused. "He didn't want anything, he just wanted to meet me, and shake my hand. He was a fan, like a shitload of other people. It still feels a little weird, having strangers going out of their way to introduce themselves to me...."<br />
With a sudden wave of recognition, Lumpy said, "Hey.... That's right. You're married to Becky Page!"<br />
"Oh God," muttered Jane. More loudly, she said, "Yes, that's him. Becky Page's husband, Lenny Page. Or, Lenny Schneider, the guy that wrote and produced the first twelve of Inana's features. Whichever."<br />
"Whoa," noted Skip. "What's that like, being married to Becky Page?" He started snorting at his own wit. "Is she wild? Can you keep up with her? Can you handle Becky Page?"<br />
I replied, "Well, since 'Becky Page' is a fictional construct, she's very easy to handle. Becky Page is the screen name of Bekka Schneider, the woman I married, and the woman I love. My wife Bekka and I complement each other well, we're on the same wavelength in nearly every aspect of our lives. It's a funny thing, screen stardom. Idiots confuse the character with the actor. Like, I'm sure there are people in the world who believe Leonard Nimoy is half-human, half-alien."<br />
"Nimoy is older now, but he's still pretty hot," giggled Jane. "If he goes into Pon Farr, I'm volunteering to do the ceremony with him!"<br />
Skip was being obstinate. "But, come on.... This is Becky Page, she's a total dynamo! I've seen most of her movies, and even some short videos of her, no plot, just sex. Becky Page is like..... She's the Tasmanian Devil of sex! She's like a natural force or something!"<br />
Jane tried this time. "Uh, yeah dude, this may come as a surprise, but what shows up on a screen doesn't match what happened in real life. Okay, first off, there's a special talent called 'acting.' Bekka is a talented actress, she can make you believe she is in a state of joy, or terror, or anger, or sexual ecstasy. Also, dude? Video gets edited. It gets cut up and spliced together so that actions look like they're nonstop. You don't think car chases are all shot in one long take, right? Or even dialogue? Bekka is a normal woman.... Okay, somewhat hornier than most, but so am I..... And she has the acting talent to look like the sexual dynamo that shows up on her videos. She's not Wonder Woman, okay?"<br />
To hell with this, I thought. I was tired of trying to explain different aspects of reality to lacrosse-playing frat boy dimwits. I gestured at Jane, we fed our tickets into the turnstile, and exited the station, heading for the escalator up to the street.<br />
We were nearly to Addison when someone began yelling "Dude dude dude dude dude!" and we heard running footsteps. I turned to see Skip and Blondie approaching rapidly. When they got up to us, Blondie said, "Hey, um, do you have a couple quarters you can spare? We just checked our cash, um, we have six ones and twelve cents. We need to use the pay phone, so we can call the house and have someone pick us up."<br />
I shoved a hand in a pocket and grabbed some random change, which I handed to Blondie. "Keep it," I said. "You may need to call more than once." A thought struck me. I asked the two, "Isn't this Rush Week? Aren't all the fraternities and sororities throwing huge parties all weekend?"<br />
The shock struck them both. "Oh shit, we're missing Rush! And we're officers!" cried Skip.<br />
Trying to hide my smile, I continued for him. "And odds are, nobody's gonna hear a phone ringing upstairs over the noise of the party. Gentlemen, it's a good thing you're athletes, because you've got a bit of a walk ahead."<br />
"Twelve blocks, by my estimation," Jane inserted. "Not too much distance, although you'll be headed uphill. Goodnight, boys." We turned and walked to the line of taxis along Addison St.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10230648449521958270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033784518790200307.post-16062502569633475602017-04-03T20:41:00.000-07:002017-04-03T20:41:05.607-07:00Groove (Part 9) On the taxi ride up to Cloyne Court co-op, on Ridge Rd. at La Loma, my pager went off, and it was Bekka. And she'd put in an odd combination of codes, both "911" (major shit is happening, call ASAP) and "411" (big news, call soon, important information available). When the cab driver dropped us off, I took in the scene at the co-op. It was definitely a blow-out. I could hear 77-style punk rock being played live, the singer trying to ape Joe Strummer's voice. There was lots of talk and laughter and activity, but it seemed to lack the same sort of uncoordinated efforts of a large crowd fueled on alcohol. We strode in like we owned the place and paid a guy wearing a King Vitamin crown and fur robe for our beer cups. I wasn't in too much of a hurry to start drinking, I wanted to find a resident with a private phone who I could bribe into letting me call San Diego.<br />
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Jane and I began walking up to people and politely asking if they were Cloyne residents. Jane found one, who took us both in with apprehension. I told the girl, "Look, my wife is in San Diego, she just paged me, and it's important. I'll give you a double sawbuck if you let me use your phone for five minutes to make a long distance call."<br />
"Uh.... That's twenty dollars, right?" the girl asked.<br />
"Yeah, exactly. Is that kosher? You can stay in the room, that's fine, just so long as your room is fairly quiet and you have a private phone line."<br />
The girl shrugged and gestured for us to follow her. We went up a long flight of stairs, along a hallway which was both inclined and seemed to run at an angle from the rest of the building, down some steps, then around five corners. I was utterly disoriented. So was Jane, who asked the girl how many weeks she'd had to leave trails of bread crumbs to find her way out of the building. "Just two," the girl said, unlocking her door.<br />
She pointed to a phone sitting on her desk. When Bekka heard me on the phone, she said, "I just got some news from Vinny about twenty minutes ago, and I'm going to give it to you straight up. First, Lawrence Pelton will live. It was touch and go for quite a while, but he seems to have rallied and is now stable, but still a mess." She paused to sigh. "Larry Bennett died this afternoon. Too much trauma. He went into a coma, then his heart stopped about a half hour later. Efforts to resuscitate didn't work." Another pause. "I'm sorry about Larry, babe."<br />
I stared blankly down at the desk. My mind registered I was looking at a textbook for a Human Sexuality class. I responded, "Okay. Thanks for letting me know. Well, shit. We at least batted .500, I was afraid it was going to be a shutout. Do you know where Lawrence is? Can I call him?"<br />
"He's at Cedars-Sinai, in ICU. Vinny did give me the phone number for his room, but said it'll probably be a couple days before he'll answer. He's still out of it. Fourteen hours of surgery, while they sew your intestines, spleen, and part of a lung back together can be a bit taxing. But he is stable, and doing well, considering. In the morning I'm calling FTD and sending the biggest fucking bouquet they sell, I'll forge your name onto the card."<br />
"Thanks, babe, I'm going to wait until I can talk to Lawrence on the phone, and after that I'm going to visit." I chuckled. "I'm gonna yell at the bastard for scaring me like that, and I want to do it face to face. Any news about Haley?"<br />
"Yes. They found the Audi in the parking lot of a Big Bear in Clairemont. And in what can't be an unconnected incident, there was a car-jacking at a liquor store four blocks away this afternoon. Suspect's description matches Ron Haley. He had a pistol, and was carrying one of those huge duffel bags like hockey players use. Also, the bag seemed to be very heavy, according to the victim."<br />
"Twelve gauge shells can weigh a bit, when you get a bunch in one place," I observed. "What's the description of the newest car?"<br />
Bekka replied, "A 1991 Ford Taurus SHO, blue, plate number 2MHN199." She chuckled. "Um, apparently Haley hasn't driven a stick in a while. The victim said he seemed to be having trouble getting in gear, he stalled leaving the parking lot of the liquor store, then popped the clutch and burned rubber. If he doesn't get any smoother, the cops will pick him up real quick. They just need to watch for a Taurus being driven by a spaz."<br />
I puzzled a bit. "Wonder what the hell Haley is doing in Clairemont. He knows where the La Costa studio is, and the Oceanside location isn't exactly a secret."<br />
"The pessimist in me says he knows both studios are being watched, and is lurking around out of the area until things seem to have normalized. We'll be putting the stakeout plan into place in the morning. So long as Haley doesn't actually observe us setting up the subterfuge, it'll look like a normal Sunday work day at the mansion, with Leonard and Bekka Schneider's cars front and center."<br />
"Let's pray he bites."<br />
"Where are you calling from?" Bekka asked.<br />
"A co-op called Cloyne Court on the north side of campus. I'm in the room of a lovely young lady, uh...." I held the phone to one side and apologetically asked for the girl's name. "A girl named Kristen, who was willing to be bribed so I could use her phone. Would you like to talk to her?"<br />
"Is she a Becky Page fan?"<br />
I looked at the Becky Page poster on one wall, which had lipstick prints (in different shades) on some of the naughtier areas of the picture. "Yes, I believe she is. Hold on."<br />
I didn't give away who was on the other end, simply telling Kristen my wife wanted to talk to her. She said "Hello?" into the phone, then got a shocked look. "No way. Really? No way.... Yeah.... Holy shit, you're right! That is him! Oh my God, this is so cool! Um, um, I don't know what to say, uh, what's new with you?"<br />
I guessed Bekka was explaining about the Ron Haley-based stress in our lives, and how I'd just learned I'd lost a friend. Kristen (a girl with a severe pageboy haircut, shaved way up the back like<br />
Becky Page, wearing vinyl pants and a tank top) mostly made monosyllabic sounds to indicate she was paying attention. She finally said, "Oh God, I'm so sorry, Becky-- Bekka. It's gotta be scary. God, you just went through all that trauma a year ago, too! See, this is why people think you're so strong. If it was me, I'd have collapsed into a ball, thrown myself in a hole, and pulled the hole in on top of myself....<br />
"Yeah, I guess so, good point.... But still..... Um, look, can I confess something to you? It's because of you I admitted to myself, and everyone around me, that I'm bisexual. I took a lot of strength from you when I came out..... Honestly? About fifty-fifty, and all the time...." Kristen looked at Jane and smiled. "Yeah, she is..... Yeah.... Heh... Yeah, she is, isn't she?.... Bekka! Really? Oh my God, are you serious?.... Okay..... Okay, I will, right now."<br />
Kristen set the phone down on the desk, walked over to where Jane was standing and leafing through an X-Men comic, and said, "Hi, you're Jane, right?"<br />
"Indeed I am," Jane smiled.<br />
"Bekka said I should give this to you." Kristen grabbed Jane by her neck and a shoulder and kissed her. Jane responded back instantly. The two deep-kissed for about thirty seconds. <br />
When they broke apart, there was a serious sparkle in Kristen's eyes, along with a happy smile. She went back to the phone and said (sounding slightly breathy) "I did it..... Yes.... Yes, she really is! Oh my God, this is too wild.... " Kristen went a bit pink. "Okay. What the hell, I will."<br />
Kristen said to Jane, "Bekka says you need a lover, a girl. Would you like to try with me? Bekka is right, you're hot, and you kiss awesome. Are you interested?"<br />
Jane's response was to get a big horny smile, walk straight up to Kristen, wrap her arms around her, and get a death grep on her butt with both hands. Then they kissed some more. When they broke apart, Jane said in a casual voice, "Yeah, that sounds cool. Let's meet Monday evening for coffee or something, so we can sniff butts and make sure we don't think the other person is irritating as hell, okay? But yeah, I'd love to have some play time with another girl."<br />
Picking the phone back up again, Kristen sa id, "Jane is game. God, this is too crazy...." She laughed, then said, "Jane, Bekka says to let go of my ass and go molest Lenny. He's probably feeling left out." (Jane yelled into the phone, "If Lenny moves six feet closer, I can molest them both, dammit!" Then she moved to my side and draped herself over me, one hand stroking my crotch like a cat.)<br />
After talking to Bekka a bit more, Kristen called me over and handed me the phone. I began singing, "Match-maker, match-maker, make me a match...." into the receiver.<br />
"I just felt like shifting the hell out of some paradigms," Bekka laughed. "Anyway, any other questions from this end?"<br />
"How are the guards working out?"<br />
"It's all right, much less stressful than when we had Nicky. Frankie and Joey are present and alert, but sort of blend in, it's weird. The two of them and Terry did have a discussion about handguns at dinner. The upshot was that Colt has a moral duty to make a twelve-round clip for the Defender, instead of only having the eight. Right now, Joey is lounging here on the sofa, Terry is watching 'Terminator' on video, and Frankie is down in the garage, just sorta keeping an eye on the street. Him and Joey will trade places in about a half hour. When I go to bed, my three guards will circulate on three hour shifts. One will be awake and in the living room while the other two sleep. They'll keep that up until I'm awake and showered in the morning."<br />
"I'm glad they're taking this seriously," I commented. "Um, okay babe. Jane and Kristen are busy exchanging dental records again, and I want a beer, so I'm gonna sign off. I'll call you around eleven in the morning, okay?"<br />
"That's fine. <i>Buon divertimento stasera, bella</i>."<br />
"<i>Dormi bene amore mio</i>. Ciao."<br />
I hung up and said to Jane and Kristen, "Excuse me, ladies? I need a fucking beer, so I need to prevail upon Kristen for guidance out of this warren. Quit sucking face for a few minutes and get to the goddamn kegs."<br />
"Don't you want to join us?" tittered Jane.<br />
I made a confused face and said, "But I only have one mouth...."<br />
"We take turns, ya big mook."<br />
With a bit of hand-wringing, I finally said, "Very briefly." I stepped to them. They both put an arm around my waist. Jane went first. Then me and Kristen, then Kristen and Jane, and around again.<br />
After a few rounds, Jane said to Kristen, "Any more thoughts about what I suggested?"<br />
Kristen chewed on her bottom lip and replied, "I think I still need to think about it a little more. I'm trying to resist the urge to have you call Beck-- Bekka back and get her feelings about it."<br />
Jane got a bit of a surprised look, then said, "Actually.... That's a good idea. And an important one. Lenny, would you do us a favor and wait outside for just a minute?"<br />
"Daaahh.... Okay." I went out, standing there with an unlit cigarette in my mouth.<br />
After about three minutes, Kristen and Jane exited the room, both with rather excited smiles on their faces. I asked what was up, and they both demurred. Fine, be that way. Kristen led us back out of the Escher-designed residence wing and down to where the kegs were. I wanted a beer, now. All three of us got our cups filled and swigged. Standing a bit off from the kegs, people wandered past nearly constantly. Kristen waved several over so introductions could be made. Jane was "Jane, the girl who hopefully I'll be sleeping with all year." I was "Lenny Schneider. Like, THE Lenny Schneider, the guy who writes and produces all of Becky Page's movies. And speaking of, you'll never believe who I just talked to over the phone...."<br />
The three of us had taken our hits of Smiley already, and were giving them away to anyone who would start a conversation with us. This was pretty easy, as my presence (and who I was) had been passed around like a joint. It was a new experience for me. I'd never really had people fanboy out on me, like they did on Bekka (excuse me, Becky). Now, complete strangers were coming up and doing a whole "Oh my God, holy shit, it really is you, you're the best thing to happen to the world since the invention of Astroglide." Uh, thanks. So, what is your favorite movie? I see. What about it appealed to you the most? Really? No one has ever said that before, interesting interpretation. Our newest projects? Well, we're working on a new concept right now, having short features --- really, episodes of TV shows --- released on a schedule. We have four story lines, we'll keep producing half hour episodes for as long as interest in the story lasts. <br />
Some were disappointed Bekka wasn't with me. I made my stock nebulous excuse and introduced people instead to Jane, the girl who had been living with Becky and me for the last couple years. We saved her from a life as a teenage hooker in Hollywood, got her in school, saw her graduate as an honor student, and placed her in UC Berkeley. Yes, she's a freshman. And yes, she's a sex bomb, Jane doesn't dress like that to tease, she wants to provide pleasure. She feels if you see her walk past, and the sight of her gives you the pleasure of genuine arousal, then Jane has done her job. She's not going to help you relieve that arousal, that's for you to figure out on your own.... And you'll probably take care of the arousal on your own, too. And that's fine with Jane, she's happy you're having a sexual experience, even if it's with your right hand.<br />
Cloyne Court seemed to be the repository for UC Berkeley's counterculture these days. It was a pretty mixed bag, too. Punks with hippies with rave brats with Trotskyists with Milton Friedman-worshiping anarchists. Also a mixed bag was the wide range of drugs. I was none too happy there was China White around, but its users swore it was just an occasional thing, a vacation. I wanted to remind them that the concept of "occasional" has a bad habit of changing its value of time. In October, "occasional" use of smack meant about once a month. By April, it could mean three times weekly.<br />
Also available was Dutch Ecstasy (no Smiley), weed, LSD (blotter or liquid), DMT, psilocybin mushrooms, poppers, Whippets, Norco, cocaine, and one idiot huffing spray paint in a corner. He wasn't a resident, at least. I had a handful of loose hits of Smiley Ecstasy in my jacket pocket, Jane had the rest of the bag open in her purse, so she just had to stick her hand in and grab one to give it away, without displaying how many she had. We'd talk to people for a few minutes, then ask if they wanted to get high on Smiley Ecstasy. The invariable response was, "You have Smiley? You're <i>giving away</i> Smiley? No way...."<br />
"Way," we'd respond. We'd drop our usual bullshit line about buying "even higher up the supply ladder than the wholesalers," rendering them, in bulk, rather affordable. Hey, Inana Productions is a massive success, and some of us worked damn hard to make that happen. We can afford to be profligate when we party.<br />
With the mix of people also came a mix of political and social allegiances.... And these days, not all those allegiances were left-leaning. There was, as I mentioned, a decent sized collection of libertarians and anarchists, the extreme right of economics. One guy told me he was a registered Republican, but was very unhappy with the current state of the GOP. He wanted to "work from within" to return the party to the glory days of the Eisenhower/Nixon White House. Okay, then. I reminded him those good old days had Whites Only - Coloreds Only bathrooms, the House Un-American Activities Committee, and smothering social repression. Homosexuality was considered a mental illness. "Oh, I only want to resurrect the economic styles of the party," he replied. Oh. You are aware that there are plenty of GOP members around today that also want to dismantle Social Security, just like back in 1955? These days the call it "economic self-determination." Back then, Social Security was a borderline Communist experiment put together by that Democratic feeb, FDR.<br />
"Look, dammit, there's a lot to admire about the Eisenhower era."<br />
Nodding, I said, "You're right, Eisenhower was probably one of the best Republican presidents we ever had. He was the one who created the phrase 'military-industrial complex,' and used the phrase as a derogatory term. But Eisenhower was not the GOP.. He was just one guy. Really, really study your history, then decide if that's the sort of world you'd want to live in."<br />
Another dude had drank the Kool-Aid of thimble-wit Berkeley progressive politics, and was involved with something called the Coalition for a Car-Free Berkeley. Basically, anything with an internal combustion engine would be banned from huge swaths of the city, the streets would be populated with bicycles and pedestrians, the air would be totally clean, all personal conflict would end, the Cubs would win the World Series.... On and on. I pointed out that if this Ecotopia-esque fever dream came to fruition, Berkeley would have an economic crisis normally seen in those West African countries where they end up issuing trillion dollar bills.<br />
"Why do you say that?"<br />
"Because every business in town that sells any kind of product or goods would go belly-up, since they can't restock their shelves. You said a ban on 'all fossil fuel-fired engines.' Last time I checked, the semi trucks that supply Safeway and Andronico's don't run on solar power. No deliveries means no business, and no businesses."<br />
"Oh. Well.... Commercial vehicles would be an exception, and they'd have to stay on particular streets, like University or MLK."<br />
I stifled a giggle. "All right. So the streets would be a peaceful coexistence of bicycles, pedestrians, and fourteen wheel tractor-trailers delivering loads to Safeway, or local restaurants. I can see some flaws in that logic."<br />
Bicycle Boy sighed and said, "We'd have the major arteries open to commercial vehicles on certain days of the week, during preset hours. People would know to stay out of the streets during those times."<br />
"Which would mean that during those hours, the major streets would be jam-fucking-packed with trucks, all at the same time, all trying to keep their deadlines. Not only would this force drayage companies to drastically change around preset routes, it may also mean that, for instance, Safeway may have to run a special truck to supply the store on Shattuck, because there's no way to keep within the parameters set by the city and stay on a route. That costs money, and that cost will be passed on to the customers in Berkeley. Not to mention that during those hours, all the noise and exhaust from all those trucks would be concentrated. Berkeley would sound and smell like a monster truck rally. Yeah, there's some good quality of life right there.<br />
"Oh, and what about AC Transit? They aren't going to massively update their fleet from diesel to natural gas just because the city of Berkeley said they should. What about ambulances? What about courier services that handle paperwork for law firms and finance companies? What about pizza delivery---"<br />
"Hey, pizza could be delivered by bicycle just fine!"<br />
Now I laughed openly. "No, not just fine. Delivered cold, late, and overpriced."<br />
"Why would the price of pizza go up?" scowled Bicycle Boy.<br />
"The pizza places would have to find cyclists who are at the top of their game to make deliveries all damn day. Those cyclists would demand a hell of a lot more recompense than your average pizza guy piloting a Honda Civic would. You'd need more of them, too. And deliveries would still take three or four times longer than the goofball in the Civic could get it done." I waited a few beats and said, "So, shall I continue listing different commercial enterprises that would be catastrophically impaired by this idiocy? Like, what about taxis? How are the handicapped supposed to get around, they can't handle riding a bike or walking that---"<br />
Now Bicycle Boy was getting fed up, so he launched into rhetoric and propaganda gibberish. "Why should an entire city be held captive by the tyranny of automobiles, wasting the earth's---"<br />
"Oh, shut the fuck up," I stated clearly, also feeling fed up. "Yeah, you live a life of pain because of cars. Have you lived in the same place all your life? No, you haven't, you live in a co-op at UC Berkeley. Call this a wild fucking hunch, but I'll bet when you moved in here, you moved your shit with a car or truck, not strapped to a bicycle. What's your story? You get nailed for a 502 and you're not allowed to drive for another three years? You didn't get the Acura you wanted as a high school graduation present? Was you father's village attacked by Buicks? Or is it just that you're a fucking college student, and like almost every other college student, owning a car would be an expensive hassle, especially in a crowded town like Berkeley?<br />
"Here's a news flash, Skeezix: utopia doesn't exist. And it never will, so stop trying to build a little simulacrum of one in a town you haven't lived in for three years. Yeah, riding a bicycle in traffic can be dangerous. Shit, buddy, I'm from fucking Southern California, and I rode a bicycle everywhere until I was seventeen. I know about the threat cyclists are under. And by the way, cyclists in the Bay Area are spoiled rotten compared to down south. Don't act like you're an oppressed minority because you pedal everywhere, it only makes you sound like a whiner. You're white, you're American, you have a roof over your head, and you have the resources to attend a school in the University of California system. You don't got shit to complain about, so don't manufacture indignities and go looking to feel all marginalized and shit. Tell you what. If you ride a bicycle and you've got real balls, you need to change your life in a big way. Get a job as a bicycle messenger in San Francisco. Those boys and girls know how to play hard. Everybody else running on pedal power are kids playing with their toys in the street, nothing more. Ride like a messenger, or go home."<br />
I finally stopped talking, and the large room filled with applause, cheers, and whistles. I'd gained an audience of fifteen or twenty people while I was chastising Bicycle Boy. For his part, Bicycle Boy got a childish pout on his face and stomped off A guy near me with green hair and a Hawaiian shirt said, "Damn, buddy! You always unleash on people like that?"<br />
I shrugged. "Only when I'm having my buttons pushed. He wanted to insist an inherently stupid idea was perfectly reasonable. I had to correct him. You know that guy?"<br />
"Yeah, he lives here. I think he's going to be someone who always has a pet cause to flog. Next year it'll be CopWatch. The year after, he'll be trying to free Mumia."<br />
"Jesus. You know, I really like Berkeley, I live north of San Diego. But holy Christ, do people like to jump up on the soapbox around here! I know that Berkeley turned into the fun, funky place it is because of the Free Speech Movement, but sometimes I wish Mario Savio had stayed at home and gone to CCNY."<br />
Green-hair looked a bit confused. He said, "I know who Mario Savio is, but.... what is CCNY?"<br />
With an insincere grin, I told him. "Mario Savio was raised in New York City. CCNY is an all-Jewish college there. Circumcised Citizens of New York."<br />
He looked amazed. "Are you serious?"<br />
"No, not at all. CCNY is the Community College of New York. I was stealing an old gag from Lenny Bruce. Hey, wanna hit of Smiley Ecstasy? It's free...."Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10230648449521958270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033784518790200307.post-19300150034826540572017-04-03T20:40:00.002-07:002017-04-03T20:40:34.951-07:00Groove (Part 10) I was standing in the back yard with a cigarette and a full cup of beer, enjoying the peaceful wiry feeling of a good Ecstasy high. A girl with frizzy blue dreadlocks drifted up, seeming to consider me from several yards away. I nodded in greeting, which she took as a sign of tacit approval, and came up to me.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
"You are so definitely Lenny Schneider," she grinned. "I'd heard people say it was you, but then I heard you unload on Martin. Oh my God. I read Variety, and I'd seen some of the quotes attributed to you and thought, 'No way.' I figured it was stuff some writer at Variety had made up, put words in your mouth. Now I know it was you. Wow. You don't hide your feelings well, do you?"<br />
I thought about this observation and answered, "No. Not really. In my personal life, there's no point in trying, because my wife reads me like s street map. And in general, I've always felt it's better to make your position clear, on any subject, instead of worrying about hurting someone's feewings, you know? I'm not one of those 'Everyone is entitled to my opinion' jackoffs, a loudmouth, but.... Well, shit. The bicycle warrior inside was saying things that were transparently idiotic, and acting like they were God's own wisdom. Wrong. Question everything, especially your own ideas. Fuck dogma, fuck holding the party line, fuck ideology. He was saying stupid things, so I pointed out why they were stupid. He got bugged and was about to unleash a runny spray of rhetoric at me, and I shut him down. Basically, I engaged in the conversational version of a blitzkrieg play in football."<br />
"Is that why you said what you did all those times in Variety?" the girl asked, a mild smirk on her lips.<br />
"Not exactly. All the times my ranting has been quoted in Variety, it's been in response to reporters showing up at the studio and saying, 'So-and-so of Such-And-Such studio has said that Inana Productions releases filth camouflaged as valid entertainment, and writer/producer Lenny Schneider is a criminal thug who has no business in the entertainment industry. Would you like to respond, Mr. Schneider?'<br />
"Yeah, sure I do. I'd tell the reporters exactly what was on my mind when they told me what so-and-so said about me and my studio. I think he's just another industry leech with his name on a door who's all butt-hurt because the viewing public is spending their money on my videos, not movie tickets. So-and-so is organic proof that an entire town can collectively suffer from a psychological form of gonorrhea, along with the normal version, He wants to nitpick and critique my features, fine, that's his prerogative. Me, I wouldn't waste my energy doing that with the lame garbage his studio pukes out at a cost of $120 million a throw. So-and-so thinks I have no place in the entertainment industry? Why the fuck would I think I need his permission? All I gotta do is look at my bank balance and read my mail to know that whatever it is I'm doing, it's entertaining the hell out of people, and they pay me to do it. Yeah, I'll never learn the secret handshake at the big studios. That doesn't bother me a bit, I figure I'd need a shot of penicillin afterwards.<br />
"The entire Hollywood machine is archaic, bloated, wasteful, sleazy, poisonous, venereally contagious, and a sham. Everyone in the big offices of the big studios should all kill themselves. They serve no real purpose or use, and the psychic pain they suffer at their private awareness of just how horrible of human beings they are must be unbearable. So-and-so, kill yourself, but for once, do the right thing and be standing in the bathtub when you do, so it's easier to clean up when you're done."<br />
The dreadlocks girl laughed. "Yeah. Then so-and-so, and all his friends in the industry, would yell about how Lenny Schneider has no right to talk like that about them, he's made powerful enemies in the industry, all that stuff."<br />
"Exactly. They'd say that like I'm supposed to care, or something. Their assumption, for a long time, has been that I'll eventually want to leave Inana and go mainstream, work in Hollywood. Fuck that shit. If I was gonna work in Hollywood, it would be me walking down the street in hot pants and a halter top, offering to blow drunk tourists for twenty dollars. I'd do that before I'd work at a major studio. It's a little hard to bug me by telling me I won't be hired, when I have no intention of applying to begin with."<br />
"Something that always amused me was how Stanley Jaffe always acts like he's getting in a sick burn by reminding people you're from San Diego.... Like it's some horrible place with lots of rendering plants, teenage mothers, drug addicts dying in the streets, and child molestation...."<br />
"You're describing Modesto, actually," I interjected.<br />
"... and so obviously, since you're from a different part of Southern California, you'll never amount to anything. He treats it like it's some kind of major insult, but if it is, it's only in Jaffe's mind. Like saying, 'Oh, she drives a Toyota!' and acting like that proves what kind of person 'she' is. Totally disconnected from common sense."<br />
I had to chuckle. "I suspect Jaffe holds a low opinion of San Diego, just for not being LA. I talk shit about San Diego myself. It's a glorified military tank town. It's socially conservative, it's kind of a cultural wasteland, far too many of its residents are Archie Bunker Republicans, city government is practically a kleptocracy, the cops are bigoted and racist, if there was ever a central plan for growth someone wiped their ass with it.... I could continue, even criticizing the weather."<br />
Confused, the dreadlocks girl said, "I thought San Diego had great weather."<br />
"San Diego doesn't have weather at all!" I shouted. "It's like living in an office building! It's never cold, it's never hot, it never rains except for a few times a year. Oy vey, the few days a year it rains, it's literally the first thing they talk about on the local news. Literally. 'It rained today!' And they have to report the fifty thousand people who were in auto accidents because of it. No, San Diego has non-weather. At least I live at the beach, so it gets foggy and chilly sometimes, as a distraction."<br />
I stood and waited for a response or comment, but the dreadlocks girl was staring with intense curiosity into my face, like she was reading tea leaves. I waited in silence. Finally she said, "You don't like my dreadlocks."<br />
This threw me. "What? Why do you say that?"<br />
"Because you keep looking at them, and when you do, you give a contemptuous eye-roll."<br />
"Uh..... Sorry. If I am doing that, it's a totally subconscious thing.... And now that I think about it, I know why my subconscious might do that."<br />
"Please, explain," the girl said.<br />
"Who else are known for having dreadlocks? The Rastafarians. I hate the Rastafarians."<br />
She reacted as if I'd used the word "niggers" instead of Rastafarians. "Why the hell do you hate the Rastafarians?" she asked, challenge in her voice.<br />
"How much do you know about the Rastafarians?" I asked.<br />
"Um..... They smoke loads of weed and listen to reggae, and they think an Ethiopian political leader was the second coming of Christ. What else about them?"<br />
"Well, they're racist, wife-beating, queer-bashing, xenophobic, violent criminal goons," I explained. "Rastafarians are the black version of the Christian Identity movement. Both have the same world views and bigotries. The only difference between the two, deep down, is the hair and the amount of melanin. Jah can suck my dick."<br />
The dreadlocks girl was now looking at me with surprise. "You're serious, aren't you?<br />
"Oh yeah," I answered. "Fuck their weed and groovy jam music, Rastafarians --- the real ones --- are as useless as any cross-burning illiterate cracker from Alabama. Their joints may be fat, but their minds are narrow."<br />
"Wow." The girl suddenly became lost in thought. "Um, maybe I dodged a bullet a couple years ago. I was at the Sunsplash Festival, and got talking to a Rasta, accent and all. He kept telling me how he wanted me to go back to Jamaica with him, I'd live like a queen, all this other stuff, putting the moves on me, you know?" She snickered. "I was interested, I can't lie. But I went to get a drink, and when I got back, he was being arrested. He had outstanding warrants for --- get this --- dealing cocaine."<br />
"No, that makes sense," I countered. "The Rastas deal whatever drugs they can make the biggest profit from. If you'd gone to Jamaica with him, your life would be hell. Rastas like dating and living with white women, 'cos they don't mind punching and slapping them into subservience.... Or, sometimes to just blow off a little steam. You'd be living in a fucking shack with no running water and a violent asshole as your only company. I mentioned their racism. You'd have been a perfect example. A Rasta has no compunction about treating a white girl like a punching bag, a sex toy, and even a concubine for his friends, because, shit, it's just some pale bitch, mon. You had the Lord on your side that day, toots." I let a few ticks go by and said, "Shit, where are my manners? You want a hit of Smiley Ecstasy, gratis? We've been handing them out tonight."<br />
She giggled. "Your friend Jane gave me one already. Thanks, though." She eyed me with curiosity again. "Actually, I was going to offer something to you."<br />
"Oh?"<br />
She stepped right up close to me, grabbed my hand, and shoved it under her t-shirt. She was braless, and it did feel like one heck of a nice boob. I looked at her and said, "But that would leave you with one, like an Amazon."<br />
It took her a second to catch up with this quip, but then she started laughing. I took my hand back. She smiled and said, "Okay, let's try a different tack. I'd like you to come up to my room, so I can show you my etchings."<br />
"Uh huh. Sorry, but I'm married." She had a look like she was formulating a response to that, so I continued, "And if you respond with any variation of, 'But look who you're married to!' I'll be committing an act of misogynist violence."<br />
The girl nodded slowly. Then she asked, "Have you always been faithful to Becky?"<br />
"No, but yes. Jane, the girl with the blue mohawk, is a lover. The thing is, Becky --- Bekka --- was the one who arranged it. Jane has had a crush on me since she was fourteen, and didn't hide it. Jane also has the sex drive of an army of Wilt Chamberlain clones. Bekka felt bad about a couple things. First, she didn't like that she spent her work days in various acts of coitus, while I was down in the office slogging through paperwork. Then, when we'd get home, I'd be up for a bit of fun, and she'd turn me down. She'd just plain be too sore."<br />
"Sore?"<br />
I made a hinting tilt to my eyebrows and said, "Think about how porn studs are built. Think about what Bekka had been doing all damn day."<br />
The penny dropped for the girl. Here eyes and mouth formed perfect Os. "Oh..... Ohhh. Oh.... my. Okay." She looked at the ground and said, "The poor girl."<br />
"Anyway, she hated that her job was making her refuse her own husband on occasion. She felt she had the opportunity for intercourse all day, so dammit, I should too. She talked to Jane, then both of them talked to me. I agreed to try it, and it was very nice. Different from what Bekka and I did together, you know? Jane has always been an off and on thing, but we'd always be available for each other. We had to keep it a secret, because Jane was underage, she was sixteen when we started. You'd never have guessed it, though." I sighed. "Really? If I went to your room with you, I'd be cheating on both Bekka and Jane, I'd be hurting two people. I love them both, and I won't do that." I paused, then said, "I have to ask. What the hell is so appealing about an ugly misanthropic smut peddler like me?"<br />
With one of those amused, men-are-idiots looks, she said, "A couple things. First, you're not ugly, and I like punk rock boys. And..... Total honesty? I wanted to find out what Becky Page experienced when she was with the man she has repeatedly professed her love for. I wanted to get laid like Becky Page, when Becky Page wants to get laid. See?" More quietly, she said, "Um, I also figured that any man who was capable of satisfying Becky Page had to be one hell of a stud, you know?"<br />
I laughed at this and replied, "I don't think of myself as a stud. Maybe a cornice, or a cross-bar."<br />
Again she was a second or two behind on the uptake, but she did giggle. "You're definitely a writer, you love to play with words," the girl observed. "I need another beer, let's go in."<br />
I looked around the room as we stood at the kegs. Up to one side, by the front windows, Kristen and Jane seemed to be simultaneously having a perfectly normal conversation and shove their hands down each other's pants. Interesting strategy: since their voices and faces were normal, you wouldn't really notice what they were doing to each other unless you looked closely. Jane saw me watching, nudged Kristen, and they separated to walk over to me.<br />
The girl was positively smirking When Jane stepped up, the girl said, "You're aware you have a very faithful man here, right?"<br />
"Oh, absolutely," Jane replied, utterly lacking in guile.<br />
"He can't say the same of you, it would seem."<br />
The fire ignited in Jane's eyes. Her voice was steady, but had an edge. "Why can't he say that of me? We're not dating, we're lovers, and Lenny is aware of all my lovers. He knows Kristen and I have the hots for each other. So you want to pursue your line of inquiry, girly?"<br />
The girl got a haughty look. "You're a freshman, right?"<br />
"Bingo. And you?"<br />
"I'm a junior." She resumed her smirk. "I swear, freshmen all have a eureka moment with their genitals the moment Mom and Dad drive away from the dorm to head home."<br />
Now Jane was keeping her eyes fixed on the girl, staring her down. Like a Hell's Angel would. She replied, "My eureka moment came at the age of twelve, thanks to my own father. He's probably why I'm the horny psychotic I am. A loose cannon." A few ticks passed, and Jane continued, "You're starting to work my nerves, girly. What business is it of yours, what I do with my pussy, and who with?"<br />
The Hell's Angel stare-down was working. The girl averted her eyes to the floor and said, "Um, sorry, I was being presumptuous. I, uh, I didn't know the whole story."<br />
Jane's eyes lost the fire, and she said in a more gentle voice, "I see you've made friends with Lenny."<br />
Now staring fixedly at the floor, the girl said, "Yeah. Just friends, that's all."<br />
"That seems to bother you. Did you have some designs?"<br />
"Yes, I did. Lenny Schneider is an honorable man. He won't go behind anyone's back. Not yours, not his wife's. I don't think they build many models like him these days."<br />
Jane smiled more warmly. "No, running across a stray Lenny is a rare event." To me, she said, "I take it you had a proposition made to you?"<br />
"I did," I replied. "And pet, you know goddamned well what my response would be."<br />
"So, call Bekka."<br />
"What?"<br />
"You heard me," Jane said breezily. "She knows you're up here partying.... And she knows you're partying with me.... And what a bad influence I can be. When Kristen and I were alone in her room, we called Bekka back to, uh, see how much play time Kristen and I could have with you. Bekka said to take all the time we wanted, it's fine with her. We wanted it to be a surprise, that's why we threw you out of the room. Now it would seem Tina Trent D'Arby here also wants a test drive. My my, Lenny, you're up to your neck in gash tonight. Personally, you should ride her hard and put her away wet...."<br />
"I don't even know her fucking name!" I stated loudly.<br />
"It's Rinny," the girl said. She seemed to be keeping a rather diplomatic expression on her face, rather unsure how to handle what seemed to be transpiring.<br />
Kristen said, "You live up on the third floor, right? I've seen you, but we've never crossed paths. Hi, I'm Kristen."<br />
Rinny shook hands with Kristen and asked, "So.... You two have.... plans with Lenny later?"<br />
"Lenny and Jane have a room at the Marriott by the Berkeley marina. I expressed an interest in Lenny, uh, and asked Jane if she'd share. She said it was contingent upon Becky's approval. So, we told Lenny to wait outside my room and called her, for the second time. She basically told us to rock his world."<br />
"Did you and Jane already know each other?"<br />
"Nope!" said Jane. "We just met tonight. Within three minutes of me and Lenny arriving, in fact. Lenny had a page from Bekka...." She stressed the name. "... and Lenny needed to find someone willing to let him make a long distance call."<br />
"I was so freaked out," asserted Kristen. "Lenny and Bekka talk for a bit, then Lenny calls me over, he just says his wife wants to talk to me. The next thing I know, I'm on the phone with Becky Page! At first I was thinking it was a prank, but then Becky --- Bekka --- said, 'If you're a fan, you've read my interviews, so you've seen pictures of me with my husband. Does the man in your room look familiar?' Oh my God, she was right. We talked for a bit, and I told her I'd outed myself as a bisexual largely because of her. She asked if I was single, and if so, would I like a female lover? Uh, yeah! She basically set up Jane and me over the phone. When Lenny was talking to Bekka again, I mentioned that I thought Lenny was hot, too. Jane is all, 'Hey, the three of us can have a little private party at our hotel tonight, if you're up for it.' I've never been in a three-way before, but it sounded bitchin' to me. So, Jane got permission from Bekka. She knew Lenny wouldn't go along with it unless Bekka gave her blessing."<br />
Rinny looked a bit nervous. "So.... all I have to do is ask Becky frigging Page for permission to fool around with her husband. Becky Page, the female Prometheus of sex. The woman who carries a gun, drives a hot rod, and is known for taking on four armed gunmen single-handed. That Becky Page."<br />
"Instantly gain her respect by calling her Bekka," suggested Jane. "Want her number?" Jane suddenly looked at me, wild-eyed. "Lenny, here's a hypothetical. You and Rinny have some fun in her room for an hour or so. You come back down, we hang out a bit more, then head for the hotel. Do you think you'll be ready for action at that point? If you have doubts, say so now, because I'm going to claim seniority and tell Rinny she's taking a rain check. I want you too bad, I've been going crazy without my master around to service."<br />
"I'll bet the two of us can be very encouraging," giggled Kristen.<br />
I shrugged. "Yeah, sure. You know I can recover pretty quick, I always have with you and Bekka, when the three of us would be together." I turned to Rinny with an embarrassed smile. "This is getting a little weird. I feel like I'm being passed around like a joint at a Phish concert. Does this bother you?"<br />
She was wide-eyed but smiling. "This is definitely weird.... but I'm cool with it. Like I told you, I want the experience Becky Page --- sorry, Bekka --- has, when she wants some thrills with her husband. I sorta feel like this will be a one-time-only chance at it. Jane, Kristen, we have to exchange information. Considering we're all going to be sharing the same man, I don't want you two being strangers, you know? You either, Lenny."<br />
My brain felt like it was bouncing around in my skull like a racquet ball. I announced, "Look. I'm willing to be the neighborhood slut tonight, that's fine. Rinny, I'm looking forward to feeling the left one, too. I'm going out front for a smoke. Tell Bekka that yes, I'm fine with all this, and no, Jane is not pressuring me. Not much, anyway."<br />
Jane pulled an old ATM receipt out of her purse and wrote down our home number on it then gave it to Rinny. "Here, go call Bekka. If she's asleep, she won't have been asleep long. Call her Bekka, not Becky, and state the situation clearly and concisely, don't hem and haw. You're asking her permission to fuck her husband, not borrow money. Explain who you are, how and where you met Lenny and me, and why you're interested in Lenny. Don't worry, the only wrong answer as to why you're interested is you want to purposely infect him with HIV, or trap him in a paternity suit. And yes, both Lenny and I are aware of your desires."<br />
Rinny trotted for the stairs, a nervous smile on her lips. I headed for the front door, to go smoke outside. Kristen and Jane began molesting each other again.<br />
<br />
Stepping outside, I was vaguely amused to see two cop cars parked in the red zone in front of the co-op. One Berkeley PD, one UCPD, the campus cops. Three officers were out of their vehicles, standing and chatting. They didn't seem to have any real purpose for being there, just cooling their heels. I installed my Tom Bodett face, one of nonchalance and honesty, lit a Marlboro, and sort of drifted up onto the sidewalk, easing over to where they stood. When I was ten feet away, one of them noticed me and gave a nod, acknowledging my presence. "Evening, officers," I said.<br />
"Good evening, sir," said the BPD officer. "What brings you by tonight?"<br />
"The party, the live music," I replied. Holding up the cigarette, I continued, "No smoking indoors. Just out for another small dose of cancer."<br />
"Did you have a question for us?" asked one of the UC cops. He had a bit more suspicion in his voice.<br />
"Me? No. I sort of pace when I smoke, no real direction. I just happened to come this way. Was there a problem here? I wasn't expecting to see the police outside."<br />
With a hood-lidded look, the other UC cop said, "The parties here can get out of hand. We wanted to keep an eye on things, make sure thee's no problems."<br />
"Heck, none at all," I assured him. "You can see and hear that it's pretty mellow. The music is over with, it's just a load of students hanging around and being social."<br />
"Are you a student?<br />
"Oh, heck no. I run a video production company down near San Diego. But a girl I kinda raised through her teenage years is a student at UCB. Heck, she's a Haas student. I couldn't be prouder of the girl."<br />
"What's her name?" asked the first UC cop. "What year of school is she in?"<br />
I smiled and said, "Jane Osborne. O-S-B-O-R-N-E. She's a freshman. Lives in that private residence hall over on Dwight, near Ellsworth."<br />
The UC cop absorbed this, then got into the UCPD car and got on the radio. The door was closed and the window was up, so I couldn't hear what he was saying. I drifted a little closer to the other two cops, being friendly. "So, any trouble tonight? People behaving?"<br />
"Nothing unusual," the Berkeley cop said.<br />
I snapped my fingers. "I'm kinda surprised to see you here, hanging out. Isn't this Rush<br />
Week for all the fraternity houses? You'd think there'd be a whole lotta dumb things happening at that end of town."<br />
The UC cop was actually trying to suppress a smile, and the BPD cop openly laughed. He said, "Yeah, there's been a few dumb things happening tonight."<br />
"Well heck, spill the beans!" I said brightly.<br />
The UC cop gave in to the urge to chuckle. "Sir, let's just say there have been a few examples of inexperienced drinkers making poor choices. I'll never understand why, after eleven beers, nineteen year old males have an urge to disrobe in public. We've had three of those incidents so far tonight."<br />
I laughed. "Did they at least remember where they'd left their clothes?"<br />
"Two of them did. The other could not, or would not, remember. He also was confrontational and combative. He'll be a guest of the city tonight. The other two saw the errors in their decisions, got dressed, and allowed themselves to be driven to their residences. They promise to stay inside, we promise to leave things as they are, no detention, no mention of the incident to the school."<br />
"An admirable strategy, sir," I said. "No sense making a federal case out of it, when some kid turned into an idiot for a while."<br />
The cop sitting in the patrol vehicle opened the door and addressed me. "Do you know the name of Ms. Osborne's roommate, sir?"<br />
"I do. Kaitlyn Dalton-Hires. The 'Dalton' and 'Hires' are hyphenated. Uh, why?"<br />
The cop pretended he hadn't heard, immediately closing the door. I was now very curious.<br />
The Berkeley cop, a far more easygoing feller, chuckled and nudged me on the arm. "Are you familiar with Berkeley's Fraternity Row area?'<br />
"Not intimately, no, but I've been through it," I answered.<br />
Still chuckling, he said, "Every damn year, it seems like some sort of mass psychosis, or mass hallucination, hits the entire area. Last year, all the girls at the sorority houses were convinced they were being stalked by bikers, Hell's Angels or whatever. They'd call to report their house was being watched by Hell's Angels, they kept riding back and forth in front of the house. We'd go out, no sign of anybody. The closest we got was some kid on a Honda 500, a member of the Jewish fraternity, who was going up and down Channing, looking for a place to park. This year,it's either crack addicts or Satanists targeting fraternity members, jumping them, and yanking their teeth out with pliers! And it's not happening in Berkeley, but in San Francisco or Oakland. Some of the frat brothers will be out late, and get jumped. Somebody will tell us about an incident like this happening, but they can't remember which fraternity, or the names of the victims, or even what city the attack happened in."<br />
"Amazing," I commented. "You'd think other students would notice classmates that were suddenly unable to eat corn on the cob."<br />
"Well, all the frat brothers are staying close to home, no more partying over in the big city. Being anywhere inside the Oakland city limits after dark is viewed as suicidal. And next year, they'll find some other invisible attackers to panic about."<br />
The door to the UC cop car opened, and the officer got out. He walked up to me. "You said you're Jane Osborne's legal guardian?"<br />
"Not legally, no. Jane was emancipated when she was sixteen, in the state of Florida. She lived with my wife and I while she finished high school. We were the ones who looked after her, though, took care of her. Why, what's up?"<br />
Looking down at his notes, the cop said, "It would seem that on two occasions so far this year, Ms. Dalton-Hires has attempted to file restraining orders on Ms. Osborne. There are two problems with this. First, Ms. Dalton-Hires refuses to vacate the room her and Ms. Osborne shares. The other one is.... To be frank, the complaints Ms. Dalton-Hires makes against Ms. Osborne are nothing more than bitchiness. You can't file a TRO on someone because you think they are, if I may quote: 'Totally gross and sick,' 'A total pervert,' 'Is a weirdo and all her friends are weirdos,' and 'Is disgusting white trash.' Ms. Dalton-Hires requests the paperwork to file the TRO and, in the space for describing the reason for the filing, writes in comments like that." The cop started giggling, and couldn't stop. "None of those things are recognized as civil or criminal offenses, but I'm sure you knew that. So, does Ms. Osborne match any of those descriptions?"<br />
I started giggling too. "No, not really. Admittedly, Jane is easy to spot. There's not a lot of other freshmen on campus with blue mohawks and leather bustiers. Jane has her own sense of style. Kaitlyn was raised in a gated community in Irvine, down in Orange County. She attended private prep schools, her family had a maid and a cook.... Kaitlyn is very sheltered, let's put it that way. Jane was thrown out by her parents when she was sixteen, and rode Greyhound from Gainesgville, Florida out to San Diego. We were the only people she knew in California, so she looked us up. We're glad she did, she had pretty much resigned herself to being a teenage prostitute in Hollywood on the bus ride out here. Jane has seen a lot in life, and that has matured because of it. Kaitlyn was essentially raised in a bubble, everything was done for her. She had never used a washer and dryer, or even a microwave!"<br />
I laughed a little harder. "Maybe Jane should file a TRO on Kaitlyn. Jane's reasons will be 'elitist,' 'spoiled,' ' anal retentive,' 'a complete upper-class snob,' and 'entitled.'"<br />
The other UC cop said with s amile, "Given the attitudes of some of these kids, maybe 'entitled' should be a legal construct. Hey, let's roll Piedmont, Warring, and Channing, see if anyone is prone on the sidewalks. It's all quiet here." They all shook my hand, got in their respective vehicles, and took off.<br />
When I went back inside, there was a game of Four Square going on in the main lounge, with an enthusiastic audience. I found Jane, Kristen, and Rinny all standing together. Sidling up next to Jane, I said, "I have some news for you, regarding your roomie. It would seem that twice now, Kaitlyn has gone to the UCPD station and tried to file restraining orders on you. The problem is, you haven't done anything wrong. She fills out the request, and where they ask shy she wants a TRO on you, she writes in her usual complaints about you, that you're gross and a pervert and white trash and a weirdo and blah blah blah. Also, it's hard to enforce a restraining order when you share a room with the other person. Is Kaitlyn really that dumb?"<br />
Jane sighed and rolled her eyes. "No, but she is that childish and petulant. Who knows? Maybe she gets a bit of catharsis out by filing the damn things."<br />
"I hope she never goes into politics. It's the sort of thing an opponent could dig up and say, 'Look at these! The bitch was nuttier than a cheese log when she was in college.'"<br />
Rinny noticed I was there and drifted up next to me, and right against me. She was smiling widely and her eyes were too big. "I spoke with your lovely wife. I'm allowed to show you my etchings, un-escorted." She gave up on all subtlety and slid her hand up and down my crotch, saying "Mine! Mine mine mine mine mine mine mine!"<br />
Jane put a hand on Rinny's shoulder and squeezed, rather hard. "Yours, temporarily. For an hour or so. Remember that, girly. You can't get too hung up on him. He lives in San Diego, and he belongs to another. If you think you're gonna develop a hang-up, you'd better say so now and back out."<br />
"I'm cool, don't worry," Rinny smiled. To me, she said, "Shall we?"<br />
"Lead on, girl." She grabbed my hand and we walked towards a different set of stairs than I'd used before.<br />
As we went up the stairs, I asked, "Just how big is this damn place? How many people live here?"<br />
"92 residents. I know, the interior design is crazy. It's like a combination of the Winchester Mystery House and a Tardis."<br />
"Apt description." I let a few ticks pass. "So, are you always this randy, or is it the Ecstasy, or has it just been a while since you've had a piece?"<br />
Rinny thought, then answered, "Partly the drugs. Mostly because I haven't been with a guy since last spring. I had a steady boyfriend, totally monogamous. He was a Junior. He decided he wanted to do the whole stereotypical Spring Break routine, even though it's the sort of thing we both used to make fun of. He went to Cabo San Lucas. Before he left, I told him that I'd prefer he didn't fool around, but if he did, it was okay. Just be honest about it, and play safe, you know?<br />
"He comes home on Monday. He tells me what it was like, and I asked him if he'd gotten laid. 'Oh, no honey, all those girls were total sorority bitches, no way would I have scored there.' Friday I have stabbing pains in my abdomen and my box is oozing. Off to the clinic, to learn I'd picked up a particularly nasty version of gonorrhea, it took a series of antibiotic shots plus oral antibiotics to get rid of. Naturally I'm just a little peeved with my boyfriend, but now I know why he'd been blowing me off all week. It's weird, can you be a carrier of VD and not have symptoms?"<br />
"No. But venereal diseases have incubation periods before you're symptomatic, like three or four days. In those three or four days, you can pass it on quite easily, and not know you're doing it. So your boyfriend could have contracted it Friday or Saturday and unknowingly passed it on to you."<br />
"Okay. So, I confronted him, and asked why he'd lied to me. I'd told him, 'If you do get together with someone, fine, just be honest about it. I'll be a little bugged at first, but I'll get over it in a half hour. I'd rather you be honest. And remember, stay safe.' So he wasn't honest, and he couldn't be bothered to pull a fucking jimmy hat on.... And then had the guts to try and get defensive! 'See, I knew you'd be upset if I told you.' Yeah buddy, but you also geve me VD, so you didn't keep your promise to be safe, either. So that was that. I felt betrayed enough and hurt enough to have no interest in dating for the rest of the school year. Over the summer, I was back at my parents' house in Lake Forest, where.... Do you know Lake Forest?"<br />
"No. It's in Orange County, that's what I know."<br />
Rinny sighed. "Um, look, deep down I'm a spoiled little rich bitch. My parents have money, I got a new car for my sixteenth birthday, school is paid for, the whole nine yards. My parents are pretty progressive-minded, but.... Oh my God. We had neighbors telling my parents they should have me put in a psychiatric facility. Obviously, anyone who looked like I did must be nuts. All through high school, I had one boyfriend. Nobody wanted to date the weird girl. I knew I was leaving Lake Forest for college right after high school, and I also knew it's a big wide world, where people wouldn't think I was a freak just because of my boots and dreadlocks. But anyway, I didn't date anyone over the summer, either. So.... I'm sorry, I've just used 980 words to tell you I haven't been laid since spring. I'll shut up now. We're at my door anyway."<br />
She let us in. The odor of the room indicated she liked her weed. The decor suggested she was a rave girl, a dance floor brat, with a bit of interest in reggae. I congratulated her on the lava lamps and kinetic sparkle-light projector, throwing a moving pattern of colored lights against a black-painted wall. We stood there looking at each other, she finally said, "So...."<br />
"Penny for your thoughts," I said.<br />
Rinny sighed and muttered, "I think I know how a guy feels the first time he hires a prostitute. Okay, I think you're hot, and I actually do know a bit about you, but I'm still not sure how to proceed. Were you nervous when you hired your first hooker?"<br />
This question had me boggled. I chuckled and said told her, "I've paid for sex one time in my life, and even that didn't work out." Briefly I encapsulated my tale of being high on mushrooms in Tijuana at a strip club, paying a twenty for head, then bursting into hysterical laughter in the middle, insulting the girl into leaving. "No, I've never hired hookers. During my dry spells, well, shit. That's why I have my left hand. I can do that for free, safely. No, for a lot of reasons, hiring prostitutes never had appeal at any point. In fact, I'd say the majority of men in the world will also never use hookers, at most maybe once or twice. Why are you assuming we do?"<br />
"'Cos of my dad, and my uncles, and my friends' dads from high school," Rinny replied. "It just seemed like something guys do, or did when they were younger. Um, my dad liked to do sex stuff my mom wouldn't do. So every now and then, my dad would spend the night in Anaheim or LA, so he could hire a hooker who would do that stuff with him. My parents acted like it was no big deal. My uncles were single, so they'd travel to Thailand a couple times a year so they could party, you know?"<br />
I absorbed this information. "Huh. Um.... Maybe I'm reading too much into it, but I suspect your uncles have a bit of a deeper bend to them than they let on, if they're traveling all the way to Bangkok. They might like their ladies young. Really, really young. Follow me?"<br />
After a couple seconds, the Clue Bus pulled into Rinny's station. She said, "Oh. Oh.... Eww." Then she sighed and said, "Okay, this line of conversation isn't helping." She gave me a pleading look. "So.... how do we do this?"<br />
With my warmest smile, I stepped up to her and put my hands on her shoulders. "Why don't we start simple? May I kiss you?"<br />
"Yes," Rinny said, relief in her voice. "That's a good idea."<br />
So I kissed her. And we went from there.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10230648449521958270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5033784518790200307.post-38048545461137415242017-04-03T20:40:00.001-07:002017-04-03T20:40:20.731-07:00Groove (Part 11) An hour and twenty minutes later, Rinny and I went back downstairs. Jane and Kristen were playing Uno with two other residents at a table, Jane sitting in Kristen's lap. Jane looked up at us, glanced at her watch, and said, "I see you went into the bonus rounds."<br />
Rinny replied, "We did. That was.... wow. So I don't suppose I could bribe you two into letting me keep him all night?"<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
"Forget it, sister," Jane told her. "Baby wants her candy. Baby hasn't had her candy since the end of August. Baby is going through two sets of AA batteries a week right now. If baby doesn't get some action --- good action --- she'd gonna end up kidnapping and raping boys from the Applied Sciences labs, a trail of bodies in her wake. Get me?" Then, more quietly, "And I just miss being with Lenny. It's not just the fucking, it's being held, and talking. I miss my master, but I also miss the guy named Lenny Schneider."<br />
"You really, truly love him," Rinny said softly.<br />
"I do. I'm lucky his wife shares him with me. I've been hung up on Lenny since I was fourteen and living in Florida. We all met when Lenny and Bekka were on their honeymoon. Then, I came out to California, and I'm living under the same roof with them. I didn't hide how I felt for Lenny --- and Bekka too --- but Bekka said, 'No way.' Um, after about five months, things changed. Bekka decided it would be okay if Lenny and me were lovers, so long as I didn't try to steal him away completely. And after that, it was all three of us. Not all the time, but we'd all have fun together sometimes. I had boyfriends in high school, but Lenny was my rock, Bekka too. I love them both, in a lot of ways." Moving to more pressing matters she smirked, "So, how was he, girl? He make you come?"<br />
Rinny got pink, but stil retorted, "Yes, he did. Three times, and damn hard. Do you want me to file a report?"<br />
Kristen said, "Ooh. Yes! A detailed report! Blow by blow, spare no detail!"<br />
Turning to me, Rinny gave me a hug and said, "I don't think I've said it. Thank you. I needed that, it was wonderful. Becky Pa--- Bekka is a lucky woman. Jane is too, I suppose." With one of her studying gazes, she asked, "How often do you come up to the Bay Area?"<br />
"It's sporadic," I told her. "Don't try to make plans around me, and don't assume I'll be available. Okay? If it happens again, great. You were awesome yourself. But I can't say it will happen again."<br />
"Okay." Her eyes were wet. "Just.... Don't be a stranger. Call me every now and then. Or take my calls if I ring you at work. Okay?"<br />
"That's fine. And if you don't hear from me for a long interval, don't take it personally, I'm just busy. Inana makes me rich, but I work hard for that money. When a major project is going on, I work 120 hour weeks."<br />
Jane tittered, "When he's working on a script, he'll lock himself in this horrible little room in our house he calls his office, and do nothing except pound the keyboard and make phone calls for three days straight. I think he pees out the window when he does that routine."<br />
I shot back at Jane, "Don't be silly. I use a Gatorade bottle. And I do come out, off and on."<br />
"We have to remind you to eat! You try to live on meth and Mountain Dew and Marlboros! You get in your groove, so Bekka and I have to remind you to eat, and move around, and maybe even fucking sleep every few days! You get in your groove, and you try to act like you're a cyborg. A cyborg fueled by methamphetamine and cigarettes."<br />
:But I get the job done, now don't I? And everyone seems happy with the results."<br />
A guy and a girl came up to me and gave me a tap. "You're Leonard Schneider, aren't you?" the guy asked.<br />
"Someone had to be, and I drew short straw," I told him. "How ya doing?"<br />
The girl handed me a copy of "Good Girl/Bad Girl" and a Sharpie. "Could we get your autograph? We love Inana's movies, but this one is our favorite so far. '180 Strokes Per Minute' is our second-favorite. So how did you end up here tonight?"<br />
Gesturing, I said, "Jane here is a very close friend, and she's in her freshman year at UCB. I came up to visit. We heard about the party tonight, so here we are. What are your names?" They told me, so I wrote "Hello, Scott and Marcia! Cheers -- Lenny Schneider" on the back of the liner notes.<br />
Marcia said to Jane, "Thanks for giving us the Ecstasy earlier. Whoa! I'd heard about Smiley, but we've never been able to find it.... or if we did, the bastard selling it wanted forty bucks a hit. This stuff really is the bomb. Hey, we're gonna go up to Tilden Park later, to watch the sun rise. You two wanna come with?"<br />
Jane smiled and replied, "Um, we actually have some plans already, we'll be leaving after we finish this game. Thanks, though."<br />
The couple drifted off. Jane said to me, "Wow, you've been doing the autograph thing all night. You never do that very often, do you? How many autographs have you signed here?"<br />
I puzzled and replied, "Um, about eighteen or twenty. But my hunch is that if Bekka was with us, nobody would give a shit about my presence."<br />
"Oh, some of us would," Rinny said airily, looking at the ceiling. "I like what I got much more than an autograph."<br />
Jane teased, "But it's harder to show that off to your friends. What are you going to do, show your friends the stains on your sheets? Or did you have Lenny come in a jar for you?"<br />
"Don't be gross," said Kristen. "Although...."<br />
"What?" I asked.<br />
"Any objections if I bring my camera when we go to the hotel? I'm kind of a voyeur, I think it would be so killer to have the events documented, you know?"<br />
"Fine, fine. Remember though, you can't just drop off rolls of film with that sort of stuff on them at the local drug store for developing. They'll bust you."<br />
"I know. I'll have some dork from the journalism school at North Gate Hall to develop them for cost of materials and twenty bucks," Kristen assured me. "Not being able to develop pictures like that at Walgreen's is bullshit anyway. Who's gonna see the pictures? It's not like the public will."<br />
I pointed out, "True, but the sensibilities of the film techs may be offended. And your prints are sitting in those open alphabetized bins out front, for you to pick up. Any jerk could go pawing through your envelope for the sheer hell of it, and find the pictures."<br />
"I'd be pretty annoyed if I found pictures like that," said a guy sitting at the table.<br />
Jane gave him a look and asked, "You'd be offended by seeing pictures of people having sex? Do you ever look at porn?"<br />
"No, I don't. And it's not prudery on my part, people can have all the different kinds of sex they want, and more power to 'em. But.... It's also something that, to me, is a very private thing. Sex is a personal thing to me, I like to keep it private. Porn has always kind of creeped me out, I can't even imagine having sex with other people in the room..... And having it photographed or put on film, or whatever. I'd feel like what I was doing had no meaning, it was just, like, a performance, you know?"<br />
I snickered, Jane burst into laughter. She said, "When it comes to porn, performance is exactly what it is! And no, there is no meaning in what happens on a sound stage. You're not having sex, really, you're producing a video. Lemme explain...."<br />
Jane gave him the lecture about the difference between sex in real life, and the physical interactions that happen on a porn sound stage, using her own loops as examples. When she finished, the dude said, "Whoa. You've really made porn?"<br />
"Sure have," Jane grinned. "I had fun. It let the exhibitionist in me come out in a big way. That's something else you're forgetting. Some people like being watched."<br />
"Okay, fine," the dude shrugged. "If someone asked me to watch him have sex with his girlfriend, I'd wish him the best, and turn him down. I'd be uncomfortable. It's my hangup, no one else's. It's just how I feel, instinctively."<br />
Jane started to say, "You...." Then she cut herself off.<br />
"What?"<br />
Looking to one side, Jane said, "Nothing. I realized what I was going to say would be insulting, and very unfair. I was going to chastise you for not having the same feelings on the subject as me, and that would be bullshit on my part. We just.... have different views, and it's not my place to try and change your views. I should respect them instead."<br />
The dude looked at Jane with an expression of gratitude. "Thank you," he said softly. "We may not agree, but we can still respect each other."<br />
A few minutes later another guy at the table --- who had dressed like Hugh Hefner, with the robe and ascot and pipe --- won the game. Kristen and Jane said their goodbyes, and we headed to Kristen's room to call a cab. While I dialed, Kristen pulled down Jane's bustier and began sucking a nipple, to Jane's appreciation. After I finished the call, I addressed the two of them. "So, did anyone comment on the grope-a-thon you two were having downstairs?"<br />
"We explained that.... oooohh.... our interest in each other was.... ooooh...... frankly carnal, and.... aaahh.... we'd figure out if we like each..... oh yeah.... other as people later," Jane replied.<br />
"Well, my young sensualists, I was told five minutes. At this hour, in Berkeley, that's a fair judgement. Let's get out front."<br />
Out on the sidewalk, I didn't even have time to light a cigarette before the cab showed up. The three of us piled in the back seat, me saying, "Marina Marriott, please."<br />
The driver didn't start the meter, or put the taxi in gear. He was an old bastard who looked like he'd gone to a plastic surgeon and said, "Make me look like Charles Bukowski on a bad day." Instead, he said, "That'll be about fourteen dollars."<br />
"Okay," I shrugged.<br />
"You got fourteen dollars, junior?" the driver asked.<br />
Putting some steel in my voice, I retorted, "If I didn't have any fucking cash, I wouldn't have called a cab."<br />
"I wanna see the color of your money first."<br />
Now I was feeling annoyed. In the Bay Area, security screens between the front and back seats are a rarity in taxis. He didn't have one. I pulled out two twenties. I was seated right behind him, so I leaned forward, grabbed him by the throat with my left hand, and pulled myself forward so my head was next to his. I said, "Open your mouth."<br />
He did, wordlessly. I put the folded twenties in his mouth, then let go and leaned back in the seat. I told him, "There. More than enough. If you keep your fucking mouth shut the entire way to the Marriott, you keep it all. If you speak, I pay the exact amount on the meter, and nothing more. Have I made myself clear? Nod your head." The driver nodded, started the meter, and rolled away.<br />
Jane and Kristen kept their hands to themselves on the ride to the hotel, talking about their classes. Kristen was a sophomore, from Santa Rosa. At Cloyne Court, she was "legacy." Both parents had also lived in Cloyne when they went to UC Berkeley. They were bohemian types, and felt that the experiences Kristen would have at Cloyne would be valid ones. Kristen said, "They're gonna freak when I tell them I tried Smiley, and for free! They've tried it a couple times, and loved it. I guess it's kinda weird for somebody's parents to be telling their kid to go out and try a drug on purpose, but.... whatever. I started smoking pot when I was twelve, the day after my first mense. My parents were all, 'You are now officially no longer a child, so you can enjoy things adults can. We're going to show you how to use a bong.' It's been pretty nice. I could talk to them about anything at all. I never got in any real trouble, I was a good kid. When I had my first kiss, I told them about it. When I lost my virginity, I told them about it. I was curious about sex toys, so I asked my mom about them.... Yeah, it's really unusual for your own mom to buy you your first vibrator, I guess. Especially as a fifteenth birthday present."<br />
I looked in the rear view mirror. The driver kept glancing back at us. His jaw was wobbling, but his lips stayed closed. Kristen and Jane went on to discuss when and how they'd learned to give a blowjob (again, Kristen had sought Mom's advice) and when they realized that girls had as much appeal as boys. Jane commented, "Florida is pretty backwards, so of course I'd been told I wasn't supposed to think about other girls like that. Well, shit, I'm already getting fucked by my dad, which was way worse, so why should I give myself grief for thinking girls are hot?"<br />
The taxi stopped at the front of the hotel and we got out. I told the driver, "Enjoy the tip." He started to slowly roll away, then stopped after thirty feet and yelled out the window, "Goddamn weirdo perverts! Goddamn college students!" and sped off.<br />
"Gosh, he got the last word in, didn't he?" giggled Jane.<br />
We were walking past the front desk when the clerk said, "Excuse me."<br />
The three of us stopped. "Yes?" I asked.<br />
"Where are you headed?"<br />
"Would you believe to our room?" Jane said pointedly.<br />
"What name are you reg---"<br />
Cutting him off, I stated, "Leonard Schneider and Jane Osborne, room 3212. A suite, smoking. We already have two pay-per-view charges. Would you like the number of the Visa card the room is being paid for with, stupid?" I pulled out my wallet, grabbed the card, and said in a loud and slow voice, "Card holder, Leonard Schneider. Card number 3443 6817 56...."<br />
"Yes, thank you sir, I see your registration, enjoy your evening, good night." The clerk clicked a couple things on his computer keyboard and hurried through a doorway, removing himself from the situation. Jane and I looked at each other and shook our heads. "Damn glorified doorman," Jane said.<br />
It was 3:38 a.m. when we got in the room. Our happy fun times finally came to a complete stop around 8:45. We ordered some breakfast from room service. Kristen had never used a glass pipe before, she'd only snorted, so we showed her how to smoke meth. When our food arrived, Jane and I told her to ignore the fact that she no longer felt hungry, and eat anyway. She'd been hungry when we ordered, right? Don't let the appetite-killing effect of meth rule you, always remember to eat.<br />
We scanned through the options for porn on pay-per-view, and saw "Blood-Stained Kisses" was one of the options. So was "Good Girl/Bad Girl." Kristen hadn't seen "Kisses" yet, so we turned it on. Thirty minutes in, the fun times started up again, the events on the screen inspiring us. This time, we stayed busy until eleven. Oh poop, I gotta call Bekka.<br />
"And how was your night?" Bekka asked over the phone.<br />
I started singing, "I.... ain't got nobody.... 'cept love songs in love...."<br />
Bekka giggled and said, "That's not the right lyrics to 'Just a Gigolo."<br />
"Philistine," I said. "That's the Louis Prima version. You're probably only familiar with that stomach-wrenching version David Lee Roth did."<br />
"Imagine my surprise when the phone rang when it did, and there's a college girl on the other end. First she spent two minutes telling me what a big fan she is, and how she has the utmost respect for me, and she hopes she's not waking me up, and on and on. I finally told her that I wasn't asleep yet, but the hour was late, and did she have a reason for the call? I swear, I could hear her hyperventilating into the phone, then she announces, 'If it's okay with you, may I fuck your husband?' I asked her what her name was, she said it was Ginny. So I said, Ginny, knock yourself out. Go have fun, but make sure he has fun too. Goodnight.' And I hung up.<br />
"She called back two minutes later, saying, 'Ms. Schneider, you're absolutely sure it's okay?' I told her that if it wasn't, she'd have heard a long string of swearing in Italian, then my hand would have reached out of her phone and strangled her where she stood. And the poor girl says, 'Can you really do that?' Oh boy. So I said, 'Yes, I learned the trick from a Tibetan monk who works as a lineman for Pacific Bell. You're wasting time, darling, go fuck my husband.' She hung up without saying goodbye."<br />
After I caught my breath from laughing so hard, I said, "Yes, Rinny --- it's Rinny, not Ginny --- strikes me as a bit gullible. This was probably exacerbated by beer and Ecstasy. I fear Rinny is another fan who believes you as super-human, a superhero. She's intimidated just by the idea of Becky Page. If you'd been up here, she probably have been afraid to speak to you directly, and would have averted her eyes in your presence."<br />
Bekka noted, "And if I'd been up there, I'd have told her no."<br />
"Really?"<br />
"Babe, you had Jane and, uh, Kristen in bed with you last night, correct. If I'd been with you, you'd have had three women in bed at the same time. I wouldn't have risked the chance of you wearing yourself out completely. You're quite the stud in your own right, but you're still human."<br />
"Don't worry, things went fine for all concerned," I promised. "Any plans for the day?"<br />
"When I hang up with you, I'm going to Triplet's for brunch with my three guards. Drummer will be coming down this afternoon, he's feeling lonely without Terry around, so he'll drive the Nova up here. I tuned in KNX on the stereo for a while, but didn't hear any news about Haley. What are your plans for the day?"<br />
"We're meeting Riley, Hunchback, and Monk at Cloyne Court at three. Monk says he has some mushrooms which are out of this world, so we'll double-pack up to Tilden Park and wander around high for a while. Then we'll probably go back to Cloyne and order pizza."<br />
"That's about as productive as any Sunday should be," Bekka said. "I'm going to take off, babe. I'm starving, and my entourage probably is too. Call tonight before midnight?"<br />
"No sweat," I told her. "You want to talk to Jane?"<br />
Bekka paused, then said, "Actually, would you put Kristen on the line, if she's still there?"<br />
I handed the phone to Kristen, who suddenly looked terrified. She nervously said, "Hello?" into the phone. Then,she giggled and said, "Yes..... Oh yeah. Oh God, yes, you were right...... Actually, no, it was new to me..... I think so, they didn't complain..... Really? Huh...... Wow..... Yeah, that makes sense..... Well..... Huh. Maybe? I don't know..... Okay.... 'Kay, bye." She handed the phone back to me.<br />
Bekka said to me, "Well! You would seem to be getting rave reviews. Now I want to hear this girl Rinny's opinion of your abilities."<br />
I said, "She's an anthropology major, she told Jane she was going to write a report and give it to her. I'll make sure Jane sends down a copy. Did Rinny tell you the big reason she was interested in me?" Bekka confessed her ignorance. "She told me she wanted to experience what it was Becky Page experienced when Becky Page had sex in her leisure time, and with the man she married. I'm not sure what she was expecting, but I brought my A game. I guess she figures that if a man can satisfy Becky Page, it's gotta be quite an event to be with that man."<br />
There was a slightly bitter tone to Bekka's chuckle. "I wonder if other porn stars are given as much consideration as I am."<br />
"Probably not," I replied. "Inana Girls are, but overall, you watch a porn star in action, you rarely get the idea she's really having fun. She's either looking bored and passive, or she's so obviously putting on a show you want to slap her. Inana Girls, you especially, have enough thespian talent to look like you're genuinely involved with the proceedings. You all actively participate, but you don't oversell, you know?"<br />
"I know you well enough to assume you got Rinny's contact information. Maybe I'll call her every now and then, just to chat. Talk about completely everyday things, work, school, whatever. I'll have someone almost completely unconnected to Southern California to talk to, and she'll learn --- hopefully --- that I am not Becky Page, and Becky Page is not a superhero."<br />
After we hung up, the girls and I showered (one at a time). Then we headed for Jane's place. She wanted to drop off the bag of Ecstasy --- "I don't like being a walking felony all the time" --- and Kristen wanted to tape a Skinny Puppy album she had. We rode the taxi to the residence hall and went in.<br />
Walking into the room, Jane was up front. She suddenly gasped and stopped. I looked over her to see what the problem was, and spotted it immediately. Kaitlyn was lying face down on the floor, not moving. She had no shoes on, and it looked like there was dirt all over the back of her blouse and skirt. Jane quickly went to her and shook a shoulder, rolling her partway on her side. "Kaitlyn! Kaitlyn! Are you okay?"<br />
Kaitlyn swam slowly out of the ether and gazed unsteadily at Jane. She slurred, "What are you doing here?"<br />
"We stopped by to make a tape. Why are you passed out on the floor? What happened?"<br />
The preppy princess slowly looked around the room. "I'm.... home? What time is it?"<br />
"A little past noon," Jane answered. "Where have you been? What happened?"<br />
The slurring voice said, "I was.... atta party, a house oh Warring Street..... Issa good party, lotsa people.... How did I get home?"<br />
"You got the hell beat out of us," Jane answered. "Your clothes are filthy. What happened at the party? Do you remember anything?"<br />
A pause, then, "Talkin' to a guy.... One of the bros from that house. He said he had Ecstasy, the stuff like you had. It looked different, though. Um.... He gave me the Ecstasy, an' we went back down to the kegs for another beer..... An'..... damn..... I don't know after that....."<br />
Jane, Kristen, and I all glanced at each other. We were all thinking the same thing. Kaitlyn started to nod off again, and Jane let her. Then she lifted Kaitlyn's skirt and looked at her crotch "Her underwear is gone, it looks like she's got dried blood on her thighs.... Shit. No doubt what happened. And figure it's been a minimum of ten hours since she got drugged, and she's still out of it, so who knows what the fuck they used." She sighed and said, "I hate saying this, but it's time to dial 911. I don't want to just chuck her onto her bed and hope for the best."<br />
"Not a problem," I said, stepping towards the phone.<br />
Kristen said, "Leave her on her side. That way, if she pukes, she won't inhale it. She doesn't look like Jimi Hendrix, she shouldn't die like him." Her and Jane used sofa cushions to prop Kaitlyn up.<br />
"Ambulance on the way," I said. "I didn't give them much detail, just the we got here and found your roommate passed out on the floor. The ER staff will certainly be ringing Johnny Law in a little while, once they examine her. Damn, we'd better call Riley to tell him we have to cancel, who knows how long we'll be there."<br />
"I'll call her parents from the hospital," Jane said. She went and grabbed a roll of quarters from her sleeping alcove. "I'm not sure what I'll say. 'Hi, your daughter was drugged and raped last night, how's things down there in Irvine?' Fuck."<br />
I took a closer look at Kaitlyn's back. I commented, "The dirt on her back is really rubbed in. Hold on...." I knelt down and lifter her skirt again, briefly looking at her ass. "Her butt is covered with dirt, too. It's like she was dragged on the ground by her legs, in a backyard with wet soil. Yeah, there's dirt in her hair, too."<br />
Jane got on the phone and called Riley. He wasn't home, so she dialed his pager and left the number. He called back a couple minutes later from the Oakland H.A. clubhouse. She explained what was going on, and that we were going to be at the hospital for a while. Maybe next weekend would be better.<br />
The front door buzzer went off, and the EMTs from Paramedics Plus announced their presence. They finagled the gurney into the room, we slid a sofa back, and they got Kaitlyn onto the gurney. Kaitlyn became semiconscious when she was being wheeled towards the door and mumbled something, then went back out. The EMTs had determined her pulse was steady but rather light. Her blood pressure was low, too. We asked which hospital, they said Alta Bates, the closest emergency room. They asked if anyone wanted to ride with her. "I will," volunteered Jane. "I'm her roommate."<br />
I called Green Cab for a pickup, they said five to seven minutes. Kristen and I went downstairs so I could smoke. Kristen noted, "Jesus, it's like a fucking textbook case of date rape. I'm worried what they used to knock her out was more heavy than a Roofie. That shit wears off in five or six hours. If she got the dose at a frat party that was still bumpin', it was probably no later then two a.m."<br />
The cab got us to the hospital, where Jane was in the waiting room. She'd had to provide information, some of which she didn't know, like Kaitlyn's birthday or Social Security number. One of the ER staffers was on her shit list. "He kept looking at me and asking, 'You're sure you don't know what she was given?' like I'd drugged her myself."<br />
I sneered, "Well, all us punk rock types are heroin addicts, so obviously Kaitlyn asked you to get her high, and you hit her too large, too much junk at once."<br />
About twenty minutes later, an ER staffer came out of a door and gestured to Jane. The three of us went over. Our suspicions were confirmed: heavily sedated on an unknown drug (blood test still in process), bruising on her hips, thighs, and breasts, torn vaginal tissue, consistent with extended intercourse and a lack of lubrication. It struck Jane that we hadn't seen Kaitlyn's purse anywhere in the unit.<br />
Berkeley PD arrived a few minutes later. They talked with the ER staff first, then came to interview us. They weren't happy that we knew almost nothing. No, we had no idea where she'd gone last night. Our assumption was a frat party, that was her scene and it was Rush Week. No, we wouldn't know which house. We had no clue how to get a hold of any friends she might have been with, Jane only knew a couple first names. She finally told the cops, "Kaitlyn and I share a residence unit. We don't share food, clothes, music, friends, or even basic information about our lives. The most informative thing I can do is give you the first names and room numbers of a couple people she knows in our building, and her parents' home number, down in Irvine. Kaitlyn has never liked me, and made it clear our live would be completely separate. She tells me nothing about her life, I don't even know her class schedule."<br />
The cops left to go to the residence hall to see if they could track down Kaitlyn's friends there. We stepped out front to smoke. When we finished, Jane sighed deeply and said, "Here goes nothing. I'm headed to the pay phones to call her folks."<br />
Kristen and I tagged along. Jane dialed, then started shoving quarters into the slot. She waited while the phone rang. Finally she said, "Hello, is this Austen? This is Jane, Kaitlyn's roommate. Look, I've got really fucked-up news, and I'm just going to say it. <i> </i>I got home a while ago, I'd been out all night, and I found Kaitlyn passed out on the floor of our room. I couldn't really rouse her, so I called 911. Um, the people here at the ER say she's been drugged, and she shows signs of having been raped. Me and my friends are going to stay here at the hospital until we find out what's going on, it's Alta Bates in Berkeley. I'm really sorry to have to tell you this....<br />
"I don't know...... I don't know, I left yesterday afternoon, and got home maybe an hour ago.... No..... I'm sorry, but I really have no idea..... No, she..... No...." Jane suddenly made a hissing noise and said in a forceful voice, "All right, look. Your daughter has made it crystal fucking clear that we stay out of each other's lives. When my friends come over, I introduce them. Kaitlyn doesn't extend that courtesy to me with her friends. I don't know the names of her friends, I don't know where they live, I don't know where they hang out, and I don't know where the fuck Kaitlyn would go to party on a Saturday night. She tells me nothing. The best I could offer to do is go through her desk and see if I can find an address book, then read off names and numbers to you. The cops want to know who she was with, too.....<br />
"Yes, they were..... No.... No, I didn't. The ER did..... Of course they did! It's kind of a normal course of action when they have an obvious rape victim on their hands, and one who's unable to speak..... Oh, God..... I have no idea, you'll have to ask them...... Berkeley PD, lady, I don't have their fucking phone number memorized! I mean, what are..... WHAT!? .... Jesus Christ, lady, you're....." Thee was a full minute of Jane being silent. Her face showed open-mouthed amazement and shock. She finally said, "So that's your main concern. How lovely. You..... No. No, I won't..... Look, woman, your phone works just as well as mine, you can do your own fucking research! So are you coming up here? .... Good. See you tomorrow afternoon, I'll be home by a quarter after five. And believe me, I can't wait to talk to you face to face." Jane slammed the phone into the cradle so hard I thought it would crack.<br />
Jane turned to us and said, "Well, I think I understand why Kaitlyn is the way she is a little better now. I got a glimpse into the sort of priorities her parents have. Go ahead, guess what her mother was most concerned about." We shrugged. Jane yelled, "Whether this would be in the fucking papers or not! They don't want the fucking family name connected to a rape, even if their daughter was the victim! Jesus fucking Christ!"<br />
I noted, "And Kaitlyn's mom hasn't read a paper in a while. The media provides no information about rape victims these days, not even first names. The most they'd say would be initials. If they did report it, all they'd say would be 'The victim was K.L.H., a college student.' Not even 'A UC Berkeley college student.' She worries about nothing."<br />
"I need another fucking cigarette," Jane announced, so we went out front again.<br />
When we returned, an ER staffer came over and said, "Kaitlyn will be admitted for the night. She is regaining consciousness, but is still very lethargic. The blood tests show a high level of Rohypnol in her system, double what would be expected. She's lucky, she had an overdose level of Rohypnol in her, she could have died. Be glad you found her, and called an ambulance instead of hoping she'd sleep it off."<br />
The nurse cleared her throat and continued in a lower voice. "We have semen samples. These will be tested for venereal disease and blood type.... and to also determine the number of men involved. I believe you already stated you don't know where Kaitlyn may have been."<br />
"No fucking clue," said Jane. "A frat house, I can pretty much set book on that. Which one, who knows. It's Rush Week --- it was, anyway --- and all the frat houses have been competing to see who can throw the biggest blow-out."<br />
"Well.... We'll get that information from Kaitlyn when she's fully conscious. She should be discharged tomorrow afternoon. Will you be able to provide transportation for her?"<br />
"I don't have a car. I'll be in class. The best I can do is give you money for cab fare." Jane pulled her wallet out to had the nurse a couple bills. "Her parents will be in town tomorrow, I know that. What time, I'm not sure. At the moment, I would happily kill them both with a chainsaw, so I'm not looking forward to their arrival. Here...."<br />
Jane pulled a slip of paper out of her purse and wrote seven numbers on it. "There's my pager number. When Kaitlyn is being released, and if her parents aren't around, page me. I'll leave class and come get her. Fair enough?"<br />
"That's fine," said the nurse. "I'm sure Kaitlyn will appreciate what you've done for her."<br />
After staring at the nurse for a few seconds, Jane burst into laughter. When she stopped, she told the confused nurse, "Actually, she won't. Not even a little."Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10230648449521958270noreply@blogger.com0