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part 1 of the story
All These Amusements

Matt McGee

    Elaina’s invitation to a home-cooked dinner doesn’t guarantee Billy a good night in bed but a solid meal can keep him in one place for a few hours, anyway. She opens the door, smiles warmly, and leads him toward a cloud of basil and oregano drifting from the kitchen. He listens to her chatter, nods at the occasional keyword or phrase, but is actually thinking of places she could have bought Pasta Primavera ready-made.
    Billy pulls out a pack of Doublemint, grabs a stick, chews, then holds up the empty wrapper. Elaina points at the cabinet beneath the sink then disappears toward the wine rack in the garage. A quick glance of the trash reveals only evidence of a meal prepared from scratch. He closes the cabinet door and stands still; being around someone with enough time to cook has a calming effect he hasn’t slowed down long enough to understand. He breathes and, slowly, allows his head to go quiet. Then the music starts up again; songs he’s heard, songs played onstage, songs that don’t exist but, if she had a guitar in her house, would arrive through the fingers of a generation’s lone inheritant.
    When Elaina returns from the garage, Billy watches her move. She’s tall, long-legged in a way that makes her ass seem longer, flatter in snug denim than when she stands naked in front of a mirror. The sweater she chose on this brisk evening sports three tones of horizontal maroon stripes, breaking the illusion of her height, yet still low-cut enough to highlight her C cups. When she crosses her arm over her chest to puff on a cigarette it creates a tempting little shadow. She keeps her hair shorter now, almost bobbed. The waist-length mane she loved to swing over her shoulder and bounce from the foot of his stage only compounded the reality of her height, a gift from her mother, a former junior high basketball coach.
    Elaina realized and mastered this illusion years ago when her modeling ambition peaked and her husband, then a photographer for Allure, did his best to groom her for the markets. She did some standing work, modeling women’s winter coats. Now every time that season rolls around she struts confidently about the world, having mastered the look of being Elaina - for a few months, anyway.
    The L.A. skyline poses outside the bay window of her hilltop home, a row of distant black trophies wrapped in coastal haze presented to the ascended folk, the Pacific gently lapping its sidewalks. On a distant hillside to the right rests the neighborhood of half-million dollar shacks Billy and his musical ambition recently vacated.
    His eyes drifted around the vaulted ceiling, fresh carpet, the designer furniture. This was Elaina’s reward for forgetting the half dozen models her ex-husband auditioned in the spare bedroom during their eighteen month marriage. She slid up behind Billy and gave him a friendly swat with a wooden spoon.
    “Soup’s on, sailor. Let’s eat.”

 

    Elaina is soon lifting away his salad plate and presenting the main course. Billy watches two large wood forks like bulldozer jaws land a heap of pasta on his plate.
    “So what have you been doing with yourself? And I don’t mean work.”
    He nudged his fork toward the bay window. “Now that I’ve moved out of the hills, I walk around a lot. Mostly Sunset.”
    “What’s a good gigolo making these days?”
    Billy chewed and swallowed. “Wrong boulevard.”
    “So that’s why none of those cute boys wanted to come back to my gingerbread house.”
    “So that’s why you called.”
    She smiled and looked at her plate. His heart raced. He twirled his fork in a pool of sauce. Elaina lit a cigarette.
    “I’m getting something started,” he says.
    “Yeah?” She waited as he kept twirling. “Like...”
    Billy shrugged. “It’s always something. I may not finish but I keep starting. I just wanna see and do everything before my legs are too old to take me. I spent that year in solitary on the hill. Y’know what happened? I spent so much time scheming how to become a legend that I missed my chance to die young.”
    She tapped her cigarette against her empty bread plate. It wasn’t her best china. “When did you decide that?”
    Billy twirled, chewed & swallowed. “Walked out of the Viper Room a couple weeks ago, into the spot where River Phoenix checked out. He was what, twenty-two? Three? I stood on that patch of concrete and thought, ‘I haven’t earned a patch.’ I don’t know. Forget instant fame. Lifetime achievement awards seem more my speed now.”
    “Boy, you are depressed. Why don’t you just get married and get it over with?”
    He swallowed the impulse to blurt out yeah, worked for you. A mouthful of spaghetti helped. “Not what I’m looking for,” he finally said, hoping it wouldn’t disappoint her.
    “So your best days are behind you?”
    “Don’t you think the same thing some days?”
    Shit. No taking that back.
    “I think my best work is ahead of me,” said a familiar tone. Billy welcomed the recital: the resume, stars passed in hallways, the classes, auditions.
    Billy played the good guest and lover. He listened, timed his banter, and once dinner, spumoni, and the last of the wine were consumed he followed her to the fireplace where they slid onto a black leather couch and began consuming each other.
    Three hours later he rustled awake on his side of her bed. He dressed, walked downhill to Sunset and mounted the sidewalk. The lights of the Hollywood Hills towered over him; his belly was still full, the reminder on his lip of garlic bread and vagina. He passed the Metro #2 bus stand and walked to work, burning her fuel.

 

    The homemade flyer inside KC’s used record store has an apron cut like piano keys, each a slip bearing a phone number for ‘Matt,’ seeking a rhythm guitarist. Billy tore away a number and turned back toward the sidewalk, then locked eyes with the blonde tending counter. He stayed to browse, eventually bought three CDs and watched ‘Erika’ scrawl her number on the back of his receipt. From the sidewalk Billy watched her counting bills through the store window; he considers how much KC has learned about business since he cut his hair.
    Billy began his shift behind the counter of Lannegan’s all-night secondhand music shop. During a two hour lull, one of many, he dialed Matt’s cell. They talked the way hopeful couples do, reciting musical influences, agreeing to jam that night in the shop after Matt got off work. Billy hung up and opened the front door.
    He lifted a Rickenbacker 330 electric from the wall and began a medley of songs long since fallen through the cracks of corporate radio, songs which he considers himself a generation’s lone inheritant. Sustained notes floated from the amplifier toward the bustle of the street, blending with fresh Pacific air, serenading the spirits. An hour or so later, a young man strolled through the door wearing a polyester polo shirt splattered with the logos of America’s favorite auto parts suppliers. He set down his new Fender, shook Billy’s hand and plugged into a house amplifier.
    They bridged a generation gap with a common affection for saturated grunge songs - Bush and Nirvana. During these auditions Billy usually plays along; tonight he played whatever came through his fingers, often slipping into new creations. He’d show Matt a new progression and fate soon found the younger filling in on rhythm.
    After Matt left, Billy and the Rickenbacker began a five hour session which continued at home. He played for the ghosts, spinning a web of feedback until he fell asleep on the floor, guitar buzzing beside him where, finally, he’s the only one who hears it.

* * *

    Billy’s cell had tumbled from his pocket overnight and settled on the carpet beside his head. It rang at 7:24am. When he pressed it to his ear, Marci asked why he hasn’t been dating.
    The guitar buzzed on his hip as yellow morning filling the window. Hearing his unintelligible mumble Marci suggests coffee at the small independent shop beside the copy store they’d run years ago. She’d been the manager, he her sole employee. Billy pushed himself off the floor, into the shower, having slept three good hours.


    Coffee Island is rich with the memories of their camaraderie among the clatter of overnight copy jobs, where they’d breathed the pink cancerous air of toner, united by need of a paycheck and the mutual boredom that eventually led to the scanning of body parts, sent via fax to former mates with the inscription “Have You Seen Me Lately?” Those nights often crescendoed with the Toner Twins laughing beside Coffee Island’s espresso machine, watching commuters groan out orders and shuffle toward congested freeways.
    “I can’t sit still long enough to date,” Billy said. He held a hand-painted latte mug that was literally a small bowl with a handle. The warm caffeine shot into him, his legs warmed and he swelled with half an erection.
    The memory he carried of Marci was a copy of a copy of the original. He allowed himself the guilty pleasure of looking her over now as she sat staring out the window. Her hair was still a thick maple, her skin fair, unblemished, her glassy brown eyes glimmering like wet Tootsie Pops. Her lean, pale thighs attracted morning sunlight where they launched out the hem of a well-chosen skirt. Billy tilted his mug. The new shot of caffeine tightened his balls.
    “How is it I never got fired for hooking up with my boss?”
    “Finding good help is tough. Finding someone to pass the time with a slow lay isn’t something you can advertise for on Craigslist.”
    “So, love life on pause?”
    “More like a blank tape.”
    “Nobody?”
    “Nope.”
    “I don’t believe you,” he smiled. “You’re just standing by, waiting? That’s not the Marci I know.”
    She leaned her head against a rolled up fist. “I’ve become one of those girls, you know? Sitting on the side of the gym waiting for someone to ask me to dance. Only I’m thirty-three and little unborn voices are calling from inside. I wish I could ask a guy out.” She shook her head. “‘Desperation is the world’s worst cologne,’ y’know?”
    Billy spoke in a low scratch. “I have... friends. I love each one their own way but I don’t love just one.” He thought a long moment; Marci disappeared from his radar. “I never realized how bad that sounds. But that’s how it is. Like calling a plumber.”
    “So.”
    “So it’s easier to wave my lovin’ all around than sit and think about it. Dammit, where are those cookies we used to fiend on?”
    He scanned the counter, found the double chocolate chip jar and left $5 on the counter. Marci spoke with a wad of cookie in her cheek.
    “You’re avoiding the subject. As soon as I hit on something that rattles your box you find food or some other diversion.”
    He wiped his cheek. “No I don’t. Hey, lookit that old car out there.”
    She didn’t fall for it. She bit, chewed, swallowed. “OK, well, here’s something to chew on. Hah. Maybe your running around consuming everything is a way of feeling secure when there is no security.”
    A laughing young couple strolled through the door, their work clothes untucked, bearing nametags from the copy store. Billy watched Marci watch the couple.
    He set his cookie down, stood, and held out a hand. “C’mon,” he said.
    “What?”
    “Come home and get in bed with me.” She didn’t look surprised, just met his stare with hers.
    “You really know how to romance a girl.”
    His hand stayed outstretched. A boyish grin spread. He raised his eyebrows. “It’ll be just like when we got fired for the group photo on the Xerox.”
    Marci smiled.
    “I still have the scar.”
    “So show me.”
    “Don’t you... do you just want to swallow me?”
    Billy smiled to cover the fact he was speaking against his better judgment. “I can do both.” He curled his still outstretched fingers. She stood and slung her purse over her shoulder.
    He watched her Mazda in his rearview mirror, following to his two room condo. He cursed over the blare of an MC5 cassette. He knew she was right.

* * *

    Matt called soon after Marci went home to get ready for work. He wants a jam session with his drummer. Billy put in nine hours at work, came home and was packing up his gear when he spotted the blinking green light on the answering machine.
    The sound of Debbie’s voice etched into its tape raced Billy’s heart to near bursting. How about Sunday brunch tomorrow? Billy leaves an acceptance with her voicemail. He hangs up, suddenly dizzy with the vision of sitting in a large padded chair reading the Sunday paper, color comics and Opinion section splayed out, a retriever at his feet while televised football echoes lazily from another room as the thin, distant voices of children laughing float through the air.
    The jam session is a disaster. The overweight 51 year-old postal clerk is not the Keith Moon he wanted to be, but the lone resident in a land of pun-based humor, obscure references and a string of nervous rambling he uses to levitate his continuous breaks in rhythm. Billy floated into his own world, still high on Debbie’s call, and let the drummer create a rhythm under his guitar. He eventually walked his gear to the car and thanked Matt for the shot. At home, he set everything in the corner and went to bed with an appetite.

* * *

    Eggs & Things is a bright, bustling bruncheon across the street from the city’s largest Catholic church. One block away are the United Methodists, two blocks from there the Temple Elot, and a half mile down are the Christian Scientists. Locals call it Reverend’s Row.
    On Sunday mornings, if you can get a table, you’ll weave through rows of elderly couples, His & Hers walkers leaned beside C-shaped naugahyde booths. Adult children fuel conversation as grandchildren run loose.
    An eager 16 year-old hostess once found her first job here, smiling simply, leading families to group-appropriate tables. Debbie avoided the politics of the waitress station (and tips they offered to share) until the day a 17 year-old art student walked in. He sat patiently stroking guitar tab and lyrics into a small pad, peering through his long bangs for over an hour, eyeliner rimming his reddened eyes, oblivious to the scheming being performed to secure the rights to his service. It was the only secret she kept in their decade of shared lifetime, and if asked she would deny it completely.
    She’s still single. Billy praises heaven for this, not realizing her status has often been due to her weight. Debbie is the kind that men would call ‘thick in the right places,’ and living proof of how few stick around to peel through her layers.
    He and Debbie have never explored their physical attraction. For her it’s anticipation, to him it’s been repressed for fear of stunting his freedom. He calls her Banana, knowing she finds a way to splash a little of her favorite color into every outfit. Today she wears a sweatpants ensemble, some kind of mellow custard terrycloth. Billy loves the gentle way her parts jiggle beneath the fabric and can’t help but watch her sit, stand, and (especially!) walk.
    “So why don’t you date anymore?” she asks.
    “I’m here with you.”
    She scanned the room, the chattering mouths, laughing faces, the children audibly outgrowing their good clothes.
    “This isn’t a date, it’s a stroll down memory lane.”
    Billy shrugged. “Some people date. We stroll.”
    “Strolling hasn’t seemed to be your pace lately.”
    Their waitress, Joy, appeared in white polo shirt and trim black shorts. She took their drink order, food order, and twenty minutes later bounced up with two stoneware plates of Sunday morning fare. Hired years after Debbie’s tenure, Joy checked their drink levels and turned back to the kitchen, clanging and steaming at full throttle. Debbie noticed Joy’s trim figure. She watched Billy’s eyes, waiting to see if he watched Joy, too. He sniffed his food and reached for his silverware roll. Debbie gently reached over and intercepted his hand.
    Her fingers slipped softly around his. Billy recognized the cue of her bowed head.
    “Thank you for this meal and the Earth that brought it to us, for bringing us together, and in each day may we make the most of all we’re given.”
    They shared a traditional parting squeeze and muttered something that sounded nothing like an Amen. Silverware rolls were opened like surgical kits and napkins floated onto laps.
    “I didn’t know you were religious.”
    “I’m not, really. I just like to say thanks.”
    Billy looked around. “I was here once. Great service.”
    Debbie waited for a knowing look that never came.
    “Fine family atmosphere,” he continued. ?“There’s something I don’t think I’m capable of creating.”
    “I know you better than to believe it when you say that.”
    “Maybe fooling myself is all I’ve got left.”
    “Can you set aside your rock star dreams for monogamy?”
    Billy scanned the roomful of families, walkers, the smiles. The music in his head had been drowned in the clatter & conversation. His eyes returned to her.
    “Hollywood hasn’t got a chance, Banana.”
    She held out her right hand. He took it gently, unsure if another prayer were coming. He set down his fork just in case.
    “Look,” she said of her fingers. He did. “See anything?” He didn’t. She took her hand back, twiddled her fingers in the air, then dug back into her omelet. “Exactly.”
    Billy remembered what Marci had said. One of those girls, just waiting. He emptied his pockets onto the table: half a stick of gum, a wristband from one of the clubs, assorted change, car keys. Billy trimmed the wristband, chewed the gum into smooth cement and fashioned a quick ring. He slipped the little band over her finger. His heart skipped as she twiddled it in front of her.
    “With this ring I be wed. Now go do my laundry.”
    “You go do my laundry.” And just like that they were married.
    As Debbie examined the spit & gum ring, Billy grew slowly, involuntarily calm. Of all the girls who’d come and gone Debbie was the only one who’d stood calmly still. Most had met his charm by expecting the chase, or giving chase until they tired. But Debbie never chased. Like anything else with moving parts she figured he too would eventually wear out. She knew this was expecting a lot, so the drought went on, and she learned to pace her march in faith that an oasis existed.
     She twiddled the ring on her hand beneath the table and, for just a moment, allowed herself the luxury of believing in happily-ever-afters.

* * *

    Six weeks passed. On a late winter afternoon Billy’s cell jingled with 212 blah-blah-blah. NYC calling? He picked up. It was Sonny, his sound-engineering cousin, in town with an emerging pop singer. He shouted an invite for a few beers over the drummers sound check.
    Dublin’s on Sunset takes their Irish theme seriously; Guinness & Harp logos chase patrons along every foot of wall space right into the restrooms, where the Beamish and Jameson ads take over. The cousins shout HELLO then shout requests at the waitress in an attempt to defy the monitors. Six requests later the cousins put one weaving foot in front of the other down Sunset’s sidewalk. Young girls in a convertible woooo! in their direction; Billy knows they’re directed at his younger, longer-haired. Billy’s pace lasts just long enough to get to Sonny’s hotel. He hits the carpet face down inside room 114.
    “Hand me the phone, cuz.”
    Sonny lifted the whole unit from the nightstand and set it on Billy’s back.
    “Thank you.” Billy put the receiver to his ear and poked a weaving fingertip at his favorite set of numbers.
    “I’m staying with Sonny tonight.”
    “OK. I wouldn’t want you at the bottom of Laurel Canyon before you get a chance to buy me a great big ring.”
    “Oh, now my pocket debris and saliva aren’t good enough?”
    “Call if you’re too hung over to drive.”
    “OK.”
    “Sleep tight.”
    “K.”
    “Don’t let the carpet bugs bite.”
    How did she know?
    “You have a long-running habit of sleeping in the first comfortable place that presents itself.”

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