When my girlfriend Chrissie and I arrived at the house, McIntyre answered the door. He was wearing an orange polyester shirt with the two top buttons undone, showing off his hairy chest. The thick gold chain around his neck looked very pimp. My mother came out of the kitchen to greet us. Candles were burning all over the living room with little brass angels spinning in the updraft, making tinkling sounds from all corners. After drinking eggnog laced with brandy, we listened to symphonic Christmas music while putting the last decorations on the tree.
We sat in the living room, while McIntyre told stories about sledding down dangerous icy slopes as a young boy in Buffalo, New York. Then my mother served a Christmas feast with glazed ham, mashed potatoes, baked squash, hot spiced cider, and homemade pumpkin pie. McIntyre was congenial -- he smiled broadly as he gestured.
"I'm going to love your mother like no man has ever loved her," he said, winking at me.
As the evening wore on, we opened a few small gifts, and played Trivial Pursuit. McIntyre drank glass after glass of Scotch and water, and chain-smoked Camels.
He began making comments to Chrissie about her "beautiful white skin" and her "dynamite figure." Then he looked at me. "Your mother hadn't had sex for years, but I took care of that. She says I'm like a pneumatic jackhammer in the sack!"
"Gordon!" she said, "It's Christmas Eve for God's sake!"
"Let's have a toast," Chrissie said with a grin. "To new experiences."
We all raised our glasses and clinked them.
"I have an announcement to make," said McIntyre, slurring his words slightly. "I'm taking your mother on a South American cruise, starting January 2nd. It's a show of my intentions. I want to marry her."
I was taken aback, but before I could react, Chrissie was ready with another toast. "To shuffleboard and skeet shooting," she said, giggling.
Then McIntyre said, "I'm going to take your father for everything I can get. Your mother deserves to be compensated for her years with that bastard."
"I can't listen to this," I said. "We should go." Chrissie looked at me like I was crazy. She was having fun. My mother asked me to step into the bedroom.
"Give him a chance. You can see he's been drinking. He's fiercely loyal to me. I must say, it's refreshing to have a champion for a change."
"You know I'm caught in the middle of this. I can't take sides."
"You're absolutely right. And I love you very much. But I deserve a life too, and this is probably my last chance."
She hugged me, then we walked back into the dining room. Chrissie was laughing at something McIntyre had said. He was sitting right next to her.
On the way home, we drove along the beach esplanade. Warm dry Santa Ana winds were blowing from the east. A rare twinkling dome of stars could be seen overhead.
"You know, he's a lot more fun than your dad. He's more natural, more comfortable 'wif' himself," Chrissie said.
"I don't think you should be telling me that right now."
"Why not? It's the truth."
Chrissie became quiet as we drove. Then she asked me to pull over to a liquor store so she could get a mineral water. We stopped at a little liquor/mart on the Coast Highway. As she passed the hard liquor section, she paused and slowly picked up a painted porcelain "Las Vegas Elvis" full of Jim Beam. Her hands trembled as she examined it under the strong fluorescent lights. She was transfixed, as if it were encrusted with rubies and emeralds. Suddenly it slipped and dropped to the floor. White shards of Elvis splattered on the linoleum and bourbon splashed all over us. The sweet smell of 100 proof whiskey filled the air. The clerk ran over and started yelling at us in a thick Korean accent.
"Eighty dollah! Eighty dollah! Now! Now!"
I stood there for a second without saying anything, then handed him my Visa card. Chrissie looked dazed.
"I'm sorry," she said, looking down at the mess on the floor.
She seemed to be fading as we drove home. I was angry because she must have taken something at McIntyre's. She was weaving unsteadily as we walked toward the elevator in the underground parking lot. Once inside my apartment, she fell onto the futon, dead to the world. The midnight bells from the Unitarian Church at the end of the block were playing "Ode to Joy." I pulled off her cowboy boots, one at a time, and covered her up. I was worried she might be in trouble, so I checked her carotid pulse and her breathing. Both were strong and regular. At 4:00 am I woke up to check her again.
***
When I got home from work, Chrissie was on the phone with Bukowski's girlfriend Sara.
She put down the phone. "Bukowski is having a big New Year's Eve party! It'll be really great. Sean Penn might come, and Pascal LeBrock, the French director, will be there for sure." Then she moved in close and whispered, "There's also a chance that Bono might come. The band is in town, and he's a big Bukowski fan. Don't tell anybody. Sara swore me to secrecy."
"I'm not getting my top secret security clearance," I said.
"Well, you told me you weren't really interested in that. And besides, who cares about that kind of crap anyway," she said.
"I'm not getting it because they think you're a drug addict and a security risk."
"I don't give a shit about your security clearance. Do you really want to work at that bomb factory for the rest of your life? You'll be bald and fat and live in a little stucco house 'wif' a crabgrass lawn. I can see it!" She grabbed her guitar case. "I'm going out to play an open mic at Sweetwater. I'll be home when I'm home," she said, slamming the door behind her.
In the middle of the night, I awakened with a throbbing erection. Chrissie was nude in bed next to me, I hadn't heard her come in. Her hand slipped behind my neck as I stirred. Then she began to move slowly and rhythmically against me, grinding against my hip as she wrapped her legs around mine. I could feel her breathing deepen; her breasts brushed my arm. As I turned my head, her lips were against mine. The room was so dark I could only catch glimpses of her white skin from the corners of my eyes. Her hands moved lightly over my chest and across my thighs as we kissed. She made slight breathy sounds as she started working my cock with one hand and delicately rubbing my stomach and thighs with the other. Then she gave me head as I caressed her back. We moved in slow motion. Finally she pulled me on top and we were making love. The covers were tangled and she kicked them onto the floor. We moved against each other, then together in synch, then against each other again -- back and forth, in perfect rhythm. It was languid, rolling, and relaxed. Then she came in waves of low moaning. Afterward she snuggled close, and quickly went to sleep with her arm across my chest. The next morning I wondered if it had been a dream. I felt like we had visited another realm. We never talked about it.
The night of December 30th, I took Chrissie out to shop for clothes. She looked rejuvenated; the dark circles under her eyes had dissipated. We wandered through the giant Del Amo Mall, but she couldn't find anything that looked right. As we passed a window at Frederick's of Hollywood, I noticed a mannequin wearing a scoop backed Lycra-Spandex leopard print body suit with high heels.
"That's it," I said. "If you really want to knock 'em dead, that's what you should wear."
She looked at it and wrinkled her nose. "Don't you think it looks...trampy?"
"Let's just take a look," I said.
We stepped inside and gazed at the mannequin.
A middle aged female salesclerk walked up behind us. "Honey, you've got the body to wear that, and it won't last forever. You'd better go for it."
Chrissie hesitated, then said, "O.K. I'll try it on."
Every eye in the store followed her out of the dressing room. She was long and slinky, and it fit like skin.
"You'll burn down the house," said the clerk,
"Let's get it," I said.
As she walked back toward the dressing room with her hand on her hip, she turned and winked. When she came out of the dressing room, she handed me the outfit, which was about the size of a large sock.
As we were walking through the mall toward the parking lot, Chrissie decided that I should buy something too. She wanted to dress me in something hipper than my normal long sleeved oxford shirts with blue jeans. I let her pick out an Italian shirt and black slacks from a small men's store run by some sharply dressed Arabs. She told me I looked like a Hollywood producer.
Chrissie and I took a shower together to get ready for the party. She liked it so hot, her skin erupted in prickly red patches. I had to get out. As she toweled off, her skin slowly reverted back to milky white with a sprinkling of pale freckles. She put the towel behind her back and sawed back-and-forth against her bottom. Then she stepped into a tiny white thong. She knew I was watching, so she made it slow, like a striptease in reverse. One foot went into the bunched-up spandex, then the other. She smoothed it up her legs, over her butt, and over her shoulders. The flat of her hand moved above one of her breasts and pulled it up, so it filled out the front of the suit. Then she did the other. After spraying her hair and teasing it up, she went to the closet and took out a short white faux-fur jacket. It had belonged to her mother.
She struck various poses for me, then gazed at herself in the mirror and smiled. She looked great and she knew it. I put on the Italian shirt and the slacks, and we broke out a bottle of red wine and had a drink together.
"Let's drink to forgetting," I said, lifting my glass.
"Every-fing but tonight," she said, as our glasses came together.
On the way to San Pedro, she sang along with the radio. "Fat Angel" by Donovan came on, and she sang it slow with soul, right on the melody.
"If I had been born at the right time, I would have been the acid queen of the Sunset Strip," she said. Then she pulled a joint out of her purse and pushed in my cigarette lighter.
As we drove up the long incline toward Bukowski's, we could hear music. Cars were parked on both sides of the street, up and down the block. We walked along the dark and narrow driveway toward the front door. Chrissie rang the bell and we waited. Then she rang it again. Finally, I knocked hard. Sara came to the door smoking one of Buk's Beedies.
"Oh my God! You have got to be kidding!" She started laughing uproariously, then called some people over to see Chrissie's outfit. A number of other women started laughing too. Chrissie shot an angry look at me. Then we stepped inside. A man with a heavy German accent said, "I like it!" Chrissie's face was flushed. I grabbed her arm and led her past Sara into the living room.
There were two scenes. One centered around the hors d'oeuvres table where director LeBrock was standing. There was another group around the long sofa and wooden table in the living room where Bukowski held court. People were perched on big pillows arranged next to the table. Chrissie and I sat down on the sofa. Buk said nothing as we arrived. He was already drunk, and in the midst of a story. There were long pauses as he sucked on a Beedi. The group was hanging on his every word.
"I was living on the streets of downtown L.A. I told stories in the bars to hustle drinks. After reading in the public library all day, I slept in the alleys at night. Normal people bored me -- I couldn't live that life, couldn't be around that. But in the end, the bums bored me too. The only thing that lasts is wine." He took a puff. "Just drink, and drink...and whatever else happens...is just what happens."
Bukowski's speech was slow and his eyes were like slits. He continued.
"Later, I had my own room in a skid row hotel. I was drinking one night, and started puking up blood and chunks of foul smelling flesh. It just came and came into the toilet. The stench was everywhere. They took me in an ambulance to the charity ward at County General. One of the doctors said he'd level with me -- I had about a 50-50 chance. I stayed there for a month, and I slowly got better. When it was time to go, a doctor sat down with me in a little white room. He said if I EVER drank alcohol again, I would die." Long pause. "I walked out and spotted a shitty little bar right down the street. It smelled good -- cigar smoke and stale booze. I sat down and ordered a glass of beer. No hard liquor, because I was trying to go easy. I watched the bubbles rising up for about 30 seconds, then drank it down fast." He paused and took a puff. "I didn't die."
"Amazing story!" blurted out a young guy. "Wow," gasped a middle aged woman. Everyone murmured with approval as they took deep pulls of wine. Bukowski stared out the window toward the harbor.
Then he turned to me. "I was wondering if you'd show up, man. I thought I might get a poem out of you tonight, if you drink enough wine. So drink up!" He raised his glass to me. I clinked it and took a drink. Then I glanced at Chrissie. She was scanning the room looking for rock stars, and listening with one ear to Pascal LeBrock's monologue. He was saying something about the French Revolution. I didn't feel very talkative, and I didn't feel much like drinking.
A guy sitting on the other side of Bukowski put his arm across the old man's shoulder and said, "You're the most important writer of the late twentieth century."
Bukowski slowly turned to him and asked, "What do you do, kid?"
"I'm an actor," the guy said. He had a finely trimmed goatee, and was wearing a black turtleneck, black jeans, and shiny shoes.
Bukowski paused and looked into his face, then took a drink. "You'll never make it man...your eyes are dead. There's nothing there. Give it up now, before you waste any more time. Go into insurance, or real estate, something you can make money doing."
The group went silent. Bukowski took another drag from his cigarette as the guy nervously got up and walked away. I glanced over and saw that Chrissie was standing next to LeBrock, looking at him adoringly. Sean Penn and Bono hadn't shown up, so LeBrock was the biggest fish in the house. I got up and walked past that group on my way to the kitchen. LeBrock was telling Chrissie a story about the Marquis de Sade.
"The Marquis whipped the people into a frenzy, with political rants and kinky sex monologues." I saw him glance at her chest as he was talking. As I walked back from the kitchen with a bottle of beer, I heard LeBrock say, "I like your outfit. It's very chic. I think you are making your own fashion statement."
I sat back down on the sofa next to Bukowski.
"I'm glad you're here man," he said. "I need somebody with a brain sitting next to me."
He stared at me, waiting for a response. I took a drink. The crowd around the sofa had thinned out since the encounter with the actor. Nobody wanted to get too close. Sara came over and sat on the floor next to Buk, with her legs crossed and back erect, in a semi-lotus pose. Her long strawberry blond hair flowed halfway down her back. She lit up a joint.
"I've got my own rock 'n' roll groupie," he said. "She parties all night in the brand new convertible I bought her. And I don't even ask who she's fucking. Do I?"
"This is not the time," she said, taking a drag from the joint. The muscles in her jaw tightened.
"You've been riding my coat tails for years. If it wasn't for me, where the hell would you be?"
"I have no idea," she said. The room was silent.
"I'll tell you where you'd be...on a freeway onramp selling oranges," said Bukowski.
Sara's eyes blazed with anger.
"I think you're being too hard on her," I said.
"I think you'd better shut up, motherfuck. You haven't been very entertaining tonight. In fact, you're beginning to bore me," he said, moving his face close to mine. His eyes were mean and glassy, like a vicious animal. As he got up to go to the bathroom, he reeled and started to lose his balance. I reached up to steady him, but he swatted my hand away. Then he staggered across the room and disappeared into the bathroom. I looked over where Chrissie and LeBrock had been. That whole crowd had disappeared.
A group of Sara's friends from the health food restaurant stood near the bathroom talking about how much they liked John Tesh's music. Suddenly the bathroom door flew open. Bukowski emerged and walked quickly toward a balding man in a cardigan sweater.
"Where's your drink?!" Bukowski demanded.
"This is my drink," said the man, holding up a Calistoga water.
Bukowski turned to a woman nearby, "Where's your drink?"
"I don't drink," the woman cheerfully replied.
Bukowski went nose-to-nose with her and said, "Then get out! You bore me!" He turned to the man and said, "You get out, too!" Then he looked around the room and shouted, "In fact, I want everybody out. I should be upstairs typing. I might die tomorrow, and I DON'T want to spend my last night on earth with this bunch!" He started walking around the room screaming in people's faces, "GET OUT! GET OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!" People quickly gathered up their purses and coats. Most looked afraid as they headed toward the front door. Bukowski continued to scream, "GET OUT, GET OUT!" The arteries on his neck were bulging, and his face had turned purple. He occasionally planted his hand on someone's back, male or female, pushing them out the door. Sara watched in silence, still seething with anger. Bukowski stood guard until the last stragglers had gone. As I left, I looked over my shoulder, but there was no hint of recognition.
I walked slowly down the long driveway and scanned the crowd. Chrissie was missing. When I got to the sidewalk, three men in their early twenties were craning their necks, trying to look inside the house.
"What is happening? What is happening?" they asked, in heavy German accents.
"Bukowski threw everybody out...because we weren't drinking enough," I said.
"This is very cool," one of them said. "Very Bukowski!"
They had come all the way from Munich to meet him. I told them it was a bad night to ring the doorbell. Then they mentioned Pascal LeBrock.
"He gave us his autograph, as he was leaving in a limousine with a nice prostitute." My throat constricted. One of them chuckled and said, "I bet he got a blowjob, as soon as they were inside."
I got into my Citroën just before the stroke of midnight. Skyrockets whizzed into the darkness. Gunshots sounded from the neighborhoods at the bottom of the hill. Rounds were going off in all directions. Suddenly I heard the buzz-and-zing of a bullet passing right over my head.
***
McIntyre and my mother had stepped onto the balcony of the Jonathan Beach Club for some fresh air. As he lit a cigarette, they gazed out at the sweeping arc of lights spanning toward Palos Verdes Estates. McIntyre was dressed in a stylish white tux. He looked over at my mother.
"This is the happiest night of my life," he said.
My mother hesitated for a moment, then she turned and they kissed.
He looked at his watch. "It's almost midnight. I'll get some Champagne."
They both stepped inside, and he closed the sliding glass door. Then he walked quickly across the room toward the bar. My mother gazed at the towering Christmas tree covered in fairy lights and thousands of ornaments. It reminded her of Christmas in New York City, when she was a young woman.
She made eye contact with McIntyre as he walked toward her. He smiled broadly, holding a Champagne glass in each hand. Then his expression suddenly changed -- his eyes widened, and he stopped abruptly. His face became a twisted mask of pain as the glasses fell from his hands. Clutching his chest, he staggered then fell to his knees.
"My God! Somebody help! My God!" she screamed.
I drove aimlessly for about 45 minutes, screeching around corners and flooring the accelerator, almost hoping the engine would blow. When I got home, the message light was on. I thought it would be Chrissie giving me some bullshit story about where she was. Then I recognized my mother's voice. She was sobbing uncontrollably.
"It was...almost midnight...One more day, and we would have been gone on our cruise. Just one more day!" She was gasping for breath. "When we got to the hospital...he was dead. Gordon is dead. I need help...my God, Gordon is dead." Then the message ended.
I called my father to ask if he had heard anything. He said that McIntyre had a massive coronary a few minutes before midnight. He was DOA at the emergency room at St. John's in Santa Monica. My mother had ridden in the ambulance with him. Then she called my father, and he picked her up from the hospital.
"She's here with me now," he said. He sounded more himself than he had in months. I could hear her crying in the background. "I have to go," he said.
I turned on the TV. It was a replay of the ball coming down in Times Square. Counting down, 5-4-3-2-1...then explosive crowd noise. Happy New Year. I cracked open a beer and turned on my computer. By 3:45 am, I had knocked out seven pages rapid fire. I had the sound of Bukowski's black Underwood typewriter in my head. Then the telephone rang. It was Chrissie. Her voice sounded faint. She was in the lobby of the Chateau Marmont hotel.
"LeBrock is a drunk and a bore and an asshole," she said. "And besides that, he couldn't even get it up. You're a lot more fun. Will you let me come back?"
I paused, thinking about my father's demand that I write an outline for my future. "Yeah...come back. I'm going to clean out every dime I can get my hands on, and we'll hit the road. Prague, Morocco, India, who knows where. Are you ready for that?"
"Cool," she said without hesitating. "I'm there."
© Michael D. Meloan (a.k.a. TheMountebank) 2008.
Michael D. Meloan's fiction has appeared in WIRED, Buzz, Larry Flynt's Chic, LA Weekly, on Joe Frank's National Public Radio program, and in a number of anthologies (including Scream When You Burn).
He is an interview subject in the documentary Bukowski: Born Into This.
Peabody Award-winning monologue artist, Joe Frank adapted one of Meloan's tales of Bukowski for the NPR drama Tomorrow, which was first broadcast on his In the Dark show, and can be heard HERE.
