The Mystic Arts Of Erasing All Signs Of Death Part 15

The climax Mom missed by fleeing north was to come the following morning when L.L.'s agent informed him that his name could not be removed from the credits. An Alan Smithee Film An Alan Smithee Film would never grace the opening t.i.tles. So he began making a bonfire of every bit of movie memorabilia, every treasured celluloid print, stacks of laser disks, collected and bound editions of every screenplay in which his talent had played a roll, and his SWG membership card, and proceeded to burn down half the house, nearly sending an inferno through the canyon and over the entire range of the Hollywood Hills. would never grace the opening t.i.tles. So he began making a bonfire of every bit of movie memorabilia, every treasured celluloid print, stacks of laser disks, collected and bound editions of every screenplay in which his talent had played a roll, and his SWG membership card, and proceeded to burn down half the house, nearly sending an inferno through the canyon and over the entire range of the Hollywood Hills.

The next day, after L.L.'s lawyer got him out on bail for his arson charges, I was enrolled in private school, gifted with a collection of the Great Western Works of Literature Great Western Works of Literature, and received my first in a lifelong series of lectures praising the professional educator and condemning popular culture in all its forms.

But never condemning the movies. Which, to tell by their eradication from L.L.'s conversation, were an advancement in entertainment that had never existed at all.

I followed him out to the parking lot, to his current SL, the latest in a line of annual acquisitions. That residual money for the years of hackery still rolling in.

-L.L.

He dropped the books on the back seat of the open-top car, adding them to the small library jumbled there, and turned to me.

-What? What can I do for you that I have not already done? Having seeded you and nourished you and clothed you and educated you, what more is there that I can do at this late date?

I looked at the purple veins in his nose. The swollen feet stuffed into chef's clogs, the spindly legs sticking from the shorts, the sweat-stained fishing hat that covered the melanoma scars on his bald head. I thought about reminding him of a few details from our life. And then not seeing him again for another two years.

Instead I thought about the dead man's stain soaking through the carpet, maggot trails leading away from motor oil blood and greasy tallow.

I pointed at the car.

-I could use a ride.

He started to raise a pointing finger, and stopped.

-Yes. A ride.

He opened the driver side door.

-Get in then.

I walked around the car and got in and he drove to the parking lot exit and waited for a couple pedestrians on the sidewalk, and I saw him looking down at the pier, at the merry-go-round. He rubbed his mouth, opened it, closed it.

Leaving me to hear what he'd said many times, over twenty years gone down, in this same place.

There, on the pier, the merry-go-round Paul Newman runs in The Sting. The Sting. Do you want to ride it? Do you want to ride it?

In front of the apartment L.L. reached into the backseat and knocked through the books until he found the copy of Anna Karenina of Anna Karenina he'd abused me with at the bar, and flipped through the pages as I got out of the car. he'd abused me with at the bar, and flipped through the pages as I got out of the car.

He closed it and held it out.

-Take this.

-I've read it.

He leaned across the seat and shoved the book into my chest.

-Read it again. It will help keep you from getting any more ignorant than you have already become.

-Well, when you put it that way.

I took the book.

-Thanks.

He put the car in gear.

-Don't thank me. Just read the d.a.m.n book.

And he was off, tires breaking traction as he squealed away, nearly running over my feet.

I watched him careen around the corner, almost killing a man pushing a bicycle hung with plastic bags filled with empty bottles and cans.

-I'd say it was good to see you, L.L., but I'd be so f.u.c.king lying.

WHAT BEING A d.i.c.k GETS YOU.

-I love Anna Karenina. Anna Karenina.

I looked at Dot, still on my couch, still in Chev's Misfits T, but now appareled with low-rider jeans, several textbooks scattered around her.

-What the f.u.c.k are you doing here?

-Studying. What's your favorite part? Mine's when they tour Europe together.

I walked to Chev's bedroom door and looked inside, finding the usual piles of dirty clothes, overflowing ashtrays, Cramps and Black Flag and Hot Rod Hot Rod magazine posters, and liberally s.e.x-stained sheets. But no Chev. magazine posters, and liberally s.e.x-stained sheets. But no Chev.

-What I meant by my question was, what the f.u.c.k are you doing here? what the f.u.c.k are you doing here?

She reached under her shirt and scratched at the nipple Chev had pierced.

-I'm taking summer term so I can graduate in three years and they cram like five months of work into like five weeks and I have to study for like three tests and my sister is having her sweet sixteen at the house and she's been watching those shows about those huge birthday parties girls throw and she's doing a theme that's supposed to be Studio 54 but it looks like it's going to be more like Adult Film Stars of the Future and the place is inf.u.c.kingsane because she's being an utter and total rag and I have to have quiet so I can pa.s.s f.u.c.king developmental psychology which is totally kicking my a.s.s.

I put a hand to my forehead.

-But what the f.u.c.k are you doing here? here?

She picked up her notebook and tapped a pen with a fuzzy purple ball at the end against the lecture outline neatly printed on the open page.

-Chev said it was cool.

-Chev's not the only one who lives here.

She doodled a little kitty face.

-He said if you were a d.i.c.k I should remind you that he's the only one paying rent right now.

I dropped the book at her feet.

-f.u.c.k you. Have a book.

She picked it up with one hand, scratching her nipple again with the other.

-Cool! Thanks.

I walked to the kitchen, pointing at her chest.

-And don't do that, it'll get infected and your nipple will fall off and the rich, shallow and handsome afterbirth you're destined to marry will reject you and you'll end up a crack wh.o.r.e.

I opened the fridge and looked at the shelves stuffed with groceries; fresh, organic, very healthy groceries.

-What the f.u.c.k?

She settled into the couch, opening the Tolstoy in her lap.

-I took some of the money you left this morning and went shopping.

I closed the door and looked at her.

-Chev is going to s.h.i.t when he sees food in here that didn't come from the Arby's or the In-N-Out.

She flipped pages.

-No he's not. He likes me a lot. He said so.

I took a package of tofu from the fridge.

-He say that before or after you bought this?

She flipped more pages.

-Doesn't matter. He likes me. I can tell.

-He likes to f.u.c.k you.

She looked up from the book.

-Well, duh! I'm a great lay.

I put the tofu back in the fridge and looked for something I could actually eat.

-How would you know, you been f.u.c.king yourself lately?

-Hey!

I took my head out of the fridge and looked at her.

-What, did I say something to offend?

She shook her head.

-f.u.c.k no. I just wondered, if I get the book, do I also get this?

She held the book up, showing me the sheaf of hundreds hidden in the pages.

I walked over and looked at the money, tucked into the scene where Levin discovers the joys of physical labor.

-My dad put it there.

-Why?

I picked up the cash.

-I don't know. To apologize for being a d.i.c.k maybe.

She flipped the pages of the book.

-Well if that's how your family apologizes for being a d.i.c.k, how much do I get?

I folded the bills and put them in the breast pocket of my shirt.

-You get to stay here and study.

She closed the book, ran fingers over the cloth cover.

-Hey?

-Mmm.

She looked up at me.

-I'm sorry about that thing.

I looked around, trying to find the thing she was talking about.

-What, the tofu?

She shook her head, pointed at the bookshelf.

-No. That thing. The yearbook. I recognized the name of the school, of course, but I didn't, like, know you were there or anything. But Chev told me. I didn't mean to, like, stir s.h.i.t up.

She put her fingers on the back of my hand.

-That sucked. I remember when it happened and it totally sucked. I cried all night. So. I'm sorry. You know.

I looked at her fingers on my hand.