Phone Fun
By Scott Deckman
Monday. Oct 16, 12:47 AM
Chapter 17: L.A. and chainsaws, though surprisingly not at the same time.

“I want to live in Los Angeles, not the one in Los Angeles, not the one in South California, they got one in South Patagonia.”

– Frank Black, “Los Angeles”, Frank Black, 1993, 4AD/Elektra

Home, a stuccoed Spanish Colonial Revival in the eclectic Silver Lake section of L.A., not bad she’d have to admit. Compared to Baltimore, this really was avant. Not quite the Bel Air / Beverly Hills luxurious sprawl of opulent and perverse wealth, but still filled with, well, like any other upper-income-bracketed glebe in Los Angeles, industry types, mainly lawyers and the doctors of the stars – agents – though not as many filmmakers or actors. Or ones you’ve heard of. But Silver Lake was one of the more arty enclaves in town, with denizens ranging from punk art-house weirdos and colorful rainbow feys, to straight hotties and lesser lights, right on down to traditional family fare: White, Latino, Asian, et al. Yeah, it was a bit schizo and could be rough, but the place had character. And hey, both Beck and Beastie Boys claimed Silver Lake as at least one of their homes, she thought, and after she left they even got a film festival up and running. With the good vibes swelling, she was basically asking herself that 66 million-dollar question that begged to be asked: why’d I ever leave? Well, for one thing, this place was a little too pâté-friendly, a little too cellophane glinted, a little too funny, aspiring filmmaker or not. But the main reason she never brought up, never thought she even had to, to Mel, her mom, Jennifer, Pete, Gary, Jim, her father, or any of them, was that she just wasn’t willing to suck dick to make it in the L.A. hedonistic tradition. And if all her gaffer and grip and production assistant (aghhh!) jobs taught her anything (when she could get ’em), it was that human beings had to give up to get. She may not have amounted to much yet, but somewhere swishing around in her capillaries and veins and arteries, vital organs and all parts of her brain was a monster called dignity which she tried not to lose nearly every day at some point, always thinking of a quote her father (or was it Nietzsche, Oscar Wilde?) was fond to trot out when lit on too many highballs after dinner: “Lucy, life comes down to a few precious moments, and those important decisions will affect you the rest of your life.”

It went something like that. And she had time to make a mark… she hoped. Walking up to her, now that she thought about it, rather stunning Spanish Colonial with the brown earth-tone shutters and beautiful patio, all impeccably creamy and pure (she knew how hard it was to get that authentic “Damn Spanish look,” what her dad called it), the memories flooded in: her first kiss on the patio with Lenny Newman in the 7th grade, her first joint in nearly the same spot in the middle of the night with Jennifer Dempsey during sophomore year, her first heavy petting session inside her room at 13 with Blaine Rowland (yeah, yeah, she and Mel laughed at the name later, but the kid was a little hottie), all the various family gatherings and day-to-day minutiae of growing up in a strained family, trying to keep a guiding ethos even before she quite knew what one was, her center for excellence, this place, this city, this milieu had somehow fostered all this, and it came back like the penultimate moment before life’s curtain closed. She tried the brown wooden door and it was locked.

She rapped a few times.

It sprung open laggardly and there stood her mother, face undoubtedly flushed with the awaiting of her daughter’s arrival in the form of fermented something or other, never mind that it was way early.

“Well, look who it is? And you, I haven’t seen you in ages. Come on in.”

Lucy and her mother embraced, then Mel and the mother.

“What do they call that type of getup in San Francisco, the new haute couture? Really Amelda, what are you trying to do here, start what they had in Cincinnati?”

“Mom you never change, do you?” Mel grinned through the pain.

“Looks like they clubbed a poor cheetah to death, or, let me see, leopard, jaguar?”

“Second one.”

“And the jacket, well, to each his own. You know I’m just jealous of you girls and your whimsical vagaries.”

“And you, you look good too, what are you doing, losing weight?”

“I’m actually exercising Mom. And I feel great.”

“Well girls, it’s great to see you all. Come on in, I’m watching ice skating of all things on some replay, and you should just see this Chinese girl, the girl can jump higher than Michael Jordan on steroids…”

*****

“Mom, you never really liked this place that much… so tell me again, why are we here exactly?”

“Oh come on Lucy, I’m a changed woman. This place isn’t so bad, now that I don’t have to come here with your father and,” she paused and draped her hand over Lucy’s. “Well now, what are we gonna have today?”

“I don’t know, it’s been so long, what’s good these days at the Chalet d’LA?”

“Try the Canard au Miel de Lavande. Delish! They do the most delectable lavender honey sauce I’ve ever tasted. That’s what I’m having.” Her mother sat like you’d think a PTA mom in Brooklyn would, leaning on the table with one forearm, the other one sticking up, offended cigarette trailing the exhaust of another busted life, a perfect emanation of that other fabled dream: The American Nightmare.

The seconds, then minutes of awkward mindless chitchat were aggregating like a 17-car pileup on the famed San Bernardino Freeway: at rush hour.

“Mom… um… you know, I guess we have to talk about him sometime…”

“Oh him, he’s old news,” Angela Milner said with a dismissive wave of the lighted hand. “Nope, the only thing I, well, the only two, no, the only four things I have from that asshole I still carry around are you, which I’m thankful for, the house, which I’m really thankful for, the car: ditto, and the damn name which I shall be making quick and dirty plans to get rid of as soon as possible. I always hated the name. Seriously, is he Jewish or isn’t he? No he isn’t, and the lacking financial acumen gives it away every time.”

She arched her head and blew a string of smoke skyward. Angela, 55, had wavy-cum-dull layered brown hair that was medium in length and kind of messy, and beady brown eyes that were surrounded by makeup, without which she would look about 10 years older. A little middle-aged heft could be expected, but the alcohol and especially the two-pack-a-day Virginia Slims habit sure helped move that infirmary train along. In the old days they looked something alike, now the main thing they shared were hair, genes, and an intense hurt named Jonathan Milner, low-scale contract attorney of the stars (don’t get too excited, he had a couple clients who were working steady, if you catch the drift, but no real cash cows, just enough to pay the rent and entice pathetic, unfortunate women)!

(Photo courtesy PDPhoto.org)

“Mom… what exactly have you talked about this time?”

“Dear, don’t you worry about that none. You have your grand career out in Baltimore; oh Lord Lucy I hope you’re not becoming all callused out there on the East Coast are you?” The mother spent her first 15 years in Newark, before Newark literally became Newark, her orthopedic surgeon pop deciding to Go West like they once voiced to the masses.

“Of course not Mom… of course not.” She had to fight the urge to smoke and it was making her a bit edgy.

“I mean Lord, race riots, rednecks, who knows what they have in Baltimore? You know, on the Internet I read that Baltimore had the highest murder rate of any city in the industrialized world,” she nodded, brown eyes hitting puberty, half-gossip, half-serious. “You really have to make sure those doors are locked – thank you,” she said to their waiter as the drinks arrived: Lucy a Heineken and Mother a screwdriver, heavy on the vodka and light on the rocks.

“I mean, Lucy, really,” her pin eyes again expanded as much as possible to nail down the point.

“Sure Mom… but this isn’t about Baltimore or the East Coast… look Mom, part of the reason I decided to come out here was because of the divorce talk. I know things aren’t good and he’s deplorable and, well, have you had enough? Are you really going through with it this time?”

“Ah,” to Lucy, “excuse me doll. Waiter! Waiter! Wai – yes, waiter, could you take this back and have them mix me another. This, this just isn’t acceptable, it doesn’t taste right. And could you remember to tell them to make sure they’re using Smirnoff, not that Stoli,” her eyes scoured Lucy’s tired visage, “stuff?”

“Yes ma’am.”

The waiter, who looked like he just got out of high school, was an attractive little piece of ass Lucy would have to admit to herself, in a clean-cut, neo-Walton kind of way: brown hair, brown eyes, slim, nubile. She’d always wanted to denude one of those. Of course, if he ever dared hit on her, she’d condescend him until he bawled, but that’s getting off the subject.

“Mom, look at me.”

“Lucy, I am, what do you think I’ve been doing? Looking at my beautiful daughter. You know, Sandra’s little Ricky isn’t so little anymore. I mean the kid’s stocked!”

“Mom.”

“Really, I shouldn’t be telling you about this but the maid saw him…”

“Mom! Alright! Stop! Okay, okay,” Lucy breathed in, needing that cigarette now more than ever. “Listen…”

“All I was saying… you’re right,” the eyes again, this time more consoling. “Maybe I should act a little more like your mother sometimes, for that I’m sorry. I know I wasn’t the best mother in the world…”

“Mom… you were, you’re… you’re just fine…”

“Lucy, I was just trying to tell you he’s young, like 23, single, and really cute… beautiful, actually. They’re trying to convince him to give up that little tree-trimming thing he has and try to be one of those Ralph Lauren or Calvin Klein models. Well,” she paused, realizing just how zany this whole spiel sounded, how she looked, how she was acting, and her gaze constricted to a more maternal level. “Well, well,” she turned away, smiling hurtfully and patted Lucy’s hand.

“Yeah well, you’re looking out for me, that’s a good thing I guess…”

Lucy too had turned away to the crowd of diners, reminding herself of the breathing lessons she once learned at some shrink’s office in college, all needed to overcome misplaced feelings of guilt that she acquired because of what her mother was trying so desperately to avoid. And once more, just being around her mom made her sad, terribly, like synapses in the brain bathed in pathos, wayward cognition, something she couldn’t actually communicate if she tried. But again, maybe it was the old man who should’ve been pitied.

“Lucy he doesn’t care about me. I think he likes to have me as some sort of safety net, you know? His little perfect fucking world falls apart and here’s his little Angela, all primed and ready to pick up the pieces. Well Lucy I’m tired of this!”

She was shocked by the vehemence in her mother’s voice and eyeballs: the little things looked like they wanted out, close to spilling on the table like caustic marbles, torrid deportment usually only reserved for open parking spots and the phone bill. Crying was another matter.

“Mom,” she took a hold of her mother’s nervous hand and looked her straight in the eyes. “Mom, you have my blessing, get rid of the bum, you deserve better. You really, really do…”

*****

“AHHH!”

The blood burst up high into a petrified arc, as if it too were scared to confront this monster.

“Yeah baby! Yeah! Whoa!” Blood dripped from the handsome chiseled face that was wasted on bloated arrogance. He had a Sony camcorder documenting everything, a caprice He promised He’d never concede. Of course it had never gotten this depleted, His ego, His will to normalcy, the all-important separation of His days (phony, celluloid, holographic) and nights (grace, permanence, id, torture), His partition of life and death. The shit-ass apartment in Highlandtown was really paying dividends, yessiree. It allowed Him the levity to really go for it, create in His own image the tapestry of life’s grand mural, in all its rich textures and ambiguous hues. He really couldn’t believe He’d ever lived without it, a true find, a stroke of genius this place.

He selected it because it sat above a garage of some type that was active only during the day – no direct neighbors – but of course, just in case, He had it soundproofed by some guys from Sounds Great, a local recording studio in Dundalk, and of course He had to keep the thing cached with sulfuric acid, chloroform and other punishable amenities of His desire (chainsaw, ax, mull, et al.), but really, the thousands were worth it. And sure, He still had a ways to go, many more thousands in fact, but if His creation of the better, truer self was gonna take root and grow, grow, grow, then it was gonna cost, cost, cost, in both dollars and cents and the only currency that mattered anymore, human lives. Believe me, He knew that they were better off dissolved into Him, He knew where Darwin stood on the whole matter.

He was straddled on some girl He pulled from the Fort McHenry Tunnel (white trash, okay body, fucked teeth), knees in pain from the hardwood, head flying, oscillating between need-based euphoria and sexual nirvana. Twice His naked body had to stave off the chills, coulda been the drugs, coulda been the moment, was probably both. He’d never owned a moment so completely. He smiled to the camera, a bloodied Bluebeard taking New World props, winks, bows, salutations, offering the probing lens soliloquies, anything from Shakespearean comedies and the impending death of nü-metal to the mess with China and the proper care of kitchen knives.

“Heww,” He let out of His bloody mouth, blood-mixed spittle assaulting the camera. “Hahahahah… phahahaha…”

Now He sat convulsing to Mitzy Brown’s recent pain, about an hour dead, soul still somehow lingering, still fresh for His taking. And this is what the maestro planned to do: feed His with hers. The key, He was finding out, was not to let hubris totally ruin the deal, like the time at Harvard on that ski trip when He banged both Thomas sisters and set about bragging so much that He never got to do it again. But of course that was His undergraduate stage (pre-Harvard Incident), He was just getting into some nasty stuff, though ever closer to the day when His violence would mature, grow up, expand cognitively, and most importantly, spiritually. He was here to make a statement and attain transcendence… and have all the fun He could while doing it as artfully as some fag in San Francisco or, more to the point, half of those fluties He had to put up with back in Du Pont. If they only knew the visceral thrill and the magic transmogrification, deification, of becoming God, well, then maybe they would drop all that homo pretense and give real art – true significance – a whirl. He was the natural food chain personified, giving order to chaos where none existed. He was a patriot of the old order, the numbers guy.

He reached down and puckered her blood-spattered lips, eyes ever mindful of the camera and its lusty need.

“You see kids,” He got up, nude body glistening with sweat and blood and that weird power tool smell. “This is why women should never, ever work alone in the tollbooths of our great city at night. I hope, boys and girls, that you have learned your lesson. Carelessness, like crime, does not pay. Does it Mitzy, eh?” He gave her carcass a little nudge with His foot, face going decidedly blank.

He looked down at the mess He made: Mitzy’s body cavity had been opened completely, her insides still fresh-smelling to Him, an aroma He couldn’t get enough of, nascent decay close to Him, rousing His member, which He fondled slightly, giving the camera a wink. With His reciprocating saw He had cut through her ribs in a pretty neat line, but there were a few faux pas He wasn’t exactly proud of. The fourth rib kind of jutted out, embarrassed, so He decided to fetch His baby chainsaw, the steel-toothed wonder. He stepped away from the body into the tiny kitchen and grabbed some Tupperware out of the fridge (old school, Philco) and cleaned out the lasagna that His girl had made for Him earlier in the week to heat up at work.

“Bye-bye,” He said to the descending pasta and Ragú sauce as it made its way into His trashcan, feeling a smidge guilty for the action: as chiseled as He was, He didn’t really get enough complex carbohydrates.

He finished the preparation quickly and went and got the tool. It started nice and clean, and in no time that blighted piece of bone was severed. Now her ribs were proportioned off, more or less, and He could get what He came for. Squatting, He hovered over the girl’s volition like a laser-eyed hawk, leaned over and stared rapt into her vacuous gaze, preparing to take her heart.

Scott Deckman

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