Justin Halpern: Sh*t My Dad Says

He motioned me over to him. I cautiously approached. Then he grabbed me and gave me a big hug.

“You little shit,” he said. “I can’t wait till you have some kid and you got to worry about what happens to him. You never stop worrying about your children. It sucks. You watch what you stick your dick into, because this is your life, this bullshit right here.”

He released me from the hug and grabbed a plastic grocery bag filled with chips.

“Grab that bottle of ketchup, we’re late for the barbecue your uncle is throwing.”

“I was going to meet Dan at the beach, actually,” I said tentatively, hoping he would respect my Fourth of July plans.

“Shut the fuck up and grab the bag. You got some balls.”

“Man, you should have seen your mom tear that RadioShack manager a new asshole. I would venture to say she made a home inside his asshole. That will be the last time RadioShack tries to fuck with your mother.”

“There’s something to be said for sitting around and drinking a beer while you watch your dog try to fuck a punching bag.”

“People are surprised Mark McGwire did steroids? Look at him! He looks like they should have him in a stall on display at the fair with some poor son of a bitch cleaning up his shit.”

“It’s like being on a merry-go-round, except the horse you’re riding fucks you.”

“There seem to be a lot of gay people there…. Oh please, as if that’s what I meant by that. Trust me, none of them would ever want to fuck you anyway. They’re gay, not blind.”

“Have you tried going out to places, talking to people, making an effort?… Bullshit. Talking to someone in a Jiffy Lube waiting room is not making an effort.”

“I don’t want it…. I understand what it does…. Yes, I do. And I don’t give a shit if all of your friends have it. All of your friends have dopey fucking haircuts, too, but you don’t see me running to my barber.”

“I would simmer down a bit if I were you…. Well, for one, the only one who was impressed was the little girl sitting behind you, and for two, they don’t exactly hand out Medals of fucking Honor for eating two Denny’s breakfast plates in one sitting.”

“Have you told them it bothers you?… Are they bigger than you?… Are you afraid of getting your ass kicked?… Ah, okay, I probably should have asked that question first, woulda saved time. Yeah, you’re just gonna have to deal with the noise, son.”

A couple months after I graduated from college, I finally left my hometown of San Diego and moved to Los Angeles. I had studied film and television in college, specifically focusing on writing, and decided that I wanted to try my hand at becoming a screenwriter.

“Listen, it’s gonna be tough, and you’re gonna eat a lot of shit at first, but you just get past that, and you will succeed,” was the advice my dad gave my brother Evan at the September dinner when we both announced our new professional goals. Evan had decided to embark on a career in scuba diving.

“Get ready for a fucking of biblical proportions,” was the advice he gave me about twenty seconds later, after I shared my plan.

My dad believed in me, though, and supported my decision completely. In fact, he supported me so much that, unprompted, he offered to pay my first three months of rent in L.A. to help me get on my feet.

“I figure, what’s the fucking point in dying and leaving you money when you probably won’t need it? Might as well give it to you now when you need the help. Plus, I plan on blowing most of it on stupid shit when I get senile,” he explained.

I found a two-bedroom apartment in a small, ten-unit, white stucco building in West Hollywood. I shared it with a friend from college who was also trying to make it in the entertainment industry. The paint on our walls was peeling, and the carpet was covered in stains that would have made for a great CSI episode.

Even though I grew up two hours south, I had rarely ventured to Los Angeles. I soon learned that my dad wasn’t totally off base when he said, “Los Angeles is like San Diego’s older, uglier sister that has herpes.”

Because I had barely any concept of what Los Angeles was like, I was met with a few surprises when I arrived—the first during my first night in the apartment. I learned that I shared a bedroom wall with our neighbors when I got into my old queen-size bed and heard the sounds of loud, passionate lovemaking coming through the thin stucco wall. I had never seen my neighbors before, but I had watched my fair share of porn, so immediately I envisioned a blond bombshell with huge breasts getting it on with a faceless man. My visual, paired with the live soundtrack, got me so excited that after listening for a few minutes I popped into my desktop computer the only porn DVD I owned and rubbed one out before dozing off. The next day, I walked out of my apartment just as my sexually active neighbors were strolling out of theirs.

“Hi, I’m Steven. This is my partner, Lucas,” my neighbor said to me, introducing his larger male companion.

Hey, I’m Justin, I just jerked off last night to you and your boyfriend having sex, thinking you were a woman, and now I’m feeling fairly insecure about my sexuality, I thought.

I told them it was nice to meet them.

My roommate was an impressive person and a hard worker, and within two weeks of moving to L.A. she got an internship at a production company as well as a full-time job to pay the bills. Before I had fully unpacked my bags, she was working 90 to 100 hours a week, and I hardly ever saw her. I spent my days sending query letters to production companies, trying to get internships, while also looking for work pretty much every place I could think of. The only job I could find was delivering apartment guides to 7-Elevens in the greater Los Angeles area. I’d show up in the morning at a warehouse, load up the back of my truck with the thin realty booklets, and then struggle with directions for the next eight hours, trying to find out where exactly I was supposed to drop them off. It was like taking the worst tour of Los Angeles imaginable, and the job was only freelance, so it didn’t even offer the opportunity to make much money.

I had only one real friend in L.A., my writing partner, Patrick, with whom I had directed my student film and written a screenplay for a feature film in college. Both were fairly poor attempts, but we had fun. We were learning and, most important, worked well together and had similar senses of humor. Patrick had lived in L.A. just a little longer than I had and was showing me the ropes as best he could. But except for him, the only people I saw on a regular basis were the transvestite prostitutes who hung out in front of my apartment complex. One of them approached me a few weeks into my stay, and part of me was actually excited by the prospect of having a conversation with someone new.

“Is this your car?” she asked, pointing to my white Ford Ranger.

“Yeah,” I said.

“My girlfriend accidentally threw up on it last night, but I washed it off. Just wanted to say sorry,” she said before walking away.