Хэнк Муди - God Hates Us All

We order a second round of margaritas. “How’s the album coming?” I ask.

“Ah,” she says with a sigh. “The album.”

One month into their stay at the Chelsea, Brett, the bass player, died of a brain aneurysm.

The grieving process went on for nearly two months before they met Brett’s replacement, Ralphie from Queens, during Thrash Day at CBGB.

Ralphie was good, probably better than Brett — very Les Claypool — but Brett was like mellow peacesign dude, while Ralphie is, you know, intense. The retooled Venomous Iris managed to record four songs before Ralphie punched Clem in the face, which, spend any time with Clem, is pretty much inevitable. Ralphie took off and the next three guys sucked. Scott, the drummer, got so fed up with the scene he quit and enrolled at Columbia — grad school in psychology. But Clem finally patched things up with Ralphie and they were going to start recording again as soon as Scott was done with finals. Nate thought the album — now they were calling it Hell’s Sweet Gravity — might be done by Christmas, but with all of the holiday parties, postparties, and postparty recovery time, it would be a major accomplishment not to mention a minor miracle if they were done by spring.

K. looks at me to gauge my interest. “Am I boring you yet?” she asks. I tell her she’s not and order another round of drinks to prove it.

In another bit of irony, what had been bad for the band had been good for K. A week into their stay, on the elevator — the Chelsea’s elevator is quite the scene — she met Ray Mondavi. He lived on the eighth floor, where he had a photography studio, and he offered to take a new set of modeling photos to help get her back into circulation. That wasn’t all he offered, but if you know Ray you know he just can’t help himself and no, nothing ever happened. He showed the pictures to John at Elite who booked her an ad on a billboard that had brought traffic on Broadway to a near halt and now John was claiming that she was at the top of the list for next year’s Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue.

Not that she believes him — she knows all the stories — but shit, fingers crossed, right?

K. crosses her fingers, waving them at me like she’s casting a spell. “I am now officially finished with talking about me,” she says. “You’re up.”

Three margaritas are exactly enough to get me started on Daphne. “We’ll save my story for our next date,” I say, placing two twenties on the table to cover the tab.

“I’m not sure Nate would like that.” When she grins, I think of that movie with the cartoon rabbit.

I’m not bad. I’m just drawn that way. I can see why K. would make an effective fashion model.

I rise to my feet to leave. Always leave them wanting more. But it doesn’t take me too long to recognize the flaw in my strategy: I have nowhere to go.

“You’re going home?” she asks, not quite innocently.

“Yeah, no, I don’t really have a home….”

“Oh …”

I can almost hear the doors closing in her brain as her opinion of me moves from “cute mystery guy” to “sad homeless waif.”

“I mean I’m staying in Long Island until I find a place in the city,” I add quickly. “I just started looking.”

“There’s always the Chelsea,” she says cheerily.

When a door closes, I reflect, a window opens.

My second idiotic platitude in thirty seconds, I realize, a sure sign that I’m getting drunk. “I don’t know. I got the distinct impression from Herman that he might not like me hanging around.”

“I’ll bet I can change his mind.” The stony lethargy has drained from her eyes, replaced by something competitive and maybe a little feral. I let her drag me back to the front desk, where for Herman’s benefit I am reinvented as a struggling poet who’s just inherited a small sum from a dear aunt whose dying request was that I use it to launch my career. I have a unique and important voice, a cross between Stevens and Bukowski, and the New Yorker recently expressed interest.

I can tell that Herman’s not an idiot, but K. isn’t the kind of woman you’re inclined to argue with, not if you’re inclined toward women. In the end, her radioactive blues trump his skeptical stare and I am offered Room 242, at a rent there’s no way I can afford, just as soon as I can come up with first and last plus a $1,200 deposit. “I nuh ha diffacut poetry can be,” he assures me.

I shake Herman’s hand, give K. an awkward cross between a hug and a kiss, and exit the lobby into the icy night. My jacket is still hanging right where I left it. I reach inside and find Danny Carr’s business card.

THE LIMO — MORE OF A TOWN CAR, REALLYpulls up to the corner. The window rolls down.

Danny’s got a shit-eating grin.

“Get in,” he says.

I walk around to the other side of the car and climb inside. As I close the door behind me, I realize Danny’s grin doesn’t have anything to do with eating shit. There is a head, female by the looks of it, bobbing between his legs.

“Jesus,” I manage.

“You don’t mind, do you, buddy?”

“Uh, no. I guess I don’t.”

“I was glad that you called. You’ve reconsidered.”

“Not yet,” I say. Better not to sound too desperate. “Just considering my options.”

“I’m not giving you an option. Options are like, rare or medium rare. Onions, no onions. Brunette or redhead. Which are you, by the way?” He taps the bobbing head. She disengages from Danny’s crotch with a wet sound that makes me feel ickier than I already do.

“It’s red, asshole,” she says.

“We’ll see about that,” he replies, guiding her head back between his legs. “What I’m offering you, buddy, isn’t an option. It’s an opportunity. An opportunity to double your weekly salary.” He gestures toward a row of bottles on a built-in shelf.

“Fix yourself a drink while I talk.” I pour a whiskey named after a Scottish glen I’ve never heard of. The taste makes me think I’ve never really had scotch before, that up until now I’ve been drinking piss water.

“Like I said at the office, the quarters, or what you guys pass off as quarters, they’re fine for the week. But on the weekend, I entertain. Place in Bridgehampton, another in Miami. You’ll see for yourself. But then, there, I need pounds.”

“I’ve got to be honest with you. I think you’ve got me mistaken for someone who has some juice. I just deliver the stuff.”

“I’m not asking you to grow it for me.”

“No, I mean, I don’t control the flow. They give me one bag, one customer.”

“You ever heard of the expression ‘thinking outside the box’?”

My gaze is drawn involuntarily back toward the bobbing head. “Uh, no.”

“Business school bullshit. But it’s actually a useful idea. Don’t let your perceptions of your circumstances limit your possibilities.”

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

“If the only way to secure more product is to sell to more customers, then sell to more customers.”

“Aha,” I say. “You mean you could call in more than once a day.”

“Me? No. Too busy. But you could.” The car pulls to a stop. “Take five,” he says to the head. “We’re at the hotel.” I smile at her as she smooths off her dress, both because she’s lovely and because I don’t want to catch a wayward glimpse of Danny’s exposed package.

“This is where we get out,” Danny says as a valet opens the door. The lady exits the car. “Where do you need to go?”

“The train,” I reply. “Grand Central.”

“No, I mean, where do you need to go?”

“Levittown?”

“Mel!” he says to the driver. “Take this man to Levittown.”