Richard Lange - Dead Boys - Stories

The photographer thinks he’s a badass. He’s got muscles and tattoos and calls his assistant dickweed. A closet case, for sure. He drops a can of Red Bull on the sidewalk, and it spills all over everywhere. He doesn’t say a word.

“Hey,” I yell. “Do something with that.”

The models arrive later, after the camera and lights are set up. I figure out ways to stare without anybody catching on. The blonde looks like she’d break if you spooked her. Her face when she’s not posing is wiped clean of expression; she doesn’t give anything away for free. I used to drive myself crazy dreaming about banging girls like her.

The photographer wants me in some of the shots. I pretend to sell the girls a magazine. I stand between them with my back to the camera. In one I am looking over their shoulders as they read a newspaper. That pesky bee lands on the blonde’s throat, and I swear I see its stinger pierce her skin. She screams and crumples to the sidewalk.

“What is it?” the photographer shouts. “What the fuck’s wrong?”

She lies there bawling like someone died. The photographer, the assistant, the makeup girl — everyone gathers round.

“Are you allergic, Tina? Tina, listen.”

Tina’s face is bright red. She gurgles and wails, and snot drips off her chin. I watch from the register, not realizing I’m smiling until the photographer notices.

“This is funny?” he shouts. “This is funny?”

I CAN’T SLEEP, the helicopters and all, so I gather my dirty clothes and drive to the twenty-four-hour Laundromat on La Brea. Tricky shit goes on late at night. He-shes and burglar alarms. Moonlight. Elaborate detours pop up out of nowhere and disappear by morning. Men with long poles change the names of movies and the price of gas.

An old Armenian is asleep on the bench in the Laundromat. He snores loudly, and it looks like he’s pissed himself — there’s a puddle, anyway. Over by the sink a Mexican woman folds towels while her kid plays with a toy car on the floor.

Half of the fluorescent tubes in the ceiling fixtures are burned out, which makes for some dark corners and jagged shadows. The change machine is on the fritz, too. I ask the Mexican lady to break a dollar, but she pulls the no-speakee-English bit, so I have to go next door to the liquor store. It all makes sense when I see that Ho Chi Minh himself is behind the counter. I get the feeling he’s been waiting for me.

NO CHANGE warns a sign on the register. I give him a dollar for a twenty-five-cent pack of gum, scoop up the three quarters he slaps on the counter, then lay down another pack of gum and another dollar.

“Got you,” I say as he slides over three more quarters. “They sure didn’t teach you much about customer service in Saigon.”

He goes back to the newspaper spread out in front of him. It’s written in his language, I guess. The letters look like bugs.

“You and your boys better watch yourselves,” I continue. “I don’t like being followed. My dad fought over there, get it? My Lai, motherfucker.”

“I’m Korean,” Uncle Ho says.

“What?”

“I’m Korean.”

I see myself on the security monitor hanging from the ceiling. Lana’s got me so wound up, I can’t tell if I’m coming or going.

All my clothes fit in one machine. I don’t worry about separating whites and colors. I wash everything in cold. The Armenian is quiet now, and it is piss; I can smell it. When I close my eyes, I see bombs going off. The Mexican kid won’t listen to me. I just want to tell him a joke.

AFTER THE MORNING rush I sketch my idea on the back of an old invoice. The bar has a ladder they let me borrow, so my only expense is paint.

The narrow passageway that runs between my building and the one next to it is filled with garbage. When everything finally quiets down at night, you can hear the rats down there, hustling and bustling and doing business. High fences topped with razor wire seal off both ends of the passage, but that doesn’t stop me; I go out my window.

The sky is first. I draw the brush back and forth, laying down a patch of palest blue on the bricks I’ve grown to hate over the past few months. While that bit dries, I swing the ladder around and climb back into my apartment. From my recliner, I admire the beginning of my new view.

A splash of ocean dotted with whitecaps, a crescent beach, a bright yellow sun. Piece by piece it comes together. My only screwup is the hula girl. I can’t get her face right, so I turn her into a palm tree instead.

I gaze at the scene for an hour after I finish. If I squint, it looks almost real. Everybody has the right to something nice. It’s not against the rules to prime the pump now and then. A stray sunbeam hits the paint, and the colors glow. I open a beer and put my feet up on the windowsill. If it weren’t for my recliner’s funny smell, I could be somewhere else.

THE PARKING LOT attendant from the pizza place comes over on his breaks. I never bug him about browsing in the adult section, because once my horn started honking and wouldn’t stop, and he showed me what wire to pull. He has a baby daughter who was born with her heart outside her body. Down in Mexico, where he’s from, the cops and dope dealers get away with murder. He’s funny the way he opens the centerfolds then shakes his head and whistles.

“Have you seen anybody strange hanging around?” I ask him.

“No, boss. Nobody. Who do you mean?”

“Like some Vietnamese dudes. Gangster types.”

A car pulls up to the curb, and the driver yells at me to bring him a New York Times . I hate guys like that, I don’t care if they do let me keep the change.

When my shift is done, I count out the till. It balances for the ninety-eighth straight time. The night clerk takes over, but I linger for a while. He’s new on the job, so I warn him about the kids from the high school always trying to swipe cigarettes. His shoulder-length black hair is parted in the middle, and he’s reading a book about vampires. He hems and haws when I ask if he believes in that shit. I don’t know what James was thinking, hiring this one. The little old ladies will be scared to death.

AS A PRECAUTION, I park two streets from the one I live on and hoof it the rest of the way. The shadows of a flock of birds passing overhead swarm across the sidewalk like vermin. I hear things breaking behind me, but you couldn’t pay me enough to turn around.

The actor, the office supply salesman who says he’s an actor, is eating grapes on the steps of the building. He’s not wearing a shirt, and I catch a glimpse of a gold ring in one of his nipples.

“Hey,” he says as I pass by, then gets up and follows me inside. “I saw you painting the other day.”

“It’s personal,” I reply. My mailbox is packed with sweepstakes applications. I think someone is giving out my address.

“Not to get all woo woo, but what sign are you?” the salesman asks.

His lips, his hands — something about him makes my skin crawl. Can’t he understand my situation? I don’t have time for his silliness. Pushing past him, I hurry up the stairs.

THERE’S NO LISTING for Lana in Chicago. I try ten different times with ten different operators to make sure. Then I check other cities: New York, Miami, Dallas. The operator in Paris, France, barely speaks English.

“Bonjour,” I say. “What time is it there?”

“Six in zee morning,” she replies.

“Dawn, huh. And the weather?”

“Zee numbair you want?”

“It must be gorgeous. Tell me about it.”

“Zee numbair, sir?”

I met Lana at the mall. I saw her shoplifting mascara, and she saw me see her. Later she approached me at the food court to find out why I hadn’t turned her in. “Because you’re hot,” I said. I was doing great then, processing work orders for the phone company. We went out to dinner all the time. I bought her a diamond tennis bracelet I’m still making payments on. She never told me she loved me, but she’d never told anyone else that, either. We were easing toward something special. I was allowed to tongue-kiss her and put my hands on her tits, and she once rubbed my cock through my sweats.