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Triple Threat

Mid-August in Los Angeles and it’s hot enough to melt collagen in the shade. The natives soak it all in rapaciously, ever mindful that fall and winter are beating tracks towards them threatening the inevitable bombardment of insufferable drizzle with temps in the 60’s, including the wind-chill. But for the moment, a hazy sun keeps them bustling, most with some form of electronic device manacled to their bodies, an internal clock whipping them into the final stretch of the day.

A sun-burnt middle-aged man watches the show while crooning his best into a payphone. The hoochie-mama on the other end was his last prospect in a club full of ugly loners somewhere in the valley three nights earlier. At first sight she was all tits and extensions. However as he approached he saw what appeared to be a decent face under a powder job that looked as if it was applied in the dark with a putty knife and a few Hail-Marys. She wore a cheap, tasteless little number; some ambiguous animal print encapsulating an ass too big for any species. But she had spunk, and in the end, she was the only one that didn’t laugh at every joke and knew LA wasn’t the capital of California. She was also a world-class huntress; three rum-and-cokes later and he was bagged as her escort to a friend’s fortieth birthday party in Santa Monica that went down last night. In between those two encounters, the most he’d gotten from her was an accidental brush to the crotch by her purse and the charming theory that going down on a guy only meant something if teeth were applied.

Now she’s got him on hold…

From somewhere in the house he can hear the bellyache of offspring she insists is her sister’s. Her retort can only be described as maternal in its terseness. His stomach starts to churn; the only thing at the party those queer chefs turned out was sushi. Even their clam dip looked grossly offensive. It has been almost thirty hours since his last meal.

Immediately to his left sits a hotdog stand where a platoon of Asian tourists attempt to haggle themselves some chow armed only with a single pocket-book translator and volume. The aroma of sizzling animal by-products wafts past the phone-booth in seductive waves. With a nod he signals the vendor his intention to order soon as his translating duties are over. The wiener jockey grunts his rejoinder, a frightening duplicate of Edward G. Robinson with less hair and thicker lips.

All the while some goddamn kid with a clipboard and survey was getting closer. He had a hideous fu-man-chu and a beret, and reeked of fraternity bourgeoisie. For the past fifteen minutes he has been patrolling the neighboring café with dogged tenacity, actively seeking the tenets of an obligatory conflux of hopeful nobodies on the outside tables cranking out bad screenplays on expensive lap-tops.

Now he has his sights set on the area around the hotdog stand, soon as he finishes interrogating a Samoan cyclist three times his girth.

Finally the spandex queen picks up again…

She tells him how sorry she is to have kept him on hold and how watching her niece was a last minute kind of thing and how her shithead brother-in-law in goddamn Ojai was about as useful as a Ferrari on the 101 at 9am.

He in turn tells her that it was no problem and that he can only guess at the strain involved in child-rearing in the computer age and so on and so forth.

In the meantime, things are starting to go down fast.

Poll-taker with the sissy-hat to starboard has locked on him as he shakes hands with the cyclist. Over to port the currency exchange was taking place with the vendor and an old Chinese woman who seems to only possess nickels and the entire afternoon at her disposal.

He starts to shuffle uneasily and conversation with the hoochie-mama quickly shifts to last night’s party.

“Some rave, huh? If I had to pull an adjective out of my ass, I would have to go with eclectic, and that’s coming from an ex-cabana boy from Miami Beach. Anyway I’m glad you were there with me…

Ouch! That may be the case; I am male after all. But can I confess something? Honestly, I’m a little thrown by all this…this sudden absence of inhibition on my part. Somehow last night you managed to purge that trait from my person. It’s more than any controlled substance has ever quelled, let me just say, and—h-hold on…

“Yeah, what? What do you want?…

Yeah… Is that something you’ve gotta pay for? Or, uh, or is it that free crap I can pick up at any coffee shop from here to Calcutta—those rags that make your fingers look like pieces of coal?…

What, that much? Christ… Call it what you want, guy, but that’s extortion. All right, what the hell. Shoot. Wait a second…

“HEY, ROCCO! YOU WITH THE DOGS: GIMME A JUMBO POLISH WITH RELISH, MUSTARD. NO ONIONS…

“How would I describe myself? I’m, uh, I’m a wop-limey from LA, kid, what do you want? J. Morris Black’s the name. I’m short. I’m progressively thinning. I’m smart. I’m funny. I’m suave. Looking past the perfunctory, I’m a catch. Hey, what you see is what you get…

“Are you still there, sweets? Nothing, just some kid taking a poll…

I know, I know. Yet you’ve done more in the space of three hours to strip away the grime than anybody I’ve known years could take credit for. For that feat alone I feel obliged to repay you as deeply as humanly possible. Excuse me again, this pain in the ass kid…

“Gotta lose this goatee though. Been giving the wrong impression lately. Last week I’m downing brews on Sunset, I get hit on by this Nazi body-builder six days fresh out of Folsom. Big Queen. Definitely not my scene, you know? Anyway that’s gotta come off…

“HUH? NO—NO KETCHUP…

NO! ONCE AGAIN: RELISH, MUSTARD. NO ONIONS…

“A little background? What did I just get through giving you? This guy wants an encore. All right, all right. I’m in forty-ville…somewhere. Yeah, I know I don’t look it. I dropped out of Berkley soon as I dodged the draft; you can only take so much new-age bull before it starts to get on your socks, you know? I’m adored by all women—check that: I’m adored by women who are too self-absorbed to see beyond my own narcissism. What do you think still keeps me in this town? The affability? The sincerity? Needless to say, I’ve never married…

Why? Because Ms. Right hasn’t shown her pretty face yet. Don’t get me wrong—I’ve had my fair share of cut-rate tail, but I need more than just a chassis. My intellect demands this. T & A with a brain—it’s like Uranium 235: you’ve got to mine the earth for it, and even when you find it, it still has to be refined…

“I’m back. Sorry…

What? Cleavage is never a liability. Only your modesty behind it is. Actually—and if you don’t mind being turned into an analogy—you’re that pretty flower that grows out of the concrete on the sidewalk. It needs no extra watering, no special or exotic nitrates. It has defied the odds, baby. It’s set to be plucked…nurtured in the sweetest of water within the most exquisite of vases. If you want the truth, it’s me who should feel unworthy here. Just a sec...

“Pal, do me the respect: watch the volume, okay? There’s a Latin spit-fire on the other end of this line, comprende? Discretion is king. Now what’d you say again?…

What am I doing out here? You mean besides trying to score? I’m seeking answers. Did I mention that while at Berkley I dabbled in philosophy? Well I did. I even developed my own school of thinking. I postulate on all things female. And what better locale to spread my wisdom and test my assumptions than right here in beautiful Venice Beach, California. You’ve got all of God’s assorted creatures in one place: Yuppies and garbage-men, muscle-heads a few blocks over, artists going nowhere down yonder, rump-wranglers to my left, hot little vixens to my right. It’s like a bazaar out here. I just pick a social group at random and impart my views. Today I’m zeroing in on the homeless. I’m, uh, I’m gonna wax-tooky with a couple of down-and-out bums. You’d be surprised what the economically disenfranchised have to offer in relation to the human condition. And it’ll only cost you a buck or two…

“THREE…

NO, THREE. THREE-FIFTY. FOUR-AND-A-HALF FOR BRAUT, THREE-AND-A-HALF FOR POLISH…

LOOK AT YOUR SIGN. A POLE, FELLA. NOT A JERRY. THINK I’M GREEN? I WAS DODGING A.K. FIRE AND SUCKING IN NAPALM FUMES DURING TET, AMIGO. I’M AN HONEST GODDAMN AMERICAN…

“What do I want from them? Jesus Christ… I want what every man wants: Validation. What do you want, guy? Where d’ya get these questions anyway? Some broad write ‘em down for you? I’ll bet a nut that’s the case. All right, so you wanna know what my obstacles are? I’ll tell you in one word: Taste. That’s right. More to the point, it’s women’s fastidiousness. They’re as finicky as goddamn cats. If they don’t like what they smell, they turn up their noses and give you a taunting, diminishing view of their asses. Next question…

“Hi again…

Oh yes you were. Do you know what I’m trying to say to you here? You have those right qualities, baby: you’re confident, you’re smart, you’re witty, and you’re open. Pardon my French, but shit! If it all came in a can, we’d buy it in bulk. But it doesn’t, you see? Pardon me once again…

“What might I do to get what I want? Um… I—you know, what’s the difference? Change my attitude? Not likely. Write poetry? Sure, wait for it, friend. Bathe? I already tried it. What more do you want? Wait—don’t answer that yet…

“IT’S THE SMALLEST DENOMINATION I’VE GOT, TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT…

PUT IT ON THE SIGN NEXT TIME THEN. YOU KNOW, LIKE THEY DO IN REAL EATING ESTABLISHMENTS. PUT IT IN WRITING. NEVER MIND—LOOK, JUST THROW IN A BUD AND, AND PEEL ME OFF A PAIR OF TWENTIES. IT’S MORE THAN YOU DESERVE, LET ME TELL YOU…

COME AGAIN? SURE, PAL. SO HAS YOUR MOTHER…

“Say what? Have I ever crossed a moral line to gain… Hey, forget it all right? This is—this whole line of questioning is beneath me. Why don’t you go peddle this dung over on Wilshire…you know, where you’re less likely to encounter immediate trauma to your physical being. Soft, artsy folk don’t usually attack unless you tell them their haiku’s don’t do it for you. Now if you don’t mind the beach is full and I’ve got women to meet, so piss off…

“Okay, he’s finished now. Where were we?…

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