August 20, 2007
Girth McDürchstein’s ‘The Return’
Written by Girth McDürchstein on August 20, 2007 3:50 PM
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Splitcock Tour -- Europe & Japan '07
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Man, we’re back in L.A. and the weather’s perfect, the chicks are perfect, the sky is perfect—life is perfect. I’m just glad to finally get back to a normal place. Europe was starting to freak me out, and Japan was more violent than I thought it’d be.
As soon as we got off the plane—I can’t remember if I’ve mentioned this or not, but Hansai paid for our return airfare in addition to covering our stay at Rabu Hoteru—we were greeted by two men in black suits, our attorney Harcourt Abimelech Feinstein, and our publicist Lacey Greenwood.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Mr. Phillips,” one of the black-suited gentlemen said. My skin crawls whenever somebody acknowledges my birth name. He whipped out a wallet and let it hang, showing me an FBI ID. “Special Agent Murray Callahan, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He withdrew the ID. “I’d like to let you know how hard your attorney has worked to prove the evidence Europol has built in the case against you is entirely circumstantial. Their prosecutor insists there was a chain of evidence proving it was more, but unfortunately anything concrete was destroyed in a mysterious car-bombing in a Norwegian neighborhood of Paris known as Little Skien. An intern traveling between the Europol field office and the courts perished in the blast.”
“A shame,” I said, thinking of how glad I was to be involved with the Njord brothers.
“Basically, they’ve dropped all charges. Legally, we have to come and tell you this in person.” Callahan shrugged toward Herc and Lacey. “I don’t know why they’re here.”
“And you have no right to!” Harcourt Abimelech Feinstein snapped.
Lacey sighed, “Girth, we gotta talk damage control.”
“Come on,” I said, “we just got home.”
“This is very important,” Lacey spat. “You’ve been gone—you don’t know what’s been happening here in the States.”
“Please,” I said, holding a hand up as a gesture of peace. “Give me until tomorrow.”
Lacey rolled her eyes and stomped away, muttering something about wondering why we’re paying for her if we won’t listen to her. Great minds think alike, it seems.
I wrapped an arm around Margo and whispered, “Come on, baby. Let’s go home.”
“What about the luggage?” she grunted.
“Girth—” Harcourt began.
“Hey man, I’m outta here,” Carl said from behind us. He shoved past me, Riffs and Mikey following.
Mikey turned toward us but kept walking: “Let me know this time when we’re gonna have a practice, okay?”
“Yeah, right,” I said.
Mikey made an obscene gesture and turned back around.
“We have a truck for the luggage,” Herc said. “Jason Fields rented it. He’ll take all the gear back to Brentwood, and then he’ll drop all your personal effects off around town.”
“Awesome,” I said. “There’s a limo waiting.”
“A limo?” Margo gasped. “How can you afford—”
“Girth!” Herc snapped. “Speaking of being able to afford—”
“Guys,” I said, “I got it covered. Herc, I’ll have a cashier’s check on your desk by 5 p.m. Margo, I have some good news. You’ll be proud of me.”
As we wandered through the concourse toward the baggage claim, first I called the limo company and told them we were ready. The foreign gentleman on the other line read off a license number and said it would be outside in five minutes. Then I explained to Margo what had happened in Algeria.
“Nice grift,” she said coyly. “Now come on.”
She took me by the hand and rushed me into the waiting limo. We had a good time on the way home.
It didn’t surprise me that our apartment in Studio City was padlocked, with an eviction notice taped to the door. It did surprise me that they didn’t throw our furniture on the little strip of lawn facing Moorpark—we assumed it was all still inside.
I ran to the ATM and took out $6000, our past due rent plus a thousand. The guy in line behind me seemed a little frustrated; I think I maxed out the machine. I took the cash to our landlord, who lives in a unit on the ground floor. He’s a greasy fat man with thinning hair and the stench of marijuana constantly surrounding him. I won’t give his name here, but his initials are “F.G.L.” You’d know him if you saw him.
“Finally payin’ the rent, scumbag?” he asked.
“Yeah, sorry,” I said.
“I suppose you want me to take the lock off,” my landlord sighed.
“No, I’m pretty sure Margo’s got that covered. Where’s our stuff?”
“I sold it to Goodwill.”
“What?”
“Just kidding. You know how much effort it takes to throw that shit on the curb? I knew you’d cough it up eventually. I read your blog.”
I shrugged and went back up to our unit. Like I figured, Margo had already snapped the lock like a twig. The door hung open. I stepped inside—
—and saw Owen Autumn, my arch-nemesis, sitting on my rocker-recliner.
“Mothershit!” I shrieked, lunging at him.
“Girth!” Margo shouted from the kitchenette.
Owen Autumn stuck out two fat hands and shoved me away. I collapsed on the floor in the middle of the living room. Using the coffee table for leverage, I pulled myself up in time to see Margo trying in vain to carry three brews.
“What are you doing here, Owen?” I demanded.
“I knew you’d be back today,” he said, casually taking the beer from Margo, who sat down on the couch. “You need to see Sarah.”
“Can it wait until tomorrow?”
Owen shrugged. “I guess.”
“Then get the fuck out.”
He shrugged again, got up, and walked out the door without closing it.
I curled up next to Margo, sliding my free hand up her skirt. She kissed me and said, “It’s good to be home.”
“It sure is,” I whispered, thinking about Sarah.
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