October 4, 2007
Magical Mystery Tongue Quest
Margo glared at her from the other end of the small table wedged into the dining area between the kitchenette and living room. “So, Renal,” she said, “what’s the weather like in Tucumcari?”
Renal scowled. “Hot,” she snapped. “And dry,” she added.
“Just checking,” Margo grunted.
“What’s your problem, bitch?”
“You wanna start something?” Margo slammed the butt of her beer bottle against the edge of the table. She had to do this three or four times before it broke (it’s harder than the movies make it look), sending a gush of beer and brown glass onto the floor. She aimed the wet, broken bottle at Renal.
“Slow down, chica,” I interjected, and Margo aimed the bottle at me. “Hey!”
“This is for her own good, Girth,” Margo growled.
While Margo was distracted with me, Renal took the opportunity to lunge onto the table, crawl across it like a jungle cat, and swat the bottle from Margo’s hand. Margo looked at her empty hand dumbly as Renal began to claw at her face.
Things haven’t gone well since before Renal even arrived. The moment I told Margo what Morty Melendez said, she insisted that allowing Renal to move in would ruin us. “I don’t know why you think we have the money to support a teenage girl,” she had said. I reassured her that with the money I “borrowed” from those Nigerians, we could afford to keep her around for a few months, just to get to know her.
“But why do you want to get to know her so badly?” Margo had asked. “You’re better off without her.”
“But meeting her was your idea.”
“Yeah. Meeting her. Not immediately allowing her to move in and turn our lives upside-down. We should concentrate on having our own kids—”
“Goddammit, Margo!” I had retorted. “She’s my own soft, nubile flesh and blood. Why would I turn my back on her?”
“Because I’m not buying this story, Girth.”
I didn’t know what she meant, but she explained to me that anybody could fake a paternity test. This girl could be anyone—did I specifically remember the woman from Tucumcari? How did I know I even slept with anyone in that city? I didn’t want to admit to Margo that I pretty much slept with someone in every city. I also didn’t want to tell her I’d made a deal with Melendez on account of my unfortunate behavior the first time I met Renal. Luckily, Margo stopped reading the blog after seeing all that stuff about Sarah. Instead, I just said, “That’s why I want to get to know her. If she’s a fraud, we’ll figure it out pretty quickly.”
I couldn’t tell her Renal and I had gotten to know each other (in more ways than one) and that, frankly, we were kindred spirits without ever having met—there was no way Renal could be anyone other than my daughter. I can’t explain Margo’s anger at the situation. I guess she’s just jealous she has to share my love. But hey, as I’ve often said, there’s more than enough of me to go around.
Renal showed up a few hours later. I paid the limo driver and took her bag from him. It was extremely heavy—it sunk like lead as soon as I took it.
“What’s in the suitcase, Renal?” Margo asked suspiciously.
“Just clothes,” Renal said, “and some personal items. And lots of batteries.”
Margo nodded, casting a weary glance in my direction. I shrugged, made a second attempt on the suitcase, and lugged it up to our apartment.
“We don’t have enough room for you,” Margo announced as soon as we walked inside.
I said, “It’s fine, Margo. She can sleep in the bedroom with me, and you can crash on the couch.”
Renal smiled and glanced down at my bulging package. “Sounds good,” she said.
“Uh-uh,” Margo said. “Girth takes the couch. You and me are in the room.”
“Whatever,” Renal groaned. “What’s for dinner?”
We went to the In-N-Out on Ventura, and I treated Renal to a 100x100 from their secret menu. Together, we ate the entire thing. By the time we got back to the apartment, it was so late and we were so full, everyone just crashed.
Sometime around three or four in the morning, Margo stormed out of the bedroom. Her hair was mussed, face flushed, sweating like a pig—and she looked pissed.
“Margo, what’s going on?” I asked groggily.
She leaped on top of me. “Just fuck me.”
“‘Kay.”
The next morning, Renal woke up early. A bundle of energy, she tore through the living room, threw open the curtains, and announced today would be the best day ever.
“Don’t bet on it,” Margo groaned, covering her eyes from the brightness.
“Well,” I croaked, rolling off easily off the overcrowded couch and onto the living room floor, “I thought today we could give you a tour of our L.A.”
“No—” Margo began.
“Come on, Margo—”
I was cut off when Renal hopped down on top of me, straddled me with her legs, and started silently grinding. She said, “Sounds good.”
“Uhhh…” I replied.
Margo snapped, “Girth—”
“Renal,” I said. “We really shouldn’t do stuff like this.”
“But…”
“I know, I know.”
Renal rolled off of me and asked, “What’s for breakfast?”
We all got ready in silence and took the hearse to the Winchell’s on Ventura—both our breakfast spot and the first stop on our tour. When I first moved to L.A., I frequented Winchell’s more than any other place in town, partly because I didn’t know anybody, partly because my Midwestern heritage had gotten me used to a steady diet of donuts but they’re few and far between in Southern California.
Afterward, we drove her down to Little Ethiopia on Fairfax, got out of the car, and stood in the middle of the street. “This,” I told Renal, “is where I lived my first three years in L.A.”
Renal glanced around for any apartments available over any of the restaurants. “Where at, in that—”
“Right there.” I pointed at a parking space occupied by a Toyota Tercel. “I parked my van right there and lived in it until Abysmal took off.”
“How—”
“There used to be a pay phone in that alley over there,” I said. “I’d make and get calls there. I got to know most of the restaurant owners, and after awhile they started taking turns giving me whatever scraps they could at the end of the night. I’d make that stretch a few days. Worked out at the YMCA, back when I used to work out, and had a wad of $8000 that I used for emergency expenses, like going to clubs or eating out once in awhile.”
“Wow,” Renal said, taking in the sights of the neighborhood. “I can’t believe you did that for three years.”
“Perseverance,” I said. “If there’s one thing you learn from me, I hope that’s it.”
We took Renal up to the Strip. I showed her the Roxy, where I first gave my demo tape to Karen Hofstadt (then a struggling artist manager); the Rainbow, where I got into the fight that inspired the Abysmal classic “Thunderbird”; and the Whisky, where we became legends.
She seemed suitably impressed, so we drove her over to an abandoned building in Hollywood, “…the place where Margo and I first met.”
“Actually,” Margo explained, “Girth first saw me on a billboard on Venice Boulevard and started making obscene phone calls until I agreed to go out with him.”
“But she did, and the rest was history.”
Renal said, “Awww.”
“We have our problems. A lot of them,” Margo said, “but I’ve never known anybody I’ve loved as much as Girth McDürchstein.” She said it in an alarmingly accusatory way.
“So…” I interrupted casually. “Who wants to go down to Venice and see the Church of Rafelman?”
“What the fuck is that?” Renal wondered.
I grinned.
An hour later, we stood in the tiny Church of Rafelman Welcoming Center on Main Street in Venice, next to Sfaccini’s Pizza. It’s all done in gold and bronze, with pictures of every successful musician you can think of—including me.
The Church of Rafelman, for those who don’t know—Renal didn’t, which surprised me—believes that all the gods and goddesses of ancient myth have arisen in the form of modern rock stars. For instance, Bob Dylan is an avatar of Bragi, the Norse god of poetry; Chuck D is the earthly form of Rabin, the Hebrew god of abrasive political discourse; and I myself am Paoponicheleus, the demigod who brought understanding of soil pH levels to ancient farmers.
We showed Renal dozens of other sights around L.A.: several spots where I was wrongfully arrested, the hole-in-the-wall where I first saw Jazz Lung (the co-op featuring former Abysmal keyboardist Jam Malone), the mansion where I briefly worked (which inspired the song “Tongue Quest”), the beach where Margo and I first made love, the Paint Shaker, and finally, our semi-regular hangout, Cabo Cantina on Sunset.
By the time we finished, Renal seemed a little bored. I asked her what was wrong.
“I dunno,” she sighed. “It’s nice and all, but you guys are just kind of a bummer.”
Margo and I exchanged uncomfortable glances.
“In what way?” asked Margo.
“Well, like…I don’t wanna go around hearing your life stories,” Renal said. “Who gives a shit? All I’m thinking about is getting fucked, and you guys ain’t right for that.”
“Of course we aren’t,” I shrugged. “We’re your parents.”
“Speak for yourself,” Margo spat.
“Like, you and me, Girth, we get along. You know that. But you said it’s never gonna happen again—”
Margo grabbed my forearm suddenly. I made eye contact with her, and it felt like looking into the face of pure evil.
“—and last night with Margo, I tried to take her on a tongue quest, and she was into it for awhile, but then she made me stop and left when I wouldn’t. What the fuck, guys?”
We sat back, stunned. I couldn’t think of how to approach this, not even remotely.
I thought for a moment about all kinds of stuff, eventually falling on Sweet Treasures. I thought, What would I tell any average teen girl who came into the back storeroom of an abortion clinic looking for advice on this subject?
I told her what I would have told any other girl: “You can’t have sex with your father. It’s immoral and illegal. Your mother—”
“I’m not her mother!” Margo yelled; at the same time, Renal shouted, “She’s not my mother!”
“Well, then, there’s even less of a moral gray area. And, ethically speaking, the father can watch and possibly photograph the proceedings without breaking any laws.”
Margo glanced at me, then at Renal. Renal shrugged, a come hither looked stretched across her face like the Joker in heat.
“Maybe we should go back to the apartment,” Margo whispered. “Now.”
We did.
“You wanna start something?” Margo slammed the butt of her beer bottle against the edge of the table. She had to do this three or four times before it broke (it’s harder than it looks in the movies), sending a gush of beer and glass onto the floor. She aimed the wet, broken bottle at Renal.
“Settle down,” I interjected, and Margo aimed the bottle at me. “Hey!”
“This is for her own good, Girth,” Margo growled.
While Margo was distracted with me, Renal took the opportunity to lunge onto the table, crawl across it like a jungle cat, and swat the bottle from Margo’s hand. Margo looked at her empty hand dumbly as Renal began to claw at her face.
Margo and Renal were not compatible sexually, unfortunately for all of us. Margo has returned to not trusting Renal—especially since it’s common knowledge that children inherit their parents’ “sexpertise” (© D.J. Koko)—and questioning her every move, while Renal merely complains about boredom and can’t seem to keep her hands out of my pants.
I grabbed Renal from behind and yanked her arms behind her back. She started to scream and made attempts at flailing her arms, which I stopped by squeezing her wrists harder.
I shoved her into the bedroom, which for personal reasons only locks from the outside, and left her to scream horrible things.
When I got back to the dining area, Margo was dabbing her shallow cuts with some hydrogen peroxide. “You okay?” I asked.
Margo gave me that evil look again and growled, “Get that bitch out of my house.”
“It’s technically our—”
“GET HER OUT!!” Margo wailed.
“‘Kay.”
I called up Morty Melendez, who reminded me he had “pitchers,” so I dialed ace attorney Harcourt Abimelech Feinstein, explained the situation, and waited for his expert assessment.
“You’re fucked,” Feinstein said without hesitation.
“Fuck!” I belched.
“Unless…”
“What?”
“Has it occurred to you to perform your own, independently verified DNA test?”
“N…oooo.”
“Do it. I wouldn’t rely on some piece of paper handed to you by a shady private investigator. I’ve fallen into that trap too many times before. All the blood—”
“So set up an appointment and let me know where and when,” I said and ended the call.
I went over to Margo, took her in my arms, and whispered, “It’s all gonna be over soon.” I hope.
Written by Girth McDürchstein on October 4, 2007 9:53 AM
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