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May 17, 2008

The Obsession

Margo and I were in the middle of a pretty typical Saturday afternoon. We decided to go coffin-shopping because, now that the hectic pace has slowed down a little, I got the opportunity to relive Abysmal’s recent greatness by checking back over old blog posts. It reminded me that we never bothered to buy matching coffins for sleeping. Optimally, we’d find a nice old casket-maker whose eyes would bulge to the size and brilliance of agates at the mere thought of a customized king-size coffin, a creation of such opulence and comfort we really could spend eternity lying on it. With our recent advance and sale providing financial freedom we haven’t experienced since I swindled those Nigerians, we could afford to live in style.

Unfortunately, we found ourselves confront with aghast stares rather than sinister grins. Nobody liked our customization plans; they especially disliked it when I informed them the coffin was for living occupants, and what’s worse, we couldn’t find any single-occupant coffins that suited our comfort.

While trying to think of how to take matters into our own hands, I got a phone call.

“This is Girth,” I announced into the phone.

“It’s Colby,” a ragged, panic-stricken voice replied. “I need you.”

I asked where he was, then for an explanation of how to get there. I dropped Margo off at the apartment, then made the trek up to North Hollywood.

Don’t ask me why, but Colby asked me to meet him in the back alleys behind a set of slummy apartments off of Victory, right by the airport. I found him, unshaven, unkempt, in soiled clothes. He looked like a hobo, and when I questioned him about it, Colby turned his bloodshot, crazed eyes on me and gasped, “It’s a disguise!”

I nodded, even though I didn’t really believe him.

“What are we doing out here?” I asked.

Colby raised a pair of cheap, plastic binoculars and gestured. “See that building over there?”

I nodded at the building suggested by his vague hand motion.

“S’where Perdida lives,” Colby replied.

“Who?”

“Didn’t you get my messages?!” he snapped. “Perdida Cheyenne! She’s… We were meant to be together!”

He watched through the binoculars, and I had a sudden feeling of deja vu.

Confession time, Crucificionados: in 2005, in tracked down my first love (founding Abysmal bassist Robin Kelley) because I had so convinced myself that she was The One That Got Away, and that I was making a mistake in marrying Margo, that I needed to see her, to tell her those things, to make her understand and accept our true love.

There was a point where I dragged Carl to Robin’s fiancé’s office to spy on him through a pair of binoculars. For the first time ever, I wondered what Carl felt like. When I did that to him, did he feel like I did now, with Colby—frightened for a friend, mildly annoyed, questioning legal implications?

Then, Colby did something that made me realize Carl could have never felt like this.

“There she is,” he breathed.

Then he jammed a hand down his pants and started to rub.

“Colby!” I snapped.

I grabbed the binoculars and growled, “Quit hogging!”

I looked through the binoculars and had to admire Colby’s taste—she was a very good-looking woman, unsurprisingly fit and body-conscious considering her alleged shallowness and self-absorption.

Here’s the deal with Perdida, in case you guys don’t know: a few years ago, she ripped off a reasonably interesting concept, the stripper memoir. Bored with her bland, suburban upbringing, she took a year to strip, hoping that if she documented thoughts about her occupation with a pithy, aloof blog, it would land a book deal to write a full memoir. It worked like a charm, and she parlayed the limited success of the book into a screenwriting career.

Last year, my old nemesis Vance Sloane released his first movie since our Girth McDürchstein’s ‘The Hedge’: The Movie project fell apart. It’s called Aries, and it’s a pretty rote story about a skanky hooker whose tedious existence is jeopardized when she comes up HIV-positive. The whole movie is basically about what she’ll do—her whole career is on the line—and then it has this super-retarded ending where she has to fuck a virgin (who comes out of nowhere in the movie’s third act) to cure herself. Defying audience expectations, the ruse works—she’s cured. Which is completely retarded. They’ve never heard of a “false-positive”? That would make more sense, be more realistic, and be less of a cliché.

Also, I gotta get this off my chest: it’s completely fucktarded that they put a scene in Aries explaining where she got her name. It doesn’t even make sense. Check it: they say she’s named “Aries” because her dad’s obsessed with Greek mythology and wanted to name her after the “goddess of the moon”—Aries, the twin sister of sun-god Apollo. What?! I haven’t even thought about Greek mythology since the sixth grade, and even I knew off the top of my head that Artemis is the twin of Apollo. “Aries” is a fucking Zodiac sign, which Perdida Cheyenne probably confused with “Ares,” the Greek god of war, which isn’t even in the same ballpark as “goddess of the moon” (and even that, as it pertains to Artemis, is barely right).

So anyway, obviously the movie sucks harder than the eponymous hooker, but its screenplay won a Fletcher Award so now she hit the big leagues—scripting Dinocroc 3: Crocodemon.

Anyway, I used to work with Sloane, so word kinda got around about this Perdida chick, that basically she’s as obnoxious, whiny, and self-absorbed as the main slut in her shitty movie. I have no clue why Colby’s so obsessed with her. His blog said something about her living in Minnesota while she wrote Aries, and he grew up there, but whatever. It was nuts.

“Colby, this is nuts, man,” I said. “She’s stacked and she’s a screenwriter, but what’s the point of following her around and getting arrested for stalking her and shit?”

“I can’t tell you how I know this,” Colby said, snatching back the binoculars, “but she’s going to die.”

“What?”

“I don’t know where, when, or how, but it’s going to happen. Soon.”

“Bullshit,” I said.

“Bulltruth,” Colby observed. “They’re after her, and I can’t let that happen. She’s too important to me.”

“Colby…”

“It’s the truth, Girth. You don’t believe me—get the fuck out. I needed your help, but if you’re gonna waste my time, I’ll call one of my other friends.”

“I’m not your friend,” I said, “and besides, you don’t have any friends.”

“Fuck off.”

“What do you need me for?”

He leered at me as he reached into his pocket. After far too much time and internal shuffling, he withdrew a tiny microphone.

“When she leaves the apartment, I need you to break into her apartment and put this in the light over her bed,” Colby said.

“So you can listen to her masturbate?”

“Among other things.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

“I have to keep watching,” Colby said. “I’ll have my eyes on her, but I’ll buzz your cell if she’s coming back.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Like a fox,” Colby agreed. “Like a fox.”

He placed the microphone into the palm of my hand. I stared at it dumbly.

Colby said, “Now, go over to the building, and when I give you the signal, go up to apartment 317. Use this…” He fingered a cheap aluminum key that he wore on a string around his neck. Yanking hard, he snapped the string, then handed me the key. “Find the bedroom, set the mic, then get out of there as soon as you can.”

“What’s the signal?” I wanted to know.

“I’ll text you. Your phone’s on vibrate, right?”

“Always.” I grinned.

“So you’ll just feel the good vibrations, and you’ll know to go. Cool?”

“Cool.”

Colby patted me on the back. The stench of his alcohol-soaked man-musk gave my nose an uncomfortable, raw feeling. I nodded queasily, then started through the alley toward the apartment building.

I waited around the corner for about five minutes, fidgeting with an old pack of cigarettes to give me a visible reason to stand at the corner of a building near an alley, when I saw Perdida Cheyenne come out the main entrance. True to her irritating nature, she’d cut her hair short and dyed it jet black in some sort of life-affirming show of edginess and street cred. She wore an old faux-leopard jacket that, according to Colby, she bought at a thrift store last year and has subsequently pretended it’s her oldest and most treasured possession.

Perdida bopped down the street with a smugness and rhythm that both made me want to shout obscenities at her and join some sort of dance party—the kind of walk people do when they have a desperate desire to be worshipped. Noticing her isn’t enough—we have to recognize her and fawn over her.

I did neither. I continued to fidget with the cigarettes, and out of the corner of my eye, I caught her glancing at me out of the corner of her eye, followed by a mild sneer when I didn’t pay immediate attention to her and describe, in detail, how much I loved Aries. She kept going. Near the corner, she got into a silver Hyundai and pulled into heavy traffic without clearing, prompting a few angry horn blares.

I waited for another 10 minutes, then grabbed my cell phone to make sure I was getting a signal. I had watched her leave; I couldn’t imagine why Colby hadn’t phoned a signal.

The display on my phone read 3 MISSED CALLS, 1 NEW MSG.

“Shit,” I muttered, realizing that I can’t feel my phone vibrating when I’m wearing jeans and have a bunch of shit in my pocket. It only works when I’m wearing leather pants or spandex or something.

I looked at the text message, which just said, WARE DA FUK R U?!!!!! Sighing, I went up the street and into the main entrance.

Here’s something you ought to know about North Hollywood: for the past decade or so, some assholes have been trying to gentrify the area—much of which is basically a slum—and make it into an appealing district for artists like—ha!—Perdida Cheyenne. The buildings are new, the rent is overpriced, and the neighborhood is shitty. It allows artists with too much money and too little intelligence to feel like they’re living a rough life, akin to the East Village.

Consequently, Perdida’s building had a newness and glossy veneer that gave the illusion of wealth and security; in fact, it had no security to speak of. What many call “social engineering,” others call “possessing social skills.” It’s a basic, obvious fact that if you stroll into a building like you belong, whatever ineffectual security guard is reading comic books behind the front desk won’t give you a second glance.

I passed him easily and pushed the elevator’s UP button. I tried to remember the room Colby gave me. Was it 314 or 317? I couldn’t remember for sure, so I texted him the question during the elevator ride. As I went down the hall, he texted me back—317—but once again, I didn’t feel the vibrations. I set my phone to vibrate and ring, feeling sure that if Colby called or texted for me to get out of there, she’d still be on the ground floor.

Unlike the bottom floor, which had a very modern style, they had decorated the third floor in what I can only describe as “dilapidated art-deco.” I couldn’t tell you if the building owners just redecorated an old building to make it look new, or if they wanted to make the shallow artist-wannabes feel more like they’re slumming it by giving a new building an intentionally drab, worn-down décor.

I went down the hall until I saw the door labeled 317. Your average guy might have looked at the rickety door and wondered how to get inside. Having been involved with Margo for nearly a decade, I know about 15 different methods for picking locks. You have to choose a method based on what you have on your person and what type of lock it is—the more complex the lock, the more difficult to pick.

Perdida’s building answered the “secret shithole or faux-artist compound” by using a deadbolt that would have even been considered cheap and shoddy in the 1940s, when it was originally manufactured. I slid my driver’s license through the crack between the door and its frame, angled it slightly until it caught on the bolt, then slid it back to an unlocked position. I repeated the process with the regular doorknob, and it popped open with an airy snap. I nudged the door open with one knee as I returned the license to my wallet.

Her apartment looked just the way I expected it to: white drywall covered with kitschy posters and pretentious art prints, Ikea furniture painted or slip-covered to create the illusion of uniqueness, an old typewriter covered by a variety of cutesy, second-grader Valentine’s day heart stickers. I went over to the narrow dining table, wedged between the tiny kitchenette and a patio door, and took a look at the script page jammed into its platen.

NEEDY
Carpe diem, cesium!

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered to myself.

I glanced around, spotted the bedroom door, went inside. In contrast with the wannabe yuppie-artist artifice of the living room/kitchenette, the bedroom had a sleazy charm all its own: decorated in strong reds and purples, with a heart-shaped rotating bed covered with crusty hot-pink velvet sheets, dildos every size and color imaginable, a gallon jar of lube—it wasn’t so much a pleasure den as a self-pleasure den, but that didn’t surprise me much.

Above the bed hung an oddly proportioned faux-Danish Modern lighting fixture. I took the microphone from my pocket, climbed on the bed, stood up, and was surprised when it started to rotate. Was it touch-sensitive. I leaped off the bed, and it stopped.

That’s actually kinda awesome, I thought. Then I thought about how much more difficult it would make this simple task.

I hopped back on the bed, stood yet again, and tried to use the light to keep myself steady as I placed the mic. It occurred to me that Colby hadn’t mentioned any sort of test to ensure the bug worked. I shrugged it off—his loss if it didn’t. Then again, he would probably just have me break in again if it didn’t work. I got off the bed and texted him again: Does the bug work? I sent it, then said in an “inside voice,” “Test, test.”

A few seconds later, my phone vibrated and beeped the sound it makes for a new text message. YESSSSSS!!!!!

Good, I thought, then started for the door.

Just as I reached the living room and the front door came into view, I heard the jingle of keys. I had left the door unlocked, but Perdida Cheyenne didn’t know that—and why hadn’t Colby warned me?!

My phone beeped again, a deafening sound in the silent apartment. I grabbed it to shut it off but only ended up amplifying the nose, so I pushed the button to read the text and make it stop. It just said, 911 get out. Little late for that, Colby.

The door opened slowly, with caution—she’d heard me.

After a moment, I found myself standing face-to-face with Perdida Cheyenne.

We regarded each other in silence until I said, “Carpe diem, cesium? Really?!”

“Oh my God, are you Girth McDürchstein?” Perdida asked as she entered her apartment.

“I’m surprised you recognize me,” I said, “considering I’m a legendary rock star and not some obscure indie-folk screamer jangling away on an out-of-tune acoustic guitar.”

“Hardly,” Perdida Cheyenne scoffed. “Our lives happen to intersect more than you’d expect, Bertolt Brecht.”

“God, you really do talk like that,” I muttered to myself. Louder, I said to her, “Of course, the infamous Mr. Witherspoon.”

“Who?”

“Um…I meant Vance Sloane?”

“Did he send you here?” she asked. “Are you, like, his hired muscle now that your record label went under or—”

“Hey, it just so happens we recently signed with—”

“I swear, I’ll have Crocodemon done by the end of next week. No joke. I’ve just been going down to the New Beverly to see a bunch of not-really-obscure movies so I can blog about how edgy and indie they are. It takes more time than you’d expect.”

“Well,” I said, assuming the character of Vance Sloane’s hired muscle so she wouldn’t get wise to the microphone, “just be sure you get it to him by Friday, preferably before five.”

She nodded, then went into the kitchenette to set down the grocery bag she held in her arms. “You want to stay for dinner? I can show you some scenes you can tell Vancey—”

“Vancey—?”

“—all about how great I’m doing.”

“No, I’ve got better things to do,” I said.

“Even if I…?” She began to unbutton her blouse.

“Skanky!” I gasped. “And that’s coming from a legendary rock star.”

She stopped unbuttoning.

“Just finish the script, will ya?”

I stormed out of her apartment. By the time I got to the elevator, I realized I was shaking like a leaf—adrenaline does that to a man, especially one as out of shape as me. I made a mental note to consult Mildew about sponsoring a personal trainer.

Once I got back outside, I went through the alley and back over to Colby, who wore a pair of giant avocado-colored headphones mended with liberal amounts of duct tape.

“It’s working like a charm,” said Colby. “Take a listen.”

“No thanks,” I said. “I have to get back to Margo.”

I went back home and ravaged my wife, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking about Perdida Cheyenne the entire time. What sort of hold does she have over me? Will I end up like Colby—a pathetic, unkempt husk of a man?

Written by Girth McDürchstein on May 17, 2008 10:18 PM
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