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May 29, 2008

The Poz Gala

Yesterday afternoon, Colby called me up and told me to get on my least-stained tuxedo t-shirt and track down an invitation to the biennial Poz Gala in West Hollywood. For those not in the know, the Poz Gala is a $2000-per-plate charity dinner “designed to raise money for research into virginal curative properties associated with AIDS” (quoted from their literature). More to the point, there’s a long-standing theory (possibly untrue) that the AIDS virus can be destroyed if a person has sex with a virgin, and the Poz Organization wants to back this up using science. Good luck!

Why did Colby have such a desperate desire to go? Big shock: his love muffin, Perdida Cheyenne, is a scheduled keynote speaker. Considering his obsession with her supposed imminent death, he wants to keep an eye on things. He also seems to believe, if it’s a murder, it’ll most likely happen in a public place. I always felt like the best way would be very private—no witnesses, nobody around to chase you down. But what do I know?

The first hurdle, of course, was getting the invitation. These days, I’m not exactly made of money. I had no other option but to call Dean Charleston at Mildew and ask for an invitation.

“Are you kidding me?” Charleston whined. “You haven’t even pitched to us a proper idea for a record, and suddenly you want $2000 to get into some charity—”

“Actually,” I said, “I’d need four. Colby’s going to. And it’ll probably be even more considering it’s so last-minute.”

“When is it?”

“Tonight,” I said.

“Christ, McDürchstein, you are a nightmare.”

“So’s your mom,” I murmured.

“What was that?!” Charleston snapped.

“Nothing,” I sighed. “Just get me the invite, or no album.”

“The fuck kinda threat is that? We haven’t even agreed to pay for an album, you haven’t presented any ideas. For all I know, you’re just bluffing.”

“Bluffing like a fox,” I said confidently, then hung up.

Thirty seconds later, the phone rang. The caller ID read MILDEW RECORDS. I picked it up.

“You want an invite?” Charleston growled. “You got it. You plus two guests. How’s that sound?”

“I only need one guest—”

“Too bad. A courier will be by later with the invite.” I could hear Charleston slam the phone down, which was weird since it was cordless.

A few minutes went by where I just sat, thinking about how little effort I’d put into scaring Charleston into coughing up $6000 or more on this thing. I wished maybe I’d extorted him for credit card payments or rent or something, but beggars can’t be choosers. My dad taught me that. As a lad, I traveled with him to various farms surrounding my native Cedar Rapids and watched him announce that he and his bank had worked some loopholes to foreclose on their land. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” he’d say when I asked where they’d live now that they had no home or land. Then he’d point out the Airport Mill Inn, at the northwest edge of town, and say most of them ended up there, among the prostitutes and meth dealers.

I heard a knock at the door. At first, I thought Margo had come home, but it occurred to me that she wouldn’t knock. I didn’t think the courier could possibly arrive this quickly, but I glanced at the clock and realized 45 minutes had passed. I won’t deny it: I may have been under the influence of illegal prescription downers. I don’t believe any kids or teenagers reading this blog should use drugs or alcohol at all, ever, but responsible adults can violate prescriptions if they read the labels and get up-to-date information from reputable sources like High Times magazie or Erowid.com.

It was the courier. He handed me a brown envelope. I muttered a lie about wanting to tip him but not having any cash, then checked out the invitation.

“Nice,” I said. It was nice, all embossed and gold-leafed and shit.

Around that time, I remembered Margo went to Wilmington, North Carolina, for a modeling gig and a guest appearance on a new show coming up in the fall, Black Belt Irish. It stars this hulking Irish loser ABC keeps casting in pilots, hoping they can make him a star. This is the first one to have a series order, but it sounds terrible. An Irish priest/martial-arts expert moves to a large, unnamed American city and has to fight crime surrounding his parish. It’s like Death Wish meets Walker, Texas Ranger meets, I dunno, Priest or something. Anyway, Margo has a one-shot deal as a Canadian arms dealer. She spent the past week annoying the crap out of me doing the accent, even though she only has one line.

With Margo gone and an extra plate at the gala, I decided to invite the next best thing: Little Riffs Nicky.

We both took an hour to get ready, then met up at The Bullet in North Hollywood, where Colby said he would meet us. Half an hour after we arrived, we had kicked open the keg I keep in back of my supercharged hearse. Colby came stumbling out of the bar, pants around his ankles.

“‘Sup, guys?”

“Come on,” I slurred. “We’ll be late.”

We hopped into the hearse and rode down into West Hollywood. The party was being held in the banquet room of some fancy hotel, and I had to use shitty alley parking and pay some Armenian guy five bucks. I don’t know if that was for parking or so he wouldn’t steal it, but I pretended like five bucks didn’t mean much, even though it does.

We went across the street to the hotel, and by that time Riffs had the shakes. Colby and I propped him up, and Riffs started babbling to himself.

“Remember,” Colby said, ignoring him, “she’ll be the one in the unflattering leopard-print dress. Keep your eyes on her at all times.”

I grunted, nodding.

We waded through a sea of people, glad-handing the ones who recognized me, until we could get Riffs seated.

“What, exactly, are we watching for?” I asked.

Riffs’ face plowed into his empty plate as he lolled out of consciousness.

“We should get some champagne,” I muttered.

Colby said, “Somebody might try to take her down during the keynote.”

“I still don’t understand that,” I said. “Why would anyone want to take her out in public? It’s not like she’s the President and this is some big political statement. She’s a C-list hack screenwriter—”

“You son of a bitch—”

“—and these assholes are just using publicity from her movie to boost funding,” I continued. “I could see someone taking her out in the parking lot afterward, but not here.”

“Well, then,” Colby said, “we’ll follow her to the parking lot.”

“I’m not gonna help you stalk her,” I groaned. “Anymore.”

“You’re my ride,” Colby whined. “Will you wait in the parking lot?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, okay.”

The lights dimmed, which prompted the minglers to take their seats. True to Colby’s word, Perdida Cheyenne strutted up to a pseudo-stage—really, more of a raised platform—in an awful-looking leopard dress.

As expected, she gave a ridiculous, awful speech. Still, as I watched her ramble and try way too hard to be funny and clever via the power of irritating rhymes, I noticed something odd about her demeanor and attitude. Privately, she had a cocksure bravado that drove me nuts. This, I thought, translated to the shrill quality of her writing—she’s just the type of person who tries way too hard at all times. But on that stage, she spoke quietly into the microphone, developing a slight (nearly unnoticeable) lisp. She had a hunched, mousy posture, like she wanted to curl up in a ball. She looked vulernable—so vulnerable that, for the first time in hours, I felt a stirring…down there.

After the uneventful speech, Riffs and I pretended to mingle, keeping our eyes glued to Perdida the whole time. I don’t know what happened to Colby.

Perdida must have felt our look, because after about 20 minutes, she glanced in our direction. She recognized me, face twisting into a derisive smile. She dismissed herself from whatever creepy Hollywood producer was trying to feel her up and walked over to us.

“Girth,” she said, nodding sharply.

“Perdida,” I responded. “I’m sure you know Riffs.”

“Indeed she does.” Riffs winked. She’d probably been a frequent customer at Club Fuel or something.

Perdida’s hands clutched her skirt, as if she was going to involuntarily raise it. She caught herself and let go.

“What are you doing here?” Perdida asked.

“Just doing my part to help the AIDS epidemic,” I said.

“Sure,” Perdida nodded.

“How’d Vance like your script?”

She shrugged. “It usually takes these people a month or more to read things, even from Fletcher Award winners.”

I nodded, familiar with her struggles. “Well, listen,” I said, “I don’t want to keep you.”

“Oh no,” she said effusively, clutching my arm. The warmth of her touch continued to stir my loins. “I like you, Girth. You’re good people.”

“Really?” I gasped. “I really think I should go…wait in the car. You coming, Riffs?”

Perdida gave Riffs a coy look. He shook his head and followed her. I watched them walk away together, Perdida clinging to him. Then I turned and went out to the hearse. I turned on some Loveline and grumbled to myself about Stryker’s inability to replace Adam. About a half hour into it, Riffs leaped into the car. My cell vibrated—a text from Colby: P.C. ON THE MOVE

Just then, she came into view in the dim lights of the parking garage. She walked past the hearse without paying it any mind. After she got a few cars past, Riffs and I crept out of the hearse and followed her, keeping low and sticking to the shadows. She continued to her car, a jalopy of a dull-silver ‘78 Nova, as Riffs and I surveyed the area. In silence, Riffs pointed to the shadowy corner adjacent to the Nova. For a moment, I didn’t see anything—then I caught a gleam in the lights, maybe a scope or a gun barrel.

As Perdida stopped in front of the driver-side door, searching her keys, I leaped forward, screaming, “Perdida, look out!”

She turned back to me, stunned, as a bullet whizzed past. It shattered the side-view mirror. The noises echoed through the concrete structure. I continued forward, tackling her midsection. We tumbled to the oil-slicked concrete together, sharing a tense moment as I pressed against her, trying to memorize her form. She glance down in the direction of my crotch, obviously feeling the signal my huge and throbbing Johnson was putting forward, but I rolled off of her and chased the assailant. He took off down a nearby stairwell. I could see in the fluorescents that he was dressed entirely in black. I tried to chase him down the steps but had to stop, collapsed in a heap, before I even got to the first floor. The man got away.

After I caught my breath, I crawled back up to our level. Perdida and Riffs stood together, making eyes at each other. Then Perdida turned those eyes on me, beaming.

“You…saved my life,” she sighed. “But who would want to kill me?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Just then, Colby came walking up from the opposite direction, carrying a large silver briefcase. “What’s up, guys?”

“You,” Perdida sneered. “You know these guys?”

“I’m Girth McDürchstein’s biggest fan,” Colby said cheerfully. I felt like crawling into a hole—he was blowing my chances here.

“I didn’t know,” she said, glaring back at me.

I tried to play it cool. “Me…neither?”

She saw right through it. “Well, I should go,” she said, her voice adopting a terse edge. “Thanks for that.”

“I’ll pay to replace your side-view,” I blurted.

She shrugged. “I don’t use them, anyway.”

She got into the car and pulled away. I punched Colby on the arm as hard as I could. He dropped the case, which popped open, revealing a bunch of black clothes and what looked like a disassembled rifle.

“Going hunting?” I asked.

He took a long time to answer. “Yeah.”

We drove home.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on May 29, 2008 3:45 PM
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