HIS & HERS WATCHES - PART 1
Illustration by Milano Chow |
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Vice: When’s the very first time you can remember writing fiction?
Jeff: Probably in grade school. I used to make up stories about really obese kings of powerless countries, like Greenland. They’d start wars and have a lot of paperwork to do for some reason, but they’d always end up more concerned with eating butter and roast beef and stuff.
What’s the hardest thing about writing a short story?
Making them about things other than butter and roast beef. |
 e called into a local radio station upward of 60 times in January of 1989. Provided a series of correct answers that surpassed the other callers’ series of answers and advanced southward to the state capital for the semi-finals. One night at a Holiday Inn on the main drag (Golden Girls followed by Pepcid AC) and a rock-and-roll themed brunch. He had Chuck Berry-Berry waffles. Two “amps” fashioned from sausage patties and whipped cream. Decaf. A ton of decaf. Even decaf, in that quantity, had trace amounts of “caf.” He got pumped. His mind hurdled a series of negatives he’d laid out for himself. His confidence was like a new-ish set of elbow pads. Or maybe hurdling shoes.
The van arrived. Guy with Bell’s palsy. They ran the yellows. He sat, name-tagged, under the tangerine lights of a Ramada Inn conference room. Everything was obstructed-view. A beehiver doled out Pepperidge Farm goldfish in a corner. Flat Sprite. His turn came suddenly.
Example:
*A Bay Area rock band whose ex-lead singer is named Steve.*
He rang his bell. His smile hurt his cheeks. He owned this trivia.
Still, he thought of her the whole time. Her auburn hair, which she would sweep around in the back before throwing it over one shoulder. Her faint panty line, visible beneath her khakis, tapered sexily.
He rang his bell again. Correct answer.
Now, she’d cooled off. The friendship—whatever—was a touch rocky. The situation with her made him morose. Not morose enough to lose, though. He buried his competition.
They sent him to Hollywood. The beds were lumpy or maybe just foreign. Maybe people liked it that way. Maybe there was a healing element to it. The quilt, glazed lightly with an industrial flame-retardant, gnawed his skin.
He listened near the window for beach noises. It was February. He heard only a hooker, perhaps, dissatisfied with her cheesesteak. Whooping cough.
He rode the elevator downstairs. Everything was a brass and pastel train wreck. No one would speak to him. No one acknowledged why he was in Tinseltown in the first place. They were probably just busy.
He wandered down a paneled corridor. Watercolors of seagulls. He passed a moist tile wall, discreetly took his jeans off—hung them on a hook and disappeared into the sauna with his thoughts.
“Auburn hair is for liars,” he whispered. Felt a lump in his throat, then scolded himself. He’d unplugged his answering machine in a fit of rage before he left. He had zero messages. No possibility for messages. He groaned softly.
Upstairs, he took deep breaths. Ordered turkey clubs, drank a familiar light beer. The TV set underperformed inside a faux-wood entertainment center. He delved into the unfamiliar topography of the LA sports page. Clusters of horse results deviated from what he normally expected.
Shortly after dawn, he rose, put on his rumpled clothes, and went immediately to the concierge with a misshapen stack of ones. Turned it into a pile of quarters. Plugged the quarters into a pay phone. Called her work number. She should have already been there for two hours.
He was panicky, certain she woke up next to some new dude, one who didn’t don a bib and eagerly lap up her bullshit. Sunlight coming through her bedroom curtains across their naked bodies. “Groovy Kind of Love” came through a speaker in the ceiling above the phone.
A coworker answered. “She’s not here yet.”
He hung up and walked back to the elevators. He was positive she was eloping with the new dude. Kip Landry called. The limo would pick him up the following morning at 8 AM sharp. He took his quarters and went back down to pay phones. Five rings.
“Andrea speaking.”
“It’s me.”
“Who’s me?”
“I’m out here for the game show.”
“Yeah? You should be studying, not wasting your time with me,” she chided him.
“I know, but you’re special,” he said.
“Les?”
“The kissing was—”
“Really cool.”
“Yeah.”
“Only right now, it feels weird. We should wait. Hold off.”
“Until when?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe never.”
He sighed.
“I do miss you, though.”
“I miss you, too. I guess I can’t blame you. You did say something about leaving your options open.”
“I did?” She paused. “I did.”
“Yeah. All I am saying is I’m happy to be an option. I don’t have to be the option.”
“Uh, OK.”
“Did you sleep with someone last night?” He blurted. “It’s OK if you did.”
“Jesus,” she sighed. “Downer.”
The limo picked him up. “All ready, Frankie Boy?” The driver leered over the backseat.
“I’m Les.”
“Less than what?”
“What?”
“Good luck.”
The limo dropped him off in front of a heinous-looking commercial building on Wilshire Boulevard. A building where you tell a social worker something. Someone’s been touching you. Someone’s been threatening you. Fred Fredrickson took him down to a basement.
“I’m Les,” he said.
“No shit,” Fredrickson said.
CONTINUED:
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