Step 11

I'm Only Hanging On to Watch You Go Down

When the Beast's hired goons arrived at my door, I had an inkling that they hadn't come bearing good tidings. Large men with low IQs in the employ of unscrupulous attorneys seldom do. Fortunately, the cretins hadn't come to stomp my head in. One of them handed me a manila envelope while his associate documented the exchange with a video camera. Then, without saying a word, they left.

The envelope contained a note from the Beast demanding that I “cease and desist with any and all creative endeavors related to the personal life of my client.” The client he referred to was the unkempt, unemployed, unoustable slug who at that very moment was sprawled out on my sofa, wearing what had been my favorite pair of boxer shorts, and watching—for the sixth time in half as many days—a DVD copy of Team America: World Police.

“Relax,” Bottomfeeder said matter-of-factly as I wrestled with a nearly irresistible urge to throttle him once and for all. “The letter's just a formality. You can keep writing about me in your little book thingy so long as a few conditions are met.”

“Conditions?” I growled.

“Yeah. Just a couple of deal points. No biggie,” he replied, his eyes shifting back to the movie. “Oh, this is the part where the puppets get it on. It's the best!”

That's when I blew my top. I'm pretty sure my bottom dropped out, too.

“What conditions, man?!” I hollered. “What the fuck more could you possibly want from me?!!!”

“Whoa—easy there, big man. There's no reason to go ballistic,” Bottomfeeder said. “In fact, you should be thrilled. You see, I want to play you in my next movie.”

As is so often the case when it comes to the utterings of my bloodsucking boarder, I didn't see that one coming.

“Me?”

“Yes, YOU!” he replied. “Or at least a character based on you.”

Against my better judgment, I was intrigued. “Really? Me? A movie? Wow! What's it about?”

Bottomfeeder paused the DVD, sat up, and cleared his throat.^* Obviously he was serious about this movie idea of his, and since the project potentially involved me and some form of financial remuneration, I tried my damnedest to overlook his being shrouded in nothing but underwear and the stench of whiskey combined with God knows what else while watching puppets give each other golden showers.

“Well,” he said, shifting into on-the-lot pitch-meeting mode. “Think Barfly meets The Bourne Identity”

Admittedly, I had a difficult time marrying two such divergent concepts. Then again, far crazier ideas were bandied about in Hollywood every day.^*

“At first, this guy seems like just another down-on-his-luck hack writer—he drinks too much, always rambling on about stuff nobody gives a shit about; a complete fuck-up with the ladies, flat broke … you know what I'm talking about.”

“And this guy's based on me?” I asked, as my enthusiasm took a sudden nosedive into an empty pool of disillusionment.

“Exactly,” he said. “But unlike you, this guy's not who he appears to be.” Then he leaned in close and lowered his voice. “The writing gig is just a cover, see? He's CIA, anti-terrorism division, tracking Islamic fundamentalists who want to blow up America.”

I checked my enthusiasm for signs of life. There was still a pulse. So I inquired, “You mean he's only pretending to be a loser, when in reality he's a dashing spy who saves millions of lives?”

“No!” Bottomfeeder replied.

“No?” I asked.

“There's a twist.”

“But I thought his being a CIA agent instead of a writer was the twist,” I said.

“Yeah, that's the first twist,” Bottomfeeder explained, “but these days you've got to have two twists … minimum.”

“O-kay,” I said warily, “What's the second twist?”

“Our guy's a traitor who is actually working for the Islamic terrorists. He's planted dirty bombs in every major U.S. city and plans to detonate them on Christmas morning.”

“So let me get this straight,” I said. “Instead of redeeming himself by saving the country from evildoers, this poor, drunken, sexually frustrated bullshit artist who is based on me turns out to be a ruthless mass murderer?”

“Yep!” he beamed. My enthusiasm was dead. He'd pulled the plug.

“Doesn't seem like a particularly heroic role for an actor, does it?” I posited.

“That's where the third twist comes into play,” he countered.

“Oh, the third twist,” said I. “And what, pray tell, is the third twist?”

“Just as this guy's about to blast the U.S. of A. back to the Stone Age, it suddenly dawns on him what a complete piece of shit he's been his entire life—try and picture him illuminated in this, like, really bad-ass otherworldly glow while he's having this profound realization. So then there's this montage in which he goes around the country and personally disarms every one of the bombs … dressed up like Santa, cuz it's Christmas. And then when he's done, he takes his own life to ensure that he'll never be able to hurt anyone ever again.”

I groaned. “He kills himself to save the world from himself?”

“You got it! That way I get to play the villain and the hero,” Bottomfeeder said. “It's total duality-of-man type shit. People love that. Plus, my new agent is trying to negotiate a double billing in order to increase my quote. What do you think?”

“Sounds awesome,” I sighed, thinking better of expending the sort of energy it would take to muster the appropriate level of sarcasm.

Then there was a knock at the door.

“That must be them,” Bottomfeeder said, getting up to answer it.

“Who?” I asked.

“My new agent and our producer,” he replied. “I asked them to drop by with the deal memo.” Bottomfeeder opened the door to reveal Fisher^* a middle-aged Chinese man in a green leisure suit named Fong, and a guy toting a video camera who looked as if he'd just stepped out of a ‘60s surf movie. Fisher was carrying a six-pack of Smirnoff Ice.

“There he is,” Fisher said with loud, feigned enthusiasm as he made his way over to me. He shook my hand and lied, “I've been meaning to call you to talk about some stuff in the offing, buddy.” I hadn't heard from him in months, since the Fox deal fell apart. “Have you met Mr. Fong?”

“No,” I said, “but I'm familiar with his work,” recalling an expensive white dress shirt I'd taken to Fong's dry-cleaning joint that had come back pink and missing several buttons.

Fisher handed me a Smirnoff Ice. “Are you getting this?” he said to the surf dude with the camera, who nodded and made a twirling gesture with his finger.

“Oh, right—could you turn the bottle around so the label is visible, please? Thanks,” Fisher instructed me.

“Who's the guy with the camera?” I asked.

“That's Art,” Fisher said. “He'll be documenting the making of the film from beginning to end.”

“The making of the film?” I asked incredulously. “So does that mean you've secured studio backing already?”

“Oh, there'll be no studios on this one. We're hoping to finance the entire film with money raised from liquor companies,” Fisher gushed. “Product placement is where it's at these days.”

Art waved at Fisher and made a “U-like” gesture with his finger.

“Dan, would you mind smiling a little more while you're holding the Smirnoff Ice?” Fisher said. “They gave us a little seed money.”

Fong lit an unfiltered Pall Mall.

“Don't film that,” Fisher told Art. “I'm trying to work a sponsorship deal with Marlboro.”

“Look,” I said, “I find it hard to believe that you're going to be able to line up enough liquor companies to fund something so ridiculous. A movie like this would cost at least fifty million. Have any of them seen the script?”

“There's no script yet,” Fisher replied. “We haven't settled on a writer, but we've narrowed it down to two USC film school applicants.”

“What about me?” I couldn't believe I found myself asking.

“I suggested you, of course,” Fisher said, “but Smirnoff Ice wants someone a little more seasoned for this project. But, hey, I'm going to have you meet with them while you're in New York. If they like you, maybe we can score an associate producer's credit or something.”

“New York?”

“You didn't tell him?” Fisher asked Bottomfeeder.

It turns out my space invader had had an idea about how he might best research the role of a sad-sack spirits scribe. He wanted to travel to New York City with me for a long weekend in which we would—as he put it—”play the press card” and abuse my position in the media in a most egregious manner.

“Call up some publicists and work your magic, man,” he said. “We need luxury hotel suites, expensive bottles of booze, fancy dinners, and limousines. All comped, of course. We have to push this thing as far as we can and then some. My acting teacher says the purest expression of the art form can only be achieved through total immersion into character.”

I told Bottomfeeder he was crazy if he honestly believed I'd jeopardize my career by calling in favors from publicists for his benefit. Hell, the away-from-home perks of my job were the only things left he'd yet to take from me.

With that, he pulled out his cell phone and started dialing.

“Who are you calling?” I asked.

“The Beast,” Bottomfeeder shot back. “I'm gonna have him put the kibosh on that book of yours before it even has a chance to collect dust in the discount rack at Sam's Club.”

So maybe it wasn't my proudest moment, but twenty-seven hours and fourteen calls to publicists later, Bottomfeeder and I—resplendent in our Smirnoff Ice sweatshirts—checked into a luxurious suite at the Dream Hotel in midtown Manhattan. From there, we made our way over to yet another fat room I'd secured at an Irishthemed hotel called the Fitzpatrick, where we left Art the surfer-documentarian. This would turn out to be an unwise decision on a number of levels, as it happened to be St. Patty's Day weekend and Art was of Celtic lineage, which, he would later tell hotel security, explained his lust for fermented beverages. He had a more difficult time, however, accounting for the impromptu “studio” he'd set up to videotape “auditions” for aspiring “leading ladies.” Perhaps I could have done something to stop Art but alas, at the time of the alleged incident, I was busy unpacking a particularly fine array of single malts with Fong—who I'd gotten set up at the historic Algonquin—over at my other other room at the 70 Park Hotel on Thirty-eighth Street.

  An Ode to Dorothy Parker  

After a century in business, midnight comes easy to the Algonquin Hotel in midtown. Whenever I drop by to indulge in the quiet elegance of the place, my thoughts turn to the great spirits writer Dorothy Parker. It was, after all, Parker (not your crazy cousin) who invented the oft-used phrase “I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy.” If she had a dime for every time somebody stole that zinger, she'd still be dead. But somebody would be rich. And I think she was writing about drink when she said: “Salary is no object. I want only enough to keep body and soul apart.”

Ms. Parker and the hotel she helped make famous are more Makers Mark neat than bourbon and Coke; more martini than vodka soda. I gathered this information from someone who'd know—the head bartender at the Algonquin's Blue Bar, one Mr. Hoy who, at ninety years old and still pouring at this writing, is well versed in the classics.

It was wrong, all of it. My philandering ways had finally come full circle: sure, I'd been unfaithful to more than a few girlfriends in my time, but until that point I'd always been up-front with publicists. As I emptied the contents of the minibar at 70 Park, I remember experiencing something akin to acute stomach cramps. The feeling, a friend would later explain, was guilt. It's an inconvenient emotion, that one, although clearly not problematic enough to have induced me to curtail my bad behavior. Aw, hell, in my heart I'd always known the day would come when I'd drive the freebie train off the tracks—it's a predictable result in an industry set up so that some people are paid to give things away while others get paid to take them. In that regard spirits writing is just like taking part in politics or the People's Choice Awards.

Under the terms of the settlement, details regarding most of what went on that weekend cannot be included here. Besides, given the ridiculous amount of alcohol that was consumed, my memory of events is no better than a Bush administration official's at a congressional inquiry into the cause of … well, everything. I can tell you that one of the low points of our NYC excursion occurred shortly after I'd executed a perfect “freeloader flush” at the Dream Hotel. This move, familiar to anyone who's hosted a hospitality suite, is when you manage to get all your drunk friends, acquaintances, and hangers-on out of the room without any of them noticing that you, all the free booze, and the hottest chick at the party have stayed behind. Trust me, this is a complicated maneuver made all the more tricky when dealing with guests such as Bottomfeeder, who would rather shit thumbtacks than willingly abandon a room that is better-stocked than the captain's chamber on Ted Kennedy's yacht. Fortunately, I'd had the foresight to arrange for an open tab at the White Horse Tavern and to start a rumor that DeNiro was over there drinking beneath the largest of that establishment's numerous paintings of Dylan Thomas. Indeed, Bottomfeeder et al. did not go gently into that good night. They went noisily, reciting memorable lines from Raging Bull.

  The Beverage Program for the Dream Suite Soiree  

Spirits:

Grand Marnier Cuvée du Centenaire

10 Cane Rum

Hennessy Cognac

Chopin Vodka

The Glenmorangie “Sherry Cask Finish” Single Malt Scotch

Champagne/Sparking Wine:

Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame 1996

Dom Pérignon Vintage 1998

Taittinger Comtes de Champagne Rosé 1999

Dom Ruinart Blanc de Blanc

Domaine Carneros ‘Le Rêve’ 2000

Taittinger Comtes de Champagne Blanc de Blancs 1998

Wines:

Tenuta San Guido Sassicaia, Bolgheri Sassicaia DOC 2003

Tenuta San Guido Guidalberto 2004

Abadia Retuerta Pago Negralada 2002

Tenute del Cabreo ‘Il Borgo’ IGT 2003

Michele Chiarlo Barolo ‘Cerequio,’ DOCG 1999

Louis Jadot Bâtard-Montrachet, Grand Cru 2004

Bodegas RODA, RODA I 2002

Tenuta Sette Ponti ‘Oreno’ IGT 2004

Sequoia Grove Cabernet Sauvignon ‘Rutherford Reserve’ 2004

Wild Oak by St. Francis Chardonnay 2005

I remained at the Dream with a jaw-dropping dream named Ava, who had recently been “involved” with this guy Channing whom I sort of knew from the old Aspen days. In what I have to concede was an admirable bit of overachievement on the bet-hedging front, Channing had not only invited Ava to my suite party, he had brought along another rod-busting beauty he'd been courting by the name of Tessa. Allow me to make my case as I did during what's become known as the “morning after ‘man rules’ powwow.”

Let's say a friend … okay, someone you know^* … asks you to take what could be considered a trusted wingman position. Your mission is to distract Girl A^* while he pursues his interest in Girl B.^*

“The question before the assembled is: did Dan betray the wingman position?” Bottomfeeder posed as he sipped his third pre-noon Smithwick's at the Pig ‘n’ Whistle at Third and Fifty-fifth. And it must be noted that not since the day after the Hiroshima bombing had a group of survivors looked as ragged as our lot did.

“No fucking way,” I protested. Then I proceeded to build my case: first off, Tessa … er, Girl B … A … whatever … Tessa, while an exemplary female specimen, was no Ava, five-time MVP of the League of Her Own. This called Channing's man-judgment into question. Second, I told him the moment he approached me with his duplicitous scheme that there was a definite vibe between Ava and me, thus giving him every opportunity to lay down ground rules, reconsider his options, or seek another wingman who didn't have the key to the hotel suite along with a reputation for womanizing that was only slightly more notable than that of Charlie Sheen.

“Sure, but it's quite a leap to go from running interference to having Ava alone in your hotel suite at 2:30 in the morning,” Art interjected.

“Not really,” I rejoindered, “because he left with Tessa and never came back!” I paused for a moment to let the implications of that dubious action sink in. Everyone knows that the statute of limitations for wingman loyalty is, at best, an hour in an “abandonment” situation … and even shorter when there's an open bar involved.

“Besides, all we did was talk,” I continued, pounding the bar to punctuate the certitude with which I held my own innocence. “Yes, she wound up spending the night, but only because we fell asleep watching a movie. No bodily fluids were exchanged.”

This raised everyone's eyebrows … including those of bar patrons we didn't know.

“You didn't even kiss her?” Fong gasped. It should be noted that whenever Fong opened his mouth to speak, which was a rare occurrence indeed, what came out invariably sounded like a gasp—the result of his having been a smoker since age seven.

“Nope,” I attested.

“Why not?” Art asked.

“She said she only wanted to cuddle.”

There was a collective groan. Most red-blooded males will tell you there's nothing worse than an attractive potential paramour who only wants to cuddle. It's like a perfect storm of frustration: she's inviting physical contact, which makes her seem willing or at least semi-gettable, while at the same time extinguishing any real hope you might have of putting Percy in the playpen on the first try.

“Please tell me you tried to use some cuddle-escalation techniques

on her,” a distressed Art begged, his tone a few octaves higher than normal.

“Didn't want to,” I replied coolly. “Ava's different. I think I might love her.”

The words hit them like a pie to the face—a lead pie, glass face. Imagine Hugh Hefner announcing he was going to date women his own age, Bill Maher swearing his allegiance to Karl Rove, or Raymond Teller^* suddenly breaking into song. For a long moment, they all just sat there in stunned silence.

“I thought this day might never come again,” Bottomfeeder announced finally. Then he gave me a hearty pat on the back. “Congratulations, my friend. If you're really, truly ready to love again, Ava is the right kind of woman to do it with.”

“Yes,” Fong concurred. “She total piece ass.”

“Ava's an A-list Betty, that's for sure,” Art nodded.

“But I'm still not convinced of your innocence vis-à-vis Channing,” Bottomfeeder said. “After all, he had dibs on Ava, even if he did get temporarily waylaid chasing Tessa.”

It was time for me to put my final piece of evidence into play—the bloody glove, if you will. I pulled out my Blackberry, called for quiet, and replayed the message Channing had left at 3 A.M. after he'd struck out with Tessa and discovered that Ava's ship had also sailed … with me battening down her hatches.

“Hey Dan, it's Channing … I just wanna make sure we're clear about the shit you pulled with Ava … make sure you delete my number … you're a total fucking two-timer … fuck you … I wish I'd never met you.”

The expressions on their faces said it all—the tribal shame hung in the air like the stench of post–St. Patty's Day vomit. Then again, it might have been the actual stench of post-St. Patty's Day vomit. Finally, someone mustered the strength to say what we'd all been thinking …

“Delete my number? Two-timer? Wish I'd never met you?” Art repeated, taking a long, contemplative pull off his beer. “Holy shit! That dude went all chick on you!”

If they say “holy shit,” you must acquit! My case, as they say, was rested. But the issue was far from settled. There was still serious mocking to be done.

“You know what you need to do,” Bottomfeeder announced. “You need to out-chick him.”

“Out-chick him?” I queried.

“Yes,” he nodded. “Call him back and tell him that if he ever comes near you again you'll scratch his eyes out.”

That cracked everyone up. Hell, even Fong was laughing.

Art added, “Then you need to text him and tell him that outfit he was wearing made him look fat.”

Hooting and hollering all around. Then a random old guy at the end of the bar chimed in, “Tell him his shoes didn't match, either.”

“Do shoe slams really piss them off, old-timer?” I yelled over to him.

“Why d'ya think I'm here instead of at home with my wife?” he replied.

The financing for the booze writer/terrorist film never did materialize. When the brass at Smirnoff Ice saw the grisly video Art shot in New York they threatened to sue unless the footage was destroyed and their seed money returned with interest. After that, the best gig Fisher was able to land Bottomfeeder was fifth billing in a low-budget romantic comedy starring Steven Seagal. As for the poor kid Fisher had hired to pen the screenplay, he didn't get into USC film school, never saw a dime for the story outline he'd completed, and eventually was forced to take a job working the steam press at Fong's dry-cleaning shop. On the bright side, Fisher retained the kid as a client and even landed him a few gigs as an audience member.

I performed some damage control with the publicists before leaving New York, and upon my return to California did some soul searching. “Besotted” might be the best description for my condition throughout the weekend in the Big Apple, although witnesses have reported that I was “plastered,” “lit,” and “completely fuddled.” My memories of the weekend's proceedings are foggier than the third act of Cape Fear, but I seem to recall an incident involving an overzealous bathroom attendant and some flying urinal cakes that led to my being forcibly removed from the lobby of yet another posh hotel. I lost my wallet sometime during that same evening, which explains why I wound up having such a hard time with that manager at the Taco Bell. And what does it say about our society when an upstanding member of the media like myself can't even be trusted to make good on a promise to return with the dough for a lousy Super Value Meal?

Still feeling the lingering effects of a hangover nearly a week after the Channing–Ava affair, it dawned on me that perhaps I had seen the bottom of far too many cocktail glasses in my time and that perhaps it was time for a change. Then I recalled something the great philosopher Jack Handy once said …

“Sometimes when I reflect back on all the beer I drink I feel ashamed. Then I look into the glass and think about the workers in the brewery and all of their hopes and dreams. If I didn't drink this beer, they might be out of work and their dreams would be shattered. Then I say to myself, ‘It is better that I drink this beer and let their dreams come true than to be selfish and worry about my liver.’“

Besides, nobody likes a quitter.

_____________

^* Imagine the sound an old garbage disposal makes, only significantly less sonorous.

^* You can keep your Yanomamö Indian jokes to yourself, thank you very much.

^* You did see that coming, right? Please, people, try to pay attention.

^* In this case, Channing.

^* Ava

^* Tessa

^* Penn's dance partner.