Parish, Frank
JOURNAL ENTRY 03

Any and every Californian worth their salt has been migrating to LA for weeks. All the Hollywood yuppies crowded that Ziz resort so fast it made all us working stiffs' heads spin. The whole thing has got me calling in for days like some idiot begging to be put on a waiting list. What's worse is the receptionist taking the calls is nuttier than an elephant turd and I can hardly tell if I ever make any headway.

The blonde left her dude's apartment a while back, and I haven't heard from her since. No point in squatting there—my apartment is better—but I will miss the TV. A few chicks at work were smart enough to head to Los Angeles when this was all starting and already have spots at the T.O.G. center. I've got an extra managerial workload, and I'm sick of working at all when I could be living the sweet life and humping celebrity tail in LA. When I see on the news that they're building on that renovated jail to make it half the size of Hollywood, I bite the bullet and make the drive.

I recognize the broad's voice at the front desk as soon as she opens her mouth, but I didn't realize she'd be stacked and lounging around in her underwear, and already I'm thinking I've come to the right place. She goes on asking me if I'm a retard or out of my head, and I'm asking what room she stays in, and she says watch out for the secrets and something about this place being built on a trap door.

"Trap door?" I ask. "This place got a shoddy foundation? 'Cause I ain't staying in no condemned building."

That broad just cracks up laughing and repeating the word "condemned" and tells me to find a room.

The place isn't exactly what I expected, but still a sweet deal. Really good-looking chicks and lots of instantly recognizable celebrities. In fact I pass one of those Olsen twins in the hallway. A Ziz is pushing her in a wheelchair, and she looks all bloated and something's weird with her eyes, like they're all black or something. She looks better on TV. Or maybe she looked better when she was fifteen.

Eventually a Ziz who says his name is Mammon finds me wandering around like a moron and escorts me to a room. I'm a bit disappointed at first, but Mammon says all the rooms are the same and to trust him, the overall accommodations are more than luxurious. I ask what that's supposed to mean, and he looks kind of impatient and says someone will be by to see about me.

I don't feel like waiting, so I hit the hallways and find all sorts of small meetings being held in each of the many rooms. I keep popping my head in, scoping the group out, then apologizing and moving on. I start to think maybe I'll leave when I intrude on a group full of retards and mongoloids, but the next room has a brunette bombshell in a wheelchair that is definitely doable. I step in and ask if anyone minds and this knobby looking Ziz who says he's Vassago is speaking to this group about how they should feel free to "alter" themselves in anyway because God didn't see fit to create them in such a way so that they'd be content with what they had. I don't know why all these Ziz things have names like foreigners.

This brunette is wearing a ring, and the guy I assume is her husband is sitting next to her, nodding intensely to everything Vassago says. She doesn't nod. In fact, she doesn't really move at all, barely even blinks; she looks catatonic, and her head drifts around aimlessly on her thin neck. I bet I know something that would wake her right up.

"Frank," Vassago says to me. "What do you think? Is there something you'd like to change about yourself?"

"Not really," I answer, snorting. "I'd say I got dealt a pretty sweet hand."

"Absolutely. That's why I ask." He looks at the brunette and then at me, and for a second I suspect he might blow my cover. "Why don't you visit the third floor this evening. I have a few ideas that might interest you." He hands me a small clearance pass that says MEDICAL WARD on it and goes back to teaching his little class. The husband takes his wife's limp hand and strokes it lovingly. Gag me.

I hit the cafeteria at dinnertime and catch another eyeful of celebrities. John Travolta is sitting a few seats down from me with Bruce Willis. In line for dinner I can see that chick who was on Saved By The Bell and Christina Aguilera; as they pass by I overhear them talking about how beautiful Natalie Portman's eyes are now.

On the other side of the room, I can see the wheelchair brunette bombshell and her intense nodding husband who's spoonfeeding her what looks like baby food. The food runs down her chin, and he wipes her face for her with his napkin before tucking it into her shirt collar. I sneer at them and think, "Man, someone needs to snap that chick out of it".

I run into the couple again later that night on the medical ward. I have to turn my clearance card into a chicken-sized Ziz who snickers as he takes it. Vassago appears to greet me in the hallway and leads me to a long procedure room where five beds line either side of the room, nine of them occupied with human patients, one of them empty. Three Ziz wearing lab coats and stethoscopes draped around their necks are strolling around the room, checking charts clipped to the foot of each bed and speaking to the patients. I'm not sure why they have to wear the lab coats. I've never seen them wear clothes before.

Vassago walks away to find some "material" he wants to run by me. The brunette and her husband are bedded beside one another. The Ziz standing over them is asking them all sorts of questions.

"She's just very shy," The dude is saying. "She isn't very outgoing, you know?"

"She's... an invalid?" the Ziz asks, pointing to the wheelchair parked beside her bed.

"Oh, no! She walks just fine. She just... She gets tired easily and doesn't really like walking that much, so... So I like to help her, you know? My job. The husband."

"Uh huh..." the Ziz mumbles to himself, scribbling on a clipboard.

"It's just... you know... all this talk about 'fixing' ourselves. It's got me thinking that maybe things could be easier for my wife. I mean, I'm her husband and I need to take care of her. I quit my job last year so I could stay home with her full-time because she doesn't like to be alone, you know?"

"Sure," The Ziz nods without looking at him. "It's a big... scary world out there. Listen, I think we can help you."

"You can? You hear that, honey? He's going to help us!"

The woman manages something that almost looks like a smile, and the dude looks like he's on the verge of tears.

"Yeah. Because there is something in it for us. And what do we ask ourselves before..."

"'What's in it for me?' Right. I know," the man babbles, nodding intensely.

"And what's in it for you, Mr. Parish?" Vassago's voice comes from behind me.

"You tell me," I grunt, slowly turning to face him.

"Instant gratification," he says, smiling with all those pointy teeth.

"Instant?" I laugh. "Like a mute woman who never wears clothes and follows me around on a leash?" I laugh, looking around the room to see who heard me and might be laughing as well.

"Something a lot like that." Vassago laughs. "Or maybe," he interjects, raising an index finger. "Maybe you don't need a woman at all."

I stare at him for a second, wonder if he's calling me queer, then I finally say: "I'm listening."