Editor's Note: This is an exce
rpt from Raymond Quinton's eighth book, second memoir book, Writing by the Seat of My Pants: Writing Storm - Publication date: July, 2020
I thought my Uber driver’s noiseless Tesla would never find the top of this dark, steep, winding suburban El lay neighborhood. Sky, the youngish driver with the candelabra hair and Dumbo ears, ignored the speed limit with impunity and zipped recklessly up the hill. At times, this Tesla ride felt more like an amusement park riding; like a Hurl and Whirl operated by a kid-hating teen. Other times I thought I was riding the Sky Scream Roller Coaster. Yes, the one in Hossdloch, Germany, of course. I really liked that coaster. That coaster scared the piss out of me. I still snigger, though, thinking about those German teens yelling “Mutti Ficker Arschholer! Mutti Ficker Arschholer!” as the sped around the turns. I don’t know. Hearing kids cuss in another language makes me laugh.
Hummmmm…. Screeech! Hummmmm…. Screech!
I pushed my hands up against the ceiling to brace for the turns. I screamed. I was tumbling around in the back seat like a clump of wet towels stuck in the rinse cycle of an industrial Whirlpool dryer at Starkey’s Brew and Suds Laundromat.
Sky ignored me AND my screams and casually back at me and said, with a slight Midwestern American accent, “Nice weather we’re having.”
He wasn’t looking for an answer, necessarily. Seems my screams were answer enough. He just laughed to himself and continued up the hill.
The fronts of posh, split-level homes lined the streets while their backsides hugged the steep Hollywood Hills for dear life. In the distance, past the dark silhouette of trees, amber street lights flickered in the valley like blinking arteries pulsing with the city’s life blood. Most of the homes were 60s, Frank Lloyd Wrightesque era bungalows with Beamers, Benzes ,Teslas and an occasional souped-up ‘76 Ford Fiesta parked in the driveway.
Poor bastards, I thought. Another big earth quake and the house and Fiesta are gone.
At one point in the trip, I found myself upside down with my face planted firmly in the leather seat where my ass was seconds earlier. I sniffed…and screamed again.
We screeched to a stop in front of the house. I thanked Sky, tipped generously and closed the door. Sky punched the accelerator. The tires spun furiously as the front end lifted up like a funny car and the Tesla quietly lurched away, into the night. I waved away the pungent smoke from the melted rubber.
I didn’t know a Tesla’ could do that, I thought. And it’s so quiet.
The cocktail party was in full swing. I could hear the idle banter permeating through the front door as I approached.
“Another gin and tonic please,” I heard a deep male voice yell over the chit chat.
“These Manhattan’s make everyone look sexy, even you darling Peter,” another voice—also male—said over a cacophony of party caterwauling.
I arrived at the perfect time, as I’d planned.
Booze was free flowing. The stuffy people were unstuffying. Unstuffed people were becoming more unstuffed. The re-stuffed people were drinking heavily and taking their stuffing out. Couples were deciding how unstuffed they wanted to be; how much they wanted to cling to each other or get shit-faced and social, exposing the tender stuffy underbelly of their relationship. People were exactly where I needed them to be. This was Hollywood, after all. More alcohol flowed here per capita than anywhere else in the world, even Bavaria.
I rang the doorbell.
COCKADOODLE DOO MOTHERFUCKER! A raspy, perhaps male negroid voice rang out from a speaker anchored just above the door. Sounded just like Samuel L. Jackson. Next to it was a camera with a red blinking light.
I jumped back, grabbed an imaginary gun from an empty holster under my blazer, shifted into a weaver stance, pointed my finger at the camera and yelled, “WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT!”
The door opened as if on cue and Sally, the host, appeared in the doorway, flashed a blinding smile and said, “Raymond, darling, relax, that’s just the door bell. Like it? Now, put that thing away before you hurt yourself and give me a hug.”
Reluctantly, I pretended to holster my gun, smiled and said, “That’s a pretty goofy doorbell. How the hell are you?”
“It was my ex husband’s idea. He recorded it with Sam yesterday, sent it to Blink, and they programmed it in to our alarm system AND Alexa and there you have it. And I’m the hell fine,” she said.
“There ought to be a law,” I said, shaking my head.
“There is,” she replied, “against private detective, writer, comedians with no sense of humor like—“
“Don’t say it or I mizewell catch the next Tesla outta here.” I turned to walk away.
“You crack me up, Raymond. Get over here!”
“Just wanted to see if you’d flinch,” I said, and turned back
I smiled, gave her a big hug and went inside with her arm interlocked in mine.
The joint was jumping. Sally loved themed parties. This one was Cocktails at 8 O’clock - 50s and 60s. We were instructed to dress accordingly.
I didn’t need a costume. I dressed like this all the time; iridescent hummingbird green two-piece suit with straight-leg pants, thin Peter Max paisley tie, white shirt, and ankle-hugging Christian Louboutin Marmada Chelsea-Style Beatle boots with black ankle-high silk socks, held up by man sock garters that made me feel sexy.
Even though my fashion is all the rage now, I’m almost done with it. So yesterday. Time to move on to the next big fashion thing for moi; maybe silk Victoria’s Secret panties over Levi’s 501 jeans and sequined Carol Doda nipple tassels sewed on a fake sublimination muscle shirt. Who knows. I’m flexible.
Sally was all about the show.
A vintage tuxedo clad man finished beautiful ballad version of Lady Gaga’s Poker Face and segued into George Shearing’s Lullaby of Birdland.
Fucking genius, I thought to myself. Sure, people are gaga over Gaga, but Shearing is the sublime.
Being an accomplished mediocre pianist and student of Shearing’s genius, I stopped, stared at the piano player, then spontaneously bent the knee and pledged my life and my kingdom to the deifying of Shearing, Tatum, Waller, Gaga & Previn. If I couldn’t some day have them sainted, I’d at least lobby for a holiday or maybe start a law firm and name it after them.
SHEARING, TATEM, WALLER GAGA & PREVIN! HOW CAN I HONOR YOU TODAY!” I screamed.
“You always do that,” Sally said, rolling her eyes. “Stand up and let me get you a drink. Let me guess. Gin Martini, six olives, twist of lime, ice cold?”
“Of course, Sally. You know what I like.”
“You bet I do.” She winked at me, turned and walked into the kitchen.
“And make sure it’s filled right up to the edge of the glass, and DON’T spill it on the way.”
“You crack me up,” she yelled. “Hey, by the way, there are writers here,” she yelled, “so be careful!”
She worked her way through the crowd, hugging ever other person and gave others air-cheek kisses along the way.
Sally was an original. Whomever made us puny humans took special care putting every man and every woman’s fantasies into a human work of art called Sally Fesslemeier. Smart, pretty, sexy, mysterious, and tough. She was all that and a bag of mixed nuts, the perfect pearl, and a hell of an editor. She worked for the Los Angeles Times. Everybody loved her, even if they hated her. Her average fan mail started with, If I didn’t love you so much, I would hate your scathing review of my movie…by the by do you have 30 seconds for a phone call? I just need to hear your voice… blah, blah, blah, blah.
All day she got letters and voice mails from different people that all said the same thing. They all ended with the same wording, too. If there was such a thing as perfection, it would be named YOU!”
I asked her one day if she paid people to send those letters and leave those voice mails and social media posts; maybe social bots or something.
She simply smirked, twisted up her nose in a really cute sort of way, winked at me and asked, Do you think that’s something I need to do?
She was right. Suddenly, on that day, I knew what I had to do. I bent the knee and, hugged her legs, and, while sobbing dramatically, I repeated over and over, SHEARING, TATEM, WALLER GAGA PREVIN AND SALLY TOO! HOW CAN I HONOR YOU TODAY!
“Rise,” she said, as if to echo commands of queens and kings of ancient times. She kissed me on the cheek and said, “Now how about another Martini?”
I flashed back from my flashback. The piano player hurtled into an anxious and aggressive version of Shearing’s Cali Mambo.
I got the Mambo fever suddenly.
One and two and three and four I repeated as I danced through the crowd, drawing smiles, cheers, and catcalls as I worked the room.
One and two and three and four.
Move your hips. Move your hips. I’m sexy. I’m sexy. I’m the only one in America who remembers how to Mambo.
I froze in front of a really tacky mercury glass gilded mirror covered in partially see-through, lilies. I winked at myself, blew myself a kiss, shimmied and the next thing I knew, there was a gin martini with six olives and a twist of lime, icy cold, AND Sally in my hands. Sally seamlessly fell into step with me.
One and two and three and four. One and two and three and four. Work it!
I dipped Sally backwards; so low her beehive dew grazed the floor.
“Oh, la la,” she said as we straightened up. I casually took a sip of my martini.
“How did you do that without spilling your martini?” Sally asked.
“I’m pretty good at holding it until the time is right,” I said and winked at her.
I sipped again.
I looked at Sally and another thing suddenly occurred to me. She was beautiful and I needed to know something. So I blurted it out.
“Say, Sally, do you think you and I could ever have a thing?
Sally looked puzzled.
“What kind of a thing?”
“You know, Sally, the kind of thing people write songs about.”
“You mean, like Snoop Dog’s Bitch Gonna Suck My…”
“No, no, Sally. Like Gershwin. Our Love is Here to Stay,”
“Oh, that kind of thing. The old timey musical thing.”
“Yeah, that kind of thing.”
“Well, those kinds of things get messy, you know?” she said.
“Yeah, I know, Sally, they’re supposed to,” I sensed a hint of a hesitation and contemplation.
The piano player eased into Our Love is Here to Stay. I took Sally’s hand and spun her around. The world stopped revolving. Time stood still. Sally and I danced like Kiesza and the anonymous Hispanic man in her Hideway music video. We switched eras and danced like Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron by the River Seine in American in Paris. No grinding. When the song was over, she seemed sad.
We locked eyes and she said, “I have to go.”
Then she disappeared into the crowd.
I was heartbroken and vowed that we would be together again some day next week.
I glanced down at my hands and saw a note Sally surreptitiously slipped into my hand as we danced. I opened it slowly, fearing the worst, and read it. The message was simple but honest. It read: SHEARING, TATEM, WALLER GAGA PREVIN—AND SALLY TOO!
I made my way to the kitchen through a blockade of chatty Kathy’s who all thought they were cleverer than the cleverest of them all.
In the kitchen, several smartly dressed people were gathered around an Alexa speaker shouting ALEXA! ALEXA! WHERE ARE YOU!? WE NEED SOME MUSIC!
Instead of playing music, Alexa just shouted racial and ethnic insults and refused to play If only or Only Want to Be With You by the Dave Mathews Band or Hootie and the Blowfish or BOTH.
HEY, MOTHER FUCKER. I’M SAMUEL L. JACKSON. I DON’T LISTEN TO THAT SHIT! HERE’S SOME EARTH WIND AND FIRE MOTHER FUCKER!
I liked Earth Wind and Fire, so I was fine with me. I sipped my martini and listened in to the conversation and waited for an in. You know, a chance to say something clever, witty incongruous. Non sequiters were my specialty.
Wait for it. Wait for it. Wait for it. NOW!
“Say,” I interrupted, “What do you guys know about man sock garter belts?”
The entire group dispersed, leaving me alone in the kitchen with two die-hard conversationalists. I could tell they were professionals; possible writers; clearly well versed on tidbits and other useless information because they struck up a heated debate about man garters. Heck, I didn’t know shaving my calves would keep man garters from sliding down my ankles. My bush fix was to tie a bungee around my balls, run them down my pant legs and tie them to my man garters. Sure, it hurts a little when I do the Cha Cha Cha, but it works. Shaving seems simpler though.
At the end of the counter, In the background, Samuel L. Jackson was talking over the music, “I’LL BET ALL THE WHITE PEOPLE HAVE LEFT THE ROOM. MOTHER FUCKERS KILLED FUNK MUSIC BECAUSE WHITE WOMEN LOVED IT AND MOTHER FUCKING BLACK PEOPLE WERE SELLING MORE MUSIC THAN WHITE PEOPLE. MOTHER FUCKERS THREW PAT BOONE AND ELVIS AND DONNY OSMOND OUT THERE AND MOTHER FUCKING VANILLA ICE TO TAKE ALL THE MONEY FROM THE BRUTHAS. AND WHO IS THIS MOTHER FUCKING JUSTIN BIEBER ANYWAY? THE ONLY GOOD MUSIC IS EARTH WIND AND FIRE MOTHER FUCKER…AND…
He carried on like that for 10 minutes. I walked over to the speaker at the far end of the kitchen, leaned in and decided to try my luck.
“Yo, Samuel,” I said to the speaker, “you there?”
“Yeah, brutha,” I’m here, he answered. “That you Raymond?”
“Is that really you? Everybody thinks you’re an AI. And, yes, it’s me. I just got here.”
“Yeah, man, I’m down the street at my crib. Sally asked me to listen in and fuck with people’s heads. You know how crazy she is.”
I laughed. “You the crazy mother fucker,” I said. “I knew it was you. That was you on that mother fucking Blink camera, too. If I had a real gun, I would have bust a cap in yo video ass.”
Samuel laughed loudly. “Hey, man, we just having some fun. Hey, I gotta get back into character. WHATCHU WANT TO HEAR MOTHER FUCKER!?
I played along. “Sam, could you please play anything by Celine Dion?”
WHAT MOTHER FUCKER?! SUCK MY DICK! I DON’T PLAY THAT SHIT! HOW ABOUT I PLAY YO MAMMA! LISTEN, CHECK THIS OUT! BOOTSIE COLLINS AND PARLAIMENT. AQUA BOOGIE MOTHER FUCKER! CHECK IT!
I turned my attention to the two people deep in conversation at the far end of the kitchen.
Something was wrong.
The last thing I remember hearing was, “I’m a successful writer and I made two million bucks last year. Look, I brought a copy of my cancelled check and—“
There was a flash of white hot light. Then a green mist flooded the kitchen. I remember diving under a sink as the house started shaking. They always said to get the hell out of the house if there was an earth quake, but I had trouble getting to my feet.
The emergency lights flicked on and they flashed like a strobe light piercing the green fog-machine like mist that hung in the air like a horse’s large, pithy, swaying, flaccid tail. People were screaming and tripping over each other to get to the front door.
Samuel L. Jackson tried to help direct people. GET THE FUCK OUT AND SAVE YOUR ASSES MOTHER FUCKERS. THE WORLD IS COMING TO AN END! KISS YOUR MOTHER FUCKING ASSES GOODBYE!
It was hard to see through the thick mist, so I had to go by memory. I scooped up my martini, sidestepped the bar. The fog was burning my eyes now. I sipped, darted to the living room and hurtled over an ottoman. Actually, it turned out to be Bob Ottoman, Hollywood producer. He was struggling. I turned back.
“Come on Bob! Take my hand! We gotta get outta here.!”
“Oh, thank God, Raymond. I got lost in my thoughts when it hit. I couldn’t stop talking about my fabulous life. I was stuck.”
“Concentrate on me, Bob. Think about how interesting I am. You’ll snap out of that self-absorbed trance and RUN FOR CHRIST SAKE!”
“Okay, I’m getting there. Do I have time for a joint?”
“Hell no!. Move it!”
I sipped my martini and bob fell in lock step with me as we darted towards the front door. It was close. I could hear Samuel L. Jackson shouting, DUMB MOTHER FUCKERS! CAN’T RUN! CAN’T DANCE! SO ABSORBED IN YOUR OWN SELF-IMPORTANCE THAT YOU ALL FORGOT ABOUT SELF-PRESERVATION AND LOOKING OUT FOR YOUR FRIENDS! GO BACK INSIDE MOTHER FUCKERS! MAYBE THIS IS A GOOD TIME TO PUT YOURSELVES OUT OF YOUR MISERY!
I heard Sally on her cell phone talking to Samuel, telling him this was real and to see if he could help get people out of the house.
LISTEN UP EVERYBODY, Samuel shouted, THIS SHIT IS REAL! GET THE FUCK OUT! MOTHER FUCKERS. THE POLICE AND THE FIRE DEPARTMENT AND THE FBI AND THE MOTHER FUCKIN’ NSA HAVE BEEN CALLED AND WILL BE THERE SOON! RUUUUNNNNNNNN!
I grabbed Sally on the way out. She was still thinking about what we talked about earlier. I picked her up and carried her towards the door.
“You’re such tough guy, Raymond. You know, I can walk on my own,” she said.
“Yeah, I know, but I’m no good if I don’t’ have a martini in one hand and an amazing woman like you balanced in the other.”
“Well, you need both hands to carry a woman like me.”
“So, who’s got my martini?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not really?” I glanced to my right. Bob had my martini, a joint and we were all almost in the clear. I put Sally down far enough away from the front door so that we could breathe clearly. The green haze was clearing. Emergency lights flashed all around and unformed men and women darted all over the front yard. Fire crews entered the building to see if they could find anyone inside.
Samuel L. Jackson kept talking through the Blink speaker above the front door, “WHILE I GOT YO ATTENTION, I WANT TO POINT OUT THAT THERE AIN’T ENOUGH BLACK PEOPLE IN THE FIRE DEPARTMENT OR IN THE POLICE OR PARAMEDICS, SO YOU ALL NEED TO CHECK IN WITH YOUR D & I OFFICERS MOTHER FUCKERS. WHY PAY THEM A HUNDRED THOUSAND BUCKS EVERY YEAR TO PUT ON DIVERSITY SEMINARS IF YOU DON’T’ WANT TO HIRE ANY BLACK FOLKS. OH, THERE’S A MAN IN THE BATHROOM TAKING A SHIT. I THINK HE RAN OUT OF TOILET PAPER. CAN YOU MOTHER FUCKERS GET SOME MOTHER FUCKING TOILET PAPER TO THIS MOTHER FUCKING MAN IN THE MOTHER FUCKING TOILET…AND GET HIM THE FUCK OUT OF THERE. AND THERE ARE SOME MOTHER FUCKING SNAKES IN THAT MOTHER FUCKING TOILET TOO!
As I stood by Sally, she was approached by a petite, no-nonsense female detective. She got right down to business.
“You the homeowner, mam?”
“Yes,” Sally said. “Do you have any idea what happened here?”
“I’m detective Bentley; OCD, Obnoxious Crimes Division. We were hoping you could give us a little more information. We have some ideas, but I need to get your side of the picture.”
“Am I in some kind of trouble, detective?” Sally asked.
“No, mam, I’m just trying to be thorough before I triple axle to any conclusion.”
“I’m sorry, detective. I’m just a little on edge. It was a fabulous theme party turned into a disaster zone.”
“Well, mam, I can tell you it looks worse than it is, except for your Samuel L. Jackson diversity and inclusion manager impersonator.”
“Oh, that’s not an impersonator. That is Samuel L. Jackson. I hired him to annoy the hell out of my guest through my Bluetooth speaker. He lives just over there.” She pointed to a large, gated mansion a few houses down from bungalow.”
“Why not just ask him to come over?” Detective Bentley asked.
“No fun in that,” Sally answered.
“Oh, I see,” Detective Bentley, said, shrugged and got back to business. “So, tell me what you saw.”
“It was awful, detective. The piano player was humming along. Folks were cutting the rug on the wood floors. There was pot smoking in the basement—I hope that’s okay?”
“In case you haven’t heard, pots legal now,” Detective Bentley said as a matter of fact and continued taking notes.
“All of a sudden this obnoxious green gas filled every room. I think it started in the kitchen. Everyone suddenly got very anxious and annoyed. Then, the earth started shaking and people started running. It was mayhem, pandemonium and mass hysteria. And here we are.”
“Don’t you mean noxious green gas?”
“No!” Sally insisted. “It was definitely obnoxious. Not a normal gas. It had an attitude, like smug and despise mixed together.”
“I see,” Bentley said and scratched down some more notes.
“I’m not sure you do, detective Bentley,” I said.
She looked at me suspiciously.
“And who exactly are you?” She asked.
“I’m your worst nightmare.”
“I don’t think so,” She said, confidently. She stopped writing and stared at me.
“My worst night mare was a giant eggplant dressed in a clown suit. It had four four-foot long fangs, red, bloodshot eyes, eyebrows like Frida Kahlo and hopped around on one chicken leg screaming, I’M POPPY. DELETE YOUR FACEBOOK PAGE.”
“Okay, okay,” I said, “You’ve made your point. That’s pretty bad. I’m a friend, detective, and I saw what she saw and she saw what I saw and they saw what we saw and those three saw what they saw when I saw what he saw when u saw what it saw.”
“Okay, I think I’ve heard enough here,” Bentley said, folding her notebook and putting it in her coat pocket. “Look over there. See that?
She pointed to the front door.
Two firemen and one paramedic were carrying a man and a woman out of the front door. They laid them out in the lawn.
One was yelling, “She’s okay. I’ve got a copy of her pay stub. Wow, two million bucks! That’s a lot of cash!”
“This one’s going into shock!” a paramedic yelled. “Get me some hundred dollar bills, STAT! Cover him! Quick! Before it’s too late! And suck that gas out of his lungs for Kri sake!”
Several bystanders jumped into action and threw hundreds at the unconscious man. The paramedic performed chest compressesions. Plumes of green gas shot out of the man’s lungs. He coughed, gagged and tried to sit up.
“Relax,” the paramedic said. “We’ve got some more hundreds for you. I’m trying to get you a book deal right now. He radioed to central to find a publisher STAT!
Bentley explained, “We’ve seen this before. Happens a couple times last year in this same neighborhood. So, this time we were prepared. Our writer there, the female is Tristen Peterberg. Extremely successful writer; detective novels. Protagonist is a female detective named…you guessed it…Bentley. Smart. Pretty. Clever— ”
“What’s that got to do with this situation,” Sally interrupted, growing a bit impatient.
“Sit tight, mam, I’m getting there,” Bentley said, continuing, “Most successful writers know better than to tell anyone exactly how much they make. It’s too risky in a social setting. Reactions are too extreme. We had one writer’s head explode when he found out that a teenager who’d written her first book, sold 10 million copies and was a mega millionaire at age seventeen. That’s way too much for a normal writer to process. I had to clean up that mess. The kid was devastated. But, I gotta admit, the guy was asking for it. I mean, she was a kid, and he called her a rat fink lying little snot hack. She whipped out her bank app and showed him her balance, THEN she pulled out a wad of one hundred thousand dollar bills, handed him one and said, ‘go buy yourself some talent’ BOOM!’
“That’s pretty shocking. I think I’m going to throw up,” Sally said.
“Me too,” I said. “Let’s do it together. Ready?”
“All right. All right. Relax, people,” Bentley said. “He survived. He’s still a poor, struggling, dejected writer living in Studio City. Now, more about what happened here. Come with me.”
They walked past the recovering duo and into the kitchen.
“Look over there.” She said, pointing at the wall.
There were green stains on the walls and a thick, slimy green resin on the counters. The piano player started in on a lounge version of 24K Magic by Bruno Mars.
“It started here. And we have a witness.”
“If you’re talking about me, I can’t help you. I wasn’t looking and I didn’t hear nothin’”
“Easy there, Raymond,” she said. “You’re off the hook. Samuel, you there?”
The Alexa speaker box came to life. FUCK YEAH, I’M HERE. I HEARD THE MOTHER FUCKERS. RECORDED EVERYTHING. DUMB ASS BROKE ASS LOSER WRITER COULDN’T LEAVE IT ALONE. HAD TO ASK.
“Can you play back what you recorded, Samuel?” Bentley asked.
FOR YOU, BABY, ANYTHING! HERE TIS! I’LL FILTER OUT ALL THER OTHER BULLSHIT.
There was a crackling, shuffling, burp, FAAAAART sound and then the voices came in.
“So, what do you do?” the female voice asked.
“I’m a writer,” the male answered.
“Are you a professional writer or some other kind of writer?” the female voice asked.
“I’m a professional. Sold a few blog stories last year.”
“Oh, that’s nice. How much do those blog posts pay, anyway? I’ve never bothered with them.”
“Pretty good, I guess. About $10 bucks a post,” the male voice said.
“Wow, at that rate, you have to sell a 5,000 posts just to live in L.A…in the streets.” The female laughed.
“Well, it’s not like that. I write poetry and work at Starbucks too. So I get by.” The male said. You could almost hear the hissing of his self-esteem deflating in the background.
“I’m not sure I’d call that getting by. Sounds miserable to me. Well, keep at it. Maybe your obituary will read that you tried to be a real writer…but failed.” She laughed again.
“So what makes you so special?” he asked snottily.
“I AM a real writer,” the female said.
“What makes you a REAL writer?” he asked.
“You don’t want to know,” she said.
“Sure I do. If you’re so fucking special and I’m not, what makes you sooooo special?” His soooo hung in the air like a runaway Hengda fiery dragon kite.
“I made a shit load of money last year,” she said.
“I doubt it,” he said. “Writers rarely make a lot of money. It just doesn’t happen very often.”
“Sure, it doesn’t happen for loser writers who write blogs for a living. You might as well sell drugs and skim a little to self-medicate between Uber delivery runs.”
“I don’t think I like you,” he said. “How much did you make last year? Really?” he pressed.
“I said, you don’t want to know. You’re already a broken man. I don’t like you either but I want you to at least stay motivated enough to be a successful loser.” She laughed out loud again.
“HOW MUCH, GOD DAMN IT!” he demanded.
“YOU DON’T WANT TO KNOW!
“HOW MUCH BITCH!”
“TWO MILLION DOLLARS ON MY NOVEL SALES!”
“FUCK ME. PROOVE IT!
They could hear papers crumpling and heard her say, “HERE’S THE CANCELLED CHECK MADE OUT TO ME MOTHER FUCKER!”
BOOOOOOOOOM! There was a hissing sound. Rattling could be heard in the back ground. There were screams and crashing sounds and pandemonium.
“What the hell was that,” I asked Bentley. ‘What did we just hear?”
Bentley hesitated and asked. “It’s not obvious to you?”
“No,” I said. “They were both assholes but sounds like he was being a bit pushy.
“That’s exactly it,” Bentley said. “Envy. Green, steamy, slimy envy. Every God damn where. That’s what we’ve seen before. They should have never met. A volatile combination. Loser egotistic writer; pushy sarcastic successful millionaire novelist; like vinegar and baking soda. It’s a phenomenon. Shot right out of his ears, flooded the house. It’s pungent AND, you were right, obnoxious.”
“Wow.” I said, “So what was the shaking?”
“Earthquake,” Bentley said, slightly smirking. “Happened at the exact same time. Seismic shift in the earth, and a catastrophic envy event in the kitchen. And, who knows what the piano player was butchering in the living room.”
“Shearing,” I said.
“Seismic?” Bentley asked, confused.
“No, George. Pianist. And he was doing a good job, thank you,” I said in his defense.
“I’m sure he was,” Bentley said. “So, anyway, we’re done here. I got a criminal ECA AND envy I need to get to. That’s a Ethnic and Cultural Appropriation case. You know, a white person who’s jealous of people of color and has been stealing their style. Fella by the name of Thicke. Almost as bad as Envy only messier and a bit harder to investigate. Have a nice day folks.”
She flashed her gun and her badge on the way out, and the crowd in the living room parted and averted their eyes as she passed through.
“In my next life, I want to be her,” I said, smiling.
Sally looked at me and said, “Case solved, and you didn’t even have to do anything.”
“I know. I don’t mind being a bystander. ‘Cept when it comes to you Sally. Dance?”
“Why not. You’re ok, Raymond.”
I yelled into the living room. “MAMBO #5 PIANO MAN!”
The piano player complied. This time, Sally grabbed me, picked me up and carried me to the living room.
“This time, I lead,” she said, smiled and counted one and two and three and four….
The fire chief gave the all clear. People started dancing. Sally twirled me, dipped me, and while she held me inches from the ground, she locked eyes with me, moved her lips within inches of mine and mouthed the words SHEARING, TATEM, WALLER GAGA PREVIN SALLY AND RAYMOND TOO!
In the kitchen, Samuel L. Jackson was berating one of the guest: YOU THINK I’M GOING TO PLAY MICHEL BOOBLAY OR JOHN FUCKING MAYOR. HELL NO! THEY GOT ENOUGH MONEY ALREADY! THEY DON’T NEED ME! PLUS, I’M NOT HAPPY WITH THAT WHOLE KATY PERRY THING. SHE’S TOO RICH TO BE FUCKIN AROUND WITH THAT MAN. I CALLED HER AND TOLD HER THAT. WHEN SHE HOOKED UP WITH RUSSEL BRAND I CALLED HER AND TOLD HER DON’T DO IT. I SAID GET THE FUCK OUT. I TOLD KATY PERRY YOU TOO FUN, RICH AND PRETTY AND DON’T NEED NO MOTHER FUCKING MAN. HIRE A PRETTY SUPER MODEL WHITE IDIOT SAVANT WITH BENEFITS. KNOW WHAT I’M SAYING? BUT DON’T LOOK FOR NO MOTHER FUCKING RING. BEYONCE, ALECIA KEYS, TAYLOR SWIFT, ARIANA GRANDE, POPPY. THEY DON’T NEED NO MOTHER FUCKING MEN. THEY GOT MONEY. WHAT DO YOU NEED A MAN FOR IF YOU GOT MONEY?
ANYWAY. CHECK THIS OUT. MOTHER FUCKING JOE STONE. WHITE BOY. TOOK MONTEL JORDEN’S BAD ASS SONG THIS IS HOW WE DO IT AND MADE THE BIGGEST HIT TODAY. JUST SHOWS YOU NO MATTER HOW COOL WHITE PEOLE TRY TO BE, THEY WILL NEVER BE AS COOL AS BLACK PEOPLE. WHITE PEOPLE NEED BLACK PEOPLE. IT’S SYMBIOTIC MOTHER FUCKING SOCIAL CONSTRUCT SHIT. HERE ‘TIS.
In the Tesla home, I thought, you’re one lucky mother fucker…to know someone like Sally and be who you are.
I braced for the next turn. Sky was in rare form though. He was driving slowly, like a normal Tesla driver. At first, I thought he was under the influence and over the limit. Then it dawned on me. He could be in love. I smiled, thought of Sally and hummed Cachito by Nat King Cole all the way home.
