Page 219 - Flaunt 171 - Summer of Our Discontent - St-John

mob front.
I think about my friend and I, two white guys
lost in the sauce of a capitalistic dream. I just self-published this book and am now meeting an Instagram personality to try and promote it in a dark side of Van Nuys. My friend is some mix of edgy and hyper-talented, nowhere to go in life really other than philosophical pondering and cigarettes.
“Look at that fuckin Scientology building,” I say, “Where do they get the money to do all this shit?”
“Tom Cruise. John Travolta,” my friend says.
“Yeah,” I say, “What do you think they’re doing in there?”
“I don’t know. Experimenting?”
“On what?”
“People’s minds,” my friend says, “People go in
there and open up their wallets and get lobotomized.” “Jesus,” I say, “Let’s go meet Zoo.”
Knock. Knock. Knock.
We walk through a maze of an apartment
complex. Everything beige. This is like the Holly- wood run-off. Hollywood is already spiritual run-off so this was the run-off of the run-off. I never knew why anyone would want to live in Hollywood. Some sex-addicted prayer. You think something’s gonna happen in Hollywood, but nothing happens. It’s a sad adult Disneyland. The glory days of Sunset Boulevard with William Holden are in a box evaporating six feet under.
But this beige fantasia in Van Nuys is some- thing else. I start to realize that Zoo is definitely not wealthy. He may have some money but he’s definitely not rich. He definitely isn’t living in a Tumblr post with the girl smoking a cigarette in a bikini in the art-deco bay window.
Zoo was on the edge. Out there. Right
there. Apartment number 9. The number on the door flipped upside down. Up the steps. Right across from another apartment with empty bottles of Mountain Dew piled high outside the chipped and frayed door.
Again. Knock. Knock. Knock.
I hear muffled footsteps. My friend turns to me and smiles. I see a look of concern on his face, “I hav- en’t been here before,” he says.
“Wait. What?” I say.
Then the door opens. There is Zoo. Black t-shirt.
Hair cut into a tight black Supercuts bowl. Low-hanging jeans that look like they had been washed a thousand times. Big smile, “Hey, guys!”
Zoo is handsome. In a way. But he looks mildly anemic. The veins in his arms are shallow. His shoes are too big. Baloney skins. But he exudes an energy. Something of the go-getter type.
I shake his hand. He welcomes us inside.
“This is it,” Zoo says.
“Cool, man,” my friend says back.
“Do you guys want something to drink?” Zoo asks, disappear-
ing around a corner.
Survey. The ceilings are white cottage cheese. The carpet
must have once been green but now its grey, spotted with black marks, spills, burns, crunchy stains. The small living room is there, which is also a kind of pseudo-office with a desktop computer. The desk is piled high with empty soda bottles and fast food bags and miscellaneous papers. The walls are covered in framed prints of movie posters, all of them tilted one way or another: Scarface, Pulp Fiction, Lethal Weapon, Blue Velvet.
Zoo reappears around a corner with two bottles of water. Ice cold. As a matter of fact the apartment is freezing. The A/C on full blast. I hear it rattling above. The ice-cold water and the A/C don’t mix. Ice on top of ice.
“Have a seat!” Zoo says, “Man, I haven’t seen you in a while,” Zoo nods to my friend.
The three of us sit down. My friend and I on the couch. Zoo in a brown pleather chair. The couch is the same color as the
CHAÏM SOUTINE “HANGING TURKEY” (1925). OIL ON CANVAS. 37” X 28”. COURTESY OF THE HENRY AND ROSE PEARLMAN COLLECTION / ART RESOURCE, NY.
carpet and sunk deep down, almost with my ass hitting the floor upon flopping onto it.
The whole thing feels dirty. Caked in oil and dust. I can see the kitchen now. Stacks upon stacks of empty boxes of soda, piles of empty Hot Pocket boxes, the sink cascading with red-stained plates and utensils, shrapnel of hash pipes and charred weed.
Where the fuck am I?
In front of Zoo is a small brown coffee table stacked with old crusted magazines: GQ and Esquire, mainly, the usual how-to-be-a- fake-male bullshit. Buy a Rolex. Smile. You made it.
Behind Zoo is a television mounted into a shelving unit. Half of the unit is tilted off the wall, it looks like the anchors had been jarred loose, white sheetrock dust piled softly on the floor at the corners. The unit is stacked with books and guides on writing screenplays and making movies.
“What are you guys up to?” Zoo says while swallowing icy bottled water.
“We wanted to stop by and give you a book,” my friend an- swers him.
“A book?” Zoo cocks his head.
I balk. I look at my friend. My friend seems to be sweating. What is going on? Did he not tell Zoo about the book? My friend is talking awkwardly. It feels like some pitch meeting. Although I don’t know who the fuck was pitching who. I certainly don’t need Zoo’s help and I don’t want Zoo’s help, and I think Zoo would say the same about us.
My friend starts stuttering. He must have dropped acid or eaten gold caps in the car. I don’t know what’s happening to him.
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