Love Lucky Read online

  “Uh, yes Miss Beatrice, we will be back tomorrow. What will be a good time in the morning?”

  “Oh dear, can you please wait till ten? I never could get up early. I used to hate those dark morning calls to the set,” she says rubbing her eyes as if she were ready for bed at that very moment. When she mentions being on the set my pulse jumps. I stand here trying to be cordial and fight off feeling like Eddie Haskell after killing the beaver. I want to say something, fuck, I don’t talk to real people well, they make me nervous, I do better with stoners and lesser thans.

  I sense the conversation ending so I kick Greg’s foot and make a coughing sound close to sounding like, “Ask her.” His face gets flush with the anger that comes with agreeing with the devil on your shoulder against all instincts.

  “Okay then, we will see you to…” he says deeply engrossed in his own conviction to do the right thing. He turns to head out…when I say without a stutter, in my perfect ‘I belong voice,’

  “Those are some amazing photo’s you have Miss Beatrice. I couldn’t help seeing them.”

  “Yes dear, we have many, many, things from the studios.” She says not indicating any impatience. Greg’s pot stained eyes look like they’re going to pop out of his face.

  “Oh, were you involved with the film business?” I ask quickly but calmly.

  “Oh, dear. We practically were the studios.”

  “Were you an actress?”

  “No dear God, no, not me for heavens sake, Ava was the actress. I just handled her,” she says laughing. I can see Greg’s face turning from red to interest while his body calms to the room.

  I did it. I did it. I started a conversation, and it’s still active.

  “So were you Ava’s agent or something?” Greg chimes in thoughtfully with much reverence.

  “No dear, Ava’s my sister, we did everything together. She didn’t go to the bathroom without me knowing.”

  I know it’s a figure of speech but I think of how lucky she was to be able to go to the bathroom with Ava Gardner. I would absolutely do that.

  “Oh Miss Beatrice, that must be fascinating.” Greg says with the intensity of a reporter covering a school bus crash.

  “Call me Bappie please, that’s what everyone calls me. Oh, it still is fascinating dear, Ava keeps me busy.” She says shaking her head.

  “Does Ava live near you?” I ask.

  “No dear she lives in London.”

  “Uh, Van here is going to London next week.” Greg adds now looking like he’s on sixty minutes.

  “Oh dear, have a good time. There is so much to do there. What takes you there?”

  “Oh…I always wanted to go. I’m just going to look around for a couple of weeks.” I say sounding as dumb as a toilet brush. Greg cracks a smile and says,

  “He met an English girl.”

  “Oh okay, that makes perfect sense honey. We love to do things for love.”

  “Uh yeah, I guess.” I chirp and shuffle and flash the dopey smile I have when nervous.

  “Alright boys, we will see you in the morning. Remember not too early.” We leave all nervous and goofy like Laurel and Hardy.

  Greg smokes a bowl full on the way home and we talk about how fucking awesome what just took place is.

  Later that night I call Tess. I’m always a little shocked when she answers. I’m thinking she’ll be way over our little deal by now. One of the first things she asks is if I’m still coming. Still coming? I sold everything I have to pay for this trip. I gave up my coveted living quarters in Charlie Chaplin’s old house.

  “Am I coming? Yeah, in five days, Why?” My heart is taking the slow elevator to the basement.

  “Oh right, well it’s just not such a good time for me right now. But, that’s alright, it’ll be fine I just wont have a lot of time to spend with you, so much,” she says with serious pauses indicating she’s now simply trying to make it work as an unnecessary complication. I want to be a necessary complication.

  I’m silent while she figures out how to deal with me. It seems a familiar exercise, listening openly to people discussing what the fuck they’re going to do with me. My faith in this London adventure has far exceeded how others treat me. I am following a light, and I’ve left myself no option to stay in America. I have to go, for want, for need, for escape, and for love.

  She decides I’m to take the underground from Heathrow in to London and meet her in the middle of Waterloo Bridge.

  “The Waterloo Bridge. Like from the Kinks song?” She gets cheery again.

  “Yes Love, that’s the one.” I am beside myself with God sent joy and little boy dreams.

  “Is it over a river, like in the song?” I ask without thinking.

  “Yes silly, of course it’s over a river, it’s a bridge.” She seems to be caught up in my excitement.

  “Oh yeah, right. It’s the one from the song though? Is it the Waterloo River also? Is there a waterloo station?” I ask again looking to connect the emotional dots with ink. I can just picture her hand clasping her forehead to secure her impatient thoughts from spewing out. Her words are now slightly measured.

  “Yes, you will get off at the Waterloo station. And no it’s the Thames River.” There is a pause and I don’t dare ask any more questions about songs, or bridges, or buses, so I’m stumped for words because I’m recalling the song’s lyric’s in my mind and positioning myself through the dream.

  These pauses are worth a couple of dollars and we’ve been on now for at least ten minutes. I jump off my cloud, cut my heart ribbon and speak.

  “Well, okay, I’ll call you when I get to airport. I can’t wait. See you then.” I sound as business like as I know how otherwise she’ll be expecting me with my Beatles lunchbox and a note from my mom.

  Speaking of my mom, we talk once a week. She’s not been to my place, my den of sin. She would never find it from Glendale. She’s always sick and looking for attention regarding her heart’s pitter-patters. She had a heart surgery about five years ago to replace a part of her heart. She’s very proud and weary of her new pig’s valve. I try to be with her but she always wants so much from me. I get so messed up and tangled when I’m around her. I never can control my feelings with her. I just get spasms of love, disdain and guilt. She will go on and on about herself, it feels like I’m being held underwater when I’m with her. Eventually I explode then she’ll soothe with a ten or twenty-dollar bill and the sign of the cross, saying a quick prayer to Saint Jude. I call her and tell her I’m going to England. The first thing she asks is ‘what if something happens to her while I’m gone?’ Like what if she dies. I’m like fuck I don’t know. See what I mean? Why the hell do I want to add that thought to my hurricane head?

  After that I light a bowl of some very good grass I stole from Greg. It’s only a couple of buds. I convince myself I’ll have a one-track mind and it’ll be peaceful and unconcerned with all other things. I’ll shut my brain off like a bad song. I put on, ‘Waterloo Sunset,’ and I swirl through subway, over the river and on to the bridge with the purest heart.

  I feel pretty good in the morning and I’m looking forward to working at Bappie’s house - just to be in a place where exciting things have happened.

  The day goes about quietly and boring, while breathing in paint fumes. Around noon we can hear Bappie being all animated on the phone. Of course I wonder who a woman like that would be talking to so I hold an ear in her direction.

  “I’ve got some painters in my house and they’re doing a good job. Nice young fella’s. In fact one of them is coming to London in a couple of days…Oh, I don’t know, I think he’s following a chippie…Oh, okay, hang on a minute honey…Honey, honey, I am sorry, I don’t’ know your name.”

  Both Greg and I look to her hoping she’s addressing us, she points to me, but then again Greg is standing right behind me.

  My hand goes up, and I point to myself and ask,

  “Me?” Greg does and says the same thing. When I hear him, I defer to him
because he is the boss and it makes sense she would want to talk to him. He steps in front of me and says,

  “Uh, hello.”

  “No the other young man, you! Come here please.” I self-consciously walk to where she’s sitting. She hands me the phone saying her sister wants to talk to me. The phone gains ten pounds; it is damn difficult to bring it up to my ear. “Come on now honey hurry now, it’s London.” I look over at Greg; his mouth is hanging open.

  “Hello.” I say into the mouthpiece.

  “Hi Honey, what’s your name?” Her voice sounds raspy but seductive.

  “Van.”

  “Van, Bappie tells me you are coming over to London in a few days, is that right?”

  “Uh, yeah, I am.”

  “Well baby, I need you to do me a favor, I need some Pall Mall’s, these goddamn foreign cigarettes stink. The American ones have that extra chemical or something in them, I don’t know…but could you please bring me a couple of cartons? Don’t worry about customs they rarely check anything. In fact, bring me three. I’ll pay you when you get here, or have Bappie give you some money. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay then, I’ll see you soon.”

  “Okay, bye.” I hand the phone back to Bappie, and I’m as dazed as a jackpot winner who was down to his last quarter. While it seems Bappie is taking instructions for my mission I make exaggerated faces at Greg trying to indicate the weight of what has just happened. He’s smiling and his bloodshot eyes look like volcano’s.

  Then next couple of days my head is in the clouds. I think about how I’m going to tell Tess I’m in love with Ava and how sorry I am but I always knew I’d be famous and with someone famous. She can handle it, she doesn’t seem to excited about me coming anyway and now I have someone who is. I can do my Frank Sinatra impressions for Ava and tell her how I loved her as a child. She’ll introduce me to all her studio friends and I’ll be a movie star like Steve McQueen. Destiny, I am lubed.

  I finish the week with Greg and make three hundred dollars. I am confident this is enough money to get me through a couple of weeks in England.

  Here I am people, the night before and I am stoked. I listen to music and I’m counting the minutes, clicking them along by counting every three or four minute song. The Clash’s, Sandinista album passed a couple of hours straight. I’m calmly restless, happily impatient. I am looking to share my excitement so I beg Greg to pick me up and take me to a liquor store. I buy some vodka, drink it straight and we head to the Roxy in Hollywood. I want to keep my high alcohol based, no drugs to make sure I don’t sleep in late the tomorrow.

  I always find the Roxy fun, the music is really good and there are lots of women, and because it’s in Hollywood I can dance as wild as I want to. Man some of those bars in Glendale with the happy hour, Bachman, Turner Overdrive crowd look at you weird if you bring your hands above your shoulders when you’re dancing.

  Fuck Glendale.

  Greg and I are hanging in front of the Rainbow. We’re ready to head home a little after midnight. I’m happy, I shook some bubbles out of my soul and it feels good. I’m ready for tomorrow. It’s always crowded out here on the strip and for the most part people aren’t too bad; I’ve gotten into a lot of fights out here though.

  Then I spot this woman I’ve always thought was kinda pretty and cool, and she’s looking right at me. I know she’s seen me before but tonight we connect. Man life is odd. I ask her if she wants to go to my place and smoke some doobies, she says, yes. She seems so sweet and I feel like I already know her secret places. I tell Greg I’ll be riding with her and bid him ado. I so need to be touched right now.

  My bags are packed and the place is empty except for the small bit of furniture that rented with the room. We lie on the floor naked and listen to Sandinista and talk about the beauty of the music. We fuck, but it’s not about that, we lie naked on the impure carpet holding each other we listen to music, love songs, social ballads, anti war songs, and we understand them all; the melodies, the messages, and the currency they deal between us. We say very little just the occasional whispered, ‘Wow,’ or, ‘Ummmm,’ indicating euphoria.

  She slipped out during my slumber but I thanked the air she vacated after opening my eyes.

  I take the airport service van with a few other people to the airport. I have to leave hours early to make all the necessary stops. I’m pretty damn tired, but it was worth hanging out last night.

  I love airports, I don’t mind getting there early because it gives me the time and freedom to sit and drink in the daytime, with everywhere to go but no plans or responsibilities.

  I feel like a criminal every time I pass anyone in a uniform, except maybe the mailman. I hate people in power positions; I feel they need a lashing. Ha. They need to be knocked down a notch. I know they see this in me and my many other dark things. They check me out suspiciously like I’m a convict waiting to happen, or a murderer with a buried body somewhere. I approach officials ready to curse them out, or submissive with my eyes darting like a disco ball.

  I have a few bloody Mary’s in me by the time I need to pass all the important uniformed people so I’m doused with a little ‘I don’t give a fuck, what you think of me, and If I did care I’d tell you I am going to see Ava fucking Gardner and Tess too.’ I am buzzed enough to not even look back at people as I pass them to see what they think of me. I don’t dress funny or anything, at least not intentionally. My dress code is happenstance, whatever happens to be clean or not torn I wear. We were semi poor growing up. There were five kids in a small three-bedroom house. My dad worked nights locally driving a truck. I had an older brother so I rarely got a new item of clothing. Hand me downs filled my drawers, but not my fucking dreams suckers.

  I walk through the plane like I’m flying it. John Lennon said, ‘You gotta push, you gotta shove, you gotta be somebody, you gotta love.’ That’s how I feel right now.

  Boom. I plunk down in my seat.

  In the air I order drink after drink after drink. I can become chatty or hateful when drunk, I choose chatty. I have so much to have faith in, so much to look forward to. The gentleman sitting next to me is interested in my ramblings. I sometimes take great risks with words beyond what I would normally say simply because I try to broaden my world. I’m thinking people in England might say gentleman, I know The Clash use it in the song, ‘Something about England,’ but if it feels out of character to you, imagine the word ‘dude’ in its placer. I love it when people want to listen to me because it means I’m not as drunk as the amount I drank. It means I can keep on drinking until I start to slobber and I see the look of disgust in people’s faces. I don’t betray the reason for my mission to London, I hold it far and away like a treasure to be opened later and shared with great care. I want to wait, to experience it all first, then report with wisdom, history and bragging. So we talk about how much he loves Los Angeles and how he’s dreading being overseas. Good thing I’m drunk eh?

  This flight is going to take twelve hours and there’s going to be a nine-hour time difference into the future. It crosses my pickled mind that I might be able to call Los Angeles when I get to England and tell them about the things that are going to happen to them in the future, great for gambling, car accidents, drug overdoses, etc.…

  When the drink becomes too much, the songs on my Walkman have been recycled a few times and darkness engulfs the Atlantic, I pass out.

  I wake up to an orbital dusk. It’s as though I’ve been in a time capsule and wake up years later but I have the same alcohol on my breath and a headache as grand as the beauty outside my window. My awareness confusedly plays out and I deduce that I’ve only slept two hours even though it’s morning, even though I passed out in the early night. Strange huh?

  I get some coffee, a tiny bit to eat and we intercept the sun. I use the brightness instead of actual time to gage when it’s time for my first drink. It’s bright enough. In order to trick the stewardess into thinking it’s later than it is I ord
er a vodka and tonic, because it’s more of an evening drink. Ha.

  Going to England there is a big ass ocean to cross but land ho must mean we’re almost there, I guess. I don’t think there’s any other land before England. Maybe Ireland, but I don’t have a map.

  We float over countryside ripe and earnestly green. It seems medieval. I look for women in large corsets being chased by a prince or so on horseback. We descend above stovepipe chimneys, last call for drink service comes, I order a double and the pilot says we only have fifteen minutes left in the air. Yippee.

  Even though I’m drunk I have feelings beyond the medicine. My heart swells with courage and accomplishment, along with faith and peace and vodka. I am the only one in a family of bottom feeders to reach foreign shores. Long live love and the desire of the spirit, and the Kinks, and the Beatles, and the Clash, and the Stones, and Roxy Music, and the Jam, and Lovely Rita, and Terry and Judy, and Strawberry Fields and accents from cheery sexy cool chicks and movie stars who happen to live where I’m going that need fucking Pall Malls.

  The doors open, I step on the English jet bridge and I am so thrilled I want to kiss the indoor out-door carpet. I phone Tess and she answers chipper,

  “Oh my you’re here. Great. Get a map or ask people how to get to Waterloo, love, it’ll be so much easier than me trying to tell you. Oh, I am so excited. I’ll see you in a little over an hour, yes?”

  “Yes.” But want to say, ‘I love you and your country, can we name our children John, Paul, George, and Ringo?’

  A series of beautiful accents direct me from place to place. I lug my large suitcase and shoulder bag around Heathrow and end up on the Piccadilly line London bound. I tell an older lady I’m going to meet my girlfriend in the middle of Waterloo Bridge. She smiles and says,

  “Oh love wunt that be lovely.”

  “Yes,” I bounce back. She knows. That lady knows the wonder I am going to experience.

  I find my way to the district (Green line) in South Kensington; then in Westminster I jump the Jubilee (Gray line) to Waterloo Station, ‘Millions of people swarming like flies round Waterloo underground.’