I slipped in all the blood. I found the note.
I grabbed what I could find for clothes. One of her kids Teletubby T-shirts, a dinner jacket, a pair of my old jeans. They still fit.
I dial Cassabahn. Before it rings...
"Yes sir?"
"I'm in NY. I need to leave now."
"Yes sir, I have your location, a car will be there in five minutes, stand by."
Thank God for GPS. Those little metal beeping objects orbiting the iris of this planet as God looks down. Thank you.
"Sir?"
I slip in the blood again, so much blood. The note, smeared and crumpled yet screaming those few words at me.
"Sir?"
"Holy fuck."
"Sir, have you any additional needs?"
Wait. Wait. What the Fuck.
I see it now.
"yes. Cancel the car."
"Sir?"
"Cancel it Cass. I'm fine."
"But sir-"
I hang up. He's more used to my hangups and hangovers than anyone else alive.
Yet I know he's still watching from those floating satellites...far above. Part god, part-hired-by-daddy.
I breathe. Read the note again. Stupid cunt. This ends now!
I'm down the hallway before I realize I have to piss so bad my legs are burning. I just stop and let go. For what these idiots pay for this carpeting, someone's bound to clean it sometime. I notice my blood-soaked hands, one holding my spraying blood-soaked cock.....Marilyn, you fucker.
Neverending pissing drains my fear, puddling up around some poor fuck's doorjamb. Room 22.
Please, Please someone try to give me shit! I need to go off.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
11:11
11:11
(BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP)(Crash)
I wake up. Shoot up. Sweaty.
Fuck, every time I look at a clock or someone else's watch: it's 11:11.
What does that mean?
Head pounding, screaming and echoing inside a cracked dome. Jackhammers? Machine guns? Bursting blood vessels? I would be so lucky.
Eyes blurry. Lids caked shut.
Where am I? Furniture's all messed up again. Who keeps moving my shit around?
Wait. Rub. Rub. Shooting. Screaming. Lightning bolts. Flash. Flash. Pain!
This isn't my furniture. This isn't my place.
Daylight is dirty Grey, fluttering. Traffic honking. Pidgeon shit smears the windows. White sheets. I'm wrapped in white sheets. Nice white sheets. High thread count.
Shit. I'm in New York.
Coely's place.
Don't think too much, goddammit! Don't talk. It sticks to you. Sticks to me. How did she-
BUMMMMM MHUMMNNNN
My Blackberry is humming on the side table....must've been going off for awhile. Slowly walking a crystal ashtray bursting with butts closer and closer to the edge.
Crash! Thank God, cigs. Come to me.
I roll over, lighting an American Spirit as I hit 'Clubhouse' on my speed dial. L.A. My people.
What the fuck?
Is she nearby? At work? Hiring a hit man? Did I fuck her again?
(The phone rings)
My eyes start to focus.
God damn place looks the same.
Fucking bird is still alive. Its long, bright beak jutting through its bars.
(still ringing...what the fuck?)
Henry, yeah, that's right. Henry the Toucan. Asshole never liked me. Damn near takes off a nipple everytime I stagger past his little bird prison. I stare.
Fuck you Henry. Yeah, fuck you. Pretty Bird.
(ringing...no voicemail? Okay What the Fuck-)
She picks up.
"Sorry, sorry, Oh My God - it is so fucking nuts today? Are you available?"
"Not exactly."
I never need to elaborate any detail such as 'in bed', 'around the corner' or 'out of the state' with her. Lasey Eldridge.
My rock, my hard place and solid fucking ground. My Rosetta Stone to the rest of the world behind green Alabama eyes and true golden hair.
"You okay?" She always asks.
I miss her. I miss her and me not being anywhere near her every time we do this on the phone.
I take another drag, now using the fine Indian silk pillowcase as my own personal blindfold.
Aha, much better. Exhaling. My throat and lungs tighten up.
Fuck, My chest...burning ropes.
"Of course", I reply maybe with a little too much 'Ka' in my 'course.'
The pause reminds me how well she knows me.
"Well, check your Berry, Kevin Bacon has been calling all day. Well, him and his people anyway."
I chuckle inside, isn't that EVERYONE in the business if you do the math - Shit, hadn't his connection become some drinking style game? She wasn't getting it.
"Yeah, Kev, just tell him I needed to step out and consult some pros regarding the latest storyboards. Tell him I was 'offended' at the lack of ECU's and creative we were receiving. He'll get it. "
Darkness. The buzz of the Blackberry. Which, at this moment I realize operates on a more efficient level when enveloped in blackness. Pain, waiting outside the door. Sickness, pacing waiting its turn.
"Pre-book his alias in his bungalow at the Loews in Santa Monica. Call Bruce Goldman and have Vanessa Marcil 'swing by' to keep him company.
I am a robot. A rusty robot functioning at full capacity.
"He's loved her ever since 90210 and probably jacks off to "Las Vegas" whenever she or Josh Duhamis is on screen, it's a sell for the weekend."
"No problem." Her cute (most likely little pink) lips respond. I could hear the phone ringing off the hook behind her big, natural blond, bobbley-head and her scratching down all the details of the moment, unaware. I love her for that. She lives in the moment. Mainly my moments.
"Bacon'll be happy and Jimmy Duff's got Kyra (Sedgewick) busy all week down in San Diego shooting pickups. As long as they're chasing Emmy's, she'll will never miss him."
"Right."
Silence. Pounding. POUNDING. Gums raked with sand. Teeth wiggling. Just a bump. Need a fucking bump. Just a little pick-me-up-
"You need a pick-me-up?" she buzzed through Blackberry.
"Nah." Click.
She's used to my hang-ups as much as my hang-overs...she always gets both.
Darkness. Pillowcase. Cigarette scraping my insides. Fuck. How did Coely get me here again?
What happened last night? The last few days?
Just as I start to imagine crushed roofies and check for injection marks, the almighty Blackberry chimes once again. Missed Message. I peel back the sweaty silk pillowcase.
I have another missed message. a video call.
I press OK. This is what comes up.
I knew it. Fucking Marilyn.
(BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP)(Crash)
I wake up. Shoot up. Sweaty.
Fuck, every time I look at a clock or someone else's watch: it's 11:11.
What does that mean?
Head pounding, screaming and echoing inside a cracked dome. Jackhammers? Machine guns? Bursting blood vessels? I would be so lucky.
Eyes blurry. Lids caked shut.
Where am I? Furniture's all messed up again. Who keeps moving my shit around?
Wait. Rub. Rub. Shooting. Screaming. Lightning bolts. Flash. Flash. Pain!
This isn't my furniture. This isn't my place.
Daylight is dirty Grey, fluttering. Traffic honking. Pidgeon shit smears the windows. White sheets. I'm wrapped in white sheets. Nice white sheets. High thread count.
Shit. I'm in New York.
Coely's place.
Don't think too much, goddammit! Don't talk. It sticks to you. Sticks to me. How did she-
BUMMMMM MHUMMNNNN
My Blackberry is humming on the side table....must've been going off for awhile. Slowly walking a crystal ashtray bursting with butts closer and closer to the edge.
Crash! Thank God, cigs. Come to me.
I roll over, lighting an American Spirit as I hit 'Clubhouse' on my speed dial. L.A. My people.
What the fuck?
Is she nearby? At work? Hiring a hit man? Did I fuck her again?
(The phone rings)
My eyes start to focus.
God damn place looks the same.
Fucking bird is still alive. Its long, bright beak jutting through its bars.
(still ringing...what the fuck?)
Henry, yeah, that's right. Henry the Toucan. Asshole never liked me. Damn near takes off a nipple everytime I stagger past his little bird prison. I stare.
Fuck you Henry. Yeah, fuck you. Pretty Bird.
(ringing...no voicemail? Okay What the Fuck-)
She picks up.
"Sorry, sorry, Oh My God - it is so fucking nuts today? Are you available?"
"Not exactly."
I never need to elaborate any detail such as 'in bed', 'around the corner' or 'out of the state' with her. Lasey Eldridge.
My rock, my hard place and solid fucking ground. My Rosetta Stone to the rest of the world behind green Alabama eyes and true golden hair.
"You okay?" She always asks.
I miss her. I miss her and me not being anywhere near her every time we do this on the phone.
I take another drag, now using the fine Indian silk pillowcase as my own personal blindfold.
Aha, much better. Exhaling. My throat and lungs tighten up.
Fuck, My chest...burning ropes.
"Of course", I reply maybe with a little too much 'Ka' in my 'course.'
The pause reminds me how well she knows me.
"Well, check your Berry, Kevin Bacon has been calling all day. Well, him and his people anyway."
I chuckle inside, isn't that EVERYONE in the business if you do the math - Shit, hadn't his connection become some drinking style game? She wasn't getting it.
"Yeah, Kev, just tell him I needed to step out and consult some pros regarding the latest storyboards. Tell him I was 'offended' at the lack of ECU's and creative we were receiving. He'll get it. "
Darkness. The buzz of the Blackberry. Which, at this moment I realize operates on a more efficient level when enveloped in blackness. Pain, waiting outside the door. Sickness, pacing waiting its turn.
"Pre-book his alias in his bungalow at the Loews in Santa Monica. Call Bruce Goldman and have Vanessa Marcil 'swing by' to keep him company.
I am a robot. A rusty robot functioning at full capacity.
"He's loved her ever since 90210 and probably jacks off to "Las Vegas" whenever she or Josh Duhamis is on screen, it's a sell for the weekend."
"No problem." Her cute (most likely little pink) lips respond. I could hear the phone ringing off the hook behind her big, natural blond, bobbley-head and her scratching down all the details of the moment, unaware. I love her for that. She lives in the moment. Mainly my moments.
"Bacon'll be happy and Jimmy Duff's got Kyra (Sedgewick) busy all week down in San Diego shooting pickups. As long as they're chasing Emmy's, she'll will never miss him."
"Right."
Silence. Pounding. POUNDING. Gums raked with sand. Teeth wiggling. Just a bump. Need a fucking bump. Just a little pick-me-up-
"You need a pick-me-up?" she buzzed through Blackberry.
"Nah." Click.
She's used to my hang-ups as much as my hang-overs...she always gets both.
Darkness. Pillowcase. Cigarette scraping my insides. Fuck. How did Coely get me here again?
What happened last night? The last few days?
Just as I start to imagine crushed roofies and check for injection marks, the almighty Blackberry chimes once again. Missed Message. I peel back the sweaty silk pillowcase.
I have another missed message. a video call.
I press OK. This is what comes up.
I knew it. Fucking Marilyn.
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