la la land

sunshine smack
Well, I hear that Laurel Canyon
is full of famous stars,
but I hate them worse than lepers
and I'll kill them
in their cars.
- “Revolution Blues” (Young)


Flickering eyelids, the taste of stale bile and iron, the voice of Jeff muttering “Krispy Kreme” over and over again – Gordon sensed all these things pulling him back into consciousness and rose resigned from the couch, half expecting to see Dex lying on the floor beside him, but there was only the litter of the previous hours of socializing. He counted the crumpled bags of snack chips lying on the coffee table and on the carpet, thinking I had no idea we bought so much junk food.

He walked with his hands against the walls until he reached the space where they had their loft beds, like a dorm room at a college where they didn’t give you grades and your diploma was hand-printed in Latin on parchment. Dex was lying on his bunk staring at the ceiling. Every so often he would write in a journal he had braced against one knee. He had to keep shaking his pen because the ink resisted flowing at such an awkward angle. But it would have never occurred to him to change position.

“Dex, I’m going to get donuts. What do you want?”

“No donuts. Strawberries.”

“Strawberries. Where?”

“There’s a guy on the corner of Harbor and Crescent who’s selling strawberries.”

“You sure?”

“He was there yesterday. But I ate them all. They were so delicious.”

Dex turned his head to smile at his partner. His olive-colored eyes were ever-startling set in the dusk of his features.

“Isn’t it early for strawberries?” Gordon asked.

They used to work on harvest crews in Chino as kids. Picking strawberries and corn. Picking strawberries is back-aching work, you have to crawl in the dirt, searching through each plant to find the berries, which normally grow close to the ground, the leaves shading them from too much sun. But not enough and they were pale, small, and bitter. Just like anything that doesn’t receive enough attention.

”El milagro” was the reply. Gordon picked up various pairs of pants off the floor, searching for his car keys, while Dex sang to him, some new lyrics he had penned.

The petals of night unfold
brushing us with their velvet down
discarded, fallen onto a table of dread
from the overgrown flower of this town.

“Where are my keys?” Gordon muttered, running his hands through his hair and pulling at it, frustrated.

Roots are searching for water
drained from the suns and the daughters
drained from the dreaming and from the dead
puddles collecting in the tables of dread.

“Table of dread?” Keys were finally discovered in the jeans residing in a pile of laundry under his desk. Every time Gordon kicked it he was reminded to do laundry, but even reminded did not mean motivation would follow.

“Water table,” Dex answered. Dex liked puns.

“No donuts?”

“No.”

Dex hung his head down off the edge of the bed for a kiss, just like Spiderman.


Gordon listened to a fusion mix CD in the car as he drove along Harbor Boulevard, against the skyline of shipping machinery and storage that made hope of seeing an uncluttered seascape in San Pedro a mythological pursuit. Sometimes he wanted to hit himself when he heard something so tight in a jam: no noodling, no musical masturbation, no meandering, and he wished he had the chops to get to that place every time. But this band was still young, still finding themselves. It pained him that fame was coming so quick, they needed more time to grow. But they also needed the money.

Sure enough, some migrant laborer was selling strawberries on the corner of Harbor and Crescent, so Gordon pulled up to the curb and waved a $20 at the guy, who brought him a flat full of giant scarlet berries. He gave it an appraising eye and the guy knew he wasn’t dealing with an amateur, so he exchanged it for another one. The berries weren’t so large this time, but the smell that hit him was sweet: full of sugared sun. Every one at the peak of their perfection He smiled and made the universal gesture of keep the change. He wasn’t tempted by the fruit as he had eaten too many strawberries as a child in the fields. But Dex treasured every kind of nostalgia, not just that of music.

At the local Kripsy Kreme he bought a special Strawberry Shortcake confection just for teasing’s sake, and a dozen of the glazed, plus a Kaffe Kreme. Normally he could drink espresso straight, but an aftereffect of the previous night’s binge left him with a craving for sweetness.

On the way back to the warehouse he thought about how he was going to convince Dex that they needed to seriously consider hiring Jack Perris. His discussion with Pete had reached an impasse when his counsel had stubbornly refused to entertain the possibility.

“Gordon, you’re right, he’s the best guy for the job. But not right now.”

“I need a drummer. The tour starts in a month.”

“I know you do. Personally, I think you should show up at Gary’s doorstep with a grocery bag full of money and offer him anything he wants. I mean, is it Dex’s ass he wants? He can have it.”

“Now wait a goddamn minute -”

“Gary is probably the heir to Jack’s throne. There’s no one else as good, that we know of. And that’s why Mike swooped in and seduced him right out from under you. It would be an amazing act of poetic justice to get Jack to join Nebulae. But right now, Jack is too fragile. He needs counseling, which he won’t get because he still believes he’s fucking Superman, and he’s still fairly new in his sobriety. He couldn’t hang with you guys and behave himself. Plus, you’re a musical fascist and there’s no way he could deal with that. People don’t realize – not yet anyway – that Jack was Aubergine, he was the key to their sound. They followed his lead, but the media never really caught onto that. You’d be telling him what to play, and he’d attempt to decapitate you with a cymbal.”

“Gary broke our trust. I wouldn’t take him back.”

“Then you’ve got to find someone completely unknown who’s half as good. Then make him work his ass off just to get up to that level.”

“So you’re not going to help me at all.”

“I’m not going to tell you what you want to hear, no. But if you think that is helping, then you’re not as smart as I thought you were.”

The gate at Pier 11 stuck, so Gordon had to get out and push it open. He had dismantled the call box after some girls found out where they lived and would come around all hours of the day and night trying to get in. He installed the razor wire at the top of the fence himself. That was another aspect of fame he was entirely uncomfortable with: the attendant attention that had nothing to do with what they did, but who they were. And no one really knew who they were, inside.

His rusting Subaru looked like a permanent part of the scenery on the dock, and that was just how Gordon liked it. Now that the main space was completely soundproofed, passersby would be hard-pressed to know exactly what went on in the dilapidated building. Dex walked out towards him, squinting. Gordon held out the Krispy Kreme bag.

“Strawberry,” he said, then laughed.

“You totally spoiled the joke, you’re not supposed to laugh, dumbass.”

“I’ve never been good at telling jokes, you know that.” Gordon put the dozen box on top of the berries and hauled it into the warehouse.

“Don’t bruise my fruit!”

The phrase sounded so ludicrous Gordon started cackling.

“Could you possibly sound more like a fag?”

“Every time I hit a high note, fucker.”


Gordon had shooed his cousin Marco, Dex’s brother Isaiah, and their mutual friend Jeff, out of the kitchen. Their bandmates retreated to the couch in the next room, watching a DVD of Predator and devouring the donuts. The bag sat in the center of the kitchen table between them, as Dex had washed every single box of berries and dumped the contents of one of them into a bowl. He filled a teacup with sugar and dipped each berry until it bore a glistening coating of white. Gordon stole a red-strained spoonful to sprinkle over his Corn Flakes. This was their normal munchy-related ritual: eating cereal in the kitchen while everyone else slept or fucked or puked, or did whatever they did after spending the night getting high. The table was so small their knees touched underneath and their heads nearly met when they leaned over their respective bowls.

“What time is it?” Dex asked him, which meant he had sobered up somehow. Normally the linear progression of time was the least of his concerns.

“I dunno, after two I think.”

“Are we supposed to do anything today?”

“Other than figure out what the fuck we’re supposed to do without Gary? No.”

“Dude, all we’ve got to do is hit up the clubs on Ventura. Once word gets out we’ll have a swarm of guys wanting a job. All we need – “

“ – is some guy who’s like the bastard child of Bonham and Williams.”

“See, I was gonna say ‘Bonham and Cobham,’ but yeah, whatever. A fusion drummer who can drop it to 4/4 from 10/5 on a dime then throw in a triplet like it’s nothing.”

“How many guys do you think can do that, really?”

“More than you think.”

“And I think the perfect guy for the job is living in Burbank, in some shitty little house with a dead lawn.”

“What, are you stalking Jack Perris now, that you know exactly where he lives? And I agree with Pete, it’s too much of a risk. There’s no way we could get insurance if he was in the group.”

“He wouldn’t be in the group, just a subcontractor to the touring group.”

“You can throw as many legal terms at me as you like, but it’s still the same thing. You put him out on the road and shit is gonna get broken. Like laws.”

“Can you imagine though? The way he would play ‘Deliverance Dive?’ Fucking epic, dude.” The expression on Gordon’s face frightened Dex, it was dreamy with possibility.

“Gordo, don’t be stupid. You’re supposed to be the smart one and I’m the ditzy one. Can we stick to the script, please?”

“All right!” He took a breath and his spoon clattered in the empty bowl. “Fuck.”

“Besides, he’s way too old now anyway.”

“Oh get off that shit – do I have to remind you of the session with Gilberto?”

Gordon had the idea to use famed Tropicalia percussionist Gilberto Silva on one of the new songs, and tracked him down to a retirement home in Miami. Then he took them out to some of the salsa clubs the night before the session and drank them both under the table, laughing at them the next day when they turned up at Criterion Studios decidedly green around the gills.

“No, you need to get off it. This is my future too we’re talking about, and I understand that we need to do what is right for the music, but this isn’t it.”

“Are there any more –“ Jeff asked, poking his auburn head in the doorway. He spied the bag on the table. “Hey!”

”Get out!” Dex and Gordon shouted at him.

He walked away, muttering something about crazy spics.

“How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not a spic, I’m Basque, you stupid-ass guero!” Dex yelled out.

“Dude, I keep telling you, he doesn’t care.”

“Okay, if we do one thing today, let’s talk to Pete again, and this time you’re going to pretend like you care about what he has to say.”

“We never should have taken the money, I knew it.”

“We didn’t have a choice. Besides, we’re the only ones they actually gave a touring advance to. I saw the budget report.”

“How did you see it?”

“Because you weren’t paying attention, you were just arguing with him as usual. Pete passed it to me and I read it. All their biggest names had to get corporate sponsorship or use their own money, but he got them to pony up for us. Fucking unbelievable, man.”

“This is just too much, too fast,” Gordon said, getting up to pace the length of the kitchen as he quelled a sudden urge to throw up in the face of the enormity of it all.

“And you’re a fucking pussy.”

Gordon knew what he was doing, Dex had been doing it ever since they were eight and he wanted to climb trees and grind handrails while Gordon wanted to hide in his room and play guitar. He was making him mad so he would get over his fear.

“This isn’t some stupid dare, Dex. It’s serious.”

Dex’s eyes grew wide and he tossed his curls back, snorting and pulling an exasperated look. He had always been such a drama queen.

“Okay, I know I said I was the ditz, but seriously, if anybody knows how serious this is, that would be me. You know, the one who has to get up in front of people who don’t give a shit about us and shake my ass. You don’t even have to look at them, but I do. And it’s tough, dude. So don’t be saying I don’t know what serious is.”

“You little bitch! It’s not tough for you, you should have been a damn stripper. You love it.”

They locked eyes for a moment and finally Dex relented, with a smirk.

“Okay, okay, yeah I love it. But calm down. If we still had any Soma I’d give you one, you’re fuckin’ stressing me out, G.”

“Nope, now begins the era of being mostly sober, so you’re just going to have to cope with my various neuroses.”

Dex rolled his eyes and lobbed a strawberry into the opposite bowl. “Lucky me.”


After negotiating with Pete’s secretary for a spot on his schedule, the two showered, dressed, and headed East.

“Keep rehearsing,” Gordon instructed the others as they continued their residence in front of the television.

“How can we rehearse without a drummer?” Jeff asked him.

“You’ve got the canned tracks, use those. When we get back your shit better be so tight it squeaks.”

He could have sworn he heard Marco mutter like Dex’s ass under his breath, but ignored it. Getting angry with Marco only encouraged him towards further sardonic commentary.

Pete had arranged for the label to provide them with an SUV, which Gordon figured would provide the credibility they required when entering the citadel. He had to suppress a certain inherent distaste while driving it, although Dex loved it, cooing over the leather seats and the eight-speaker stereo. Gordon exited the 101 at Sunset, preferring to take surface streets all the way to Universal City. As they drove by Tower Records, Dex pointed over to the front of the building.

“Check it out.”

Gordon looked over to see one of the displays in the window was devoted to the new CD.
He sighed deeply.

“What, did the hipsters decide we were cool all of a sudden?”

“Are you going to suck all of the joy out of this experience?”

“It’s all bullshit!”

“Yeah well, I like being able to tell people to buy my record. I don’t think that’s bullshit at all. In fact, it’s vindication for all the bullshit we had to deal with growing up, don’t you think?”

“I don’t make music just so I can rub everyone’s nose in my success.”

“I’m not arguing with you anymore.” And that was that; Dex was an expert at not speaking when he chose. Once he had gone two weeks without saying a word to anyone. But because Gordon believed they were the same person in different bodies, he knew every nuance of Dex’s body language and the conversation continued nonetheless. He fidgeted, expressing his continued empathetic anxiety. He frowned, persisting in his annoyance at Gordon’s killjoy disposition. And finally he sighed, relenting his displeasure. The sigh made Gordon smile, briefly. He didn’t mind conflict in general, but he hated fighting with Dex, even when he felt he was right, which was all of the time.

It was hell trying to find a parking space in the garage of the building that housed Schedlier, Thompson and Green; Gordon was afeared he would scratch someone’s Jag or Beamer, or worse yet set off a deafening alarm, but luckily there was a spot right next to a load-bearing beam that was most likely shunned for fear of earthquake-related damage to people who prized their cars over their lives, and after five minutes of maneuvering he had placed it perfectly between the lines.

“Wow,” Dex remarked as they exited the car, “I am incredibly impressed with your ability to park.”

“How impressed?” Gordon teased, folding his arms over his chest and giving his partner a daring look.

Dex giggled in that way he knew was the most enticing and skipped away towards the elevator. “Not that impressed!” he called over his shoulder.

The other guys understood that all their banter was just that, two decades or so worth of harassment, more than merely fey, but ultimately benign. Part of Gordon’s fear in regards to their increased exposure was the knowledge that ultimately the two of them would be hopelessly misconstrued by the world at large. And some of that confusion was bound to be hostile.

When the elevator doors opened at the 15th floor, Dex strode right to Miranda’s desk and gave her his most dazzling smile. He was really working it, Gordon noticed, and wondered why.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you look just like Tippi Hedren?” he asked her. Gordon did concede in an earlier conversation that Pete’s secretary was the cool blonde archetype so favored by Hitch in later films. Their mutual favorite was Frenzy because it was rather ambivalent about the murder angle – what the audience was truly meant to do was root for the hero to stay one step ahead of being wrongfully arrested for the crimes – but the women that were strangled, well, with the exception of the hero’s ex-wife, nobody really cared about them, now did they?

“Naw man, Kim Novak,” Gordon said, coming to stand beside him. “Vertigo, not Marnie.”

Miranda’s expression was slightly skeptical. She was used to musicians and their almost instinctual need for attention, which often manifested itself as flirtation. But she preferred guys who worked in film, so the nature of the comparison was not entirely lost on her.

“Not Grace Kelly?” she asked, pouting.

The two took a step back and spread their hands out, looking equally confused and apologetic. The intercom sounded and she held down the button.

“Yes boss.”

“I see those hippies are here. Let ‘em in.”

“Boss, do I look like Grace Kelly?”

“Not patrician enough. Kim Novak, maybe?”

Dex and Gordon began cracking up.

“Dude, that’s what we said!” Dex exclaimed.

“Quit harassing my secretary and get in here!” Pete commanded.

Gordon felt bedazzled, as always, walking into Pete’s office, which was twice the size of their living room, blinded by the gleam given off by all the awards on the walls. He had a gold and/or platinum award for every disc ever recorded by Aubergine all congregated on one wall, while the others bore an assortment of discs gifted in gratitude of services rendered. He figured that if their record got to that point he wouldn’t begrudge the reward, given that Pete did seem to be the most helpful person he’d ever encountered in the industry. Gordon’s attention was then taken by the guest seated at a nearby window, a guy with the type of shag haircut he hadn’t seen on anyone since 1979. He noticed Dex was checking the guy out as well, the two of them appraising each other in the way that pretty people were often wont to do: a pleasant acknowledgement of their biological superiority was evident in their polite smiles.

“Guys, this is my friend Brendan Morris. He’s an engineer, primarily for Western Recorders.”

Dex and Gordon looked puzzled, then Brendan elucidated.

“Used to be Cello, which used to be Ocean Way?”

“Ah. . .” they responded, and smiled.

“Hey, you worked on John Fry’s record Sunset Palms, didn’t you?” Gordon asked him.

“You’re a fusion fan? Cool. Yeah, I was in on that.”

“He wanted to ask you something,” Pete said, moving a pile of files from one end of his desk to another.

“Yeah, I know you guys are due to hit the road soon, but I’m working on a world music thing that I’d like you to play on, Gordon. I really like the Latin stuff you did on your new record.”

Gordon demurred, but was secretly flattered. “Eh, I dunno, I’m not really a good hired hand.”

Pete and Dex attempted to keep their snickering to a dull roar.

“Well think about it, dude. I’ll be at your gig in a couple weeks, so you can tell me then.” He rose to depart and touched fists with Pete.

“Did you call JP yet?” Pete asked him.

“No, I will tomorrow.”

“He said he’d cooperate, so just be firm, and not too fanboy-ish.”

“Roger that. Nice to meet you guys. Dex, your voice is amazing.”

Dex smiled in his typical aw shucks fashion, the normal response to unsolicited gushing. Gordon wasn’t certain, but he could have sworn Morris winked at Dex as he left the office.

“Jesus,” he muttered, not realizing he said it aloud.

“What?” Pete asked, seating himself behind the desk and putting his feet up. The two of them sat down in chairs more comfortable than were found in any normal office, Gordon imagined.

“Everybody’s on the make in this fucking town.”

“Aw c’mon, Gordo, even I could see myself getting into a bitchslap fight with Eli over Dex. You’re gonna have to get used to that because the effect is about to be writ large.”

“Eli wants to do me?” Dex asked, incredulous.

“She’d never admit to it, but yeah, totally. Hell, she even made you some damn fudge. I can’t get her to make me fudge, but all you have to do is flip your damn hair and she’s out buying marshmallow crème.” He handed Dex a round metal tin. Dex opened it and cooed at the contents.

“Oooh, look Gordo, it’s got nuts!”

“You’d better be careful there, Pete,” Gordon teased, raising his eyebrows. “Next thing you know, she’ll be following us across the country and you’ll have to make your own chili.”

“Fuck off. You guys want some coffee, anything?”

“Does Miranda do espresso?”

“No, but she can go get some.” As Pete relayed the order to his assistant, Dex held the tin out to his friend.

“It’s yummy!” he enthused.

“Eh, no chocolate before midnight.”

“Now then,” Pete began, bringing their attention back to the matter at hand, “I believe I have solved your drummer problem. Two words: Jeb Grisland.”

“No fucking way!” Gordon exclaimed. “How the hell did you do that?!”

“Who’s Jeb Grisland?” Dex asked, pausing with a piece of fudge in his hand.

“You dumbass – he’s the guy who played on Silent Stream, you know, only the greatest acid jazz album ever recorded!”

“Oh, that guy who played with Zappa?”

“Among others, yeah. Seriously Pete, explain this to me.”

“I saw him last week when he sat in on Kinsey’s set at the La Ve Lee. I talked to him afterwards, asked him what he was up to. Then I told him about you guys. He loves the new record and said he’d be willing to jam with you, see how it goes. If you click, well, then your problem is solved, for now.”

“Wow. I’m almost afraid to talk to him, I mean, the guy’s a serious legend.”

“He’s very personable, though, zero attitude. If you want, you guys can go visit him tomorrow. He’s got a place in Laurel Canyon.”

“Oh this is so cool!” Gordon said, getting up to pace by the door to Pete’s office. Dex rolled his eyes at Pete, who winked in an altogether different context. “I’ve got so many things to ask him!”

“You’ll have to excuse my guitar player, he’s a total geek,” Dex remarked to their lawyer.

“Hey, you can be as geeky as any guy at a Star Trek convention, but as long as it works out, I’m happy.”

“I take back all those things I said about you, Pete.”

“Like I was even listening, you hippy. Anyway, there’s a girl from Jambase waiting in her car for my call so she can come and interview you. Humor me?”

Dex sighed. “I thought we didn’t want to do any press.”

“I read over her questions and they’re fairly intelligent.”

“Tell her we’ll do it via email, but I don’t wanna talk to anybody,” Gordon responded. “I’m tired of people falling all over themselves trying to impress you.” He gave Dex a pointed look.

“What? Dude, it’s not like I want people to act stupid around me.”

“Either way, you should throw them a bone. They’ve been good to you in terms of coverage.”

“Yeah, whatever. So whose bright idea was it to plaster us in the front window of Tower?”

“You think that’s bad, you should see the display at the Virgin Megastore.”

“Do we get a billboard?” Dex asked.

“Shut the hell up you fucking asshole,” Gordon said, sardonically.

“Fuck you, I want a billboard so I can take a picture and Mom can put it on her fridge.”

“You know, I’d heard you guys were brats, but well, I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“Hey Pete,” Dex interjected, giving him a flirty mischievous look, “tell Eli her fudge is sooo good. Like, instead of ‘kiss the cook’ it should be ‘fuck the cook.’”

“And let me tell you,” Pete replied, leaning over the desk with an equally impish expression, “that I’ll nail you before Eli does, you know, if you’re offering.”

The two of them laughed loudly as Miranda entered bearing a tray of cups, the model of efficiency in her Chanel suit and stilettos.

“What did I miss?” she asked.

“Oh, just Pete offering to take his retainer out in trade, apparently,” Gordon remarked, looking equal parts weary and wary.

“You know he got into this business to find an outlet for his homoerotic urges towards rock stars,” she whispered, patting Gordon on the shoulder. Pete did not dispute the notion, rather, waggled his eyebrows suggestively, then laughed again as Gordon slouched in his seat and covered his face with his hands.

“You know Gordo, you really need to lighten up.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling him!” Dex proclaimed.

“I’m having one of those days where I feel like everyone is insane but me,” he said. Miranda gave him a sympathetic look.

“Pretty soon you’ll be running the asylum,” she told him solicitously. “Hope you’re up to it.”


Pete gave them carefully-written directions before they departed.

“Give me the address, I’ll just look it up on Mapquest.” Gordon said, watching him write everything out on a yellow legal pad.

“Dude, in certain parts of town, none of that shit is mapped. Here, let me show you.”

Pete opened a browser window on his desktop and went to the Mapquest site. He selected the option of mapping to a specific address and typed in the one for Jack’s former residence. When the search engine responded, it showed only a general map of the area of the Hollywood Hills adjacent to Laurel Canyon Road.

“See? There’s a reason for the things I do, honestly.”

“Okay, sorry.”

“Don’t take it personally, Pete, Gordon never thinks anyone knows what they’re doing,” Dex chided.

“Yeah I’ve noticed.” But he smiled as he said it. “Remember, next week the crew has to meet to go over the itinerary and inventory. Make sure everyone who needs to be there is in attendance. Gordon, have you talked to all your contacts yet?”

“All but one guy who was on vacation when I called. They say they’ve got everything under control.”

“So you still insist on doing this yourself?”

“Yeah. I mean, even if we did have someone managing the tour I couldn’t just give it over, I need to know everything.”

Pete chuckled, rising from his chair. “Well, even the worst of control freaks learns to delegate eventually. I’ll walk you guys out, I need to indulge my vice.”

“See that’s why it would never work out between us, Pete,” Dex teased him, “I couldn’t be with someone who smokes.”

“I don’t smoke that much, just enough to make my personality tolerable to other people.”

They said their goodbyes in the lobby, and Dex and Gordon returned to the comforts of their pimp’s ride, as Gordon had already referred to it upon delivery.

“That is not analogous,” Dex corrected him, “because we didn’t whore ourselves in this case. Hell, they’re paying us for the privilege of selling our music.”

“Yeah well, commodification of art is still prostitution. Selling aesethical pleasure. It’s just not right.”

Dex knew better than to prolong the debate, as they had spend the last ten years of their lives in and out of bands, arguing about what was right. But they had to concede to the concept of financial responsibility, as neither one of them was equipped to do anything but play music and attempt to engage other people to hear it. In order to further the mission of Nebulae, a little assistance was required to seed the machine. Gordon’s master plan was to eventually get to the point where they were entirely self-supporting and could tell the corporate monolith to fuck off; though the risk of burning out was always present, even within a machine of one’s own devising.

Dex panicked when he finally noticed that Gordon was getting onto the 405.

“Why are you going this way?”

“It’s the most direct way home.”

“We’ll be sitting in traffic for hours!”

“We’re gonna be stuck in traffic either way, so we might as well just suck it up.”

“Let’s go get something to eat – get off at Caesar Chavez.”

Gordon relented because he was hungry. He imagined the guys weren’t going to rehearse until they got back anyway, which meant another long night. It was a crawl through downtown to come out the other side, but eventually they ended up in East LA at Los Hermanos.

”Aiyi, why are you eating meat again?” Dex scolded.

“When I’m stressed I need fat, it’s that simple. Besides, you’ve eaten beef tongue in the last year, so don’t get high and mighty with me.”

“Only to appease my mother. You of all people should know how important that is.”

They continued bickering as they made their way into the restaurant, seating themselves at one of the picnic tables close to the stage.

“Where’s Dre?” Gordon asked the waitress. He knew she was one of the daughters, but could never remember them all. The three brothers who owned the restaurant had a combined total of fifteen children on the staff.

“On his break. Probably talking to his girlfriend on the phone. Papi is upset that he thinks he’s too good to mingle now.”

“Tell him to stop by before he goes on again. I’ll have the carnitas plate.”

“You?” she asked Dex. He grinned at her brilliantly.

“Can you guys make me a veggie burrito, extra guacamole?”

She rolled her eyes, but wrote the request down on the ticket. “What you guys wanna drink?”

“Tecate. Dos.” Gordon replied, waving his hand between the two of them.

After gifting them with chips and salsa, she departed and Dex looked around, scanning the crowd for anyone they knew, as well as celebrities. Los Hermanos was one of the “best kept secrets” of Los Angeles in terms of a celebrity-frequented eatery.

“Man, there’s no one interesting here today,” he said, a slight whine in his voice.

“You’re sick of me already? We have to spend the next year joined at the hip and you’re sick of me. That’s. . .just. . .fucking –“

“Shut up, zuri.”

“Dude, call me anything, but don’t call me lazy. That’s just not fair. I’m the hardest working spic in the industry!”

“Yeah, and I don’t think you’re a real Mexican either,” a voice interjected. The two looked to their right where Dre The Troublemaker regarded them with mockery in his brown eyes.

“Hey chingon,” Gordon greeted him. “How’s the movie business?”

“I’m working it, don’t worry. What are you pendejos up to?”

“What, are you living under a rock? Our fucking record is out, man!” Dex exclaimed, but his grin indicated that he was merely protesting for effect.

“Yeah, yeah – I see you managed to scam the suits with your little band. I’m surprised you fuckers can still fit your heads though the door.” He sat down next to Gordon. “Hey rock star, do you want to get up there and impress the crowd?”

”Fush joo, mang!” he answered, with one of their long-running jokes that they all could be mistaken for Cubans if they talked like Tony Montana. “I came here to eat, not work. Go pay for that gay suit you’ve got on, mariachi.”

Dre flipped him off and took the stage. Seating himself on a stool with his guitar and adjusting the mic, he stared out at the crowd in the dining room and smiled. One could never exactly decide to interpret his smile to indicate pleasantry or thinly-veiled contempt, but Dex and Gordon applauded fervently, though the three of them shared another joke, as it was really the taunting of smartass friends who knew each well enough to ridicule with deep affection.

“Remember to tip the wait staff. . .please. My sisters shake me down if they don’t make enough in tips by the end of the night, and I’m just a poor brown man tryin’ to make it in the world, know what I’m sayin,’ G?”

Most everyone laughed in response, though the aforementioned sisters glared at their wastrel brother.

“I’m gonna play this next one for my rock star friends here –“ Dre pointed at Dex and Gordon, “because I know they’re gonna forget me when they get famous. Hell, I’d forget me too, but that’s another story. We were all in a band once, and we used to play this song to piss off the skinheads at the clubs. ‘Cause it’s in Spanish.”

The two exchanged a sly look, knowing what the song would be, and relishing the attendant memories, equally happy those times were past. The song he played was called “La Flor de Mal,” originally recorded by Los Cruzados. As he sang it, they sat quiet and still. Dex had never told Dre in all the years they’d known each other, but he loved the other’s voice. It was deep, ragged, and ultimately poignant, especially when singing a song such as this: dealing with heartbreak of many kinds. The silence expanded across the room and even the clink of silverware meeting china, of glass meeting wood, of footsteps and voices, muted until it was merely a murmur underneath the music. Dre had always possessed the ability to hold an audience, when he so desired. Their food sat untouched until the final chord had faded and the patrons erupted with applause.

“Maybe we should sign him if they give us an imprint,” Gordon mused as they began eating.

“You know Dre doesn’t want to be a musician, he never did. It’s just something to do until he finally makes a movie. That’s why we had to kick his ass out, after all.” Dex was carefully folding the tortilla back into burrito formation after checking to ensure there was no meat of any kind lurking within.

“I guess I’d better call Jeb,” Gordon murmured, more to himself than his partner. “I’m gonna go out to the car to do it. Don’t let them take my plate, okay?”

Dex nodded, a mouthful of food precluding vocalized assent.

Dre played another song then excused himself, coming directly back to the table. His sister Patricia passed by, making a scolding noise, which he ignored.

“Hey, so are you guys still in Pedro?” he asked his friend as he sat down next to him.

“Yeah. You should come hang out sometime. No hard feelings.”

“None? Are you sure?” As he asked this, their eyes met, green and brown. In some ways, although Gordon had been the alpha male of the group, Dex and Dre had been the twins, each attractive and mischievous in an altogether parallel fashion. They could also converse without speaking and commune through their art to reach a plateau incomprehensible to any other. It had been rough for one pretty boy Chicano to function in the machismo of a rigidly-ordered cultural orientation, harder still for another who was so immersed in the environment but forever excluded because he was not one of them. But Dre understood Dex in ways not even Gordon could fathom.

“Things are the way he wants them to be, now. So it’s okay.”

“I heard about Gary, that’s a tough break.”

“Aw man, the word is out already?”

“Aubergine just updated their website with the news that they hired him.”

“Shit. What I said about things being okay? Not so much, now. But, we’re gonna talk to some jazzbo tomorrow, hopefully it will work out.”

“I want you to read my screenplay. My girlfriend is typing it up for me.”

“Heh, Maria Theresa told us you’ve got a novia.”

“Well, she’s a woman after my own heart. As in, she’s like to cut it out and eat it. How could I refuse?”

They laughed, though it was more like an obscene snicker. “So many women out there, just waiting to fuck me,” Dex said, then rolled his eyes and stuck out his tongue, mocking himself.

“No sense in wasting your youth and beauty on Gordo.”

Dex rolled his eyes again, this time in frustration. “Stop, Dre.”

“Naw man, I love him, you know that. He’s just a pain in the ass. Especially yours.”

“You asked me to choose. Do you really want to bring all that up again, now?”

Dre saw his father exit the kitchen and confer with the staff at the front of the house. “I guess I’d better get back to work. But don’t forget me, okay?”

“Of course not, you asshole! Seriously, bring your girl by sometime before we go on the road. I’d like to meet the woman who can put up with you.”

“Sure.” He stood up and pulled at the bottom of his jacket, straightening out the wrinkles in the velvet. He ran his hands over it to smooth the nape.

“Hey,” Dex said, putting a hand on his arm.

“What?”

“Can you play it? For me?”

“Dude, don’t be stupid. Gordo’s gonna walk back in here any moment.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. But you know, call me and sing it to my voicemail.”

“I don’t even have your number.”

“Yes you do. You’re a terrible liar.”

“Your mom has a big mouth.”

“So do I,” Dex replied, lightning-fast. He winked. “And so do you.”

Dre went up and played “Strange Face Of Love“ and tried not to think of certain things: of green eyes, and the humidity of a packed club; of watching The Twilight Zone while stoned and philosophizing, and cold cereal at 3am; of long car rides and living with someone you love but unable to show it; of knowing that three isn’t always a magic number.

Don’t look back, don’t look back.
He’s right on your trail.
Don’t look back, don’t look back.
Just a step away from Hell.
Don’t look back, don’t look back
to the strange face of love.


Hours later, though how many had passed he could not tell and did not care to know, Dex found himself staring into a mirror in the front hallway of Jeb Grisland’s house in Laurel Canyon. The mirror was one of those treated ones made to look like marble and its’ surface was darkened and marked with black streaks approximating a grain. He still looked pretty, he always did. But he was having one of those dissociative moments where he felt like the person in the mirror would climb out and smother him in his sleep, if possible. He had long been used to thinking of himself as an envelope for various personality splinters, but sometimes the effort of carrying them around, sharp-edged as they were, was tiring.

Avarice in their eyes for the chosen one
lust in their sighs for the only one
and the one thing is no thing
but the thing
it is not.


A dark drive home.

“So what did you talk about? Me?”

“Oh, and I’m the drama queen? Not everything is about you, no matter how much you try to make it that way.”

“Just answer the question.”

“Not really. Dre just wanted to know if you were still pissed at him. I told him no.”

“I wonder if he really has a girlfriend.”

“If Maria Theresa said he does, then he does. She must not like her, though, ‘cause she didn’t smile when she told us. But he said she was a ‘woman after his own heart –‘”

“- which means she’s got to be as weird as he is.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured too.”

They laughed softly. Conversational silence descended for a time, as the landscape changed from glaringly-lit downtown to grim industrialization the closer they got to the ocean. Gordon’s voice was almost an intrusion when he spoke again.

“Do you really think we’re going to pull this off?”

“We won’t know till we try, Gordo. But we agreed, remember? Nothing and no one is going to hold us back. That’s the only way you can succeed.”

I’m tenuous and tenable
hanging on by my pretty fingernails
if I strain if I strive
then I’ll prove I’m still alive.


Jeb turned out to be biracial, and Dex’s first thought was that he had the most beautiful skin he’d ever seen. He wanted to call it café au lait but knew that thought might be considered racist outside of certain boundaries. He shaved his head and it was perfectly round. His face had a lot of sharp edges: jutting cheekbones and elongated brow framing wide warm eyes. His lips were not overly generous, but his mouth was sensuous, especially when he smiled.

Oh shit.

He thought they’d be intimidated by a celebrity enclave address, but the house turned out to be modest, perched on a hillside that overlooked a canyon. The drop had to be a good 200 feet down. Jeb’s girlfriend, Anouk, referred to it as “The Treehouse.” It was literally surrounded by trees on all sides but the front. The driveway was circular and gravel-strewn. Gordon hadn’t been happy about the potholes in the dirt road turnoff after they left the paved street, but Dex supposed they were lucky it hadn’t rained recently. The house didn’t look like much from the outside: peeling goldenrod paint with white trim, ranch-style with those funky diamond-paned windows everybody liked in the 60s and 70s, but inside it was a tasteful neutral oasis from everything and everyone. The tiled floor was ivory, with taupe and beige throw rugs every three feet or so. The walls were oatmeal silk, hung with fabric weavings and multi-media abstract paintings, meant to invoke an atmosphere as opposed to a design scheme. The living room looked as through it should be guarded by a velvet rope: it was obvious no one had occupied it for more than five minutes in years. She led them to the back of the house which was noticeably more relaxed: lumpy brown couches and a scarred warhorse of a coffee table commanded the room. The view from the windows and doors that took up much of the back wall revealed canyon scrub and Toyon bushes, tiny hints of red berry if one looked closely enough. The hills seemed to fold into one another, dark greens and browns that absorbed the blue from the sky above and shimmered in the heat. Even with the ambient glare from beyond the house, all was shrouded in cool shadow. And in the midst of all of it, presiding over a brass hookah and tea service, was Jeb. The room was a mélange of odors: Dex could smell the remnants of cannabis, along with some kind of sweet tobacco, as well as strong black tea. Some other fragrant aura resided in the air, but he thought perhaps it was Anouk’s perfume, as she seemed to exude a seductive and warm veil of scent. Like a sweater left out on a redwood chair, in the sun, by a rosebush, and a low table where a cup of cooling chai attracted bees, and somewhere in the distance the leaves of a sagebrush were crushed, releasing the piquant oil to the breeze.

Dex’s mother had attempted, with the help of relatives in Biarritz, to apprentice him at age 15 to a perfumer in Grasse because of his discerning nose, but he had threatened to run away from home if she continued to consider sending him out of the country. She must have known all along, named as he was for a radiant one, He Who Is Like God. She knew, and she was afraid. And Jeb’s eyes went to him first, despite Gordon’s enthusiasm at being in his presence.

“Hey there,” he said, holding out a large hand with a pale palm. His skin was incredibly soft.

Gordon continued to talk and talk as they sat on the lumpy couches and he offered them various refreshments. Dex took some tea, it was Moroccan-style mint tea, iced, and he sipped it slowly. Anouk placed a tray of figs and dates upon the table, as well as a large brass box, its’ lid etched with an intricate filigreed design. One offering obvious, the other more subtle, he supposed. The glass in his hand was nestled in another brass creation, equally elaborate. There was a touch of the seraglio in their household. He thought about practicing his rusty French with Anouk, then realized she was probably a Parisian, and Basque was an entirely different language for most purposes. But she intrigued him nonetheless. She was possessed of the classic Gallic bone structure, with long straight shining dark hair. Her brows were perfectly arched and her nails modestly lacquered. She was like the women his cousins wrote to him about, that they observed on la plage every summer, full of grace and a glacial remove. Meant for fine things and wealthy keepers.

“Annie, take Gordon in my studio, okay?”

“You have your own studio?”

“Yeah. It was originally a storage shed that the builder put on one side of the cliff. Now it’s my little woodshed.” He chuckled at his pun.

Gordon followed her ramrod-straight back out of the room and Jeb turned to Dex, examining him more closely.

“Your momma name you Dexter?”

He laughed. “No. My name is Michael. My mom named all of us after people in the Bible. But I wore these really dorky glasses in the fourth grade and all the kids called me Poindexter. Gordon shortened it to Dex and I didn’t have to be a Mike anymore.”

“My momma was big on the Bible too. Jebediah, I was named. Now what kind of name is that, I ask you? Too damn cumbersome.”

They smiled, and Dex watched him open the large brass box on the table.

“I’d set you up with some of this, but it’s powerful. Liable to knock you on your ass. Or make you throw up, one of the two.”

Dex felt the tentacles of dread creep up from somewhere in his scrotum as Jeb snorted a very small portion of white powder from a tiny spoon up his left nostril.

Don’t freak out, you tadpole. People do this shit all the time, doesn’t mean they’re dope fiends. Just because you’re afraid to do anything but smoke weed doesn’t mean it’s bad.

“You’re giving me tooth decay, just sitting there. My lady might say the same.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.” His heart was pounding harder than it should.

“So which way you swing when the wind blows, boy?”

“I go around in a circle, actually.”

Jeb burst out laughing at this admission, clapping him on the shoulder. Despite the fact that he looked like he weighed less than 150 pounds, Jeb’s strength in the blow was surprising. Dex imagined wiry muscle, more speed than weight in his playing. But that depended on the nature of the chemical assistance. He wondered, vaguely, what it would be like to be in the middle of this discreet decadence.

“Well, you might want to consider the fringe benefits associated with our arrangement. Unless that little firecracker out there has anything to say about it.”

His appraising stare was direct and neutral, not expecting a specific response.

“Gordo and I aren’t sleeping together. He thinks if we waste our energy on sex we won’t have any left for the music.”

Jeb laughed again, closing the lid on the box.

“That’s the problem with the business these days. No sense of balance. Everybody’s either in rehab or being virtuous. Or dead. Can’t just have a good time and leave it at that.”

“Well. . .”

He waved a hand. Dex could see the drug, whatever it was, working on him now. His movements seemed almost unconscious, quick and economical.

“Don’t mind me, I’m just an old man. I’m gonna go jam with your friend, see what happens. You chill, young Dex. Talk to Annie, she gets lonely way up here with only me. I can’t be bothered to talk to nobody, mostly, ‘cept the ghosts of my friends.”

Dex didn’t notice Anouk’s return, he sat staring at the box on the table, daring himself to open it.

“It’s called ‘Sunshine Smack,’” she informed him. He started, guiltily, but she was impassive, picking up a prosciutto-wrapped fig from the tray and placing it between her crimson lips.

“Heroin?”

“Not exactly. But he functions fine, when he has to.”

“Uh, well. . .” his voice faltered again, not knowing what to say.

“Don’t worry, he’s going to turn you down. He couldn’t say anything to Pete because hardly anyone knows about it. He just wants to be left alone. Of course, that’s the problem when you’re a legend: people seem to think you’re invincible.”

“But why –“

“Why is he deliberately killing himself? Because he’s bored. You’ll get that way too, eventually. They all do.”

He shook his head, unaware of the gesture. The fire that burned within him to do what he did, he couldn’t imagine exchanging its’ charms for something more obliterating. She smiled. It was a patient, ancient smile, indulgent of his youthful illusions.

“You’re so pretty. They’re going to eat you alive, you know. And gnaw on your bones. Do you think your soul can stand up to that, all the adulation? It’s more addictive than anything in this world.”

Dex wandered outside, to where the cliff met the canyon. There was no fence out here, someone could fall off the edge and never be seen again.

“The coyotes come to the back door sometimes,” she told him, standing in the doorway. “Like they expect to find something dead to drag away.”


They descended from the lap of the gods (though not exactly Mount Olympus, as that was on the other side of town) and Gordon’s expression was as dark as a thunderhead.

“He said no.”

“Why?”

“Said he was too old to tour. He was pretending like he didn’t know what Pete had asked him about.”

Dex sighed. “So what now?”

“I don’t know. I need to think about this. Let’s go to the farm.”

“Now?”

“Yeah.”

Dex didn’t say anything but secretly he hated going any further east than El Monte these days. Home was another country, almost. A place that would never embrace him, even with the comforts of Mrs. Ojonos’ cooking and the quiet of the fields. But without Gordon he was only dream, no drive. So he let his partner drive, like always, humming to himself songs that he hoped others had adopted as their own, though they would never know what had inspired their creation.

Ouroboros the snake that swallows its’ tail
succeeding to hate where all others have failed
children crawling through barbed-wire feelings
is it a coincidence it’s their deaths that they’re dreaming?