la la land
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Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
14
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1,153
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Category:
Drama › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
14
Views:
1,153
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
eight
this will only hurt for a minute, and other lies my lawyer told me
Is it hard to make
arrangements with yourself,
when you're old enough to repay
but young enough to sell?
- “Tell Me Why” (Young)
Pete was five minutes outside of the Calabasas Golf and Country Club when his phone rang. Disappointed that he could not create or download a ringtone that reprised the chorus to Warren Zevon’s “Lawyers, Guns and Money,” he resigned himself with “California Love,” which made Eli crazy whenever she heard it.
“Please pick anything other than a paeon to being a thug.”
“But I am a thug. A highly-paid, well-mannered, articulate thug.”
Lowering the volume on his stereo, he answered the phone with a sigh.
“Jesus Christ, Perris, I’m practically inside the fucking gate. What is your deal?!”
“Did you stop for lunch on the way?”
“Yeah, but I’ve got hangover food, you don’t want that.”
“Would it kill you to eat at Wendy’s occasionally?”
“Probably. The distinct lack of grease is apt to throw my digestive system into a tizzy.”
“I’m fucking starving!”
“When we get in I’ll send one of the caddies to get you something.”
“I brought Murph to be my caddy.”
“You know that’s against the rules, Jack.”
“I can’t stand those snot-nosed punks that work here, they all talk shit and think they’re so damn funny.”
“You mean you don’t like them because they remind you too much of yourself, and that’s fair. But if you want to continue to play at a private course then you’re going to have to make some concessions, dude.”
He pulled up to the front gate and flashed his pass at the security guard, who nodded graciously and opened the gate. A short ride up the curvy drive brought him to the parking lot full of automotive avarice. He saw Jack sitting on the trunk of Murph’s black Lincoln Continental, wearing as close to conventional golfing attire as he could manage: khaki shorts and a plain white polo shirt. He was attempting to balance a 3-iron on the palm of his hand. Pete swung his Scion xB into the adjacent space.
“You’re gonna break your fucking club that way, Jack.” He heard an echo and grimaced.
“Turn your phone off, dumbass!”
“You first!” Jack exclaimed, grinning mischievously.
“So that’s your new car, eh?” Murph asked him, emerging from the driver’s side of the Continental.
“Yep, just picked it up last week.”
“It’s a fucking box, man. I can’t believe you’re such a pussy!” Jack hopped off the truck so Murph could open it to retrieve his clubs. “Did Eli threaten to leave you if you bought an Escalade or a Hummer?”
“Unlike you, I do not require a 500 grand piece of overcompensation to make me feel like a man.” He popped the latch on the hatch of his own vehicle, opened his door, and swung himself sideways in the seat, finishing his lunch.
“Want one?” he offered, holding out a crumpled Jack In The Box bag to Murph.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, reaching in and extracting an Ultimate Cheeseburger. Jack made retching sounds and received two extended middle fingers for his trouble.
“You know, I may have tried to destroy my liver, but you’re the unhealthy one.” he observed, seating himself on the ground between the two cars. His golf cleats clicked on the macadam.
Pete snickered as he washed down a bite with a sip of watered-down Diet Coke. “It’s funny, Eli is always after me to give up fast food, but not once has she asked me to quit smoking.”
“The lesser of two evils, I suspect,” Murph intoned, as he eyed his own burger. “All things considered.”
“With his personality, yeah, you’re right,” Jack teased. “But seriously man, that shit is totally poison.”
“God forbid I should wind up in the ICU. What’s it like again, Jack?”
“Fuck off.”
“We’re going to miss tee time, gents, if we don’t get moving,” Murph remarked, handing Pete his discarded wrapper. Murph was always a good minder, Pete thought, because he had an ability to keep people on track without being overwhelming annoying about it.
They gathered their bags, locked their cars, and made their way to the course, along a path that wound through a perfectly landscaped sanctuary from the stresses of modern life. After they had checked in and were out on the green, Pete decided to wait until the fifth hole to bring up his next piece of irritation. It was a nice day, he didn’t want to spoil it too quickly.
“So when were you planning to tell me about your latest encounter with law enforcement?” he asked Jack, keeping his tone completely mild.
“Murph, you goddamn tattletale!” Jack yelled at his faux caddy. Pete had bribed the guy assigned to Jack to make himself scarce for three hours, with enough money so he wasn’t tempted to blab to his co-workers or management. The only reason the club tolerated his membership was because he also threw money at the board of directors to look the other way when he brought his problem child along. He decided that golf was good therapy for Jack, who also enjoyed hitting things, though inanimate objects were not his targets of choice, normally.
“’Not I,’ said Alexander,” Murph demurred, squinting in the sun at the green, then pulling out Jack’s driver and handing it to him.
“You think I’m an amateur? I’d never ask Murph to rat you out! No, someone from the DA’s office called me after reading the police blotter. He’s a fanboy who would be so bummed if you went to jail, man.” Pete gave Jack an annoyed look and positioned himself at the tee.
“Well shit, Peter, we weren’t hurting anything. I just wanted to practice my drive!”
“On Victory Boulevard at 3am.”
“Hence the ‘not hurting anything.’ We didn’t even hit any cars!”
“Your slice definitely isn’t as bad as it used to be,” Murph commented.
Pete’s shot went into the bushes to the left of the green and Jack snickered.
“Yeah, but Pete’s is wicked!”
To distract himself from wanting to break his club over Jack’s head, Pete began fantasizing about fucking Eli in the shower.
“I’m telling you, asshole, I’m not bailing you out if any of your little run-ins with the Burbank PD ends with you in their custody, so remember to save that phone call for someone who cares.”
“Fine. I have plenty of friends!”
“Like Terry Biel? I wouldn’t count on him, he’s likely to win the death pool by the end of the year.”
Jack looked impassive, twirling his driver like a baton as he lined up the shot. His swing brought the ball squarely onto the green and the group waiting to tee up after them clapped politely, all the while looking askance at the three long-haired men who were dressed oddly and completely ignored the unspoken rule regarding raised voices on the course. Jack gave them a brilliant grin and stuck his tongue out at Pete.
“You may win all the time at life, but you will always suck at golf.”
“And it keeps me up at night, while waiting for the inevitable phone call in which the LAPD regrets to inform me that they had to shoot you because you’re a fucktard.”
Murph suppressed a slight chuckle as he walked behind them towards the green.
Apres jeu, in response to Jack’s whining, they hit a Wendy’s in Hidden Hills. Pete could tell at least one guy on the crew recognized Jack, but hung back in the kitchen and stared at him while pretending to clean the counters.
“Fanboy, two o’clock,” he murmured as they all devoured Big Bacon Classics and chocolate Frostys.
“Whatever,” Jack muttered through a mouthful of food.
“Hey, so what did you and Josh talk about the other day?”
“Talk about fanboys,” Jack said, putting down his burger, “all he wanted to do was tell me about was the first time he saw Aubergine, and fuck if I can remember anything that happened fifteen years ago, let alone yesterday! I can’t believe you just left me with him.”
Pete shrugged apologetically. “I thought maybe he’d have something inspirational to say.”
“You know what would be inspiring? If I could get my fucking royalties so we can fix the goddamn roof. That would be tremendously inspiring.”
“How many ways can I phrase the sentence I can’t do anything until the mediator rules on the status of the partnership?”
“We’ve got a hole the size of Rhode Island in our roof, Pete!”
“Murph could always get another mortgage.”
“No, he doesn’t need to do that!”
“It’s no big deal, Jack,” Murph said quietly, stirring his Frosty. “You can always pay me back when you do get your money.”
“Besides, he’d probably do it anyway just to get it fixed, right?” Pete asked.
“But I need to be more responsible! I need to contribute too!”
“Jack, this isn’t all about money. If you want to be responsible then you could stop acting like you’re ten. In fact, I know kids who are better behaved than you. People ask me all the time if you want work – just the other day I was over at Cello and Brendan Morris wanted to know if you’d play on a project he’s got slated for next month. Some kind of world fusion thing.”
“Doesn’t he work for Sabbron?”
“Yeah, primarily. They were finishing a teen chick singer record, and then they’ve got Graceload.”
“Those guys are working with the Dickless Wonder?”
“That’s what I said, but Greg is taking it up the ass willingly from their A&R. They must be funneling more talent to him, or something.”
“He’s just greedy, like everybody else.”
“Well nobody wants to end up like you, after all.”
Jack’s brown eyes bore into Pete, who smugly bit into his hamburger.
“Besides, if I’m going to get a mortgage I’d better do it now before they decide I’m too old,” Murph said, breaking the silence. He was used to relieving the tension caused by too much dickwaving; the members of Aubergine, Jack’s old band, being experts in that particular field of endeavor.
“You guys could always move, the market is still good right now.”
“Nah, I’d hate to be out of the mix. How can you stand it out here?” Murph inquired.
Pete knew he was an intrepid road dog, and now that his career with Aubergine was effectively ended when the other members fired Jack, he consoled himself with whatever adventures he and his best friend could dream up that did not involve the use of addictive substances.
“It’s quiet and I can ignore the rest of the world if I so choose. When I retire Eli and I are going to move to the woods and live in a little cabin like the Unabomber.”
“Well you look like a terrorist, so I guess it’s not much of a stretch.” Jack quipped.
Pete smiled, and considered them even for his last crack.
“You should take some work, Jack,” Murph advised. “People talk about you like you’re already dead.”
Jack sighed and ran his hands through his dirty blond hair, loosed from a rubber band he had wound around his wrist. Pete found it interesting that his idea of going incognito generally involved pulling his hair back and putting on a baseball cap, never mind that his striking long face and height gave him away to anyone who was paying attention.
“I always hated session work, I don’t like being told what to play.”
“You’re a stubborn motherfucker, yes, but you’re also near-broke. I think you can tell your pride to take a hike, at least temporarily, no?” Pete drizzled a package of ketchup over his remaining fries.
“Tell Morris to call me, I’ll dig out my tabla.”
“You might want to see if you can still play.”
“All right now,” Murph said, pointing a finger at Pete across the table. “That’ll be enough of that.”
Pete chuckled and saw someone advancing out of the corner of his eye. “Oh you’re done it now, Perris.”
But he had to admire how gracious Jack was, when the kid gushed about his playing back in the glory days. He even thanked him several times for saying nice things. He figured it was because Jack had eaten his favorite thing on the menu and came in four-under-par for the game. It was the little things in life that often meant the most, after all.
Is it hard to make
arrangements with yourself,
when you're old enough to repay
but young enough to sell?
- “Tell Me Why” (Young)
Pete was five minutes outside of the Calabasas Golf and Country Club when his phone rang. Disappointed that he could not create or download a ringtone that reprised the chorus to Warren Zevon’s “Lawyers, Guns and Money,” he resigned himself with “California Love,” which made Eli crazy whenever she heard it.
“Please pick anything other than a paeon to being a thug.”
“But I am a thug. A highly-paid, well-mannered, articulate thug.”
Lowering the volume on his stereo, he answered the phone with a sigh.
“Jesus Christ, Perris, I’m practically inside the fucking gate. What is your deal?!”
“Did you stop for lunch on the way?”
“Yeah, but I’ve got hangover food, you don’t want that.”
“Would it kill you to eat at Wendy’s occasionally?”
“Probably. The distinct lack of grease is apt to throw my digestive system into a tizzy.”
“I’m fucking starving!”
“When we get in I’ll send one of the caddies to get you something.”
“I brought Murph to be my caddy.”
“You know that’s against the rules, Jack.”
“I can’t stand those snot-nosed punks that work here, they all talk shit and think they’re so damn funny.”
“You mean you don’t like them because they remind you too much of yourself, and that’s fair. But if you want to continue to play at a private course then you’re going to have to make some concessions, dude.”
He pulled up to the front gate and flashed his pass at the security guard, who nodded graciously and opened the gate. A short ride up the curvy drive brought him to the parking lot full of automotive avarice. He saw Jack sitting on the trunk of Murph’s black Lincoln Continental, wearing as close to conventional golfing attire as he could manage: khaki shorts and a plain white polo shirt. He was attempting to balance a 3-iron on the palm of his hand. Pete swung his Scion xB into the adjacent space.
“You’re gonna break your fucking club that way, Jack.” He heard an echo and grimaced.
“Turn your phone off, dumbass!”
“You first!” Jack exclaimed, grinning mischievously.
“So that’s your new car, eh?” Murph asked him, emerging from the driver’s side of the Continental.
“Yep, just picked it up last week.”
“It’s a fucking box, man. I can’t believe you’re such a pussy!” Jack hopped off the truck so Murph could open it to retrieve his clubs. “Did Eli threaten to leave you if you bought an Escalade or a Hummer?”
“Unlike you, I do not require a 500 grand piece of overcompensation to make me feel like a man.” He popped the latch on the hatch of his own vehicle, opened his door, and swung himself sideways in the seat, finishing his lunch.
“Want one?” he offered, holding out a crumpled Jack In The Box bag to Murph.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, reaching in and extracting an Ultimate Cheeseburger. Jack made retching sounds and received two extended middle fingers for his trouble.
“You know, I may have tried to destroy my liver, but you’re the unhealthy one.” he observed, seating himself on the ground between the two cars. His golf cleats clicked on the macadam.
Pete snickered as he washed down a bite with a sip of watered-down Diet Coke. “It’s funny, Eli is always after me to give up fast food, but not once has she asked me to quit smoking.”
“The lesser of two evils, I suspect,” Murph intoned, as he eyed his own burger. “All things considered.”
“With his personality, yeah, you’re right,” Jack teased. “But seriously man, that shit is totally poison.”
“God forbid I should wind up in the ICU. What’s it like again, Jack?”
“Fuck off.”
“We’re going to miss tee time, gents, if we don’t get moving,” Murph remarked, handing Pete his discarded wrapper. Murph was always a good minder, Pete thought, because he had an ability to keep people on track without being overwhelming annoying about it.
They gathered their bags, locked their cars, and made their way to the course, along a path that wound through a perfectly landscaped sanctuary from the stresses of modern life. After they had checked in and were out on the green, Pete decided to wait until the fifth hole to bring up his next piece of irritation. It was a nice day, he didn’t want to spoil it too quickly.
“So when were you planning to tell me about your latest encounter with law enforcement?” he asked Jack, keeping his tone completely mild.
“Murph, you goddamn tattletale!” Jack yelled at his faux caddy. Pete had bribed the guy assigned to Jack to make himself scarce for three hours, with enough money so he wasn’t tempted to blab to his co-workers or management. The only reason the club tolerated his membership was because he also threw money at the board of directors to look the other way when he brought his problem child along. He decided that golf was good therapy for Jack, who also enjoyed hitting things, though inanimate objects were not his targets of choice, normally.
“’Not I,’ said Alexander,” Murph demurred, squinting in the sun at the green, then pulling out Jack’s driver and handing it to him.
“You think I’m an amateur? I’d never ask Murph to rat you out! No, someone from the DA’s office called me after reading the police blotter. He’s a fanboy who would be so bummed if you went to jail, man.” Pete gave Jack an annoyed look and positioned himself at the tee.
“Well shit, Peter, we weren’t hurting anything. I just wanted to practice my drive!”
“On Victory Boulevard at 3am.”
“Hence the ‘not hurting anything.’ We didn’t even hit any cars!”
“Your slice definitely isn’t as bad as it used to be,” Murph commented.
Pete’s shot went into the bushes to the left of the green and Jack snickered.
“Yeah, but Pete’s is wicked!”
To distract himself from wanting to break his club over Jack’s head, Pete began fantasizing about fucking Eli in the shower.
“I’m telling you, asshole, I’m not bailing you out if any of your little run-ins with the Burbank PD ends with you in their custody, so remember to save that phone call for someone who cares.”
“Fine. I have plenty of friends!”
“Like Terry Biel? I wouldn’t count on him, he’s likely to win the death pool by the end of the year.”
Jack looked impassive, twirling his driver like a baton as he lined up the shot. His swing brought the ball squarely onto the green and the group waiting to tee up after them clapped politely, all the while looking askance at the three long-haired men who were dressed oddly and completely ignored the unspoken rule regarding raised voices on the course. Jack gave them a brilliant grin and stuck his tongue out at Pete.
“You may win all the time at life, but you will always suck at golf.”
“And it keeps me up at night, while waiting for the inevitable phone call in which the LAPD regrets to inform me that they had to shoot you because you’re a fucktard.”
Murph suppressed a slight chuckle as he walked behind them towards the green.
Apres jeu, in response to Jack’s whining, they hit a Wendy’s in Hidden Hills. Pete could tell at least one guy on the crew recognized Jack, but hung back in the kitchen and stared at him while pretending to clean the counters.
“Fanboy, two o’clock,” he murmured as they all devoured Big Bacon Classics and chocolate Frostys.
“Whatever,” Jack muttered through a mouthful of food.
“Hey, so what did you and Josh talk about the other day?”
“Talk about fanboys,” Jack said, putting down his burger, “all he wanted to do was tell me about was the first time he saw Aubergine, and fuck if I can remember anything that happened fifteen years ago, let alone yesterday! I can’t believe you just left me with him.”
Pete shrugged apologetically. “I thought maybe he’d have something inspirational to say.”
“You know what would be inspiring? If I could get my fucking royalties so we can fix the goddamn roof. That would be tremendously inspiring.”
“How many ways can I phrase the sentence I can’t do anything until the mediator rules on the status of the partnership?”
“We’ve got a hole the size of Rhode Island in our roof, Pete!”
“Murph could always get another mortgage.”
“No, he doesn’t need to do that!”
“It’s no big deal, Jack,” Murph said quietly, stirring his Frosty. “You can always pay me back when you do get your money.”
“Besides, he’d probably do it anyway just to get it fixed, right?” Pete asked.
“But I need to be more responsible! I need to contribute too!”
“Jack, this isn’t all about money. If you want to be responsible then you could stop acting like you’re ten. In fact, I know kids who are better behaved than you. People ask me all the time if you want work – just the other day I was over at Cello and Brendan Morris wanted to know if you’d play on a project he’s got slated for next month. Some kind of world fusion thing.”
“Doesn’t he work for Sabbron?”
“Yeah, primarily. They were finishing a teen chick singer record, and then they’ve got Graceload.”
“Those guys are working with the Dickless Wonder?”
“That’s what I said, but Greg is taking it up the ass willingly from their A&R. They must be funneling more talent to him, or something.”
“He’s just greedy, like everybody else.”
“Well nobody wants to end up like you, after all.”
Jack’s brown eyes bore into Pete, who smugly bit into his hamburger.
“Besides, if I’m going to get a mortgage I’d better do it now before they decide I’m too old,” Murph said, breaking the silence. He was used to relieving the tension caused by too much dickwaving; the members of Aubergine, Jack’s old band, being experts in that particular field of endeavor.
“You guys could always move, the market is still good right now.”
“Nah, I’d hate to be out of the mix. How can you stand it out here?” Murph inquired.
Pete knew he was an intrepid road dog, and now that his career with Aubergine was effectively ended when the other members fired Jack, he consoled himself with whatever adventures he and his best friend could dream up that did not involve the use of addictive substances.
“It’s quiet and I can ignore the rest of the world if I so choose. When I retire Eli and I are going to move to the woods and live in a little cabin like the Unabomber.”
“Well you look like a terrorist, so I guess it’s not much of a stretch.” Jack quipped.
Pete smiled, and considered them even for his last crack.
“You should take some work, Jack,” Murph advised. “People talk about you like you’re already dead.”
Jack sighed and ran his hands through his dirty blond hair, loosed from a rubber band he had wound around his wrist. Pete found it interesting that his idea of going incognito generally involved pulling his hair back and putting on a baseball cap, never mind that his striking long face and height gave him away to anyone who was paying attention.
“I always hated session work, I don’t like being told what to play.”
“You’re a stubborn motherfucker, yes, but you’re also near-broke. I think you can tell your pride to take a hike, at least temporarily, no?” Pete drizzled a package of ketchup over his remaining fries.
“Tell Morris to call me, I’ll dig out my tabla.”
“You might want to see if you can still play.”
“All right now,” Murph said, pointing a finger at Pete across the table. “That’ll be enough of that.”
Pete chuckled and saw someone advancing out of the corner of his eye. “Oh you’re done it now, Perris.”
But he had to admire how gracious Jack was, when the kid gushed about his playing back in the glory days. He even thanked him several times for saying nice things. He figured it was because Jack had eaten his favorite thing on the menu and came in four-under-par for the game. It was the little things in life that often meant the most, after all.