Nolan Knight

There is no such thing as death,

life is only a dream, and

we are the imagination of ourselves.

-Bill Hicks

In L.A.,

you think you’re making something up,

but it’s making you up.

-Steve Erickson

1.

Despite overhead planes descending into LAX, the setting is fine for an impromptu funeral. Roughly two dozen grievers surround a large plot at the foreground of a pyramid-shaped mausoleum, the majority not wearing black, having received word of the event less than two hours ago. Benny Teal, face blank as the moon, stands among them in trance on a private jet, its howl erasing every word of a holistic shaman’s eulogy—a scrambling of the world his Uncle Walt would’ve found amusing.

2.

At the completion of a final offering, a rumble erupts behind the bereaved, forcing the crowd to part. Uncle Walt’s ’69 VW Notchback is hauling up the hill: His dying wish was to be buried in the beast, this cemetery the only willing to accommodate the service. As the vehicle pulls up to the sloped plot, Benny’s older cousin, Griff, steps out the driver’s side, revealing their uncle, reclined in shotgun—at final rest in his lucky coat and Dodgers cap. In the light of dusk, to Benny, Uncle Walt appears to have a smirk crawling.

The grievers watch as several of Walt’s old art pals ease the car down into a plot, a few of which—beyond eccentric—Benny has never met. Come to think of it, most surrounding him are unknowns, a motley bunch of various genders and diversities. The shaman baptizes the auto with sage, sparking coughs from everyone. A large emerald beetle buzzes its way through the crowd, eliciting swats and gasps. Cousin Griff smiles at the visual while a single tear slides down Benny’s face. Uncle Walter was the best of all the Teals, Benny’s favorite—more so than his own father and mother (a Teal by default); he is careful to think this and not speak it, their chipped tombstones yards south.

Another plane screams across the sky.

Benny imagines he is on it, destination unknown.

The future is more uncertain than ever.

3.

—So, that’s why the short notice? Benny asks Griff.

            They called my mom this mornin’, told her it was today or never. Apparently, the cemetery’s owner—total prick—is on a day trip to Catalina. Gravedigger said he could have a plot by noon. Everything was on the hush, multiple hands greased—the works.

            Whoa.

            Hey, it was Walt’s last ride. Least we could do for the man.

Benny nods, taking in the interior of Uncle Walt’s art studio, a converted industrial building at the fringe of Ocean Park. Funeral attendees canoodle about, drinks in hand, surrounded by vibrant tapestries, junk sculptures and vulgar neon lights. A lifetime collection of odd antiques fills out the concrete box, adding a questionable smell. Griff goes to grab more beers. Benny approaches a statue, weaving through mohawks and dreadlocks to a heap of grandfather clocks, all smashed together, creating some type of large insect. A voice calls his name. He turns to see Aunt Bet, a rotund woman with a permanent scowl; how Griff ever slid from out her hips is one of the world’s greatest mysteries.

4.

—Well, well. It seems you and I are of the few mindful enough to dress the part today, Benson.

Benny peers down at his black denim jacket, button-up, slacks and loafers, contemplating whether to tell the woman of his everyday attire. She hasn’t seen him in years, so he doesn’t want to alarm her.

How are things, nephew?

Fine, ma’am.

Griffith tells me you’re out of school now.

            Yes, ma’am.

            Which University?

            Cal State Long Beach.

            Oh, my. Well, a degree is a degree.

            He clears his throat.

            She touches his hair: You’ve gone grey, like your father—and at the same age, no doubt. His was completely spoiled in his early twenties.

            Benny runs fingers to fix his frazzled do.

So, what now?

Excuse me?

Your plans—what are they?

            Plans?

            Moving forward…or onward, I suppose.

            He stammers.

            —Surely, you can’t be continuing that frivolous pursuit of becoming a comedian? I mean, in this day and age, what could possibly be more humorous than the daily news?

            It’s an art form, really. One requiring the same fortitude and dedication as—

            Listen. You should try to get in at the Port of Los Angeles. Dockworkers make a fine living, although nepotism seems to be the main motivation for climbing the ranks. Regardless, as far as fulltime pay is concerned, it is a dream job.

            Okay.

            What was your major?

            Communications.

            Good. So, you can talk. I’m sure they could place you somewhere…loading cargo containers or, maybe, driving a forklift…

            I don’t know.

            What’s not to know? Your parents would be proud.

            It’s not that—

            Then what is it?

            I mean no disrespect, but…I’ve never equated a dream job with—

With what? A solid monetary foundation.

Manual labor.

            The woman recoils: Are you trying to be funny, Benson? Because you are not funny.

            Griff arrives with two Buds: Hey, ma. Pop’s outside lookin’ for you.

            Smoking dope with the others, I presume? Rehashing glory days that never were...

            Griff shrugs, shielding Benny with his back, shuffling him to the far side of the room.

5.

—Thanks, Griff.

            My pleasure. Hell, I’ve been dreaming of someone doing that for me my whole damn life. I love her, but please. Like talking to a rattlesnake. She give you the longshoreman bit.

            Yep.

            Don’t listen to her. Shit, if I’d paid her mind, wouldn’t be where I’m at today—I’d be stuck at a post office—or a fuckin’ bank. She told me I was doomed when I opened the record store, but I’ve had zero regrets—been happy ever since. Everyone thinks they got your best interest at hand. Does a single person in this family truly know who you are?

            Not really. I mean, since my parents passed, not like I see them on the regular.

            True. Never call me anymore.

            Sorry, man.

            Don’t sweat it.

            Never do.

            They chuckle.

6.

Follow me, says Griff.

            At the rear of the warehouse, they ascend a coiled staircase to the roof. The reception is simmering down below, many of the grievers saying last goodbyes.

            On the roof, the night chill is brisk, briny from the Pacific. A marine layer creeps along the coast. Similar to the studio’s guts, up here is cluttered with rusted sculptures, toys and road signs. Lawn chairs sit between four giant dinosaurs. They lounge and spark cigarettes.      

            Walt ever bring you up here, Benny?

            Nah. Thought he quit smoking.

            Griff exhales, laughing: The old man never gave up anything. Dude overdosed for chrissake.

            They said he passed in his sleep.

            Yeah, kinda. He’d been micro-dosing psychedelics for decades—LSD on and off. Whenever anything new hit the street, he’d try it, claiming his tolerance was supreme to mere mortals. Anyway, they found him up here. He’d been trying these pills—Greenbacks or something—new drug that a solid name hasn’t quite stuck yet. Apparently, Uncle Walt pushed it to the limit and expired.

            You don’t think it was…on purpose?

            Suicide? Oh, I don’t think so. But it was the way he always planned on going out.

            They take drags, watching cars fire up the block.

            Griff, how’d you settle on a record store anyway? I mean, don’t remember you being musically inclined when you were younger.

            Not in the least, but I do love The Sound. Guess I hadn’t given any thought to it until…

            Benny catches the lost gaze of his cousin.

            Funny you bring it up, Griff says. Walt’s the one responsible, now I think of it.

7.

—When I first got out high school, I was in a bad way. Running from life, a wayward soul. Remember Uncle Walt gave me this old watch—cracked, hadn’t worked in a hundred years. Told me about a shop out near Death Valley—guy who ran it, Bud something-or-other, was the only person he knew could fix it. Some odd European design. Gave me money and directions. Headed out there on my Harley. Shop was condemned, whole town a memory. At the outskirts was a ramshackle commune. Outcasts with R.V.s. They saw me meddling and asked what I needed. I ended up staying there the whole damn summer. One of the folks I met had converted an old school bus into a library. Let me crash there. Had a load of strange vinyl he’d lend out. I’d sit for days listening to tunes, reading books, smoking pot. Little peyote here and there. Turned into this bizarre vision quest—couldn’t exactly describe it. Never did get the watch fixed, but that trip exposed the world to me…my place in it.

            They sit in silence, smoke dancing between.

            —Ain’t trying to sound like my mom here, but do you have any plans for yourself?

            Got an interview at one of the bigger film studios, Monday.

Really?

Applied a few days ago, and they called back promptly. Couldn’t believe it.
           
What position?

Not sure yet. Said they have a few entry level slots to fill. Getting briefed at the meeting.

            Well, that’s a start. Still with that girl…Frances?

            Not really. She’s in New York, pursuing a Masters.

            Yeah, well. Can’t fault anyone for striving. You’ll figure shit out.

            Hope so.

            I know so.

8.

Benny takes the bus home. Inside an elderly woman naps across confetti print seats. Outside the streets are vibrant. Clamorous bars crash into sidewalk cafes—neon pulsing to the beat of another Saturday night. He rests his head against the window, lost in thought, eyes trained on asphalt. The first tap on the window doesn’t startle him; however, when the bus stops at a red, a legion of taps on every window has him on his feet.

            The driver cries, Jesus.

            Benny approaches the windshield for a closer look.

            Flying beetles.

Large ones.

            Hundreds in an emerald fog swarm down the boulevard.

            The driver grabs his chest and says, Never in my life…

            After ten seconds, the fog passes.

            The bus resumes up the boulevard, the elderly woman snores and Benny returns to his seat.

9.

Benny took ownership of his childhood home the day his folks perished. Since the accident, he’s never been able to drive a car. The residence, small and Spanish with a peach tiled roof, is located along Meadowbrook Avenue in Mid City. The bus takes over an hour to arrive at the neighborhood, a community influx, anxious to remove steel bars from their windows. Benny walks through rows of blackened palms, streetlights casting their fronds into ominous shapes. Walking up the driveway, an exterior light bursts in greeting. A package is waiting at the front steps; he grabs the parcel and checks for mail before entering.

            The home’s interior remains intact: Benny views alterations the same as burning a photograph. He places the package on the den’s pool table and goes for a shower. Soon as he finishes grooming and brushing teeth, he collapses onto a twin sized bed, its sheets adorned with Michael Keaton as Batman.

10.

Benny sleeps through the heart of Sunday morning, jostled awake by his phone’s chirp. With crust in both eyes, he can barely read FRANCES on the screen before declining her call. He lays there, gaze locked on the ceiling fan. With his big interview tomorrow, the plan for today is simple: do absolutely nothing.

He uses his cell to stream pornography.

11.

—I know you’re fucking there, Benny! Answer your goddamn phone. I’ve been calling you for days now…. What the hell is going on? I just need to know you’re—

            Benny deletes Frances’ voicemail and comes up short in a search for coffee grounds. He heads past the pool table and notices the package, trying to recall any recent purchases; its shape suggests a pair of shoes. Nothing registers. He shakes it. The parcel is much lighter than he remembers. Feels as if mostly air. A butter knife tears into its corner, his fingers do the rest. It is, in fact, a shoebox; however, shoes are not inside. A small manila envelope lies trapped within several layers of bubble wrap. He struggles to undo packaging tape that’s cocooned the item. The envelope holds a note, along with a black stone the size of a large superball. What the heck?

            He reads the note:

             Benny Boy!

         Long time, shithead. Need you to do me a solid. There’s a fella over by you that should know the background of this artifact. Bought it at a garage sale for a quarter. Pretty sure it’s worth a healthy sum. Could you take it to Prestige Limousine over there on Pico? Head around back, ask for Skid Mark. Show Skids the stone and he’ll know what to do. Just be sure to tell him Walt sent you. Don’t worry, you won’t get shot. Bring it back to me after and we’ll hang (don’t mail it, pussy). Thanks a bunch. -W

Benny sits, eyeing the stone, re-reading the note.

A message beyond the grave.

Uncle Walt must’ve mailed it the day he…

A surge of emotion swells. He swallows it back and stews. After several minutes, he decides to get dressed.

12.

Benny takes a long stroll up San Vicente to Fairfax, clearing his mind with noxious fumes off the main drag. It’s closing in on three o’clock. He’d left the house with a plan to grab coffee and a bagel, but upon reaching his usual café, both legs continue on. With the stone and note in his pocket, he requires something stronger to start the day.

            Tom Bergin’s Tavern was a favorite haunt of his parents (and their parents), in business since 1936 and on the verge of being lost within a gentrified block. The wood paneled pub boasts all things Irish, from shamrocks on the ceiling to puffy green booths. Benny sits at the bar and orders a Guinness, eggs, beans and toast. After the meal, he re-reads the note and orders a shot of Jamison. Eventually, he schedules an Uber.

13.

A vintage Prius drops him off. Prestige Limousine is exactly as he imagined, a small box structure with a parking lot full of stretch Lincolns, Cadillacs and Hummers. With the facility’s perimeter heavily gated, he wonders how, or if, he can get to the rear (per Walt’s instructions). The moment he steps to the fence, a large Doberman howls, sparking the interest of a shop employee. A short man flies out, bulbous in a blue polo.

            —Hola, amigo. Can I help you?

            I’m looking for Skid Mark—apparently lives behind your building there.

            Skeed…?

            Mark.

            Dunno no Skeed.

            An older employee emerges in an empty suit. Benny figures him for a chauffeur. He says to the shortstack, Qué pasa, Gilberto?

            They mumble in whispers.

            Skid Mark, says Benny. I was told I could find him here.

            The chauffeur smiles, mumbling Spanglish to his buddy. Yeah, Mark should be home. He opens the gate: Follow me.

14.

—So how you know Skids? You a musician?

            No—and I don’t actually know him. He and my uncle were friends.

            Who’s your uncle?

            Walter Teal.

            Never heard of him.

            He was a local artist.

            Who isn’t?

            They walk in silence.

            —Well, the guy who owns this business lets him live back here, rent free. He’s a trip, you’ll see. He shoots a finger: Head past that mound of old tires and scrap metal—hang a left before the alley. Can’t miss it.

            Thanks.

            I wouldn’t thank me just yet.

15.

Through a row of bushes, Benny emerges at his destination. Before a thin green door, a hummingbird floats over a trash bin. Parked in the alley is a frost white Camaro with new plates. He approaches the door, its knocker the nose ring of a pewter dragon. Benny surveys the grounds one last time, second guessing himself before grabbing the ring. With barely a tap, the door flies open.

            Benny drinks in the visual of the person before him: a middle-aged white male, long curly hair with a silver beard the same length. Reminds him of an elder Viking, one clad in a leather duster and flip-flops. Before Benny can speak, he’s cut off.

            —You’re under surveillance—see those? The man points to various concealed cameras above them. What do you want?

            Benny clears his throat: Hi, sir. I’m looking for… He catches himself, worried the name he’s about o say might not be this hulking menace before him, the repercussion being tremendous.

            Looking for what? A handout? Fuck off!

            I’m looking for Skid Mark.

            Who’s asking?

            My name’s Benny—

            So what?

            My uncle is Walter Teal.

            The man lights up. Well, why the hell didn’t you say so? Call me Skids.

            Benny receives a thunderous slap on the back, forcing him inside. 

16.

With the spotless Camaro out front, Benny didn’t expect Skids’ home to be in such shambles; the regurgitation of the name Skids in this thought makes him feel moronic. What little light bleeding into the one-bedroom unit sneaks through grape drapes covering two large windows. A cheetah print sofa is littered with candy wrappers, its large white pillow signifying it doubles as a bed. Skids pulls a step ladder from out a small bathroom (sans door) and opens it for Benny to sit. Benny leers at a hot plate resting on the bathroom sink.

            —Let me flick a light.

            An overhead bulb exposes walls lined with ancient weaponry: swords, shields, axes, etc. Behind the couch are skull mannequins dressed in various chain armor.

            —By the way, how is the old wizard?

Hmm?

Walt. It’s been a hot minute.

            Benny freezes on the guy’s crooked grin, dreading the next step of delivering disappointment.

17.

—Met Walt when I recorded his band, years ago. About the time them riots were sending the City back to where it belongs.

            Band?

            And, again, my condolences. He was a good man. An odd fellow, like myself…victim of the creative universe and its ungrateful hand. What did he overdose on exactly?

            Some new street drug. Doesn’t have a universal name yet.

            Ah, the JJ-180.

The JJ…

A term from my favorite novel for a cutting-edge narcotic. I’ve heard rumblings about these new doses. Greenbacks are what the teens call ’em. Made in a lab. Were supposed to go the way of Big Pharma, help as a mood stabilizer for the modern outrage culture. A poor experiment, the end result not up to snuff. Guess I should try some of that myself—for educational purposes. I’m somewhat of a connoisseur, having lived through the Drug War. I wouldn’t try the amount Walt dosed, but a friendlier, safer helping…

            I wasn’t aware that my uncle played in a band?

            Oh, it was a quick venture—avant-garde lyrics over a sax, conga drums and a Balalaika.

Benny is lost.

The Sound was moving, but…um…. What’s the damn word I’m looking for—

Challenging?

Cumbersome.

Ah.

See, the other part of this space is a recording studio. He stands to remove drapes from one of the windows.

Instead of sunlight, Benny peers into a professional grade sound room. Mics, instruments, switchboard—the works. Skids opens the door to what Benny assumed was the bedroom and ushers him in. The walls are lined with gold records, most from hair metal bands of the eighties that Benny has never heard of.

Skids says, Know who Blackie Lawless is?

Benny shakes his head no.

Well, I ran in that circle for a bit. Sunset Strip. What a time to be alive. Booze straight from the bottle, drugs in my veins—pussy galore. He gives Benny a stink eye: You like girls, don’t you?

Benny shrugs a yes.

My passion was music. Still is, besides weapons of ancient brutality. He points to a picture of himself, much younger (same hair, no beard); he’s in embrace with Ronnie James Dio (or so he tells a clueless Benny). You play any instruments, kid?

Held a guitar once.

And?

Didn’t take.

Skids pulls a black Jackson Rhoads V from off its rack and hands it to him. How about that, huh? Badass.

Sure.

Skids grabs the axe, disappointed by the lackluster response. Why the hell did Walt send you to find me anyway?

18.

Broken reading glasses cling to the tip of Skids’ nose. He analyzes the artifact as if it were a flawless diamond.

            —Fuck if I know what this is, kid. Appears to be a stone, but its brownish tint makes me curious; could be petrified wood. I feel some light grooves on it, but can’t make out what they are—writing, maybe? It’s damn old though, I can tell you that.

            Any idea why my uncle would want you to look at it?

            I study a lot of history—generally the Early Middle Ages up through the Crusades. This looks to be from an earlier era, one that I’m not versed. An uneducated guess would be that it was pre-Christ.

That old?

I’ve seen artifacts much older, kid. You hungry?

            Already ate.

            Skids points to the hot plate: You mind?

            Go for it.

            Skids hands the stone back and proceeds to unscrew a can of SPAM: There is one guy might have a clue. Pretty sure he knew Walt too. Gene Culp. I’ll give him a ring.

Gelatinous pork splats onto a pan, sizzling a pink cloud.

19.

Rotary phone to his ear, Skids dials and says through a mouthful, Pick her up and wield her, kid. Careful now.

            Benny grabs a giant sword from off the wall, its weight exactly what he, as a kid, imagined while reading Conan the Barbarian; wafting SPAM grease adds to the allure.

            That’s a Broadsword from around 1200 A.D. Could lop a man’s skull in half with one swift blow— He chokes: Yes, hello. Can I speak with Gene, please? He pauses. Just tell him it’s Skids. He waits. —Gene. Hey, I got a kid here, nephew of Walt Teal…. Yeah, I just found that out myself. A damn shame. Well, looks like before Walt kicked the bucket, he sent a rare artifact to this boy—name’s Benny. I got the piece right here, but can’t make heads or tails…. Sure, I’ll send him on over. He places a hand to the receiver: Can you swing by today?

            Where’s he located?

            Hyde Park.

            How about tomorrow? Have an interview in the morning, but I’m free after noon. Don’t drive though. Might take me a bit to get there by bus.

            How’s tomorrow at two, Gene?

20.

At the front door, Skids scribbles the address to Gene’s family business on a Post-It and hands it to Benny. —I wish we’d met under better circumstances, but it was damn fine to meet you, Benny.

            Same here, sir.

            Be careful with that artifact now. Could be your inheritance.

            Benny nods: I dig your Camaro.

            Ain’t mine. Few nights a month I do repo for spare change.

            Oh.

            Do me a favor, kid.

            What’s that?

            Head on up to the Sunset Strip for fuck’s sake. Get soused, whip your dick out—live your goddam life. Before you know it, you’ll be getting buried in a V.W. Notchback…

            Benny agrees, pleasing the old man, before heading home.

21.

Benny’s radio alarm clock spouts the days weather, its forecast the same as yesterday and probably tomorrow’s. Coffee percolates thanks to a liquor store stop on his way home last night. He shaves and irons a crisp black dress shirt. Only takes him eight tries to synch a thin black tie. Instead of denim, he goes with a black herringbone blazer; he removes a small punk pin on its lapel, a simple blue ring. Loafers polished, he scans himself one last time in the mirror.

            The interview is scheduled for 10 a.m. sharp. He’s out the door by 8:30; the bus will deliver him with plenty of time to spare. One thing his mother always instilled was the importance of punctuality: Don’t be rude, dear. Time is all we have—and it’s not guaranteed.

            The sun feels good on his face as he strolls to the bus stop. His cell chirps in his pocket. The number is foreign. He answers, met by a grating yell.

            Frances.

            —Slow down, already. I’ve been busy.

            Too busy to pick up your fucking phone? Is there someone else?

            He thinks of telling her about Uncle Walt but refrains: She doesn’t deserve it. —Don’t be ridiculous. Listen, I gotta go.

            You know what your problem is, Benny?

            I got a pretty good idea.

            You’re a dreamer with no ambition. You’re fucking lazy. If I were you, I’d find the nearest church and ask them for guidance.

            Jesus, escapes his lips.

            Exactly. Start with Him and find yourself. Maybe if you put trust in faith, we’d finally be happy.

            That’s a great idea. Want to know something?

Shoot.

If I were you…I don’t think I would’ve fucked that bartender in the East Village last month.

            The line goes quiet.

            What was the name of that dive…Sophie’s?

            Who told you?

            Oh, you didn’t know? I’m like your boy, Jesus—omnipresent. I see all. Hear all.

            That isn’t funny, Benson. You are not funny.

Silence.

Through weeps, she blurts, I blacked out, okay? Who told you?

            The bus pulls up.

            Hold on, Frances. I got another call.

            He hangs up, blocks her foreign number and deposits his fare.

22.

Benny learned of Frances’ dalliances from a childhood pal named Dirk Laughlin. Dirk was a Columbia grad, tragically hip, embraced by the New York underground scene—one they both fantasized being part of in their teens. Dirk always said it would happen; Benny loved Los Angeles too much.

A who’s who kind of guy, Dirk never met a stranger or forgot a face. He knew all, fucked all and snorted all. Frances only knew him in passing, unaware of his embedded Manhattan status. Turns out this bartender was a former roommate of Dirk; the dude had forwarded illicit photos of Frances to Dirk in jest, taken over the course of several midnight romps. Dirk instantly recognized the curly redhead on her knees and forwarded them to Benny. That was over a week ago, right before Walt passed. Instead of confronting Frances about it, Benny just stopped taking her calls. It hurt briefly; the past years of their relationship erased in an instant. There were good times, but deep down he was relieved, rid of having to break-up with a girl who turned out to be a self-righteous cunt. He wanted to add whore to her character, but she wasn’t one, just young and dumb, like he was.

Today begins a new leg of living.

Benny embraces it with gusto.

23.

The bus lumbers toward the studio, charging past the Culver Hotel. Benny takes in the flat-ironed structure from a rear seat. He recalls an article: The Wizard of Oz munchkins stayed there during filming, drunkenly destroying its innards, night after night. The bus halts at Duquesne. The studio sprawls up ahead. Along the sidewalk sits a pair of vagrants, trembling on their knees, faces contorting into sinister grins. Their feet are filthy and calloused, toenails to open canned beans; Benny tries not to leer, but can’t look away. Their presence isn’t what’s captivating, but the fact that he can’t bring the pair into focus. He takes off his sunglasses, polishing the lenses, realizing that the issue persists without them on. The gentlemen appear to be locked in a violent vibration—like dancing alarm clocks. Benny squints, rubbing his temples, trying to stop whatever is going on with his vision. Before he can refocus on the duo, the bus takes off. The world outside is perfectly still, crystal clear. The episode fills him with a sense of dread.

Hopefully nothing is wrong with me.

24.      

At the studio gates, Benny greets a yawning security guard with his passport as identification. The guard, wearing a clip-on tie, begrudgingly verifies Benny’s appointment and issues a visitor’s pass. Benny pegs him for a Pacific Islander, but doesn’t dare broach the subject.

            —Since you aren’t technically a studio employee, Mr. Teal, it’s my duty to escort you throughout the grounds.

            Very well, officer.

            Benny follows the guard’s upturned palm toward a pristine golf cart, emblazoned with the studio’s symbol, it’s cupholder stuffed with the largest energy drink he’s ever seen. Benny climbs aboard.

25.

The cart glides through tall sound stages and set design lots, none of which harbor any intriguing extras in costumes or futuristic automobiles. Benny realizes his entire life he’s pictured a studio backlot being like the one in Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure, this stark reality ruining the fantasy. He mentions this anecdote to the guard who retorts: That was filmed at a rival studio—in the Valley.

26.

The cart charges through office buildings, the studio commissary alive with a late breakfast rush. Benny takes in the spectacle, designer suits and skirts clashing with film crew workers in construction gear. Seated at one of the tables are three world famous movie stars—ones often portraying superheroes or in 1980’s reboots. Their gestures and laughs are so on-the-nose they become robotically haunting; Benny wonders if their emotion is genuine.

            —Hey, isn’t that—

            No. The guard’s gaze sticks to the yellow brick pathway.

            I’m sure of it. I mean, I don’t care for those kinds of films, but—

            You’re mistaken, Mr. Teal.

            Benny deflates, removing his phone from a pocket to take a picture of the celebrities before being reprimanded.

27.

The cart stops mid-path, just shy of a giant artificial rainbow bisecting the grounds.

            —The Thalberg Building is to your right, Mr. Teal. At the desk inside, a clerk will sign you in.

            Benny exits and approaches the vintage structure, a Moderne marvel of a golden era—a simpler, vainglorious time. As he opens the glass door, he notices the guard’s reflection, the man’s eyes still lasered upon him. He almost waves, like a child, but refrains.

            Inside, the foyer is lined with walnut walls containing twelve Oscar statues. Seated at a desk in its center is a mousy female, a few years older than Benny.

            —Mr. Teal. Welcome.

            Hello, says Benny.

            You are on time; however, Mr. Bloodgood has re-scheduled the meeting to begin in ten minutes. He’s downstairs in one of the screening rooms watching dailies. Can I get you a water or coffee?

            I’m fine, thanks. You said, Mr. Bloodgood?

            Yes, Bill Bloodgood. He’ll be available in ten. Please, have a seat.

            Benny saunters to the lone chair at the far corner of the lobby. He is perplexed, knowing from the trades that Bill Bloodgood is indeed a senior Chairman of the studio—a shot caller—a heavy…. Why in the world would he want to interview him? Benny sits and stares at the Oscars; they aren’t as shiny as on television. He craves a cigarette, but knows there is no time. A phone rings at the desk. His attention is called. The clerk ushers him down to the screening room.

28.

The female puts a finger to her lips before opening the theater door. The screen has just gone black, lights coming up. A rumbling of two voices can be heard.

            —Mr. Bloodgood—a Mr. Teal to see you.

            Bloodgood is tall and bald, dressed sharply in a pinstripe three-piece. Beside him stands a younger employee, possibly an assistant. Benny descends toward the men, hand out.

            I apologize for having to meet in here, of all places, Mr. Teal. We’re having an issue with one of our more successful franchises. It’s paramount that I become the film’s babysitter at this point. This is my associate, Kelvin Towles.

Benny shakes the associate’s hand, met by a stale fish.

Bloodgood points beside him: Please…sit.

As Benny takes his place, Bloodgood sends Kelvin to have the projector spool the next scene.

—I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called you here.

To interview for an entry level position, I was told.

Bloodgood laughs. You are the nephew of Walter Teal, are you not?

I am.

I was sorry to hear of his passing. Kelvin came upon your résumé and brought it to my attention—I am a collector of fine art, you see?

Benny tried not to deflate: I see.

For years, I’ve been a champion of your uncle’s work—so raw, primal. His series of paintings that featured churches ablaze was magnificent.

Benny didn’t know how to respond: Thank you?

However, for all that time, owning an original Teal has eluded me. I’m sure you know why?

My uncle stopped selling his goods, what, thirty years ago?

Precisely. Now, I’m sure there are plenty of job openings that you’d be perfectly suited for here at the studio, and with a phone call I can place you accordingly. What was it that you wanted to do here?

I’m not sure, sir.

Have you a college degree?

Yes, sir. I majored in Communications—

Good. So, you can speak. I’m sure there are intriguing options available. But first, I wanted to know if there was a way you could help me?

An original work.

Yes—but not just any Teal. His very last work, a sculpture titled Flight of the Scarab—it’s a composite piece, a mélange of clocks, about the size of a dining room table.

Scarab?

Yes, it’s a large flying beetle that frequents these parts. I’m sure you’ve seen the devils this time of year—called Figeaters. Teal’s sculpture has one in its natural propulsion, upside down.

Benny recalls the funeral reception, the large insect in the center of Walt’s studio: I can make a few calls. My cousin would know.

Excellent. Bloodgood hands over his card: This is my direct number. Call and relay your findings. After, we’ll move forward with your future employment.

Kelvin approaches his seat: The scene is ready.

Bloodgood turns to Benny: Feel free to stay and watch this travesty.

I couldn’t impose.

Do you like comic books, Mr. Teal?

As a child.

Yes. As a child. Marion will show you out.

Benny turns to see the clerk, hand up in a slight wave.

29.

As Benny enters the lobby, a striking female with a head too large for her slight build is waiting at the desk. Marion rushes to assist the brunette.

            —Syd, he’s all booked for the day.

            I must speak with him, Marion. The essence of this role depends on it. I know it’s a supporting part, but it’s a period piece. I don’t know a damn thing about Prohibition—I was born in 1996 for fuck’s sake. I need Bill to show me where to start my research. I’ve already switched my cocktails to strictly highballs. I need some support here, Marion. I need— She notices Benny’s presence.

            Marion turns: This is Mr. Teal.

            The woman presents a hand: How do you do? Sydney Page.

            He grasps her hand: Benny.

            Tell me, Benny…am I crazy for wanting to nail this supporting part? You must be a producer, right?

            Benny shakes his head no.

            Marion smiles: Mr. Teal, do you have any knowledge on the roaring twenties?

            I’ve read a fair amount of Fitzgerald.

            Sydney twitches: Fitz—what? Fitz—who?

            Marion: A novelist turned screenwriter. Used to work at this very studio, if I’m not mistaken.

            Sydney exhales: Okay, I can read up on this. That’s a start.

            Marion turns to Benny: Shall I call your security escort?

            Sydney: Escort. What for?

            Benny points to his visitor’s patch.

            Walk me out, says Sydney. Marion, he’s coming with me.

            Very well. Have a nice day, Mr. Teal.

            I’ll be in touch.

            Sydney grasps Benny’s elbow and whisks him outside.

30.
—Ghoul Girls in the High School Ghoul-a-rama.

            Benny winces: Doesn’t ring a bell.

            Figures. It was a very poor film. They’ve all been shit. No one has seen any of them—direct to streaming. My career is beginning to surge though—I can feel it. This role, the Prohibition film—it’ll launch me. Do you happen to have a cigarette?

            Benny removes a pack from out his blazer. He lights two.

            They sit at a bench beneath the monster rainbow.

            Sydney exhales and scoffs: Could they have made it any larger. It’s offensive—considering the history on these grounds. Just think of it. She closes her eyes: They should’ve painted a mural of a dead witch instead.

            Sounds like this place makes a fine resource for your twenties research—historically speaking. I’m sure there’s a library archive.

            Yes! A library. I didn’t really need Bill’s input, you know? This is my first studio picture, so I’m trying to show my face to those in charge as much as possible. People have said that I’m infectious.

            Infectious?

            Like a disease. There is no other way to take the compliment, really—if it is, in fact, a compliment. Regardless, my intent is to use the studio as a springboard to virally assault this town.

            And act.

            Yes, of course. And act.

            They rise to continue their walk.

            What have you done in film, Benny? You write, direct…?

            Not a thing.

            You were just with Bill Bloodgood, weren’t you?

            I was. He wanted to speak with me about an art matter.

            Art?

            My uncle was Walter Teal.

            Never heard of him. An artist? What medium?

            You name it.

            A progressive.

            A radical.

            That sounds like a glorious life. Never looking back. Always in the present. She takes a final drag: And here I am, an artist about to leap one hundred years into the past.

            Yeah, well…humanity needs dreamers.

            I was in a cable mini-series called Dream Nation.

            No shit?

31.

At the gate, Benny and Sydney bid their adieus before exchanging contacts. She lingers as he walks toward (and eventually past) the bus bench. Once Benny notices the woman is gone, he doubles back and sits, sparking another cig while jotting down notes for a new joke that had just hit. After working out the tag, he explores Sydney’s social media accounts and gets lost in staged modeling images and behind-the-scenes takes. Before long, his appointment with Gene Culp is fast approaching. He checks his bank account before scheduling a Lyft. With under thirty minutes to arrive, a bus is now out of question.

Time is all we have—and it’s not guaranteed.

32.

Benny is scooped by a Ford Taurus, its innards compromised by the stench of bubblegum vape. In twenty-five minutes, they traverse six miles. The vastness of Los Angeles becomes more apparent every three blocks. Grocery giants turn to liquor stores; billboards flash from English to Spanish and beyond. The address provided by Skids leaves Benny before a paycheck advance kiosk. As the driver hauls toward oblivion, Benny notices a large sign across the street; atop a vaulted one-story structure, it reads Culp & Sons Mortuary.

            Through stained glass doors, Benny enters into a showroom of caskets—big ones and small; Benny smiles, thinking of the Notchback. An aged black man, one leg shorter than the other, approaches from an adjacent room.

            —Can I help you, son?

            I came to see Gene.

            Don’t let them eyes deceive you.

            You?

            In the flesh. You’re Walt’s boy?

            Nephew.

            That’s right. Amazing how your uncle managed to plow his way through this fine city and never seed himself a child.

            Us Teals are known for misfiring, sir.

Gene laughs a raspy note.

            I see you have sons.

            How so?

            The sign.

            Culp was my daddy. Had a brother, but he’s long gone. No children for me either, but I wasn’t quite the Valentino old Walt was. You bring the artifact?

            Yes, sir.

            Let’s head to my office—you ever seen a crematorium?

            Benny face goes flush.

            I’m fuckin’ wit’ you. Loosen up, son.

33.

Egyptology, says Benny while studying photographs of archeological digs and hieroglyphics about Gene’s office.

            Yuh-huh. Been studying it since before I was your age. A youngblood being brought up in a mortuary who eventually saw Karloff in The Mummy…guess you could say it was a natural progression. He uses a small brush to polish the surface of the stone, placing it beneath a desktop magnifier, examining: This’ an intriguing piece. Where you say Walt got it?

            Garage sale. Bought it for a quarter.

            Sweet baby Jesus.

            What is it, exactly?

            I’m not positive of the era. Somewhere between the 2nd and 3rd Intermediate Periods—the New Kingdom, I’d bet. Looks like a symbol that flourished throughout Ancient Egypt—”

            The office phone rings.

            One moment, Benny. He answers: Culp and sons.

            Silence permeates; Benny looks up from a detailed model sarcophagus.

            Gene scribbles in a notebook and says, I’ll be right over.

            Have to go?

            A house call. He hands Benny the artifact: Can ride with me, if you like—I’ll tell you more as we cruise.

Sure thing.

34.

The Culp & Sons hearse is far beyond any kind Benny could fathom. The way Gene puts it, the vehicle is a South Central Supreme—made specifically for families of youngsters gunned down before their prime. The hearse is on hydraulics, sporting twenty-inch Daytons, a chromed undercarriage, and two-tone paint (purple/violet with gold flake: Lakers colors). Gene carefully commands his space ship down the mortuary’s rear alley and out onto Crenshaw Boulevard. Gene couldn’t believe Benny had never heard all his radio commercials for the sweet ride, aired on KDAY. Rhythm and Blues seeps out the speakers as Gene continues on with his lecture.

            —Hold that stone in your palm, son.

            Benny removes the artifact and follows instruction.

            Slowly, run a finger over the side surface of it. Feel the groove?

            Kinda.

            It’s weathered, no doubt—but it’s there. A design.

            Of what?

            A scarab—they played a prominent role in the mythology of ancient Egypt. Egyptians looked upon them as earthly manifestations of Ra, Lord of the Sun. One of the most remarkable symbolic figures ever conceived by man, in my opinion. What’s impressive with that stone is its naturally modelled in the shape of a scarab; however, there isn’t any inscription of the dynasty during which the design was cut—an odd peculiarity.

            How so?

            I’ve just never seen one without its stamp. Take hieroglyphs for example—the Egyptians marked just about everything, right? This stone should have some kind of inscription, but it doesn’t.

            Weird.

You said it.

This is the second bug conversation I’ve had today involving my uncle. He was into insects during the end—his last piece was a large Figeater in flight, composed out of a bevy of old clocks.

             A traversing of time…

            Perhaps.

            Want to hear something even more strange? Are you familiar with The Book of the Dead?

            Benny is stumped.

            The book’s a collection of spells that enable souls of the deceased to navigate the afterlife. I know there’s a link between the scarab and an important passage in that text.

            A spell?

            Yuh-huh. Friend of mine used to work for the Natural History Museum—a former archeologist. He’d know more about the specifics of that book. Could introduce you. He might be able to shed more light on this stone too.

            The hearse pulls into a strip mall on Slauson and parks at a far brick wall, gang warfare tagged about it.

            Gene points and sneers, Modern hieroglyphs.

35.

The house call didn’t involve a house at all, but a bar. Benny follows Gene’s awkward gate. At the puffy vinyl door, Benny asks, Someone died in here?

            Gene raises a brow: Not yet. Got other business to attend to.

            The dive is chilled and cavernous. A lone barkeep sits on a stool, reading the Times; he winces as sunlight splashes into the room. Gene leans on the wood bar before the man.

            —How much he down?

            Fo’ stacks.

            Fuck me.

            Who dat?

            That’s Benny. Benny—Carl.

            Benny gives a nod.

            Gene: You front him?

            Just two.

            Who’s the shark?

            Cambodian.

            You vouched?

            Nah. Lil Red.

            Punk ass. I’ll deal with him next time I see him. We burying his auntie next week.

            What you drankin’?

I’m good. Benny?

Bud.

Carl cracks a brew: Headin’ back there now?

            Gene nods, signaling for Benny to follow. At a rear door, past a beaten restroom, a red light bursts and buzzes. They walk through the door.

36.

A pool game is in session, red billiard felt illuminated by a stained glass lamp heralding cheap beer. Upon sight, one of the players—black and slender—embraces Gene; his clothes were cool in 1974. The other is stout and Asian, his concentration never leaving the table; behind him on a stool sits a larger fellow who greets Benny with a gentle nod. There are six others in the room, watching, smoking. Benny grabs an empty stool and sits before a tallied chalkboard. Gene introduces his friend as Erv, before returning to an exchange of whispers.

Gene turns to the second player with a hand out and says, I’m Gene. Be backing Erv for the next round.

The player’s name is Nelmon; his backer, the lug on the stool, is Paul.

Gene: Hope you don’t mind another railbird being in here?

Nelmon shrugs, chalking his cue. 
           
Gene takes a seat next to Benny.

They watch as Erv loses his ass in another quick game.

Gene curses in whispers. Don’t shoot no pool by any chance, Benny?

Benny marinates on the question.

37.

Railbirds flock to place bets as Benny takes Erv’s cue and rolls it along the felt for any imperfections; this strikes a nerve with Erv, to which Gene tells him to calm his ass down. Nelmon exchanges smirks with Paul, wolves eyeing a lost sheep. With the flip of a coin, Benny wins the break. He exhales, nerves tingling, blood surging. He’s never played for stakes.

Chalking the thumb web of his lead hand, he rings the cue through repeatedly and steadies for the break.

38.

Nelmon doesn’t get a single play.

Benny runs all nine balls to their graves with six cold shots.

39.

Hours pass with games good and bad. Benny does well, making Gene back some of the money he’d lost being Erv’s stakehorse. Erv leaves in a huff, embarrassed a kid from nowhere upstaged his show with his own custom cue, no less.

Gene is thrilled. Where’d you learn how to shoot like that?

            My pops. Had a table in the house growing up. Still do.

            Well shit, Benny. Anytime you wanna come down here, you’re more than welcome. The look on Paul’s face the moment you ran out—sonofabitch!

            I’m only good for a few games. Fatigue early.

            Just takes practice, son.

            As they say farewell to Carl and exit, the moon draws alarm.

            Benny checks his cell for the time: 8:46 pm.

            I can take you to my pal, the archeologist—unless you got some place else to be?

            At the museum?

            Not exactly.

40.

The Memorial Coliseum looms heavy behind the hearse as Gene swings it into an empty lot off 39th. Above them, cars tear down the 110, traffic low at this hour. Benny sparks a cig and takes a look around, confused.

            This way, says Gene.

            They walk toward the freeway underpass, both sides blanketed by a tent city, every square inch of sidewalk filled with bodies or trash. Benny keeps composed, trusting Gene’s every move. Vagrants sleep, shoot-up or swill rotgut. A woman caked in grime pushes a cart past them, babbling nonsensical poems. Others beg for change as Benny masks his nose from spoiled flesh. At a small army tent, Gene taps the door with a foot.

            Lew, it’s Gene. You up?

            A scraggly voice resonates, words undecipherable.

            Gene backs Benny to the curb as the tent begins to tremble.

            A man emerges, in his sixties, fairly clean in khakis and a soiled trucker’s cap. Reminds Benny of the old guy in Repo Man. Gene massages any anxiety brought by Benny’s presence, asking if the man would like to grab supper. Benny is introduced to Lew, and they ramble back to the hearse.

            The archeologist points to a lone palm tree in the distance: First one ever planted in Los Angeles. Used to be in front of Union Station. Got a commemorative plaque and everything. I get to gaze on it, first thing, every morning.

            They pause and stare at the monstrous tree; it had seen better days—trunk dry and rigid beneath weeping skeletal palms.

            Gene: Looks dead, Lew.

            Lew spits. Don’t we all?

41.

Before a liquor store/lavandería, they order street tacos from a food truck with no name. Curbside, Gene chats up Lew, not having seen the man in months. Benny remains silent as the men fight over football, baseball, basketball and their current taco selections. When the discussion turns to work, Benny is surprised to learn that Lew is still employed by the museum.

            Gene: Go on, tell the kid why, Lew?

            Lew swallows cabeza and licks a finger: Got fed up investigating the past. Thirty years, travelling the globe, obsessed with that which came before us. The Mayans. Ancient Egypt. Atlantis—

            Benny: Atlantis?

            Gene: Don’t get him started.

            Lew: My life’s focus has shifted to the impending extinction of man. Instead of spending the rest of my days examining lost civilizations, I’ve focused all of my energy on the present, embedding myself to investigate, first hand, our crumbling Los Angeles.

            Gene: He chooses to be out here, son—a chronicler of the decline of western civilization. Right, Lew?

            Hunerd percent.

            Benny: Guess I never looked at this place like that. Homelessness has been rampant for as long as I’ve been around.

            Lew: You from here?

            Born and raised.

            Then you see it’s only getting worse. Look at Skid Row—ten years ago it used to be a defined area, 5th and San Julian. Now where’s it located? Clear to the L.A. River, expanding north and south. When a virus strikes a body, its infection spreads more rapidly as time goes by. If the City were a body, it has yet to see a doctor. I am documenting everything—and if not me, who?

            Gene: Top a all that, you got that new freaky dope hitting the streets. Every fool fiendin’.

            Lew: If it ain’t one thing, it’s the next.

Gene: No offense to your uncle, Benny—didn’t mean to be insensitive.

Benny coughs habañero.

42.

I’d get this tested, says Lew, holding the stone under the spell of a street lamp. It’s extremely dark in hue, but I believe it to be Green Jasper. Regardless, it’s definitely a scarab.

            Gene: What about the stamp?

            Yeah, that is peculiar; however, this could be part of a larger work, maybe? I’d have to look into it more. What was it you originally wanted to know about it?

            Gene: The Book of the Dead.

            Ah. Lew turns to Benny: Practitioners of the Egyptian Mysteries were often called scarabs. The scarab was looked upon as the embodiment of the sun—it symbolized light, truth—regeneration. Stone scarabs, like this one, were known as heart scarabs. Initiates of the Mysteries would place the stone into the heart cavity of the deceased after the organ was removed to be embalmed separately—part of the mummification process. If I remember correctly, the Book of the Dead states, And behold, though shalt make a scarab of green stone, which shall be placed in the breast of a man, performing for him the Opening of the Mouth.

Benny is baffled.

It’s a portal into the afterlife. I believe this was stated in spell 30B, first referenced

somewhere around the Second Intermediate Period—but I could be wrong. I haven’t studied the text in several years.

            Gene: I wasn’t sure on the era of that stone, but pretty dang close if you’re saying the Second.

            Benny: Any idea of what it’s worth?

            Until it’s tested and certified, I couldn’t make an accurate guess—monetarily speaking. To any archeologist, a piece like this could be priceless.

            Gene: How the hell can he get it tested?

            You’ll need to see a Geologist.

            Benny: Do you happen to know any?

            Lew smirks.

            Gene: Lew knows everybody.

            I know a guy, but he’ll only do it for me on the sly. Works for the City, owes me a favor. If you’ll let me hang on to this artifact, I can take it over to him right now.

            Gene says, It’ll be in good hands, Benny. I can vouch for it.

            He agrees, saying, I’m sure my uncle would approve. His cell vibrates in a pocket. Reading the screen, he excuses himself and answers.

            What’s up, Griff? An agitated Griff barks through. Really? How can they do that?

            Gene senses Benny’s discord, pointing to see if the kid’s okay.

            Benny nods back: Yeah, man. I’ll be there in a few.

            Gene: You cool?

            My cousin. Can you give me a ride to his record store? Not far—in the Arts District.

            A’course. Lew, we’re taking the scenic route to this geologist.

43.

Zig Zag Vinyl is located off Industrial, sandwiched between a Michelin starred gastropub and an organic wine bar. When Griff opened the place, eight years ago, he didn’t have any neighbors, there weren’t newfangled lofts for sale and there damn sure wasn’t any foot traffic. The Downtown real estate boom changed all that within the past few years. Benny had a hard time pointing the place out for Gene, the block unrecognizable with hordes of sidewalk gawkers gasping at the hearse; he hurries to scribble a note in his joke book. Benny supplies both men with his contacts; Lew promises to call him with the geological findings and arrange for the stone to be picked up. Benny nods and gets out, entering the shop with a hundred prissy eyes glued. Griff’s behind the counter, watching the hearse bounce away; other customers take notice.

            —Helluva entrance, Benny.

            It’s been a strange day.

44.

—How long you got then, Griff?

            Notice says till the end of the month. Already searching for places in the Valley. Shit, you saw the block just now—no more room left for art down here.

            But if you pony up the back rent you owe and meet the hike, they’ll let you stay?

            Until they spike rent again. Who knows how long that’ll be—six months? Writing’s on the wall. C’est la vie.

            They stew in silence.

A song out the speakers cries, Yellow brick road took my load…

            How’d that interview go

            I was gonna call you when I got home about it. Hardly a job interview.

            How so?

            This bigwig named Bloodgood is a fan of Uncle Walt. Knew who I was. Called me in to see if he could land an original, since Walt passed.

            Animals.

            Asked about that giant bug sculpture in the studio.

            Flight of the Scarab. That’s being donated with all the rest.

            Bloodgood says he’ll pay top dollar. Could use that piece to fund this place, man.

            Can’t do it. Walt was adamant that every work he’d completed since he stopped selling to the public be donated to specific non-profit museums around the world. Flight of the Scarab was his last one on request—supposed to land somewhere in Tangier.

            I’m sure he’d think differently if he knew it could help you save this place. He loved the store.

            This’ my problem and mine alone. Things will work themselves out.

            Benny backs down in agreement: There goes my job, I guess.

            That sleaze promised you a job if you got him Flight of the Scarab?

            In so many words.

            Fuck him. Last thing you need is a prick like that pulling your strings.

            You’re probably right.

            I know I’m right.

            The front door dings. A customer in a fedora walks in and approaches the counter: Excuse me. Do you happen to have any of those kitschy ashtrays made from melted down 45s?

            Griff turns to Benny: This’ the new clientele moving down here. He turns back to the customer: No. And we’re closed.

            Your sign says, Open. There are four other people in here!

            Griff points to a plaque (beneath a photo of Dee Dee giving the finger) that gives him the right to refuse service to anyone.

            The hat leaves in a huff.

            Griff takes a phone call: Zig Zag Vinyl.

            Benny flips through a stack of new arrivals.

            Yeah, we got three in stock, one on multi-colored wax…. Clear blue with gold flecks. We’re open till ten.

            Benny holds up an Art Pepper rarity.

            Throw it on, says Griff.

Benny scratches the turntable.

That call just reminded me—tell your lovebird Frances you don’t work here. She’s called three times today asking for you. What’s that about?

            I broke it off with her today.

Griff gives a thumb of approval.

Benny gets lost in The Pride of Gardena’s sax, blasting through time and space.

45.

Benny fills Griff in on the scarab artifact debacle before marinating on all the strange altercations it has bred since he received it.

            —Walt was a weirdo, Benny. God, I miss him.

Did you know he was in a band?

            Griff smirks at Benny’s revelation, slides from his seat atop the counter, goes into the rear office and begins to rummage. Benny takes in the shop’s décor, a clash of music history and pop culture artifacts, surrounded by blinking Christmas lights. An unkempt, bespectacled customer approaches, hugging a stack of vinyl. Benny assures him that Griff will only be a minute, noting the customer’s questionable hygiene. Griff emerges with a 45 in hand and adds an adapter to the turntable. The needle drops; ensuing sound instantly perplexes the customer.

            An odd arrangement soothes out the speakers; Benny is taken by the droning voice—not quite singing, not quite screaming—undoubtably his uncle’s.

            The customer asks, This isn’t The Birthday Party, is it?

            Griff leers at Benny: Nope. A band my uncle started in the early nineties.

            The nineties! The man scratches his shiny dome, disturbed. What are they called?

Group had several names. One on this E.P. is Club Teal.

They listen intently.

Customer: That instrument?

            The Balalaika.

            Oh, right.

            A grin climbs Griff’s face.

            Benny: I dig it.

            The customer asks, How much you want for it?

            Griff: Ain’t for sale, friend. The only copy in existence.

            The customer begins to tremble, then calms himself from the one-of-a-kind treasure.

            Griff rings up the man’s goods, an eclectic assortment of LPs spanning niche genres.

            You should have these tracks remastered and re-issued, the customer says.

            Benny perks.

            Griff: I’ve thought about it.

            The customer hands over a business card: If you ever want to pursue it, I’d be willing to talk.

            The door’s bell clangs as the customer exits.

            Benny grabs the card and reads, Dickey Cyst. Somnambulist Records.

            —Gotta be his birth name, right?

            The remaining customers are in trance on the tune, noses up like sniffing hounds, contemplating The Sound.

            Benny notices their intrigue, nudging Griff.

The song careens to a boisterous crescendo with an abrupt stop.

The customers smile at one another and turn to Benny and Griff.

Griff flips the B-side and cranks the volume, re-planting the seed.

46.

A steady flow of customers comes through as they continue to spin Club Teal and talk nonsense till closing. Benny heads to a bar across the street, orders a round and waits for Griff to close shop. A television spouts the night’s news: civil rights issues, high school massacres—steadfast and toxic. Benny takes out the note given by Lew; it features a name and address, but no phone number. He slides it into his wallet, in fear of accidently discarding it, especially now that his plan for the night is complete inebriation.

            Griff walks in and takes a stool beside him.

            —That studio motherfucker really got under my skin—can’t stop thinking about it.

            Why not? I have, says Benny.

            Only the truest of assholes can rise to the top.

            The bartender approaches: I hear that, brother.

            Griff points to Benny: Grab me the same as him and two shots of Overholt.

            The barkeep cracks a brew and pours their hooch without a jigger.

            Benny and Griff cheers, tap the wood bar and gulp.

            —Back at the wake, when I asked you if you had any plans, Benny…

            Yeah.

            When’s the last time you hit an open mic?

            Six months, at least.

            Why’d you stop?

            Frances begged me to quit; said it was, A delusional pursuit. Figured now’s the time in my life to cement myself. Land a decent job, something tolerable—pursue stand-up as hobby.

            Get old. Die alone.

            Pretty much.

            Sounds pathetic.

            As it just fell out my mouth, I was thinking the same thing.

            Good. You still need stand-up as an outlet for depression, don’t you? Seemed to help you through your parent’s ordeal better than any psychiatrist you ever saw.

            I’ll always need it—I haven’t stopped writing or anything. I can depend on comedy, its catharsis—even when I’m up there eating shit.

            You’re funny, Benny. You know that. Every comic eats shit, no matter how successful because no one knows what’s funny until they say it out loud to a group of people. That’s the name of the game. The dance. Keeps the artist humble and hungry. You think Uncle Walt dabbled on canvases when he started? Fuck no. He was all in, man.

            He was.

            What if you went all in?

            How? Won’t support me financially. I need to live.

            Think of it as an investment. Grab a bullshit job to cover expenses. How bad could they be? Your folks’ house is paid off. Don’t drive a car. He counts on his hands: Property tax, home insurance, phone, clothes, food, smokes—booze. I miss anything?

            But…what about the future?

            What about it? It’s coming fast and it’s not guaranteed.

            Benny smiled: You sound like my mom. Used to say the same thing about being punctual.

            What’s the difference? Time is a luxury. In life, nothing is guaranteed. And from all my time I’ve spent on this spinning ball, there are two things I know for certain.

            What?

            You gotta use whatever time you get wisely, and a dream—no matter how big or small—is always earned.

            Benny stewed. All in, huh?

            All in.

They finish their beers.

Let’s get outta here, Benny.

            Go where?

            Let’s go to church.

47.

A Lexus sedan whisks them through Downtown, its busy sidewalks peppered by construction cranes and wrecking balls. Benny takes note of all his favorite spots that are no longer there: Bar 101, The Caravan Bookstore… Cannibalism comes with the territory, every Angeleno knows this. The moment you fall in love with any institution is the moment they are destroyed. But, that’s fine since it’s sunny every day here.

The driver is hairy yet well-groomed with a team of religious medallions on his rearview. Griff is constantly texting, forcing Benny to glue his attention out the window for entertainment. At a light near the 7th Street Metro Center, a crust punk busks for dollars, his dreadlocks adorned with the tips of Bic lighters. Beside him is a Labrador puppy held by his travel companion, a teenage girl whose radiant smile broadcasts broken teeth. Benny rolls down the window to hear a bit of the song bird. Before sound can hit, the girl begins to tremble, then spasm violently—body vibrating like those vagrants he saw in Culver City.

            —Griff.

            His cousin looks at the girl with zero alarm: Yeah. What is it?

            You see that? She might be having a seizure.

            Nah.

            Nah?

            Greenbacks, dude. She’s on the trip of a lifetime.

            Are you sure?

As yellow snow.

How do you know?

How do you think?

When?

Walt gave me a batch, when he first got ’em. Wasn’t my bag, but I can see why folks are clamoring for a far out trip through the heavens. Everyone’s on ’em. Traded a customer the rest of my stash for a Beefheart LP.

Griff went back to texting.

Benny leered at the girl’s ghastly perma-grin—her thrashing cheeks—until the light turned green.

48.

A legion of billboards welcomes the pair to the Sunset Strip. Griff still hasn’t told Benny where they are going, but Benny has a pretty good idea. A smile washes across his face, thinking of Skid Mark’s departing words to him: Get soused, whip your dick out—live your goddam life.

            Griff instructs the driver to let them off in front of the Hyatt.

            Benny asks, Why not just have him drop us at The Store?

            Griff smirks: I wanted it to be a surprise.

            Why are we going there?

            For inspiration, young man.

            Who’s up tonight?

            Who isn’t? I know a guy works there—hooked him up with an ultra-rare Stooges import, few months back. Guy owes me a solid. Entry and drinks are on the arm tonight.

            That who you’ve been texting with this whole time?

            Don’t worry what I be doing.

            The black structure is ensconced in bulbs, its red draped patio radiant up ahead. Folks are bustling about the entrance, awaiting early shows. On cue, they are waved past the line to enter the Church of Comedy.

49.

Griff has Benny post at the bar while he exits to find his buddy. Benny is set to order beers, waiting patiently, eyeing the neon busts of comedy’s patron saints. About the room, familiar faces can be seen, voices heard—ones on late night, sitcoms or podcasts. Having never been to The Store was a laughable offense for any aspiring stand-up—especially one who could ride the bus there. The rooms are too heavy, he once thought; couldn’t wrap his head around them. Had always imagined coming here when the time was right, his craft polished—after years spent grinding coffee houses, bookstores and pubs… He drinks in the room, as intimidating as he’d imagined. He reflects on the past five years of shitty open mics; he recalls that first pop of laughter he’d earned in high school, outwitting a biology teacher…

The room’s energy surges through him, its spectrum of light wrapping a second skin.

A couple on a date take their drinks to a table; Benny shuffles up to order. A whistle jars his attention. He looks up to see Griff waving him over at a far corner. Benny points to the bar, but Griff shakes him off. Benny shrugs and heads toward him.

50.

They make their way through a darkened corridor that leads to a rear lounge, off limits to patrons. Benny follows Griff through a door, inside teaming with the night’s headliners. A wet bar sits in the corner—reefer clouding the room. Griff shouts at his buddy, a household celebrity; they embrace in laughter. Benny thinks, How could Griff not mention this was his buddy? Benny is introduced and plays it cool, trying hard not to stare at a person who’d starred in some of his favorite films, cautious to make too much eye contact. The guy laments about the perils of showbiz, then his new residency at The Mirage in Vegas. Benny remains silent as Griff and the star begin talking about records. He goes to fix himself a cocktail, spurning the leers of other performers. He smiles, not knowing what else to do. The hooch is all top shelf. He pretends he knows his way around the stuff, grabbing a magnum of vodka and splashing it upon rocks. Before he can take a pull, a petite hand squeezes his shoulder. He spins.

            —Twice in one day, Benny Teal. This must be a sign from the universe.

            Benny smiles at Sydney Page, dressed casual in a t-shirt, boots and denim. To think this was the same person he’d met at the studio floored him: Ms. Page!

            Syd. Please.

            Words escape before being processed by his brain: What brings you here, Syd?

            Me? I came for the food.

            Benny laughs.

            No, but seriously, I’m here on research—did you know this place used to be Ciro’s nightclub? Granted it wasn’t open in the twenties, but 1940. You’re from Los Angeles, so I don’t need to tell you the footprint of Prohibition isn’t easy to come by these days. Regardless, there is so much Hollywood history in this place—from Bogart to Bugsy—Marilyn to Marlene. She closes her eyes: I can feel the ghosts passing through my bones right this very second…. Can’t you?

            Not really. Her sharp stare brings a jolt. —But you know…I just got here. He thumbs the hooch: Need some other spirits?

            I’ve had a few sips already. So has my friend there—the one who got me in.

            Benny shrinks upon seeing the famous face napping on a sofa: That’s Vic Denny. The Vic Denny. Jesus fucking Christ—you came with Vic Denny?

            He’s my uncle.

            Are you serious?

            Don’t I look serious? She stares back, a hundred-mile-gaze straight through him. —I have an uncle who’s an artist too, Benny Boy.

            He takes a drink: That’s fantastic. I mean… He stops himself from stammering. The man was his comic hero—a trailblazer who should’ve died years ago from sheer recklessness. The man shunned the entire Hollywood system, popping up at clubs around the U.S., unannounced, working new material—always refusing T.V. specials from major companies—doing stand-up for nothing more than therapy. And he was right there! Snoring with a hand down his pants.

            Claps from the audience outside seep through the walls, drawing their attention.

            Benny doesn’t fight Sydney pulling his elbow, eyes darting around for Griff and his pal, nowhere to be found.

            Let’s grab us a seat, Syd says. Before opening the far door, she turns to Benny, green eyes aflame and snorts, Tonight just got interesting.

51.

A host ushers them toward a far table in the corner; Syd puts up a fight about their proximity to the stage, but her effort is lost on the female host, bouncing off the girl like a rubber chicken. Benny is fine with the table, mentioning to Syd his content. She doesn’t make any fuss about being Vic Denny’s niece, which sits well with Benny, anxious the girl would pull a Don’t you know who I am? card. Instead, she flutters glittery fingertips in the air for cocktail service, blowing out the candle lit between them.

            —Don’t you just hate those damn things?

            Ambient light?

            Petty distractions. I didn’t come all the way down here to stare at a flickering flame or smell fucking flowers. Drinks, Benny Boy! Serve them to us in bowls!

            Benny smirks at the actress, not sure if she’s being spontaneous and genuine, or rehashing one of the dozen scripts she’d auditioned this month.

            A spotlight burns a hole in the stage as tunes from out a piano simmer to a crawl. The night’s M.C. bounces through a red curtain, onto the stage. Benny has seen the performer in several candy bar commercials over the years, his face funnier than most of his punchlines.

            A waiter delivers their drinks.

            Syd laughs sparsely through the first two acts while Benny just sits smiling, taking in the not-quite-drunk-yet crowd. His phone vibrates in a pocket: It’s Griff, telling him to come back to the hallway.

            Syd gives him a side glance.

            He utters, I’ll be right back.

            She nods, and he takes off. 

52.

Griff is waving for Benny to hurry up. Benny begins to jog down the corridor, noticing Griff’s celebrity pal sidled beside him. He follows them into the rear room, beside a tall curtain.

            What’s up, Griff?

            Remember that favor I was talking about?

            Yeah. Benny cranes to the friend, unable to control his giggles.

            Griff: Well, you’re about to go on for five.

            Celebrity pal: We had a fallout tonight. You good to go?

            The blood drains from Benny’s face.

            He’s good, says, Griff. Been doing this shit for years.

            Laughter roars from the other side of the curtain.

            Benny can hear the M.C. return on the mic.

            A portly female emerges from the curtain and says, Good luck with those cunts, before storming off.

            Time stands still.

            Benny hears the M.C. float a dick joke then introduce—Benny Teal!

            Griff shoves him toward the curtain.

            Benny takes a deep breath and dives through.

53.

Benny squints through the blinding light, taking the mic from the M.C. as a small round of applause putters out. His brain mines for material, stuff he knows can kill—his heavy hitters.

            Then, he remembers he has no heavy hitters.

            The clanking of glassware grows louder; forks crash onto plates.

            A waiter clears his throat.

            Sydney Page’s jaw is ajar.

            Benny focuses on the couple seated at the front table—the same pair he stood next to at the bar earlier. Crowd work. He greets the room, commenting on how happy everyone looks.

            —These two are the perfect couple. Am I right?

            The blond girlfriend blushes; her boy toy nods.

            It was instant, right? When you saw each other—love at first sight?

            The pair turn bright red.

            —That’s what I thought. Everyone I know who’s in a loving relationship says the same thing to me, and I envy you guys. I really do. It bugs me though. I’m always wondering why it takes an instant for you to find your heavenly soulmate, but it takes me two years to find I’m dating Satan herself. I have to do hard time—subleasing a walk-in closet with The Beast and her four cats…out in the Valley—

54.

The M.C. can’t grab the mic quick enough. Benny vanishes into the curtain, emerging on the other side to see no one. He approaches a far table with food and spirits and uses it to prop himself from fainting. Those five minutes felt like an hour. Got a few laughs, he thought. Couldn’t remember, the whole set a sickening adrenaline blur. He wants to vomit, but before he can grab a trash can, a voice beyond says, Ouch. He spins.

            Vic Denny.

            —You need a bag, kid?

            The question perplexes Benny.

            —So, you can take all those dicks to eat at home later.

            Benny mishears: Figs?

            Vic chuckles: Nah, man—dicks. Penises—cocks—you were gobblin’ them by the dozen out there.

            Benny smirks, crestfallen: I had nothing tonight, Mr. Denny. Didn’t know I was going up—I’m sorry.

            The hell you apologizing to me for, kid? Vic slaps Benny on the shoulder. —You had a couple premises that might be worked out. Could use a callback for that gag about Karens. How’d it go?

            Basically, how I feel bad for women actually named Karen nowadays—like this girl I tried to finger in high school, but hit the wrong hole. She’s had to endure the trauma of my stupid ass, now she’s tied into a movement of enraged racist white broads…

            Silence.

            Vic blurts, Yeah, that’s no good, kid. Scrap it.

            Okay. Thanks…

            Laughter seeps out the curtain; another comic shoots into the room and goes up.

            How long you been eating dicks, kid?

            On and off for five years.

            Time to sink or swim then. Took me that long to find my bearings—shoulda heard all the garbage spewing out my head in the nineties. I’d make all these weird faces and shit. Good Lord. A complete mess. I ate my share of dicks—plenty to still choke on too. That’s the price of admission. Better learn to love that silence. If I were you, I’d be going up somewhere every night, twice a night or more. Fill up a few gag books—learn what works for different crowds. Get up in enough rooms and you’ll experience everything—the good—the bad. Most everywhere won’t pay you, but they usually have free food and booze, but you prolly already know that. Another five years and the audience will be a minor distraction. Buncha drunk assholes, tryin’ to forget they work in cages for an hour. The art will become king. Once you’re ten years in, long as you keep writing new material, it’ll click. I mean, it should…if you want it bad enough. Your folks support you—like your act?

            They’re dead.

            Shit, that’s even better, kid! You can only disappoint yourself.

            Benny nods, marinating on the wisdom.

            Sydney walks into the room, hugs Benny, pretends he did okay, then properly introduces her uncle.

55.

Benny doesn’t get a chance to speak with Griff about his impromptu set; a doorman tells him that Griff had left with two gals back to that celebrity’s mansion. The doorman apologizes for Griff, to which Syd asks Benny, What’s the matter?

            Benny shrugs the doorman off, and says to Syd, Let’s get the hell out of here.

            My uncle always eats at Mel’s Diner after his set. I’m supposed to meet him there later.

            I could eat, says Benny.

56.

Benny and Syd walk into the diner, past an undulating jukebox wailing about a candy-colored clown. They weave through tables to a long counter with fixed emerald stools. Grease plates waft from out the kitchen: thick-cut fries, monster burgers, chicken fried steak. They sit below a giant photo of Buster Keaton and order shakes. Syd makes light of Benny and Buster’s long faces, to which Benny doesn’t react.

            —Cheer up, Benny Boy. Things don’t always come up aces.

            I needed that back there. I didn’t know it then, but I do now. All those years of bullshit open mics—I didn’t take it seriously. I’m blowing it. Now I know how far off the mark I am. It’s liberating in a way.

            I wouldn’t go too hard on yourself. Heard a few laughs here and there. I thought you were funny.

            Benny turns to her: Thanks, but that’s not necessary.

            This town runs on rejection. Have to weed out the bad to find out what’s good. Look at your uncle, the artist—I bet he hated his early stuff. Now you know what work needs to be done. It’ll be a long, humbling road—but fuck it. Prove ’em all wrong. That’s my motto. You think I like doing flicks called Ghoul Girls in the High School Ghoul-a-rama?

            It’s a gig.

            Exactly. And a gig’s a gig. Persistence breeds perfection too. Never know who could be paying attention when you catch a break.

            No shit. Could be Vic Denny.

            A server slings them chocolate shakes.

            Syd smiles as she chomps a cherry. Commotion is heard over by the juke. —Speaking of… She waves to her uncle, in argument with an unfavorable tattooed gentleman.

57.

Benny cranes from his straw and asks Syd, Who’s that?

            Marco, says Syd. Uncle Vic’s dope dealer.

            Heroin?

            Like you didn’t know? The one common denominator with Vic Denny over all these years—granted he plays it much straighter with his habit. Dabbles really. No more needles—snorts it. I call it his nostalgia trip, but he believes it to be creative lifeblood.

            Really?

            Mm-hmm.

            Vic and Marco saddle up to the fountain bar; Syd introduces Benny to Marco; Marco doesn’t acknowledge either of them.

            Benny and Syd are sandwiched between the men, Vic complaining about the purity of Marco’s H, to which Marco scoffs, baggy in hand, ready for their transaction. Vic rifles through a wad in his coat and splashes it atop the counter. Marco’s cell chirps another eager customer; he puts the phone down, grabs the money and tosses the dope over chocolate shakes.

            Syd: Hey Marco, we have the same phone case. She points at her cell. —Wild, right?

            His eyes never leave the bills in-hand.

            Syd: You got any Greenbacks on ya?

            How many?

            Just two.

            Marco barks, Forty.

            Forty? Price was half that last time.

            Yeah, well, like…that was las’ time, girl.

            Benny gulps.

            Syd puts her cell on the counter and pulls out the bills from her front pocket. Her hand slaps Marco’s and the exchange is done.

            Marco grabs his phone and grumbles under breath to Vic on his way out.

            Vic stands and shouts, Get outta here, drug dealer. This is a family restaurant! He then turns to the shocked waiter and says, Coffee, black—and a patty melt on rye. Thanks.

58.

Benny sits next to Vic in silence, watching the man wolf his dinner in the reflection of a mirror, not wanting to disturb him. Syd emerges from the ladies’ room and signals for Benny that she’s ready to go. He wishes Vic good night, thanking him for the advice, and heads to the door; Vic gently nods, gnashing a mouthful.

            On Sunset, Benny doesn’t bring up Syd’s drug buy, figuring she’ll tell him all about Greenbacks if she wants. Was none of his business anyway. There was enough on his mind.

            Foreign cars scream down the boulevard. The night is young with promise, approaching midnight. His phone vibrates an unknown number. He answers to shouting squeals, knowing immediately the score: Frances. He blocks the unknown number, eyes returning to Syd.

            She asks, Everything okay?

            Wrong number.

            Bullshit.

            My ex.

            That’s more like it. She sounded furious. Gotta keep one eye on a man who sends a lady into frenzy. Do I got something to worry about, Benny Boy?

            How so?

            Her eye bulged.

            Benny smirks. You know, my uncle was the only person to call me, Benny Boy?

            Another sign from the universe, my dear. Hey, check out what I learned earlier today, man. Got an audition lined up next week for this mixed martial arts movie. She spreads her legs in a combative stance, puts up her dukes and begins shadow boxing.

            Tough stuff.

            Wait, that’s not it. It’s coming. Don’t blink.

            He takes in her rapid fists and nimble feet. Her left foot plants as she shoots forward with a haymaker.

            Woah, Syd.

            It’s called a Superman punch.

            Superwoman is more like it.

            She giggles and grabs his arm: Pretty cool, right?

            Way cool.

             I’m taking a few classes over the weekend to get everything straight. I’ll kill for that role. So, what should we do now?

            Haven’t a clue.

            I was trying to catch some of your uncle’s artwork online earlier, but there wasn’t much to come across.

            That’s by design.

            Is there somewhere in town that has his stuff on display? Meeting you today has got me beyond curious.

            I can take you to his studio. A bit of a drive though, and I don’t drive.

            Me neither, says Syd. Let’s hail us a sleigh.

59.

A newfangled Lincoln picks them up off Sunset. They are halfway down the coast, salt in the air, palm trees like bundled scepters, when Syd realizes she’s missing her damn cell phone. Benny lends her his to call Mel’s Diner; they have it in their lost and found; a busboy retrieved it while cleaning off the counter. Relief washes over her.

            Shouldn’t we go back? Benny asks.

            Let’s go in a bit. They’re open all night. She rolls down the car’s window and breathes in the Pacific Ocean, briny as a half-day boat.

60.

Near Ocean Park.

            Benny rifles through his keychain for the right one to open the studio; Syd takes in the windowless industrial building. The steel door opens to darkness. Benny asks her to wait while he turns on the lights. She grins at the first to glow, a team of vulgar neon signs. Fluorescent bulbs crackle next, illuminating odd tapestries and jumbled sculptures. The smell hits her and she places knuckles beneath nostrils.

            Sorry about the stench, says Benny. A lifetime of art can turn sour as hell.

            Syd approaches the large statue of an insect.

            Flight of the Scarab, says Benny.

            What’s that?

The name of the piece you’re looking at. A giant beetle that frequents these parts. I’m sure you’ve seen them lately.

Figeaters. I saw hundreds buzzing down Hollywood Boulevard last week—the darndest thing.

Benny smiles. This sculpture is of one in its natural propulsion, upside down. It’s my Uncle Walt’s final work.

            A wild masterpiece, she says before touching one of its many antique clocks as if it were alive.

            I’ve heard folks say the sculpture involves the traversing of time…

            Ancient Egypt held these in high regard, if I remember correctly. I got passed on this mummy flick last summer.

            You’re right. The Book of the Dead. A portal into the afterlife, or something. They saw scarabs as the embodiment of the sun.

            Do you think your uncle knew of his fate—making this his final work on purpose?

            I dunno. I hope not.

            Maybe he was in tune to a higher frequency…

            He was definitely much higher than most—

            I’m being serious. Don’t mock me.

            I’m not. Sorry.

            I’m fucking with you.

            Oh.

            Syd peers up at the stairwell: What’s on the roof, Benny Boy?

61.

They lounge and spark cigarettes amongst rusted sculptures and road signs, trapped between four huge dinosaurs. The night’s calm is broken by waves crashing afar. They smoke in silence, lost in the environment of an eccentric artist’s world.

            Syd exhales a donut. Then another. —What a spot. I wouldn’t have believed it without seeing it.

            My fondest childhood memories are here.

            How could they not be? It’s like Pee-Wee’s Playhouse.

            He laughs, their wavelengths similar.

            Why don’t you drive a car, Benny?

            My folks were killed in a car wreck.

            Geezus. I didn’t mean—

            It was a long time ago.

            Still. Were you with them when it all—

            No, I was here actually, hanging with my cousin Griff—the guy you met earlier. Whenever his parents and mine needed a night on the town, we’d get dropped off at Uncle Walt’s. He’d let us shoot BB guns or slingshots—light shit on fire—all the fun stuff they would never in a million years… Yeah, so my folks were hit by this kid who ran a red on La Cienega—beyond fucked up in his daddy’s Bronco.

            In jail for life, I hope.

            Nope. He was seventeen at the time. Dick Schroeder. Judge gave him a slap on the wrist, even when he’d run from the scene of the crime. They said my parents died instantly, but Dick Schroeder didn’t know that. Fucking coward. Whatever…kid came from money. I always call him kid, but he’s a lot older than I am. Lives up in Eugene now—owns a sporting goods shop. Has a fat wife and two chunky daughters. All is well.

            That’s fucking bullshit. This fucking country… How do you know all this about him anyway?

            Social media. It’s like picking a scab, really. Every time I see pics of him at his kid’s birthday party or neighbor’s barbeque—whenever he writes shitty posts on politics... He’s living a full life; one my parents never got the chance to.

            Ever thought about going up there and burning down his house?

            Nightly. But the universe will have its revenge; can’t afford to think about the fucker anymore. Especially after tonight—that set at The Store…I’ve got bigger fights to battle.

            Syd leans over and wraps her arms around him.

            Cigarette smoke dances between them.

            Their eyes meet, lips touch.

            The world stops spinning, if only for a minute.

62.

—Buried in a VW Notchback?

            Benny nods.

            Unreal, says Syd, as she tosses fireworks off the roof.

            Another unknown call chimes Benny’s cell. At first, he thinks of dismissing it, but ultimately answers.

            Benny—it’s Lew. The stone isn’t at all what we thought it was.

            Did your pal have any idea how old it is?

            It’s old alright, but it’s shit.

            A cherry bomb explodes.

            —Okay…

            Benny, I mean it’s actual shit. Dung from an animal ages ago, partially fossilized in some sort of tar, he thinks. Prolly worth a couple hundred bucks.

            Man.

            Yeah, I’m tired of handling this thing too. I’ll be in my tent all day tomorrow. Swing by and grab it will ya?

            Sure thing.

            Sorry it didn’t pan out.

            But what about the grooves—the scarab shape and all.

            The way Gene talks about your uncle, the guy was probably pulling your leg. A joke.

            Another cherry bomb bursts.

            A joke, Benny thinks. He hangs up the phone.

            Syd notices his face, and figures it’s the ex again. She says, Hey, wanna come with me to this spot I used to work. Not far from here, and it has Prohibition history. I wanted to see it again, you know, for research.

            Benny nods and lights another smoke. —Let’s toss a few more bombs first.

63.

They ride Lime scooters down Pacific Avenue, toward Venice Beach. Syd didn’t tell Benny exactly where they were headed, wanting the adventure to be a surprise; however, it being nearly last call, she got the idea to jump on these electric rentals strewn about town. Benny did his best at keeping up with the girl, having never ridden such a zippy device. While his heightened caution begins to wane, Syd is busy zooming through traffic like a witch on a broom.

            After fifteen minutes of peril, the duo arrives beneath large arching letters, lit up to read V..ICE (the E and N have burned out). Syd escorts Benny to the boardwalk, only to take a hard left before it, ducking into the Townhouse bar. Upon entry, Syd greets a beastly older gentleman with a head like a cinderblock.

            —How goes it, George?

            The man pauses from wiping the bar top, his bulldog features softening at the sight. Well, I’ll be goddamned, he says. If it isn’t little Sydney Page.

            They meet in embrace. Syd introduces Benny. —Where the hell is everyone tonight?

            Business been slow, Hun. He cracks two beers and slides them over: On the house. Hey, I read about you in the Times, getting that bigshot movie.

            Syd blushes, bottle to her lips.

            How long did you work here? Asks Benny.

            Couple years. My first role. I played a mixologist.

            George interrupts: Twenty-nine months, four days.

            Georgie here’s good with numbers. Takes a barroom pot over to Hollywood Park most days—

            Before the place was shut down, George says. Still can’t believe it—track sitting over there empty for no good reason. Buncha dumb crooks, these politicians. I swear though, if you just close your eyes, can still hear them maidens clopping toward glory.

            Syd: Reason I came down here was to get a peek at the tunnel again. Researching that role you’d read about.

            No shit? Sure thing. I gotta pull a couple bottles from down there anyway. Lemme just hail last call and close out these stragglers. Gimme a sec.

            Syd turns to Benny, downing his beer. —This place is the oldest bar in Venice—hell, one of the oldest in Los Angeles. Nineteen ten, I think… She shouts the year to George.

            George shouts back, Nineteen fifteen.

            I was close. Anyway, they smuggled Canadian whiskey from the beach in here through a secret passage below. It’s bricked up now, but going down there is a trip. Old ghosts.

            Cool, Benny says. I read about a spot like this in Long Beach somewhere.

            Well, we’ll have to go an’ find it, says Syd. You free tomorrow night?

            He returns her smile.

            After another round, George escorts them down to a bootlegger’s paradise.

64.

Moonlight glistens Santa Monica Bay as Benny and Syd search for the exact whereabouts of the smugglers’ tunnel’s beach entrance, entombed by cement and sand decades ago. For the past hour, George had fed them fingers of rye while showing them pictures of the bar in its Prohibition heyday, back when a grocery store front and trap door were utilized to bring patrons downstairs for spirits in coffee mugs. He harped on glory days of ferry boats aglow across the bay in the late thirties, hauling teams of passengers to an offshore gambling ship run by notorious bootlegger Tony Cornero (a.k.a. Tony the Hat); when George was a boy his father used to bring him matchbooks from midnight romps on the S.S. Rex as souvenirs. Wide-eyed, Benny and Syd drank in the tales and rye. With every ancient photo analyzed, Syd jotted notes on napkins, now convincing herself that where they were standing was, indeed, the entrance to the nefarious tube. She sits down, hands caressing sand, eyes shut—attempting to channel any remaining energy from long forgotten souls.

            Benny sits beside her, heavily buzzed and sleepy, ruminating on the phone call from Lew earlier—the scarab being nothing more than stone garbage. He closes his eyes, taking in the lapping of shore. When he opens them, Syd’s hand is out before him, holding two tiny green pills.

65.

—I’ve never tried one before, says Benny.

            You’re not scared, are you?

            No. I’m just…booze is more my thing. And to be honest, I’m kinda swimming right now.

            Understood. Think of this as a booster to your buzz. I tried a Greenback for the first time last week, and let me tell you, it was exhilarating. I am by no means a druggie—hell, Tylenol can give me the shakes. The trip isn’t long either. Not like shrooms or LSD. It’s just a euphoric romp toward enlightenment, Benny Boy. A release from the body. You’ll see. I promise you nothing bad will happen. Won’t you accompany me on this fateful journey…?

            He freezes on the green pill before taking one from her palm, internally asking Uncle Walt to help guide him through this. It wasn’t like he was downing handfuls (like Walt when he’d expired); however, he had always been a lightweight when it came to drugs. But the girl is gorgeous, and the night is theirs.

            Syd pops hers and waits.

            Benny swallows his dry.

            She places his hand on her thigh, and they return to their restful states. Within seconds, he can feel the trembles surging—that violent rumbling quake.

            The pill devours him.

66.

Benny is focused on his breathing soon as the Greenback takes hold; through the body quake, he can’t feel any breath—or a heartbeat for that matter. His initial response is to panic, but the body doesn’t respond. He begins to feel light, floating even. Syd’s touch is long gone, his nervous system no longer in tune with planet Earth: He is on the beach, yet hears no waves, feels no sand, smells no salt. He opens his eyes to darkness all around, fuzzy, blurry—a blackness devoid of warmth. Waiting for focus, he cranes left and right, only to reveal more of the deep void. A distinct chill starts to rattle every bone. He goes to call for Syd, but his mouth is clamped shut. He tries to scream but the anguish cannot release! It’s only then that a legion of spectral lights appears before him—pulsing bulbs, more and more pinpoint as the seconds beat on.

            City lights!

            He’s a mile above them, the ceiling a cage of stars.

            He wants (again) to panic, but the body won’t comply. Among the glistening tubes and bursting neon, Syd is nowhere to be found. He is alone up here, in the clouds, with an increased buzzing through the ears. At last, he can see his body—a body that is not his own: sleek emerald flesh with protruding sinewy black arms. Six of them! He has become a scarab in flight, charging through familiar boulevards: Sunset, Santa Monica, Hollywood. He soars between buildings—ones he’s watched live bands or cult movies in a hundred times. No one on the street seems to notice him, mainly black-socked tourists and date night couples; he is another minor annoyance in Los Angeles.

            The buzzing grows louder. The Sound. He can now see thousands of Figeaters flanking his wings, a malachite fog. One flies up close, tapping him gently. He careens, but the beetle clings to him at the rear.

            Maybe it’s Syd?

            A rush of wind sends tingles throughout his core. An explosion of the senses ensues. As he basks in its blissful glow, without a second’s notice, everything stops.

            Darkness returns.

            He is trapped, motionless, entombed once again…

67.

He opens his eyes to find himself at home.

            A sigh of relief expels, him thinking this freaky trip was over and, somehow, he’s returned to his house. All of his senses have returned too; he first notices this when a familiar scent wafts from out the kitchen: his mother’s famous clam linguine. He can taste the noodles in garlic and white wine without seeing them. A wooden spoon tapping the pan has him jolt upright. Only then does he realize the couch he was sitting is not his couch at all; this couch was the one he’d accidently set on fire trying his first cigarette at age ten. Quickly, he examines the rest of the living room. Pictures on the walls are the same, but the carpet is dated—drapes a different color. As he stumbles to process the event, a voice calls from the kitchen.

            —Dinner’s ready, you savages!

            He hears the clacking of pool balls in the den, then his fathers’ hearty growl: Gimme a goddam minute, Pauline.

            Cigarette smoke seeps from the den; Benny carefully peers inside. His father is steadying for one last break. The cue hits and bursts the table. Benny’s father leers back at him: Wanna play a set after supper, Benny?

            Benny covers his mouth with a hand, trembling.

            Mom: Get in here boys. It’s gettin’ cold.

            His father places the cue on the table, pats him on the head and walks to the dining room.

            Benny stares at his hands—human fingers—then his entire body. A mirror in the hallway beams back not a boy, but the grown man he’s become. How has his father not flinched at his appearance?

            He approaches the dining room with caution. His mother looks lovely as ever, her hair forever in a bun—never once able to receive a compliment on it.

            She glares at him sternly: Sit down already, Benny. We need to have a word with you.

            He slides into a chair, plate steaming before him; he is afraid to touch it, not wanting it to dissolve into dust.

            His father leans an elbow on the table and speaks through a mouthful: Your mother here’s worried about you—

            I’m not worried, she says.

            That’s what you were cryin’ about earlier.

            Oh, geez. I wasn’t crying. I’m just curious, is all. She twists a napkin: Benny, listen. We just want what is best for you…so you can be happy. We want to know…are you happy?

            Tears nearly burst, but he holds them back, giving his mother a simple nod.

            Oh, good, Mom says. I was—well, we were worried for a second there. You know, how we left you and all. We never wanted to leave you—you know? It was just our time.

            Christ, don’t start getting deep now, Pauline. You’re gonna make us all cry. I told you he’d figure it out—and look at the kid—he looks great. Finally found his path in life. Has a new romantic interest to boot…

            An actress, Mom says.

            Dad: So, what’s wrong with being an actress? Better than that last psycho.

            I didn’t say there was anything wrong, she shouts, before changing the subject. Benson, why are you always draped in black clothing? It’s not because of us, right?

            He shakes his head no.

            Dad: Tryin’ to be like Johnny Cash—ain’t that right, son?

            Mom: He never listens to country music.

            I’m just talking about his look, dear. Cash held a commanding presence on stage. Maybe our boy here is trying to tap into that juju during his stand-up routines.

            You’re crazy.

            I’m crazy? Who’s the one told him he wasn’t funny? Not me.

            Oh, please. That was your sister, Bet.

            He swallows: This dish needs a bit more pepper.

            I put red pepper, black pepper and sea salt, just how you like it.

            Something’s off, Pauline. Believe me.

            Benny drinks in the experience with shimmering eyes, the thing he’d wished on falling stars to have seen one more time: The petty bickering of those he’d loved most. His father shouts for him to try the food and prove him right; his mother relentlessly defends her unmeasured recipe. Their faces are so true, so comforting—there for the taking, not lost in time—slowly being erased from Benny’s memory with each passing day...

            Benny sits and grins, ear to ear, not moving a muscle.

            They paw at each other for a lifetime, then the bickering stops—

            Darkness returns.

68.

The Sound.

            Benny hears an odd beat in the darkness, mimicking the tempo of his heart—at least he thinks it’s his heart. The noise grows louder, fast grating beats. Rays of light begin to break through; he reaches out to touch them, but his fingers crash into glass.

            A window?

            He feels around, quickly realizing a dashboard and leather seat.

            He’s trapped in a car?

            More beats let in sunlight.

            It’s sand—piles of it—not falling atop the windshield, but being whisked away.

            He’s in Walt’s Notchback!

            When enough light breaks, he spins to see his uncle in the driver’s seat, sprightly as the last time they’d hung out, Cheshire grin splitting his bearded face. Before Benny can muster a scream, Walt slaps his shoulder and says, Miss me, shithead?

            The engine roars to life.

            Walt shifts into reverse and guns it.

            The Notchback climbs out the grave; Benny can see the pyramid mausoleum—then the tops of heads—every funeral attendee, including himself. What the fuck?

            The vehicle careens backwards downhill, thumping hearty gravestones, trampling flower bouquets.

            Hold yer ass, says Walt, before shifting to neutral, pulling the emergency break and drifting the car 180 degrees.

            Benny lets out a whimper.

            Walt shifts into first and punches the gas, crashing through cemetery gates, gunning onward down an unknown road.

69.

Benny gazes out the car window at acres upon acres of open space: flowers, trees, rivers—exotic birds and butterflies—nothing resembling his Los Angeles. The sight out the back window is startling, the whole world aflame, a yellow brick road crumbling in their wake.

            —It’s a trip, ain’t it, Benny.

            How…? Wha—?

            The Greenbacks. It’s all in your head, man. The good, the bad and everything in between, but best of all…the weird.

            A four-headed pterodactyl screams through the heavens above them, making Benny wince in terror.

            Best drug I ever took, says Walt. Maybe a little too good if you catch my drift—apparently, I miscalculated the limit. Now I’m kinda stuck here, permanently. But I can’t complain. Shit, look around you. Excitement at every turn. I’m trapped in a revolving work of art, Benny Boy. He chuckles.

            Benny remains silent, watching a rainfall of bloody syringes drop out the sky, pinging the Notchback like hail. He claws his face, gaze returning to an influx of kaleidoscopic madness, this time a world of rainbows, hieroglyphs and spinning medieval swords. —It’s too much, Walt. I can’t hang. Let me out.

            You sure about that? He points at a swarm of rabid bats.

            Oh fuck. Benny’s hands brace the dash.

            Oh, come on, shithead. You ain’t havin’ fun yet? It’s only what’s in your brain, man. Think happy thoughts. Or don’t—hell, I dig all the rotten stuff.

            Benny starts to hyperventilate, then realizes many of the images are from recent events or odd bits he’d tried at open mics that didn’t quite hit. He sees Pee-Wee Herman, waving as a minotaur; Ronnie James Dio flanked by dancing Oz munchkins; the images somehow soothe—he starts to settle down.

            You’re not really in this world, you realize that, right? In fact, you’re far from here—Venice Beach—out by the ocean with a beautiful gal on your arm…naked and fornicating.

            Naked? Forni—

            Spoiler alert! Looks to me like you’re holding up just fine. Your folks were worried sick, but you know that already. Anyway, I just want to take a sec to apologize for that stone feces I mailed ya—it’s not purely shit though. The scarab etching and contoured shaping—wasn’t easy to pull off, believe me. My final work of art!

            But you knew it wasn’t anything more than a piece of shit and you sent it to me anyway with instructions… Why?

            To get you out of that goddamn house, Benny Boy. Been fuckin’ pathetic watching you rot away in there these past few years—getting walked all over by that zealot girlfriend, becoming complacent with living an unfulfilled life. He laughs with his whole body: You were about to get a job. Another wave of bloody needles ping off the Notchback. —My final wish was to give you a taste of how I saw the world, plump with endless possibilities. They’re all there, if you know where to look. Everything you ever wanted was just outside your door this whole time, but you never saw it. Not only that—now you know anyone who claims to be an expert on anything is full of shit.

            Benny smiles for the first time.

            Couldn’t let you go on ignoring your destiny, Benny. Same as I did with Griff when I gave him that busted watch. Time is all we have, man—

            And it’s not guaranteed.

            Flight of the Scarab—that was my whole point with that sculpture. So, you’ve heard this before?

            My mom.

            Pauline was a peach. Never knew what she saw in my dunce kid brother, but I digress.

            Benny points out the window: Holy shit! Those aren’t—

            Sasquatch, or Yeti—whatever you want to call ’em really. Dumb fuckers are everywhere these days. I prefer the Frankenstein monsters. He honks the horn, startling the lumbering beasts into another direction.

            The brick road begins to lift, upwards toward the sun—an open mouth; Benny braces the door handle.

            —The future is unwritten, Benny Boy. And that turd I sent you helped provide an outline to happiness. You know what you have to do now to get what you want outta life. Ain’t gonna be easy, but nothing worth doing ever is.

            Benny reaches out to touch him.

            Walt says, If you pinch me, I’ll slap you.

            Benny wraps his arms around his uncle, knowing that the moment will soon vanish, the sun getting closer with each aching mile. Walt pats his nephew on the head and speeds toward the ball of fire, embracing evisceration as he sings: Yellow brick road took my load…

70.

The dawn’s rays are blinding; Benny awakens, his right arm beneath a warm body: Syd, her rosy nipples pressed against his bare ribs. They’re naked in the sand. Walt was right. His head lifts to see no clothes in sight. Shit. She squirms closer to him and says, Mornin’, lover. Before Benny can respond, a voice shouts to them from down the shoreline.

            Benny can see a bronzed lifeguard jogging up with several pieces of clothing in hand. He pats Syd to cover up.

            —There you guys are, says the lifeguard, winded. From the tower, I pegged you two for a couple junkies—maybe dead. He tosses over their clothes: You’re damn lucky. We got beach cleaning scheduled in a few minutes—bunch of dozers pulling through where you’re at. Could mow you both right over. Now, I don’t care the reason for all this, just get yourselves dressed and move the hell on.

            Sorry, mutters Benny, left palm over his flaccid organ.

            Syd remains exposed, catching the lifeguard’s gaze: Enjoy the view, Baywatch? One phone call and I can have your job for harassment.

            Fuck you both, says the lifeguard, before lumbering back to his post.

71.

All things considered, I don’t feel half bad this morning, says Syd as their Uber hauls from Venice back to Mel’s Diner. Benny’s too busy massaging his temples to respond to her triumph, half-dead, the pounding of his brain like lightening between the ears. He struggles to comprehend exactly what the hell had happened during his trip, although spots become clearer as the morning drags along. They had sex at least once—he knows that! Syd plays as if their romp was merely a handshake between old pals; Benny is terrified that he wasn’t up to snuff in his performance, having lost control of all faculties that normally make him an okay lover. Was it over before it began? Syd regales him with her fanciful Greenback trip, which Benny cannot make sense of. When she realizes the experience cannot be articulated, she begins to hum a song she’d learned for a monologue to a one woman play she’d, Lost to someone prettier. Her soft notes are a fork to plate in Benny’s brain. He taps her leg for her to stop, but she takes it as an invitation and starts singing verse for verse. He closes his eyes and rests on her shoulder, trying to alleviate the hangover, knowing without a drink it will only get worse.

72.

Syd orders a vegetarian breakfast sandwich as the morning busser retrieves her cell from out Mel’s lost and found. Benny uses the juke to prop himself, sunglasses on, a godsend they remained in his coat after he’d shed it along the coast to frolic in the buff. He swallows bile, burps, then commences a slouch. Syd thanks the busboy with a hug and slides her phone into a back pocket: Hey, you guys serve alcohol to go?

            Benny burps, lunging outside.

73.

Syd finishes the last bite of her sammie after offering half to Benny more than once. Benny’s head is in a bus stop trash bin, dry heaving repeatedly: a cat to furball. Their bus is approaching in the distance, a billboard plastered upon its ribs featuring a jerk Sydney had once shared an acting class. They take the rear bench so that Benny can lie down, his head across Syd’s lap as she playfully strokes his hair.

            Your phone okay? Benny asks.

            Hope so, says Syd. I prolly have a ton of missed calls—but couldn’t tell you because its dead.

            I can relate.

            Say, instead of going home, we could swoop by this other spot with a Prohibition footprint. A stiff drink might recharge your battery.

            Benny wants to say no, but the soft look on her face has him defeated: Nearby, I hope?

            Downtown.

            Benny nods, figuring afterwards he can swing by Lew’s tent to retrieve his shit nugget before heading home.

74.

The female barkeep at the King Eddy Saloon nurses Benny with screwdrivers while Syd butters her up to let her have a look at where their hidden tunnel used to be. The gal doesn’t care what Syd does, long as she, Don’t take no pictures of their storage rooms. Benny’s brain begins to relight, each gulp a steady IV drip. Syd isn’t gone for five minutes before she’s back, asking the barkeep questions the girl doesn’t know or care about.

            —You should check out this joint, Benny. There are murals in the back like hieroglyphs to illegal booze dens.

            He nods, swilling another tumbler dry, finished with anymore hieroglyphs in his life.

            Syd pulls out her cell and asks to use the barkeep’s phone charger. After two minutes plugged in, the phone chimes and dings a ton of missed correspondence. Before Syd can grab to see who’d called, the cell chirps an unknown number. She answers to a man’s gruff voice, howling with violence.

            Even half-cocked, Benny can sense something is wrong.

            —Hold on a dang sec, Marco…

            Marco?

            Syd rushes outside for a better connection.

75.

By the time Benny exits the saloon, he’s feeling zero pain, walking toward Syd seated curbside, sunrays dancing in her hair. A fallen angel in Los Angeles, he thinks. The phone slides from her ear; she’s shaking her head before noticing his approach.

            What’s up? Benny asks.

            Found a phone alright, but it ain’t mine—it’s Marco’s. Fucker has my cell—picked it off the counter at Mel’s on accident. Apparently, he has this big deal going on today and it’s imperative that I bring his phone to him—

            He used the word imperative?

            Of course not, Benny! Listen, he wants me to meet him tonight at five o’clock. Will you come with me to this exchange? I didn’t say it before, but Marco runs with a motley bunch down near Harbor Gateway. Some rotten gang or other—he deals narcotics for fuck’s sake. Forty dollars for a Greenback? A certified scoundrel. Anyway, would you mind?

            Sure, but I need to make a pit stop along the way. Won’t take but a minute. Motley bunch, huh? Should we be armed, you think?

            Don’t be silly, Benny Boy. Between the two of us, our wits are unmatched.

76.

Exposition Park.

            Sydney takes her time reading the bronze inscription secured to a stone before the oldest palm tree in L.A.; Benny slaps its dry trunk as Syd begins reading aloud.

            —And was a mute witness to the growth of Los Angeles from a community of pueblo days to a great world metropolis of today. She pauses and looks up at the tree’s yellow fronds.

            Come hug it, says Benny.

            Their arms wrap around the beast, ears scratchy from its needly bark.

            Can you hear that, says Syd?

            Its heartbeat.

            That’s what I thought it was.

            They close their eyes and bask in sunshine, listening to the rustling song of its fronds, opening their eyes back up to an immediate panorama of dread: the 39th Street tent city beneath the 110 overpass.

            Some great world metropolis, says Syd.

            Forget your research of Prohibition—you’re gazing into the eye of a new Great Depression. Benny takes a step toward the encampment.

            What are you doing?

            Just hang onto that palm for a few—I gotta pick something up from a pal that lives in there.

            A pal—in there?

            An archeologist.

            Archeol—

            It’s a long story.

            Don’t think for a second I’m not coming with you.

            Here I thought I was doing you a favor, but it’s your call.

            She flanks him at the crosswalk.

            He takes out two cigarettes, lighting both before handing one over.

            —It’s for the smells, Syd. You’ll see.

            Her face droops, cig dangling out pouty lips.

            The light flashes for them to brave through traffic.

77.

—The decline of western civilization, you say? Syd asks a yawning Lew, fresh out his tent scratching a three-day beard.

            Benny: He’s out here documenting all of it.

            After a brief introduction to Ms. Page, Lew extends a hand with the scarab/poop artifact to Benny.

            What in the world is that? Asks Syd.

            Benny hurriedly shoves it into a pocket. —Just a piece that belonged to my uncle.

            Piece a shit, escapes Lew’s lips.

            So, your pal was positive about the stone?

            Hunerd percent. In my experience, geologists are a pretty dry bunch. They don’t mess around when it comes to dung like that. What’s remarkable to me is how your uncle managed to craft the thing in the first place. Apparently, the disintegration factor for a piece that old is a near certainty. Lord knows how he went about to accomplish this. He laughs: I think it’s a helluva work myself, fooling every person whose handled it.

            Thanks for the help, Lew. Benny pulls out his wallet.

            Put that away, kid. It’s on the arm.

            The female caked in grime from Benny’s last visit careens past them, babbling new gutter poems. He and Lew shake hands. A thunder of bass bursts from an approaching vehicle.

            Syd swoons to the familiar tune and says, Man, I love P-Funk.

            Benny spins to see the South Central Supreme glistening up, curbside—Gene’s warm grin beaming through its windshield.

78.

The Supreme glides down the 110 Freeway with Benny in shotgun and Sydney sandwiched between he and Gene. Gene had told Benny that it was mere coincidence, him cruising by while the two of them were at Lew’s tent. But this was a lie, Gene’s cruise being the fourth time today—an urgent billiards matter had him on the prowl for Benny, to which he reveals after agreeing to drop them at a joint in the South Bay.

            —See, Lil Red ups and decides to go an’ back Erv to a game with you—Erv telling him your win over the Cambodian was a damn fluke. Dumbass. Told ’em I’d bankroll you, no prolem, seeing as you’re a natural an’ all. Big money at stake, Benny. Could take Lil Red for a heathy sum; he just inherited funds from a dead auntie. You gotta come play tonight. Same spot. Only one condition: can’t use Erv’s stick this time. But, hell, I know you got that sombitch dead to rights.

            Benny says, I could beat that clown shooting a broomstick.

            Gene smiles in triumph, knowing damn well long cash is in his future. He changes gears to the situation at hand: Where we headed again, Syd?

            Exit at Torrance Boulevard, and we’ll run right into it. You got the time?

            Half past four.

            There’s our exit, says Benny.

            Gene flips to a new disc in the CD changer and cranks the volume. The Supreme floats down the exit ramp on three wheels before rumbling to a stop at the light. A sprawling German themed retail center sits before them, its banners heralding giant pretzels, oozing bratwurst, Octoberfest prizes and a Biergarten serving monster steins. Gene turns to the duo and says, Would you look at that—never been here before. What’s this place again?

            Benny and Syd blurt in unison: Alpine Village.

79.

Gene parks the hearse between a pair of minivans, slamming the chassis to asphalt before unlocking the doors. Syd giggles at the odd ride, always wanting to have ridden in one since watching nineties Dr. Dre videos. She sings the Supreme’s KDAY commercial jingle back to Gene, word for word; Gene jumps in at the chorus; Benny sneers.

They approach the quaint village with red tile roofs above creamy bone walls. Shops with toys, books and a schnitzel house make their wake as they head toward Biergarten picnic benches. Waiters in olive lederhosen clash among baseball dads and dance moms. Benny has a hard time understanding why in the hell Marco, the dope pusher, wants to meet at this spot; Syd assures him it’s the safety in numbers since Marco isn’t just meeting them there, but also his drug connect.

            —But it’s not like we’ll be clinking beer steins with these crooked bastards, Benny. Marco wanted me here promptly so that we could swap phones before his big deal transpires.

            Gene is too busy in line for a pretzel wrapped Currywurst to hear Benny and Syd’s conversation. Benny scans the tables for Marco while Syd retrieves adult beverages. A bosomy sexagenarian hands her two steins of Pilsner that mask Syd’s torso. They grab a picnic table to wait, just as a band with dueling accordions bursts into song.

80.

For stressing such punctuality, Marco does not hold himself to the same accord, strolling up thirty minutes late, decked out in a getup that could have him pegged as a Raiders waterboy. He sidles their table without a hello.

            —Let me have it.

            Sydney hands over his phone.

            Marco scans for missed texts and calls, ignoring Benny and Gene’s presence.

            Syd clears her throat.

            Oh, right, says Marco, tossing her cell onto the table.

            Hey, asshole—my screens all busted. What the fuck?

            My bad. Thought it wasn’t working before I realized it wasn’t mine.

            Benny: You should comp her for those Greenbacks she bought, seeing as now she has to fix her phone.

            Marco doesn’t lift his head from the screen in his palm: Fuck you, ay.

            They watch as Marco pushes his way through the band and heads to a far end of the marketplace, an area darkened by the rosy sunset.

            Syd: Now, where the heck you think he’s going? There’s nothing over there.

            Who fuckin’ cares, says Benny, drowning himself with Pilsner.

            Gene obliges a woman on the makeshift dancefloor, offering his hand for a dance, having the time of his life.

            Accordions blare.

            Grins flash like camera bulbs.

            Syd nudges Benny, splashing his beer.

            What now, Syd?

            Come on—let’s see what this dunce’s up to.

81.

They emerge from the thicket of the Biergarten to witness the jiggling of a split mesh fence that lines an adjacent concrete waterway. With no Marco in sight, and no other plausible exit, they deduce the right path. Syd sprints to the fence, while Benny ambles, searching for peering eyes upon them.

            At the fence, the waterway is ten feet below, a slither of mud and garbage debris snaking its bowels. Syd pans to see Marco, sprinting off westerly toward an oncoming vehicle—a white nineties Suburban. Benny sidles her, taking in the action.

            —Looks like our pal has a drug drop after all.

Syd parts the fence.

            What the hell are you doing? Benny asks.

            Without a reply, Syd shimmies through the metal fence and launches to concrete.

            Benny rolls his eyes and follows her down.

82.

They take cover behind a trash pile with a couch and two mattresses, roughly thirty yards from Marco’s ongoing transaction. Three large Latinos have exited the Suburban by the time they take cover, the widest of the lugs in a heated exchange with Marco, the essence of his displeasure inaudible. Benny nudges Syd to leave, to which she shushes him back in-place. Benny takes a knee as they watch Marco pull a large wad from out his pocket, a gesture of good faith to his business partners. Syd mumbles, Oh shit, as she catches Marco’s other hand inching toward a pistol at the base of his spine. Before she can tell Benny to run, gunfire breaks out.

83.

Benny doesn’t need any prompt to run for his life, the team of pops a start to his hundred-meter dash. Syd is faster, making it to the fence where they dropped into the dry waterway, only to find herself with no way to climb back up the ten-foot wall.

            Another trio of pops blast in the distance, followed by a scream—undoubtably Marco. They spin to see him writhing in the mud, grabbing his right leg in agony.

            The Suburban fires to life, the wide man swiping Marco’s bankroll from off the ground before climbing inside.

            Benny panics, searching for something to boost them to the cut in the fence. A wooden palate is not far away. He rushes to grab it, propping it to the concrete wall and helping Syd claw her way up.

            The Suburban’s engine growls louder and louder, rapidly approaching.

            Benny manages to fling himself from off the palate, hands slapping the top of the barrier. Syd grabs him by the back of the shirt, helping him through the fence. They fall back onto each other, panting. Clamor in the Biergarten has simmered, all those once jovial having heard the array of gunfire. Just as Benny and Syd stand to flee, the Suburban stops below; they gaze down to the wide man in shotgun staring up at them; there’s a scar running down his cheek, left eye cloudy as milk.

A horn from a vehicle behind them blasts over and over; they turn to see Gene in the Supreme waving at them—the bed of the hearse opening its rear doors and top like a beetle spreading its wings. Syd catches the wide man ogling the Supreme before they rush toward it, diving inside upon an empty coffin as Gene fires to the freeway.

84.

They saw us, Syd cries through a sheen of tears.

            Who was that? Asks Gene through the hearse’s cab window partition.

            Benny: Fuck if we know, man. They shot Marco though.

            Gene: He dead?

            Syd’s head falls into her arms atop the casket.

            Benny places a hand on her bobbing shoulder: Looked like he got it in the leg. We should call the police—have ’em send an ambulance—

            Gene shakes his head no, eyeing them in the rearview: Plenty a folks on the dancefloor already gone an’ done that. Believe me. Soon as I heard them shots, I went straight to grab the ride and pull your asses to safety.

            Benny meets Gene’s gaze in the rearview: Thanks again, Gene. You see an older white Suburban on our tail? Those guys were coming for us—

            Syd: We saw everything!

            Gene: If that boy ain’t dead, them thugs ain’t gonna care about you two—unless you go to the police. So, don’t go.

            Benny: And if he dies…?

            You’re future trippin’, says Gene. Syd, you got Marco’s number, right? Call him up—see if he dead.

            My phone’s broken, Gene.

            Benny: Use mine to call your uncle—can get Marco’s number from him, right?

            Syd’s bottom lip quivers.

            Benny says, Give it to me—I’ll call.

            The Supreme jams up the 101 and is swallowed by the Downtown skyline—its skyscraper daggers threatening the moon.

Benny punches the number and waits for Vic to answer; with each passing ring he thinks, Vic fuckin’ Denny.

Vic answers.

Benny explains his call.

Vic rifles Marco’s number and abruptly hangs up.

Benny smiles.

85.

The Supreme glides through downtown, Gene being overcautious that they aren’t being tailed. Benny and Syd are now up front with Gene, climbing out and in at a red near Olympic. Gene doubles back, heading west for Crenshaw Boulevard. He’s taking them to the pool match he’s got lined up with Lil Red and Erv; Benny and Syd agree it’s a good spot to lay low until they can reach Marco, who hasn’t answered any of their calls. Gene kills the music and turns off the Supreme’s chassis lights that splash the road in a violet fog, lowering their profile (as much as possible).

            The Supreme parks behind the bar this time, obstructed from folks travelling Crenshaw. The dive remains chilled and cavernous—Carl on his stool, perusing a Penthouse; the toothpick nearly falls from his lips soon as he catches Sydney walk in, quickly slapping the smut rag to the counter. Gene introduces the girl; Benny waves hello. Instead of booze, Benny and Syd opt for black coffee; Gene grabs a Hennessey and they head to the far door—its red light bursting and buzzing.

86.

Lil Red is anything but little. Well over six feet and pushing at least three hundo, the man looms above the billiard table with a scowl to halt a mime. Gene meets Red chest to belly, sipping his cognac, sneering. Benny and Syd remain by the door, awkwardly holding their coffee mugs, waiting to be introduced to the bruiser.

            Where the fuck is Erv? Asks Gene.

            In a raspy, downright wheezy note, Lil Red says, Ain’t gon’ be here, bruh.

            What you mean? He chicken shit? I brought my boy all the way down here to wipe the felt with that prick—you say he ain’t coming?

            Yuh-huh. Got rolled by his baby momma—cops swooped his ass on the way over—skippin’ out on child support, I think.

            So, that’s that?

            Not exactly. I got a pal in K-Town might be able to fly down. Cat can play.

            When?

            I’m working on that. Sit tight. I can get Carl to let us watch one a his DVDs or somethin’.

            Truck Turner?

            Sheeit, yeah.

            Gene turns to Benny and Syd, gives a shrug and introduces them to Lil Red.

            Benny: I was sorry to hear about the passing of your aunt, Lil Red? My uncle also died recently. Things are hard all over, I guess.

            Red sneers: No worries, young man. And thank you, but my Auntie—she knew her roll. Woman always fightin’ and hustlin’ these troubled streets. Bound to happen, her gettin’ got by some lost child with a gun. Hell, Auntie been dead to me since the day I was born.

87.

In the back room, they teeter on stools watching Isaac Hayes destroy a barroom with his bare hands, walloping drunkards over a pool table. Lil Red asks if they want Carl to microwave more popcorn—a pleasant gesture met by anger from Gene: Man, where the fuck this dude at?  

            Red double-checks his phone: He say after midnight now. He’s playing doubles over at Piccadilly—on a roll, I guess.

            Benny and Syd wince at the gunfire on screen.

            —I’ll give him till the end of this movie. Then we’re out.

            Red shrugs, heading out for more popcorn.

            Syd excuses herself and borrows Benny’s phone to try Marco again.

88.

The sound of the dial tone cutting out, followed by silence, brings Sydney to an excited pause. She hears breathing on the other end: Marco! Are you okay?

            A gruff voice, not that of the drug dealer, says, Who am I speaking with?

            Syd shrinks back into her talent, assuming the role of a pimp in that movie they were just watching: What you mean, who dis? Put Marco on, muthafuckah.

            This is Detective Vince Guthrie of the Los Angeles County Sherriff’s Department—

            She drops the slang: I’m a friend of Marco’s, sir. Heard he was shot—

            Oh, yeah. Now, who told you that?

            Long pause. —The streets, detective.

            He chuckles: The streets, huh? Figured that’s where you from.

            Is he…?

            Marco is in surgery right now—lucky to be here, the bullet barely missing his femoral artery. He’ll pull through. The streets tell you who done this to him?

            All I heard is that three dudes in an older white Suburban got him—

            Drug beef?

            Yessir. Most likely, I mean.

            Well, alright. You’re not the first to ID that Suburban, but other than that—leads on its inhabitants—we’re left staring at our shoes.

            Syd bites her tongue, wanting to spew every detail.

            Hey, lady.

            Yeah?

            If you hear anything else about this, you give me call?

The detective riddles off his contact number and extension—to which Syd listens and hangs up in defeat.

89.

Surgery? Asks Benny.

            Syd fills them in on what just transpired, the reality of it all weighing heavy in the popcorn mist. They sit in silence as Lil Red comments on a large prostitute’s outfit on the screen.

            Gene kicks the stool out from under him, nearly toppling over his bum leg: Fuck this noise. I’m hungry. Let’s grab a bite and head back to my shop. Prolly best not to have the Supreme on the streets, considering these thugs still be out there. Who knows what’s running through their heads?

            Lil Red protests, still wanting to bet on billiards; he eventually agrees to come back in a few nights—once Erv makes bail.

            Benny, Syd and Gene bid farewell to Carl and walk out to the hearse; they agree on a questionable twenty-four-hour drive-thru before gunning it for Culp & Sons.

90.

Gene plows through a double cheeseburger as if it’s about to sprint off. Benny picks at a BLT, barely nibbling. Syd can’t eat, staring at seasoned curly fries with disdain—her only option on the whole gross menu.

            Gene: These burgers are real nice—ain’t they, Benny? Not too much secret sauce or nothin’. Shoulda got yourself one, Syd? Missin’ out.

            I’m pescatarian, says Sydney.

            Benny goes in for another bite, but the remark has Gene shaking his head.

            Syd gets up and begins to analyze Gene’s office, touching the same artifacts that had Benny mesmerized on his first visit.

            Gene gives her the Universal Monsters bit about The Mummy unearthing his fascinations.

            She humors an ear, brain trapped in the moment, worried for Marco—an asshole she barely knew as an acquaintance, but now would remember for the rest of her life. Raw emotion swells, but she holds it together, thinking, This could be a nerve to tap into during scenes with extended dramatic pause.

A silver lining…

            The wall clock above a Sphinx statue strikes one in the morning.

            Benny yawns, sparking a domino effect out the others.

            The clock above the Sphinx begins to tremble, but it’s hardly noticeable.

            Syd touches the clock, then walks into the casket showroom, approaching the business’ front windows. Parting a curtain, the white Suburban is idling curbside. The wide man and his cold, dead eye gaze up at the shop’s sign. She rushes back into the office: They’re here!

            But how? Asks Benny.

            Gene: They must’ve seen us on the street—followed us back… But that don’t make no sense—them just sitting out there. The hell they waitin’ for?

            Syd: They must only know the business.

            Gene realizes what’s happened; his eyes meet Syd’s as she comes to the same conclusion; they blurt in unison: The jingle!

            Benny sits confused, then remembers: The KDAY commercial aired day and night—its jingle dedicated to the grandeur of the South Central Supreme, capped by a phone number and address.

            Car doors open and slam out front.

            Syd: We have to either hide or make a run for it.

            Gene rubs his chin: I got it. He takes out a massive keychain and hits a button for the garage door. They listen to it rising.

            Benny: Your plan is to let them in?

            Syd peers out the front window again: They heard that—walking around back now.

Benny comes up behind her; he notices a row of electric scooters parked across the street. Think we can make those, Syd?

We have to.

They turn to Gene, who nods in approval, knowing with his bum leg he’d never make it.

Syd blows Gene a kiss, and they rush out the front door.

Gene hits the garage button again, closing it, praying that the motherfuckers haven’t already come inside. The place is silent now, only the bodies in his freezers to hear him scream. He peers out the window as Benny and Syd fidget to start the scooters. He ducks soon as the thugs come rushing back out front. They see ’em! He’s helpless as Benny and Syd zoom up the sidewalk with a decent head start—thugs fumbling back to their vehicle, needing to turn around before engaging in hot pursuit.

91.

This late an hour, the cars on the road are mainly drunks, hacks and cops. The Suburban is gaining in the distance, its headlights a dragon’s eyes. Wind rips through Benny and Syd’s clothes as they motor up Crenshaw in the median traffic lane, hoping for a cop to see their recklessness and come issue a citation. Any ticket would be better than what that Suburban had in store for them.

            They’d been buzzing for a few miles now; the Suburban lumbers behind, careful not to run reds and get itself pulled over.

Syd sidles up beside Benny: What now?

            Benny shouts, Busses pick up till two—we’ll ditch these next light, jump on one—hope they don’t see us.

            They crank their scooters, hauling toward a lurching bus, far ahead.

            The Suburban speeds toward them.

            They toss the scooters at a gutter and rush off to sleeping bus doors. Before they can turn to find their aggressors, the bus doors slam shut. Syd smacks a window, hollering for help; that’s when Benny notices her screams go silent—The Sound returning—a monstrous buzz, humming through night.

            The Suburban chomps curbside scooters, the leers of its inhabitants lasered upon them, so focused with malice they haven’t a clue what’s coming up behind them.

            Benny turns to Syd and yells, Duck.

            Figeaters swarm the Suburban on their way up the boulevard—pinging off oncoming vehicles, tapping every window of the bus. Benny and Syd crouch, holding each other, but not a single scarab touches their bodies, maneuvering around them as if they are one with the emerald fog. Benny notices this first, grabbing Syd by the wrist. They buzz with the beetles, swarming to the cross street whose signage brings a glint of comfort: Pico Boulevard.

            Come on, hurry, Benny shouts as they sprint down Pico, his eyes scanning for Prestige Limousine, his heart pounding for Skids to be home. Syd turns to see what’s going on with the Suburban, but the fog is too dense to see through it.

92.

A team of limousines sit illuminated in Prestige’s lot. Benny leads Syd around back through the alley since the shop’s gates are locked. He searches for that brand new Camaro, not quite sure just how far down it was. They pause to catch their breath, sides busting, lungs afire.

            Do you know where you’re going? Asks, Syd.

            Benny wipes his nose, contemplating the question.

            A roar comes from behind.

            Benny knows its them, their getaway not as slick as they’d hoped. Syd turns to see the white beast, but Benny pushes her down the alley in full sprint.

            A gunshot pierces the night.

            They duck and keep running, the bullet hitting the ground well behind them. Benny looks up to see the Camaro in Skid’s driveway: a pearl in a rotten oyster.

            More gunshots!

            He pulls Syd behind the wall of tires and scrap metal that border Skid’s home. One bullet bounces off asphalt; the other hits the trunk of the Camaro. The Suburban screeches to a halt.

            This is it, Benny thinks: The End.

            Before the thugs can exit the vehicle, Skid’s door crashes open. Benny cranes to see Walt’s pal, in all his glory—leather duster, flip-flops—only this time donning a shiny Crusader helmet, wielding a cherished Broadsword overhead. The war cry from out Skids is enough for Syd to cover both ears.

            The thugs stop in their tracks, uncertain of what to make of this wild man swinging a sword at them. Jumping back into the Suburban, the shooter drops his pistol. Skids slashes the Broadsword through the car’s front windshield, pulling it back to smash at the driver’s door. The wide man screams like a barn owl before the Suburban guns down the alley, careening through trash cans. Skids blasts the vehicle’s brake light, then picks up the pistol, firing it in the air, stifling his war cry. With the clip emptied, he teeters in the alley, panting like a rabid dog, before muttering to himself over and over, sparking maniacal laughter.

            Benny approaches from the rubbish heap, hands up.

            Skids doesn’t even turn to him and says, I knew this had something to do with you, Benny.

            Say what? Asks Benny.

            I saw it tonight—you and that pretty girl—I saw all of it. The Greenbacks showed me…

            Syd comes out, wrapping arms around Benny.

            Skids fingers the bullet hole on the Camaro: Since last we met, I’ve been gobbling those JJ-180 bastards, enlightening the mind, wringing-out the soul. Spaced out my intake every six hours, rationing to prevent the eminent demise had by Walt. I saw him there too—on the other side; he led the way, told me what to do—how to live. Looks like it worked, from where I’m standing. T.C.E. He chuckled: Total Consciousness Expansion. Far fucking out, man…

            You saw all this happening? Asks Syd.

            Clear as crystal ball, Ms. Page. It’s Sydney, right?

Her jaw goes ajar.

Skids hands the pistol to Benny, adjusting the helmet on his skull, slapping the sword to a shoulder. Lights from apartment windows begin to spark. —Better get inside, kiddos. I’m sure the po-po are on their way. Don’t worry, I have those punks’ license plate—hell, even know their names too.

            Benny takes the gun with two fingers, and they follow their noble warrior inside.

93.

You saw them shoot that dope pusher, says Skids. That’s why they’re after you. Ignorant fucks. Every generation has ’em—choosing a life of death from dealing drugs instead of ingesting and learning from them. He snorts: They don’t know the dealer’s gonna pull through though—like I do.

            Syd puts down the Jackson Rhoads V that Skids had handed her and says, Marco’s going to be okay?

            Skids: Right as rain—at least not where the po-po are concerned. He’ll do time most likely, not for getting shot, but there are a buncha warrants for his arrest. To tell you the truth, the moment I stormed out that door toward the gunshots, them Greenbacks had me so floored—thought I was one of King Arthur’s men, racing to a den of fire-breathing dragons…

            Benny cradles the Broadsword, marinating on the alleyway incident—their terror quashed by a single drug-fueled marauder. He takes out his gag book and scribbles a note.

            Police sirens chirp outside. Skids grabs the pistol, wrapping it in a t-shirt: You two, go and hang in the studio—I’ll close the drapes and meet them out front. Hang tight and don’t make any noise. I won’t mention you guys. Everything’ll be fine—believe me. I’ve already lived this. They catch the bastards down the way when their Suburban crashes into another police cruiser on its way here. Idiots. If you get hungry, there’s salami and PBR in a mini fridge back there. He slides on his flops, swiping clean his duster, mumbling, Let the show begin.

94.

The sunrise heat bakes their faces as they walk down main drags to Benny’s house, rehashing their night of all nights. Tears of joy wash away with rib tapping laughter, the trials withstood, characters met, drinks devoured—Greenbacks partaken. Over warm croissants and coffee at an early bird café, they discuss movies for an hour, acknowledging greatness, lamenting disdains and arguing over careers of underground cult icons. Time is not lost, but theirs and only theirs.  

            Benny hadn’t even realized it before, the flaw in Sydney’s right eye, a small emerald splotch beside the iris. She beams back at him, touching his hand before swiping the last of his croissant. He grabs her hand before she can place the pastry in her mouth, nudging her forward, toward him, where they meet with a kiss.

95.

—Benny, my uncle doesn’t play L.A. that much these days, but whenever he’s in from Vegas, I’m sure he’d let you come hang at The Store and watch his sets. Hell, I’ll even go with you. We’ll just hang out with all the other comedians, drink free hooch, talk shop—that way if a spot opens up, like last time, you’re there for the taking. They always say it’s not who you know, right—but, they don’t know shit—it definitely is who you know, and you know Vic Denny. 

            And Sydney Page.

            Yes, but don’t think I’ll be of much help. Us thespians are cutthroat when it comes to all other talent.

            Benny slings an arm around Syd as they approach his home, the sleepy block coming to life with chirping birds and sprinklers. They are busy, lost in each other’s eyes, when a familiar voice (to Benny) shatters droplets of morning dew: Frances. The girl is on his doorstep, her red curls disheveled and wiry, as if she’d been pulling them out; she’s in sweatpants and a soiled pocket tee, having put on a few pounds.

            —I fucking knew it, Benny! This was never about me in New York—this was about you and this whore.

            Syd begins to laugh: Who’s the frump, Benny? Never told me you had a stalker.

            Benny’s hands go up in an attempt to cool Frances’ jets, knowing damn well what the woman was capable of when she boils. Could almost see smoke out her ears; last time it was this bad, he took twelve stitches.

            Frances shoves Benny, tattooing a middle finger on his chest. —On the red-eye over, I had a hunch. You’re the real sinner, Benson. And to think I flew from coast to coast to apologize in person, because that’s the amount of respect I had for you, Benny, our love… She gets choked up: I’ve prayed and prayed for us—

            Here we go, says Benny.

            Syd: She’s preying, alright.

            Fuck you, shouts Frances.

            Syd: Thank God for the sinners, honey. Without us, you wouldn’t have the privilege of knowing a good time.

            I’d rather be dead, than a strumpet like you.

            I’d rather be dead, than red in the head—bitch.

            Frances slaps Benny, then turns to backhand his new girl.

            Syd sidesteps the blow, her feet beginning to shuffle.

            Frances growls, taking another swipe.

            Syd dodges the blow, feet picking up speed.

            Benny knows what’s coming and takes a step back.

            Syd’s left foot plants and she shoots forward with a haymaker.

            The punch lands so flush on Frances’ nose that she can’t believe what’s happened, stunned at the unhesitant act, the precision, then, eventually, the pain. She grabs her face, blood beading from out her fingers, peppering the sidewalk.

            Syd remains crouched in a stance, ready to strike with a left cross if the girl wants to keep going; by the slumping of her shoulders, Syd knows this person has never been counter struck by anyone in her whole damn life.

            They watch as Frances squeals back to her parents’ BMW, fires the engine and speeds off.

            Syd gives Benny a look and says, You should come with me to my next martial arts class. It’ll make you fearless.

            I should, says Benny. Fearless… About all that, she was my—

            Whatever, Benson. I don’t care.

            You don’t.

            Why should I? She won’t be back, Benny Boy.

            What do you mean?

            Skids isn’t the only person who saw windows into the future on a Greenback trip. She smiles, shuffling her feet again, pretending to punch his lights out. He grabs her by the waist, and they enter the house, pawing each other, giggling.

96.

The moment their heads hit Benny’s Batman pillow, sleep comes hard. They drift through the morning, motionless in slumber. Noon comes and goes, curtains blacking out day: a tomb. Approaching dinner time, Benny’s cell bursts to life, jarring them awake. He fumbles through the house, dodging the pool table, to retrieve the call. The name on the screen is like an ice bath. He answers:

            —Mr. Bloodgood.

            How do you do, Mr. Teal? I’m in between meetings and was calling to see how your little quest was going?

            Quest?

            For Walter Teal’s last work. I am most curious. Has there been any news?

             Benny walks into the kitchen to pour a glass of water: As a matter of fact, there has. I spoke with my cousin, Griff—his mother is in charge of disbursing my uncle’s works to predetermined museums across the globe—

            And what about Flight of the Scarab?

            Well, that’s what I’m trying to get at. Turns out that sculpture was not the final work of my uncle. A precursor, really, to his most refined…bizarre work.

            Really?

            He smiles at Sydney, eavesdropping in her underwear. —Yes, really. Now, I have some free time early tomorrow morning if you’d like to discuss this some more. I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad time.

            Tomorrow morning? I’ll have to check my schedule…

            Did I mention that I’ve inherited this last work—a slip-up by design. My uncle was always quite the jokester. I’ll be at your office at seven.

            Seven tomorrow morning?

            Very well then.

            Benny hangs up before any further response.

            Syd: That was Bill Bloodgood?

            It was.

            And why the smile? What are you up to, Benny Boy?

            Wouldn’t you like to know?

            Benny picks her up and takes her back to the bed.

97.

They shower together after another go in the sheets. Benny divulges his plan for Bloodgood, to which Syd asks to come along—seeing as she never got to talk to the man the day she and Benny met. He agrees outside the shower, toweling off in its mist, admiring the waterfall off Syd’s chin and breasts. Eyes-closed, soaping her stomach, she knows he is watching, which brings a smile.

            Benny rummages through kitchen cupboards, pulling out ingredients for his mother’s clam linguine. Sydney emerges in a black button-up from out his closet; he places the noodles and olive oil down, leading her to the master bedroom. Inside, he takes her to a walk-in closet, filled with his mother’s clothes, ones he’d taken care of, shielding from mildew and moths over the years. He was never sure why he had to do this, but now he’s glad for the foresight.

            Syd gawks at petite dresses and coats that bookend basic nineties mom garb.

            Can I wear one of these dresses to Bloodgood’s tomorrow? She asks.

            Benny is already back in the kitchen, heating up the stove.

            Syd knows his answer, digging deeper into the closet, putting together an ensemble.

98.

—The white wine and garlic are what makes it for me. My mom used to add parsley and lemon zest, but I didn’t have either of those.

            Syd takes another whiff before slurping noodles. Where’d you get the clams? She asks.

            They’re from the can.

            Could’ve fooled me.

            He tops off her wine glass: Can’t all moms perfect dinners from canned goods? That’s what I always thought.

            Not mine, says Syd. She studies the glistening dish again, giving an awkward smirk. —My mom always got her boyfriends to cook or take us out. That meant restaurants most nights. One of those early boyfriends accidently became my father. She huffs: He went to prison for something I never quite found out—mom and her secrets.

            Is he out now?

            He’s dead, I think. Least that’s what she told me, but it isn’t beneath her to lie so that I don’t ever meet him. She’s in Tampa now with her latest dude, some mechanic—or was it Atlanta? She’s always been a sucker for men with dirty hands. I don’t hear from her much these days. Never have really, if you can understand that. But she taught me everything I needed to know about acting, and for that, I’m grateful.

            She was an actress?

            Nope. I’ve been playing the part of her loving daughter my whole damn life. If it wasn’t for my Uncle Vic, I wouldn’t have anybody.

            You got me now, says Benny, raising his glass: To orphans.

            To orphans, Syd returns.

            They clink and drink, snouts back to their plates.

99.

The next morning, they share a cigarette while traversing the studio grounds, marching beneath that giant artificial rainbow toward Bloodgood’s office. Benny is in is usual gothic attire, while Sydney dons a charcoal cocktail dress and orange flats, her hair done up with a string of black pearls across her brow; it was uncanny how well Benny’s mother’s clothes fit her physique. She passes the smoke to Benny, who puffs and returns it. Syd doesn’t extinguish the cig before they enter the Thalberg Building, sunlight gleaming off every dull Oscar.

            Soon as they approach the lobby desk, Marion stands from her chair and reminds Sydney that she’s in a non-smoking facility.

            Syd, back in her roaring twenties character, responds, My apologies, dear, and blows a final smoke ring.

            Good morning, Mr. Teal—

            Benny, please.

            Of course. Mr. Bloodgood is right this way.

            Syd and Benny follow Marion into the elevator.

100.

Marion puts a finger to her lips before opening the theater door. The screen herald’s a horror scene, bloodsuckers or monsters devouring one another: a baptism of gore. Marion shields her eyes from the screen and announces their presence: Mr. Bloodgood—Mr. Teal and Ms. Page are here to see you.

            The reel cuts, lights softening up. A rumbling of two voices can be heard as they descend theater stairs.

            Bloodgood appears taller than Benny remembers, still bald as a cue ball, dressed sharply in a crimson window-paned, double-breasted. Beside him stands a different employee of eerily similar demeanor as the last. The four of them exchange pleasantries.

            Bloodgood’s eyes linger on Sydney’s bust for more than a beat. —My apologies for having to meet in here once again, Mr. Teal. You see, we’re having an issue with another successful franchise. Why the studio encounters such problems with the same damn films made over and over, I’ll never know. This is my new associate, Telvin Kowles.

Benny shakes the associate’s hand, met by another stale fish.

Bloodgood invites them to sit, his fingers worming beneath his chin. I don’t see this last work of Walter Teal with you, Benny—unless Ms. Page is it.

Benny humors with a faux grin: Actually, it’s on my person right this second, Bill.

May I have a look?

Benny gazes at the associate, then back at Bill.

Bloodgood: Telvin, run and grab me a turmeric tea, will you? Not too hot, not too cold, honey instead of—hell, you know the drill. Would either of you like one?

They shake their heads no.

The assistant scampers off.

Benny pulls the artifact from out a coat pocket, wrapped in his father’s blue velvet handkerchief.

Bloodgood licks his lips as the weight of the piece touches his palm; he slowly unwraps the cloth as if it were a piece of the Shroud of Turin. He marvels at the stone, holding it up to the light, massaging its grooves, trying to interpret a work done by an artist far beyond his own refined intellect. He is in total captivation. How old is this stone? He asks.

Ancient, mutters Benny.

Impressive—a final master stroke carved upon a relic, am I right?

Benny nods, Compatible with his previous work, Flight of the Scarab, in its theme of the traversing of time. Many professionals have studied this artifact and were stumped by it, believing it to be of Green Jasper—

Syd coughs, containing a laugh at the turd before Bloodgood’s nostrils.

Benny continues, Regardless of its origin, my uncle’s final masterpiece is steeped in reflection on The Book of the Dead.

Bloodgood: Book of the Dead?

Benny regurgitates Lew’s words that he’d scribbled in his gag book: Practitioners of the Egyptian Mysteries were often called scarabs. Looked upon as the embodiment of the sun—symbolizing light, truth and regeneration. Stone scarabs, like that one, were known as heart scarabs. Initiates of the Mysteries would place the stone into the heart cavity of the deceased after the organ was removed—part of the mummification process. The Book of the Dead states, And behold, though shalt make a scarab of green stone, which shall be placed in the breast of a man, performing for him the Opening of the Mouth.

Bloodgood is baffled.

It’s a portal into the afterlife, says Benny.

Immortality, says Bloodgood.

Exactly.

What is the piece called?

FIGEATER, says Syd.

Bloodgood repeats the word twice and asks, What’s it worth?

            To any archeologist, a piece like that is priceless, says Benny.

            Then to you, Benny Teal. What’s FIGEATER worth to you?

            Benny’s eyes meet Syd’s before he leans over and whispers into Bloodgood’s ear, prompting the man’s eyes to bulge and roll over white.

101.

Three months later…

            Benny Teal, face blank as the moon, saunters through the studio grounds, holding two tall Americanos, onward to Sound Stage 8. He passes the commissary, bustling with a late breakfast rush, and admires the spectacle. Seated at an outdoor table are two leading actors—ones whose voices are often lent to ads for cars or reverse mortgages. They sit like robots on pause before sparkling waters in wine glasses, contemplating a tray of seasonal fruit. Benny sends them a nod and says, Mornin’, to which both actors mumble undecipherably. Benny begins to whistle, breaking the world momentarily with The Sound.

            Bloodgood had been more than generous with his end of their bargain, a large enough sum that Benny felt was only fair for Uncle Walt’s final masterpiece-of-shit. Not only did this newfound wealth present Benny without any immediate need for a job, it also provided for Griff’s Zig Zag Records to take up space in a new neighborhood, all by its lonesome at Fairfax and Melrose. As for FIGEATER, Bloodgood has it behind glass, under soft lights—forever on display in the same lobby as that gaggle of Oscars. Funny how the universe tilts in one’s favor, Benny thinks, especially in Los Angeles—a feat he never could have dreamed. Surely, Walter Teal has had his last laugh on Earth, Benny knows, thinking about the man, the myth—their last correspondence, flying down a gold-bricked road in a drug-fueled dreamworld of Benny’s mind’s design. The reverie is broken by a studio golf cart, idling beside him—its engine barely audible over his whistling tune. Benny greets the same yawning security guard in the same clip-on tie, who, now, he’s on a first-name basis: What’s up, Junior?

            Ms. Page has sent me to find you. She needs your opinion on an urgent matter.

Is that so? Benny hands Junior the coffees, pulls out his smokes and lights one before climbing aboard. —Still don’t smoke, do you, Junior?

No way, sir. Not cigarettes, at least.

Alright then, Junior. Escort away.

            The cart zooms through the backlot, gliding around tall metal structures and set design lots, none of which harbor any space ships or cowboys on horseback. He and Junior discuss marijuana strains and, eventually, the beauty of Greenbacks (the name of which has finally stuck to the masses). In no time at all, the cart halts at the foreground of Stage 8.

            Benny puffs away, coffees in hand, bids goodbye to his pal and heads for Syd’s trailer. Only now does he see background players in full vampire garb, bloody as hell around a table of cupcakes and cold cuts. At the trailer, he doesn’t even have to knock, the door flinging open upon arrival.

            Get a load of this, says Syd, her face serpentine with long gnarled fangs. The rest of her body is in a bright green body suit, awaiting prep for digital shenanigans.

            Where are your contacts? I thought you said they’d decided on neon eyes?

            Judy ran off to find the makeup crew. Marty says they must’ve misplaced them during their cocktail lunch at the Backstage. So, do you love it, or what?

            You look like the devil herself. He hands her the coffee, pulling a straw from out his jacket.

            Perfect, she says, sipping through a heinous grin. Have I told you I love you today?

            You have not.

            Ah, well. Still plenty of time to make a wish, dear.

            Benny wags a finger, climbing inside the luxury trailer.

102.

Benny takes a nap in the trailer, par for the day, snoring away through the heart of a golden afternoon. Sundown brings with it another night of learning, and for this he must be sharp.

            A studio vehicle delivers Benny to the Sunset Strip at nine PM. He’s greeted by a door man at The Store, who politely asks for him wait among a line of comedy fans holding tickets to tonight’s medley of artists. The doorman places a finger to his earpiece, nods, then ushers Benny inside.

            Vic Denny is leaning in the hallway, a Mexican soda bottle in his hand. He says, Jesus Christ, kid. You’d think after the past couple a night’s these twits would just let you walk inside. They know you’re with me.

            Benny shrugs it off, following Vic to the rear lounge. Neon busts of comedy legends illuminate the way. Benny has his gag book out, rifling through new material, determining which is best to float by Vic—his time a gift as he’s only in town a few more days.

            You go up last night? Asks Vic.

            Not here.

            I know not here, man.

            Got a quick set at the Ha Ha Hole, off Pico.

            What a shithouse. I remember when they name dropped that spot in a big indie flick—this was the late-nineties. Hell, I couldn’t get up without givin’ someone a blowjob. And nowadays, they just let you walk up and do five minutes…

            Three.

            Vic smiles. —I’m fuckin’ with you.

            I know, beams Benny.

103.

The lounge is filled with paid regulars, many of which have yet to speak with Benny—a natural position since he isn’t supposed to be back there. Vic takes over the sofa; Benny sits beside and starts hammering a joke premise.

            No, says Vic.

            Benny rifles another.

            —It’s been done. Scrap it.

            He tries again.

            —Pee-Wee Herman and Ronnie James Dio—what you got there is a visual, not a premise. Keep on it, something might click.

            Benny flips to the next page, most of them filled with more Greenback imagery and clever insight. Vic is a Greenback expert these days, having successfully transitioned from junk to daily micro-dosing of the green devils. He insists he hasn’t seen clearer or felt funnier in years.

            Benny continues.

            Say that again, says Vic.

            —I never equated a dream job with manual labor.

            I like that. There’s something there. You’ll figure it out.

            A short man walks into the lounge, looking for a comedian that’s supposed to be up.

            Vic stands and says, The kid can give you three, if you need more time to find this hack?

            The man leers back at Benny and jabs his pen: Him?

            He’s got a solid three, Vic reassures.

            The man nods and rushes out to inform the M.C.

            The entire room turns to Benny with eyes of fire.

            Benny begins to sweat, brain going mush.

            A wave of claps comes from the crowd; a comedian shoots back through the curtain, slackening his tie and shouts, Good luck with those cunts!

            Vic slaps Benny’s shoulder: You got this, kid.

            The M.C. calls Benny up. He approaches the curtain; before touching it, he’s called by Vic and turns to see the man with his pants around his ankles, flaccid in the breeze, clapping him on. The room takes notice and starts to laugh.

            Benny cracks up too.

            He parts the veil, exposing a spot lit microphone; the audience is obscured in darkness, but he can make out three distinct faces near the exit: mom, dad and Uncle Walt. Relief washes over; his heart beats to a hush. With each step on stage, he begins to feel light, floating—weightless. The darkness lifts; Benny buzzes into the void, flying blind, nervous yet determined, his destination complete.