The City Of Lies We Tell Children

A wedding has brought me to Southern California. While a joyous occasion, I cannot shrug-off the thought of the scorpion over shoulder. A sunset cruise in Marina del Rey reminds me of the parable of the ferryman frog; he who does not suspect the malicious nature of his passenger. I may be amphibious, but am I so naive to discount the treachery of the scorpion? There he is, on the starboard piss-in-the-wind platform, with his smug grin & cheap sunglasses… Izy. His presence looms like a weaver weaving hideous mittens. Mittens fit for a scorpion. 

It is not too late. I have a night of leering into the darkness before tomorrow’s wedding. Which brings me to Los Feliz. 

Much of my day was waiting for this rendezvous. Not that I waited idly. I wandered Los Angeles. Me, temporarily Californian. I could’ve sat at a bus-stop and tried to fuck the nut out of an avocado. As one does. When in Rome. But I’ve just the one linen suit. And no budget for emergency dry-cleaning. Instead, I hiked to Griffith Park Observatory. It’s a neat perch. A familiar vista despite my never having been here before. Deja vu. Like waking from the American dream to find the mortgage past due. From those iconic heights, L.A. beckoned. There is more down there than the lies we tell children. More, like wolves. Scorpions. Maybe badgers. I outlasted the day at the observatory. As the strung-out cotton candy smog dulled into darkness, stars emerged: as above, so below. With nightfall, I began my descent into Los Feliz.

Ye Rustic Inn is an exceptional dive bar; a latter-century ale house if Sherwood Forest was replaced with strip malls. Behind the bar is a part-time pirate actor from Tampa who has stories of Alaskan fish canneries. He serves me a draft beer and nods to the east when I ask after Geronimo. I slide over a few stools.

Clifton Geronimo?, I ask. In Indiana, they would call him “Hollywood handsome.” In Hollywood, he’s background. He’s a dime a dozen, but only due to inflation. Who’s asking?, Geronimo asks. Vic Neverman. How do I know you are who you say you are?, he asks. I pause to brush dandruff off my shoulder. I say, I can understand my wanting to claim to be someone else, but why would someone else want to claim to be me? He mulls it over. His eyes are kind, perhaps too kind for this town. He is fresh off work and edgy. Like a cornered coyote willing to chew off his own ears rather than hear me out. 

Word on the street is Ye Rustic Inn has the best wings in Los Angeles. Ask anyone this side of Sunset; it’s almost an automatic response, the rehearsed “best wings in L.A.”. Another word on the street is Clifton Geronimo is a jack-of-all, willing to take on anything asked… for a price. His name has been credited at the end of movies you haven’t seen for jobs you didn’t know existed. He’s a studio lot fixer, carpenter, stunt-double and screenwriter. I’ve been told he has “a screenplay for a Tango & Cash sequel that absolutely slaps”. His wardrobe dossier mentions a loose-belt for morally ambiguous play and given his past associations with known scorpions, he is a very likely suspect of sabotage. But I couldn’t just ask, “hey, are you planning to sabotage the Wara wedding?” I had to smoke him out with subtlety. 

Clifton Geronimo seems to be as wary of me as I him. He says, Wara told me Vic Neverman is a mystery wrapped in a burrito microwaved in a dumpster fire. I guess I thought you’d be taller… What do you think of the Rustic?, he asks before continuing, they say Bukowski used to come here to write poetry and smoke cigarettes and find easy women. But that is bullshit, Geronimo counters, the only place in Los Feliz Bukowski really went was the Pink Elephant Liquor store and then home to drink and write poetry and fuck his landlady. 

How’s it you know Wara?, Clifton Geronimo asks; I deflect by ordering another beer and a plate of wings from the part-time pirate. Geronimo orders a dozen medium wings. They’re the best in L.A., he says of the wings, and you’ll be sorry you ordered the hot. 

You work with a lot of celebrities?, I ask a soft-ball question to build rapport, earn trust. He mentions Bill Shatner. Of course, if you see Bill on set, it is best to ignore him. Any man worshipped as much as Captain Kirk is going to have a warped perception of reality. The man is mentally unstable and not to be trusted. He started believing in his own mythology, y’know? He might remember your name on Tuesday and love you for the work you do. But on Wednesday, if he’s having a bad hair day or if his urine is burning from some green-skin alien hussy he fucked forty years ago, you don’t want Bill remembering your name. He’ll turn on you. Captain Kirk will put a redshirt on you and throw you under the bus quicker than you can say “set to stun”. You’re better off avoiding Bill Shatner. If he doesn’t know your name, he cannot ruin your career. 

The wings arrive. I’m not disappointed. Classic style: breaded & fried crispy before being tossed in buttery cayenne pepper sauce. Hints of ghost pepper? Each wing will shave 30 seconds off a man’s life, but each bite is worth the lost sand. Not to mention the extra capsaicin will make me immune to most coronaviruses as long as my oral & sinus cavities are this inflamed. 

While Clifton Geronimo is distracted with his plate of chicken, I begin looking under stones for scorpions. I ask about Izy. Is he?, Geronimo asks. Who is he? What is he? Izy as in Ishmael Badger, I say to clarify. Oh, Izy Badger, Geronimo says. Y’know, I really prefer the drumettes. No need for chicken wings to be complicated, he says. Our part-time pirate bartender chimes in, saying he prefers the wingtips. You mean the wingette?, Geronimo asks him. No, the bartender says, the wingtip, the very end of the wing. What the fuck?, no way!, Geronimo puts down his chicken. No one eats the fucking wingtip! It’s nothing but skin and burnt hair. Are you fucking mad? The part-time pirate says, I eat the wingtip. I eat gizzards, I eat armpit, I eat everything. Clifton Geronimo shakes his head and smiles at me, saying, this fucking guy!

When’s the last time you’ve seen Izy?, I ask Geronimo. His smile fades. Last I’ve seen Iz…, he says with eyes lost in his mirrored reflection behind bar. Last I heard of Izy, wharf rats were drinking soup out of his skull in Coos Bay, Geronimo says. Bullshit!, I say. Soup is eaten. It is a food. You don’t drink soup. Clifton Geronimo looks insulted and shakes his head, what?, what about the last of the broth? You have to slurp it from the bowl. A slurp is an act of imbibition. That’s drinking. No chewing involved. If you are eating something, there is chewing involved, Geronimo says. He has a point. I concede a draw. 

How’s it you say you know Wara?, he asks again. I say, I’m his proctologist. Ahh, Geronimo says with a nod and goes quiet for the moment. Proctology always manages to change the channel. But not this time. Clifton Geronimo returns to the subject, is that why you are sniffing out all of Wara’s old acquaintances? Comrades from Wara’s salad days? Proctologist, sticking your nose into other people’s business?

Deciding a little truth is required to earn some faith, I tell Clifton Geronimo, I’ve got beef with Izy. Geronimo laughs, hell!, everyone’s got beef with Old Ishmael. I’ve got beef lo mein. I’ve got a side of egg rolls for that son of a bitch, Izy, Geronimo says. Ha, I feign laughter as a courtesy. I ask Geronimo, do you think Izy is in town for the wedding? He says, I’ve got beef Wellington with Izy; and that’s fancy beef! What beef do you have?, he asks me. In Saigon, I tell Geronimo, Izy poisoned me and I almost lost an eye. And in Cartagena, I think Izy sold my uncle to organ-harvesting body-snatchers. Ahh, says Geronimo, yeah, that’s raw beef when you’ve got blood involved. 

Do you think Izy is in L.A. for the wedding?, I ask again. What?, why?, Clifton Geronimo asks. Why would Izy come to the wedding. Dude doesn’t believe in marriage. Agreed, I say, but perhaps Izy would come for the purpose of sabotaging the wedding. Clifton Geronimo goes quiet, making eye-contact with his reflection again. Izy as saboteur?, he says. Maybe, I suggest. You really think?, Geronimo asks, Izy would derail Wara’s wedding just to prove a philosophical point? Shit, he says, realizing the plausibility. 

I am not great defender of marriage. I put marriage up there with things I was glad to experience once, but never need to try twice. Like eating fried spiders in Cambodia. Or living in the suburbs. I don’t think marriage is for everyone, but a man doesn’t know unless he experiences it for himself. Like auto-erotica. So I’ve read.

There may be an argument, Clifton Geronimo says with bold certainty, Wara is undeserving of his bride. She is… She is incredible. But I would say this: there is no man more worthy of her love than Wara. The wedding must go on. 

Hmm, I contemplate Geronimo’s words. I like this guy. If Izy is out there running amuck in Los Angeles, clearly Clifton Geronimo is not in cahoots. 

Excusing myself to the lavatory, I tell Geronimo, I have to wash this fire sauce from my lips; it’s singeing my mustaches. Be careful!, Geronimo says, don’t go leaving your beer unguarded. I once got roofied in this bar. I blacked out and woke-up hours later pumping gas in Pasadena. How did I get there?, I don’t know. Where was I going?, I have no idea. How many children crossing the freeway did I manslaughter at 3 am in the morning?, it’s anybody’s guess. 

Do you think it was Izy who slipped you the mickey?

Clifton Geronimo thought about it… Now that you mention it, I think Izy was in town. 

It’s always the scorpions you don’t expect.

Where: Ye Rustic Inn, Los Feliz, Bukowski’s old humping grounds

Who: Shatner, don’t make eye-contact. And don’t explore your “Fight Club” theories; Fincher is right behind you.

What to Order: The wings. Best in L.A.