MAE WEST

by
Dan Fante

These were strange days. Everything I touched seemed to be turning to pain. Even Kerri�s dog Banana hated me.

In the beginning, the month I first moved in, I�d made up this game: I would hold up two fingers to the animal in a sort of �V� for victory Nixon-type signal, then whisper his name. �Ba-Nana.� �Ba-Nana.�

It pissed the dog off. I knew it pissed him off, but I did it anyway. Mostly it was when I was on the juice that I did it but, in retrospect, I can see that I�m responsible for instigating our mutual hatred. I don�t like dogs. The pig is my animal of preference. And I was unable to bond with Kerri�s little rat-faced fucker so, for fun, I tormented him almost every time the opportunity arose.

After a while it became automatic, and I enjoyed it. Kerri would be out of the room getting a beer or in the jon, or paying for the pizza at the front door, and me and the dog would be alone for a few seconds. I�d just hold up the fingers and whisper �Ba-Nana�, to the little shit, and he would go crazy and start snarling.

My girlfriend�s courtyard apartment was just off La Brea Avenue on Hollywood Boulevard. A nice one-bedroom with a patio and an unused garden area for her mutt. The rooms had lots of light and space. Perfect for a writer.

But unhappily, over time, my arrangement with Banana�s master was deteriorating. I didn�t completely understand why, but I knew that she disliked my boozing and my contentious point of view while intoxicated.

In short order, I had gone from Kerri�s bar mate, to roommate, to dead weight. But she wouldn�t face me with the information. Unlike other women I had lived with, Kerri lacked the chops for blunt confrontation. I was reasonably sure that she had come to view our relationship as a mistake.

The living arrangement was okay for me, and I was content for the most part, but my roomie held grudges. A silent disapproval campaign was under way.

It began by her coming to sleep in a �T� shirt. Our bedtime fun had always been good, and after an evening of booze she was a class �A� slut and game for any of my unusual sexual requests, but that stopped. Abruptly. Soon after, to underscore her discontent, she even quit drinking.

Eventually, as these moves failed to produce the desired effect, she upped the ante. The apartment�s supply of liquor dried up, and I was left daily with unwashed dishes and the garbage to take out. At night, when she returned from her job, my attempts at conversation were greeted by a series of negative one-liners followed by quiet scorn. Any fool would conclude that Kerri was displeased. Naturally, so was fucking Banana. But, in my observation, tactics like these work better on pets than humans.

Coincidently, the time we stopped screwing overlapped with the time the dog actually began attempts to attack me. At first the coward would only snarl when she was present in the room to defend him. All other times, especially when she was at work, he knew to keep his distance. The fuzzy shit-runt spent the bulk of his day in the bedroom protecting her side of the bed. If he stayed out of my way, I was usually content to leave him alone. It was primarily in the evening, after I�d had a couple of drinks, that me and the dog conflicted. Kerri would be distracted switching the TV or talking on the phone. I�d catch Banana�s eye and commence my two-finger salute. He�d growl then feign a charge. The animal�s conduct was getting more and more menacing.

For me, three days a week driving a taxi had not been cutting it. My writing was going good and two of my poems had been accepted by a classy English quarterly named Wrecking Ball Press. But poetry magazines pay a writer almost nothing, and I was barely able to support myself from the taxi money, so household contributions fell into the category of an extravagance I could ill afford.

Kerri knew that I fancied myself a writer and that I spent a good part of my time reading or at the typewriter. She�d been well aware of my financial status when we made the deal for me to become her live-in, but now this issue was becoming another bone of contention.

Things came to a head late one Friday night in the middle of a Scrabble game. I had had my share of frozen vodka from the fridge and I was not myself, 83 points down, and in an evil mood. While Kerri was visiting the fridge, I whispered, �Banana�, and made my customary �V� sign. The odious little prick had stationed himself for the evening on the floor beneath her chair.

Suddenly, I was set upon by the snarling bastard. He sank his fangs into my khakis, scraped my ankle, and tore through one cuff. In self defense, I swatted him away with my chair cushion. Two or three times.

Kerri did not see her animal assault me. All she could have witnessed was me flailing the chair pad as she rushed in from the kitchen. When Banana charged again I began pushing him off with my foot.

�You�re kicking my dog!� she screamed. �You�ll kill him! Stop it!�

�I am not! Don�t be stupid! He bit me.�

�Stupid? You prickshit! You are calling me STUPID! You�re the fucking cab driver.�

�Christ almighty, can�t you see that your dog�s attacking me?�

�Get out, you son-of-a-bitch! Get out of my house!�

�Be reasonable. Call the animal off!�

But the damage was done. Five minutes later she was locked in the bedroom with Banana, threatening a call to 9-1-1 and the spousal abuse hot line.

Kerri held the job of day manager at Ameche�s, a pasta and steak house in Marina del Rey. It was there that we�d met a year before, at the bar, and it was also there that she told her problems to one of her coworkers, a fussy big-titted twat hostess named Sonja.

After spilling her guts about the dog attack and my animosity toward Banana and describing our deteriorating domestic situation, Sonja had made the diagnosis that her friend�s only solution was in curbing my drinking. To her, I sounded like a basically decent schmuck, except for the booze. According to what Kerri said later, in Sonja�s view, writers are self-indulgent and lazy. There wasn�t much hope for Cuzvation there, but in her own life she had been able to get her husband off the sauce by way of a drug called antabuse. Threats of divorce and the use of the medication had enabled him see the light. Three months later their relationship was back on track.

Make no mistake, Antabuse is evil shit. If you drink alcohol within twenty-four hours after injesting this crap for a few days, your heart rate will double, you will turn bright red, and soon you will be puking up your guts. It�s tough retribution, but it was the ultimatum facing me when my long-legged roommate arrived home from work that evening.

I was handed a blue and white pamphlet about alcohol and drug therapy. On it was stamped the name of a clinic in Hollywood where antabuse is dispensed free of charge.

Imagine being on George Bush�s government appropriations committee allocating the funds to research a joyless ratsnot compound like antabuse? Or being a Senator approving the eighty-million dollar (or whatever) budget for the production of a medication that will inflict sickness on someone having a glass of wine with dinner. Men in a room agreeing to stomp out the godless ingestion of the winecooler. Think about the conversations these bloodsucking, rectomless bureaucrats must�ve had. The delight they shared in knowing they would be poisoning some poor schlump sitting by his TV on Sunday afternoon, drinking a can of beer while watching his ball game. Maybe the same ghoul cocksucker that invented methadone is the same genius they called in to come up with antabuse. And everyone knows what a great success methadone became. What a boon to social justice that toxic venom turned out to be.

Along with the literature Kerri slapped into my hand, came the threat of the axe. I was a rummie. A bad-tempered loser. I had one of two choices: sign up or pack up. And leave the fucking dog alone. She had had enough.

The East Hollywood Alcohol and Drug Relief Program was located on Melrose Avenue. Two days later I found myself in their waiting room, a clipboard on my lap, filling out a registration questionnaire.

The lady, my area�s coordinator, was named Ms. Consuela. When I was ushered in she made firm eye contact, then told me to have a seat.

She looked over my answers, made a face then folded her hands on the desk. �So, consumption-wise, do you drink every day?�

�I don�t keep track�, I said. �Basically, I suppose, one or two beers a day. Sometimes a mixed drink. That�s usually about it.�

My reply was inadequate for Consuela. �Be specific, please. Let�s not waste each other�s time here.�

�Okay, I drink every day. How�s that?�

�One or two beers or a cocktail? That�s all you drink?�

�No. Usually more I guess.�

�The truth please. We require complete candor. It will facilitate your recovery.�

I paused here to consider her question and be accurate but Consuela was making her face again��Hey�, I said. Give me a second, okay? Can I have a goddamn second?�

She checked a box on her form and went on. �When do you feel your alcohol consumption became out of control? How long has it been since the onset of your abnormal drinking?�

�Okay� wait� my alcohol consumption is not out of control. My girlfriend is the one who has decided I drink too much.�

Ms. Consuela was a short woman with a pissy, intolerant, head nurse, chicken-shit, disposition. �We�re done�, she announced. Then she stood up.

�So, will you be prescribing antabuse for me?�

�Absolutely not. I said we�re done.�

�How come I don�t get the anatbuse?�

�You don�t need it. Have a nice day, sir.�

Now I was on my feet too. �Look�, I said, �that�s the reason I�m here. Jesus, that�s why I sat in your waiting room for forty minutes filling out the goddamn questionnaire. I checked the place that asked if I wanted alcohol treatment. Look at the form. You�re committing an oversight.�

�Sir, you just told me to my face that your alcohol consumption is NOT out of control. Ten seconds ago you said that YOU DO NOT HAVE a drinking problem.�

Time to backpeddle. �Okay, I lied. I understated my condition. I DO have a drinking problem. Okay?�

Consuela�s arms were folded across her chest. �Which is it, sir? If you are here to take the heat off or to get a spouse or girlfriend off your back, then you have come to the wrong clinic. Antabuse therapy is not a quick fix. And we don�t do couples counseling.�

�Okay. Okay. I�m here for me. I need the drugs. I can�t stop drinking. Is that what you need to hear?�

Ms. Consuela sat down. �Better�, she whiffed. �In our experience denial is the hallmark symptom of alcoholism.�

I sat again but began fidgeting with my car keys.

�Stop that�, Consuela hissed. �Put those keys in your pocket, sir.�

�Jesus, what is this, the fucking Inquisition?�

�Distractions annoy me. I am attempting to qualify you for drug and alcohol treatment. The process requires your complete attention. Is that plainly clear?�

�I know a dog I�d like to introduce to you. His name is Banana.�

�Is that some sort of threat, sir? What is the precise meaning of that remark?�

I slid my car keys into my pocket. �Okay. Can we go on?�

�And knock off the profanity.�

�I apologize.�

Ms. Consuela wrote my name at the top of an intake form. �I am now going to ask you a series of questions. Answer truthfully and there is a good possibility that you will be selected for our out-patient services. Understood?�

�Understood. Great. I�m ready.�

�Have you ever been arrested as a result of intoxication?�

�Yes.�

�How many times?�

�Several times� Well, okay, what I mean is, are you including drunk driving tickets too?�

�Everything. Public intoxication. Intoxication in a motor vehicle. Spousal abuse while under the influence. All of it. How many times?�

(As a cab driver, to protect my ability to earn a living, for many years I had been in possession of two drivers licenses, one from New York with a slightly different last name, and one from California in my real name. The two times I got popped for drunk driving in L.A. were when I was in my own car and I gave the cop my New York license. Of course there was no way I would divulge this shit to Consuela or discuss the other license). �Three times, I think�, I said.

�You think?�

�Five times total. I�m sure it�s five. I was just trying to think back.�

Consuela made a check mark on her form. �Next question: Have you ever been hospitalized for alcohol abuse?�

�I�ve been in detox once. No. Wait. Twice. Make it two.�

Ms. Consuela checked another box then picked up a black marker and drew a big �X� through the rest of the form. She turned the paper around and pushed it across the table, then handed me a pen. �Sign on the bottom�, she demanded.

�What am I signing?�

�You qualify for therapy and antabuse theatment. You are signing my intake form that permits you to receive medication and out-patient services.�

I signed the paper then pushed it back. �What kind of out-patient services?�

�Twice a week at 7:00a.m. you will be required to be here to take your medication in the presence of a facilitator and then have counseling sessions.�

�Look, I work too� how long does this stuff take?�

�The entire process lasts about ninety minutes.�

�Okay, but suppose I�m sick or something and can�t come that day?�

�You will be disqualified after your second no-show in any calendar month. You start now. Today. See Dr. Fogel in the office next door.�

�Today? There�s no grace period?�

Consuela was on her feet again. �Sir, your grace period was all the years you drove a taxi on the streets of this city, drunk, and didn�t kill a child. You�ve had your grace period. See Dr. Fogel next door.�

That day, after more waiting, I saw Dr. Fogel for five minutes then took my first pill and signed another form. That was Tuesday.

On Thursday I saw Fogel again for five minutes, said I felt fine, signed his paper, then stood in line with the other guys to take my pill. The rest of the days between appearances everyone was unmonitored and on the honor system. But I made a commitment to myself to stick with the deal, and I didn�t drink or try to drink.

At home the status quo was on the way to restoration. A couple of nights later Kerri came to bed without her �T� shirt as an incentive and complimented me for valuing our relationship. When I asked her if she would mind putting her animal in the living room and closing the bedroom door first, so I could lick her pussy and asshole in peace, she didn�t hesitate at all.

I reported to work for the next three days in a row and made an average of $150 a day in my cab. The following morning, on my day off, after a cum-swallowing blowjob, I decided to give my roommate a hundred bucks for household expenses.

In my experience everything in life has it�s angles and loopholes. By the end of my first full week, I discovered that the antabuse drug program could be �worked� to the client�s personal satisfaction.

It was on the following Tuesday that I was waiting outside the clinic, smoking and queued up to see Dr. Fogel who had fallen behind in his five-minute counseling sessions. The guy standing by the front door�s concrete ashtray with me was named Bernie. I�d seen him twice. We both �dosed� on the same schedule.

Bernie struck me as an affable cat, quiet spoken and pleasant. I liked his hat too, a black short-brimmed number that was common to many of the blues players in the �60�s and �70�s. Next to him on the asphalt was his horn, a saxophone, in its case. �B� was a film studio musician. Unlike me, he was court ordered and on five years probation for his third drunk driving charge.

Standing there talking and smoking our conversation became confidential. He leaned in and asked me how long it�d been since I had a taste. �My last drink was exactly seven days ago, the day I started on the program�, I said.

�Uuuuuhhhhh brother, that�s a long, dry patch. How you keepin�?�

�Shit, I�m thirsty. I lose my temper at everybody. I�m about to kill my girlfriend�s dog. Truth is, I�m pretty shaky.�

�B� was grinning. He twisted his body to the side and flashed the cap of a short dog stashed in the pocket of his leather jacket. Then he looked around to check the parking lot for spies. When the coast was clear he unscrewed the cap and took a long hit.

�Man, you�re crazy?� I said.

He passed me the jug. �I usually only drink shit where the label moves. You know, like NIGHT TRAIN, and THUNDERBIRD. And RIPPLE. This�s TRIPLE JACK. Mean shit. I had to settle. Ga-head, hit it. Hit it good�, he whispered. �Hey, we deserve it. Right?�

�No way.�

�Man, fuck them pills. Don�t you know the gag about them pills?�

�Tell me, for chrissake. I�m standing here in the desert. Jonesing. I�ve been half nuts all week.�

�Simple shit, my man. If you hit the stuff within the first hour after you drop your pill, you can skate until the next time you come in. When you leave here throw out the rest of the meds they gave you.�

�What happens then? What about the piss test?�

�Bring in your own piss, man. Don�t be a chump. They let you go into the bathroom by yourself with the test vial, right?�

�Yeah.�

�Well��

�What about the meds? Didn�t you get sick?�

�Okay, you might could get a little spell at first. I won�t lie. You might even puke the first or second time out, but after that you�re clear. Peace returns. The trick is to drink in the first half hour after you drop the pill. The alcohol counteracts the pill. But only take the two pills a week. Take the shit only when you have to, when you�re being supervised.�

�How sick do you get?�

�You see me sippin� at my dog here. Bro, like I say, trick is to hit your jug right away. Now. Don�t go doin� it later on or you WILL be sicker �n shit. I know. I mean, MAN, I KNOW. Hit it now. Go for it while nobody�s looking.� I took the bag from Bernie�s hand, held it up to my mouth, and hit it good. A long slam. My relief was instant.

__________

The day after Kerri ordered me out of the apartment, banana bit me on the thigh. I�d returned to her place for my stuff, my last boxes and clothes and additional belongings. Without provocation, the fucker lunged at me.

Later that evening when I came back for my typewriter case, she was sitting on her couch, a fifth of bourbon in front of her, half-drunk and crying. The dog was gone, she sobbed. Disappeared. He had run off.

At her instruction, that same day, Bob the manager came by to change the locks. Later on, in tears, when she knocked at his apartment, the guy conceded that he might have left the front door open while he was doing his work. Bottom line, rat dog was now on his own.

Me and Kerri had a drink together and I attempted to console her, saying stuff like, �You�ll see, he�ll turn up.�

�I thought you hated him�, she sniffed. You kicked him.�

�C�mon, that was an error committed in the heat of the moment. Anyway, hate isn�t the right word. Sure, he bit me and all but, bottom line, we just never hit it off. In fact�, I added, �I blame myself.�

�I tried calling you three times today. You were at work, weren�t you? Didn�t you get my messages?�

�Yeah�, I said, the lie coming out effortlessly, �I picked the messages up when I turned in. I hadn�t had any sleep so I took a town car out this morning on the day line. I wound up doing airport runs all day.�

I brought a bag of ice in from the kitchen and we talked things through. One subject lead to another and finally our differences were ironed out. The wind-up was that I spent the night and moved my stuff back in from the trunk of my car.

The next day At Kinko�s Copies on Hollywood Boulevard, carrying out my promise to my girlfriend, I xeroxed fifty flyers featuring Banana�s photograph and tacked and taped them up everywhere within a ten block radius of the apartment.

Kerri went to work but kept leaving messages on the apartment�s answering machine demanding updates.

No Banana. No trace.

A couple of weeks later she seemed to be coming to terms with her loss but to my disappointment, our relationship and the living situation was back in the shithouse. During a dinner event with Sonja from work and her hen-pecked husband, sober Leo, at our apartment, after a bit too much wine, I made an inappropriate remark and the couple left early. The next day the ultimatum was the same as before: get help for the boozing or move out.

The Metropolitan Center For Hypnotherapy is on Sunset Boulevard two blocks west of La Brea. Kerri saw the sign on her way home from her restaurant job and wrote down the address and phone number: CURE SMOKING, SEXUAL DISFUNCTION, OVEREATING, ALCOHOL AND DRUG PROBLEMS. RESULTS GUARANTEED.

I went for the free consultation and had a one-hour meeting with Orlin Edward O�Hagan, PHD. Old O�Hagan was co-founder of the place. He showed me pages and pages of testimonial letters from clients who had lost weight, quit heroin and could now get their dick hard. In the end, I signed up for the sixty-day plan and began treatment.

The up side to hypnotherapy is that it is effortless. The down side is that it isn�t cheap. But Kerri is a generous girl.

Once the client and the doctor have come to terms regarding the results they want to achieve, the rest is easy. A series of 90-minute recorded tapes are made.

Three times a week at 8:00P.M. I walked the four blocks from Kerri�s apartment to the office on Sunset. Once there and on time, I was escorted into a small room with head phones, a black-out mask, and a reclining chair. When all the gear was in place and I was laying back, someone clicked on a switch and the piped-in recording began. The only words I ever recall hearing on the tape came in O�Hagan�s melodious voice. �You are deeper relaxed� deeply, deeply relaxed. A feeling of peace and ease now fills every fiber of your being �� Ninety minutes later I got up and walked home.

The significant part of the hypnotherapy treatment, for me, was that it actually began to work right away. My shakes left almost immediately and within days I had tapered down to one or two beers. Budweiser began to have a bitter, rancid taste and even hard liquor took on the flavor of ashes. After that, every time I tried a drink I was turned off. A couple of weeks later I realized that I had no desire left for the stuff and from that day on it I was sober.

The only negative side effect was that I had lost my desire to write. I could sit for an hour with a blank sheet of paper in my typewriter and not put down a full sentence. The things that had always driven me, my rage and my impatience and my disgust for America�s TV culture and the film business, and lousy, pulp-selling fraud writers, no longer seemed to fire me up.

Orlin O�Hagan told me not to worry. He said all artists had their up and down periods. I was going through an adjustment phase. It was all pretty normal. But I was unhappy and felt my life had lost its sense of purpose.

Kerri and I were back on solid footing again and, as a gesture of support, she made sure to steer clear of ordering wine or beer when we went out to eat. She even began to discuss a trip to the L.A. pound and the possibility of adopting a new dog. I quickly discouraged the idea by telling her that Banana still might turn up.

One evening I received a call from �B�, the film musician I�d met at the antabuse program. He lived not far from our neighborhood and the two of us had stayed in touch over the months since I quit treatment at the clinic. Bernie liked reading my stuff, especially my stories. As a favor he even submitted one of my longer pieces to a story editor guy he knew at an independent film company. When he phoned we would talk about writing and from time to time he dropped over for coffee. Kerri was fond of �B� too and had a couple of his CD�s, even though she wasn�t much of a blues fan. �B� was always smart enough not to show up at our place drunk or on the juice.

That night on the phone he invited us to a party. Bernie said it would be the hoot of the year. Mae West�s eight-fifth birthday bash benefit was being held at The Beverly Wilshire Hotel, and �B� himself was playing lead horn in the band. The tickets were free to the musicians and their family and so was the catered dinner.

Kerri and I rented one of the black Lincoln town cars and a driver from my cab company, and we showed up in style. It had been 74 days and I still hadn�t had a drink.

My pretty black-haired girlfriend loved glitz and when Mae herself made an entrance and the band played �Hey, Big Spender�, everybody cheered and went nuts. The old broad sashayed across the floor in her white dress with two young cats carrying the train. I had never seen Mae West in person and was taken back by her size. This big �star� was no more than five feet tall. Her white stacked hair and high heels made her a foot bigger. To me she looked pitiable. A wrinkled, Fellini-movie, cartoon character. The whole deal was a bizarre side show.

All the fluff and pretentiousness began to piss me off and make me nervous. I hated weddings and social events and always felt awkward and when I had to make phony chit-chat with slick, Hollywood type, know-it-all jerks.

Booze was everywhere. There was an open bar and the hotel had even provided a crew of guys carrying silver trays. They weaved through the crowd loaded down with champagne and everything else anyone could want. Even vodka and tonic - my former drink of choice.

On a band break, when �B� came over to say hello, he was pretty sloshed. He gave Kerri a clumsy kiss and oogled her tanned tits. Then he grabbed her arm and pulled her off to meet his old lady Jeannie, one of the back-up singers in the band.

A stuffed shirt in an expensive suit was standing near me pontificating about Cary Grant and Frank Capra and the fucking golden age in Hollywood. I was a fish out of water and about ready to inject a comment pertaining to his tupee and stupidity when the drink tray came floating by.

Without a second thought I halted the waiter and grabbed a tall, clear one that contained a wedge of lime. The first sip was toxic as hell. My mouth filled with liquid charcoal. My reaction was to spit the stuff back in the glass.

I waited half a minute, looking around to see if my girlfriend was stalking me, then tried again. The taste was the same. Awful. But this time I didn�t have to spit it out.

A minute later I took a big sip, almost a gulp, and swallowed.

Better.

Kerri was gone long enough for me to down several more drinks and by the end of the night my allergy to alcohol had diminished to zero.

The next day was Saturday. I was in the 99-Cent Store on Sunset Boulevard with a bad hangover and the Yellow Pages in one hand and twenty quarters in the other, going down the list calling rooming houses for weekly prices. I had just been given the heave-ho by Kerri for the final time.

The manager guy at The Ocean Park Hotel in Santa Monica quoted me $187 per week for a room. Bathrooms weren�t private. The men�s floor, he said, had a communal-type locker room set up with showers, but each of the small single apartments had a TV, a microwave, and a sink. During World War 11 the �hotel� had once been the employee quarters for Hughes Air Craft�s out-of-town line assembly mechanics.

I made a reservation with the guy to come by in an hour. On the way along Sunset, I stopped at Consumer�s Liquor for a short dog to even me out.

The break-up with my girlfriend was inevitable. I told myself it was just a matter of time anyway. Too much water under the bridge.

Returning to my old Pontiac after the liquor store and buying an L.A. Times, I climbed in and cracked my short dog, then took a long blast before starting the car.

Continuing west on Sunset, I began reflecting back over the relationship. There was one thing I considered lucky. It had saved my ass at the time, temporarily at least. It was me cautioning Kerri to wait and not get another dog. Remembering when she made the suggestion sent a jolt of electricity up my spine. A new dog in the house surely would have blown it for me. No telling what the mutt would find while nosing around in the garden near the child-sized dirt mound behind the hedge.

� Dan Fante
Reproduced with permission

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