BRENTWOOD

by
John Wight

She was overweight, short, had bad skin and hair that was dry and brittle. Plus she had a big nose.

Julie was her name, though she didn't look like a Julie. She looked more like a Hilda, or an Agnes, or even a Norma. She didn't look like a Julie.

Harry and I were over in LA on holiday from Scotland, hitting a few bars in and around the vicinity of the beach. We'd ventured into this one place only because it had been recommended by a group of girls in another bar. We went there hoping the girls would arrive later. They didn't.

I can't remember the name of the place now, but it was packed. We grabbed ourselves a beer and stood back to survey the happening crowd of revellers from a distance. It was good being in a new place where nobody knew you. I felt fresh, reinvented, like a new car on display hoping to attract the attention of prospective buyers.

There was a lot of eye contact going on between the various groups of young males and females and pretty soon I zeroed in on two girls standing a few feet away who were glancing over. Maybe one of us owed them money.

"How you doing, ladies?" I said.

"Hi-i," they said. "Where're you from?"

They'd picked up on my accent already. "Me and my friend, Harry, are over from Scotland on vacation." I pointed over at Harry, whose attention had been diverted by another girl standing at the bar. They were engrossed in conversation, which meant that with these two I was on my own.

We exchanged some more pleasantries during the course of which I found out their names were Julie and Irene. I liked Irene. She was blonde, stylishly dressed and had a bubbly personality. I decided to try hard to impress her.

"So what is it you do?" Julie said.

"I'm a writer," I said, looking at Irene.

"Really?" Julie said.

"Yes, really," I said.

Irene's attention was elsewhere.

"And what do you write?" Julie said.

"Screenplays, novels, short stories - pretty much anything." I was staring at Irene.

"Wow. You must be ve-ery intelligent," Julie said.

I shrugged.

"So who's your favourite writer?" Julie said. "I'm a big Hemingway fan."

They always say that, I thought. Why do they always say that?

"I like the Russians myself," I said. "Turgenev, Tolstoy, Doestoevsky." I said this looking at Irene. I really wanted to impress her.

Julie said: "My Gad! You really are intelligent. I love that in a man."

"Where are you from?" I said, looking at Irene.

"I'm from Kansas," Julie said.

"What do you do?" I said, looking at Irene.

"Irene works in banking," Julie said. "I'm in marketing."

"You like it?" I said to Irene.

Irene shrugged.

"I love my job," Julie said. "But I wish I could write like you."

"You've never seen my work," I said. "You might not like it."

"Show me," Julie said.

I gave her a thin smile. I kept looking at Irene, who kept looking away.

"This fucking town's full of wannabe writers," Irene said.

"I know," I said. "It makes a man want to change careers."

"Most writers I know are full of shit," Irene said next.

Julie grabbed my hand. "Not him," she said. "He's talented. I can tell."

Harry finished talking to the girl over at the bar and joined us. "So girls," he said, "how often d'yooz play wi yirselves?" Harry was from Dunfermline.

Irene burst out laughing, she couldn't stop, and I was even more attracted to her.

"How about taking us back to your place for some fun?" Harry said. "Where d'yooz live?"

"We live in Brentwood," Irene said, smiling at Harry.

"I like to be treated like a lady," Julie said. "I like men who open car doors, who send flowers, men who are romantic and respectful." Julie didn't care for Harry, this much was obvious.

"Well yir standing beside the right man, darling," Harry said, referring to me.

"I know," Julie said, looking at me. "I can tell."

I gave her another thin smile. I looked over at Irene, who was looking over at Harry, who was looking over at me.

"I like you," Harry said to Irene. "I'd like tae suck yir tits."

"She has a boyfriend," Julie said to Harry.

Irene blushed then glared at Julie.

"Is that right? Where is ay the night then?"

"He's out of town on business," Irene said.

"What his name?" Harry said.

"Pierre," Irene said.

"Pierre?" Harry said. "What kind of name's that? Sounds like a bottle ay mineral water."

"Pierre's from Paris," Julie said.

I drove us back to Irene's apartment in Brentwood. I wanted to go back to the hotel by myself, but Harry wanted to go back with Irene and since he didn't have his own transport�

Brentwood is an upmarket residential area located next to Santa Monica. I wasn't impressed by it, just expensive house after expensive house next to one another in long, regimented streets. It was nothing to get excited about.

Irene's apartment was big, spacious and expensively furnished. We got in and gathered through in the kitchen. Irene made coffee.

"I live on the next block," Julie said.

"Yeah, Julie lives in a condo," Irene said. "I still rent."

"Do you live here with Pierre?" Harry said.

Irene shook her head.

"Pierre lives in Beverly Hills," Julie said. I couldn't stand Julie.

Irene's coffee was too strong. She'd gone to the trouble of making real stuff, using a machine, but I preferred mine instant.

I sipped the coffee anyway, standing in the kitchen with Irene and Julie while Harry went to use the bathroom.

"Let's move into the sitting room," Irene said.

We moved out of the kitchen into a large, comfortable sitting room. I sat on one of the two couches. Irene sat on the other couch and Julie sat beside me, her knee touching mine.

"Nice place," I said.

Irene shrugged.

"Wait till you see my apartment," Julie said. "Irene, tell him how neat my place is."

"It's neat," Irene said. "You'll like it."

Harry came through from the bathroom and sat down next to Irene.

"What are the bedrooms like in this place?" Harry said to Irene.

Irene blushed, giggled. Then she gave Julie a look.

"Would you like to come over to my place?" Julie said, turning to me.

I looked at Harry. He was smiling, eyes pleading, and I moved my gaze over to Irene next to him. Finally, I looked at Julie, who like the others was looking at me. They were waiting for me to decide, and in the pregnant pause that followed I made sure to give Harry a dirty look.

Julie wasn't kidding when she said she lived on the next block. Her place wasn't as nice as Irene's. It was roughly the same size but the furniture wasn't in the same league. In fact, like Julie, the place was plain, completely devoid of personality.

We went upstairs to the bedroom. Julie talked about her job in marketing with Coca Cola a lot. She went on and on about how great a company they were, about all the great benefits she enjoyed. It was the kind of conversation that would bore the shit out of a corpse.

She had a bathroom en suite. I went in to take a piss and wash my face. Kansas City Chiefs pennants and other paraphernalia were stuck up all over the walls of the bedroom and the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror and cursed Harry. Then I thought about him with Irene and cursed him again.

By the time I came out the bathroom, Julie had undressed. She was lying naked on top of the bed. I walked over and scooped a Kansas City Chiefs teddy bear off the bed and lay down next to her.

Julie's body wasn't very attractive. Her tits were small, soft and wrinkled - like two balloons with the air let out. She had a big stomach and her legs were short and stumpy. We had sex and throughout I thought about Irene so as to get me worked up enough to perform. It wasn't that great; I just couldn't get excited and I was glad it was over quickly and that she went to sleep straight after.

The next morning Julie put on a Kansas City Chiefs red sweatshirt with gold writing emblazoned all over it. She also put on a pair of jeans, white socks and black slip-on shoes. I didn't think Julie's dress sense was anything to shout about.

"You want some breakfast?" she said.

"No thanks," I said. "I've got to get going."

We walked down the street to Irene's place. It was a warm day and the sky was brilliant blue. There was nobody about and Brentwood in the day appeared even more uninspiring than it did at night.

Irene and Harry were up and about, laughing and fooling around, when Julie and I arrived. Irene went into the kitchen to heat up four muffins.

"Do you have anything for a headache?" Julie said to Irene. "My head hurts."

"That's what happens when it's been rattling aff a bedpost aw night," Harry said.

I laughed. Harry laughed. Irene laughed. Julie scowled. She didn't like Harry - not one bit.

Irene came to the table with the muffins and some jam. We all helped ourselves to one each. Julie sat down beside me, opposite Harry. The muffins were good.

"So, d'yooz have any nice friends?" Harry ventured in some light-hearted banter.

Julie nodded her head.

"Any chance you can set us up?" I said.

Harry laughed; he laughed so hard he almost choked on muffin and strawberry jam. Julie didn't think it was funny at all and she kicked me under the table.

We stayed another ten minutes. Julie gave me her number and I told her I'd call in a few days. I still liked Irene.

In the hall we wrote something funny in the visitors' book, both of us in a good mood now because we were going and because it was such a beautiful day outside.

We drove through Brentwood. There were people out watering lawns, washing cars, jogging. Everyone looked the same - healthy, affluent, middle class. I despised them and their safe, comfortable lives. I bet none of them ever gave money to the homeless, or did anything which wasn't in some way connected to career advancement. I bet they all paid their taxes and lived according to the letter of the law. I did, I despised them, despised Brentwood.

We stopped off at a Denny's on Lincoln Boulevard for breakfast. I ordered coffee, a cheese omelette, and wheat toast. As I ate I thought about Irene.

� John Wight
Reproduced with permission