Dan Fante - Mooch: A Novel

I HADNT WRITTEN a word or a story or anything in months. And I hated my job. But that didnt matter now. Nothing mattered because of the heat. It took an hour for me to finally make myself get up, put on a shirt, and get ready for work. Id been avoiding it since Thursday.

Outside on the burning, suffocating street, I yanked a new parking ticket out from under the windshield wiper of my 11-year-old Chrysler, then tore it into as many small pieces as possible, flinging it at the sky. I hated being back in L.A. I hated that I hadnt had a drink in months. I hated that I was losing my hair. I hated my job. I hated filtered cigarettes and rap music and Tom Cruises big, stupid white teeth. And I hated the fucking Parking Violations Bureau.

Opening the car door to my Chrysler was a mistake. The contained force of what had built up in an automobile after several days in the sun in a heat wave with the windows up, hit me. Exploding stagnation, decaying vinyl, strangled dust. A clear warning to go back to my room.

I was running late, so I threw my canvassing book and my coupon demo packets across to the passenger side of the car, sucked in a gulp of the rancid oxygen, then stuck the key in the ignition.

Nothing.

I repeated the procedure. Nothing.

I switched the ignition back all the way to the left to see if the electrical stuff, the gauges and flashers and the other shit, were working. Still nothing.

Sweat was beginning to collect on my forehead and beneath my shirt.

I tried the key again a new way: wiggled it, jiggled it sort-of, hoping that the motor might catch. It had worked beforeanother time on some other car before my life had turned on me. But not now. Again nothing.

A man walked by.

He appeared to be on his way to his own car. Dressed for the heat wave. Carrying a briefcase and wearing a pair of neatly-pressed tan slacks and a floral, green-mostly, silky, Hawaiian, sports shirt. L.A. casual. I recognized this person as a home owner from down my block, with the wife, the dog, the table saw in the garage. We had seen each other on the street a few times but had never spoken.

As he came closer, his eyes met mine for an instant, then darted away. I knew why. He recognized me. I was one of the come-and-go residents of the sober-living apartment house on the corner. A shitsucking loser. I would live to be six hundred million years old and still never earn the word hello from this citizen prick or his fat-butted wife who spent her afternoons digging in the garden.

Passing my cars side window, he slowed down, bending at the waist to steal a glance inside. Maybe, I thought, maybe hes wondering why another adult, dressed for work in a sports jacket, slacks and tie, would be sitting behind the wheel of his car in the direct sunlight on the hottest day of the year with the windows up and his motor not running, sweating, suffocating, wiggling his ignition key back and forth like a brain-damaged retard fuck.

I looked at my watch. It was 10.15 a.m. Id never make the sales meeting.

Unable to think of anything else to do, I lit a cigarette. It was the last cigarette in my pack of Luckys. I took a hit and watched the inside of the Chrysler fill with drifting rivers of smoke. I hated everything. God. Everything.

This is Albert Berlinski. How may I help you?

Mister Berlinski, its Bruno Dante.

Dante! Whats up? Whereve you been? You missed both of the demos we had scheduled for you on Friday night!

Ive had car problems with my Chrysler again, Mister Berlinski.

Myrna had to no-show those presentationscall your clients, re-schedule everything herself. You never phoned in.

For the last few days I had been reading a David Martin novel and staying in the coolness of my room because of my revulsion for door to door canvassing in the miserable heat and smog of my Glendale sales territory. I was waiting for my mechanic to finish another car before he could start work on mine, I said. An engine job.

This is Monday, Dante. Youve had three days to fix your vehicle. What time will you be in?

The goddamn thing wouldnt start again this morning.

Sooonow what?

I dont know. Personally, Im at a loss. Nonplussed. Befuddled.

Of course this means you wont be attending the sales meeting again. Ill have to tell Mister Fong.

I promise you Ill get the car squared away and be in by this afternoon. You have my word.

Berlinski pausedthe death pauseI recognized it immediately. It comes just before the words that tell you youre bumped. You know Dante, he said, were prolonging the inevitable here. Bring in your units and Ill cut you a final check.

Mister Berlinski, I just said that Id be there this afternoon!

We totaled out the sales numbers this morning. Last month you were number twelve. Down from number ten.

I can count, Berlinski. Im aware of that.