Dunn - American wino: a tale of reds, whites, and one mans blues

For Charlene

CONTENTS

HAVE A SAFE JOURNEY
TO NOWHERE.

When were you going to tell me youre a drug dealer? Madeleine asked.

Whats that? I shouted over the roar of my drunken urine stream. I exited the bathroom to find her holding up a gallon Ziploc full of grayish powder.

Youre already going through my drawers? I said, fake mad. I havent even had a chance to stalk you on the Internet yet.

I was looking for a condom, but uh... Ive never seen a bag of heroin this big. This is heroin, right? Its not white enough to be coke. She dumped a quarter gram or so on the nightstand and wetted a fingertip to take a taste.

I dont think you want to do that, I said.

Im a big girl, she replied.

Yeah, but thats my brother, I said.

Oh, I get it, she drawled, sarcastically. Your brothers the drug dealer. Sure. Im down. But your brother wont mind if we just do a little, right?

Oh, he definitely wont give a sh

Good. Then lets do some and fuck, she said, putting a finger to one exquisite nostril and horking up the powder shed just scooped with a long fingernail. This clearly wasnt her first rodeo.

Part of me wanted to stop her, but Brian was there. And Brian tends to be amused by this kind of thing.

She froze, confused.

What do you think? I asked. Hes good shit, no?

What the fuck was that? she panted, livid.

Like I said, its my brother. Brian.

Brian?

Well, his ashes, anyway.

It was done now. No way was I getting laid. So I slow-played it, for Brian, who was doubled up on the floor by this point, unable to breathe. An opportunity to make him laugh like this could not be passed up. Some things are sacred.

You fucking psycho! Screaming. That was fast. She was up. Scanning for her purse. Lurching for the bathroom.

In my defense I began, knowing it was too late. In a wet whirl of Chanel and too many cocktails she passed me and was out my bedroom door.

Ho. Lee. Fuck. That was unreal, Brian said, recovering from his fit.

You just cost me the only girl to come on to me since Elizabeth left. I hope youre happy.

Tell me again about your live people problems, he replied. Theyre just so important.

You know, if you werent dead, Id punch your dick off.

If I werent dead, you never would have met her. Or Elizabeth, he said.

People who are right are the worst. Dead people who are right deserve to be shot.

MY BROTHER BRIAN IS AN artist. Not the kind that creates silkscreens of soup cans or paints with his own piss. Brian is a thrill artist. This makes him a lot of fun. It also makes him dangerous to be around. And terrifying to love. His crowning work thus far is his explorations into pier jumping. Specifically the Venice Pier, which juts out of L.A.s bulk into the ocean like an obese cancer patient fucking a carny girl. Two polluted bodies pressed close, each the others bulwark against the coming apocalypse.

Its about a twenty-five-foot drop from the Venice Pier to the Pacific Ocean, depending on the tides. To hear Brian tell it, youre only in the air for a second, but it feels like you hang there forever, with the lights on the shore, the adrenaline in your veins, the relentless hungry roar of the ocean below. You are a perfect being, suspended on an invisible string, burning with possibilities. Then you hit the cold, black water and everything goes hard normal. Youre wet, its dark, the ocean is heaving you up and down, and its a quarter-mile swim back to shore. Unless you get slammed into a pylon and knocked unconscious.

Brian made his first jump in 2008 after a stupid boast followed by an even dumber dare. He was instantly in love. Something about the combination of physical activity (that quarter-mile swim) with a jaunty middle finger shoved in the face of authority (the pier is covered with signs that detail all the ways you will certainly die and all the fines you will pay if you dont). Plus, once youre back onshore its a two-minute walk to Hinano Cafe and All of the Beer. It was the perfect sport for someone who was never going to start for the 76ers, but who could tell you without blinking that 70 sixers was seventeen and a half cases of beer and that if everyone throws in $5 we can afford Natty Light.

The only time to jump off the Venice Pier is at night, after its locked down. The city locks the pier for good reason: so people like you and me dont go out there in the dark and jump off it and die like goddamn stupid idiots because no one can see you because it is night. During the day there are cops who will yell at you, and lifeguards who will swim out to you if you get sucked into a riptide, and paddy wagons to take you to the police station afterward where you will stand, soaking wet and shivering in the air conditioning as they attempt to book you without the ID you left on the pier with your shoes and wallet. So yeah, only idiots jump off the pier during the day when everyone can see them. The real dummies do it when theyre invisible out there.

When the pier is locked, the only way to get out to where the waters deep enough to jump into is to climb out and around the guardrail they hung over the water to stop assholes who want to jump off the pier. But they never met an asshole like Brian. He figured out that if you clamber up on the railing, then lean your body out over the water and swing around the metal grate thats meant to stop you from jumping off the Venice Pier and dying like a stupid moron, you can duck your head down, get some footing on the other side, and swing under. Its a good thing that grate is there. If it werent, any garden-variety half-wit could get out there and perish. But Brian was no garden-variety half-wit. He was an heirloom half-wit. An adventure half-wit. The ocean may be a cruel mistress, he told me once, but sometimes thats just what you need.

Maybe so, Brian. Maybe so. But I hated it. The jumping, that is. Every time he got drunk enough or riled up enough or dared by dicks enough to want to go jump off the pier, I tried to talk him out of it.

Despite being a transcendent master of the art, Brian only gave four pier-jump performances. One time he even figured out how to do it in broad daylight without getting caught. But I was only present for one of Brians jumps, so what the fuck do I know?

OKAY, A WEEK FROM FRIDAY, Mister Dan! Patricia called as she headed for the door. Patricias from El Salvador, fifty-four, two kids, seven grandkids. Shed been cleaning my apartment every other week for the past three years.

Oh, wait, Patricia, I replied. Ive been meaning to tell you this. I dont need you a week from Friday. Im moving.

Okay, I come Thursday, she said, turning to leave.

No, no, Patricia. Im moving. Out of the apartment.

Where you move? Patricia asked.

Nowhere, I said.

You move to nowhere?

Pretty much, yes.

You can no move to nowhere, Mister Dan, she said.

Youre probably right, but Im doing it anyway, I said, handing her enough cash to cover the next month of not cleaning my place. Im sorry, I know this is out of the blue. Youre a wonderful housekeeper. If I ever get another place in L.A., youll be the first person I call.

Who live in the apartment? she asked.

No one! Im lea

After you.

I have no idea.

They need clean?

I dont know that, either, I said. But if you need a reference, Id be happy to...

I trailed off as she sized me up with a mixture of pity and disgust. This woman had grown kids. A green card. A husband. A paid-off house in the valley. Her shit was more together than mine had ever been. She needed a reference from me like she needed syphilis.