86'd: A Novel - By Dan Fante Page 0,14
But no luck. Sixty pages of work, all of it—my entire Word file—lost—down the shitter. No desktop, either. Complete death. I’d never had trouble with the goddamn laptop before so, out of laziness, I’d never bothered to backup my writing files. There I sat. SOL.
In my closet were two unopened fifths of Ten High. I turned off my computer then cracked the seal on one, pouring myself four fingers of dark blended whiskey. Fuck it. Fuck sobriety. Fuck the job. Fuck the writing. Fuck trying. Fuck breathing. Fuck it all.
By nine-thirty that night, driving my Pontiac with the bottle between my legs, I’d finished the jug and unsuccessfully negotiated for a blowjob from a Santa Monica Boulevard hooker. After that I stopped at a Latino bar on Western Avenue and ordered a double from a bartender whose only language was Spanish. But the weird omen was back. The guy sitting next to me turned out to be a dead ringer for my brother Rick who now had a house in Roseville up by Sacramento.
That was the last thing I remember.
It was Portia who found me. Koffman and Francisco were still out on the town making their usual stops at the gay bars on Santa Monica Boulevard. In my blackout I’d returned home and run my cutting knife across the base of my neck.
“Get the hell away from me!”
“You’re bleeding. Oh my God!”
“I said get away—I mean it.”
“There’s blood all over your sheets—all over the bed.”
“Who’s that? What do you want?”
“It’s Portia from downstairs.”
“Who? Portia. Go away! Let me alone.”
“I heard a crash. You must’ve knocked over your table lamp.”
Something was in my eyes. Whatever it was prevented me from opening them. “What’s wrong?” I yelled. “I can’t see.”
“It’s the blood. Lie still. You have blood in your eyes and in your hair.”
“Forget it. Just leave me alone. Get away.”
Again the snooty British accent. “I’ll be back in a jiff. Just stay calm.”
The sounds of someone in the crapper opening, then rifling, then slamming my medicine cabinet shut. Then Portia’s voice again: “I’ll be right back. There’s a first aid kit in the chauffeur’s room downstairs—I’ll go and get it. How did this happen?”
Struggling to get to my feet. “I have no idea. An accident maybe—bad luck maybe.”
“Just please stay still. Stay where you are. Don’t get up.”
A minute or so later the voice was back. “Mission accomplished. I’ve got the first aid kit. Situation in hand.”
“How bad is it?” I asked. “What the hell did I do?”
“You’re drunk, aren’t you?”
“Not drunk enough.”
“Lie back. Please. Try to be still.”
Running water in the bathroom sink then a warm wash cloth against my eyes and face then down across my belly.
“Can you see now?”
“Yeah, I can see.”
“Excellent. Better already.”
“Better? So why am I scared shitless?”
“Can you stand? Let’s try to get you to the loo so I can wash you properly. I had some EMT training in New York. I know what I’m doing.”
“Apparently my ass is in your hands.”
On my feet shuffling toward the john I look down to discover that I am naked. For some unknown reason my cock is hard.
I looked at Portia then back down at my cock. “Sorry,” I say.
Her face was stone. “Never mind. It happens.”
I sit on the crapper while the pretty face further cleans the cut on my neck and washes my arms and begins cleaning the blood out of my hair.
“Help me up. I want to look in the mirror.”
“Not yet. Remain quite still. Please.”
“Then just tell me—how bad is it?”
“Apparently it’s not fatal,” the accent hisses, glancing back down at my cock. The damn thing is still thick and throbbing.
“Help me get up,” I demand.
In the mirror I see it. The cut—the gash—is about four inches long, sloping down the side of my neck. The bleeding is slowed. “That doesn’t look so bad,” I say.
“You soaked your pillow and the sheets.”
“Well, shit happens, right?”
“You’re still drunk. No doubt it’ll hurt tomorrow.”
“I don’t care.”
“You missed the artery but you’ll need immediate medical attention. A doctor. I’ll telephone David on his mobile then transfer the phones to the answering service. I’ll drive you to the hospital myself.”
“No! No fucking way. You fix it. You just said you had training.”
“That wound will require stitches. You’re going to need a proper hospital.”
“No hospitals. No goddamn doctors.”
“That’s absurd. Don’t be a fool. Without treatment that cut could easily become infected.”
“If Koffman finds out I’ll lose my job. We had a deal. A no-more-drinking-or-you’re-out-on-your-ass deal.”
“There’s nothing else I can