86'd: A Novel - By Dan Fante Page 0,30

had risen back to an unmanageable level. Though the woman grated on me with her high-flung, know-it-all snootiness and nonstop mouth, like an addicted fool I continued the affair, getting drunk and pulling her into the chauffeur’s room or up to my bed, or leaning her over an office chair to hammer her from behind, or demanding that she suck me off.

The only thing that made it bearable was that when Portia got drunk too she could be funny, imitating different English accents and telling me crazy tales about the paramedic company in New York and plastic surgery doctors and her philandering cop ex-husband and his friends harassing the transvestite hookers in SoHo.

My daily writing became my only escape from Jimmy’s voice in my mind. I was now writing first thing in the morning at six a.m. no matter what—an hour to two hours—and had managed to produce ten decent stories. None of which I showed to Portia. In my experience the best time for a writer to write is when he is completely fresh with no distractions. I’d tried it again and again and there was no possible way I could concentrate later in the day if I’d been drinking. This nonsense about writers who are boozers and conceive their best work while half-jacked is simply crap. No writer can write drunk. It’s impossible.

Finally, one night alone in my room, after sex with Portia downstairs, I did something insane. I’d decided that I wanted to clean my gun. The thing had belonged to my father and I kept it in a shoe box in my drawer, an old S&W .38 Police Special he’d had for twenty-five years. Pop had taken it in lieu of a poker debt.

I knew it was loaded because I always kept it loaded. I’m not sure what possessed me but I fired it at my bedroom mirror. Twice. The bullets passed through the wall and one ended up in my bathroom sink and the other lodged in a can of shaving cream on the shelf. The noise of the explosions rendered me immediately sober.

A minute later Portia was up the stairs and banging on my door in a panic. I lied and said that the gun had gone off by mistake. She knew this was crap and it took me over an hour to calm her down until finally I opened her shirt and began rubbing her tits, telling her how smart she was and how much I trusted her. She demanded that I give her the gun to throw away.

“You know you can be a very frightening person when you drink,” she whispered. “You’re a dangerous man. I see a kind of madness in your eyes.”

“That was my father’s gun. It’s a memento.”

“Was he like you when he drank? Was he this way?”

“Not really. But he was no pushover. He was filled with rage and long periods of silence. But when he drank too much he usually got mellow.”

“Did you love him?”

“No, I worshipped him. Look, I said I was sorry.”

“You should seek help.”

“I’ve tried—nothing works. I’m afraid that I’m crazy. I’m afraid I might just kill myself some night.”

“Commit yourself to therapy. You can go to a clinic. Hollywood is rife with free programs and therapeutic facilities. I overcame my issue with bulimia. If I can do it you can too.”

“Great. What about the hundred pieces of nicotine gum you chew every day? You’re a crackhead for that shit.”

“Think progress—not perfection. I’m in deadly earnest. You need help.”

“I hate those brain-sucking assholes. They’re crazier than their patients. Read the statistics some time. I hate that shit.”

“Promise me. Give me your word that you’ll at least consider it.”

“Okay. I’ll give it some thought.”

Then we screwed—her on top, moaning, pounding up and down, her ass bones digging into my thighs. After that we fell asleep. By noon the next day the incident was put to rest.

A couple of days later I made the decision to turn the day-today management of Dav-Ko over to Portia, giving her the title of office manager. She liked the business end and her new authority and I knew she’d be good at it. I had arrived at the point that I didn’t care about my job and dreaded being stuck alone in the office with her all day.

In the last month we’d added three more cars and two more drivers so I assigned myself the task of training the guys and buying their chauffeur uniforms and showing them the best