Going Down in La-La Land (16 page)

But it was Candy’s place, and she was going to do what she wanted to do. And I was so involved with my new career in gay porn that I didn’t have time to dissuade her. She thought about it and decided it would be cool to have a maid/cook/slave. Not to mention he was willing to pay her, by the way. And no sex was involved. All in all, to Candy it sounded like a pretty good deal.

Sure enough, when he came over Dean or I was always there, thankfully usually Dean. He was an olive-skinned middle-aged man on the short side with permanent dark circles underneath his eyes. While the slave walked around in an apron Candy would call him names like worm, dirty dog, and, my personal favorite, sissy slut. I got a particular kick whenever she called him that.

“
Get on your knees, you sissy slut!” Candy ordered in her best dominatrix voice.

Candy’s encounters with the so-called slave were entertaining. Unfortunately the guy turned out to have less money than he put on, which wasn’t a good thing to begin with but probably the worst possible quality in Candy’s mind. He was a terrible cleaner and cook to top things off. She was constantly on his ass to clean properly. The food he prepared was so bad that even Dean told Candy not to use him anymore, because it just plain sucked.

All the time the slave would whine, “I just followed the recipes, Mistress!”

Candy knew he would in fact replace some ingredients with others if he couldn’t find them or just leave them out altogether.

She even bitched that he couldn’t buy himself a rhinestone collar, which she really wanted him to wear around her apartment.

On the plus side, it was amusing how he liked to be a footstool for her and crawl around on all fours like a dog. She even had him licking milk out of the cat’s bowl. The maid outfit left over from our vampire video was what she made him wear while he did his lousy cooking. He loved wearing the maid’s uniform.

“
Looking good,” I commented awkwardly upon seeing him in it for the first time, then immediately retreated to my room.

She always wore a skirt and some high stripper shoes when he came over, and since he had a shoe and foot fetish he would kiss her feet first thing after coming through the door. The slave also spoke French, something Candy appreciated since she is fluent from years of it in high school and college. And it’s always a good thing to practice a second language.

“
Adam, what are you doing tonight?” Candy asked one evening.

“
The same as usual. Going to the gym,” I answered.

“
Have you had dinner yet?” she inquired.

“
No.”

“
Would you like to come to dinner with slave and me?” Candy offered.

“
No thanks,” was my immediate response, sensing such an event would lead to trouble. Besides, what the hell was I going to say to her slave for Chrissakes? Tell him to polish my shoes while I ate my appetizer? I could see how strange the whole scenario would be.

“
Oh come on! It will be fun!” Candy tried convincing me.

“
He’s driving us to Dar Maghreb and paying! It’s that Moroccan restaurant with belly dancers on Sunset. Don’t you feel like seeing the belly dancers spinning around?” she pressed.

Actually I was more interested in the free meal than the belly dancers.

That sounded so much better than the frozen pizza I was about to pop into the oven. I think that would have made the third frozen pizza for the week, and it was only Wednesday.

I was still reluctant but with a little more prodding and pushing agreed to go. Candy and I inevitably had a good time and never lacked for conversation, which was why she must have wanted me to come along so badly. I guess bossing around your slave in a public restaurant all alone wasn’t her idea of a good time. That and the fact Candy didn’t want anybody to think she was dating him.

Forty-five minutes later I threw on my best Armani Exchange shirt and a furry black cap from Urban Outfitters because it was a chilly night, and waited for Candy to get ready. Candy came out of her room wearing the most outrageous outfit I’d seen her put on in a long time. And that was saying a lot. You’d think we were going to the Playboy mansion, her frequent haunt.

She wore a black beret with white rhinestones on it from Dolce & Gabbana, a fur scarf, Dolce & Gabbana jacket and barely existent skirt, and thigh-high zip-up boots.

“
Looking to upstage the belly dancers?” I asked. “You better be careful or the customers will be handing you dollar bills instead.”

Candy just laughed it off.

Downstairs the slave greeted us in the indecipherable moderate accent he spoke in. For the life of me I could not figure out where the man was from, and didn’t care enough to ask. I climbed into the back with Candy and off we went.

The slave said nothing the whole ride there, and Candy spoke to him only to give him directions. I thought the whole thing was so weird, and uncomfortable, to say the least. All I kept thinking about was the delicious lemon chicken awaiting me.

When we arrived at the restaurant he said he would go look for parking and dropped us off at the front. We stood outside the door for a minute or so, and I had a feeling something was wrong right then and there. Parking wasn’t too much of a nightmare in this neighborhood, a rare thing in LA. The air was turning really cold, so Candy suggested we wait inside.

It wasn’t so much better inside, as the waiting area had an open ceiling with a fountain underneath. There were two dining areas, one to the left and one to the right, and a private dining room in the front. Quite a few people were already waiting for a table when we came in.

Immediately I sensed the focus of the room shift toward us. I could imagine that we made quite a pair, the voluptuous blonde with her outlandish outfit and the chiseled tall guy next to her with pronounced cheekbones and a furry black cap. I sat down on a little stool while Candy stood up, starting to look a bit concerned after a few more minutes of waiting.

“
Adam,” her voice was hesitant, “this is weird. It couldn’t be taking him that long to get here. Do you think he took off?”

Actually I had been thinking that since before walking through the door. He had just been too detached and distant, even for a slave.

“
It’s never taken me this long to park around here, and I have the worst luck finding parking,” I answered gravely.

Candy went out to the street again to check, but still no sign of the slave. She went on about it in disbelief, but I was too distracted by the obnoxious drunken party seated in the private room across from us. They had been laughing loudly and were staring and laughing in our direction, at Candy in particular, the second we stepped in. I had said something about it, and Candy made some remark back about them not knowing fashion if it hit them in the face. Candy was used to getting reactions from her outfits.

When she first moved to LA, she wore a gorgeous Chanel suit and hat to a restaurant and some guy cracked to his girlfriend “Where’s the parade?” I never forgot that story. That hat had probably cost his whole week’s salary. But in LA the idea of fashionable was dirty-look-ing hair, a tank top, workout pants, and cell phone. But you had to drive a really nice car that was meticulously washed at all times. I swear people would carry about or wear their fucking cars around their necks in LA if they could.

The final straw was when some stupid middle-aged woman with one of those ugly short haircuts like the kind Angela Lansbury wore on
Murder She Wrote
or some suburban moms in the Midwest still sport pulled her friend into view and pointed our way. She was blatantly poking fun at Candy’s appearance, not even bothering to be discreet about it.

After being deserted by the slave I was not in the mood. I felt like a mother lion defending her cub, immediately springing into attack. I was always protective of Candy, like two misfits sticking together in a world that was hard enough as it was.

When I get angry, I take on the behavior of a deranged person who can do major harm. Think Jack Nicholson in
The Shining.

“
What!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “What the fuck are you looking at!?” I screamed, staring straight at the bitch and almost foaming at the mouth.

Around me it got quiet. It was a good thing this was a Moroccan restaurant with belly dancers, musicians, and lots of noise or I’m sure the whole restaurant would have stopped. The woman in the ugly haircut and dated baggy sweater wiped the goofy smirk off her face and immediately looked away. Her stupid friend sat back down, and a few seconds later someone slid the doors to their dining room shut.

“
Who wears baggy sweaters like that anymore?” I screamed as the door shut.

Candy was surprised and taken aback, and it took a lot for me to surprise Candy.

“
Jesus, Adam,” she murmured, “you really went off on those people.”

“
Good,” I grumbled. “We don’t have to hear their annoying mouths or avoid their ugly faces.”

We didn’t discuss it for long as a nearby voice interrupted our conversation.

“
Hello. Can I take your picture?” I heard someone say. It sounded like he was deaf. I turned around to see a retarded young man sitting down next to me with a digital camera in his hand.

“
Sure,” I said in an overly friendly voice.

One thing I have to say about myself is that I always go out of my way to be considerate and kind to retarded and handicapped people, as I think most people should.

Candy and I went on to speak to the retarded guy at length. He let us know that
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
and
Bedknobs and Broomsticks
were his favorite movies

“
Do you know this one?” Candy asked him in a cooing voice one would use for a toddler, and blurted out “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!”

The retarded guy twisted his face up in glee and laughed loudly. The men that were with him smiled at us, showing their appreciation for humoring the guy.

“
You are my new friend,” he said to each of us, which we reaffirmed with a profound “Of course!” and “Absolutely!”

After the retarded guy and his party left to be seated we looked at each other in expressions that said what we were thinking. Namely,
Can you believe this night? Is there a full moon out or what?

By the time two of us got a table it was obvious the slave was long gone. Across from us sat a group of people in their twenties and thirties. Next to us was a large table of retired men and their wives. Again everyone looked at Candy and me as we sat on our cushions next to the low table. Candy was pissed but took on the attitude that we were here and might as well enjoy it. I was a little more peeved, and I don’t know why. She had more reason to be. After all, he wasn’t my slave.

At one point I got all bitchy and said to her something to the effect of “Well, what did you expect!” I guess I was annoyed because I sensed trouble from the start.

Candy looked at me with a very serious and hurt voice, stared me in the face, and said slowly, “Adam, don’t yell at me. It’s not my fault.”

A few of the young people across the way glanced at us. I don’t know why I was so concerned with all the reaction going on around us the whole night. I guess this jumping Moroccan restaurant was sensory overload. I immediately felt terrible. It was a very rare occurrence for me to lose patience and Candy get serious with me in turn.

“
I’m sorry, Candy. I didn’t mean to flip out on you. It’s just that your slave is a real shithead,” I apologized.

“
Well, we’re here, Adam. So let’s just enjoy the food and the belly dancers and have some fun, okay?”

When we finished dinner Candy put it on her charge card and asked the waiter to call us a cab. After waiting for what seemed forever we went to the front.

The hostess said she had never been asked to call a cab. Now I was getting pissed again. It didn’t help that a bunch of middle-aged drunks, different ones from the ones I yelled at earlier, were coming up to Candy and petting her scarf. One woman asked what it was and I snapped, “It’s the real thing! We’re from New York and don’t fake it!” in my nastiest voice possible.

I am a huge animal lover but was in no mood to hear the riot act from anyone. There was a taxi outside but other people were climbing into it. We had no idea if it was meant for us or not. Desperate and standing around like two idiots, we went around the corner to try to hail one from Sunset, a virtually impossible task in LA since the only way to get a cab was to call for it. Such moments made me wish I’d never left Manhattan.

I realize we must have looked like a very expensively dressed, very fashionable and high-class pimp and his whore walking up and down an empty stretch of sidewalk on Sunset Boulevard.

Finally we walked back to the front of the restaurant, saw a cab drive up and grabbed open the door before it came to a full stop, not giving anyone else a chance to take it.

“
Where are you going?” the cabdriver asked us.

When we told him, he protested, “But that is not where I was called to drop off.”

“
Just go!” we yelled at him like two nut jobs waiting to be taken to Bellevue for evaluation.

He drove off, and we relaxed a bit on the way back home, happy that the whole evening was behind us. Candy had lost her good humor, and vented about how the fucking prick would pay for taking off and leaving us there, using every expletive in existence to make her point clear. When we got home she called his machine and went off on it.