USK | Prose | Laidlaw | Waiting for Merlot

Waiting for Merlot

Tommy Ray Lester hadn't eaten in days and now that he had come down from the crystal meth, he was craving real food, like NY peppercorn steak and a baked potato with French onion soup and a salad and a bottle of Merlot or a good Cabernet. He wanted it somewhere nice like the outdoor cafes along the Sunset Strip where the rich Hollywood brats hung out. The last thing he had eaten was an Oki Dog at the World Famous Oki Dog on Santa Monica Boulevard - bad move - it was just too easy to get side-tracked at that place. They had high-end biker crystal there 24 hours a day, and someone was always selling clean rigs for the price of a large Coke.

He had been in La La for three months and he still had no permanent address. Sometimes he slept in his rusted white Chevy pickup. Sometimes he slept in Spanish castles high above the city in the Hollywood Hills. Then there were the times he didn't sleep at all, high above the city in a Methedrine haze. The one constant in all this was that he'd always come down. Down from the hills in a rich old troll's Mercedes to be dropped back off where he'd been picked up somewhere on Santa Monica. Down the crystal staircase to fumble for his keys for a three-day crash in the back of the pickup parked on dark East Hollywood streets where the LA Gestapo didn't look twice at his expired plates. What he needed was a good $300 trick and a room to operate out of so he could save some money and quit the hustling. He'd been offered a busboy job at Chasen's in Beverly Hills that would lead to a waiter position where he could make damn good money but he didn't have the tuxedo or the shoes or the bow tie so he never showed up for his first day.

Now here he was, hungry, disheveled, and flat broke. It was a Tuesday, which he'd already learned was vice night on the boulevard and which meant only out-of-town tricks and brand-new trade were out, blissfully unaware of the undercover vice cops watching their every move. On this night Tommy Ray Lester was here too, standing in the shadows of a Ford dealership on Selma across the street from a neglected cemetery that had Rudolf Valentino and other dead celebrities interned with perpetual care. Tommy Ray only dared to step out and make eye contact with the cars that had out-of-state plates and had driven up and down the strip several times. It was risky as hell but he had no choice if he was to get that steak dinner in a civilized joint. The Santa Anna winds were blowing in off the mountains so it was hot, a pleasant dry heat, and the smog was clearing so you could actually see stars. Tommy Ray took off his dirty T-shirt and stuck it in the back pocket of his Levi's. He dropped down and did sixty push-ups, used the sweat to slick back his hair, and he was ready.

The paneled country squire station wagon had been by at least three times but he couldn't make out the plates. If he saw it again he would make his move. It didn't look very promising but he was tired of standing out there and a $50 trick in the hand was better than a $300 trick in the bush. The wagon was heading by yet one more time and, high on the adrenaline of risk, Tommy Ray Lester stepped out of the shadows and into white fluorescent glare of a street-light. Hands in pockets, sweat-glistened chest, and with a look usually reserved for sweet young Malibu Barbies on the beach, he made eye contact with the troll. The troll made an unwise U-turn and came to a stop a few yards ahead of him, leaned over, and rolled down the window. Tommy Ray Lester leaned in the car, made a cursory visual search, and finding no chainsaw, he asked:

"Where ya headed?"

"Oh, nowhere really, I'm just out for a drive. And you?"

"I'm going out to dinner later; now I'm just hanging out."

"Need a lift?" the troll asked.

"Sure, thanks."

And then, "Are you a cop?" Tommy Ray inquired.

"Heavens, no!" the troll said, horrified.

Tommy Ray got in the car, the troll pulled out into the safety of the boulevard traffic, and the game was afoot. This guy was no record company exec, that was for sure; he reminded Tommy Ray of his first parole officer. He wore thick horn-rimmed glasses, he had a clammy, white, almost translucent complexion, thin lips, two weak chins, and a big fat sloppy gut, the kind of gut that would make Orson Wells look like Twiggy. Judging from the JC Penny button-down and the pocket protector filled with throw-away Bic pens, the troll was either a low-rent accountant or a bill collector or maybe a driving instructor. No matter, he was a fifty dollar trick if Tommy Ray had ever seen one.

"Let me see your dick," Tommy Ray demanded.

"What?" the troll responded.

"Let me see your dick so I know you're not a cop," he explained.

The troll unzipped his pleated Dockers, shifted his great ass and finally found his shrivelled little member. Tommy Ray reached over and tugged roughly on the troll's tiny pink digit. This excited the troll but it was too soon - they hadn't yet come to terms. Tommy Ray let go. He leaned back, lit a cigarette, and in his best Marlena Dietrich, he asked:

"So what are you into?"

"Well I'd like to see yours. Do you like to have your dick sucked?"

"Sure I like to have my dick sucked. Usually I like to have it sucked by a chick but tonight I'm really hungr-, I mean horny. How much do you have to spend?"

"Well, what do you charge?" he asked.

At last, the moment of truth. He didn't want to go through this ritual again and what with it being vice night he decided to be safe,

"A hundred," he said, and when the troll didn't answer, he added, "up front."

"Do you cum?" asked the troll.

"I don't know, do you suck good dick?" Tommy Ray asked in reply.

"I've never had any complaints," he said predictably.

"But I was really looking to spend about $50," he added.

Tommy Ray caught the slight hesitation and determined that this guy was indeed worth an even hundred:

"Look, I don't go around the block for less than a hundred; $50 is an insult. I really hate the tent-trading, let's just say a hundred and I'll get hard and come all over your face. Would you like that?" Tommy Ray reached over and pinched the troll's tit to accentuate his offer.

They headed west on Santa Monica, made a right on Highland, and parked on a side street over-looking the football field at Hollywood High School. Tommy Ray Lester adjusted the passenger seat all the way back, unzipped his Levis, and pulled out his 14-inch horse dick. The troll was visibly shaken.

"My god, boy, I don't know if I can fit that thing in my mouth," said the troll with fiendish delight. Tommy Ray extended his hand and rubbed his thumb and index fingers together as though he were feeling a silk garment and said:

"Up front, please."

The troll counted out five twenties and handed them to Tommy Ray...

... close your eyes and fantasize. That's what Chi-town Timmy had told him and it had worked. At first it repulsed him, but after three months on the boulevard he had it down to a science. When it was over the troll dropped him off at Nicky Blair's on Sunset. It wasn't crowded on a Tuesday night so there were plenty of open tables on the patio and the maitre d' reluctantly sat him.

After a fine dinner and a bottle of Merlot, Tommy Ray Lester took the Sunset bus to the beach. He avoided the Santa Monica Pier where all the homeless drifters and pier rats hung out, working their nickel-dime hustles, and instead went further north toward Malibu where the sleeping was safer. He still had twelve dollars, enough for a pack of smokes, a clean shirt from a thrift store, and bus fare back to Hollywood. As he drifted off to sleep, the last thought in his head was that tomorrow he'd hold out for a $300 trick.

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