Day Of The Dudes

by Raymond Embrack

RAYMOND EMBRACK is a writer of underground pulp and crime trash, author of five books.

She read the name tag on his short-sleeved shirt. " ‘Frank Kramer, Manager ’ "

"Right."

"You’re Asian."

"Thai-American."

"I always wondered about that but I didn’t want to ask."

"Ask what?"

"Frank Kramer is not exactly a Thai-American name."

"I changed it to Frank Kramer."

"How come?"

"I picked the most American name I could come up with."

She said, "I don't get that."

"I decided if I was going to be American, why fuck around?"

"Dude.This isn't America. It's L.A."

#

12:14 a.m.

Frank Kramer sat in his easy chair. The easy chair was facing the TV set.

On the TV screen: soft core Cinemax. Girl-girl action in a jacuzzi.

Frank picked up the remote, snapped it off. On weeknights Frank allowed himself five minutes of late-night adult TV. On weekend nights, no limit.

Frank took a drink of beer. The last can before turning in. He saw himself turning in sooner, maybe before one. The older he got, the sooner he wanted to sleep. Before another day at the Quad Spot.

The phone rang.

Frank let the machine take it. The message had the female voice the machine came with.

Beep.

"Frank? Dude, I know you’re there. Pick up, it’s important."

"Shit."

Frank picked up.

"I’m on," he said. "What is so important, Cody?"

"I need you to do me a favor."

"What? Can it wait until tomorrow?"

"Has to be tonight."

"It needs to wait until tomorrow. You might even show up for work. We could try that."

"Can’t wait. Has to be tonight."

"Why? Are you in trouble?"

"Not unless you do me this favor."

"What is the favor?"

"I need you to meet me someplace."

"Not a chance."

"Come on, Frank, don’t be a dick."

"Watch it. I’m your boss, Cody."

"You might score."

Shit. "Where do I meet you?"

" It’s a club downtown."

"Downtown?"

#

It was too late for scoring. Still, Frank put on his windbreaker and went down to his car. He lived in Burbank.

Frank headed downtown. A red SUV with a Mexican flag bumper sticker passed him, reggaeton music pounding, the same beat that pounded from vehicles all over L.A. day and night. Frank rarely saw L.A. at night. Frank was miserable. Frank had a set behavior pattern: when he was in, he was in for the night. That pattern was never to be disturbed. Frank felt violated. Dread followed, the dread of a fish out of water, flipping itself on cement, helpless. Cody was the fishing hook. Frank felt caught and about to die.

Frank tried to smooth out his nerves. He hated himself for being so weak. Unable to say no to Cody. But when it came to it, Cody was the one person Frank couldn’t say no to. Cody was the kind of guy who never had his own cigarettes, was always bumming yours.

Cody was also a guy who made you feel cool to be around him. Even Frank, who was ten years older. When Cody showed up for work, he’d be half of the time with a porn chick or two or three. Them and the hot amateurs always orbiting him. The chicks were like chicks you only saw on TV or the Sunset Strip.

#

One a.m. Downtown L.A. They were sitting in Frank’s car behind Cody’s chopper on a dark street he'd never heard of. The only signs of life were in front of a club across the street, the door covered with posters and flyers. The place looked like it had existed for maybe an hour. The people loitering in front of it looked like they had been on parole for maybe two hours.

Frank looked over at Cody Roddman. He never looked at Cody without hitting the sheer beauty of Cody’s face.

Fuck this. But when it came to it, Cody was the one person Frank couldn’t say no to. Next time he'd say no. But he'd have to get through this time.

Cody said, "Go into the club."

Frank said, "And do what?"

"Bring her out."

"Why don’t you go in?"

"I told you, dude. I’m barred. Can’t get in."

"This is kinda fucked-up, Cody."

"So's reality."

They got out of the car.

"Be cool, Frank. Just go in, get her, bring her out. I'll meet you at the door. Play it right, you might even score."

Frank crossed the street. The street was a blur. Frank walked into the club. The club was a blur in technicolor darkness. Mostly empty. Club music: a beat with a chick's numb voice going Fuck the pain away. Fuck the pain away. Fuck the pain away...

Where was Remy? There she was, at a table. Remy Rocco, porn actress. Sucking a filter king, her lipstick crooked, blonde hair in her face. But still hot, a wrinkled minidress clinging to her huge implants. Frank could see he wasn't going to score. She was sitting with a man. The man was an Armenian thug dressed like Ali G. Frank hated this shit already.

Frank walked to their table. Cristal in an ice bucket. Even Frank knew that was a cliche. On the table: a gold card with a Remy’s name on it.

Ali G stood, put out a hand with gold-blinging fingers outstretched, telling Frank to keep his distance. He flashed gold uppers.

"No autographs," he said. "Walk."

Frank said, "Remy."

A stoned eye peeped up through the hair. It frowned with confusion. Her crooked lipstick cracked dead porn star breath.

"Whuuut?"

Frank said, "Cody’s outside."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Tell Cody to fuck off."

The man said, "We on, dude?"

Frank said, "What?"

"Where the fuck is Cody? He send you to do his shit?"

"What?"

"I will go outside and deal with Cody. After I deal with your punk West Coast ass."

"Look...there's no need for trouble here."

The man said, "What’s your name?"

"What?"

"What’s your fucking name?"

"Frank."

"Know who I am, Frank?"

"No."

"Know who the fuck I am?"

"No."

"I’m Murder Mouse."

Frank said nothing.

Murder Mouse said, "So you’re an Asian motherfucker. You gonna kung-fu me and shit?"

Frank said nothing.

"You a pro, Frank?"

Frank said nothing.

Murder Mouse pulled up his top to bare hard abs and the handle of a nine-millimeter handgun under the waistband.

He said, "What are you now, Frank?"

Frank stepped back. Fuck Cody. Fuck Cody and his problems. Now Cody could get him killed. Frank looked for someone who looked like a bouncer. Saw no one around who looked like a bouncer. Saw hardly anyone around.

Murder Mouse took the gun out. He set it on the table.

"Don’t need a gun for you, Frank. East Coast don't need a gun with a West Coast pussy. And you are a pussy. I can smell your pussy."

Frank took another step back, the plan to turn and run.

"Don’t try to run," he said. "If you try to run, I’ll beat you worse."

Frank didn’t know what to do. Frank was paralyzed. This was only one guy, a guy calling himself "Murder Mouse". The guy was slightly taller, younger and in better shape. Frank didn’t think he could take him. Frank had no self-defense skills, no violence skills. Frank backed away.

"Stand the fuck still."

"Look, I don't want trouble."

Frank stood still. He looked for the sight of a bouncer. He looked for Cody. Everything else was a blur. He felt like he was trapped inside a bad movie.

Murder Mouse said, "You want to get hurt?"

Frank said nothing. His heart was pounding.

"Answer me."

Frank shook his head.

"Speak."

"No."

"No what?"

"No to your question."

"You don’t want to get hurt."

"No."

"You’re gonna get hurt unless you do what I say. You understand that?"

Frank said nothing.

"Answer me."

Frank nodded.

"I can do anything to you I want, bitch. I can hurt you or not. That’s up to me."

Frank's heart hammered his chest.

"We need to talk about shit, Frank. We’ll go into the men’s room where we can have some privacy and work this out."

"I don't want trouble."

"No trouble. We talk."

"We talk?"

"Right. Just talk."

Murder Mouse took Frank by the sleeve, started walking, Frank towed along like a little girl. Frank thought about breaking into a run for the exit. But he knew it would be like running underwater. He'd never make it.

They went into the men’s room. Frank hoped it was occupied. It was empty. No shit. Emptier than anywhere in L.A. Dim lighting, exposed brick walls, yellow stink versus green stink. They stood there between the row of urinals and the row of sinks.

"Now we can talk," Murder Mouse said.

Frank stood there. His lips were dried-up, about to crack. His heart still pounded until he wondered where the energy came from to pound his heart this hard for so long.

"Frank, you're a West Coast pussy. I'm almost insulted by this."

Murder Mouse stuck out a hand, gave Frank a light tap across the face. Just like that, Frank was twelve again. Murder Mouse smiled. His other hand slapped Frank’s face a light tap.

"There’s one way you can get out of getting hurt. You gotta get on your knees. Do it. Get on your knees. Then I won’t hurt you."

Frank hadn’t been in violence since junior high school. A near-fight until he backed down from the other kid. Before that...sixth grade. Some badass kids made him and his best friend fight in the boys room. Best friend: a fat kid. Frank won that one since the fat kid backed down first. The one fight he’d ever won.

Frank was drowning. He knew that any punch he would throw would be like he was underwater. Frank didn’t want to get hurt. Frank didn’t want to get on his knees. Frank didn’t want to get hurt.

To stall, Frank said, "What?"

"‘What?’" Murder Mouse mocked him. "Get on your fucking knees."

A flash of rage hit Frank. The moment passed. Frank started thinking about getting on his knees. No one else was around to see it. Maybe getting on his knees was worth it if he wouldn’t get hurt. Maybe not.

"Do it."

"No."

"I know what you’re thinking, Frank. Guys like you think too much in these situations. Maybe let me throw the first punch, force you to fight back. Then maybe run for it. Except when I get started, I don’t know when to fucking stop. I will rip out one of your eyeballs. I will fuck you up for life, Frank. You don’t want that. You have a chance to avoid that, Frank. So get on your fucking knees."

Frank got on his knees on the sticky floor.

"Next step. You get a choice. You can kiss my foot. Then I won’t hurt you."

Frank said, "What?"

"Kiss my foot."

Looking at Murder Mouse's white sneakers, Frank said, "Can’t do that."

"You’re on your knees. You can do it. Or you get hurt. Up to you, Frank. Nobody’s gonna know, Frank. Just fucking do it, Frank, save yourself a beating."

Murder Mouse's sneakers stepped forward.

"Kiss it," Murder Mouse said above him. "Nobody’s gonna know. Then I won’t hurt you. Promise. If you don’t, I’ll hurt you. So just fucking do it. You only have to do it once. Go ahead."

Frank couldn't move. He needed a minute more to bring himself to do it.

Murder Mouse flipped a hand, tapped Frank across the face. "I’m giving you a chance, Frank, but you’re starting to piss me off. You got four seconds."

"One."

Murder Mouse’s hand slapped Frank’s face again, harder. "Two."

Inside Frank’s head glass broke.

Frank lunged, grabbed Murder Mouse’s right leg, held on. From his heart ripped a long scream. A fist popped his left eye, exploded his head. A knee banged the other side of his head. He held on to the leg like that would keep him from getting killed. Murder Mouse stumbled, fell over, knocked over the trashcan.

From the trashcan an empty beer bottle rolled out. Frank grabbed it by the neck. Beer trickled into his sleeve. Frank stumbled atop Murder Mouse, clubbed his face with the bottle.

Inside Frank’s head, the broken glass crashed and stabbed. He kept clubbing Murder Mouse's face, the blows jolting up his arm as the bottle cracked bones and teeth. He didn’t feel underwater now, feeling each jolt, felt the face under him changing shape. He felt primal, felt connected to the Dawn of Man.

He felt like he had crossed an event horizon to get to where he now was. It was the only way to get here from there. It was better here. Shits like Murder Mouse were born here, spent their lives here. Frank had been missing out. Violence had a buzz.

Frank stopped. Murder Mouse: IHOP raspberry pancake syrup smearing his face, pooling on the floor around his head.

Frank was sweaty and exhausted. But his heart rate was slowing now. He pawed his way up one of the sinks, washed blood off his hands.

Frank came out of the club with Remy. Cody was waiting. Remy wobbled atop clear heels, bent over, puked on the sidewalk.

Cody took her arm, said, "Get it out now, bitch. Not on the road."

"Fuck yoooou," she said.

They crossed the street toward Frank's car and Cody's chopper.

Remy turned to Cody, said, "Wanna fuck?"

"Then I’d puke."

"Fuuuuck you," she said.

Frank’s hands burned. He looked at them, saw dried blood between his fingers.

Cody to Frank: "Who hit you in the face?"

"She was with a guy."

"Murder Mouse?"

"Yeah. You know him then."

"What happened?"

"You know him."

"Yeah."

"You didn’t mention him, Cody."

"I wasn’t thinking about him."

"You almost got me killed."

"What happened?"

"You almost fucking got me killed! You used me, you piece of shit!"

Cody got on the chopper, Remy behind him. "So what happened?"

"What the fuck am I doing?" Frank screeched. "This is insane. I hired you for the pussy you bring into the store, not to almost fucking get me killed!"

"So you took him out." Cody grinned, slapped Frank’s shoulder. "Duude."

Cody took off on the chopper.

#

The Quad Spot opened at eleven. It was one. The store was empty, just stereo equipment and clean safe daylight. The calm stillness held him in place as he read the sports page but not reading it, his brain still replaying the violence. Viewing himself in action. Frank was running on maybe three hours sleep, but he didn’t feel like it. His eye was swollen half-shut. The Tylenol with codeine wasn’t doing shit; the pain fucking owned his skull. But for the first time in his life, he felt Dudeness.

Then that Frank Kramer feeling came back. Murder Mouse could come after him. Except there was no way he could locate Frank Kramer. Except Remy could tip him. He should’ve called in, stayed out that day. He kept picturing Murder Mouse coming through the door with his gun. Shit.

"Uh...Frank."

Frank barely lowered a corner of the sports page. Looked at Tran. Vietnamese-American, 30.

Tran frowned at the sunglasses Frank still had on reading the paper.

Tran said, "You okay?"

"Yeah."

Tran said, "Is Cody coming in today?"

Frank said, "Doesn’t look like it."

"Then this is the third time this week he didn’t show up for work."

"I know."

"And...?"

"And what?"

"Does that seem fair to you?"

"What?"

"That Cody works here but he only shows up half the time. And most of the time I have to do both his job and my job."

"I appreciate it."

"But is it fair?"

"Cody is different."

"How is Cody different?"

"He has other work."

"Being a porn actor?"

"He has adult film work."

"So why does he work here?"

"The adult film industry is in a slow period."

"So how come he’s never here?"

Frank lowered the sports page all the way. Tran was never late, never missed a day. Tran’s thing was showing everyone how smart and in control he was. He did both his job and Cody’s. Tran had good car advice. Tran had good tax advice. Tran had a wife and a three year-old and a younger one. Tran invested in mint edition coins. Tran was a good man. Tran wouldn’t get it.

Frank said, "Tell you what. I’ll talk to Cody."

"Okay."

"I appreciate your patience."

"Okay."

Frank waited for him to go away.

"Anything else?" Frank said.

"No."

Frank raised the sports page back between their faces.

Tran took his lunch hour. Frank held down the store. Tran returned. Frank took his lunch hour. Frank drove to the drive-thru taco place a few blocks from the strip mall. He got four of the shitty little tacos that came wrapped in foil with the lime wedges and other shit Mexican places included with tacos that he never used. This place had shitty tacos but it was drive-thru and he was into tacos enough to take shitty ones. He drove back to the strip mall, took lunch in his tiny office. All of it a blur. The world was a blur taken through one good eye.

#

Around three, a chick came into the Quad Spot. She was one of the porn chicks who came around because of Cody.

This one was the pale skinny redhead, large green eyes above a studded nose. Tattoos up and down her thin arms. Narrow chest under a halter top, denim miniskirt, long pale legs, pink shoes, tattooed flames up one leg to the knee. She walked up to him smiling a flash of studded tongue. "Hey, you."

He didn’t remember her name. He gave her a smile.

"Hey," he said.

"Where's Cody?"

"Cody’s not here."

"Figures," she said.

"Yeah."

She read the name tag on his short-sleeved shirt. " ‘Frank Kramer, Manager ’."

"Right."

"You’re Asian."

"Thai-American."

"I always wondered about that but I didn’t want to ask."

"Ask what?"

"Frank Kramer is not exactly a Thai-American name."

"I changed it to Frank Kramer."

"How come?"

"I picked the most American name I could come up with."

She took out a cigarette, said, "I don't get that."

"I decided if I was going to be American, why fuck around?"

"Dude," she said. "This isn't America. It's L.A."

Frank took out his lighter, lit her cigarette. "Anyway, it gives me something to do."

"You want something to do," she said, "we can fuck."

###

Copyright © 2006 Raymond Embrack

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