Surviving the Christmas Bacchanalia

Saturday morning in early November; the eastern sky I’m facing is beginning to show a crease of fiery orange on the horizon and the five clouds I see have already been touched by the sun’s rays. The sky hasn’t turned blue yet, it’s still an indiscernible gray. The blue is due in about twenty minutes. A rooster is crowing to my left; the goddamn cock is the most reliable indicator of 2:00 a.m. I have ever encountered, and it’s an alarm I can’t turn off, smash against the wall, or shoot. My line of sight is blocked by a four-car, detached garage; otherwise that mo-fucker would have been dead on a horizontal spit, roasting slowly, in a lemon-garlic marinade. I don’t own him; he fertilizes hens on the property owned by our landlords Stacy and Perry Beaverton. Okay, the sky’s now blue and there’s nine or ten broken clouds wearing peach and lavender. It’s taken me that long to vent on a stupid red fowl.

I’m typing on desk where the top veneer is beginning to bubble from exposure to moisture. It’s a brown fake-hardwood finish that looked good in the as-is section of IKEA when I bought it a few years ago. The desk sits outside on an eight by twenty, tiled covered patio, enough room for the desk and two fading, peeling over-sized wicker chairs, remnants of a time when we owned six such; that were mint and could have adorned any five-star hotel.

We’ve downsized… started the process about 2008 when the real estate bubble burst, the stock market crashed, unemployment hit 15%, and getting a home loan became as hard as killing a red feathered male fowl with a name I love to play with. We went from a five bedroom Hacienda with an ocean view, to a two bedroom condo on a lake, to a three bedroom manufactured home in the Nevada Desert, to where we are today; a one bedroom cottage in South Riverside County, California. Our home is two miles down a pitted dirt road, full of washboard ruts made from heavy tractors and is tucked away among Eucalyptus, Pepper and ancient Oak trees.

Our landlords rescue animals and Emu’s stroll by, outside our small fenced-in yard along with geese, and ducks and dogs and coyotes. I’ll not give the fucking rooster another word or thought. I was and am still, technically in the mortgage loan business. Enough words have been written about loans and real estate in the first decade of the new millennium but suffice it to say that labeling the economy a recession is like calling the ocean a puddle. I still scratch a loan or two every few months but Mare had to take a part-time job as a 911 operator for us to make our ends meet. Our ends shrunk considerably from a time when we had a $20,000 nut just to pay the fixed debts which included several properties, a convertible roadster, German SUV, four Japanese cars for the kids who are all grown, and a passion for charging trips to places like Nice, and London and Hawaii. Should of paid cash, had it, just blew it on other things; the monthly income was so good it didn’t matter. You reap what you sow and all that hindsight bullshit. We climbed the mountain and fell off a cliff, but we landed! Alive! In the wink of foreclosures and a BK, the ends had become minimal; we had no car payments, no debts. Our house, which we lucked into from a friend of a friend, cost less than a two bedroom apartment. Green, peaceful, affordable and secluded.

Perfect for two refuges from a financial apocalypse fought in the high rises of south Manhattan and still smoldering like post atomic fallout on anything real estate related. We took cover, disguised as eBay-ers, got wounded in that battlefield and ‘loaded up the truck and moved to Beverly… street that is… above ground pools, celestial stars… banjo lick’.

Mare and I started talking more, laughed about a one-time, upwardly mobile couple now driving an old Mercury with no rims and a constant ‘check oil light’ in dim yellow. The propane tank was $450 to fill and ran out a month after we moved in so we heated water on the stove for six months. We ate on our cozy picnic table under an Oak tree when the weather was warm. We cooked more, rented movies and made our own popcorn. Two pounds of bulk, Win-Co popcorn cost $.98 cents. Four sticks of generic butter: $1.06… Amount saved on over ten large buckets of movie theater popcorn: $47.96, time spent cooking together using a cast-iron, Dutch oven…priceless.

Somehow, the Dandermost’s tracked us down and we received our annual invite to their Christmas Bacchanalia, held in a Faux Tuscany Estate in the elite, community of Cote De Caza in the golden foothills of Southern California, ten miles hard east of Newport Beach. The Jostlund’s would be there, the Morehouses, Creasins, and Carlsons. All the movers and shakers from a fast track that ran from the dot-com swank of Irvine to the slips on Balboa Island. It would be cashmere sweaters and Rolex’s and diamonds and pearls and Mazeratis, and S-Class Benz’s and expensive wines and cheeses with names Mare never could pronounce, and tales of ski-trips to St. Moritz, and winters in hot places with cabana boys and tropical drinks. Hare and Mare would arrive in their silver Mercury, earning less money than the butler that flittered around with a silver platter of Crab Cakes and mini Beef Wellington’s.

We had avoided the party for three years because we were ‘just out of town’ and ‘timing was terrible’. They were excuses and the Dandermost’s probably knew it, but we still got the fancy, silver-embossed, declaration of decadence, invitation in the mail a week earlier. The internet and networks can either work for you or against; allows you to track ‘anyone’.

“I say we go,” Mare said pulling bagels out of the toaster. “Do we really care what they think? For my money, they’re all going broke themselves and just hiding behind a Gossamer veil. I bet we can sneak into their study or atrium and pull a quickie. You know how creative I can be!”

“It’s just that I’ve never really felt comfortable at those things, it always feels so fake and boorish,” I said, staring at the green paradise of our surroundings.

“That’s bullshit and you know it. I remember you and Russell hanging one-handed from the balcony drinking a bottle of wine in a contest of who could down it first before the other fell and do you remember ‘underwear-twister’ with reindeer hats?” she said pouring coffee.

“Yea I know but it’s the first two hours of small talk, one-upmanship that’s tough, it’s all about positioning and strategizing and smug vanity.” I said.

“Well…why don’t we go to have fun? Something like, we’re here, we’re broke and we’re happy, and thanks Pat for the invite; we brought a sixer of Bud-Light and some killer Purple-Kush. If they ask what you’re driving these days, tell em your wife!”

I smiled, walked over and lifted her on the butcher block that separate’s our tiny kitchen from the living room, ate an unexpected breakfast and did some intense, lower core-thrust, cardio work.

“Is that a yes?” she asked panting hard.

“Yea, I’ll send em an email,” I said on my own cool down.

The big Saturday in mid-December arrived in a blink; I had closed a small loan on the short-sale of a mobile home through a referral from my mom’s tea party group. The $800 pre-Christmas commission felt good, and the rent was already paid.

“Well, tonight’s the night,” I said staring into Mare’s half awake eyes with our Lhaso-Apsa mutt, ‘Coby’ licking my forehead, suggesting it was time for breakfast.

“I’m sleeping in, I don’t have anything to wear, let’s pass and go watch a movie,” she said turning away from me, throwing the covers over her head.

“Ahhhh… my little love dove, sleeping in sounds good but there’s no way you’re getting off with the ‘I don’t have anything to wear’ excuse. Not after the lecture I got. We’re going… and we’re gonna be ourselves and show Orange County how two people can have nothing and still be happy.”

She reached up one hand and without looking, flipped me off.

The day and a USC win flew by. I knew what I was wearing: black jeans with loafers and a red Nat Nast shirt I stole in a thrift store for $5.00. Mare said she was gonna surprise me. An hour before we were supposed to leave she was sequestered in the bedroom and tiny attached bathroom. It was closed-door, no-peaky. I heard the blow dryer and cussing and hangers being thrown, just standard pre-party feathering. I was watching a re-run of Hunt for Red October when the door opened. Whoooaaaaa! Her hair had been colored blond which did herself and she wore it ‘up’, with teasing wisps that fell to her shoulders. Large silver hoops dangled from her ears. She was wearing tight blue jeans and a red turtleneck that screamed ‘look at my chest’. Her long legs and small rear were framed with four-inch, stiletto, red pumps and her eyes and lips were blown up for battle. She had game and was bringin it!

I wanted some immediate one-on-one cardio but there was no way I was touching the hair or make-up, so it would have to wait for the study or shoe-closet at the party.

“What do you think?” she asked winking.

“You know what I think,” I said not looking above her chest.

The drive from south Riverside County to South Orange County took about an hour. Our name was on the guest list at the gate house in Coto de Caza so we pulled in and headed uphill towards the palace of lights. We were two hours late at my insistence, because I was still a bit embarrassed about the car. When we got near the house, we parked as far away as possible and Mare took off the pumps and walked barefoot as we made our way past the usual line up of European Autos that glistened under the full moon. Getting near, she put on the pumps, primped the hair, and we walked to the ornate, double-door entrance.

I knocked and the thickness of the doors absorbed the blows like a giant Sequoia. I touched the bell. Pat Dandermost had wired it to Wagners ‘Cry of the Conqueror’ hooked up to a Bose Surround Sound; so much for slinking in. The door opened and Orange County money in all of its grandeur took notice, two of their own, returned from the wilderness, back from exile, debt bleeding, blood on blood. The smiles were sincere; the welcome’s… heartfelt. Hands on shoulders, double-cheeked European kisses, Pat Dandermost grabbing my ass, and Sue Dandermost grabbing Mare’s. We had missed the pomposity, swagger, and posturing! Everyone was three to four glasses ‘in’ to a good time. The Champagne wasn’t Dom Perignon, it had the finish of white wine and club soda, but who cares about the size of the bubbles?

“Hank, how the hell have you been? Geeze Mare’s ass looks as good as ever, Hey Mare…Would you take your top off? Pat said laughing.

“Pat, for you anything!” she lied, slowly licking the top of her mouth pressing her breasts together.

“Come on in, everyone’s here. Where the hell have you two been,” Pat slurred.

“Timing’s been a bitch, you know, juggling four kids and a very active sex life…”

“Bullshit, you’re as broke as all of us…well except Kent Cooper…his dad died
and he’s sitting on old money, but everyone else…,” he leaned in to whisper in my ear, “is either in foreclosure, BK, or using P.O. Boxes for addresses…I can say from reliable sources that every car you passed on the walk here is either hiding from a collector or on a one-day rental. Call me an asshole, but I go to nobullshit.com all the time and am omnipotent when it comes to what’s going on in people’s lives I care about.”

“Sleaze bag asshole!” I said laughing and kissed him on his cheek.

“Do they know, you know?” I asked him quietly.

“Some do, some don’t; the ones that do are holding hands and smiling, and make eye contact. The ones that don’t are missing wedding rings, spending more time in the bathrooms, returning with red nostrils, glossy eyed, and fidgety. Check it out.

“Buzz come here,” he said pulling on Barry ‘Buzz’ Morelands arm.

“Buzzard, just how broke are you?” he said with a broad grin.

Buzz laughed, Taco Bell won’t hire me and I got here on gas money from our piggy bank,” he replied.

“Isn’t that your silver Mazerati a block down?” I asked.

“For another week or so, the wolves are closing in, but I keep it under a car-cover at ‘U-Store it’ on McArthur Boulevard. I think someone’s been tailing me though…I’m ten payments down,” he said through the side of his mouth.

“Join the club,” I said

“Mare and I actually qualified for Indigent Health care at Riverside County Medical. You know, it wasn’t that bad. The lines were a bitch but the doctors were great,” I said.

“Let’s catch up, my prostate has been flaring and I’m gonna need something soon, lost my HMO a year ago. I gotta get back to Rich Rogers who’s lying about a comeback in the Euro…I’m just playing along, the poor bastard lost everything arbitraging foreign currencies. I think he was banking in Iceland. Enough said,” he whispered before returning to a circle where Rich Rogers was holding court.

“See what I mean?” Pat said.

“Now look at Rich, if you get a chance check the Rolex, the second-hand isn’t continuous, it ticks, which means it’s a fake. He bought the gold bracelet from a guy’s coat in Redondo Beach and he’s missing three molars. Sound like a guy who’s killing things? I also looked in everyone’s purses in the study. I know, I’m a bitch, but Mandy isn’t living with him and she has more Quaaludes than I had at Burning Man last year.”

“You get all your intel on NoBullshit.com?” I asked.

“No, the kids all talk. Kim Richards and Jim are in the same Chem class.”

“She’s worried sick that Rich and Mandy are talking divorce.”

“That’s too bad, I thought they were relatively happy, if not a tad pretentious,” I said.

“I think Cash Carrillo once wrote: ‘It’s the things that’ll break you, make you the man that you are.”

“Yea I remember the song…about a guy falling,” Pat replied.

“Exactly. So tell me… how you doing it? You’re still living in the palace, power still on and a guy walking around in a white coat with gloves, but please tell me this isn’t Dom Perignon ,” I said holding my flute to the light.

“Very perceptive on your part. I started the party with three bottles of Mr. P and after everyone had their first drink… we went covert; Sue funneled the cheapest Brut I could find, call it “Three Bill Swill” and we funneled it into the DP bottles. Honestly, two drinks in…can you tell the difference?” he asked. And the butler…well that’s John Cordonez, M.D., he lives two houses down and is doing this because he lost a bet with me last week on the Chargers game.

He lifted both arms around and did a 360 twirl on the tile. “I have a first mortgage of $2,500,000, a second for $1,500,00, a third for $750,000 and a line of credit which I maxed out before they could close it down at $450,000. That would be close to $5,200,000 on a house that couldn’t sell for $2,500,000 in this market; it’s a big, upside-down, pale-yellow, Tuscan elephant. The banks don’t want it back… not yet. When they do come calling, we’ll end up doing what you and Mare did, run for cover and use aliases. I might even write, between shifts at Home Depot.

“Go mingle, Sue and I are gonna go have a threesome with your wife,” he said walking away.

“Careful, she bites,” I said.

I walked over to Rich Rogers. Several of the guys were in a half circle around him. Jim Carlson. Denny Creason, and Buzz Moreland. Rich was pontificating about the instinct of money, once you smell it, taste it, and spend it, you know how to find it. We all leaned in as he whispered, “Take Pedro who’s walking around in the white coat with the white gloves, he has not and never will get more than a two-week vacation and a car any nicer than the beat up ford probably drives. It doesn’t make him a bad person, he’s just never tasted the green. I know we’ve all been through hard times, but I came back because I refused to let poverty happen.”

I whispered, “Is it true you’ve been arbitraging the Euro?”

“Damn right, I’m kicking ass,” he lied.

“I’ll bet Mandy’s digging that,” I said baiting him a bit.

“That bitch, is gone!” he said as we all drew back acting surprised.

“She doesn’t like the risk, yea, what I’m doing carry’s a bit of risk but that’s why God gave men balls, It’s where we find our courage,” he said grabbing his nuts through his pants.

There was a scream from across the expansive great room. Women were crowded at the bathroom at the far end. “We need a doctor now!” she screamed.

Everyone ran to join the crowd. “It’s Mandy, she’s bleeding from her nose and passed out. She may have hit the Marble with her head,” she yelled.

John Cardonez M.D. aka, Pedro the butler was at her side in seconds checking the pulse and examining her eyes. She started to convulse. “Racing heartbeat, look at her eyes,” he said.

“I’m an MD, I need to know what she’s on! Is it Coke, Meth, X? Come-on people, what have you been partying with?” he asked.

Rich approached the Doctor and spoke, “I think its meth. I haven’t said anything but she’s been smoking crack for over a year now.”

“She needs to get to a hospital now! Kaiser is five minutes away. Who owns the Escalade out front?” he asked.

“I do,” Pat replied but the battery is dead and it’s out of gas. “Does anyone else have a car where she can lay down?” he asked.

“Take my Navigator,” Dennis Creason shouted.

John Cardonez, M.D. was on the phone with the Emergency room of Kaiser Hospital five miles down La Paz road.

“We need to get her to the ER right away. I’ll sit in back with her. Pull the car up front and we’ll meet you there.”

Dennis Creason raced out of the house to his Navigator which was parked across the street. Pat and me and the Doctor carried Mandy to the front door landing. Dennis was across the street trying to start the Navigator. The engine wasn’t turning over. It made a loud clicking sound we could hear from the door.

“We’ll take Jim’s pickup. We can lay a blanket in the back,” Pat yelled.

A loud bang erupted from house…followed by screams.

“For God’s sakes now what?” Pat yelled.

“It’s Rich, he just shot himself,” Brianna Carlson screamed.

“Get the truck Pat, and you two… stay with Mandy,” Doc said running back across the great room. He was back in two minutes. “He’s dead, suicide! Let’s get the truck or we’re gonna be O-for-Two,” he yelled. The garage door opener was making a loud mechanical noise but the door wasn’t moving. We tried lifting the door manually, it was Kingoba hardwood and the springs on both sides we’re broken. It took eight men straining to lift and hold the door open long enough for the truck to exit. We jumped away and let the door slam against the wall. The impact shattered the bedroom windows above the garage.

“For God’s sake, move the Benz, it’s blocking the truck,” Pat screamed. We relayed the message to Sue who was still inside with the woman. She raced out and knew it wouldn’t start because she just released the parking brake and the car started sliding downhill. Sue tried pumping the brakes which were nonexistent and the back of the heavy Benz sans power brakes, crashed into the Moreland’s Ferrari which was parked diagonally at the bottom of the driveway.

“That’s okay I got enough room to get out,” Pat screamed. Jacqui Moreland came running out with a two comforters from the downstairs guest room.

We laid a convulsing Mandy Rogers in the back of the truck where Dennis and Doc stayed with Mandy and Pat drove. They lost the right rear view mirror in a shattering bang when they clipped the brick-encased mail box at the end of the driveway. They drove off with one headlight out and a back tire that was almost flat.

Two days later, Mare and I were having bagels and coffee on our patio, sitting in the broken wicker chairs. The morning December air was warm and breezy, the Santa Ana’s had kicked up and it felt like spring. Coby was playing with the newspaper which had blown off the table. The headline he was chewing on, talked about the drug overdose one of Orange County’s noted socialites and the suicide of her husband, one of Southern California’s largest traffickers in Crystal Meth.