Chickenhawk: Back in the World - Life After Vietnam

We had a good laugh over that. Giraudo finished the evening claiming that I was doing much more than he with life, me being out doing deals with Disney and all. Well, sure, okay. I didn’t feel very good about what I was doing. Actually, I thought it was about the pettiest bullshit I’d ever come up with—Mickey Mouse mirrors? I was doing it for the money. Giraudo, banker with big house in Carmel, thinks I’m doing more with my life?

Woke up the next morning with a hangover and had breakfast with Giraudo, watching hummingbirds feeding on his terrace. We said good-bye.

I drove down Highway 101, which wanders among the steep cliffs right along the seashore from Carmel to Los Angeles. I stopped and bought a gallon of California wine I decided to drink on the way.

Drinking in the morning puts a glow on the day. I enjoyed the view and hummed some tunes. I knew I would have to keep drinking all day to avoid a big letdown, but that was what I did anyway. I wondered occasionally if I was drinking too much—no one I knew, except my father, drank like me—but I figured it was alcohol that was keeping me however sane I was.

Saw a girl hitchhiking and stopped. I was in the mood for company. When she got close to the car, I saw a guy appear from behind some bushes.

“He’s my boyfriend,” she said. “Do you mind giving us a lift?”

“Why not?” I said. I knew the trick, but I didn’t care.

“Thanks.” She got into the front seat and scooted next to me. Her boyfriend, a small guy with a Levi jacket and a tight mustache, got in next to her. I got back on the road.

“Where you going?” I said.

“Malibu,” the girl said.

“Malibu? Sounds exotic. Hear about Malibu all the time.”

“It’s very nice. We have an apartment there.”

They were superficially friendly, as would be expected of two people conning a ride. The girl smiled and said she wanted to be an actress, but in the meantime, she supported them by being a hooker. She said that casually, like it was just a regular job. I was flexible, so I nodded and said something stupid like “That’s nice,” or something. The guy smiled—like, I get it wholesale.

I stopped for something to eat, but they said they were conserving their cash and would wait until evening. I bought them hamburgers.

That evening, we pulled into Santa Barbara. I drove to a small hotel and got out. They said they didn’t have the money to get a room. I should have said “Really? Too bad” and said good-bye. Instead, I said they were welcome to share my room.

We went to a restaurant around the comer after I said it was my treat. Why did I offer to buy? I guess I wanted them, at least her, to like me. I wanted a hooker to like me. I kept imagining how many guys this girl had let poke her to support her and her parasitic boyfriend. I felt sorry for her.

I was a jovial and generous host at the restaurant. I still had an American Express card, so I told them to order what they wanted. I’d switched to bourbon at nightfall and was having a lot of fun listening to myself talk. They laughed and ate.

In the hotel room, while her boyfriend was in the bathroom, the girl said her boyfriend would take a half-hour walk for thirty bucks, a big discount from her normal fee—me being such a nice schmuck, and all. “Thanks for thinking of me,” I said. “I’ll just sleep.” She nodded and shrugged. They slept together on one side of the queen- size bed, I sat up on the other side, drinking.

We arrived at Malibu the next afternoon. The girl asked me if I wanted to stop and look around. I didn’t have to be at the mirror plant until the next morning. I said sure, noticing the guy wince.

They had a one-room apartment in a building right on the beach. I really liked the beach; it reminded me of my childhood in Florida.

The girl asked me if I wanted to stay with them that night, to repay me for my generosity. I looked around their tiny apartment. Where?

“We’ve only got the floor and some blankets,” she said.

I thought I saw a glimmer of actual friendliness in her face and felt a rush of attachment.

“Okay. If it won’t put you out. I love the beach at night.”

When we walked out on the beach, they lagged behind and the guy was talking and gesturing to the girl, like he was scolding her. I carried a big bottle of wine out on a pier. I leaned over the rail and watched the waves and trash swirl around the pilings.

The guy came up beside me.

“Bob. I know she asked you to stay, but she’s changed her mind.”

I turned to the guy and looked around. The girl was gone. “Where is she?”

“Back at the apartment. She said she doesn’t want you to stay.”

“Really? I thought—”

“I don’t want you to stay either,” the guy said. His eyes narrowed as he watched me take a swig of wine. He shook his head, made a face, and said, “You know, Bob, you’re nothing but a drunk.”