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It was a bullshit assignment, mostly gladhanding a pair of accounts that we had next to no chance in keeping anyhow. That ship had sailed. But it was still winter back home, and I rarely get out of the country these days. So I took it, and found myself downtown in the City of Angels on a Friday evening, the message light already blinking on the phone in my hotel room when I checked in. I picked up the receiver, pressed the red button.
Hi Francesco, a breathy voice piped up from the speaker. It’s very important that we speak at this moment. It’s very late and you’re avoiding answering my calls. There is something happening. Something bigger than you, me, and… whoever this person is you’re with. There is no excuse for this. I deserve an explanation. This is big stuff, Francesco. Big, big stuff. Please call me back when you get this message. God bless.
The message was from 11:17 p.m. on Wednesday. My name isn’t Francesco. It’s not even Frank. I don’t believe Francesco, whoever they are, ever got the message. If they did, they certainly didn’t delete it. I felt for the woman with the breathy voice, whose name I’d never know, but also for Francesco, who’d gotten themselves into a dilly of a pickle, to be sure.
After getting settled, I grabbed a bite to eat nearby, then caught a lift to a bar in West Hollywood, where I was to have a drink or two with an old friend from college I hadn’t seen in nearly a decade, not since his wedding at the lake. When I got there, 15 minutes early, the place was packed, with people milling about on the sidewalk outside the door, waiting to get in. The doorman, a young well-dressed tough guy, had a bored expression, which quickly left his face when I approached.
Bro, he said, reaching to shake my hand with a wide, easy grin on his face. It’s good to see you again.
Excuse me? I said, taken aback. Have we met before?
Yeah bro, the doorman said, patting my shoulder like we were old friends. In my dream the other night. Déjà fuckin vu, baby! I never forget a face.
I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.
You gave me some good advice the other night, bro, doorman continued. You just walk on in and find yourself a spot at the bar.
I’m meeting a friend . . .
When they come up, you let me know, doorman interrupted. They with you, they good with me.
Rather flabbergasted by what this rank stranger had told me, I fumbled with a $10 bill to pass his way as a tip. But he just waved me off.
Your money’s no good with me bro, he said. You already gave me more than enough.
Head spinning, I made my way to the bar, while the would-be patrons left behind shot enough daggers my way to take Caeser down. It was that time of year. At the bar, I ordered a whisky and put it on the company card. I did the conversion rate in my head while the barkeep poured, figuring this tumbler full of gold cost at least $25, and became doubly determined to enjoy it while parsing what the doorman had just told me.
What possible advice could I have given him that was of any use, in dream or the waking world? Do the exact opposite of everything I’ve ever done?
Bryan arrived 20 minutes later. As he approached the door, I made to stand, to remind the doorman of his promise. But there was no need. Doorman turned his head when he saw me make my move, pointed to my old pal with his thumb. When I nodded, he winked at me and waved my buddy through the door.
Some service, Bryan said, posting up next to me at the bar after we’d hugged and shaken hands, as befitting the affable middle aged men we had become. You slip the bouncer some green or what, bud?
Something like that, I admitted, without elaborating. How could I? Instead, I ordered another two whiskies on the company card, clinked our glasses to good health. After our peremptory pleasantries, I asked, What’s new?
Got married again, Bryan said, at which I nearly choked on my bourbon. I’d been to his first wedding, and knew he’d been divorced a year or so. But this was news alright. Bryan smirked. Name’s Meggyn. Two Gs and a Y, bud. You believe that? Met her just after the divorce, took the plunge a couple months ago, down in Cabo. Dynamite gal. Real firecracker, he winked in a way that would have seemed inappropriate, had I not known Bryan as long as I had. It still felt unseemly, though, even for him. Bought a place out in Culver City but the fuckin place is haunted.
Haunted? I asked, once again having trouble keeping the whisky from escaping. For real?
For real, dude. No shit. Got a priest lined up for exorcism on Sunday. You know how much that’s gonna cost?
I didn’t. Not a clue.
Too much, man. Seriously. But we tried some shaman Meggyn knew from the high desert. Burned sage and chanted some supposedly sacred shit, the whole nine yards. But it did fuck all, just stunk the place up. Some shaman. The ghost? Still fuckin there, dude. What a crock of shit.
I took a drink and nodded, as though what Bryan said made any sense. Thankfully, the subject changed and soon we were talking about the good old days, when times were bad. He didn’t ask much about what was new with me, for which I was also thankful. We didn’t mention the haunting again.
As Bryan jumped in a cab to meet up with Meggyn after a few more drinks, I dialed up a lift myself. I had meetings in the morning to attend to. The driver was going to take five minutes to arrive, so I just stood there, gazing up at the palm trees as they swayed gently in the warm offshore breeze. Perhaps I was tired from the flight, though it had been direct and there was no jet lag to account for. Perhaps LA was too much for me, too full of the unknown and the strange. Perhaps I was just out of step with the world. I understood the words all these people—the woman on the answering machine, the doorman, my old buddy — had been saying to me all night, but I couldn’t make hide nor hair of them.
Maybe they were all a part of something, something big, as the nameless woman had insinuated, and I was just on the outside looking in, a tourist. A loser. Maybe I just needed a good night’s sleep.
During the ride back to the hotel, the driver played K-Pop softly over the stereo and did not speak one word. He let me off in front of the hotel, silent still, and drove off into the night.
In my room, I kicked off my shoes, tossed my tie onto the side table and began shuffling out of my pants, when I noticed the message light was blinking on the phone next to the bed. I could have sworn I erased the strange message earlier. The only person who knew I was here was my boss, and it had been far past that old bastard’s bedtime, back east, when I’d gone for dinner. Maybe something had gone sour with the deal? Or maybe the message was from someone else entirely? I sat there, on the edge of the bed, staring at that blinking red light, recalling the breathy words the machine had spoken earlier.
Something is happening here. Big, big stuff.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the message. In fact, I know I didn’t want to hear it. But I lifted the receiver, and pressed the blinking red button again.
