Illustration by Milano Chow
Vice: When’s the very first time you can remember writing fiction?
Jeff: Probably in grade school. I used to make up stories about really obese kings of powerless countries, like Greenland. They’d start wars and have a lot of paperwork to do for some reason, but they’d always end up more concerned with eating butter and roast beef and stuff.
What’s the hardest thing about writing a short story?
Making them about things other than butter and roast beef.
e called into a local radio station upward of 60 times in January of 1989. Provided a series of correct answers that surpassed the other callers’ series of answers and advanced southward to the state capital for the semi-finals. One night at a Holiday Inn on the main drag (
Golden Girls
followed by Pepcid AC) and a rock-and-roll themed brunch. He had Chuck Berry-Berry waffles. Two “amps” fashioned from sausage patties and whipped cream. Decaf. A ton of decaf. Even decaf, in that quantity, had trace amounts of “caf.” He got pumped. His mind hurdled a series of negatives he’d laid out for himself. His confidence was like a new-ish set of elbow pads. Or maybe hurdling shoes.
The van arrived. Guy with Bell’s palsy. They ran the yellows. He sat, name-tagged, under the tangerine lights of a Ramada Inn conference room. Everything was obstructed-view. A beehiver doled out Pepperidge Farm goldfish in a corner. Flat Sprite. His turn came suddenly.
Example:
*A Bay Area rock band whose ex-lead singer is named Steve.*
He rang his bell. His smile hurt his cheeks. He owned this trivia.
Still, he thought of her the whole time. Her auburn hair, which she would sweep around in the back before throwing it over one shoulder. Her faint panty line, visible beneath her khakis, tapered sexily.
He rang his bell again. Correct answer.
Now, she’d cooled off. The friendship—whatever—was a touch rocky. The situation with her made him morose. Not morose enough to lose, though. He buried his competition.
They sent him to Hollywood. The beds were lumpy or maybe just foreign. Maybe people liked it that way. Maybe there was a healing element to it. The quilt, glazed lightly with an industrial flame-retardant, gnawed his skin.
He listened near the window for beach noises. It was February. He heard only a hooker, perhaps, dissatisfied with her cheesesteak. Whooping cough.
He rode the elevator downstairs. Everything was a brass and pastel train wreck. No one would speak to him. No one acknowledged why he was in Tinseltown in the first place. They were probably just busy.
He wandered down a paneled corridor. Watercolors of seagulls. He passed a moist tile wall, discreetly took his jeans off—hung them on a hook and disappeared into the sauna with his thoughts.
“Auburn hair is for liars,” he whispered. Felt a lump in his throat, then scolded himself. He’d unplugged his answering machine in a fit of rage before he left. He had zero messages. No possibility for messages. He groaned softly.
Upstairs, he took deep breaths. Ordered turkey clubs, drank a familiar light beer. The TV set underperformed inside a faux-wood entertainment center. He delved into the unfamiliar topography of the LA sports page. Clusters of horse results deviated from what he normally expected.
Shortly after dawn, he rose, put on his rumpled clothes, and went immediately to the concierge with a misshapen stack of ones. Turned it into a pile of quarters. Plugged the quarters into a pay phone. Called her work number. She should have already been there for two hours.
He was panicky, certain she woke up next to some new dude, one who didn’t don a bib and eagerly lap up her bullshit. Sunlight coming through her bedroom curtains across their naked bodies. “Groovy Kind of Love” came through a speaker in the ceiling above the phone.
A coworker answered. “She’s not here yet.”
He hung up and walked back to the elevators. He was positive she was eloping with the new dude. Kip Landry called. The limo would pick him up the following morning at 8 AM sharp. He took his quarters and went back down to pay phones. Five rings.
“Andrea speaking.”
“It’s me.”
“Who’s me?”
“I’m out here for the game show.”
“Yeah? You should be studying, not wasting your time with me,” she chided him.
“I know, but you’re special,” he said.
“Les?”
“The kissing was—”
“Really cool.”
“Yeah.”
“Only right now, it feels weird. We should wait. Hold off.”
“Until when?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe never.”
He sighed.
“I do miss you, though.”
“I miss you, too. I guess I can’t blame you. You did say something about leaving your options open.”
“I did?” She paused. “I did.”
“Yeah. All I am saying is I’m happy to be an option. I don’t have to be the option.”
“Uh, OK.”
“Did you sleep with someone last night?” He blurted. “It’s OK if you did.”
“Jesus,” she sighed. “Downer.”
The limo picked him up. “All ready, Frankie Boy?” The driver leered over the backseat.
“I’m Les.”
“Less than what?”
“What?”
“Good luck.”
The limo dropped him off in front of a heinous-looking commercial building on Wilshire Boulevard. A building where you tell a social worker something. Someone’s been touching you. Someone’s been threatening you. Fred Fredrickson took him down to a basement.
“I’m Les,” he said.
“No shit,” Fredrickson said.
They passed by what seemed like a quarter mile of doors that opened into little studios, packed with people. Bells and whistles. Cheering. Booing. Hooing.
“Sit tight,” Fredrickson said. Nodded towards a row of waiting-room-type chairs. Les shrugged and sat down. Thumbed anxiously through a People.
Fredrickson returned a half hour later. “Quick question. You single?”
“Not really. I’m pretty involved with a gal back home,” he said. Reached for his wallet, figured he might need photographic proof.
“Not necessary.” Fredrickson held up a palm. “Lemme ask you something. You had fun since you’ve been here?”
“Sure. I guess so,” Les said, chuckled. He wanted to be envisioned as a team player. A contestant who arrived, won, elevated the whole goddamn franchise.
“Yeah,” Fredrickson said. “So here’s the bad news. You can’t be on the show show.”
“The show show?”
“Yeah. You, uh, looking at your scores? You’re too good. The competition isn’t there.”
“Good.”
“Not good. We need more drama, less in the way of clean sweeps. View this as a compliment.”
“I’ll sit it out a day or two.”
“Let’s take a new direction,” Fredrickson suggested. “Ever hear of Set Me Up? It’s a dating show. Want in?”
“Huh? I said I’m taken.”
“Sure you are.” Fredrickson nodded, pursed his lips. He handed Les an envelope with $1,000 in it.
“I don’t get it.”
“Les, you’re Dale. From Covina. We’ll do a little hair and makeup. You love Datsun 280-Zs. Clean pools for a living.”
“I think I’d rather—”
“Christ.” Fredrickson dug into his pocket. “Here’s another $500. Do the show. You’re here for a date. That’s all. You won’t get picked. Just be yourself. Be Dale.”
“I’m Les.”
“Les, be yourself. Be Dale, too.”
Les looked at the money. “Are you sure?”
“Les,” Fredrickson explained. “Your friends? Family? They’ll never know. The makeup will be that good. Tell ’em we had a small fire here. We couldn’t shoot anything in the way of trivia.”
“Shit.”
“That’s the wrong attitude, Les.”
“OK.”
“We gotta bend the rules when need be. And today, according to Lasky, they need bending.”
“Who’s Lasky?”
“Never mind.”
“Fine. I’m Dale.”
“Nice to meet you. Now get down to 8H and ask for Lorna.”
Les wandered down to 8H with his $1,500 tucked into his jacket. Lorna smushed her cashmered D-cups in his face while he sat in the chair. She moussed his hair. Put some shitty glasses on him. A shirt whose pattern resembled how a mentally retarded person might attempt to explain a tornado.
“You look like a real tool now,” Lorna said. “Even more than when you came in.”
He went on set. The lights got hot. He was on TV, or at least, well, taping.
“Dale is from Covina,” the announcer said, “And Dale likes, Dale? It says here you like walnuts. Becky? Whaddaya think of that?”
“Boring.” The grubby voice came from behind a soft purple curtain. “I’m so not getting moist.” The crowd yukked.
“Yowza,” said the host.
“I drive a 280-Z,” Les said.
“It’s still his turn?” Becky asked. “I wanna know if there’s a black guy.”
“Sorry Dale,” said the host.
The permed organist closed his eyelids behind his peach-lensed eyeglasses. A tuba sound effect flozzled. Les sat there and got picked on by all the other bachelors.
“I can assure you I am no Dale,” one said.
Fred Fredrickson came up to him afterwards. Patted his jacket a little too hard. “Can you give me that extra $500 back?”
“Wait. We had a deal.”
“Actually, we found you a cheaper flight home. Antonio took the liberty of getting your stuff from the hotel. He’ll take you to LAX now.”
Les was excited, briefly, that he’d see her sooner. Then he remembered he was being sent home, as not even a loser. But as a noncompetitor. He got abused, then dismissed. Put out in the garage on a rope like a golden retriever with a faulty bladder.
Fredrickson patted him down. “Soooo… it’s not like you’ll need the extra cash, anyway.”
“Oh.”
“And I’m not technically supposed to be doing this, but I have a nice parting gift. Miubutti his and hers watches. An over-$1,000 value.”
“Lemme see.”
He handed them over. Velvet bags. “Lasky says no hard feelings.”
They were clunky in a good way. Big and gold. “The timepiece of today’s CEOs,” a tiny card read. Les felt maybe he could spring the ladies’ watch on her. Even if she blew him off, people would always remember the matching Miubuttis. “Les gave that to ya,” they’d say.
The more he looked at them, the more they said commitment. Love sans boundary. Or he could maybe sell them, too.
The ride to the airport was quick.
“So you blew it, huh, Frankie?” The driver asked.
“Shut up,” Les said palming the velvet bags.
“Wanna walk?”
“No.”
On the flight home, Les drank a couple of beers. He got up, went into the airplane’s tiny rest room. It reeked of chemicals, sour farts. He looked in the mirror, issued forth the ladies’ Miubutti. “A token,” he said, gestured. He said it again. Worked on the gesture. Then went back to his seat. Waited to land.
JEFF JOHNSON
What was the first thought that led to this story?
A guy who really wants to be in love.
How long did it take to write it?
I don’t know.
OK. Who is the best novelist ever?
I think many of the novelists now are near the top, writing those imaginative what-if stories where FDR could secretly walk and also had a time machine and went back and stabbed Rembrandt in the throat with a crucifix made of wicker. Or when a lawyer starts writing really good books about lawyering their way into the White House then accidentally suffocating a young intern on a private plane and letting their gambling-addicted friend come in and sweep up all of the pieces.
And who is the best living novelist now?
The best living novelist will be the person who writes a slash-fiction story about kidnapping Mallard Fillmore and fattening him up, then turning his liver into foie gras and using it as lube to make love to his creator in the ass.
Jesus Christ, Jeff.
