Fool For You

Geoff Nightingale was as beautiful as he was catastrophic. Beautifully catastrophic. He was one of the other PAs that formed our little tribe in those early Propaganda Films Days. When we were still in that little house on La Brea. Geoff rode some sort of huge European motorcycle; I never knew about those things, but it seemed like he lived on and almost in the bike. He was English and had what sounded to a kid from Maryland to be a classic cockney accent. He was the first person I ever knew to refer to drugs as "gear." He said he was part gypsy in a way that you just knew didn't impress him much. It was just part of him.

At some point in that first year in LA, I got a call to work on a video that was shooting in Las Vegas. And with Geoff, no less. I looked up to him. He was easily the most mesmerizing, coolest guy I had become friends with in a place where virtually everyone was some unhinged character. Christ, what a difference a few days can make,

So, Geoff had me pick him up, and we drove to the producer's apartment. I can't remember who it was, but she lived on Willoughby, and our first job was to get some coke for her and ourselves. This thing seemed to be in full gear. This was not how these things usually went. It was dark. We weren't at the office. We weren't waiting for petty cash. We were moving. I remember going home at some point and grabbing some t-shirts while telling Leslie what was happening. She knew the drill. We kissed goodbye. All giddy and excited, we got the gear somewhere, and then we were off to meet a couple who was renting us their car for the shoot. Evidently, they had a pristine early 70s Cadillac that we would be taking to Las Vegas. At first, it was just Geoff and I and a bunch of coke in this incredible Cadillac convertible. God, if they only knew. Well, I suppose they did because they suddenly decided to drive the car themselves with the two of us in the backseat. This was definitely getting weird.

Turns out you can sneak a lot of cocaine into yourself in the darkened backseat of a car with a slightly worried middle-aged couple up front. Geoff charmed them, and we took turns bending over "to get something out of our bag." But Vegas is a long drive from LA and cocaine is not really the best drug for this sorta trip. Cocaine is best served with some sort of rounding agent, I always felt. Alcohol, at least, and preferably some kind of opiate. We were two teeth-gnashing,  miserable bastards in that back seat trying to recapture the initial promise of the night with more and more sneaky cocaine as we hurdled slowly and safely through the desert. Geoff and I were in desperate need of a drink and more coke.

Las Vegas is, at best, a blur. It's some overheated and silly-shaped paragon of plastic and faux awe. I think we were in the Aladdin. The couple valeted the car and gave us control, and off they went, their rides home already sorted. We'd take care of their baby. The Aladin rang some bell. Some Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr entanglements thrilled me. I was here! Let's go, Geoff. Let's let this place swallow us whole.

I wish I had more concrete memories of the next few days. I remember chasing Geoff around after wrap as he had all the coke, and every girl in the casino was trailing after him. I gave up and drank and probably ordered porn. I remember watching David Johanson sing this abysmal song to Beatrice Dalle in a pool room and wanting to take her all away from there. Just grab her and free her from this nonsense. I'd love her until the end of the world. And a "Cut!" sent everyone back to bothered, hammered, annoyance. I watched. I felt so young. I felt like a ten-year-old in Bel Air, MD, trying to learn how to do a 360 on my skateboard on the day Elvis died. I remember that. I don't know why that came to me, but the paneling of this Vegas low-rent hustler bar reminded me of my homemade skateboard and Trucker trucks and orange, OJay wheels.

The shoot just devolved into drunken guerilla shots wherever we could get them. I just watched and hoped for drugs. The Cadillac was getting beat up. The crew was near mutiny. Geoff seemed to have found his her and still just wanted to be home. This was turning to shit. David Johanson. David Johanson! He was flailing about with his two weirdly large friends/executive producers in a constant search for Bushmills. At one point in an exhausted and dry desert afternoon, Philly pulled me into the production trailer. His name wasn't Philly, but that's what he is in my memory. A 6-foot plus guy in a black suit well over 300 lbs. "Mike," he says, "Mike, there's a bottle of Bushmills in the van under the back seat. Get that for me, will ya?" As I stood on that springy RV step, I said, "Alright," and slumped over through the sun and the heat and the ridiculousness of this whole scene towards the light blue Galpin van. Always a rented Galpin van. I fairly pushed lackeys and extras aside as I climbed in to get the bottle. I emerged and marched over, thinking about everything/anything but this and opened the door into the RV with this fifth of Bushmills in my fist. "Jesus, Mike! You're as fuckin' subtle as clubfoot!" Philly barked. Who knew he didn't hold all the cards? Who the hell was he trying to keep secrets from? Pffft. I handed it to him and winked at Buster. We smiled together. I remember that. We both knew Philly was too much, but we loved him.

All along, I kept trying to stand near Beatrice. I'd seen her movie "Betty Blue" with Leslie a year or so before and had been transfixed. I couldn't tell you now what it was about, but I know it formed my ideal of what love was meant to be. I've always gravitated toward the Borderline Personality Disorder level of passion and the Us against the world depth of love I saw in that movie. All I ever wanted was intense soul-stopping love. Just love someone until all the wheels fall off and the world collapses. Die in the flames of obsession and passion. And so I tried to stand near her. She was made of sweat and skin and beautiful black hair and perfect lips.

As all things do, this thing ended. It ground to a halt. The Cadillac was fucked. It barely moved. There was very little coke around. Philly had had it. Geoff was gone.

Someone better than me told me to drive Beatrice to the airport. She was done. Take her to McCarran.

Be still my beating heart.

We hopped into the Galpin van, and she was all smiles and erotically charged French accent. God! To have just tasted her then. She was still wearing that sweaty tank top she wore throughout the video. Maybe that's where that fetish comes from. Maybe it's from her! She pronounced my name like "Meechelle." Fuck! You should be so lucky at this age. She asked if we could stop at a shop so she could buy some underwear. Underwear! In a fever dream we went somewhere, and I remember giggling as she chose panties and hurriedly bought them, doing that French cheek kiss deal on the girl behind the counter.

Not so long later, we parked in front of McCarran. I walked her in. I remember how bubbly and happy she was. Like she'd just seen the circus. She stopped and spun around. She gave me something hidden in her bag. She looked down to find it and pulled it out. It was a garish lollipop in the shape of kissing lips. "Goodbye, Meechelle!" I love you!" No lousy French cheek deal here. And she stood on her toes to kiss me goodbye on my mouth. And I watched her walk away and fantasized about a million lifetimes with her.

It was over. I went back to the Aladdin and looked for drugs or Geoff or petty cash. I fucked around the casino for awhile looking and slowly went to my room. I called production. Nothing. I fell asleep.

I woke to a dry miserable Las Vegas afternoon, hungover and bewildered. No one was around. I called and called. Geoff was long gone. Beatrice was in France. Philly and Buster were likely fucking 500-dollar whores in Santa Monica. I was in some shitty Sinatra-panelled room in the Aladdin. Finally, I found someone in production who told me I had to drive the Cadillac back to LA.

This car was ruined. It banged and clanked like a metronome. It felt like there was a signpost caught up in the axles just slamming and slamming to some hypnotic tone that I fell into. I hallucinated all the way home. I stopped every 15 minutes to look around and touch things that were real. I was alone. This car was fucked. I told myself to let production take it back to the couple. I was going to Propaganda and parking it. I was through with this.

But you know what? I'd kissed Betty Blue. I won, you motherfuckers. I won!