The Year of Brett and Fat Charlie Sheen

Kristy Swanson was fat. That’s what I’m here to tell you about. She was fat and Charlie Sheen was fat. That’s why The Chase was a disaster, because both of them boned and ate and ate and ate like two fresh piggies filling out their costumes like trashy rednecks. I was her stand in, although that’s not what I came here to do. I came here to be a location scout, drove all the fucking way from Los Angeles, left my sex addict boyfriend behind and showed up on your door, you told me to. Can you see me standing there with that look on my face? You were a creep, you just wanted to fuck me, you never imagined I’d drive that whole way just for work. No one is that crazy. But, I drove because you promised me work. Fucking producers.

So you tell me I can be Kristy Swanson’s body double. What the hell? I’m here to do locations. I stood there and you just said, “Sorry.” You’re gonna be sorry. I promise.

There I am. Can you see me?  I’m in the middle of the Freeway somewhere in Houston. I’m burned from head to toe from the sickening heat. I don’t care though, I just have to do the gig and go home. That’s what I keep telling myself.

This was before the rape. The rape happened too, in that hotel. The fucking Omni. It was the worst year in the worst month and there I was. You can’t tell me it didn’t happen, because I dreamt it and woke up and you were sticking your fingers deep inside me saying, do you like that? I was in the middle of a dream where I was riding a horse and a spur got stuck, you know how dreams are, and I reached back and there you finger deep inside of me. Sick bastard. I jumped up and got the hell out of there. It was 4:30 in the morning. You were on the night shift. Day for night they call it. You told me I could sleep in your room instead of that cigarette hell-hole I was staying in somewhere on the poor side of Houston. Or is it all poor? I never found out.

After that, I left. I was pretty then, the kind of pretty that got me in trouble. I drove back from Houston masturbating on the freeway for the truck drivers and then they watched out for me at night. And you were pock-faced. You were a fucking skank. Can boys be skanks? You were one---Brett.

I was back in Los Angeles, drinking Rolling Rock, sitting with my gay neighbor. Yes, she’s the one who looked like Jodie Foster. She’s the one whose house I broke into to steal pop-tarts after the earthquake. Her girlfriend was sitting with her on the curb and they had been fucking. The bricks tore apart and the fishtanks shattered from Mr. Fish the fish-store behind my building. I thought we had been bombed. I had been by myself in my bed alone, talking to Jesus. I had no one to help me find my bra or my glasses, I screamed for help, but the doorjamb broke so I was fucking going to die with the gas main pouring gas into my tiny studio apartment. Don’t look like that. I got saved, otherwise I wouldn’t be telling you all this.

Anyway, I craved something sweet and she used to eat poptarts, so at the time it just made sense. My hands were covered with blood from digging through glass to find my glasses so I could get down the stairs. Never mind the whole city was black. I needed my glasses. You know how you just know? Anyway, that’s how I got like that. Once I was free and had made it to the street, I got hungry, I went up the broken stairs and snuck into Tracy’s (Jodie Foster) apartment and took them and ate them by the dumpster, crying for mama, wondering how I wasn’t dead. I wasn’t wearing a bra either. They tasted like sugar mixed with blood.

Tracy took pity on me after the rape. Don’t say it isn’t rape--you weren’t there. You need some kind of sensationalism, it’s because your background was bland. You don’t understand nuance. As I told you Miles finger fucked me while I was asleep and he knew I didn’t like him, I just needed to sleep. He justified it because my body was reacting. But, I know people who’ve been to town with a little dog, high on crack, so you can say whatever you want, but rape is rape. Peeing on someone’s face while they’re asleep is rape too, it don’t mean it’s not just because you choke on the pee. Look it up, mister fucking-know-it-all. 

Anyway, I was done with men. Damaged, from all the shit that had already happened to me (rape & the bunny incident). And Tracy took me to all the gay bars. I would have fucked a cute girl, but it was always the ones that looked like beef jerky, in their little suits asking me for a dance. Hells to the no.

Anyway, back behind the dumpster, shoving Pop-Tarts into my face, crying out all the earthquake tears.  I made a vow to get a boyfriend. Brett was who I picked. Miles was already off my radar from the rape. And Brett was a complete jerk, so I knew he wouldn’t get all hung up on me.  So, I dialed him the next day.

Can you see me? If you look closely you can tell I’m wearing my purple lace bra. I’m right there on my couch. I’m in my Ralph’s uniform, I was ready to go bag groceries, and I get to the parking lot and find out that my Ralph’s caught on fire first, then flooded, so I was instantly without a job. I am crying on my couch, and when I’m all done. I drink a beer and I call Brett.

Hi.

Hi.

It’s Lisa.

I know.

Want to meet at Sloan’s later?

Why not.

Click.

So, we met at Sloan’s. Keifer Sutherland was sitting in the corner, recently dumped from Julia Roberts. I waited at the bar. Brett came, looking a lot like Iggy Pop, only less cute and way less rich. We drank and made fun of people for a few hours. Bitter at the world. Hating ourselves and bonding in our hate.

We drank and said not too much and pretended to like one another. I drove him home. He lived like two blocks from Sloan’s.

He asked me to dinner the following night, I said okay, but he never came.

I waited. A long ass time too, before I drove to his apartment. I got out of my car, I was in a rage I had never experienced. Brett was supposed to be my boyfriend. I had it all decided. And he didn’t answer his phone or his call box, so I crawled up the trellis and I got in to the complex. I went up to his door, I had seen it from the night before. I saw him passed out on the couch. I banged on that fucking door until he came to. I screamed, Where the fuck were you?

I fell asleep.

I didn’t know what to say, this was a mistake. I could just tell. He invited me in, I was crying like a lunatic. Brett shoved a beer in my hand and got undressed. He looked like shit. He was a cutter and had track marks all up and down his arms from needles. He cut his chest in crosses back and forth and was covered in scars. I didn’t even know that existed. But, there it was. Cutter.

Two weeks later he moved in. Please don’t ask me why. It seems so bad looking back. But, the earthquake and the rape made me want a legitimate boyfriend. Never mind that I didn’t want to fuck him. We tried everything. Tying each other up. Handcuffs. You name it. I told you I was pretty, but Brett wasn’t. I’ve never seen anyone look worse. Except for Mick Jagger in that one photo.

The night before we were moving in. Brett stole the U-Haul and crashed it. He was high on heroin. Or that’s what he said. The U-Haul was in very bad shape, I don’t know how we got out of it. We made it up, that it was already like that and they let us leave. Don’t ask me how.

Anyway, we moved to Argyle, right next to the freeway. The apartment gave me rashes. At night we heard gun-shots. And Brett didn’t come home for days. I waited next to our couch. It was a black futon right on a wooden stand. You know the kind. Anyway, there I was sitting on the couch and waiting for Brett. He came back finally after three days. I saw him standing there, bloody and undone. 

They kidnapped me.

Who?

Gretchen and Amy.

Gretchen worked at Big and Tall Books on Beverly, back when that meant something. Brad Pitt hung out there and you could score just about anything you wanted to. I was naïve though. I had only done drugs a few times up until this point. But, I wanted to do more. It seemed like the prescription for revenge.

Brett told me they tied him up and kept him there. He was lying.

I want to see where it was.

What?

Where they kept you.

Forget it.

If you don’t show me I’ll go to Big and Tall and find Gretchen.

Fine.

So, we got in Brett’s little red dodge and drove over the hill to the valley. He took me through the streets to a little metal shack covered in spray paint. For reals---it was exactly like he said. It was at the end of the parking lot near the studios in Burbank. He pulled over and parked.

Want to go inside?

No, thank you.

I can show you where I was tied up.

Forget it.

Then we both smoked cigarettes and drank warm vodka from a pint he found under his seat.

We drove back to the apartment in silence.

I’ll make it up to you.

How?

Tomorrow, we’ll go out in Venice.

Okay.

So, we sat on the couch and watched some Jim Jarmusch film and fell asleep there in the hell where we lived.

Brett was always jealous. Always asking me, where were you? Did you fuck him? Who’s number is that? The whole time I was with him, I had a blank answering machine. I would call my friends and say, help, please call and Brett would come home and erase them. I thought I never got a call for the two years I was with him. Not even from my own mother.

So, that night, like promised, Brett and I went to Venice Bistro and drank beer. He was in the bathroom more than at my table. Doing drugs, I’d bet.

I was looking at the waiter with my, can you get me outta here stare when Brett returned to the table.

I saw that.

What?

You almost had his cock down your throat.

Jesus, Brett.

Practically, anyway.

He glowered at me staring like he was angry at something that happened a very long time ago. I laughed and tried to lighten things up, but if that guy had a knife, it would have been over for me, right there.

Fine. Let’s go.

He paid. Another miracle. And we went to my car. I backed up too quickly and hit a car filled with gang-bangers.

Shit!

Just drive.

There’s guys inside the car.

They’ll kill us. DRIVE!!

So, I did whatever he said. I was on edge, I swear from his anger and his shouting. I just drove away and they chased us through the streets of Venice.

First one truck, then two more joined. I drove my fastest, but I couldn’t get away.

Pull over, I saw a gun.

Why would I pull over then? I said it just as the truck pulled in front of me and blocked me in.

I’ll handle this. You stay here. Can you see me? I’m sitting there, not knowing if I’m going to live or die. I wanted to live for the first time in years.

I could hear Brett screaming feeble profanities at them. And I could hear bones cracking, someone was getting pounded and it wasn’t any of the gang members.

Brett got in with blood pouring out of his face. Laughing with his mouth full of blood and spat it all over the inside of my car.

You got what you wanted. Now, I’m ugly.

I drove as much as my car could drive away with one slashed tire. I pulled over and Brett kicked off the rear-view mirror and got out and changed the tire. I ran outside and grabbed the mirror and got back in, the whole time he was screaming at me.

Let me take you to the hospital.

Go to hell.

So, I drove home. When we got inside he started breaking stuff. First, my guitar got slung against the wall with the strange sound of splintering wood and discordant strings. I was screaming for help. Then, he broke my chair into a million pieces. I screamed then too. I screamed for help, I did. Can you see me? I’m in the bed now. The other futon on the floor of the bedroom crying and crying. I hear sirens and the cops come into my room.

Hello there.

Hey.

Get up, young lady, we’re taking you in.

I don’t understand.

The law in California is if someone is hurt the other one gets taken in.

But, he got into fight in Venice, can you check my car? He spit blood all over the inside.

Sorry, miss, he said you did this to him with the chair leg.

What?

They put me in cuffs and I looked back and Brett was laughing.

So, there I am, in the back of the cop car, crying my eyes out and they just took me, never once believing I was innocent.

Everybody’s innocent, one of them said.

Can you see me? I’m the one on the left. I’m next to the old Mexican lady (shoplifting) and the Big Black girl (gang-violence). I was in for domestic violence and my bail was fifty thousand dollars.

They did that thing where they frisk you and see if you have shoved something illicit up your privates. But, there was nothing there. They made fun of you and yelled at you saying.

Shut the fuck up, I ain’t your mommy.

The other thing is, they took my glasses, telling me they were fancy, but what they meant was they could be used as a weapon. So, not only was I in there, but I couldn’t see.

They kept moving us. And the bad thing, if there can be a worse thing than being in this predicament in the first place was that it was Memorial weekend, so no judge or DA or whomever hears that shit will be listening to our cause until Tuesday. Right now it’s Thursday night. Get it? I’m in there.

I know you’re going to ask yourself, did I call my mom. Yes, I did. I called her first. You’re not going to like it. It went like this.

Mom?

What happened?

I’m in jail.

For drinking?

No.

For domestic violence.

What the hell?

I didn’t do it, Mom.

(Silence)

Mom, it’s five thousand dollars to get me out.

I’m not bailing you out. You can sit there and think about your life.

Mom! Let me talk to Dad.

Your father doesn’t want to know you’re in jail.  (click)

Can you for a minute feel how that felt? My own mother abandoned me. You might be thinking that I had been in trouble before, but the only trouble I’d ever been in was for not paying a moving violation when I was seventeen. That’s it.  But, my mother hates alcohol and thought I was a bad seed for drinking. I was dragged to rehab the FIRST time she ever saw me drunk, when I was fourteen. I had been at a wedding. My parents drove me to Kaiser Sunset hitting me because they didn’t believe me that I wasn’t on drugs. They hit me in the face to keep me from dying, they said. I’ll never know why. But, by the time I was fifteen and grew tits, they thought I was going to be a slut because guys stared at my boobs. Truth was, I was a good girl, but they were terrified I’d be a slut and get a bad reputation. I never did, my parents made me scared of sex. Anyway, for reasons of genetics and reasons of primal fears and reasons I attribute to my sister, they never believe anything I say. I was no liar either. But, I have to insert this fact of it here. My sister hated me. Punched me out, gave me black eyes. Broke my arm, told me I was ugly every day from the time I was eight years old. It was her who turned them against me. She told them I was lying. And after many years of that, they finally believed her. I’ve never been able to change their minds. That’s the part that hurts the most.

Back to jail. That’s me, sitting on the top bunk. This is our third time changing cells. They don’t want you to rest in jail.

When the food comes, you wish you were dead. It smells like actual shit. I swear. My friends are always saying, like actual shit? YES! Nothing food-like has ever smelled like that. I found it weird that everyone was so happy to eat that stuff like it was second nature. The only thing I ate those five days was dry bread. Everyone in jail was fat too, so they were more than happy to take my extra meal each time I turned it away. One girl was thin, she smuggled heroin with her. She was beautiful and going away for seven years.

We got to take showers and then put back on our clothes.

Big Black saw me put my underwear back on, I didn’t know what else to do to be honest. I was afraid someone was going to touch me. How can you say they wouldn’t? anyway, she and her homies saw me and made fun of me.

Look at miss thing, putting on her dirties.

OOOOH. She nasty.

You wouldn’t catch me putting on my dirties.

I crawled up to my scratchy blanket and vowed not to fight. But, then everyone found out why I was there. I had the biggest bail of anyone in there for a violent crime, so that earned me some respect.

One day I needed more to eat, I wanted double bread and Big Black wouldn’t give it to me.

I turned to her and said quietly, You’ll give me your bread or you’ll end up dead. Choice is all yours.

Don’t ask me why she believed me. I was starving to death by that time. I was going to fight for bread, for reals.

I want you to take a good hard look. Big Black is standing there towering over me at twice my weight and I stone-walled her. I didn’t move. Everyone was gathering around and the old Mexican lady said, She’s crazy, better give up your bread, sister.

Big Black handed it over and I said, Gracias to the little lady who helped me.

I got up on my bunk and waited for my day of justice.

The problem was, I was reliant on Brett to come clean about his lie, otherwise he could keep me here. I was now going to have a record and maybe go away for a year for something I didn’t do. I shed a lot of tears those days. Plus, they don’t let you see the sun. Jail is hell.

The day came where I was either going to get called and let out or find out if I had to stay.  I sat next to heroin girl. I can’t remember her name. Julie? Christie? Don’t hold to it. Heroin girl told me I might get to leave and then they called my name.

I stepped out into the beautiful sunshine only to find out I was two blocks away from Argyle. There is a jail hidden in the middle of the city near Franklin, I was there. That’s why that’s a heavy crime area. Parolees have to live close to the jail.

Watch me. That’s me walking down the street, past the big tree filled with birds. I made the vow that as soon as I got home, I was leaving. But, you know what? I went in for one more year of that shit? I knew you wouldn’t believe me. I can’t say why I did either. But, there it is.

That’s me, full of promise, sitting outside of my apartment. I look like I have a future, but really, how would you know?