They say fame is fleeting and your 15 minutes is never enough.
Down here in the Gutter, that's just enough time for us to fuck your shit up.
Down here in the Gutter, that's just enough time for us to fuck your shit up.
You're That Guy by Danny Gardner
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The teeth on
the floor reminded him of the outstanding dental bill from when he had his
fronts fixed, just before he went on TV. They resembled Chicklets, like those
tucked inside some casting associate's shit-eating-grin, after they'd say
something like, "I'm sorry, but could you be more black?"
He imagined
they were the choppers of the hack who took three acting roles from him in as
many months. "If he doesn't call by noon, the part is yours," his
agent would say, and then the asshole would ring at 11:58, out of spite. If
just one of those jobs had gone to him, he’d have stayed in Los Angeles, and
avoided being duct taped to a chair in a Chicago sub-basement by Russians over
a deal for burned cell phones.
***
He should
have never taken his uncle up on his offer.
"How
about I help you make some money," said Chuck. "I know you and the
wife are having problems."
The problem
was the wife, who never believed in him. She'd instigate arguments just before
he left for auditions, so he would be late, or fucked in the head when he got
there. She loved her husband less than her father, who offered to hire him at
the post office, since "ya little comedy thang ain't hittin' on shit and
you need a job." When he insisted she not attend his stand-up sets any longer—after
she heckled him—she responded by having the locks changed.
The phone
deal was just another bad gig, taken out of desperation, same as when he hosted
the stripper show in Detroit. He explained away the baby oil and glitter and
thought the wife took it alright, until the hour before his big break at the
Improv, when she scratched him across his face, ripped his shirt, and then
called 911 and said he hit her.
He wondered if the Russians could hurt him more than his arrest that
night, or more than his wife. That gig would have made his career.
Now he was
going to die.
***
"Keep
it simple," said Chuck. "Just grab the phones, bring them outside,
and you're done."
The front
was a neighborhood candy and tobacco shop, where they dealt in rarities
imported from Mother Russia. Down below, in the basement, was where they kept
the goods, but you had to know someone, and they had to know you. If you didn't
know, you didn't ask, unless you wanted a trip to the sub-basement. Uncle Chuck
neglected to inform him of the rules.
He walked
in, and nervously announced what he had come for. The Russians seemed
disinterested, until a son or nephew—just someone young—emerged from the
bathroom doorway.
"Holy
shit!" said the kid. "You're that guy!"
No one ever
knew his name. He was forever, "that guy," or "homie," or
"dawg".
"Guy?"
"Yeah.
From cable. I saw you do comedy. You're funny, dawg."
The Russian
kid recited his entire set, asked if he knew Bernie and Tracy and Dave and
Chris, wanted an autograph, and even had his episode on VHS. He put it on a TV in the shop.
Uncle Chuck
had told the Russians that someone named Johnny would pick up the package.
They all
watched the television as Martin Lawrence introduced him.
"I
thought your name was supposed to be Johnny."
***
On the table
were a drill, a wired car battery, and a pair of carpenter's pliers. Out of
habit, he thought of a bit on how tools are really scary outside their normal environment.
He then forgot it, once they took off his shoes and socks. He tried to explain
the phones were for his uncle, and that he really wasn't supposed to be there,
but his week-long gig in Vegas fell through because he was better than
"black folks do this, white folks do this." They sponged his feet and
hooked the battery wire around his two big toes. He may have given information
to save himself, but his uncle kept him in the dark. "Maximum
deniability," Chuck said, and he wondered whether his aunt, Chuck's wife,
knew what that term meant.
Once the
Russians got frustrated, they grabbed the pliers and opened his mouth. They
snatched out one molar, then another, and in the agony, he thought of Dustin
Hoffman's performance in 'Marathon Man.' "Try acting, dear boy," he
murmured. They were going for the fronts—not knowing they were falsies—when the
basement door flew open. It was Uncle Chuck, along with the rest of the FBI.
"I said
keep it simple," said Chuck.
"I met
a fan," he said, just before he passed out.
***
Months
later, his agent called him at his friend's place, where he was staying after
his wife and father-in-law kicked him out. He needed a job, and really needed
an attorney. Turns out he was the second choice for co-lead in "Homeboys
in Outer Space." Two black comedians, hurtling through the cosmos, on a
quest to destroy their careers. He hung up the phone and waited for the
messenger to arrive with the script.
At page two,
he wondered what would have happened had his uncle gotten there a little later.
At page ten,
he wished the Russians had killed him.
