Devilcountry (9 page)

Perhaps this was the rudimentation of my
aversion to authority.  When I was seven I was playing flag football and
John Elway was the referee. At the time he was the star quarterback at my
future high school and was making extra cash as one of the referees at the
park.  He pissed me off with a bad call so I got in his face.  I
don’t remember what it was about but I remember my dad pulling me away. Elway
had
an energy
to him that I didn’t understand.   I
think I just wanted my dad to be impressed with me moreso than the future hall
of famer.  I just wanted to even the playing field. I wanted my dad to be
as impressed with me as he was with Elway.  I still don’t know if I
achieved this but the one thing I know is that my dad always brought that story
up to anyone who’d listen.  I have been beaten up, fired and harassed by
more assholes than anyone.  Something about bullies who have a bad agenda,
a lack of respect,
a
crappy sense of humor and are
granted too much attention, accolade and capital just pisses me off.  It
is their will towards the destruction of the decent that fuels my hatred of
them as well as my own self-destruction.  I try desperately to rid
whatever world I am circulating in of their virus.  I am granted limited
success but unfortunately more times than not it is I who is thrown out.
 I am the worst white blood cell ever created.  

So now here I was about to deal with one of the
most famous persons on the planet.  
The Prince of
Darkness.
 Ozzy.  I was scared of myself, to be honest.
 If he
was
rude would I lash out as I have in the
past?  It is a strange sensation not being able to completely control your
own state of mind.  I admire those who can, like Geraldo.  He can
take all the shit that Dickie or a shitty customer throws at him and still
be
all smiles.  So can all of the dudes who work the
back of The Big Pizza.  Every single one of them had balls of steel.
  Sadly, it is my own sense of entitlement that has destroyed me on
the job, time and time again.  The Big Pizza was helping me remedy this.
When I was with my co-workers at the shop, I was as strong and as patient as
they were.  I brought my strength with me on the delivery to Ozzy’s.
 Ozzy was a god to me. I prayed my devil be ceased.

I knock on the door. Nothing.  When
delivering to houses of the famous it’s always someone else who answers.
 Someone unfamous and
on-the-clock
.  I knock
again.  Finally I hear movement behind the door.   The door
opens.  Ozzy poked his head out. I am speechless.

“Yes?” he asked, politely.  I can’t believe
it.  The Devil himself has opened the door to his own home.  What a
horrible breach in protocol!  

“Pizza, uh
..
Mr. uh...
Ozzy... sir.”

“I didn’t order a pizza.” He mumbled in his
thick Birmingham accent.  He looked confused.  He turned back into
the house.  “Oh
..fuck
it, just come in...”
 I couldn’t believe it.  Gargoyles everywhere.  Dim lights.
 Aroma’d candles.  “Right, just follow me.”  I walked behind
him.  
about
three steps.  
Through
a hallway.
 It is long, narrow and dark.  I hear tiny
whispers, “Hail Satan...hail Satan...
”  
Ozzy
starts waving his hands around over his head brushing the voices away like they
are flies.  All of the sound dissipates instantly.  I am majorly
freaked-out.   
Past more darkened rooms and
candles, and into the kitchen area.
 “ You can just put it there on
the table.”  He paused for a moment.  He turned back and up the
stairs.   “JAAAAAAAAAAAACCK” Ozzy screamed as he marched away in
search of his son.  He left me there briefly.  I was alone in the
Devil’s kitchen.  Were there souls on the prowl, waiting to attack me?
 Would those voices return?

I paused a moment.  Boy, the Devil sure has
great appliances!  There was a massive Sub Zero Fridge in the corner.
 A gorgeous custom, all marble
kitchen island
with an all chrome Franke Apron Front dump-sink in it and a restaurant style
overhang fixture.  We had the working class version of that back at the
shop.  The floor was a gorgeous inlaid
spanish
tile.  The ceilings had recessed lighting that was warm and soothing.
 There was a tiny mounted HD TV in the far
corner which
had CNN on.  It was at perfect volume.  
This wasn’t
Hell
,
this was Satanic Heaven
!

Jack, the Prince of Darkness’ son could be heard
from out of sight, “What you want?”

“Did you order a bloody pizza?”

“Is it here?”

“It’s eleven o’clock at night!”

“I’m hungry.”

Both of them reappeared.  Startling me.
 Jack looked at me. “How much?”

“It’s $45.26” for everything.” I said.
   Jack looked at me.  Looked at his dad.  Looked back
at me, then back at his dad.  Ozzy grumbled and dug into his pocket.
 He handed me sixty.  “Keep it.”  A great tip.  

“Yes sir!  Where do you want it?”

“Here is fine.
”
said
Jack. “Dad you want some?”

“Your mum’ll kill you.”

“Come on, Dad, it’s good.”  You could see
Ozzy’s eyes turning.  He dragged a hand across his chin.  

“Oh, let’s have a look, then,
”
 said
Ozzy.  I pulled the huge box out of the bag. I grabbed
the bottom flap and raised it open.  It’s a stunning sight.
A massive cake-like object.
 Shimmering, cheesy, melted
and appearing to be delicious.

“CHRIST!!” Ozzy blurted out.  
Unable to contain his enthusiasm.
 “That’s a big
fucking pizza!”

“Yes, sir it is.”  I offered.

“Thanks, man,” said Jack.  

“No problem.  Enjoy.”  I began to head
back to the door.  Maybe Hell
ain’t
so bad.

“Your mum is going to kill us.”

“She won’t know, Dad.  Relax.”  I
started down the hall.  I could see the front door.  I heard a
different voice from the top of the stairs.

“Ozzy, what’s going on?”

“Oh shit, uh...Nothing, Sharon, go back to bed.”

“Why do I smell pizza?  ARE YOU EATING!
 YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE EATING
...!!!!

“Jack ordered it.”

“GODDDAMNIT, OZZY!!!!”  I could hear a
bedroom door slam open and her footsteps coming down the stairs.  I made a
break for it.  I didn’t look back.  DON’T EVER LOOK BACK!  I get
the door open and I’m making my way back to the main gate.  Ten more steps
and
I’m
home free.  I hear the shouts.  It
is an all out war going on inside the Osbourne estate.  I think I hear
Kelly screaming as well.  It’s hard to make out the exact text.  
Lots of cussing.
Lot’s of screaming.
 
A reference to a weight counselor or a trainer.
 I get to the gate.  I turn the knob but it doesn’t move.  I
jump to the other knob.  Nothing.  I look over.  The gate
surrounds the entire property.  It is ten feet tall.  I am locked in.
 

I am stuck in Hell.  I do something I swore
I would never do.  I turn around.  I have to get that gate unlocked.
 I walk cautiously back to where I had come from.  The screams and
shouts grow louder with every step.  I thought I heard a chair or a lamp
being thrown.  A muffled, “Fuck you, Jack!”  Another scream.  A
bead of sweat pours off of me as I raise my fist against the huge crucifix
covered door.

“Fuck You, Kelly, it’s my pizza!”  I hear.
I pause.  It’s not worth it.  I’ll figure something else out.
  I retreat.  I head back to the gate.  I hear tiny dogs
barking.  
Tiny hounds of Hell beckoning my demise.
 I will break free!  I search through the rungs for any cars passing
by.  The streets are empty.  
Almost, too empty.
  I toss my pizza bag over the ten feet of spiked iron and start my
climb.  The fence is black with rungs and circular designs in it that make
for good footing.  I get to the top.  I have to swing my leg over.
 For a moment I am perched on the top like a Raven.  It is late at
night.  I hear a smash against the front door.  I turn back my head
to see if the carnage from the house has spilled out into the front yard.
 All clear.  The tiny bark of several Pomeranians is still pinching
my eardrums.  I have to get free of this place! I turn my head back around
to the street.  I am perched still.  Trying to get my legs around the
spikes.  There are cops in Beverly Hills.  
Lots of
them.
 In fact, there are too many cops in Beverly Hills.  
Especially at night.
 Every third or fourth car is some
sort of hopped-up police car with two extremely bored and slightly
trigger-happy white guys inside.  If one of them were to drive past and
turn their head they would see a bald, overweight, poorly dressed Jewish man
making an active attempt to break OUT of the Osbourne estate.  Risking
life and limb in
Papillion
-esque fashion to escape the clutches of the
shitball crazy.

My shoes connect with the ground.  I go to
my knees to absorb the shock.  I’m okay. I look around.  By some
miracle no cars pass.  I pick up the pizza
bag which
had fallen into the gutter.  I wipe it off and head back to the car.
 Safe from the clutches of evil,
The
spoils of
war in my pocket.  The sounds of another light being thrown against a wall
with dogs yelping out of fear becomes muted and recessed as I make my way back
to the car.  I think I hear eating as well.

I think back to smoking shitloads of dope and
being lost inside the first Black Sabbath record wishing I could play drums as
bad-ass
as Bill Ward.  Mesmerized by Ozzy’s war cry.
 I stare back.  I sense the dark forces Ozzy’s fortune was founded
upon and the effect it’s had.  I think about his bouts of madness and the
awesome music that resulted from it.  I think about how much I fucken love
rock and roll.
Especially those who succeeded with as little
compromise as possible.
 Guys like Ozzy, John Bonham (for the
drummers) Frank Zappa and
of
course Frank Sinatra.
 All heroes.  
All unique in their vision.
 

My own voices start to whisper, and against the
advice of my Godly counsel, my heart goes out to the Prince of Darkness and his
family locked inside the blackened kingdom.

GERALDO DOES WHAT HE MUST DO

Geraldo
knocked on the door to Carin’s apartment.  After ten minutes he let
himself in with the passkey Carin had given him two years before. Carin was
asleep on her loveseat, the TV on in the background providing a nice hum.
 Oprah glowed.  Gino sat passed out on the couch.  As Geraldo
looked around the room he noticed all the pictures and accoutrements.  It
was impressive to him.  He recognized a lot of the stars, Brando, Pacino,
De
Niro.  He wondered if she took any pictures with
some
Luche Libre.
 Those dudes were
bad ass
.

As he stared he gripped the divorce documents
tighter.  He could feel the green packet in his right front pocket.
 He wasn’t completely sure of the move, and now that Gino was in the mix,
he had to be doubly sly about it.  Gino was a turd.  He had been hired
by Pudgie to work as a counter guy but would do nothing except be on the phone
to girls or agents.  Most times, when Gino was on duty, Geraldo had to do
everything.  
Gino’s job and his own.
 He did
nothing except charm Carin after Dickie left.  He was her “go to” man for
illicit sex, drugs or neglect.  That’s why he was here on her couch,
sucking at her, like a bug.  Geraldo silently clicked his tongue and kept
his judgments to himself.  

Carin was his queen and he was very loyal.
 She had helped with medical bills back home.  She had been decent.
 That was all you needed to be in Geraldo’s world, decent.  Gino was
not.  Gino looked up and noticed Geraldo standing over them.

 
         
 
“Jesus!” He stirred awake, sleepy eyes,
stretching, ‘”You’re like a serial killer all standin’ there.  What time
is it
?...
Carin! Carin your Mexican is here! CARIN!!”
 

Carin came to.  “Hi, Geraldo,” she said
groggily. An already deep voice made deeper and
more crackly
by drugs and drink.

 
         
 
“Hey,
Carine,
you need to sign
please.  All jur papers, then it’s done.”  

She pulled herself up from the seat and sat for
a second.  Make-up smeared, hair everywhere.  She rubbed her hands
over her face.  “What is this?”  But she knew what they were.
 She knew exactly what they were.  Geraldo handed her a pen, switched
on the
halogen hanging
overhead so she could read.
 “Oh, right.”  She put the papers down on the coffee table.  She
let out a breathy sigh and began the process of ending her relationship with
that dipshit.

She thought she loved him.  She thought he
loved her.  They had met at a cast party a few years ago.  He was
pretending to be a writer.  He was a friend of a friend.  The friend
and she stopped talking once Dickie started dating Carin.  Her
relationship with Dickie soon took off.  On their second date he took her
to a local Italian restaurant in the Fairfax district.  Dickie had heard
good things about their linguini and their pizza wasn’t bad either.  Sales
had dipped due to some recent scandal.  The local mafia had heard the
owner
may
have been having a gay love-affair with one
of the driver’s.  This did not go over well inside the majorly homophobic
yet financially lucrative crime syndicates that enjoyed dining there.  So
they chose to screw up a couple of his food and liquor vendors and dine
elsewhere for a time.  The place had become a ghost town. But what did
Dickie care? It would be cheap, out of the way, and not too many people.