The Trouble With Hairy, page 1
part #2 of West Hollywood Vampires Series
THE TROUBLE WITH HAIRY
By Hal Bodner
A Macabre Ink Production
Macabre Ink is an imprint of Crossroad Press
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
Digital Edition Copyright 2014 / Hal Bodner
Background image courtesy of:
mysticmorning.deviantart.com
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Meet the Author
Hal Bodner is the author of the best-selling gay vampire novel, Bite Club and the lupine sequel, The Trouble With Hairy. He tells people that he was born in East Philadelphia because no one knows where Cherry Hill, New Jersey is. The obstetrician who delivered him was C. Everett Coop, the future U.S. Surgeon General who put warnings on cigarette packs. Thus, from birth, Hal was destined to become a heavy smoker.
He moved to West Hollywood in the 1980s and has rarely left the city limits since. He cannot even find his way around Beverly Hills—which is the next town over.
Hal has been an entertainment lawyer, a scheduler for a 976 sex telephone line, a theater reviewer and the personal assistant to a television star. For a while, he owned Heavy Petting, a pet boutique where all the movie stars shopped for their Pomeranians. Until recently, he owned an exotic bird shop.
He has never been a waiter.
He lives with assorted dogs, and birds, the most notable of which is an eighty year old irritable, flesh-eating military macaw named after his icon—Tallulah. He often quips he is a slave to fur and feathers and regrets only that he isn’t referring to mink and marabou. He does not have cats because he tends to sneeze on them.
Having reached middle-age, he remembers Nixon.
He was widowed in his early forties and can sometimes be found sunbathing at his late partner's grave while trying to avoid cemetery caretakers screaming at him to put his shirt back on.
Hal has also written a few erotic paranormal romances—which he refers to as “supernatural smut”—most notably In Flesh and Stone and For Love of the Dead. While his salacious imagination is unbounded, he much prefers his comedic roots and he is currently pecking away at a series of bitterly humorous gay super hero novels.
He married again—this time legally—to a wonderful man who is young enough not to know that Liza Minnelli is Judy Garland’s daughter. As a result, Hal has recently discovered that the use of hair dye is rarely an adequate substitute for Viagra.
Hal's website is www.wehovampire.com and he encourages fans to send him email at Hal@wehovampire.com. It may take him a month or so, but he generally responds to almost everyone who writes to him with the sole exception of prisoners who request free copies of his books accompanied by naked pictures.
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THE TROUBLE WITH HAIRY
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Let’s get something straight from the beginning. The West Hollywood of Bite Club and The Trouble with Hairy does not exist. Parts of it did exist at one time, parts of it still exist, and parts are completely fictional. During a book signing, a reader will sometimes ask about a particular bar or business. More often, gay men of a “certain age” who haven’t been to WeHo in many years will tell me how fondly they remember the good times they spent at Rafters or Studio One and how reassuring it is to know they’re still going strong.
I hate to disappoint them. I, too, had many wonderful meals at Montage, watched the endless posturing of boys-for-rent at The Numbers, passed more-than-slightly-tipsy Sunday afternoons at Hunters, picked up a delightful blond boy at the Eagle and cruised a very memorable redhead in the produce section of Mayfair Market. Sadly, all those places are gone or have changed so substantially they would be unrecognizable to those of us who “knew them when.” My publicist gently chided me that the Chalet Gourmet has long morphed into Bristol Farms, and my editor pointed out that Revolver, a bar in which my brother and I spent so much time that we should rightfully have paid rent, is defunct.
“Update the manuscript!” comes the unified cry from editor, publicist, publisher and agent. I consistently refuse to do so. My reasons are simple. I long for the old days. The people, places and events I experienced back then were the reason I fell in love with this city. And, let’s face it, cities change. The world changes. And not always for the better.
I denied being a curmudgeon in the introduction to Bite Club. I might have been lying. As I get older, I find I resent time’s passage. Don’t get me wrong, Many good things happen with time. HIV is now a “manageable” illness. Santa Monica Boulevard has been widened so one now can drive the posted speed limit without fear of oncoming cars tearing off side mirrors. Boys’ Town has been given a makeover; the pavements are larger and café “society” thrives. Visiting the Grove outdoor mall is like shopping in the middle of the Bellagio Hotel in Las Vegas — complete with crystal chandeliers illuminating the parking garage. So, time has yielded some delightful things.
I am in no danger of becoming one of those bottle-bleached, tummy-tucked, Botox-addicted old queens. Similarly, the sight of a deeply tanned and weathered, hard-muscled, sixty-five-year-old man with sun-damaged skin wearing too-tight spandex and madly bench pressing the weight of a Chevette makes me breathe a silent but heartfelt, “There but for the grace of the gods go I.” Aging is part of the natural course; I bear aging no ill will. It’s the damned changes I have difficulty adjusting to!
Which brings us to my disgruntlement with time’s passage. On a personal level, things droop — chins, bellies, what used to be called “pecs.” Fortunately, there seems to be a definitive point — the knees — past which nothing will ever droop. (Unless of course you are particularly well-gifted in the nether regions, in which case you do “droop” below the knees and undoubtedly already have a successful career with Falcon Video. In that case, considering the number of incredibly hot guys you’ve probably had, I offer you no pity as you slide inexorably down the path toward octogenarian senility.) Years ago, a friend of mine — an older friend, mind you — griped, “Why do they make the level of water in toilets so high?” At the time, being early thirty-something, I had no idea what he was complaining about. Now, I know.
Time has affected my beloved West Hollywood as well. Our city was always quirky and eclectic and fun. We pride ourselves on our creativity, diversity and uniqueness. Our citizens strive for eccentricity as a celebration of their own specialness. But we sometimes forget, if you’re labeled an eccentric in New England, it is not a compliment. They lock you in an attic.
West Hollywood is nothing if not eccentric! You can snag yourself a $25,000 reward for reporting illegal tree trimming. Catch a mass murderer though, and you’ll be lucky to get a paper Certificate of Commendation. Hedges over six feet tall are “un-neighborly,” and the city mandates decapitation to bring them into line. A Mexican restaurant was forbidden to install its neon sign. The reason? It encouraged cruelty to animals because it depicted a fish diving into a margarita glass — and fish can’t survive in alcohol. If you eat a grape in West Hollywood, you’d better make damned sure it’s a union grape! The West Hollywood City Council was never able to find a way to outlaw non-union grapes in jams and jellies, though one supposes they tried. Truly, that locked attic in New England beckons.
West Hollywood is not to place to live if you are still a smoker. You will be a pariah. You might as well don a saffron-colored robe and walk down the street ringing a bell and chanting “Unclean! Unclean!” You are the Embodiment of Evil, Satan’s Minion, worse than a gay Republican. However, if you smoke marijuana…the city will buy it for you!!!
Okay, we won’t actually buy it for you, but we will allow you to buy it within city limits at specially designated stores. Yes, we know the federal government still thinks buying pot is a crime. They’re wrong. Just ask us. We’ll tell you. We are West Hollywood. We rule!
I know…I know…I sound like a fuddy-duddy. Well, I am! I long for years past. Yet, should a fairy godmother appear (a real one, not just a drag queen weari
And I have grown up. Really! I have! (I stamp my wittle footsies and make a boo-face to prove it.)
I’m still a little compulsive…all RIGHT! A LOT compulsive! It’s the only way I can explain all the dogs, the macaw, the lovebird and plans for even more parrots. I live in a frigging zoo! God forbid anyone knocks on my front door. The ensuing racket is deafening with dogs barking, birds screaming and me yelling, “Shut up! It’s just the goddamned door!” But I must enjoy living conditions reminiscent of a Barbra Streisand farce. Otherwise, why do it? I don’t have to try to be funny; in my world, a sense of humor is a required survival mechanism!
So, I adjust to the changes in my city and in my life. I have even allowed myself to be dragged kicking and screaming into the twenty first century. I finally got a cell phone, though I have no idea how to answer the damned thing. I’m slowly donating the video tapes to a thrift store and replacing them with DVDs. I use e-mail. I no longer check to see if there’s a mugger hiding in the back seat when I’m driving with a friend and I hear “Turn left at next corner” coming from the ether somewhere in the vicinity of the dashboard. I enjoy the richness of middle age.
But still, I mourn for the old days. Back then, we knew our neighbors. Better yet, our neighbors often spoke English. In my youth, you could call your bank, the electric company, a store or even the telephone company itself and a live person would answer. You could actually ask them things, and though you may not believe this, they would very often be able to answer questions!
True, we sometimes missed important calls if we weren’t home to get them. We didn’t instantly know what was going on halfway around the world; we had to wait for the 6 o’clock news or the morning paper. If we wanted to see an old movie, we had to wait until it would be re-run on TV. In the mornings, we had to make our own coffee unless we were lucky enough to live near a 7-11, Wawa or Piggly-Wiggly.
Even with those inconveniences, I fondly recall filling my gas tank at a price somewhat less than the gross national product of Bolivia. I reminisce about Chinese laundries and restaurants owned by actual Chinese people. I long for a past that was less complicated and where my life was nothing but young, pretty twinkie boys with pert butts, bulging biceps and perky nipples.
Ah well, one can always take solace in…the knees!
Dedication, Acknowledgments and Apologia
Many people have contributed to my ability to write this book, which is a polite way of saying they keep me from complete mental breakdown. I’d like to thank my extended family. I dedicate this book to them.
To Alan Neilson, who hasn’t stopped ribbing me that his dedication came last in Bite Club. Alan comes through in a pinch and has saved my ass more times than I can count. I owe a great deal to him — not to mention my downstairs floor! Thus, he not only gets two dedications, he gets the first one in this book!
To Dan Felix for the years and years and years of support. I’m also thankful for his never-flagging tolerance of my constant bitching about extraneous crap, his putting up with my propensity to manufacture a life of barely controlled chaos, his creation of my totally nifty http://www.wehovampire.com website, and his enduring my not-so-occasional bouts of flightiness and self-centeredness.
To Diana Hale and Michael Forrest, my surrogate favorite uncle and auntie. An amazing oasis of centeredness, Mike’s the perfect complement to Diana. Imagine Lady Bracknell, Sally Bowles, and Jackie Kennedy all rolled into one and the result would be Diana. I suspect that in a decade or two I will have become her!
To the late Ginger Czubiak, who died far too early. For the sanity she brought to an insane world. For driving with me to the emergency room when the dog fell downstairs onto his head. For support when we both tried, and failed, to quit smoking. For…everything!
To Jeanne Karaffa — the original curmudgeon with a heart of twenty-four carat gold.
To Michele Hart who dragged me out to dinner during the three years I isolated myself and rarely left the house. Who enters the room with flair and a flourish. Who introduced me to all those little known “joints” with fabulous food. And posthumously to her partner Jojo D’Amore. In the turmoil of the Business of Living, Jojo was the quintessential anchor. We drift a bit now that he’s gone.
Finally, this book is dedicated to Radu, my favorite “child.”
CHAPTER 1
Peter Kaiser winced as he slammed his shin against the side of a stray piece of furniture. Even while cursing the murky darkness of his shop, there was no temptation to turn on the lights. For the work that Peter Kaiser had planned for this evening, darkness was a necessity.
He pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and turned it on to examine the offending furnishing, carefully covering the tiny beam with his hand so its telltale glow could not seep through the shop’s front window to alert any passersby along Melrose Avenue.
It figures, Peter thought wryly. A Hepplewhite chair — one of the real ones.
Peter Kaiser had, until recently, led a charmed life. Tall, blond, still handsome and in good shape at the ripe old age of forty-five, he was still in hot demand by the more youthful dark-eyed lads to whom he was addicted. On Saturday and Sunday afternoons, one could find Peter firmly ensconced at his favorite sidewalk-side table in front of the Rage, a local gay disco, surrounded by at least three or four decade-and-a-half-younger beauties who were easily impressed with his superficial wealth and pleasant, easygoing banter.
As a youngster himself, Peter honed his skills in convincing lonely, older men to part with their money into a fine art. A series of relationships with wealthy gents, none lasting more than a year or so, proved extremely profitable. One of his numerous ex-husbands, ostensibly an upstanding pillar of West Hollywood’s gay community, was indirectly responsible for Peter’s current difficulties, having taught Peter the fine elements of another art form that Peter had also found profitable — fraud. In fact, right now, Peter found himself pressed tightly between the proverbial rock and the hard place. As for the latter, Peter could think of one particular hard thing he’d much prefer to have pressed up against his back.
Peter used his accumulated wealth to open a small shop on Melrose Avenue specializing in antiques. His highly developed conversational skills, his ability to inspire trust and confidence, his clean-cut good looks and his penchant for appearing at the trendiest nightclubs and restaurants endeared him to a plethora of Beverly Hills and Westside matrons with lots of money and little taste. Fortunately for Peter, at least until now, his clients’ lack of taste was almost always coupled with a lack of knowledge.
At first, it had been surprisingly easy to pass off nicely made, but cheaper, reproductions as original antiques. But Peter was smart enough to know that his success would be limited unless greed was tempered by cleverness. Thus, during the five years the shop had been in business, he’d become somewhat of an expert in antique furnishings and creative fraud.
He learned quite early in his career that a clever forger could combine parts of different types of damaged furniture, all of a period, into one “original” and much more expensive piece. He’d gone to Europe and hired several impoverished craftsmen, bringing them into the country illegally and threatening them with dire action from the government should they ever breathe a word about Peter’s operations. They were soon adept at cobbling together various elements of practically worthless junk to create one, excellently preserved “rare antique.”
