PART 9 OF ANDY SWEAT’S EPIC ADVENTURE OF PLOWING THROUGH CASH AND ASS. GET THE BACK STORY HERE.
This is what happened: I got hit by a truck about a year ago, and I got 500K to compensate me for my bones shattering and for the spinal fluid leaking from my ears. Since then, I’ve burned bridges. I’ve lied about my identity. I’ve isolated myself in a world of booze, whores and holidays. And it all seems like a giant blackout, now. This isn’t an ‘I found God’ kind of story. Though Lord knows if I get my hands on 500K again… This is just the story of how, for one year, I became Dennis Wilson, Bukowski and Hank Moody all rolled into one hot mess.
It’s been a little over 48 hours, two bottles of Whisky, 20 boxes of Gushers and this basement is my casket. Patsy Cline was skipping on Edie’s mother’s 1960s Philco turntable cabinet which I love, despised and now consider my best friend. I was either on a very extended timeout or I walked into Silence of the Lambs. I was running out of booze which meant I was running out of time. Patsy Cline and the Ghost Cunt Mom were mocking me now.
48 HOURS AGO…
It was a Saturday night in November and I was seeking company. I don’t really find the few friends I have to be that great of company. It’s nothing against them. I just prefer the surprise of the unknown. I like not knowing whether someone is a sweetheart or a psycho. It excites me because my life tends to be one broken record. My favorite company is strangers. That happen to be sexy. And I can pay to fuck and talk.
One of my hooker friends knew this other hooker who was more on the “artistic” side of the biz. She was a hooker to support her painting career, but mostly her cocaine habit. Sounds like a crap shoot so I was in. She only did incalls so I had to go to her place in Tujunga which meant I’d have to stay the night which meant instead of $200/hr, it’d be $1,500. Tujunga is a little dry hole in the middle of nowhere LA. With two post offices and one police station, I knew I couldn’t find trouble in this sleepy town. I drove up and parked in front of my incall address which was this sweet, 50s looking old house. June Cleaver would’ve enjoyed saddling up in this shack. I knocked on the door and this blonde, beautiful, skinny mousey face woman with blue paint on her fingers and t-shirt answered.
“You look like Edie Sedgwick, ” I told her.
She rolled her eyes, swung the door open and I entered.
“Wall. Wall. Bathroom. Door. Floors. Another Door. Wall.”
Edie was a terrible tour guide as she lead me to the basement. She likes to “do intercourse” (as she put it) in her basement not to ruin the energy and feng shui of her mother’s house. She had inherited the house when her mother passed away from breast cancer. I had a couple swigs on the ride over and I made a terrible joke about her “not having to worrying about that” because she didn’t have any tits. I know. Seconds after I said it, I slapped myself. She actually found the honesty to be funny and refreshing. Plus her dead mother was a real abusive cunt.
The ghost of a real cunt saved me from getting kicked out and, later, as I laid locked in the basement, I loathed that Ghost Cunt.
The basement was as nice as a basement can be. Not dusty. Not musty. Had a nice old ’50s charm that clearly Edie setup from the leftover Ghost Cunt’s stuff. The prized jewel of the basement was not the old floral mattress flopped on the ground. It was Edie’s mothers’ 1960s Philco turntable cabinet. Edie’s mother had every 1940s-60s drunken country singers album. That’s a lot of addicts.
Edie offered a line of cocaine and a bottle of whisky. We cheered as Johnny Horton’s “Schottische in Texas” played. Everything was going swell. We drank. We fucked. We danced the hoedown. We drank. She painted me a portrait and I bought it. And then we passed out.
When I woke up, Edie was nowhere to be seen. Not thinking much of it, I took a sip of whisky and gathered my clothes. As I reached the top of the stairs, the basement door wouldn’t open. I tried and tried and did the movie put your shoulder jump into it sorta deal. No dice. I yelled, banged, kicked and threw a shoe at the door. Nothing. My phone was dead and the basement had no windows to yell at the neighbors for help.
I sighed and walked down the steps to the turntable. A yellow sticky note, with the words written in red oil paint, was on the record player:
I went somewhere.
The specifics of this note were really comforting. So… Lefty Frizzell was the record of choice with my morning whiskey. Half a bottle and a few hours gone, I started to get real anxious. Fidgeting with shit. Found a baseball and threw that against the cement walls for a bit. Luckily I had my chew to burn off the edge and booze a little.
I drank. I switched records. I ate boxes of Gushers Edie loves to snack on when she is “doing intercourse.” I switched records. I passed out.
This went on for two days. With no end in site, the booze running low… I accepted my fate that this was my country death song.
I picked up a paintbrush, went to the cement wall and engraved my tombstone:
Andy Sweat was sorta here. He loved. He fucked. He drank.
He didn’t do much of anything. But he was technically here.
AND THEN… a beam of sunshine peered through the opened basement door. It was Inez. Edie’s housemaid. I crawled up the stairs and kissed her feet. She seemed calm, like this happens all the time. She didn’t speak a lick of English as she made me breakfast in the kitchen. I ate in silence as she feather-dusted everything. I thanked her, gave her 200 bucks and left Edie a note:
Don’t make me no coffee babe, ’cause I won’t be back no more. I’ve sent your saddle home.
- Hank Williams
Hank Williams, “I’ll Never Get Out of the World Alive”
Related on The Smoking Jacket:
Blowing My Wad Part 1: How I Got Hit By a Dodge Minivan and Pissed 500K on Booze,
Whores, and Designer Furniture
Blowing My Wad Part 2: Chicago Whores
Blowing My Wad Part 3: 2 Weeks with Pornstar Maggie May
Blowing My Wad Part 4: Muerto in Bocas Del Toro
Blowing My Wad Part 5: The Wonder Years
Blowing My Wad Part 6: Shemales
Blowing My Wad Part 7: Baby Mama Concierge in Cathedral City
Blowing My Wad Part 8: Hollywood Munch Party