By Dan Fante
In la, suffering telemarketer-writer and part-time under the influence of alcohol Bruno Dante is jobless back. The booklet of his booklet of brief tales has been eliminate indefinitely. looking the wish advertisements for a gig, he unearths a chauffeur task. while Bruno calls the quantity within the advert, he discovers the boss is his former long island organization David Koffman, who's commencing a West Coast department of his thriving limo provider. Koffman hires Bruno as resident supervisor of Dav-Ko Hollywood less than one situation: he needs to stay sober. yet speedy enterprise good fortune triggers an abrupt booze-and-blackout-soaked downward spiral for Bruno, forcing him to confront his personal insanity as he struggles to maintain his previous universal demons from getting the simplest of him another time.
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KEN O’BRIEN Contents Epigraph One A fucking cosmic shit shower. Two I have no idea why I am crazy and angry… Three The next morning, wearing the same puked-on tie from my… Four It took three full carloads in my Pontiac to get… Five I was beginning to see dead people. A. is a bizarre… Nine I picked up the phone after midnight thinking it was… Ten After returning to Hollywood it took me a week to… Eleven The next morning I picked up one of our freebie… Twelve I hate banks. And lines. ,… Fifteen The towering white-haired figure that stood in the hospital doorway… Sixteen Dav-Ko’s senior partner apparently wanted to keep tabs on the… Seventeen Later that afternoon I got the number of AA and… Eighteen A week later David Koffman was gone and I was… Nineteen That night I got back to Dav-Ko after dropping Stedman… Twenty Back at the office in the chauffeur’s room, through the… Twenty-One By Friday that week the Malibu shoot with Stedman was… Twenty-Two It happened to me rarely these days.
He whispered. ” My mouth formed words but the lips refused the marching orders. I had to settle for wagging my head up and down. My full attention was fixed on the glove compartment of my Pontiac—parked at a meter fifty feet away—where I’d left my backup half-pint of vodka. I was now acutely aware that I’d be unable to endure another four seconds of this moron interview. I needed an excuse—any excuse—to get up and leave the booth. “Bruno, what’s up? What’s going on? ” Unlike me David Koffman was an excessive episodic drinker and not a day-to-day juicer.
The thin old cynic smiled, patted my shoulder, then wheezing in a drag from his black Sherman. “Sure kid, I’ll read it over and get back to you. Don’t worry. ” Again I pressed the save button on my phone. Selby’s message was all that I had now, all that was keeping me from black madness. two I have no idea why I am crazy and angry and edged-out most of the time and why alcohol and painkiller pills and Xanax-type stuff are the only things that help to keep me remotely calm. I have no idea why I experience life as pointless and screwed and I know that most people don’t pour a cup of bourbon into their milk and oatmeal in the morning.