JAKE'S PLACE

A Novel By
Frank Nemecek

The first draft of anything is shit.

- Ernest Hemingway

November 14, 2014

Frank P. Nemecek
6460 Ashton Avenue
Detroit, Michigan 48228-4742
313.676.9781
[email protected]

CHAPTER 1

Jake's Place, I liked to tell people, wasn't so much a dive bar

as much as it was a club house; a place where the misfits of society
could stumble in and feel at home for at least a little while. A
place for those too broken, too used and abused by life to go
anywhere else.
There wasn't a sign outside Jake's Place. It was just another
nondescript building on the west side of Detroit. The thinking around
here was that if you needed a sign to find it, this probably wasn't
the spot for you. Those who were messed up enough to belong here
place just seemed to float in.
There also wasn't anyone named Jake here, I should add. Someone
decided that this place needed a name and no one could think of a
better option.
I listened to the chatter for a moment. One conversation after
another, all happening right around me. I heard them all, but wasn't

a part of any of them.

And that was just fine with me.

I allowed my eyes to wander around the room for a moment while
my hand reached for a beer. A pair of neon signs on opposite walls
one blue and one red provided the only light and one kind of smoke
or another made the place seem even more murky.
There was a jukebox in the corner. Someone long ago carved the
name Pete's Bar on the side of it. I recognized it as the name of
another bar about a mile away; wasn't sure if that were it originally
came from or if that name simply marked the spot one had to smack in
order get the thing to work. A dozen or so people filled the chairs
or the old couch that made up the furnishings of Jake's Place. There
weren't any tables here so people just used the upside down milk
crates that were scattered about the room.
You know what one of the fist things was that I noticed about
you was? a perpetually pissed off Irishman asked me from his seat a
couple feet away.
What's that? I replied.
Your eyes are like motherfucking sponges, man.
Huh?
Sponges, man. Sponges. You notice all kinds of things. You soak
them up. And I gotta warn you, one of these days that's gonna get you
in a lot of trouble.
I swallowed the last of my beer as I wondered how to reply to that
observation.
Do I bother to tell him the whole story, I asked myself. Or

should I just let it roll on by me?

I was still pondering that question when my beer decided to
answer for me. I wish you had told me that three years ago, I said
to him. I really wish someone said that to me years ago.
Why's that? the Irishman wanted to know.
That, my friend, is really long story.
Well, fuck, ain't nothing else happening tonight, he replied
before turning towards the old man behind the bar with more tattoos
than teeth.
Aye, Jimmie! the Irishman called out, another bucket, if you
please.
Do I really want to tell him this story, I asked myself. I was
still wondering when the old man delivered a bucket of beer.
Thanks, Jimmie, the Irishman smiled for the first time quite
possibly ever.
He looked at me for a moment before asking, Well?
I'm not sure where to start.
The beginning is usually the best place, he said as he reached
for the first bottle.

CHAPTER 2

I remember looking around that place a great big house out on

Summitridge Drive in Beverly Hills and wondering just what I was
doing here. To my left was this amazing view of downtown Los Angeles.
To my right were a half dozen or so aspiring actresses that were
splashing around naked in the pool.
Can you believe this place? Freddie asked as he slapped me on
the back. The grin on his face was somehow getting bigger. At one
point, I thought his face might stretch out too far and explode.
I believe the place, I just can't believe I'm here, I
admitted.
Yeah.
And that reminds me, how exactly do you know our host?
Well, you see, Andy it is Andy, right?
Yeah.

You see, Andy, I'm in what you might call the party supply
business and this guy is one of my clients.
You mean you're a drug dealer?
Freddie didn't have an answer to that. He did, however, stop
grinning.
And you couldn't afford to pay for the pizzas that I just
delivered to your house? I asked skeptically.
Let's call it a temporary cash flow issue. Besides, wouldn't
you rather be here instead of out delivering pizza?
I thought for a second before admitting, I'll probably get
fired for this.
Like you can't get another job delivering pizza somewhere
else.
Come on, he added before heading towards the house.
As I followed him towards the house, I have to admit that there
was a part of me that thought I should forget about this and go
deliver pizzas. The biggest reason why I didn't, though, was the
simple reason that I hated doing it.
I came out to Southern California almost two years ago with a
dream of writing and directing movies. My student films won a couple
of awards and I thought I had a chance.
After pissing off a certain celebrity, though, this was the best
job I could get. I hated my life and thought about moving back to
Detroit. The only thing that kept me from doing that was the fact
that hated living in Detroit even more than I hated delivering pizzas

in Los Angeles.
All of this brought me to where I was now, following some drug
dealer that I had met only an hour ago into some high-priced mansion
in the Hollywood Hills. Of all the options that were available to me,
I had to admit that this was actually the most logical one.
Freddie! a male voice called out from the top of the stairs.
Hey, man, my new friend responded.
Who's the new guy? the man asked as he trotted down the glass
staircase towards us.
Oh, yeah, man this is Andy. I've only known him for a minute,
but he's cool.
Cool enough?
Just cool.
Well, then welcome to my home, Andy, he said with an
outstretched hand. I'm Jaime Evans.
Andy Salwicki, I replied as I shocked his manicured hand.
Good to meet you.
Freddie and Jamie stared at each other for a moment, neither one
saying a word. It felt to me, however, like they were each both
thinking the same thought. I just couldn't tell what it was.
Jamie returned his attention to me after a couple of seconds and
added, you'll have to excuse us for a moment. Your friend and I have
some things we have to talk about. Make yourself at down here,
though
I watched the two of them walk down the hallway and into some

room before closing a door behind them. I had a fairly good idea what
the drug dealer and the rich guy were talking about, but I really
didn't want confirmation anyway. I was glad to be left out of that
part.
I looked around the room. White walls were everywhere, I
noticed. Walls that someone had to have scrubbed meticulously because
there wasn't a fingerprint to found anywhere.
It was rather obvious that Jamie didn't do the cleaning. For a
moment, I felt sorry for whoever had to keep this place spot.
That sentiment only last for a moment, though. After all, I
decided cleaning a rich guy's house probably wasn't any worse of a
job that delivering pizzas to it.
The sterility of those walls, I noticed, was matched by the
hardwood flooring and black leather furniture. The only thing that
seemed to breathe any life into this place was the people who
occupied it. I thought about the contrast between stale, boring
furnishings and a large group of lively people. That contrast, I
decided after a moment of reflection, was probably the whole point
behind contemporary home design.
Yeah, that's me, I told myself.

Andy Salwicki failed

screenwriter and director, pizza delivery guy, and architectural

critic par excellence.
Fuck, I need a drink, I muttered to no one in particular.
I noticed a series of trophies on the farthest wall. The display left
one very conspicuous empty space; room for one trophy that Jamie had

received yet was confident he would get sooner rather than later.
I thought for a moment what that might be, but let's face it
this is Hollywood. The trophy that everyone wants is an Oscar.
You look deep in thought, a young woman in a red dress said to
me. I hadn't noticed her approach, but here she was.
Yeah, I guess I was. I should probably stop that.
No need. By the way, she said as she held her hand out to me,
my name is Aubrey.
Andy, I replied as I gave her hand a gentle shake. I couldn't
help notice how cold her hands were. It was like shaking hands with
someone who has been dead for an hour.
She must have noticed my reaction because she smiled and added,
I have cold hands and an even colder heart.
I wasn't sure how to respond to something like that so I just
smiled.
So, are you an actress? I asked, unsure what else to say.
Oh, god, no my boobs are too small and my brain too big to
make it in this town.

I'm just visiting from New York. You?

I'm just a friend of Freddie's.

Freddie? Is that the guy that just went into the library with
Jamie?
Yeah, that's him.
A Latino dressed entirely in black and holding a tray of drinks
approached us. Excuse me, sir, would either of you care for some
champagne?

Thank you, Aubrey replied as she accepted a glass from the

tray.
Thanks, I said for reaching my own glass.
As the waiter disappeared, I asked Aubrey, so, I take you're
not a fan of actresses?
It's not that I'm not a fan of them, it's just that I think
there's no too many of them. It's like they're pretty and learn how
to fake an orgasm and suddenly they're convinced that they're
destined to be an actress.
I almost spit out my first sip of champagne as I laughed at that
thought.
Laugh all you want, she continued. You're a guy. You're
lucky.
What do you mean?
You never have to fake anything! she insisted. It all comes
naturally to guys.
That's not true.
What? What does a guy ever have to fake in a relationship?
Weddings.
Huh?
Weddings. Every wedding in history has been a giant penis
killer, but we still have to go with you because the woman that we're
sleeping with or want to be sleeping with is excited about them
for some reason or another.
Weddings?

Weddings. Every straight guy who has ever gone to a wedding has
been miserable for every single minute of it. It's just that we're
better at faking it and our fakery never makes it onto a sit com.
Seriously?
As serious as cancer the predictable speeches, the lame
entrances by the bridal party, all of the pathetic gimmicks that
brides play to make their boring wedding different from every other
miserable one usually without even knowing how many other brides
have done the same thing.
Plus, I added after taking a quick sip of champagne, in a
couple of years, there's the inevitable fact that the bride and groom
will hate each other and likely only stay married because they can't
afford the kind of attorney who would make the one person truly,
truly miserable.
The only things that make weddings even marginally bearable for
guys, I continued, are alcohol and the side bets that we make with
one another.
What kind of betting happens at a wedding? she asked.
Which one of three readings will happen at the ceremony; an
over/under how many times the word 'friend' gets used in the each
toast. Stuff like that.
Aubrey looked at me for a moment. I could tell that she was
wondering what to say.
After a moment, I got tired of the silence. I wanted to fill the
void with something at least.

Like I said, I went on, every wedding in the history of

humanity has been nothing more than hours of penis killing misery.
Guys may not have to fake things as frequently as women do, but
we have to keep up the illusion long and under more trying
conditions.
When I finally stopped talking, the silence between us was
deafening. I felt like she wanted to say something profound to refute
everything that I just said, but wasn't sure quite what to say.
Damn! And I thought I was a jaded, cynical bastard, Aubrey
finally allowed herself to admit.
As she walked away, I wasn't sure whether I was happy or sad to
see her go. I was still asking myself that question as I turned and
headed back outside towards the pool filled with splashing naked
actresses.

CHAPTER 3

I walked back outside and stood a feet away from the pool. Water
from the splashing actresses hit my feet, but I had no desire to
move. I just took another sip of champagne and watched for a moment.
I knew it was impolite to stare. After a moment, I felt like a
should let my eyes focus elsewhere or else I would always be known as
the resident pervert.
But I didn't.
I figured that they were probably too drunk, high, or both to
notice my stares. And if anyone did notice, I figured that being
labeled as a pervert in Hollywood might actually be good for my
career.
That is, if I had a career in Hollywood. Or at least one that
didn't involve delivering pizzas.
It was at point that I started to realize how messed up I was. I

was starting to feel depressed about the state of my post-college

career and, let's face it, if a man can't be happy while watching a
bunch of naked women splash around in a pool then he is hopelessly
fucked up.
I looked past all of the other people at the party out at the
city of Los Angeles itself. There were more than three million souls
in this place, I reminded myself. I wondered if any of them were more
messed up than me.
With that many people, I thought, there had to be someone whose
life was more of a disaster area than mine. Wit that many people, one
would think so.
But then there was the truth that I didn't want to admit.
Someone has to have the dubious title of most messed up person in
Los Angeles. It was one of those basic laws of the universe.
Fuck it, I said to no one in particular just before swallowing
the last of my champagne in one gulp. Fuck it all and fuck
everyone.
I looked at everyone else at the party. All of them were dressed
much better than me and none of them appeared to be aware of my
existence. I started to think about them and what their lives must be
like, but then I realized that I simply did not want to think
anymore.
I wanted to turn off my brain and be as mindless as the naked
women who were splashing in the pool.
Another drink, sir? a different Latino waiter asked.

I glanced over at him, noticing him standing there for the first
time and wondering where he came from or how long he had been there.
I decided that I didn't' really want to know.
You're a lifesaver, I told him as I exchanged my empty glass
for a full one.
I took a sip as the waiter turned to walk away. I swallowed
quickly and added, wait a minute!
Yes, sir? he wondered as he turned back to me.
I reached for a second glass from his tray. I'm going to need
this before you can make it back here, I insisted.
Very good, sir.
I went back to watching the women splashing in the pool. I
wondered if I wanted to talk with any of them should the opportunity
arise. After a moment of reflection, I decided no.
Right now, as I watched them splash around, they were perfect.
If they started to talk, they would inevitably say something that
pissed me off. I would rather believe that perfection exists
somewhere else than face the disappointing reality that none of them
were even close to it.
I was still pouring what was left of my second glass of
champagne down my thought when I noticed a middle-aged guy in a gray
suit walk towards me.
You came here with Freddie, didn't you? he began.
Yeah, I replied as I set my empty glass on the ground. Is
there a problem with that?

Not all. I love Freddie. He's the reason why I was able to buy
my Porsche.
Are you...?
I'm his attorney. Keeping him out of trouble or at least of
jail has proven to be a lucrative practice. How do you know him, if
you don't mind me asking.
I delivered a pizza to his house, but he couldn't pay me so he
invited me here instead.
Really? the lawyer said. After a second to reflect, he added,
You know, that does sound shocking like something that Freddie would
do.
Is this how he pays you, too?
The lawyer smiled before replying, I work for cash and cash
only no trade. I've represented hookers, dope dealers, and murders.
They've all offered me some kind of trade in return for keeping them
out of jail. I just remind them that they all have cash or ways of
getting it fast right now, but they can't do that once they're
inside.
And they always pay you?
Usually. The ones who don't are currently sitting inside
somewhere because I wouldn't help them and that does a lot to
motivate everyone else.
The lawyer took a long, slow sip of his cocktail as he stared at
the naked women splashing in the pool. So, which one are you going
to go talk to? he asked.

I don't know if I will.

It seems like a horrible waste to have that many beautiful
women so close to you and not at least go talk to them.
I don't know. I've never really understood women.
That's good. You're halfway home.
How so?
Women never really want a guy to understand anything about
them. Your confusion is their power.
More than their beauty or anything else, he continued, they
can lead a man into and out of confusion at will and I think they
love it or at least know how important of a tool it is.
Really?
Really. The less you know about women, the more success you'll
have have with them.
I paused for a moment, mostly because I really wasn't sure what
to say. Was this guy serious, I asked myself.
I wanted to ask him why he wasn't over there talking to them,
but then I noticed the wedding ring on his hand.
I still don't know. I can't help but think there's a better way
to go through life than to be constantly confused by women.
The lawyer swallowed the last of his cocktail before adding,
Well, there is a monastery a few miles from here.
Before I could say anything else, he walked back into the house.

CHAPTER 4

Naked actresses splashing in a pool, huh? the perpetually

pissed off Irishman remarked as he finished off the latest in what
would undoubtedly be a long series of beers this evening. That's
pretty cool. Almost makes me want to head out to LA right now.
Don't bother, I insisted as I took another swig from my beer.
We have women in Detroit.
Yeah, but how often can you see them slashing around naked in a
pool? That's not too common here, man. I gotta get out to LA one of
these days.
Man, there's no reason to head out there for that. We have
strip clubs. There any that feature splashing around in a pool that I
can think of, but they do everything else naked.
Yeah, but you gotta pay a cover charge to see them in a strip
club.

Oh, trust me you pay to see them naked in Hollywood, too. The
difference is that in a Detroit strip club, the cover charge is $10.
In Hollywood, it's your immortal soul.
Your soul?
Your soul. Hollywood will suck it right out of you. They might
promise you fame and fortune in return for it, but nine times out of
ten, all that you have for yourself after a couple of months there is
a giant emptiness where your soul used to be.
The perpetually pissed off Irishman looked at me for a moment.
He even stopped drinking, which is the first time I ever saw that
happen.
I set my bottle down, wanting make an emphasis with him. I
would rather pay $100 to walk into a strip club here, I insisted,
than see naked women in Hollywood for free.
Women in Hollywood are like bug zappers. They lure you in with
with bright lights that are their fake boobs and then then zap you
as soon as you get too close.
Zap, you?
Zap!
For the first time in quite possibly ever, the perpetually
pissed off Irishman wasn't pissed off anymore. He was simply
confused.
What do you mean? he asked. How?
I don't really know how they do it. All that I really know is
that one day your flying around in Hollywood, you see a pretty girl

and start moving towards her and then ZAP! - you're dead.
The perpetually pissed off Irishman seemed to regain his
composure and reverted to his normal state of mind. That's asinine,
man, he insisted. Women all over the world love to cause drama.
That's not a Hollywood thing.
You don't get it, I told him. Hollywood women don't cause
drama, they are drama.
I let my words sink into his perpetually thick skull for a
moment. When the time seemed right, I said, I don't if it's being a
town built on the entertainment industry or what, but women in
Hollywood are built out of drama the way that women elsewhere are
made of skin and bones.
That's why you don't have to actually get with them in order
for them to cause problems for you, I explained. They can mess you
up from a certain distance even.
The perpetually pissed off Irishman leaned forward in his seat
and grabbed my beer from me. I think you've had enough of this for
tonight, son, he told me.
Fuck you!
He stopped moving. My beer was still in his hand, about halfway
in between the two of us. Excuse me, he said with a slight
hesitation.
You asked me to tell you this story, I insisted. The least
you can do is let me tell you how things really happened.
So, you're telling me that all of those naked actresses in that

swimming pool were literally made out of drama?

Like it's in their DNA or something.
Why don't I believe you?
Because you've never been to Hollywood to see it for yourself?
I always did think there was something odd about women from
Hollywood, he admitted with a certain amount of reluctance.
Something odd, indeed.
He took a long, slow sip of his beer and then asked, so, are
all of them like that?
I thought for a moment before I had to admit, well, no not
exactly. There was this woman. I don't know what she was made out of,
but it had to blacker than the darkest night.
Oh, now this I have got to hear, motherfucker. Start from this
beginning and tell me all about her. What's her name, by the way?
Leslie. Her name is Leslie Allen.
And how did you meet this Leslie chick?
At the same party with the naked actress in that pool, just a
little later on in the evening.

CHAPTER 5

It wasn't long before the most beautiful of the mostly naked

actresses pulled herself out of the pool. Water dripped from her
small, but perfect breasts. It took every bit of self-control that I
had left that evening to keep myself from soaking up each drop of
water that fell from her.
As she walked past, beaming a smiled that caused me to hear
angels sing, I caught sight of her butt. It was then that I realized
that I had seen true perfection.
When I saw walk up to a guy with waxed eyebrows and kiss him
passionately, I must confess that I let out a sign.
Tragic, isn't it? a woman to my left asked.
Huh? I replied.
I saw you checking out Alexandra, right before she left with
Captain Douchebag over there.

It doesn't bother me, I lied. I've gotten used to women

leaving with other guys.
The woman chuckled before adding, that's not the tragic part.
Then what is?
Alexandra probably has more talent than anyone here, but she's
attracted to this guy who seems destined to destroy her.
A little melodramatic?
Not really. The guy is famous for driving drunk and has almost
gotten himself killed a couple of times, in spite of the fact that he
loves telling people how he's immune to alcohol.
She took a sip of her own drink before adding, if his drunk
driving doesn't get her killed, the fact that he's a drug dealer with
a penchant for pissing people off probably will.
I watched the two of them disappear before wondering, what does
she see in a guy like him?
The only thing that makes sense to me is that some people think
they're not worthy of the talent that have so they find a way to
destroy themselves.
I looked at her for a moment, not sure what to say.
That part's just a theory, though, she added.
I stared at the gate that they walked through a moment, on their
way to who knows where, before I heard my grandfather's voice
speaking through my mouth, not my circus, not my monkey.
Huh?
Not my circus, not my monkey it's something my grandpa used

to say all the time. Basically, it's a reminder that somethings are
out of our control and our responsibility so it's best not to worry
about them.
With her? That's probably the best attitude anyone can have.
I took a deep breath and tried to think about something other
than the water that was still on the ground near me, water that had
dripped from Alexandra's breasts. It was then that I realized that I
didn't even know this other woman's name.
By the way, I began as I reached out my hand, my name is
Andy Salwicki and you are?
Leslie, Leslie Allen.
It's good to meet you, Leslie, I said as a shook her hand
gently.
Likewise, she replied with a smile.
In that moment, when I looked at Leslie, I saw something
different; not just different about her, but different from every
other woman I had met out here. I couldn't tell you what it was,
except that looking at her now was like gazing upwards at the Sistine
Chapel for the first time.
Are you an actress, too? I asked. I wanted to say something to
her and that was the only thing that I could think of at the moment.
No, I used to be one but I moved on, she answered with a
smile. What about you? Are an aspiring writer/director with the
script for the next great blockbuster on his laptop?
I used to be, I admitted.

Oh, really? And what are you doing these days?

I work in the nutrition delivery industry.
Huh?
Pizza guy. And you? What did you move on to?
I'm a student at UCLA, studying civil and environmental
engineering.
Ah, that's not as cool as delivering pizzas, but still kind of
cool.
Studying engineering isn't all that cool. The cool part,
though, is all of the stuff that I'll do once I finish my degree.
And I probably wouldn't understand a damn thing about it.
That's okay, as long as you still bring me a pizza from time to
time, it'll be cool.
I started to say something witty, but was interrupted by the
sensation of water hitting my legs from behind me.
What the hell? I wondered aloud as I turned around. I noticed
three of the mostly actress splashing in the pool, even more
vigorously than normal.
As a fourth one joined the splash fight, I felt warm,
chlorinated water hitting my chest. I turned to my companion,
wondering what I should do.
Come on, she said as took another step away from the pool.
Let's head inside for a bit.
She started to walk towards the house. All I could do, at least
at that moment, was watch her walk.

It wasn't that I was powerless or anything. I mean, I could have

walked I just didn't want to. For those couple of seconds, I just
wanted to watch her walk.
I hadn't noticed it when we were talking, but Leslie's legs were
perfect thin and muscular, but not too muscular. They were just the
right shape to lead a man's eyes from her toes to her butt.
And, oh, what an ass did she have.
Leslie Allen had the kind of a backside that could make a man
hear angels sing when she walked. And I got to stand here and watch
it all move for a moment.
Are you coming? she called out as she looked back over her
shoulder.
Yes, I am, I answered, dropping out of my private fantasy and
into the real world for a moment. I hurried after her wondering what
the rest of the evening had in store for us.

CHAPTER 6

When returned to the house, I looked for Aubrey or the lawyer

that I had talked to earlier. I didn't see either of them, though.
What I did see was a scene remarkably like the one from an hour or so
ago when I was last in this room, just with different people standing
in the same positions.
That is Hollywood, I thought to myself. The players change every
now and then, but the scene is always the same.
Leslie leaned closer to me. I have to go powder my nose, she
whispered into my right ear.
Hurry back, I chimed.
As I watched her saunter away from me, I found myself regretting
the fact that she only had to walk a mere eight feet before reaching
a corridor that led to the bathrooms.