The Art Dealer's Party

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic

A journal entry from my night working at a very eccentric art dealer's home in Bel Air.

I worked at the art dealer’s house last night, the wispy French women who hired nude cocktail waitresses the last time I bartended there. The naked chicks never made an appearance on this night, but as I walked out to the taco bar during my break I noticed two muscular pretty boys wearing striped bikini bottoms and grooving to “Hungry Like A Wolf” by Duran Duran. I thought, “L.A.’s so fucking gay” as I inhaled my steak taco and chicken Shawarma, wondering if the dancing boys felt humiliated as they flexed and smiled teasingly at the guests. At some point, during their bikini groove in 45 degree weather, did they ask themselves “what am I doing, is this it?” Sort of like I did when I had to dress like a gigantic carrot and hand out apple slices to customers at Organic To Go, where I was hired to work as a Corporate Sales Rep.

This time our captain, Mark, was a stressed out, micromanaging fool. The type of idiot who gives his captaining job way too much importance and marches around as if he’s preparing to invade Normandy, giving last minute orders to the infantry. “You guys set? She’s very particular, just please be ready, the shot glasses are chilled right, just you know, just, please be ready she’s….okay just be ready!” he’d say and fly off to another hapless employee. And even after the battle was won, the guest were drunk and full, Captain Mark was still zipping around, his eyes ablaze with fear, frazzled about absolutely nothing. I’ve seen this behavior in captains many times before and it suggests something very abnormal to me. Is there life so lackluster that they desperately seek approval and acceptance from the plethora of obnoxious, eccentric freaks we cater for?

Before the party Mark gave us a tour of the house, and I was extremely amused at the new discoveries. The hostess, one nutty bird with way too much money provided by one of her 1st husbands, has a rather unusual collection of art. Our first introduction was to the gigantic, inflatable golden butt plug, which Mark said was “one of three in the world.” I whispered to Wes, my co-bartender and fellow Hoosier, that apparently there was a problem with demand. Besides this eccentric freak and a couple others, perhaps an Arab Sheikh or the director Roland Emerick, who I last saw making out with an 18 year old guy next to his collection of painted dildos he displays in his home formerly owned by Charlie Chaplin, I can’t think of too may who’d want a gigantic butt plug in their house. Sure enough, the piece made its way into the center of the party, all six feet of its glorious anal delight! Mark also showed us a strange painting-Indian perhaps, with a huge piece of elephant dung glued to the middle. The hostess also has amongst hundreds of other contemporary art pieces, a picture of a man with a corkscrew penis with pink gift wrapping ribbons hanging from the head, a life size wooden doll who sits in the middle of the dining room, and black and white photos of women bending over with their vaginas popping out. I asked Wes if he thought she was some kind of sexual deviant and he said, “I doubt she even cares about sex, she’s over it man, look at her.” She reminded us during the tour to be careful of the art as she literally pushed a waiter away from the cherished elephant dung.

The best thing about the art dealer’s place is her collection of rare tequilas that Wes and I made sure to sample. I must say the Don Julio 1942 Reposado was good, but the Jose Cuervo Reserva De La Familia Anejo was exceptional-nutty and creamy with a touch of molasses. And of course she had the Jewel of Russian vodka-pure nectar. And her red wines, my god! She had a Whispering Dove Cabernet from the Stags Leap region in Napa Valley. If you have to drink while working, you may as well drink the best!

The awful thing about her parties are the guests, which last night included more pretentious, phony, self important, jerks-a really novel crowd in Los Angeles. One guy, he must have been in his late twenties, was a true “boy toy” to his wife, who must have been at least 55, and looked like the offspring of a Swedish woman who was impregnated by a horse. She was drunk and continuously tried to order drinks behind his back, at which point he’d catch her and say to me sternly “no way man, that’s it for her, ice water please.” He was very serious and trying hard to be legit with his slicked back hair and tailored suit, but we all knew he was a cheap, classless slut. Later on I had the unpleasant site of “boy toy” grabbing her arms and singing the DJ song playing, Wham’s “Faith”, intensely into her eyes as if he was madly in love. I felt as if I was driving past a fatal car accident-unpleasant and tragic but unavoidable to observe. Note to self: never sing “Faith” into anyone’s eyes seriously. Wes and I drank another shot of the Reserva and I felt the sudden urge to pop “boy toy” in the nose or throwing some wine on his suit. At one point the Swede pulled a Spalding Smails and started grabbing random drinks off the bar and slamming them as he turned to speak to others. She was definitely bombed and I loved every bit of it. Wes and I wondered why he’d want her to stay sober. Wouldn’t the goal be to get her as smashed as possible so she’d pass out before sex, allowing him to avoid she-horse intercourse. Or, he could wake up in the morning and claim they had sex, maybe messing up the sheets and leaving some fluids around to make the scene look post-sex authentic. “Oh yeah we had sex Gretchen, you’re an animal, can we please go to Cannes for by birthday?” Anything but sex would be the obvious objective when looking at her collagen lipped, wall papered, and sun baked face.

Toward the end of the night one of the few celebrities, Wolfgang Puck, showed up. And of course this gave Captain Mark one more thing to stress about as he rushed over to tell me to fill his champagne, which I had just offered to him and he politely declined. Mark scurried off like a rodent and then the hostess hurried over and said “you have to keep Wolfgang’s champagne full!” And I told her the same goddamn shit, “he doesn’t want anymore.” At this point I’d had enough of their bullshit so I decided to stop sneaking shots of tequila with Wes and I poured myself a nice glass of red wine in a large globe glass and drank it openly. As I held the glass up to the light, swirling and checking the color, and finally tasting the lush, bold fruits popping in my mouth, I smiled with delight that I just didn’t a fuck about this party anymore. I didn’t care if anyone saw me enjoying this lovely cab including the hostess. Sure it was her house, her booze, her money I was getting paid, but I’d had it with her relentless obsession with absolute twaddle! My god woman you’re worth billions, you do nothing besides drink $200 bottles of rare tequila and trade art, including an Indian masterpiece of elephant dung on a painting and Kong’s butt plug. You throw massive parties for gorgeous manikins, you hire nude cocktail waitresses, you have one of the greatest views of the L.A. basin I’ve ever seen, access and excess, power, influence, world travel for the rest of your life, good fortune and fine tequila so calm down Wolfgang doesn’t want more fucking champagne, he just wants to be left alone!

Mark finally cut me and I hurried out, making my escape to reality, where I breathed in the foggy night air and gave thanks that I was done with this place and these people, hoping to never go back again. Sure it was good for laughs, a good story, and a slight buzz, but after another night at the art dealers I just felt so alive to be away from there, back in my used hatchback with the “check engine” light on, back down the hills to where the regulars live, past the pan handlers and whores, and into my shabby apartment, where I felt just fine.


Submitted: January 06, 2009

© Copyright 2020 Ryan Anglin. All rights reserved.

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