CALIFORNIA GOTHIC #1

 The Black Security Guard

Part I: CALIFORNIA GOTHIC

Chapter 1: Night People

My name is Kevin. I stand six feet and seven inches tall, and I’m Black. No one ever told me I had what it takes to be a nightclub bouncer, but in those days—hovering over the shoulders of L.A. kids lining up at the Supper Club in Hollywood—I were privy. That’s when I started living for the night and left the remnants of college behind for good.  

People asked if I witnessed fights, if I had to split them up. The answer was yes. That made me happy. My whole life, I’d heard what they say about guys like me, but I never saw myself that way—until suddenly, I did. When Persians who couldn’t get laid decided to take it out on each other in a drunken melee on the curb, believe me, I was there. And when the police arrived, I’d be the one holding it together. A far cry from failing tax accounting classes (like my grandmother wanted)… and Lord knows it wasn’t Starbucks.  

After I broke up with my girl in Maryland, I spent long hours sprawled on the couch watching TV. Then my friend Stephen called: “Kevin, why don’t you get off that couch—watching infomercials all night—and come spend your nights as a watchman at The Purple Candle?”

When my brother in Oregon died of lung cancer, I headed west to watch his kids until their mother got it together. Believe me, I didn’t mind leaving The Purple Candle’s drug-addled girls behind, but I couldn’t shake my newfound love for night living. I took a job as a night watchman at a paper mill, savoring the quiet, long hours alone. It was a version of myself I’d never known.  

Somehow, I wound up in Hollywood, landing the gig at the Supper Club (among other places). With time, I became one of the night people. I’d always thought clubgoers had their own lingo, their own habits—and sure, they do—but I learned most were just normal people escaping the drudgery of daylight. Call night people "bad"; I saw they just wanted release from the bosses and teachers who treated them like shit. Hollywood had a family atmosphere I never caught in Maryland. I didn’t expect to fit in so fast, but I coined the term night people myself. Surprised me when it caught on.  

Not many caught my name, though… but then, I never really gave it to them. I blended in. That might not sound like much to you, but this is coming from a boy who stuttered until he was nineteen, who was so terrified of presentations he’d refuse to stand and flunk every time. I barely had friends growing up. Now? I was a regular.  

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Now I’m a bodyguard for celebrities and big shots visiting L.A. When I got my business cards printed at Kinko’s, I had them say Security Guard instead of Bodyguard—a special touch. Did it work? Killer business. My reputation preceded me; I’d be eyed by the most elite security detail agencies in Los Angeles in short time. I got a diamond stud in my ear like Jonah Hill in that movie, racked up nicknames over the months.  

DJ Ray Atila from Lebanon called me: “Kevin, I’m fed up with these douchebags they send to bodyguard me in California. I need a security guard to handle these bitches who can’t keep their hands off me.”

I picked him up at LAX. He fixated on my height, my weight. Between rants about his backward cap and high-top sneakers, he screamed into his Bluetooth about canceling shows because “all the promoters are douchebags.”

He hovered over my shoulder on the 405, even after I told him not to. “Kevin, my friend, may I ask you something?”

“What is it?” 

“Can you get me some bitches tonight?” he asked.  

I shrugged, annoyed.  

“You know any?” he pressed.  

“Well… no,” I said.  

“What, no?” He pounded the seat. “You’re a night-time man, man! You should have a hundred girls’ numbers on your phone. One hundred percent, baby.” 

“Yeah, well…” I dodged a swerving Civic, pretending his words didn’t embarrass me.  

Ray slumped back, thumbs hammering his phone. “I guess I’ll have my friend Azizi hook me up in Malibu.” Then he muttered something about me under his breath.  

“What do you do, then?” He tossed his phone onto his backpack.  

“Dunno,” I said. “When clients are busy entertaining, I’m usually on my phone… playing with apps or somethin’.”  

“Apps! My fucking father develops apps!” Ray barked. “I’ll put his latest game on your phone. You might like it—I hate it. It’s called Bunga Bunga Bongos!” 

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The next few days guarding Ray were misery. Turned out, he was the douchebag.  

If someone asked, “Ray, why’re you late?” he’d say, “Dunno! We left early, but my security guard doesn’t know where he’s going!” 

If they asked why he brought the wrong champagne: “Dunno! I trusted my security guard to get the right bottle, but he’s clueless. Guess I’ll have to do it myself next time I need the right bottle!”

You’d think standing near seven feet tall means nothing hurts me. It does. Especially rich kids talking down—that’s a sore spot. Ray was rotting the job for me. His Malibu friends weren’t any better.  

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I needed to piss like a racehorse when we pulled up to a giant white palace that made me want to die. Ray was attending his friend Yusef’s birthday party—my second or third night with him. I figured the house belonged to Yusef’s parents, but no—it was this 22-year-old’s. Balloons tied to the mailbox, tinsel glittering in the trees.  

Partygoers gave me the who the hell are you? stare as we walked up. Yusef welcomed Ray, then blocked the doorway with a skinny arm when I tried to follow. “Where you going?”  

Ray didn’t turn around.  

“Just need a restroom break,” I said.  

“Kevin, this is my friend’s place,” Ray interrupted. “I don’t want anybody tracking mud on his carpet.”

I scraped my soles on the pavement. “There’s mud because I had to climb the neighbor’s fence.”  

“The neighbor’s fence?” Ray cried. “Why?”  

“To get the car keys you told your friend to toss over.”  

“Oh. Ha! Ha!” Ray shoved me back onto the steps as more guests pushed past. “Get outta here, Kevin. You’re ridiculous, man.” 

Behind the closed door, I heard Ray snap: “Goddamn it. That man!” 

“What was that about?” a girl asked.  

“Just my security guard,” Ray said. “Giving me trouble.”  

“Oh. Ha! Ha!” she laughed. “He’s Black!” 

---  

I never told Ray this, but holding in my rage around him sent sharp pains up my left arm. A pinch in my back wouldn’t fade. When his friends insulted me, the knife twisted deeper. Their laughter carved into me. I’d never felt so unhealthy at a job. Never had to choke my temper so long.  

Sometimes, it got scary. My left arm would go numb, and I’d sneak away to breathe. This time, I couldn’t shove kids aside—I had to slip behind the house, past rose bushes, to piss in peace.  

No such luck. Three girls sat by a tiled fireplace, sharing a beer, noses red. I prayed I could unzip before they noticed and my bladder locked up.  

They were laughing. Needed to escape the snobs inside. Thank God, I thought. They’ll ignore me.  

They didn’t. Their voices dropped. Awkward. I didn’t want them ratting me out.  

I walked over, tipping my chauffeur hat. “Evenin’, ladies. Am I interrupting?”  

“Hello,” they said stiffly. The redhead—pouty lips, kind of looked like that famous singer Lana de Rey—stayed silent.  

“Front’s crazy. Mind if I join you?” 

“For what?” The brunette smirked. “You wanna fuck all three of us?”

I froze. “Uh… um.”  

She stroked my pant leg. “We could go to your car. Take us if you want.”  

“Show us your cock,” she demanded.  

“Amy!” The Lana Del Rey girl elbowed her.  

“Whip out your fucking dick, and I’ll put it in my mouth!” The brunette grabbed my crotch. “Ooh, you’re getting fat!” She yanked my zipper down.  

Lana Del Rey covered her face. “Oh my God.” 

A voice boomed behind me: “What the fuck are you doing with my girl, bro?” 

I stumbled back. Two fratboys in cashmere sweaters loomed, sleeves rolled over bulging forearms. The leader’s eyes followed my hand as I fumbled with my zipper, then locked onto mine.  

“I… uh—” 

“Look who’s in trouble!” the brunette sang.  

“Who cares? He’s just some Black driver!” 

My redhead Lana del Rey girl fled inside. I stood alone under the streetlamp, sighing.  

---  

Hours later, I sat on the hood, watching the milky moon as Ray emerged with his friend Troy and a sweaty girl under each arm. I tried stalling, pointing out fans wanting to say goodbye. But as the Malibu residence emptied, I couldn’t spot her.

The ride to Chateau Marmont was hell. A stiletto from a girl Ray was going down on kicked my head. We nearly crashed.  

Dropping Ray off, exhaustion hit. Driving down Sunset, I stewed. Reconsidered my “Hollywood family.” Clubbers badmouthed me at red lights. Why? I imagined my so-called friends hearing these kids trash me and joining in—like they’d never known me.  

The depression thickened. Worse than the Maryland couch nights. Hollywood showed me her teeth.  

Maybe it was me. Maybe Ray’s stink clung to me—people kept their distance now, like I had a disease. Calls dwindled. Clients canceled. Word travels fast in Hollywood. Texts about the “Black security guard who kills the vibe” were probably circulating.  

I always knew L.A. could turn cruel. Knowing and feeling it are different. Now I get why people wear sunglasses at night—how fast they slide them up when you walk by.  

The night of Ray’s last performance, I’d never felt so alone….  

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ATILA

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