Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang (13 page)

"I can't believe this woman is only asking for her deposit and a day of the rental fee. Is she retarded?" I asked.

"I don't know, but her friends are probably never going to speak to her again for renting a house like that in the first place. She even mentioned it in the letter. Did you see that part?"

"Yes, I saw that part."

"You know, he tells everyone you're his daughter, and if they don't know who you are, he pulls out your books or tells them what time your show is on and also when it repeats."

"Oh, my God, I didn't even think of that. What a dick."

"Yup."

"Well then, you have to take down the online ads for the property. He can't continue to rent that house."

"I did, Chelsea!"

"Then how did he rent it? He doesn't know how to get online, and even if he did, his fingers are too fat to use a computer."

"He has some friend who owns a restaurant or something. Mario. I think he helps Dad."

"Who?"

"I don't know, Chelsea. Don't ask. Some weird Italian guy who thinks Dad is hilarious. It's very strange. I think he thinks Dad has money or something. I don't know what's going on there."

"What do you mean, 'what's going on there'? What do you think is going on?"

"Well, nothing sexual, if that's what you're getting at."

"What?"

"I know how your mind works, Chelsea."

"Really, Sloane? You think that I think Dad is sleeping with an Italian man?"

"I don't know."

"Sloane, shut up. I'm asking why Mario would be doing anything for Dad."

"Maybe Mario's the Jamaican cleaning lady's pimp," she speculated. "I have no idea. I tell you I think he thinks Dad has money."

"Who would think Dad has money? He wears house slippers to temple and has hair growing out of his eyes. Not to mention he drives a minivan that looks like the
Rock of Love
bus."

"Chelsea, he tells people about his homes and describes them using words like 'paradise' and 'ecstasy.' "

"Ew."

"If I were you, I would change my last name, because he's got more energy than ever, and I don't think he's going to die anytime soon."

"That's wonderful. Well, he has to reimburse this woman, and not only for her deposit. He needs to give her all her money back."

"He probably already spent it. He just borrowed another five thousand dollars from Ray, after he sat in my living room, ate an entire pizza, and told me
I
looked like I put on a few pounds."

"Oh, my God, what is wrong with you people? Why do you keep giving him money? He's never going to sell the Livingston house if you guys keep loaning him money."

"Ray told him that's the last time. Greg's going over there next week with a Realtor to talk about listing the property. He told Dad he has no money left, and we all have families to raise and that he is cut off monetarily from all of us."

"I'm calling Dad. I'll call you back."

"Don't tell him I e-mailed you that letter, Chelsea. He'll call me and yell at me--or worse, come over. He already has one of his cars in our driveway and is mad at me because I told him it was embarrassing and asked him to move it."

Sloane's kids were both screaming in the background without any reaction from her, so I hung up. I was disgusted with her lack of respect for herself and her driveway. I looked at Ted, who was shaking his head in disgust.

"Has anyone tried to talk to your father about the legal ramifications of renting a house that is in such disrepair?" Ted asked. "I mean, someone could hurt themselves and he could lose the entire property."

"No, Ted, no one has ever said anything to him about it," I said as I smacked the palm of my hand against the side of my forehead. "Of course we've told him! He's a giant fuckwad who thinks the whole world is out to get him. He doesn't listen to anyone, and he is not a reasonable person. We're dealing with a psychopath."

Ted couldn't grasp how my father couldn't be reasoned with. He grew up with parents who paid their bills on time, got their shots on time, and pinned his ears back to the sides of his head when he slept. My parents didn't even care if I
had
ears.

I picked up the phone and dialed my father's number, half hoping it would be disconnected.

"Is that you?" he answered, in the singsongy way he answers the phone every time I call, as if we are about to reminisce about all the amazing days of my childhood when I would get screamed at for not knowing the capital of Hungary.

"Yeah, it's me."

"How ya doing, love? I miss you."

"That's nice, but I just got a letter from one of your Vineyard rentals that is about three pages long detailing everything that was wrong in the house."

"Who?"

"You know who, Dad. A letter from the woman who brought twelve people to the Vineyard and nothing in the house worked." I looked at the letter on my computer. "A Mrs. Danziger."

"Oh, that woman. She needs a psychiatrist."

"No, Dad.
You
need a psychiatrist."

He chuckled at this. "That woman complained about everything. She was a pain in the tuchus when she called me on the phone to rent the property in the first place. I should have known then she was going to cause problems. She's a schoolteacher from West Virginia. West Virginia's got the highest delinquency rate in the country, Chels. Woman is obviously confused."

"Dad, the freezer and the refrigerator did not work. They had melted squid leaking out onto the kitchen floor, and the dishwasher was broken, and that's only the first paragraph."

"Chelsea, that squid I left for them was a welcoming gift. I had some extra left from a little barbecue I threw and thought it would be a nice gesture to leave it for them, and this is the response I get?" He followed that with a loud grunt and a cough that sounded like he was spitting up a chicken wing that had gone down the wrong pipe.

"What was that?"

"A rib, that's all," he declared, and was back to speaking clearly again. I looked at Ted, who was reading the Robb Report, then back at the letter.

"A barbecue you held? Since when do you throw barbecues? I thought you just eat at McDonald's every day."

"That's right."

"What's right?"

"Both are right, but there's no McDonald's on the Vineyard, so I had a couple of friends over."

To be very clear, my father has no friends, so when he says anything intimating that he does, I know more likely than not he is referring to one of his Jamaican girlfriends. None of my brothers and sisters can get an honest answer from him regarding his personal life, and, to be honest, we'd rather not know the details. We just know that he is very secretive, has a prescription for Cialis, and frequently has over young black Jamaican women who are supposedly "cleaning" and hide in the bathroom when someone drops by his house unannounced.

"Who would come to your barbecue?"

"What kind of question is that?" he asked, still in a jocular mood. He was enjoying our little conversation and didn't know it was about to go south fast.

"A pretty good one, if you ask me. You left all the food on the barbecue grill and didn't even clean it when you were done, and since when do you even know how to operate a barbecue, Dad? What are you even talking about?"

"Chelsea, darling, you are in such a
precarious
mood."

"Please don't call me darling. Actually, don't call me Chelsea either."

"Well, what would you suggest I call you, then?"

"Who were you up there with, and why didn't you have your little cleaning-lady girlfriend clean up your mess before you left?"

"I don't know what you're referring to, love, but I told the maids to come before I left, so if they didn't, then obviously they're unreliable. I don't see how I'm at fault."

I could tell from the inflection in his voice that he wasn't comprehending the seriousness of my mood. This had happened throughout my childhood, but with the roles reversed, with him chasing after me with whatever food item was closest to him.

"Listen up, fathead." I wanted to get to the point of the phone call and had to make up something that would force him to reimburse this woman's funds. "I just got a call from the
Martha's Vineyard Times
, and guess what they said?"

"What?"

"They said they're writing a story about the fact that Chelsea Handler's father, who owns property on the Vineyard, is misrepresenting his home to renters, even after several complaints that have been ignored by you, and they have the woman's letter, which they are planning on printing in full."

"Who called?" The lilt in his voice was replaced with a crack and a shot of adrenaline.

"A reporter from the
Martha's Vineyard Times
, Dad. You are not allowed to misrepresent a property, not clean it, have no appliances working when they get there, broken screen doors, and a cellar that you try to pass off as a bungalow. Are you out of your mind?"

"How did they get the letter?"

"I'm assuming Mrs. Danziger sent it to them in her state of fury. If she doesn't receive her refund by this Friday, they are going to print it in Sunday's edition. You'll never be able to rent again, and you're now dragging my name through the mud with yours." Ted was looking at me while he opened the
L.A. Times
.

"The woman is an extortionist. I told her my daughter was a best-selling author and a movie star. She obviously watched your show and saw an opportunity."

"No, Dad. Staying at your house is not an opportunity. It's the opposite of an opportunity. It is a sentence. You screwed this woman over, and she is pissed, as she should be. And furthermore, why did you even mention my name? Why would you do that? And by the way, I'm not a movie star. I'm on cable."

"Because you are my daughter and your daddy is very proud of you."

"That's nice, Dad, but
I'm
not proud of
you
. You treat people like garbage, and this woman probably saved up all year to go on what she thought was going to be a beautiful vacation, and she shows up to melted fish on the floor and a filthy house filled with stained furniture, mosquitoes, and dirty underwear?"

"I did not leave behind any underwear."

"That's what you have a problem with in that whole list, Dad? Underwear?"

"Chelsea, this woman is mental, and she is exaggerating. She's a loose lemon, and she is trying to get money from me. You can tell wealth on a man based on his stomach, and I, my dear, have a very wealthy stomach."

"This is the tenth letter we've had in the past three years asking for a refund. Do you even have any renters that
don't
ask for a refund?"

"What kind of question is that, Chelsea? I've been renting in the Vineyard for years, and anyone with any experience abroad knows that that piece of property is worth millions for the view alone."

"Dad, it's great that there's a nice view, but eventually people need to go inside and take a fucking shower."

"Chelsea..."

"You have more to think about than yourself now, because I do not want my name in the paper with a story about you being a crook. You need to refund her the money."

"Well, what are they going to write, exactly?"

"I don't know, and I don't want to know. I want you to refund the money ASAP. You need to FedEx it tomorrow, so she gets it Thursday at the latest."

"All right, all right, already." He took a bite out of something, which sounded like a dog trying to chew a bone. "Chelsea, this celebrity thing isn't easy on me either, you know. A lot of people are going to try and use it against us."

My head jutted forward like a giraffe that was about to neck-wrestle another giraffe. "Come again?"

"A lot of people stop me at the grocery store. They want to know about me, where I grew up, how I created such a successful comedian. They want to take me to dinner. Women, especially. Very flirtatious. Women see something in me, Chelsea."

I moved the phone away from my ear and snapped my fingers to get Ted's attention. My eyes were still rolling when it was my turn to interrupt.

"I'm sure that your celebrity status has been a real impediment to your lifestyle. Maybe if you stop opening your conversations with the fact that you're my father, people would stop harassing you about it. Or maybe you could just stop going to the grocery store five times a day. Maybe you should just stay indoors, like an inmate."

"Chelsea, that is not how you talk to your daddy."

"I told you to stop referring to yourself as Daddy, to me or anyone else for that matter. When will you be able to get to FedEx to mail the payment?"

"I'll get it out tomorrow. I'm not sending the whole refund. I'll send her two thousand dollars. She didn't ask for the whole refund."

"Send her five thousand dollars, and I would really appreciate you thinking twice before screwing anyone else over. I don't want you renting the house in that condition. Someone is going to sue you for a lot more than five thousand dollars, and you're going to be sorry. I'm sure the
Martha's Vineyard Times
is going to be keeping an eye on the situation, because the reporter said this isn't the first time he's heard your name mentioned in conjunction with unhappy renters."

"Really?" he asked, alarmed. "Well, the house is already rented for the next two weeks, so there's nothing I can do about that."

"Give me the cleaning lady's number from the Vineyard, and I'll make sure she gets everything taken care of before anyone else has to live in that filth."

"Cleaning lady is no good. She's not speaking to me right now. She insists on getting paid before the work gets done, and that's not how I operate."

"You don't know how to operate, that's the problem. She wants to get paid beforehand because you owe her and every other service person on that island money. You
need
an operation."

"I do not need an operation. I have a clean bill of health. Those Angus burgers at McDonald's are something else. Doctor said I'm in tip-top shape."

My father had had a quintuple bypass seven years prior and took that to mean that all his pipes were brand new and he had the ability to start fresh, like an infant. There was no way he was in good health, and there was certainly no way he had seen his doctor other than to get that prescription for Cialis.