Going Broke

Linda Boroff
It wasn’t the sort of thing that happened all at once,
the downward slide; Beverly’s father had been a good
contractor but overextended, the victim of
unprincipled competition and merciless pilferage. As
early as age eight, Beverly had printed a letter to
Santa beseeching “a lot of money to pay Mr. Collins.”
And soon after that, the annual Buick was replaced by
a Ford, “the smartest thing we ever did.”

But talk of selling the house began by Beverly’s tenth

birthday, engendering long, melancholy weekends of
buxom realtors and their clients poking around in the
kitchen and assaying the carpets, eyes narrow with
arithmetic. That summer had seemed rock bottom yet
there had been still farther to fall, a lot more eking and
borrowing before the foreclosure, the official
beginning of poverty. A relief when it came.

The family arrived in Los Angeles late in 1964 and

immediately took to the freeways, journeying
endlessly, eyes stinging. They never seemed able to
get where they were going: “Let’s explore the western
section today,” Beverly’s father would propose,
swallowing a Librium. And they would all obediently
dress up to embark on their exploration, ending up in
Anaheim or Tarzana, soaked and angry.

Always, the talk would turn to money: there was

simply no way out. The despair was never so
immediate as when they fled pell-mell in the dirty
blue Ford, dashing around cloverleafs two and three
times, following off-ramps into grimy strip cities
composed of used car lots and taco stands.

They had taken a little motel room with kitchenette in

East Hollywood, the walls green and weary, veterans
of a thousand familial disintegrations. Mold grew in
the shower stall. God knew where the money was
coming from then—relatives back east probably,
grudgingly wiring twenties and fifties after the third
collect call from a phone booth.

Daily, her father looked for work; at night, fights

gusted through the family like forest fires. They were
warned about the noise; still they battled, dizzy with
adrenalin. Afterwards they went for midnight swims
in the stagnant pool. A thick orange moon hung above
them. They lay pale and enervated in the lukewarm
water.

But this stage soon waned. Beverly’s mother, thin and

haggard, found work in a nearby five-and-dime,
sweltering in outdated Peck & Peck suits. Beverly and
her sister started school. Her father lay on the black
naugahyde sofa all day in his shorts, reading the want
ads, sipping gin and devising schemes to recoup his
finances. Deals “fell through” he said—evoking for
Beverly an image of something wounded hurtling
earthward through a dense forest, hitting branches,
landing broken and already dead. His creditors soon
found him again where he huddled; first one,
tentative, apologetic, then many in a rush, persistent,
abusive, inexorable.

Beverly took a job after school typing envelopes in a

travel agency. Every day she labored for four hours in
a dusty back room, a metal recipe box of “accounts”
beside her. Above her on a shelf were thousands of
white envelopes in boxes. She also filed the travel
brochures, which lay in a haphazard pile by the water
cooler, where the agents tossed them. Each time
Beverly filed a brochure, she had to pull the previous
issue: Maupintours Jamaica your island in the sun was
superseded by Go native Jamaica. Gray Line offered
bus tours to Mexico, where Pre-Columbian stone idols
gaped at the roistering gringos. The Lurline sailed
regularly to Hawaii, featuring shuffleboard and
opulent brunches imprisoned in aspic.

At first Beverly worked diligently, her fingers sore,

eyes bloodshot. She stacked the finished envelopes
carefully, with the addresses all going the same way,
and “phased out” the old brochures with great
integrity. She greeted each agent by name and was
properly submissive to the agency secretary, a thin,
oblivious woman in her forties.

But after a while, she became lax and dreamy.

Nobody really noticed her. She was a tall, plump girl
with a pudgy face and slightly protruberant brown
eyes. She had a beautiful mouth, but her teeth had not
been straightened and an upper canine jutted rudely
from her smile like a wrong note.

Peeking out into the fluorescent office, Beverly would

eavesdrop on the agents’ chatter, half eager to join in
but much too timid. She rarely spoke to anyone
anymore; she would sit for hours immersed in lush,
improbable fantasy—her entire life was wrapped up in
the Beatles. Slumped over her typewriter, she pictured
herself in Liverpool, a trendy expatriate dashing
through the English mist in a little sports car. Or
dancing in London with Paul, flash bulbs popping.
She would be shy at first, suitably meek, but he would
break down her reserve with his irreverent courtship,
sensing the Beverly within, a beautiful soul,
capricious yet perceptive. She would help the Beatles
resolve their little squabbles and be their mascot.

Beverly’s transports swung wildly between overt

sexual desire and religious awe. When she imagined
the Beatles near, in their physical incarnation, her
stomach would turn over and her heart pound: the feel
of their clothes, their nakedness beneath, the smell of
their hair, their actual arms. Burrowed among office
paraphernalia, she closed her eyes and extended a
hand, trying to imagine a Beatle at the end of it,
within her grasp. The concept was too overpowering,
her mind could not conceive it. But through her
failure to fully imagine, the possibility was enhanced.

Each evening after work, Beverly wrote to Paul,

telling of her feelings, her experiences at school, her
love. She felt only he could understand her. On
Saturdays she would mail the thick letter to a post
office box in London. Whenever the conversation at
work turned to the Beatles, Beverly’s face would flush
and throb; perspiration would cover her entire body.
She hid the secret of her immense obsession from
nearly everyone. Her love burned pure and hot.

One Friday night, her father left. His suitcase clattered

suddenly into the living room and Beverly’s mother
stood above it, her eyes dark and terrible. He had
borrowed five hundred dollars from somebody.

“When I got off work, some little man confronted

me,” she whispered. “He threatened me. I gave him
my paycheck. How will we eat?” She grabbed
Beverly’s younger sister, Jill, and sank her nails into
Jill’s back. “He called me names. What in the hell did
you do with five hundred dollars while we were
starving?”

The father followed the suitcase, arms dripping with

neckties. “I’m not even going to try to explain. I did it
for us. I didn’t know he’d come to you.” He shook his
fist and the ties swayed. “For sixteen years I worked
for you. I broke my heart.”

“You don’t care that he threatened me. You don’t even

ask what he said.”

“I’ve got to get out of here. I’m dying.” Beverly and

her sister began to cry.

“Let him go,” screamed the mother, reckless. “He

hasn’t drawn a sober breath since he moved in here.
Him and his goddamn pills and his goddamn booze.
There’s always money for that, isn’t there? Look, even
now he’s so drunk he can’t see straight.”

“Girls.” His bleary eyes took in the three. Beverly,

arms limp, stood beside her mother and Jill, who
clung together sobbing. The father thrust his ties into
the suitcase, checked his pockets. The car keys
jingled.

That night, Beverly lay awake staring into the

darkness. “I love you, Paul,” she whispered over and
over. She felt her breasts with his hands.

The following Monday, Beverly’s girlfriend Cheryl

cornered her in the hall at school, flushed with
excitement. “There are two English bands staying at
the Oceanside in Santa Monica. Nobody’s supposed to
know.”

“Oh my God. How’d you find out?”

“From Cliff. I met him at the Whiskey. He manages

that group Odyssey that’s playing there.”

“Who are the bands?”

“One is called Sphinx,” said Cheryl, “that’s all I know.

They’re really big in England, except nobody here has
heard of them yet. But Cliff says they’re going to be
bigger than the Beatles. He knows Peter and Gordon
and Gerry and the Pacemakers and the Kinks.
Everybody.” Cheryl drew close. Her eyes, pale blue,
burned into Beverly’s. “This is it. You and I and Ann
Scott are going out to the Oceanside after second
period, got it?”

Beverly faltered. “You mean we’re cutting class?”

“What does that matter?” Cheryl rolled her eyes. “If

these guys go for us, we’ll be in. We won’t even have
to go to school. We’ll travel around the world.” She
gripped Beverly’s hand. “Please say you’ll do it. I’m
scared to go just with Ann.”

“I don’t know. Let me think.” The blood roared

through Beverly’s ears. Her face grew hot. She
thought suddenly of a blue marble that she had
wagered and lost to Bonnie Knowles in first grade, a
perfect little sapphire irretrievably gone. Beverly took
a deep breath. “Okay.”

“Yaaaay.” Cheryl capered with joy, fists clenched.

“But what’ll we do when we get there?” said Beverly.

“What if they’re already gone? We’ll get in trouble for
nothing.”

“Cliff promised if we go we’ll meet them for sure.

Look, Ann’s got a car. Meet us behind the girl’s gym
at ten. Got it?”

“Yes....” Beverly stammered, thinking of her physical

education teacher, wary and tanned.

“Tell them you got cramps. I’ll forge a note for you.
Beverly, please?”

“I said I would.”

Imprisoned in her English class, Beverly fought the

urge to stand up and scream. Her legs twitched and
her teeth chattered. Why had she worn her frumpiest
blouse today, and that skirt the color of oatmeal? Why
hadn’t she curled her hair? When the bell rang, she
nearly upset her desk in her dash for the door.

Ann and Cheryl were waiting in the parking lot

behind the gym in Ann’s Mustang. Cheryl, plump and
blonde in the front seat, was choking with glee.

“Bev, this is Ann.”

“Hi, Ann.” Beverly blinked. Ann looked about twenty

in her tight sweater, with long, platinum hair and big
blue eyes. With such an ally they couldn’t fail to be
noticed, but what if the whole band went for her?
They would have to if they weren’t blind. Glum with
apprehension, Beverly subsided into the back seat.

“Ann has met the Rolling Stones,” Cheryl announced

proprietarily.

“Also Freddy and the Dreamers and Herman’s

Hermits.” Ann waved her hand. “It’s no big deal.
They’re just people like us.” Beverly became aware of
her mouth hanging open and gulped. The girls rode in
silence toward the ocean, through the garish,
disillusioned architecture of Hollywood.

“Ann’s father left too,” Cheryl finally said,

uncomfortable in the long pause.

“He left my mother because she’s a drunk,” said Ann.

“I don’t blame him. He’s shacking with somebody
else now and I like her much better than my mother.”

“I’m quite beyond my family actually,” said Beverly.

“I’ve sought my own life. My mother and sister have
no idea at all what I’m like.”

“I know what you mean,” said Ann. “I’m very,” she

shrugged, “bonkers, you know. I can’t fit into this at
all.” She gestured at hazy Santa Monica Boulevard,
bumper to bumper. “I’m really quite a scandal here.”

“Me too,” said Cheryl. “I’m much more English than

American. I don’t even know why I am an American.
Like, how did that happen?”

“Where is this place?” Said Beverly.

“By the beach,” said Ann. “I know exactly where it is.

My mother goes there sometimes and picks up on
traveling salesmen.”

Beverly bit her lip. She had thought of the Oceanside

Inn as a watering hole for expatriated British mods.
“You mean it’s just a motel?”

“Well it’s not a bad one.” said Ann. “My mother has
some class left.”

“Hollywood’s such a hole,” said Cheryl. “Who’d stay

there if they didn’t have to?”

“Yeah,” said Beverly. “They’d be swarmed.”

“Now look,” said Ann, “here’s the plan: We walk in

and I’ll tell them at the desk I’m pretty sure my
mother’s here, see they kind of know me. And then I
can look at the register. One of their names is Peter
Michaelson.”

Peter Michaelson, thought Beverly. A British rock

star. She imagined herself landing in New York for a
tour with Peter Michaelson before a pandemonious
crowd. He would be in a black collarless suit and she
all in suede, a little tam on her head. He would be
preoccupied with the bookings, the instruments,
oblivious to the hysteria around them. She would be
laughing with a deejay she knew, jaunty and
confident. People would not be sure if she and Peter
were really married or not. The constant speculation
would bore her silly.

“Here it is.” Ann slid the car into a parking space in

front of a salmon-colored stucco motel with a flat roof
and dark green trim. A neon sign featured a tippler
grinning at his bubbling glass. “Wait in the car.” Ann
leaped out and slammed the door.

Cheryl and Beverly sat in silence, alert as gazelles.

Endless minutes later, Ann appeared at the side of the
building, beckoning furiously.

“This is it. Come on.” Cheryl vaulted out and Beverly

climbed stiffly after her.

“It looks like we’re the first,” she stammered. “I have

to pee.”

“No time. Hurry up.” Ann had disappeared. Cheryl

and Beverly rounded the corner and entered a deserted
cement courtyard bordered with succulents. Ann was
standing in front of a door, pointing triumphantly.

Cheryl gasped out, “In there?”

“Yup. You knock.”

“Oh I can’t,” said Cheryl. “What if they’re asleep?”

“Well I can’t. Beverly, you knock.”

“Not on your life.”

“I drove,” pouted Ann. “You can’t expect me to do

everything.”

“Well I found out about the place,” said Cheryl.

“Beverly, you have to knock.” Trapped, Beverly
advanced to the door. Her fist shook. She slapped
timidly at the painted wood.
“C’mon, give it a real one,” Ann hissed. Taking a deep
breath, Beverly balled up her fist and pounded for all
she was worth, then fled behind a palm tree. Cheryl,
after a moment’s hesitation, joined her.

“What the hell?” came a voice from inside. “Come

back in an hour, hey?” The voice had an unmistakable
British inflection.

“It’s not the maid,” shouted Ann.

“I don’t care if it’s the bloody president’s wife,” came

the voice. Without warning, the door jerked open
violently. A young man stood in the shady entrance
wearing a pair of jockey shorts. He was swaying
slightly.

“Oh my God,” breathed Beverly.

Ann stood dumbfounded. She put her hand to her

mouth. “Is Peter here?” she asked timidly.

“No, next door.” He surveyed her, blinking. “Wow, up

with the sun, hey?”

“It’s nearly eleven,” said Ann. “That’s all the time you
get.” She flung her hair back and grinned.

“How can she just stand there and talk to him?”

whispered Beverly. “He’s not even dressed.” Cheryl
began to giggle and suddenly snorted.

“Okay.” The boy disappeared for a moment then

emerged in a pair of jeans. “How many birds are out
here?”

“Three,” said Ann. “C’mon out, you big chickens,”

she shouted at the palm tree. “You can’t hide back
there all day.”

“Peter.” The boy was banging on a closed door a few

feet away. “It’s eleven bloody o’clock. We’re to be in
Redondo Beach at one for that photo shoot.”

Beverly’s heart sank. They were going to get dressed

and leave. Stealthily, she crept out into the blazing
sun, into the blazing scrutiny of two more skinny
British boys who suddenly loomed up in front of her.

“Big ones they grow here,” said one, nudging the

other, and they laughed. Beverly grew dizzy. Cheryl,
crimson, grabbed her hand.

“Care for a beer?” the one closest asked her. “C’mon.

C’mon in.” He took her arm. Beverly tried to pull
away.

“I think it’s a little early for. A beer,” she panted. Her

head swam. The boy was watching her and grinning.
He was blond, and his eyes were very determined.

“Do you good. You too.” Cheryl gave Beverly a

vicious push toward the door and they both stumbled
inside. The boys followed. Ann was nowhere in sight.
The interior of the room was cluttered with suitcases
and vague, lollipop guitar shapes. The boy beside
Beverly put his arm around her and began to nibble at
her neck, pulling her toward the bed. “What’s your
name?” he asked.

“Cheryl?” Beverly half screamed, half laughed.

“Cheryl, we’ve got to get out of here.” The door
slammed and the room went very dark. There was a
faint foreign smell in the close air: these boys were
alien. Other. Beverly’s stomach contracted with panic,
yet she felt reckless too. She giggled again. “Cheryl?”

“I know her name’s Cheryl. Now you tell me yours

and I’ll tell you mine.” A burst of giggles came from
the shadowy corner nearest the door, followed by a
snort.

“Beverly,” said Beverly. “Cheryl?”

“Beverly, that’s pretty. Hallo, Beverly, I’m Toby.” He

gave her a gentle shove into the dark and she fell on a
rumpled bed. She heard the clatter of a can and then a
hiss, and more clatter and another hiss. “Don’t be so
shy, Beverly. Here, have a beer.” A cold, wet cylinder
was thrust into her hand. Toby landed on the bed next
to her. This can’t be happening, Beverly thought. This
can’t be me, here, all of a sudden, everything so
different. She began to giggle as Toby’s arm went
around her.

Later that week, Beverly put a quarter into the

television set and saw on the news that the Beatles
had landed in New York for their second American
tour. Stoic police locked arms as eight matchstick legs
descended the airline staircase, the jet wash fanning
their natty, skimpy coats. The Beatles’ eyes were
bright and feverish, distracted by the pandemonium
below. Guttural Liverpool wisecracks were tossed
backwards into mikes.

In the background hovered her mother and sister like

ghosts—vague, troubled forms, half-glimpsed. They
had had a postcard from the father somewhere in
South Dakota, the writing erratic and blurry. He might
have a lead on something. People were being very
nice. Beverly’s eyes flicked back to the television:
The Beatles were resting. Ringo might or might not
have a cold. She watched greedily, her damp fists
clenching and unclenching. A sandwich lay untasted
beside her.

Linda Boroff grew up in Minneapolis, and graduated from the

University of California, Berkeley, with a degree in English
Literature. She has published fiction in Epoch (Cornell
University), Prism International (University of British Columbia,
Vancouver), The Cimarron Review, Hobart, eyeshot, Outsider
Ink and many other magazines.
In Posse: Potentially, might be ...