Unconventional Modus Operandi

            “ Move it you insufferable jackass,” I howled out the window of my car, affectionately known as the Duchess, as I sped past a hotrod red Prius that was driving ten under the limit with their blinker still on. Finally able to pass I pushed in the clutch, shifted into fourth gear, and took off… tearing west on Warner Avenue in Huntington Beach, California. The coast was just coming into sight and with it, CA -1… better known as the Pacific Coast Highway. The sight of the ocean and beach sent battery acid surging through my veins, prompting me to drive even faster. I caught a glimpse of the speedometer needle rapidly turning clockwise as the car stormed forward like a crack-headed warthog.

            “We seem to be moving faster than usual,” said Charles, my perpetual partner in crime and literary associate. He was in the passenger seat, pictures with a disposable camera; his subject matter did not seem to make sense as he continually photographed the interior of the car, billboards, street signs, and even other drivers. Charles wearing a bright green Acapulco shirt adorned with toucans, reflective lens sunglasses, and a red-plumed Roman Legionnaire helmet… plastic of course.

            “I need to get out of the car,” I replied through gritted teeth. We had been in the Duchess for almost five hours after an abrupt daytrip to San Diego simply for a really good burger. On the way back, we fell victim to the miserable, time-snatching demon known as the 405. What should have taken an hour had multiplied five times over and my patience and sanity was running precariously low.

            “Look over there. We could stop and look at patio furniture for a while.”

            “I swear I’ll kick you out of the car!”

            “That could be fun too,” Charles said as he took a picture of the rearview mirror.

            We blew past stoplights, catching more than our fair share of yellows, and eventually made the turnoff for the PCH. The curvaceous entry road gave what, in my mind, a suggested speed of 25 miles an hour. But that of course is for amateurs: Charles and I were on a mission and were well versed in the extreme art of non-conventional literary exploits and endeavors. So I took the turn at 45, bombarding us with G-force and causing the wheels to screech like alcoholic banshees, before straightening and shooting out and onto the PCH like that old proverbial bat outta hell. After all, we were heading towards a little slice of Mecca to the eccentric and tropically minded, a place honoring Hawaiian shirts, excessive rum consumption, and pure Americana: Don the Beachcomber’s.

            “You seem unnecessarily stressed,” Charles said as he reached down and began rummaging through a black leather doctor’s bag at his feet. “Personally, I suggest you let go of all that pent-up aggression.” From the bag he pulled out a silver cocktail tumbler, various nip bottles, and a Red Bull. He poured various amounts from the bottles into the shaker, gave it a once over, then poured some into the top. “In my professional opinion, I think this should help.”

            “It says something about me,” I said as I took the top, “that my designated medical advisor is someone wearing a Roman Legionnaire helmet. Cheers.” I downed the bizarre concoction and tossed the top back to Charles. He made another for himself.

            “You never know when the Gauls are going to attack.”

            “I have a feeling we’re pretty safe in southern California.”

            “See,” he said after taking his shot, “that’s the same thought the natives had and look where they are now. One minute you’re mesmerized by your little slice of Shangri La, the next your drinking yourself to sleep in the middle of the desert.”

            “Not quite the typical American dream, eh?”

            “An understatement indeed.” Charles took a picture of the stick shift then looked up at the GPS attached to the windshield. “Look at that. We’re almost there.”

            “Do you think they have mai tais available in IV form?”

            “It can be arranged.”

            We abruptly pulled off the PCH and rolled up to a Hawaiian style lodge just as the sun began to pass out into the Pacific. Tiki torches burned and palm fronds swayed in the gently increasing breeze as I parked the car in the front lot. We got out of the car and stretched, our joints long since stiff, grabbed our effects and sauntered towards the entrance.

            The interior of Don’s was like a luau on hallucinogens, with plastic palm trees sprouting from the walls, artificial waterfalls pouring from unseen sources, and Easter Island sized tiki statutes lording over the room. Though I couldn’t be sure, I was convinced there were fog machines producing a thin veil of smoke to add to the theatrics.

            “Sweet Jesus,” I said, peering over the rim of my aviators, “I didn’t expect to go bushwhacking in a bar. If you see Tarzan, tell him he still owes me $50 from that Broncos game.”

            “They should have lemurs here,” Charles said, furiously clicking away with his disposable camera.

            “Now how can you justify that?”

            “What?”

            “It’s a health violation! I don’t think people want to be abruptly assaulted from above by screeching lemurs while trying to eat. And besides, it’s unethical to have wild simians running amok in the joint.”

            “They let us in.”

            “You might have a point there,” I said, nodding my head in agreement. I took off my straw fedora and fanned myself with it. “Come on… I think the bar is this way.”

            We wound our way through the innards of Don the Beachcomber’s, trekking through fake jungle flora, until we reached the bar. The Dagger Bar was a long, narrow room filled with the iconic fanfare of the tiki culture. The bar was on the other side of the room and spanned nearly the entire length of the room: a bamboo awning had been constructed over it to suggest a cabin. On the wall adjacent to the restaurant, booths had been ornately carved, also covered by palm fronts, and in the middle of the room there were a handful of tables. Charles and I moved up to the bar and took the two stools closest to the exit, as was habit.

            “Now that is a nice touch,” Charles said from behind his camera.

            “What’s that?”

            “Look there,” he replied, pointing. A little black and white tv had been screwed to the wall in the upper corner of the bar and they were playing episodes of ‘Gilligan’s Island.’

            “That is a nice touch indeed,” I agreed, nodding my approval. I then noticed a large, flat screen television on the wall to my left, which was airing the NHL playoffs between the New Jersey Devils and New York Rangers. “That’s more like it. Nothing more out of place than watching hockey at a beachside tiki bar.”

            “Afternoon fellas.” We both turned and came face to face with the bartender. A woman easily in her 50’s yet still maintaining an alluring figure, she was wearing exceptionally tight jeans and a black AC/DC tank top. Her coffee colored hair fell loosely down over her bronzed shoulders.

            “Afternoon,” I said with a nod, taking off my hat.

            “Howdy,” Charles said while taking her picture.

            “What can I get for you,” she asked, completely unfazed by our unusual introductions. I assumed she had seen her fair share of crazy working in a joint like this.

            “I’ll take a zombie,” said Charles. He was then out of his seat, wandering around the bar taking photographs. Two couples, perched in one of the booths and in the middle of eating, seemed aggravated when Charles began taking pictures of them. I noticed the bartender watching him with a quizzical look.

            “I’ll just have a mai tai. Have to keep it old fashioned, after all.” I smiled and adjusted my sunglasses. Despite the bar being quite dark, I kept them on all the same.

            “A zombie and a mai tai,” she repeated, looking back and forth between Charles and me. “You’re not going to start photographing the place too, are you?”

            “That would be unnecessary, ma’am. It’s not my job.” I smiled but the bartender seemed to be expecting more of a response. Realizing it wasn’t coming, she went about making our drinks. I turned my attention to the hockey game: from inside my Nantucket red sports jacket, I produced my little black notebook and began taking notes on the bar and, occasionally, the game.

            Charles returned exactly as the bartender arrived with our drinks.

            “One zombie, one mai tai,” she said, placing our respective drinks before us. “Enjoy boys. My name’s Jo, so just holler if y’need anything.” I could tell by her drawl that she definitely was not a local.

            “Dear lord thank you,” I said after taking a large gulp from my cocktail. “Another five minutes and I would have driven the car into the ocean.”

            “You’d never do that to the Duchess,” Charles retorted, eating the pineapple garnish from his drink.

            “Good point. I guess I’d have figured out another way to take us out without hurting the car.”

            “Wait, what? Why me? What did I ever do?”

            “This whole calamity was your idea,” I remind him, raising my eyebrows accusingly.  “If you remember, I just wanted to go to the beach then do some work. We are somewhat behind on the script after all. “

            “Not to mention the fact we haven’t even started the treatment for the season,” added Charles, solemnly nodding his head.

            “Wait a minute… that gives me an idea.” I sat forward and waved towards the bartender.

            “Ready for another one already,” Jo asked, either impressed or disgusted.

            “Well no, not really,” I fumbled, “I was hoping you could keep us on separate checks.”

            “Yeah that’s no problem, darlin’,” She started to move away.

            “Ehhh… while you’re here, I think I’ll take you up on that second round. I’ll be finished in a minute.” I grinned as the bartender shook her head and walked off.

            “What was that about,” Charles asked as he fished in his backpack for another camera.

            “I need the receipt.”

            “Why?”
            “So I can write this off as a business meeting, of course.”

            “I don’t know if this counts as a business meeting,” said Charles as he wound the new camera.

            “That so,” I retorted. “What do you think about the script?”
            “I think it needs work.”

            “There, we talked business!” Just then Jo arrived with the new mai tai.

            An hour and a half later, we were still perched at the bar. Charles had managed to photograph nearly every square inch of the bar and had moved into the main dining room. I was keeping myself busy by scribbling down ideas and occasionally yelling obscenities at the hockey game.

            “You doing alright over here,” Jo asked as she sauntered up behind the bar.

            “I’m good for the moment, but I can’t speak for Ansel Adams.”

            “So you two visiting from out of town?”

            “In a manner of speaking,” I replied, closing my notebook. “That degenerate is in from New York, visiting me. I live up in that cacophonic urban stain known as Los Angeles.”

            “Isn’t that a lovely description,” Jo said, cocking her head to one side as if trying to get a grasp on me.

            “Professional hazard.”

            “I beg pardon?”

            “Never mind,” I replied, waving it off.

            “What is it you do, exactly,” Jo asked. She clearly wasn’t going to be deterred.

            “We’re writers,” Charles said, once again wearing the Legionnaire helmet. Everyone in the bar, including Jo, stared at him in complete confusion.

            “Writers?”

            “Yes ma’am,” I chimed. I raised my glass and took a hearty sip then flashed a grin in her direction.

            “What are you, travel writers?”

            “If by travel writers, you mean we go a lot of places and write? Then yes,” Charles said.

            “But we don’t actually write about the places, if that’s what you mean,” I clarified. Jo looked vexed.

            “I’m confused,” she said, shaking her head as if that would make this all coherent. “Who do you work for?”

            “Work for?” Charles and I looked at each other, completely confused.

            “Yeah, like are you journalists or studio writers or something?”

            “We work for ourselves,” I said with a shrug.

            “Then you’re novelists.” Jo seemed satisfied with this deduction.

            “Not entirely,” Charles quickly said.

            “Okay… I’m really confused here now, boys. Evidently I don’t get it.”

            “It’s pretty simple,” Charles said, clearing his throat. “We’re writers. It’s what we do. We write, head out on misadventures, explore, and stuff like that. Nobody pays us to do it. Not yet, at least.”

            “But if no one is paying you to do it, then why bother?”

            “Because it’s the only thing that makes sense, Jo.” I sit up, finish my cocktail, and slide the glass to her. “There’s so much to see and do out there… somebody’s gotta do it and then write about it so others can live vicariously through words.”

            “You’re out of your gourds,” Jo said, shaking her head… this time in frustration. She grabbed my empty glass and walked down the bar to assist some other customers. Charles resumed his photographic exploits, disappearing once more, and I took out my notebook and began writing. I had gotten a bit of inspiration in our conversation with Jo and I didn’t want to forget it.

            “Hey,” Charles said, about ten minutes later. He was now, inexplicably, wearing a blue lei. “We should get moving.”

            “Why’s that? We don’t have anything to do and I don’t feel like hitting more traffic.” I stretched my arms and put my straw fedora back on. “This morning we said we’d work tonight when we got back.”

            “Change of plans. We have something to do tonight.”

            “And that is, pray tell?”

            “A Mexican burlesque indoor carnival.” Charles looked ready to start bouncing at the concept of such a weird event. “Think of the ridiculous shit we’ll see! So many things to photograph!”

            “I’m not going to some weird burlesque carnival,” I grunted. “Besides how do you combine burlesque with a carnival… indoors?”

            “We have the chance!”

            “No way,” I protested. “No, we should head back, pick up grub on the way, and do some serious work on the script.”

            “We can do it later,” Charles insisted. He wasn’t giving up easily, which meant this could indeed be an odd event. “And besides, I left out the best part.”

            “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

            “They also have Mexican wrestling with midgets!”

            “Get the checks.”

            Fifteen minutes later, we were speeding north on the 405. The Duchess was roaring like a drunken Siberian tiger, weaving in and out of the incomprehensible LA traffic. Once more into the breach,” I thought to myself as I split a pair of minivans before looping around a Mustang. We were at least 40 minutes away from Los Angeles, but the night was still young: the sky still glowed with that azure hue that comes just after sunset. Who knew what sort of misadventures we’d fall into that night? I was certain they would be both abundant and excessively depraved. But more than anything, I knew they’d be a hell of a story to tell…