Rolling off the couch, I wake up
with the impact on the floor. The television is on, airing the seventh rerun of
Sportscenter for the day and the blinds are drawn completely open. Odd, I think to myself as I get up and
head towards the kitchen. I don’t remember
doing that last night. I open the fridge and grab water, desperate to
nullify the cotton-mouthed hell I’m currently experiencing. A Harley drives up
my street, revving the engine despite the early hour on a Saturday morning. It
sounds like gargantuan mutant pit bulls on steroids trying to rip apart a tank.
“Come
on,” I yell after running to the window. “Some people are trying to sleep!” My
protests go unnoticed, even my middle finger-based gesticulation. “Damn
savages,” I mutter as the bike recedes from view; I can still hear the
aftermarket exhaust pipe barking like an oversized chainsaw. I realize water
isn’t solving my problems so I opt to switch to cold coffee… a classic hangover
remedy.
I
return to the couch and fall onto the cushion. Slouching, my eyes focus on the
television and yet my attention is completely elsewhere. I’m stuck replaying
the events of the last twelve hours… specifically a bit of advice given to me
yesterday afternoon….
…It
was 5:46pm Friday. I had found myself at ‘Dimple’s’ in Burbank sitting at the
antiquated wooden bar, surrounded by the geriatric tribe of local patrons,
halfway through a very dry martini. My friend and perpetual foe Louie was
perched to my right, draped in the vile, reprehensible bleu, blanc, et rouge jersey
of the loathsome Montreal Canadiens. He was stabbing at the gaggle of olives
brining in his martini glass and acerbically ranting about the inadequacies of
his new job.
“These
people have the IQs of toothpicks,” he howled, causing a few of the locals to
turn and look with xenophobic suspicion. We were, after all, intruding on their
designated boozing hour before the younger generations flooded in during the
night. This was their territory… and their dentures yearned for alcohol and
unexpected violence.
“Trust
me,” I replied before taking an ample sip from my cocktail, “I’m well aware of
that fact. We are in a city surrounded by golems, social prostitutes,
parasites, and socialites.”
“You
have a penchant for being overly dramatic,” Louie countered. “I was just
talking about how my coworkers are untalented and don’t deserve employment!”
“What
can I say? I like to cast a large net of insults.” I flagged down the
bartender, a surly septuagenarian with a white beehive atop her head, and
ordered another round of martinis. “And screw it,” I continued, “I’m bitter,
dammit!”
“Am
I supposed to be surprised by that announcement? I thought you were always
bitter?”
“While
you might have a point there, I actually have a reason as of late.”
“Oh,”
Louie halfhearted asked, finishing one martini and moving onto the next.
“Qu’est-ce se passé?”
“How
many times do I have to tell you? No French when I’m drinking!” Louie flashed
his hand as if swatting away a fly. He went silent, stirring the new drink with
a swizzle stick. “Oh Christ on a cracker… quit the display of defiance, you
petulant Canuck bastard!”
“Putain!
At least I’m not a mouth breathing New Englander!”
“Touche,”
I said, nodding my approval. We clinked our glasses and took copious sips.
“Now
that we’ve progressed, what’s your ailment as of late?”
“I’m
just getting sick of the whole… routine, Lou. The same repetitious cycle day
in, day out. It’s symptomatic of living in this city! It’s like the land of the
lotophagi in The Odyssey.”
“Que?”
“Ehh…
lotus eaters,” I replied. “Basically a bunch of drugged-out hippies who are
content to just exist. So pretty much southern Californians.”
“Ah,”
replied Louie with an understanding nod. “Alright so you’re irritated with the
routine.”
“Yeah.”
“I
think most of us are, Strat.”
“But
it’s getting bad,” I retorted. “My buddy Charles from back east is taking a
road trip from upstate New York to Florida and New Orleans in a couple of days.
He’s been petitioning me to hop a flight and roll with him, and frankly… I’ve been
really tempted to go, Louie.”
“I
always forget you actually enjoy spending an excessive amount of time in cars,”
Louie said sarcastically. “Seems pointless when one could just fly and save
time.”
“How
many goddamn times do I have to tell you, you damn poutine eating troglodyte?
It’s all about the journey, man!”
“Laughable.”
“I’m
going to throw you out of a moving car one of these days,” I said.
“You
know what? I’ve actually heard that before from someone else! Is that an
American thing?”
“Most
likely.”
“Interesting
to know,” Louie responded. He took a sip from his drink and theatrically
grabbed his chin as if lost in deep contemplation. “Back to your little
predicament, though… I don’t think it prudent to fly across the country for a
road trip that, in all likelihood, you’d enjoy too much and never come back
from. Knowing you as I do, I have no trouble imagining you just staying in New
Orleans and becoming a swindling rogue and card shark who lives in seedy,
smoking saloons.”
“First
off,” I said with a grin, “swindling rogue? What is this, a Herman Melville
novel?” Louie threw a swizzle stick at me in contempt. “More importantly,
getting to my second point… that life definitely seems conducive to spontaneity
and interesting things to write about!”
“I’ll
give you that one. You would absolutely find yourself in unique situations.”
“Those
are the very best events to write about!”
“Still,”
Louie said, finishing his martini and signaling for another, “I think it would
be a mistake to give up and abandon your position out here. Small, meticulous
steps are necessary, mon ami.”
“I
only have so much patience,” I replied. “And besides, what good is patience if
I’m in a rut and not writing?”
“You’re
overlooking a very simple solution, Strat. A way to jumpstart your absurd mind
without disappearing into a pulp-noire existence. Hopefully, at least”
“I
beg you, oh mighty oracle! Pray tell this miraculous solution to my literary
imprisonment!”
“Mon
dieu you are a smug, cynical freak! But nonetheless, I shall enlighten you.
I’ve noticed you’ve lost a bit of your unpredictable craziness, specifically
when it comes to socializing.”
“Eh,”
I said with a shrug, “what can I say? I’m losing interest in the bar scene. At
least out here.”
“Whatever.
You don’t have to always go to bars, but just don’t turn into a hermit! Go out
this weekend and do things out of the ordinary. Break your own routine, be
unpredictable, and maybe get into a little bit of mischief.”
“I
do like mayhem.”
“Then
there you go. And to kick things off, I say we grab another round!”
“I’m
not even finished with this one,” I hollowly protested.
“None
of that,” Louie retorted dismissively. “Excuse me, bartender,” he said loudly,
drawing looks full of ire from the rest of the clientele.
“What
now,” the anti-grandma booze guard inquired, clearly annoyed.
“Let’s
switch things up,” Louie said with a grin. “What’s the most absurd, unusual
cocktail you can make?”
“Excuse
me?”
“My
friend here is in need of spontaneity and a bit of chaos. That being said, I
was hoping you could concoct an unusual drink for us to start off the night.” I
couldn’t help but notice that several of the haggard, elderly customers around
us paused and turned their attention to Louie. The bartender looked as if Louie
had just asked to perform some unholy sacrifice to a blood-drunk pagan deity in
the middle of the bar.
“Lou,”
I muttered as subtly as I could. “I think we might have worn out our welcome
here.”
“Nonsense,”
he replied, looking at me with disappointment. “We’re dealing with the elderly,
Strat. They love spending time with younger people. It’s almost better than
watching PB…” Louie was cut short as a half-empty can of Budweiser sailed by
his head. We both looked left, finding a paunchy, hunched over old man in a leather
bomber jacket and aviators staring us down. The other aged alcoholics seemed
inspired by this brazen act of hostility: they slowly turned to face us, their
joints creaking audibly. Like a pack of zombies, their faces sagged with pallor
and yet a terrifying fire burned in their cataracts.
“Louie…”
“Yeah,
right.” We slowly rose from our bar stools, took cash from our wallet and
placed the bills on the counter. We then nonchalantly made our way towards the
door, our every action followed by the predatory gaze of the geriatric hoard.
Just as we reached the exit… their patience eroded, the floodgates collapsed,
and we narrowly missed a hailstorm of beer cans, bottles, ice, and even an
aluminum walker that rained down behind us.
“Jesus
in Jonestown,” I said, holding the door shut from the outside, lest we be
slowly pursued. “I didn’t see that coming.”
“Tell
me about it,” Louie said, scratching his head. “I honestly thought old people
enjoyed youthful company.”
“Man,
you really are dense. Not to mention a terrible representative to the Canadian
people.”
“Whatever.
Let’s go get a burrito…”
…
I walk back to the kitchen and pour myself another cup of coffee. My head feels
like a memory foam mattress in the commercial with two sumo wrestlers jumping
up and down on top of it. I consider going out for breakfast, so I check the
time: it’s just before 9am. Damn, I
think. None of the places I like are open
yet. I still find it amazing that even breakfast places open late on the
weekends. Freaking Los Angeles. Such a weird city.
“Break
your routine. Do something out of the ordinary.” I continue pondering Louie’s
advice. While I recognize a trance of accuracy in the sentiment, I can’t help
myself from doubting. After all, last night was proof of how quickly that can
spiral out of control.
I
find my jeans from the night before thrown on my bed. I fish through my pockets
for my cell phone and I’m shocked when I find it. There are over a dozen text
messages I don’t remember receiving, not to mention several phone calls. I
check the messages and quickly realize I’m reading a fragmented narrative of
the previous night’s events. This comes in handy, as I am struggling to recall
the details.
I
head back into the living room and resume my post on the couch; two loudmouthed buffoons are barking over each other on ESPN. After finishing my coffee I turn to my phone
and attempt to reconstruct the improvised mayhem from the night before…
